The Second Jackson- Piper McLean book 1

Seriously We Need This Guy?

Lani

It wasn't as hard as we thought. The screaming and the weed whacker helped.

We'd brought lightweight Polartec jackets with our supplies, so we bundled up against the cold rain and walked for a few blocks through the mostly deserted streets. This time Percy and I were smart and brought most of our supplies from the boat. Percy even stuffed the macrobiotic jerky in his coat pocket.

We made our way down Glisan Street, I looked longingly at the people in the cafés enjoying coffee and pastries. I was about to suggest we stop for breakfast when I heard a voice down the street yelling: "HA! TAKE THAT, STUPID CHICKENS!" followed by the revving of a small engine and a lot of squawking.

Percy glanced at us. "You think-?"

"Probably" Frank agreed.

We ran towards the sounds.

The next block over, we found a big open parking lot with tree-lined sidewalks and rows of food trucks facing the streets on all four sides. I had seen food trucks before, but never so many in one place. Some were simple white metal boxes on wheels, with awnings and serving counters. Others were painted blue or purple or polka-dotted, with big banners out front and colorful menu boards and tables like do-it-yourself sidewalk cafés. One advertised Korean/Brazilian fusion tacos, which sounded like some kind of top-secret radioactive cuisine. Another offered sushi on a stick. A third was selling deep-fried ice cream sandwiches. The smell was amazing- dozens of different kitchens cooking at once.

I heard my brother's stomach rumble. Most of the food carts were open for business, but there was hardly anyone around. We could get anything we wanted. Deep-fried ice cream sandwiches? Oh, man, that sounded way better than macrobiotic beef jerky.

Unfortunately, there was more happening than just cooking. In the center of the lot, behind all the food trucks, an old man in a bathrobe was running around with a weed whacker, screaming at a flock of bird-ladies who were trying to steal food off a picnic table.

"Harpies" Hazel said. "Which means-"

"That's Phineas" Frank guessed.

We ran across the street and squeezed between the Korean/Brazilian truck and a Chinese egg roll burrito vendor.

The backs of food trucks weren't nearly as appetizing as the fronts. They were cluttered with stacks of plastic buckets, overflowing garbage cans, and makeshift clotheslines hung wet aprons and towels. The parking lot itself was nothing but a square of cracked asphalt, marbled with weeds. In the middle was a picnic table piled high with food from all the different trucks.

The guy in the bathrobe was old and fat. He was mostly bald, with scars across his forehead and a rim of stringy white hair. His bathrobe was spattered with ketchup, and he kept stumbling around in fuzzy pink bunny slippers, swinging his gas-powered weed whacker at the half-dozen harpies who were hovering over his picnic table.

He was clearly blind. His eyes were milky white, and usually he missed the harpies by a lot, but he was still doing a pretty good job fending them off.

"Back dirty chickens!" he bellowed.

I wasn't sure why, but I had a vague sense that harpies were supposed to be plump. These looked like they were starving. Their human faces had sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. Their bodies were covered in molting feathers, and their wings were tipped with tiny, shriveled hands. As they dove for the food, they seemed more desperate than angry. I felt sorry for them.

WHIRRRR! The old man swung his weed whacker. He grazed one of the harpies' wings. The harpy yelped in pain and fluttered off, dropping yellow feathers as she flew.