A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children #4) - Ransom Riggs Page 0,72

it with a little panache, Millard,” said Emma. “You’re not even trying!”

“I knew about the cameras,” said Millard. “No one told me about the alarms!”

* * *

• • •

After racing down the interstate for several miles and checking the rearview mirror constantly for police lights, I realized no one was chasing us. Eventually we exited onto a little state road and veered away from the coast toward the heart of Florida. On the Mel-O-Dee map, H’s ring had circled an area in the middle of the state that was crossed by only one major road—the one we were on now. Within that zone was Mermaid Fantasyland. I wasn’t sure if that’s where we would find Flaming Man, but as it was the only thing marked on that section of the map it made sense to start looking there.

“Wait a minute,” said Bronwyn from the back seat. “We’re heading away from the ocean now. Why would mermaids live in a swamp?”

“They aren’t real,” I said. “It’s just a cheesy old tourist trap.”

“Perhaps,” said Millard, “but Mermaid Fantasyland is also listed in Peculiar Planet.” He raised the guide to show it to me, then read from it. “Brand-new syndrigast-friendly attraction features delightful aquatic performances. Time-looped accommodation nearby. Bring the kids!”

“That doesn’t mean the mermaids are peculiar,” said Emma. “It just means there’s a loop in town.”

“Or there used to be,” said Millard. “Remember, this guide is nearly seventy years old. Everything in it should be treated with the highest skepticism.”

We drove on, the sun sinking lower in the sky, the road narrowing from two lanes in each direction to just one. We were entering a part of Florida that felt like a different state altogether. Away from the moneyed coasts there were no chain stores, no shiny new developments. The woods closed in from both sides, and in the occasional gaps there were signs for U-pick strawberry farms, free dirt, and bail bonds.

Instead of cookie-cutter suburbs that spread out for miles, here there were small towns clustered around intersections of roads. The bigger towns had fast food on the outskirts and a few blocks of dying main street in the middle—a venerable old bank, a shuttered movie theater, a storefront church. In every single town that had a stoplight, we caught the light red and had to sit and wait while old people on benches and pedestrians with nothing better to do stared at us like we were the most interesting thing that had ever come through. We came to dread those stoplights. At the third or fourth one, a young guy with a mullet and an open beer yelled, “Halloween’s not till next month!” at us and walked away cackling.

A few miles later, we passed a fading billboard for Mermaid Fantasyland, and a few miles after that, we finally came upon it: a dirt field occupied by a few sad-looking tents, and in the distance, cinder-block houses that might’ve been an office or staff quarters. The entrance was blocked by a closed gate, so I parked along the shoulder of the road, and we walked in. We crossed the field toward the tents. It didn’t seem like anybody was around, but then we heard someone grunting and swearing from around the back of the nearest tent.

“Hello?” I said, leading my friends toward the sound.

Rounding the tent, we came upon two people in clown makeup. One had a frizz of blond hair and was dressed in a mermaid costume, and the other was awkwardly carrying her, toddling backward with his arms linked around her waist, since her legs and feet were encased inside the costume.

“Can’t you read?” the mermaid said, glaring at us. “We’re closed!”

The other clown didn’t say a word or even look in our direction.

“We didn’t see a sign,” I said.

“If you’re closed, why are you in costume?” asked Enoch.

“Costume? What costume?” She wiggled her obviously fake tail and laughed strangely. Then her smile vanished. “Get lost, okay? We’re renovating.” She elbowed the clown carrying her. “George, keep moving.”

The other clown resumed lugging her toward the tent.

“Wait,” said Emma, following them. “We read about you in the guide.”

“We’re not in any guide, honey.”

“Yes, you are,” Emma said. “Peculiar Planet.”

The mermaid’s head snapped toward her. “George, stop.” He stopped. She studied us for a moment, suspicious. “Where’d you get one of those old things?”

“We just . . . found it,” Emma said. “It says there are some things to see here.”

“You don’t say. There are some things to see, for the