The Burning Maze (The Trials of Apollo #3)(20)

This only added to the confusion. Macro’s faithful minions froze in their tracks, allowing our Daedalus-operated dudes to encircle Macro’s group.

‘No, not you!’ Macro yelled to his minions. ‘You all don’t stop! You keep fighting!’ Which did nothing to clarify the situation.

The Daedalus dudes encircled their comrades, squeezing them in a massive group hug. Despite Macro’s size and strength, he was trapped in the centre, squirming and shoving uselessly.

‘No! I can’t –!’ He spat bubble wrap from his mouth. ‘Help! The Horse can’t see me like this!’

From deep in their chests, the Daedalus dudes began to emit a hum, like engines stuck in the wrong gear. Steam rose from the seams of their necks.

I backed away, as one does when a group of robots starts to steam. ‘Grover, what exactly is Plan Thermopylae?’

The satyr gulped. ‘Er, they’re supposed to stand their ground so we can retreat.’

‘Then why are they steaming?’ I asked. ‘Also, why are they starting to glow red?’

‘Oh, dear.’ Grover chewed his lower lip. ‘They may have confused Plan Thermopylae with Plan Petersburg.’

‘Which means –?’

‘They may be about to sacrifice themselves in a fiery explosion.’

‘Coach!’ I yelled. ‘Whistle better!’

I threw myself at the loading-bay door, working my fingers under the bottom and lifting with all my pathetic mortal strength. I whistled along with Hedge’s frantic tune. I even tap-danced a little, since that is well-known to speed up musical spells.

Behind us, Macro shrieked, ‘Hot! Hot!’

My clothes felt uncomfortably warm, as if I were sitting at the edge of a bonfire. After our experience with the wall of flames in the Labyrinth, I did not want to take my chances with a group hug/explosion in this small room.

‘Lift!’ I yelled. ‘Whistle!’

Grover joined in our desperate Joplin performance. Finally, the loading-bay door began to budge, creaking in protest as we raised it a few inches off the floor.

Macro’s shrieking became unintelligible. The humming and heat reminded me of that moment just before my sun chariot would take off, blasting into the sky in a triumph of solar power.

‘Go!’ I yelled to the satyrs. ‘Both of you, roll under!’

I thought that was quite heroic of me – though, to be honest, I half expected them to insist, Oh, no, please! Gods first!

No such courtesy. The satyrs shimmied under the door, then held it from the other side while I tried to wriggle through the gap. Alas, I found myself stymied by my own accursed love handles. In short, I got stuck.

‘Apollo, come on!’ Grover yelled.

‘I’m trying!’

‘Suck it in, boy!’ screamed the coach.

I’d never had a personal trainer before. Gods simply don’t need someone yelling at them, shaming them into working harder. And, honestly, who would want that job, knowing you could get zapped by lightning the first time you chided your client into doing an extra five push-ups?

This time, however, I was glad to be yelled at. The coach’s exhortations gave me the extra burst of motivation I needed to squeeze my flabby mortal body through the gap.

No sooner had I got to my feet than Grover yelled, ‘Dive!’

We leaped off the edge of the loading dock as the steel door – which was apparently not bombproof – exploded behind us.





9


Collect call from Horse

Do you accept the charges?

Nay-ay-ay-ay-ay





Oh, villainy!

Please explain to me why I always end up falling into dumpsters.

I must confess, however, that this dumpster saved my life. Macro’s Military Madness went up in a chain of explosions that shook the desert, rattling the flaps of the foul-smelling metal box that sheltered us. Sweating and shivering, barely able to breathe, the two satyrs and I huddled amid trash bags and listened to the pitter-patter of debris raining from the sky – an unexpected downpour of wood, plaster, glass and sporting equipment.

After what seemed like years, I was about to risk speaking – something like Get me out of here or I’m going to vomit – when Grover clamped his hand over my mouth. I could barely see him in the dark, but he shook his head urgently, his eyes wide with alarm. Coach Hedge also looked tense. His nose quivered as if he smelled something even worse than the garbage.

Then I heard the clop, clop, clop of hooves on tarmac as they approached our hiding place.

A deep voice grumbled, ‘Well, this is just perfect.’

An animal’s muzzle snuffled the rim of our dumpster, perhaps smelling for survivors. For us.

I tried not to weep or wet my pants. I succeeded at one of those. I’ll let you decide which.

The flaps of the dumpster remained closed. Perhaps the garbage and the burning warehouse masked our scent.

‘Hey, Big C?’ said the same deep voice. ‘Yeah. It’s me.’

From the lack of audible response, I guessed the newcomer was talking on the phone.

‘Nah, the place is gone. I don’t know. Macro must have –’ He paused, as if the person on the other end had launched into a tirade.

‘I know,’ said the newcomer. ‘Could’ve been a false alarm, but … Ah, nuts. Human police are on the way.’