“Ready?” asked Lola.
“No,” said Max.
“Come on, Hoop, there’s nothing else we can do. We’ve watched games, we’ve practiced all day, we’ve gone over the rules, we’re wearing our Red Sox uniforms—it’s time to get down to Fenway.”
“Where’s the rest of the team?”
“You know where. Lord 6-Dog said they’d meet us there.”
“This has disaster written all over it. I should never have trusted him.”
“Have faith, young lord,” said Lady Coco, taking off her apron. “My 6-Dog always keeps his word. If he says he will find you a team, he will find you a team.”
“But how can he? He’s a howler monkey! It’s not like he can just walk up to people on the street. Can you imagine?” Max put on a Boston accent and pretended to talk into a phone. “Yeah, a talking monkey came up to me today and asked me to play ball against the Maya Lords of Death. Did I say yes? ’Course I didn’t say yes. I ran screaming down the street, is what I did.”
“It’s too late to worry now,” said Lola. “Let’s just get there.”
“A lot of people are rooting for you guys,” said Lucky, reading the messages on his phone as he came downstairs. “The word is out. I’m hearing from people all over the world.” A car horn honked outside.
“There’s the cab,” said Max.
Lady Coco pulled on her child-size Red Sox shirt.
“Time to go,” she said.
It took a little while to persuade the driver to accept a howler monkey in his taxi, but in the end he agreed because of Lady Coco’s shirt. “What’s the game tonight?” he asked.
“It’s a … a charity game,” said Max.
“Looks like there’s a good crowd.”
Traffic around Fenway, always bad on game days, was even worse than usual. They were still several blocks away and not moving an inch.
All around them, people surged toward the ballpark.
“It’s not the usual Red Sox fans,” said Max. “Most of these people look Maya.”
It was true. As soon as word had gotten out about this grudge match—in e-mails, texts, tweets, status updates, letters, phone calls, notices in hallways, and whispered messages—Maya people from all over the American continent had dropped everything to head for Boston.
A surgeon from San Francisco had laid down his scalpel and jumped on a plane. A bellboy from Atlanta had abandoned his luggage cart in the hotel lobby. A weaver from Maine had left her loom to catch a bus. A chef from Chicago put her sous chef in charge. Students from Seattle left their lectures, refugees from Florida hit the road, a university professor from Texas brought his entire class with him.
From farther afield were costumed performers from a theme park in Cancun; a gang of workmen from Chichen Itza; a party of archaeologists from Honduras; a whole village from the Lacandon rainforest—men, women, and children all with long black hair and wearing their distinctive white tunics; market traders from Guatemala, carrying their wares in straw baskets on their backs; a punk band from the Highlands in leather and jeans with their hair carefully gelled and spiked; village elders in straw hats with long flowing ribbons; old women in intricately woven shawls.
“Wow.” Max stared at them all in amazement. “I can’t believe it.”
Lady Coco wiped a tear from her eye.
“What’s the matter?” Lola asked her.
“I’m so proud. It’s been a long time since I saw our people come together. All the costumes and the colors, it reminds me of markets in the old days.”
“These folks need you to win today,” said Lucky to Max and Lola. “If they see a couple of kids stand up to the Death Lords, they’ll know that anything is possible.”
“We are so doomed,” said Lola.
“Look!” said Lady Coco, pointing through the taxi window. “Sacrifice victims!”
They looked where she pointed and saw three men painted blue from head to toe.
Max laughed. “That’s the Blue Man Group. It’s a show in town. They’re actors.”
“Well, I hope Ah Pukuh doesn’t see them,” fretted Lady Coco. “You know that my people painted sacrifice victims that exact same color. They’re taking their lives in their hands, walking around in blue paint like that.”
A Blue Man saw her looking and mimed falling in love by pretending to give her his heart. “That man has a death wish,” said Lady Coco, shaking her head.
Max was panicking now. “This traffic isn’t moving. It would be quicker to walk.”
He started to open his door and quickly pulled it shut again as a motorbike almost clipped the paintwork. Next minute, the taxi was surrounded by bikes, their riders wearing black knitted ski masks.
Lucky rolled down his window and shouted something in Mayan to the leader of the gang, a woman with a bandanna across her face.
“What’s he saying?” Max asked Lola.
“They’re rebels from the mountains,” she explained. “They fight for the rights of the poor. They’re offering us a lift to the game.”
Max, Lola, Lucky, and Lady Coco each took a seat on the back of a bike. Then, to the cheers of the crowd, the rebels took off, revving their engines, weaving through the traffic, and pumping their fists in the air.
When they finally arrived at Fenway, it looked very different from the day before—like some evil alien version of itself from a parallel universe. The usual red, white, and blue Red Sox pennants along Yawkey Way were gone, replaced by black Death Lord pennants with skulls on them. The rotating baseball sign by the parking lot across the street had been swapped out for a rotating skull. Even the Red Sox merchandise in the team shop sat side by side with souvenirs of Xibalba.
Fenway looked very different from the day before.
Yawkey Way had been closed to traffic and now bustled with pregame excitement.
Max noticed that many of the food stalls had added fried grasshoppers to their usual offerings of peanuts and Cracker Jack. A program seller with a fearsomely painted face waved a brochure in Max’s face. “Get yer programs and completed scorecards here.”
“How can they be completed?” asked Max. “The game hasn’t started yet.”
“This game is a foregone conclusion, sonny,” said the program seller. “The Death Lords win. End of story.”
They headed for the players’ entrance.
“Names?” said the one-eyed ogre on security.
“They’re Max and Lola, the Hero Twins,” said Lady Coco indignantly. “They’re the home team in today’s game.”
The ogre checked his list and waved them through. Lucky and Lady Coco went to follow, but the ogre barred their way.
“I’m under strict instructions. No one but the twins gets through,” he said. “You two, scram. You’re not on the list.”
“But we’re with them,” argued Lucky. “I’m the coach and—”
The ogre curled his massive fist.
“It’s okay,” said Max to Lucky, trying to sound brave. “Go get good seats. We’ll be fine. It’s too late for coaching, anyway.”
Lola forced a smile. “We have to say good-bye sometime.”
Lady Coco gave a little toot of melancholy. “Please come back safe to me,” she sniffled.
They nodded unconvincingly.
“And remember,” said the monkey queen. “I ate that whole pot of beans. So if you need artillery, just tell me where to point and shoot.”
Lucky and Lady Coco watched as Max and Lola went inside, following signs to the home team locker room.
“Good-bye, Hero Twins!” they called. “Good luck!”
“I feel sick,” Max said to Lola. “I’m so nervous I could throw up.”
“It’s just the smell of hot dogs,” said Lola. She didn’t look very well herself.
She looked even worse when they found their locker room and it was empty. “Great!” said Max, kicking a locker door. “Where’s Lord 6-Dog? Where’s the team?”
Lola bit her lip. “We still have time,” she said. “Want to practice?”
“We should be practicing with our team,” objected Max. But he grabbed a bat and ball and followed her anyway.
As they walked through the tunnel to the field, they heard a cacophony of drums and screeching guitars.
Lola put her hands over her ears.
Max winced. “This is the worst warm-up band I’ve ever heard.”
When they reached the end of the tunnel and saw where the noise was coming from, they stood and gaped. Fenway’s interior had also been transformed.
For a start, the Green Monster—that towering green wall—had been daubed blood-red. On top, instead of the usual seating, was a rock stage with a massive PA system and light show. Performing on this precariously high platform was Max’s favorite band, the Plague Rats.
Or at least, it looked like them. But Max wasn’t taken in. After all, the real Plague Rats took pride in bad musicianship, but this was something else. This was painful.
He instantly realized that the four skinny dudes in black leather prancing about on the stage were the same four demons of hell who’d impersonated the Rats in Spain. Apparently, Ah Pukuh was a Plague Rats fan, too.
Meanwhile on the floodlit field, pandemonium ruled.
Flaming trapeze artists flew high above the stands. Zombies with nothing left to lose were fire-eating, juggling chain saws, and sword-fighting on stilts. Heads and body parts flew everywhere, all in a swirling mist of dry ice.
It was chaos.
It was terrifying.
It was fantastic.
“I guess this is what Ah Pukuh meant when he said he wanted a spectacle.”
They peered at it all from the safety of the tunnel.
“We can’t let them intimidate us,” said Lola. “We need to go out there. Get started with batting practice.”
Max took a deep breath. “Let’s do it!”
As soon as they ran onto the field, a cheer went up from the crowd, followed by a weak chorus of boos. Max looked around the stands. He estimated that the crowd was 20 percent ghouls and 80 percent good guys; about the same ratio as Yankees to Red Sox fans when the two arch-rivals played at Fenway.
He picked out Lucky and Lady Coco in a block of empty seats.
He tried to ask them in gestures if they’d seen Lord 6-Dog, but they just waved back encouragingly.
“And here are the famous Hero Twins,” said a TV reporter, thrusting a microphone under their noses. “First of all, guys, on behalf of all of us, let me say how glad we are to see you. Last time you were on our screens, you were being abducted on an alien spaceship. We now know that it was just a publicity stunt by your opposing team. Tell me, were you in on the joke?”
“No,” said Max.
“So, you actually thought you were being abducted?”
“Yes,” said Max, starting to feel foolish.
“Well, let’s hope the Death Lords don’t dupe you so easily today.” He turned to Lola. “And what about your pet monkey? It attracted a lot of attention at Cahokia. Will it be rooting for you today?”
“I hope so. It’s our manager.”
“Glad to see you’ve kept your sense of humor, Lila.”
“My name is Lola.”
“Of course it is. So tell me, Layla, the stakes are very high today. Do you have any pregame superstitions?”
“No,” she said. “I’ve never played this game before.”
“What a comedian! And how about you, Max? Any pregame rituals? What did you eat before the game?”
“Pizza,” said Max. “Why do you want to know—”
“You heard it here, folks! The Hero Twins like to eat pizza before a game. I spoke to those crazy Death Lords earlier and, believe me, you do not want to hear about their rituals.” The presenter laughed, then suddenly became serious. “And now the question on everyone’s lips. Tell me, Lula, where’s the rest of your team?”
Lola disliked this reporter intensely. “They’re still changing,” she snapped.
“Let’s hope they’re changing into the most amazing ballplayers the world has ever seen! They’ll need to be to win this one today!” The reporter chuckled. His cameraman swung away from Max and Lola over to the Death Lords.
“What an idiot,” said Lola. “He got my name wrong every time.”
“Let’s just practice,” said Max, feeling sicker than ever.
“I’ll pitch,” said Lola.
Max couldn’t focus on the ball. The bat shook in his hands. All he could think about was the fact that Lord 6-Dog had let him down. Was it even allowed to have a team of two, he wondered, or had they lost before they’d even started?
“It’s no good,” he said. “I can’t do this. Let’s go back to the clubhouse.”
“Wait,” said Lola. “I want to watch the Death Lords practice, see what we’re up against.”
There was a fanfare of wooden trumpets and conch shells.
Max and Lola sat down in their dugout as their opponents ran onto the field.
“I can’t believe it!” said Max in disgust. “Of all the dirty, lowdown, rotten tricks …”
“What’s the matter?” asked Lola. “They look pretty smart for once. No rotting flesh, no distended bellies, no spilled intestines. You can’t tell who’s who anymore without the trailing organs.”
“Don’t you see what they’re wearing?”
“Those striped shirts? What’s wrong with them?”
“They’re Yankees shirts. The Yankees are the Red Sox’s biggest rivals. They’ve done this deliberately to get under my skin.”
Lola laughed. “That’s pretty funny.”
“No,” said Max. “It isn’t.”
“Who cares what they’re wearing? They’re not the Yankees and we’re not the Red Sox. The only thing that matters is how well they—”
Lola gasped as the first Death Lord to bat sent the ball soaring into the stands.
The second Death Lord to bat sent the ball hurtling into the sky, where it was last seen bouncing off the Citgo sign.
The third Death Lord to bat sent the ball flying over the band on the newly red Green Monster and out into the street.
“Cheaters,” said Lola.
“I’ve seen enough,” said Max grimly. “Let’s go look for Lord 6-Dog.”
In fact, they bumped into him in the tunnel.
“Where have you been!” yelled Max.
“I was submitting the team list. Everything is in order.”
Max looked down the tunnel. “So where’s the team?”
“They are on their way.”
“They’re not here yet? But it’s nearly time—”
“Calm thyself, young lord. Thy reserves are in the locker room.”
Max and Lola raced back to the locker room and barged straight in.
The wall of noise that hit them was incredible.
“It sounds like the monkey house at the zoo!” joked Max.
And that’s exactly what it was.
A monkey house.
The locker room was full of spider monkeys.
Spider monkeys in caps and little Red Sox shirts.