The Fire Triangle, A Zootopia Fanfiction -- Part One: Fuel - 45

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle-A Zootopia Fanfiction

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Part One:

Fuel

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Chapter 4 - The Wizard of Chaos

(Continued...Pt. 14)

Conor whimpered and swallowed hard; it felt as if he were trying to force a dried-out tennis ball down his throat.

Then he sighed, feelings his ears wilt; there was no getting out of this, the only thing left for him to do was turn and face the music.

He spun around with his paws raised.

"Erin listen, I can explain..."

"I don't want to hear it!"

If Erin Hopps had looked angry the first time they'd met, now she appeared to be one step away from a conniption; her blue were blazing like welding torches and her voice had turned sharp as a reaper's scythe.

"You no good creep. Where do you think you get off just abandoning me like that? And you lied to me-you liar!"

She had her paws on her hips and one foot cocked, ready to plant it upside his face a second time. In the reflected glare of the stage lights, her amplified shadow appeared to swallow him whole.

"At last she doesn't have her posse with her," the young fox noted, trying to put the best spin on things. And then he answered her question with one of his own. "How the heck did you get back here without a stage-pass?"

The young bunny responded by tossing her head over her shoulder; she said nothing, but now Conor could see that a pair of fresh rabbit-holes had appeared on either side of the fence as if by magic. Ohhh Crike, she really was that mad!

As if to confirm this, Erin began to thump her foot, slowly at first, and then faster and faster; it sounded like the countdown to an explosion, (and it probably was.)

"You have exactly three seconds to explain yourself, Mister!"

Conor racked his brain for something suitable. Finally he just gave up and said the only thing he could think of.

"Help me!"

The white-furred bunny's rage turned into momentary bewilderment.

"What?" she demanded, gaping bewildered with a twitching nose

He held up the bolt cutters and pointed towards the junction box

"Help me, Erin! Those locks are too strong for me to cut all by myself. And a lot of animals are gonna get hurt if we can't shut the power off."

Once again, she stared at him for a minute....

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While all this was going on, Judy Hopps had just come up with an idea of her own.

"What if we take down part of the fence to make another exit?" she said, pointing, "say, right there?"

She was standing near the opposite end of the stage from where Conor and Erin were working, along with Nick, Chip Fielding...and Jack LaPeigne. Luckily for a certain young silver fox, the chances of an encounter between him and the big rabbit were minimal at best, in spite of their relatively close proximity; the electrical substation was clearly visible from the surrounding hills....and while neither he nor Erin would be of much interest to Craig Guilford, the bunny who had foreclosed on his family's home was another matter; Jack wasn't about to go near that spot.

Right now Judy was indicating a part of the fence-line that butted up against the vendor's lot, a section about the length of a large-mammal tractor-trailer.

At first, Nick was unable to fathom what she had in mind, but then he was distracted at the moment. The wind was blowing in from the opposite end of the stage and he had clearly caught the scent of...what the HECK? He thought the kid was supposed to be dousing the lights, what the foxtrot was he doing back here? And as if that wasn't enough of a complication, he could also smell Erin Hopps somewhere over in that direction and whoa, was she mad!

But then Judy's words finally registered with him. Right, an exit that wide would allow them to empty the dance floor in mere minutes. It was a great idea, except...

"How are we supposed to take down that much of the fence in the time we have?" It was Jack LaPeigne who asked it.

"There's some forklifts and tractors in the old red barn over that way," Judy answered, pointing, her rapid-fire delivery betraying her trademark enthusiasm. "They could bring it down in no time flat."

"Sorry, won't work." Chip Fielding's face was as mournful as a Greek chorus, "That equipment's all over there right now, helping set up the fireworks display. " He was pointing north, towards the Midway, (actually to the field just beyond it.)

"Fireworks display?" Nick asked him, speaking in an almost tentative voice. Yes, now that he thought of it, he'd seen a whole truckload of pyrotechnics in that barn when he'd gone with Judy to visit the site of her talent show skit.

He'd been addressing the question mostly to himself, but Chip Fielding seemed to think it had been meant for him.

"Yes, that's right," he said, "the Big Dance always ends with a fireworks display." The corners of his mouth turned sharply downwards. "If you're thinking about lighting them off now to try and trick everyone into thinking the dance is over, sorry, that won't work either. Three years ago we had a communications foul-up and the pyrotechnics crew set the show off two hours ahead of schedule. The only thing that happened was a lot of animals complaining; nobody left the dance-floor."

But that wasn't what Nick was thinking. What he had in mind was a last ditch, Hail Mary, if-all-else-fails idea. It was crazy, it was reckless, and it probably wouldn't work. After his faux pas with the fire-hose, he should have run away from the thought as soon as it popped into his head.

And yet, it wouldn't go away.

"All right," he said, pretending to nod in resignation while secretly crossing his fingers, "One thing though, where is the Guildford place in relationship to the Festival?"

He had been speaking to Chip Fielding again but it was Jack LaPeigne who answered.

"That way, about thirty-five miles," He said, pointing off to the south.

Nick didn't argue, the big bunny would know that if anyone would, he had been to the Guilford house only that morning. To the south, not good; not good at all if that was the direction from which the coyotes' plane would come.

Or...would they? There was something about a southerly approach that didn't feel quite right to him.

"Once they take off, how long will it be before they get here?" Judy Hopps was asking, "And how many planes will they send?"

"I estimate anywhere from 20-25 minutes." Jack answered her and then shrugged, "but how many aircraft they'll bring, I have no idea."

"I can answer that," Chip Fielding said. "If they're planning to spray the Festival with Harequatiline, they have only two planes capable of carrying it."

He went on to explain that in order to properly deploy the herbicide, an aircraft had to be fitted with something known as a Catnip Eradication Dispersal System. "It's the only way to make sure the pilot isn't exposed," he said.

"Okay," Nick began to calculate rapidly. Two planes, twenty minutes...but from which direction would they come? Straight in from the south, that still didn't feel right...but why? If only there was some way to...

At that instant, the festival grounds went dark and the music abruptly ceased. In response, a chorus of moans, groans, and dismay erupted from the dance-floor on the other side of the stage-and in that instant the red fox had his answer.

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"Harder!"

"I'm pushing as hard as I can fox!" Erin Hopps protested, still heaving on the bolt-cutters with what seemed like everything she had.

They had each taken hold of a different side of the instrument, pushing on the handles with both paws and bracing their feet against the ground. Even so the steel of the lock refused to yield by more than another few centimeters. It seemed hopeless.

Conor had no idea why Erin had even agreed to help. Even now he could tell that the young, white-furred bunny was still furious with him.

And that give him an idea. He pointed at the neck of the lock.

"Pretend that's my neck!" he said.

Erin grimaced and her face became a gorgon's mask; with a grunt of rage she pressed hard on the bolt cutters; her strength seemed to have risen to an almost unearthly level.

The lock hasp groaned once and then snapped apart as the cutters bit cleanly through the metal. Conor should have been elated, but ohhhh boy, was he ever going to get it when they were finished here.

But first they had to get finished.

"The other lock, come on." he said.

The second lock broke apart much more easily than the first, perhaps the steel wasn't as strong, or perhaps now that Erin had found the source of her extra strength it came to her that much more easily.

She began to thump her foot again.

"All right, fox. Now...!"

"In a minute!" he said, and jumped up and grabbed the levers, one in each paw. They were large-mammal size and at first his weight was not enough to cause either of them to drop by even a fraction of an inch. But them something yanked hard on his tail, (nearly wrenching it out of its socket,) and both of the levers sliced downwards.

At once the dance floor was plunged into darkness and a thousand 'Awwws!" were raised in protest.

Erin didn't seem to notice any of it.

"All right Conor Lewis...!"

"In a second!" he growled; he still had one more task to perform. Feeling in the darkness for the levers again, he reached up with the bolt-cutters and sheared each of them off at the base. (This he could manage on his own,) and then for good measure, he cut through the power cables as well.

And then he raised the cutters up and over his shoulder. Erin's eyes went wide and she lifted an arm to protect herself, but the young fox only swung them up and over the fence again.

Before Erin could speak, he pointed first to the ruined control box and then to the hole she had dug beneath the fence. (His night vision was finally starting to kick in.)

"I really don't think we wanna be here when security shows up, okay?"

It was a gambit, meant to buy time until he could come up with a plausible excuse for having shined her...but it was also 100% true and Erin Hopps could only grumble her acquiescence.

Conor reached out and took her by the paw; she couldn't see in the dark as well as he could and her superior sense of hearing wouldn't help her here.

She immediately tried to yank her paw away, but ceased resisting when the young fox asked her smoothly, "Wanna pull weeds for the rest of the month?"

That did it, and she let him lead her to the hole. It was an easy squeeze-through for her, but a tight fit for him. Luckily, the young silver fox had some experience in worming his way through constricted spaces.

When he emerged from other side of the tunnel, Erin was there, paws on hips, and once again thumping her foot.

"Not yet, we need to get away from here," he said, swiping up the bolt-cutters and beckoning for her to follow. "I'll tell you on the..."

Before Conor could finish, his cell-phone chimed the refrain from Foxy Lady. Waving his companion to silence, he pulled it out and connected.

It was Finnick calling.

"Heads up, they're coming!"

"Who's coming?" Erin Hopps demanded. Her sharp ears had caught the fennec's words.

Conor responded by heaving the bolt cutters into the underbrush and grabbing her by the paw again.

"Erin, run!"

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Conor Lewis hadn't been the only one to catch the desert fox's warning; Nick Wilde had heard it too...and was right now within an ace of fox-screaming his head off. Too soon, it was way too soon; the kid had only just now gotten the lights turned out; nobody was even THINKING about moving towards the exits.

Blankety-blank little....he could have wrung the younger fox's neck

"What the heck took you so long?" His inner self snarled, before another, more rational voice overrode it. "Easy Nick, don't go blaming Conor, you're lucky he got the power off at all."

Okay, maybe...but now what were they supposed to do? No way could they get this place evacuated in 20 minutes, especially with no lights; even the animals with better-than-average night vision would need at least half that long for their eyes to fully adjust to the darkness.

There was only one small chance, that crazy, one-in-a-thousand idea he'd had only a minute ago.

No, there was ZERO chance of it working; the red fox had just realized why the direct route from the south hadn't felt right. The Guilfords were coyotes; they'd never take the obvious approach; instead they'd drop down under the radar and come in from the west, using the surrounding hills, as cover. That way no one would realize what has happening until the planes were right on top of them.

And the west side of the Festival wasn't much better than the south side, still 90 degrees away from where he needed those planes to be For his plan to have even a chance of success the Guildford brothers had to come in from the north, the one route they'd NEVER take and there was no time to move the...

"Nick what is it?" Judy was tapping him on the arm.

He turned to her and was starting to put the cell-phone away when he happened to glance over the top of her head.

Jack LaPeigne and Chip Fielding were in the midst of a heated argument. Fine thing at a time like this; he could almost begin to...hold it, holllld it.

"I'll tell you in a minute, Carrots," He said, and hurriedly punched the speed-dial on his cell.

But even if the kid could pull it off, how the heck was he supposed to get anyone else to go along with his idea?

"One thing at a time, Nick," he told himself and then put the phone to his ear, "Conor, listen..."

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Twenty-five miles to the southeast, Jerry and Joe Guildford were flying low and hugging the contours of the earth, their two planes maneuvering almost wingtip to wingtip. They were, each of them, at the controls of a Hayres Turbo 720, an aircraft with a long, raked nose that gave it something of the appearance of a flying anteater. These planes, purchased shortly after Sky-yote Crop Services last successful season, were both within a hairsbreadth of being repossessed. Not that it mattered; after tonight, neither one of them would ever fly again, Jerry and his brother would see to that after they landed. It was almost a shame-almost-these were two of the most powerful agricultural aircraft ever built, so effective at making low-level runs that at least one third-world air force had repurposed them as ground-attack planes.

And that in fact, that was exactly what Jerry and Joe Guilford were doing with their planes. Earlier that day, when they'd been fueling up and loading their spray hoppers, brother Darrel had begun referring to them as the, 'Stukas.' Joe had thought that was hilarious; Jerry had only grunted, but then Jerry Guilford didn't seem to think much of anything was worth a laugh these days. What a change from the happy-go-lucky coyote he'd been eight years previously, when the family had first arrived in the Burrow.

Nick Wilde had guessed correctly when he'd surmised that they wouldn't head for the Carrot Day's Festival on a straight-line course. Instead, they were coming in on a circular route, angling for a westerly approach. And also, just as the red fox had predicted, they had dropped down under the radar when the first call had come in from the Burrows County tower. Of course that wouldn't stop them from being tracked by satellite, but Jerry Guilford had been willing to bet that the ZAA wasn't about to waste that kind of resource on a pair of measly crop-dust planes.

His brother Joe wasn't quite so confident.

"Unless," he reminded himself for the nth time, "the Burrows County Sheriff's Office figures out what we're up to."

Unlikely as that scenario was, they couldn't ignore it...especially considering what Joe had seen, shortly after they'd taken off for the Festival. When they'd crossed over Highway 61 he had observed out the side of his cockpit what appeared to be a line of blacked out vehicles, moving in the direction of Star Route 30. He had immediately brought it to the attention of his brother, who had simply informed him curtly, "Don't pay it no never mind, Joe. Keep your eye on the ball."

When his Jerry had first announced his plan, it had been Darrell, the supposedly level-headed member of the family who'd been the most enthusiastic. Joe had been all for it too-at first. But now, the closer they got to actually carrying out the scheme, the more he felt his fervor draining away. He would let none of those feelings show of course, certainly not to Jerry, but still...

This wasn't some act of petty vandalism they were about to commit, it was...oh say it already, this was terrorism! That was what the authorities would call it, especially if anyone at the dance was killed as a result of exposure to the Harequateline they were carrying-or even worse, if it ignited after they dropped it.

And if you went inside on a terrorism charge, you NEVER came out again.

For a just a fraction of a second Joe considered turning back, but immediately dismissed the notion. Even if he made a beeline straight for Burrow County Airport and came out of the cockpit with his paws raised, it was already too late. He'd still be charged as an accessory to terrorism, and that would be good for at least 25 years in the slam, forget the parole. At his age, 25 years was a life sentence in everything but name.

He glanced over at his brother's plane, and was only mildly surprised to see that the canopy was halfway fogged over. Of course it was; Jerry had been mad enough to eat wire when they'd climbed into their aircraft a short while earlier.

It all came down to his brother's boy Craig; Jerry had given his son the job of scouting the Big Dance wanting to make sure Jack La Peigne was there before they struck.

It had been about two hours after the big rabbit's departure that they'd finally learned his identity. It had been all over ZNN; a bunny had gone savage at the Carrot Days festival, and had finally been subdued, thanks to the heroic efforts of Jack LaPeigne, etc.

Jerry had almost smashed the TV when he'd seen it; the rabbit who'd just ordered him off his property wasn't merely a jerk, he was a super-rich jerk, the worst kind in the Guilford family patriarch's estimation. And NOW everyone was treating him like a hero! If Joe's brother had been only determined to get his revenge on Jack La Peigne before seeing that newscast, afterwards he was obsessed with it. That was why he'd given Craig and his little vix-toy the job of making sure the big bunny was there at the dance before they went in. Joe suspected his brother didn't intend to wait for Miranda, or whatever her name was, to get clear of the Festival before they dropped their cargo; her shooting a video of Craig destroying that produce stand had been stupid enough...but posting it on Ewe-Tube? THAT was unforgivable!

Not that it mattered; as usual the boy had messed things up. He'd called in exactly three times after leaving the house, always with nothing to report, and then he'd fallen silent. When Jerry had finally tried to call him, he'd gotten no answer. He'd given it another half hour and then looked at his watch...and then he'd looked at Joe.

"It's 10," was all he'd said and the two of them had climbed into their crop dusters as per the agreement they'd made earlier; if Jerry didn't hear back from his son by 10 o'clock, ready or not, off they'd go.

Given what Joe had seen on the road right after they taken off, it had probably been a wise decision-too bad really; Darrel and the rest of the family wouldn't get away, but at least they'd be avenged.

Jerry's voice crackled over his headset,

"We're comin' up on the turn Joe, follow my lead."

(He did not say 'over' because he did not expect-or want-a reply.)

Joe followed Jerry's plane in a wide arc, aiming for a low set of hills, on the other side of which was their target.

"Keep an eye out for the truck." His brother added in an almost toneless voice. Joe nearly asked him which truck he meant, but then realized he must be referring to the one his son was driving. He wondered for a second if Jerry was planning to drop part of the load on Craig as punishment for having failed in his duty. Nooo, even HE wouldn't go that far.

The rabbits of Bunnyburrow would not be so lucky; up ahead, Joe could see the crest of the hill; in another few seconds and the Big Dance would be...WHAT the?!

The festival was...GONE! There was nothing in front of his canopy but empty darkness.

He immediately got on the radio.

"Jerry, we're in the wrong place, over!"

The answer that came back was surprisingly calm, especially considering the source.

"Easy, little brother, we're where we belong. Open your air vents and take a good whiff. You smell that? Over."

Joe reached down, pulled a toggle switch and inhaled deeply. He was immediately greeted by the scent of a thousand mammals, most of them bunnies, wafting up from somewhere down below. Jerry was right; they were at least close to the Carrot Days Festival.

Only...how close were they, and where, exactly, was the Big Dance from here? It wouldn't do any good to drop their load on the Midway or the parking lot; neither one of those places would be half as crowded as the dance floor. And why were the lights out in the first pla...?

The realization hit Joe Guilford like a wallop across the face

"Holy Crike, they're onto us Jerry!" (This time he forgot to say 'over'.)

"Won't do 'em any good, it's too late, over." the elder coyote answered, grimly determined.

"Roger that, but I can't see nuthin' down there, Jer." Joe answered, peering sideways out his canopy, "We don't want to go laying this stuff down in the wrong spot, over."

For once, Jerry Guilford's answer came with a note of approval

"Heck knows we don't Joe, so we'll circle around until we figure out exactly where we're at, out."

Before the younger coyote could roger his brother's last transmission a call came in on another frequency.

"BCL 57 calling aircraft Alpha Kilo Two-Four-Niner. This is the Burrow County Sheriff's Office. You are ordered to...!"

Joe ignored it as best he could and turned to follow his brother's plane.

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Finnick nearly jumped out of his fur when Conor Lewis came rushing back into their campsite at full tilt.

"DF, get outta that seat and trade places, hurry!"

"Okay, okay!" the fennec growled all but throwing himself out of the camp-chair. (He was actually more than happy to give it up.) But then he noticed his partner hadn't come back alone. Erin Hopps was there with him.

"What the heck is SHE doing here?" he demanded, pointing at the white-furred bunny, "And why hasn't she ripped your lungs out?" he wondered silently.

His partner's only answer was to motion anxiously for the headset

Finnick's puzzlement ceased abruptly the instant he removed it. Now he could hear it, the menacing drone of two aircraft, buzzing overhead. Ohhhh snap...they were here already.

Conor meanwhile had pitched himself into the camp chair and was pulling the headset over his ears. The reason Erin hadn't decided to let him live was actually quite simple, all those earlier delays had given the young silver fox time to finally come up with a decent cover story.

It went like this:

On the way back to their table, he had spotted Amanda Hill moving through the crowd. She had seemed to be searching for someone and at first Conor hadn't had the slightest idea who she might be looking for. But then he'd overheard the young vixen asking a girl-badger about 'that' bunny, and had naturally assumed it was Erin she'd been talking about. And so he had decided to follow Amanda...and ended up trailing her out the exit and all the way up the hillside overlooking the Festival. It was there that he'd run into Nick Wilde, (and no he still had no idea what HE'D been doing up there.)

After that the young silver fox's tale had become 100% truthful, no fillers and no additives.

He didn't know whether Erin had entirely believed him, but she'd certainly believed the part about the Guilfords planning to spray-bomb the Big Dance, or at least now she did; hard to argue that point with a pair of aircraft engines purring somewhere above their heads. (Conor had said nothing about the Harequateline.) She had also believed him when he'd told her that Nick Wilde had already warned her family of the danger, (technically true; he had notified at least one Hopps family member of the impending attack.) Thank goodness she had swallowed that part at least; the last thing he needed right now was for Little Miss Hormones to go rushing off in a panic, looking for her folks.

Speaking of panic, Conor was barely holding it together himself. Nick Wilde's plan was a dicey one at best. And the chance of success would drop to nothing if he messed this up.

He settled down with the laptop on his knee and began to type furiously.

Feelsogud777#%: "K Back. Need help NOW, Guild! xplain ltr."

Guildenkranz&24X: "Go hed."

Feelsogud777#%: "Nd 2 cal dad, nds 2 look lik kid calng, Hry."

Guildenkranz&24X: "Hng on."

While he waited, Conor pulled the headset aside and spoke to Erin.

"Is there any fave expression that Craig likes to use?"

The white-furred bunny's nose began to twitch.

"Why do you need...?"

"Just tell me!"

"Okay, okay," she answered, nettled. "He's got this weird thing he always says, 'yotey baloney', and he always calls Amanda, 'Mandy'."

"Good, thanks." Conor slipped the headset back over his ears. He had already known the second one, but the first one...come to think of it, he had heard Craig saying 'yotey-baloney'to his girlfriend earlier. (He'd forgotten about it though, until Erin had reminded him just now.)

On the screen in front of him a new message appeared.

Guildenkranz&24X: "K, Ur set."

Conor looked over at Finnick. "You gotta piece of paper on you?"

The desert fox fumbled in his pockets for a second, finally coming up with part of a candy wrapper.

"Just this." he said, and the young fox held out a paw.

"That'll do, gimme."

He took the paper and crumpled it, then clicked on the 'call' icon. It rang once, twice, three times-and then it kept on ringing. Noooo, Jerry Guilford either had his phone turned off or else he didn't have it with him; this wasn't going to work. Six rings... seven, eight, nine; one more and the call would be routed over to voice mail.

The phone clicked and then someone was shouting in his ear, "Craig! Where you BEEN, boy?"

Conor brought the paper close to the mike, crinkling it in his paw and dropping his voice to a near whisper...speaking in his best rendition of the coyote's errant son.

"Dad, not so loud, they'll hear."

"Who'll hear?" 'his' father demanded, lowering his voice but still angry.

"Wolverines dad," Conor answered keeping his voice down. "Yotey-baloney there's maybe six of 'em down the hillside from me."

"Then get the heck out of there, boy!" Jerry actually sounded concerned, "I don't need you tangling with that species. We're already over the festival any-a-ways."

"I will dad, but I got something to tell you first," the young fox answered, allowing a note of immediacy to creep into his voice, "I just now heard from Mandy; she saw him dad, she spotted that big bunny. He's not inside the dance; he's just outside the fence on the north-end side."

There was silence on the line and for one, dreadful moment Conor was sure that the coyote had seen through his deception and dropped the call. But then his voice came back again.

"What the heck-all's he doin' out there?" Jerry Guilford seemed to be speaking mostly to himself.

Conor mentally crossed his fingers and prepared to set the hook.

"He's out there talking with Chip Fielding," he said, allowing his voice to become both grim and sardonic.

"Fieldinnnnng." Jerry drew out the name like taffy, and that was when Conor knew he'd taken the bait, two for the price of one, no way could this unforgiving jerk-weed resist the opportunity. "Good job son, now get the heck off of that hilltop; I'll see you back at the rendezvous."

He rang off without another word and the young fox immediately punched in another number. This time he got an answer on the first ring.

"Finnick, you there?" Nick Wilde asked breathlessly, ('Finnick', that meant he wasn't alone.) "Did you get him? Did it work?"

"Yeah, I got him," the young fox answered, surprised that he was breathing hard too, "And yeah, I fooled him too, (I think); you were right, big guy. When I told him that big jerk was talking with Chip Field..."

"Okay, good job." Nick interrupted, and abruptly rang off.

Conor listened to the silence on the line for a second and then fell back in in his camp chair, ignoring both the messages on his screen and also Finnick and Erin. He could have killed for a cold drink right now...and who'd have thought those acting classes he'd taken at the Performing Arts Academy would ever pay off like this?

"Okay, Nick." He thought to himself gazing upwards into the stars overhead, "I did my part; now it's up to you."