Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Chalice of the Gods(15)

“And then what?” Grover bleated. “She might turn us into babies!”

“Stop it!” Annabeth said.

“No, you stop it. Meanie!”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Guys!” I grabbed their arms and held them apart. “We can figure this out. Back inside.”

I was trying to be the reasonable one. Definitely a sign of the apocalypse. I led them back into Hebe Jeebies, which was the last place I wanted to be.

Almost immediately, we ran into Sparky, who looked much more cheerful without her wheel o’ prize tickets.

“Hi, welcome to Hebe Jeebies!” she said. “Do you know your way around?”

“We were just here,” I said. “Except older.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down. . . .” She looked us over more carefully. “How much older? Fifty? Eighty?”

“Seriously?” Annabeth said.

“We asked you where Hebe was,” Grover offered. “You pointed us to the karaoke bar?”

“Oh, right,” Sparky said. “You three. Okay, then, have a good time.”

“Wait!” Grover said. “We need to see Hebe again!”

Sparky arched her eyebrows. “What, you want to be even younger? When Hebe blesses you, you shouldn’t get greedy. I’m sixty-five myself. It took me months of working here to get this young again!”

Of course. Sparky was another boomer—just a nine-year-old boomer.

“We don’t want to get any younger,” I said. “We want Hebe to put us back the way we were.”

Sparky scowled. “Hold on. . . . Are you lodging an age-based complaint?”

I didn’t like the way this manager kid/boomer was looking at me, like she was going to bury me in two-for-one pizza coupons. “Well, it’s just . . . I think there’s been a misunderstanding. We’d like—”

“You’d like to complain.” Sparky pulled a bullhorn off her belt and announced to the entire arcade, “We have an age-based complaint!”

The crowd erupted in cheers, hoots, and jeers. Many of them grinned at us in a malicious way, like they expected a good show.

“Um . . .” I said.

“Unleash the predators!” Sparky screamed. “Let the chase begin!”

Bells clanged. Money changed hands. A few customers speculated as to who would fall first: me, Annabeth, or Grover. It didn’t look like the odds were in my favor.

My pulse pounded, but scanning the room, I couldn’t see any bloodthirsty predators.

“We just want to talk to Hebe!” I insisted.

Sparky pointed her megaphone right in my face and nearly blasted my eyebrows off.

“Maybe you will, if you survive the race. Have fun!” She lowered her bullhorn and strolled off.

In the depths of the arcade, someone screamed. A chair went flying. A pinball machine toppled over.

Annabeth drew her knife, which looked bigger in her small hand.

Grover yelped. “Here they come! I can smell them!”

“Smell what?” I demanded. “I don’t see—”

Then I did. The chickens from the henhouse were rampaging through the arcade. Normally, I wouldn’t use the word rampage to describe poultry behavior, but these birds were pure feathered chaos. Dozens swarmed over the game cabinets and knocked over furniture, ripping the upholstery with their claws and beaks. Some flew over the heads of the customers, strafing their hairdos. Others snapped hot dogs out of people’s hands.

The Hebe Jeebies patrons didn’t seem to mind. They squealed in delight as they ran from the hen-pocalypse like those crowds at bull-running events in Spain, as if they were thinking, These animals might kill me, but at least I’ll die in a really cool way!

The hens headed straight toward us, violence in their beady little eyes.

I pulled out my ballpoint pen. “These chickens want trouble? I’ll give them trouble.”

Which was probably my worst heroic line ever.

Even more embarrassing—when I uncapped Riptide, it remained a ballpoint pen. No sword sprang into my hands.

“What the . . . Why?” I screamed at the pen, which didn’t help with my whole unheroic vibe.

“Maybe it doesn’t work for kids,” Grover suggested. “You’re too young now.”

“You mean my sword has a childproof cap?”

“Hey, guys?” Annabeth said, sheathing her knife. “Argue later. Right now, I have a different plan: RUN!”





If you’ve never had to run through an arcade pursued by killer chickens . . . you wanna trade lives for a while? Because seriously, you are welcome to mine.

The birds were small, but they were fast, vicious, and surprisingly strong. They stormed across the space in a wave of feathers and claws, shredding more furniture, scattering the customers, and driving up the high scores on the Dance Dance Revolution machines. The whole time, their unblinking eyes stayed fixed on us, their beaks and talons gleaming like polished steel.

I’d heard stories of people staging rooster fights, putting razor blades on the birds’ feet for extra damage—because people do terrible things—but these hens were even scarier. They were killing machines au naturel, and they looked like they really enjoyed their job.