Galactic Fun Park: Book Two

By Mason Bell

When your home is a theme park the fun is out of this world... 

Welcome to Galactic fun park, a universe of fun for kids... and the animals that live there! When Galactic Fun Park 

decides to bulldoze the west woods for a new section, Jenkins the manager struggles to find his place in the park.&

• Language: English
• Publisher: Two Turkey Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Mar 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781736790984

Mason Bell

Mason Bell spent many of her teenage years working under the scorching sun in a popular theme park. Serving in positions from ride operation to sweeping trash to managing work crews, she learned the park's secrets and gained an appreciation for the effort that went into creating the illusion.Mason Bell lives in South Texas with her husband and two cats, Frodo and Fat Hobbit.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Nervous guests clutched their tight lap bar as the steady clicking of the coaster’s train grew closer to the Surveyor ’98’s summit. Screams of panic and celebratory hooting trickled to the onlookers below in anticipation of the cars whooshing down the steep plunge.

Mr. Jenkins set out for his afternoon stroll through Galactic Fun Park. His usual routine of examining cleanliness and the flow of foot traffic was put aside. Today he searched for holiday decorations the landscapers might have overlooked during the week of resetting the park for the off-season.

The ticking coaster slowed to dead silence. Mr. Jenkins stopped, leaning toward the waist-high fence surrounding the ride’s gardens. That’s not normal.

An elderly woman in a motorized cart gazed at his name badge, struggling to make out the small letters. Do you work here?

Yes, I’m Mr. Jenkins. It’s a fine day for being outside.

Oh, just lovely. Her thin, long finger pointed to the train that hadn’t moved an inch since their introduction. Is my grandson safe on that machine? It seems to be malfunctioning.

Certainly. Our safety record here at Galactic Fun Park is the best in the country! Sweat beaded on his brow as his phone vibrated from his belt. Please excuse me.

Jenkins jogged up the exit ramp, dodging the non-riders’ prizes and belongings strewn about the wood decking. Keeping the ramp clear was necessary for safety, but there were bigger problems to handle.

Moans and boos filled the loading dock as several crew members attempted to squeeze the guests from the second train back behind the steel safety bars. Having waited for an hour, the guests in line didn’t want to give up their next in line status.

Is the ride broke? a youth yelled.

Mr. Jenkins tapped a young worker on the shoulder. Go answer their questions. He continued to the confused teenager in the driver’s box. What happened?

It just stopped, Mr. Jenkins.

A team of ride leads in black pants and blue button-down shirts, each important enough to have first and last names on their badges, burst onto the loading dock. They gathered around the blinking lights on the control panel, tossing around theories of why the ride stopped.

Get someone to the entrance to close the ride, Jenkins said, marching to the dock’s far side. A quick glance at the stalled train had him sighing. Holding his phone at a distance, he called the front office. It’s the last day of the operating year. What are the chances?

The supervisor for that area called in sick with the flu, Bernice, his assistant of eight years, said. That makes three call-ins today.

Fine. Thank you.

Mr. Jenkins slid the flip phone into the leather holder on his belt. His temple pulsed as the dreadful task fell to him. Starting toward the first turnout of the station, he waved to the leads. Come with me to the lift.

Two official-looking employees hustled up the stairs of the Surveyor’s first incline, taking two steps at a time and easily leaving Jenkins behind. Continuing at a steady pace, he finally reached the first car.

Jenkins gripped the guard rail with both hands. His thick white hair tousled in the gusty wind that constantly challenged the sturdiness of the sky reaching lift. The Surveyor ’98 is having a mechanical issue. We apologize for the inconvenience.

Inconvenience? a teenage boy said, squinting at the squeamish riders behind him. We’re a hundred feet in the air. The ride is rickety like an old ship! We’re all gonna die!

Gasps and cries came from the middle of the train.

No one is going to die, Mr. Jenkins reassured. The ride should be up and running momentarily.

Mr. Jenkins’ blaring ring tone drew the riders’ attention. He pried one hand from the railing. Pressure built behind his eyes as he closed the phone. A simple nod alerted the leads stationed along the track to prepare for the next step. The ride will take longer to fix than we expected. We have to evacuate all riders.

Evacuate! the teenage boy blurted. We’ll fall to our deaths!

I can do this. It’s not that high.

Mr. Jenkins gathered his own courage and cleared his voice. My team and I are quite versed in safety procedures. Please listen closely. As we come to your car, we will unlock the restraints across your waist and assist you in leaving the ride.

Decades of evacuating guests had taught Jenkins one thing—not all guests were created equal. While half could easily descend the stairs in groups, the others would have to be escorted one by one. And the murmuring from the middle seats was a terrible sign. More than anything, Jenkins wanted the ordeal to be over. Let’s begin.

The lead crew member near the last seat popped the lap bar into the open position. Round, gumball-shaped eyes stared at the man in disbelief. Coaxed from their padded seats, they clung to the car as their feet stepped cautiously to the metal railing.

Mr. Sanchez will guide you to the ground, Jenkins said. Please take extra caution where you place your feet.

Screaming from the middle section accompanied the bits of chunky vomit sprayed from the first half of the train—its sickening odor turning the slimed guests a deathly shade of green.

Sorry, a nauseated voice said to the chorus of disgusted grunts.

Only one left.

Mr. Jenkins trudged to the front seat, where two young boys studied his every move. When I release the bar, I’ll help you to the railing. Piece of cake.

The restraint opened with a thud, and the closest boy gripped Jenkins’ arm, leaving fingernail gouges in his thin skin. He slunk from the train and grabbed the railing, but a burst of cold air snatched the camouflage hat from his back pocket, twisting and flipping it to the ground below.

My hat!

Worry about the hat later. Jenkins helped the last boy out. Down the steps, both of you. Careful now.

Jenkins focused on the boys’ progress, keeping the long drop out of his line of vision. Each step tightened the knots in his gut. The quivering in his stomach threatened to release his morning bagel. Finally, they reached the flat walkway parallel to the first hundred yards of track that led to the dock.

With the queue house cleared, the ride crew helped the evacuated guests to the exit ramp. Some huddled with waiting family members while the more adventurous posted their sweeping park photos to social media.

Again, we are sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Jenkins said. Please follow Mr. Sanchez down the exit ramp for your free day passes.

Bill the Mechanic emerged from the dock’s lower stairs, wiping oil from his hands with an old cloth. Well, the computer handled the malfunction like it was supposed to. Now I need to do some poking around for the issue.

Can you get it working by mid-afternoon?

That shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll get right on it.

Mr. Jenkins meandered down the exit ramp, spotting the two boys from the train. One stared glassy-eyed at his phone while the other hung his head, carrying a look of defeat. Mr. Jenkins strolled to the boys. Is there something I can help you with?

I need my hat. It fell from the ride.

I’m sure your hat is fine. Retrieve it from the Lost and Found after the park closes. Mr. Jenkins clapped his hands. Now, how about two free milkshakes at the Shakey Landing Shack?

Yes, sir! the boy said, pocketing his phone. Come on, John. You heard the man. I’ll race you.

But John only sulked next to Jenkins. My dad gave it to me for safekeeping when he deployed this last time. I hope he won’t be too mad at me for losing it.

And why would he be? Jenkins asked. Your hat is only misplaced, not lost.

The Shakey Landing Shack had a fake metal exterior with a large park logo on the service window. Jenkins tapped on the glass, and the heavenly scent of vanilla flowed into the walkway, attracting several guests into a line that blocked foot traffic.

Mr. J! How can I help you?

Two shakes for my fine friends.

Jenkins reached for the sweet treats, fumbling one cup when a fidgety squirrel bounced to his leg. Ah! Look who we have here. Mr. Delivery Squirrel, you’re right on time.

John set his cup on the pavement as he crouched to the furry critter. He’s a delivery squirrel?

Certainly. The park has quite a few. I wonder what he has for us today?

The squirrel scurried up Jenkins’ leg, perched on his shoulder like a parrot, and unzipped his messenger bag to deliver John’s hat. His pink paw saluted Mr. Jenkins, then raced back to the bush, fist-bumping a black-furred squirrel standing nervously on his hind legs.

Dude, that squirrel found your hat!

Mr. Jenkins brushed off the brim. Good as new. You might rent a locker to keep it safe. Enjoy the rest of your day!

Thank you! John said. He tugged the hat over his head, checking it several times as the boys started for the front gate.

Jenkins fished two whole pecans from his pocket and offered them to the critters. You must be Black and That One. Fine job delivering that boy’s hat. I’ll make sure Ron sends extra treats your way.

The squirrels shoved the nuts into their bags and bounded down the walkway, stopping to salvage a few pieces of dropped popcorn. A hand-painted sign towered over their heads—an artist’s rendering of the new section for the upcoming summer season.

Many improvements in the park’s history had been spearheaded by Jenkins, but this grand undertaking felt different, heavier than the others.

If I can make it through today, the off-season construction will be a breeze.

Chapter 2

The bright morning sun peeked over the horizon as five flatbed trucks sat idle outside the Galactic Fun Park employee parking lot. A parade of heavy machinery, directed by men in reflective vests, clinked and squeaked through the Back Lot toward the park’s west side, on the edge of Eagle’s Tale.

Work on the new section started today with four acres of thick forest to be cleared to accommodate new rides and attractions. Though the years of planning were nearing an end, the pain in his temples was just beginning.

Mr. Jenkins locked his car and trudged to his office, dropping his briefcase to the desk. The coffee pot moaned and hissed from the waiting room, filling the building with the scent of a little can-do spirit. He plopped into this chair and spun to the window, staring outside only half awake.

Warm air billowed from the room’s single vent and flipped the curled edge of the blueprint on his desk held in place by a stapler and a tape dispenser.

A suspension rollercoaster drawn in black ink had been purchased from another park across state lines—the norm in an industry where the buying and selling of used rides made smart business sense. Delivery was expected within the next two weeks.

The tip-tap of dress shoes drew closer. Jenkins stepped from the desk and reached for the warm mug in Bernice’s hands. His assistant quickly read his moods. Morning, sir. I see the crew has arrived. What an exciting day.

"I hope the animals—I mean residents—share your enthusiasm. This must go off without a hitch, and despite what they say, not all publicity is good."

Oh, I’m certain everyone is on board. Ron tells me the residents are looking forward to the new food offerings.

Ron? Is he here already? It’s a little early for him.

I haven’t seen him yet. Bernice leaned against the doorframe. We spoke last night on the phone. He’s thrilled about the upcoming conference and what he’ll learn about managing the Nurturing Fund. Why he even—

Thank you, Bernice, he said. If you’ll excuse me, I have to meet the crew at the dig site.

His reflective sunglasses fit snug along his temples, shading his normal trek to the front gate from the Back Lot. Shortcuts through EMPLOYEES ONLY areas had him at the far end of Eagle’s Tale in no time.

An old wooden fence separating the park from the wooded area to the west lay in a pile of rotten planks. Cardinals and blue jays hopped through the vining weeds for spiders and beetles that scurried toward the fresh dirt.

Mr. Jenkins winced suspiciously at the merry birds. After his run-in with cowbirds last fall, he no longer viewed birds as peaceful.

Soggy mud packed into the tread of his shoes, testing the knots in the laces with their newfound heaviness. A team of men and women gathered on the edge of Eagle’s Tale and leaned over the deforestation plans. Dressed in tall leather boots and heavy work pants, they tugged on their back braces as they discussed the first phase.

Good morning, gentlemen, Mr. Jenkins said, weaving himself into the circle.

Morning. A man wearing a hard hat labeled ‘Boss’ offered his rough, scarred hand. I’m Miguel. We spoke the other day. We’ll need a good six hours to clear the land, keeping the trees here and there like you asked. It’s smart to save a few of the shady ones.

It makes financial sense, Mr. Jenkins said. We get the most complaints about the heat. Shade is really all we can offer this far south.

Heat is nothing for us. Summer is when we have the most business.

Jenkins patted Miguel on the shoulder. Don’t let me get in the way. We have only five months to complete the task.

The yellow and orange hard hats started for the forest, marking the spared trees with yellow ribbons. Bulldozers roared to life and trampled the saplings along the old fence line, toppling them like dominoes.

Mr. Jenkins ducked under the caution tape looped around the bridge posts, stepped past the muddy boot prints, and slipped through the plastic safety barriers on the opposite end. Winner’s Orbit lay before him.

The gaming section housed his favorite carnival-style booths, all of which had canvas hung over the large openings for the off-season. Cobwebs stretched across the framed corners, collecting the new emergence of springtime insects.

A bench outside the Warp Speed Racing booth gave him a marvelous view of the construction. Jenkins winced at the heavy machinery’s ability to tear through such dense forest. It wouldn’t have been his first choice, but planting trees after the addition of the rides and attractions was cost-effective.

Jenkins sipped his coffee to calm his churning stomach. Destruction creates chaos. I always doubt the process, but it usually turns out better than I expect.

An alarm whined from his flip phone, showing his few minutes of free time had become an hour wasted. With his empty coffee cup in hand, he stood and stretched.

Like a rocket blazing a fiery path, a fox appeared from nowhere and darted between his legs. The world spun, and his vision blurred. Jenkins tumbled to the pavement, grabbing the sharp pain radiating from his shoulder.

Mr. Jenkins hoisted himself to his feet as a pair of foxes rushed after the first. His head jerked at every slight movement along the pavement. A louder alarm blared from his pocket. Jenkins’ trembling fingers fumbled the phone, squeezing its edge in his palm as he hustled from the section to find safety.

An odor of stagnant water lingered from the Icee Ring stand. Jenkins turned the handle and shoved the door with his aching shoulder. Ahh! That hurt! He stumbled inside and peeked out the hazy service window, finding three opossums waddling into the gardens.

When the growling of distant machinery silenced, Mr. Jenkins wiped his sweaty brow and exited the cramped building. A quick glance around trash cans and gardens showed no signs of wildlife. He turned for the office once again, startled by thumping footsteps.

Mr. Jenkins! Miguel called, speeding toward him. There you are. Hey, the woods are teeming with wildlife. Do you want us to stop and call in an exterminator?

No! I mean, no, that won’t be necessary. There will be plenty of wooded space when you’re done today. I’m sure they’ll resettle.

All right. Miguel walked back to the site and whirled his hand above his head. A poof of black smoke shot from the bulldozer as it fired up and continued on