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“It’s not going anywhere!”
    â€œI hope not,
señor”
Sticky muttered. “Because if you lose it,
we’re
not going anywhere.”
    â€œJust get us to the power ingots, all right? Leave the rest to me.”
    So they waited until they thought the coast must be clear, then eased open the tall, narrow door and sneaky-peeked inside.
    No Damien.
    No Brothers.
    No other doorways.
    Just maps.
    Maps
everywhere.
    â€œI know where we are!” Sticky cried. Then, as if sharing a dark and spicy secret, he whispered, “This is the map room!”
    Dave rolled his eyes. “And how do we get through the map room to … to wherever that madman has gone?”
    â€œThataway!” Sticky said, pointing to the floor.
    Sure enough, beneath the rug was a trapdoor.A trapdoor that, Dave discovered, led to steep, crooked, spiraling steps that led, well, down.
    No, not just down.
    Down, down,
down.
    As they descended into the deep darkness, they could hear Damien’s voice echoing through the…down-ness.
    Dave whispered, “Does this take us to the dungeon?”
    â€œSí, señor!”
Then he asked, “Can’t you
see, señor!”
You’re stumbling around like you’re blind!”
    â€œIt’s dark in here!”
    For a gecko like Sticky, there was plenty of light to see by. He yanked on Dave’s ear and said, “Theeees way! You’re going to fall off if you don’t watch it!”
    â€œFall off?”
    â€œSí!”
He kept tugging. “Come over this way. Hug the wall. And watch out for rats! They’re as big as cats and they’re everywhere!”

    Something as big as a cat scurried across Dave s feet. Dave did a little dance, nearly lost his balance, then said, “This place is a nightmare!”
    â€œAy
chihuahua
, don’t I know?”
    The place was, in fact, worse than a nightmare. Perhaps one could dream of tall, oozy, slimy walls and creaky, crooked steps or of rats scurrying and bats fluttering, cobwebs snagging and spiders dangling…but the smell…oh, the smell! Who could dream a smell like that?
    No, they were definitely wide awake, and thefarther down they went, the stronger the stench became until it was nose-pinching, eye-stinging
awful.
    â€œWhat
is
that smell?” Dave whispered, his eyes at last adjusting to the darkness.
    â€œDeath,” Sticky explained, his voice small and shivery. “We’re getting near the dragon pit.”
    A few steps later, Dave came to a stop. “I feel like we’re walking into a trap.”
    The reason he sensed this was because of something even creepier than the smell or the oozy, slimy walls or the scurrying rats and fluttering bats and dreadful, dangling spiders.
    He had just noticed the silence.
    The sudden, eerie silence.
    â€œThe voices have stopped,” Dave whispered ever so softly.
    Sticky tugged on Dave’s ear, leading him off the spiraling stairs and into an uneven crevice in the wall. It was barely wide enough for Dave to hide in, and the cold, damp walls were giving himthe chilly-willies. He wanted out. He wanted out badly.
    But then he heard footsteps approaching.
    â€œDo not move a muscle,” Sticky whispered into Dave’s ear.
    Dave held his breath as a dark figure in black boots and a caped coat crept up the stairs.
    Crept past them.
    Dave kept holding his breath.
    For another minute.
    Maybe two.
    Then the nose-pinching air was shattered by an ear-splitting squeal.
    â€œBlasted varmint!” Damien shouted, and then a pitiful
screeeeeeeeeeeech
descended into the dungeon until finally there was a
thump.
    And then, from somewhere beneath them, came the sound of muffled machine-gun fire.
    Only it wasn’t a machine gun.
    Or even a six-shooter.
    It was the dragon, charging his prey.
    â€œIt was only rats!” Damien called down the stairs at the Bandito Brothers. Then he laughed his evil, demented laugh.