The Troop

by Nick Cutter

  When it was done, the spark plugs lay side by side on the floor. The boys grinned at each other. It had to be the best news they’d ever gotten. They had to grope through a dead man’s insides to get it, but still.

  They were both suffused with a feeling they hadn’t truly experienced in days:

  Hope.

  42

  THEY CARRIED the spark plugs down to the shore. Max was so excited that he didn’t even bother to strip the wash gloves off. The sea came into view over the rocky scree. For the first time since they could recall, that vista didn’t seem so vast or the distance to North Point so very daunting.

  Newton popped the motor canopy. He frowned.

  “Should we just screw them in like that? All covered in . . . you know.”

  “You think it matters?”

  “It could. We should clean them first.”

  Max said: “Won’t that ruin them?”

  Newton pointed at the words running down the side of the plugs in small green type: Marine Standard. “That means they’re waterproof.”

  They washed off the gray-pink curds in the frigid sea. They did so carefully, the way you’d wash oil off a baby mallard.

  When they were clean, Newton put them on the big flat rock to dry. Newton chose it specifically because it was large, and flat, and flecked with pink granite. A very peculiar rock. He chose it because he wanted to be absolutely sure they could find the spark plugs again.

  Max knocked on the motor’s gas tank. His knuckles brought forth a hollow whonk.

  “Sounds almost empty.”

  “What about the generator?” Newton said. “It should have gas.”

  They returned to the campsite. The cap had been wrenched off the generator’s gas tank. The surrounding earth held the gleam of spilled gasoline. Max rocked the generator. Nothing sloshed inside.

  A pall of hopelessness fell over them. The universe was aligned against them. Why? It struck Max that the universe ought to find better targets. Had to be plenty of psychopaths and deadbeats out there, right? Why pick on a couple of kids? The universe could be a stone-cold asshole sometimes.

  “What about the emergency jerry can?” Newton said. “The Scoutmaster kept it in the cellar.”

  The steps groaned as they traced their way down the stairs. Bars of sunlight fell through cracks in the cabin floor. The cellar was eerily clean: not a single spiderweb, none of the sickly gray mushrooms Max had spied growing in the corners when he was down here the other day.

  God, Kent must have eaten them, he thought queasily.

  Max picked the jerry can up. It was joyously heavy.

  “There’s at least a gallon in here,” he said.

  Maybe the universe wasn’t such an asshole after all. But it sure as hell made you suffer something fierce.

  Case in point: when they returned to the boat, the spark plugs were gone.

  THE PINK-FLECKED rock was bare except for two wet spots where they had lain. Newton actually laughed—a strangled squawk of disbelief.

  “They’re here,” he said, shaking his head, a strained smile on his face. “No, no, they’re here somewhere, I’m sure of it. Where the hell else could they be?”

  The boys waded into the frigid surf and poked doggedly around the rocks. Maybe a big wave had crashed up on shore and pulled them into the sea. But that couldn’t be—the rocks were dry as saltines. Their ankles turned pink, then blue. Max stomped out of the water.

  “Are you kidding? Where the fuck are they, Newt?”

  “How should I know? I left them here.”

  “You should’ve put them in your pocket.”

  “So it’s my fault? Are you serious? What do you think happened—a fish jumped up and swallowed them? A bird flew off with them?”

  “Okay, what if a bird did pick them up? A pelican, like the ones perched on the buoys out at Barker Bay? My dad says they swallow soda cans.”

  “God. Don’t be so stupid.” Newton adopted a superior tone—as if he were talking to a preschooler who’d just claimed the Tooth Fairy was real. “Pelicans are shore birds.”

  “So what’s all this then, Newt?” Max spread his arms out. “Is this a shore, or are you just a big fat moron?”

  “Pelicans are mainland shore birds. This is an iiiisland. Mainland shore birds don’t fly to iiiiislands. Do you understand that, or do I need to draw you a map—”

  Max took two steps forward, planted his palms in Newton’s chest, and shoved. Newton went down with a jolt. Max expected him to stay down just as he always did—but instead Newton propelled himself off the rocks and drove his shoulder into Max’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

  They tumbled across the shore, striking at each other. Their blows didn’t have much pop, but they were thrown with cruel intentions. Newton’s fist collided with Max’s nose, and the impact set Max’s skull bone ringing like a cathedral bell. Max rolled over, snarling, and his elbow caught Newton under the chin. Blood leapt into the air, startlingly bright in the morning sun.

  They shoved away from each other, breathing hard. Max’s nose was a squashed berry. Blood lay stunned across his cheeks. The wound in his abdomen had opened up again. Blood was dripping from Newton’s chin. They eyed each other warily, trying to gauge whether the fight was over or this was just an interlude before hostilities commenced anew.

  “Are we done?” Max mumbled.

  “Yeah, we’re done,” Newton said with downcast eyes.

  They sat in silence as the adrenaline burnt out of their systems. In its wake came dull relief. It was like tripping the release on a steam gauge: they could breathe easier and think straighter.

  Max offered Newton his hand. Newton took it. Max pulled him up.

  “That was a waste of time and energy,” Newton said.

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know why guys do it. I feel sick. I taste blood between my teeth.”

  “Sorry.”

  Newton shrugged. “Don’t be. I did it, too.” He smiled out the side of his mouth. “Bet you didn’t see that coming, did you? WWAMD!”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Your nose okay?”

  Max gripped the tip of his nose, wiggled it. “Hurts, but I don’t think it’s broken.”

  They looked out over the sea.

  “It was Shelley,” Max said.

  “Yeah,” Newton said. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “You figure he chucked the spark plugs into the sea?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You think he took them with him?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You figure he wants us to come find him?”

  “Uh-huh. Hide and go seek. Fetch boy, fetch.”

  Max sighed. He felt about a hundred years old.

  “Red rover, red rover, please send crazy asshole Shelley over.”

  “Olly olly oxen free.”

  “Come on,” said Max. “We got to find him.”

  43

  THEY SET off in pursuit of Shelley just after noon.

  “I got my animal-tracking badge last year,” Newton said to lighten the mood. “But, y’know, they don’t give out a man-tracking badge.”

  They decided to search the areas off the main trail. Shelley couldn’t have gone too far. Before leaving, they ate the last of the berries they’d collected—the ones for Eef. They tasted bitter, but they’d need the energy.

  Newton packed his field book into his knapsack along with a map of the island, some rope, and a flashlight. Max snapped a branch off an elm tree. It was as thick and as long as a mop handle. He sharpened one end to a wicked point.

  “I don’t want him coming near us, Newt.”

  “How else are we going to get the plugs?”

  “Maybe we can convince him to toss them to us.”

  “You think?” Newt looked dubious. “You don’t figure he’d swallow them, do you?”

  They set off on that unhopeful note. The sun was obscured behind ashy clouds. The temperature had d
ipped. The daylight was already starting to fade. They were bone-tired before they even took their first steps on the steep switchbacking trail.

  “I saw him last night, you know,” Newton said. “Shel. He came round while you were sleeping.”

  “Wait, what? What for?” Max shivered involuntarily. “What did he do?”

  “Just crouched there. Watching, you know. The way Shelley does.”

  “So did you do anything?”

  Newton shook his head. “I just watched him right back. Honestly, I figured it wouldn’t be so bad if he died out here. I know that’s awful, but . . .”

  Newton held Max’s gaze when he said it. Max glimpsed—not for the first time in the past few days—that seam of stoniness running through Newton. It was unexpected coming from someone who usually rolled over and showed his soft belly. If anyone had asked Max who’d still be standing after all this, he would have said Kent, maybe Eef. But Newton had that survivalist’s outlook. It wasn’t about the badges he’d earned or the fact he was best at starting a fire. Newton had inner resources that the rest of the boys simply didn’t possess—even Max himself. Getting teased your whole life must force you to grow some pretty hard bark.

  “I don’t mean that we should hurt him,” Newton said. “When we get back to the mainland, we should tell the police he’s still here, and sick, and maybe they’ll be able to do something.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m just saying if they don’t get here in time—”

  “Let’s not talk about it, okay, Newt?”

  “What should we talk about?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe food?”

  Newt grinned. “Yes.”

  They covered all their favorites. The peach cobbler at Frieda’s Diner that came with a scoop of just-starting-to-melt vanilla ice cream. The porterhouse steaks Max’s father cooked up at the annual summer barbecue, two inches thick and marbled with rich melty fat. The pies from Sammy’s Pizza down in Tignish—you had to pay five bucks extra for delivery to North Point, but it was so worth it to scarf down one of those slightly chewy slices covered in little spicy pepperonis and mozzarella cheese.

  “Oh oh oh!” Newton said excitedly. “The cannolis at Stella’s Bakery. The best.” He threw his hands up with an air of finality, as if he’d settled some hard-fought argument with a fact that was beyond dispute. “Crunchy on the outside, filled with sweet cheese and chocolate chips on the inside. They crack apart in your mouth and that filling just . . .” His tongue inched out of his mouth. “. . . splooshes. It splooshes onto your taste buds. I could eat about a million of them right now.”

  Max bent over, clutching his belly. Newton’s rhapsody had left him a bit light-headed. “Crap. Maybe we ought to talk about something else.”

  They found a skunk den—it was clear by the smell—and what may have been a fox run, but no sign of Shelley. They debated where he might be hiding, or whether he was hiding at all.

  “Maybe he’s following us,” Max said, a possibility that spooked the hell out of them.

  “We should follow our noses,” Newton said. “Like Toucan Sam, y’know? The stranger and Scoutmaster Tim and even Kent—they all started to smell sweet, right? Like, gross sweet.”

  Max nodded. “Yeah, like rottenny kinda? Like someone’s puke after he ate two cones of cotton candy at the fair and got on the Zipper.”

  “I guess like that, yeah. So if we smell that—”

  “We’ll know Shelley’s close. Okay.”

  The sun slipped lower in its western altar. Twilight piled up along the horizon in ever-darkening layers. The boys hunched their shoulders into the brisk wind.

  Newton laughed and said: “You know, my mom’s going to kill me when this is all over.”

  Max loved that Newton still thought that way—that he still saw a time when this would all be over. When they would be home, safe.

  “Why would she, Newt? For what?”

  “For all this. Getting myself into it.”

  “None of this is our fault, Newt. It’s just some awful thing that happened.”

  “I know, I know. My mom’s just like that sometimes. She cares too much, y’know? Makes her crazy. Remember that flour baby project we did for home ec?”

  Of course Max did. Their teacher had given them each a bag of flour to take care of as if it were a baby. Some students hadn’t taken it seriously. Eef tossed his flour baby off the school’s supply shed and hooted as it detonated across the hopscotch court. Kent duct-taped the entire bag to avoid ruptures. Their teacher frowned on this. You wouldn’t duct-tape an actual baby, would you? she’d asked Kent. Are you suuuure? Kent replied with a sly smile, earning sniggers from the rest of the class.

  “I really tried to take good care of that flour,” Newton said. “I drew a face on the sack and everything. But the thing is, I’ve got sweaty hands. It’s a condition. Sweaty armpits and feet, too. Can’t help it. Every time I touched it, the sack got wet. It started to come apart. I told myself to stop fussing with it, but I couldn’t help it. I kept touching it just to know it was there and safe. It ripped a little and then a little more until it finally ripped right open. My flour baby . . . well, died. I guess I killed it.”

  “It was just a stupid sack of flour, Newt.”

  Newton made a face that said: You don’t get it, man.

  “I’m just saying that sometimes the more you care for something, the more damage you do. Not on purpose, right? You end up hurting the things you love just because you’re trying so hard. That’s what Mom does with me sometimes. She wants me to be so safe that it ends up hurting me in a weird way. But I get it, y’know? It must be the hardest thing in the world, caring for someone. Trying to make sure that person doesn’t come to harm.”

  THE SKY was the color of a bone-deep bruise when Max caught the first traces of a high sweet stink.

  “You smell that?” Max whispered.

  Newton nodded. “Where’s it coming from?”

  They held their noses up, zeroing in on the location where it seemed to emanate from: a cavern set into a shale-strewn hillside.

  They retired out of earshot to formulate a plan.

  Max said: “Should we yell down to him?”

  “Maybe he’s sleeping. Why wake him up? We can just pluck them off him.”

  “Right out of his pocket?”

  “If that’s where he’s keeping them, I guess we’ll have to.”

  “Okay, fine,” Max said, expelling a few rabbity breaths. “But what if he’s awake? What if he fights back?”

  “Are you asking if we should hurt him?”

  “I don’t know. I guess so. I mean, you already cracked him over the head, so . . .”

  Newton bit his lip. “Let’s just hope he’s asleep. Rock, paper, scissors for who goes in first?”

  Newton’s hand came down clenched in a fist. Max’s hand came down flat. Paper covered rock.

  “Forget it,” Max said. “We go down side by side.”

  Newton shook his head. “It looks too narrow and anyway, fair’s fair.”

  44

  THE CAVERN floor dipped just past the cave mouth, plunging them into darkness. A sticky, coagulated darkness that coated their skin like oil. It was as if the rods and cones in their eyes had been shut off like flicking a light switch: click!

  Newton was in the lead, clutching with both hands the crude spear Max had made. He figured this was the blackness that must exist at the bottom of the sea—a blackness prowled by sightless things whose skin was so pale and gelatinous you could see the inner workings of their bodies. Things with nightmare anatomies that would evoke cries of horror were they ever glimpsed in sunlight: blind eyes bulging atop skinny stalks, rubbery mouths big enough to swallow a Hyundai, rows of tiny needlelike teeth. Such creatures could only survive in the deeps: their bodies had no protection against the sun—their skin would roast and disintegrate to mush before they even reached the surface. But they had learned to adapt to their lack of sight. They jostled and b
umped with the other creatures that lived beneath the light, occasionally lashing out with barbs or tentacles or teeth.

  WWAMD? he thought. The answer came swiftly: Alex Markson would be scared shitless. Anyone else on earth ought to be scared shitless, too.

  The boys’ collective breath came hot in their ears. Their boots sent little avalanches of shale skittering down the cavern slope. Water trickled over the rocks somewhere below—a sea-seeking tributary. The air was laden with the smell of sweet corruption.

  Max’s hand was wrapped tightly around Newton’s flashlight. He had not switched it on yet. Newton would tell him when. Darkness pushed at his eyeballs. Steady fear pulsed behind them: a monstrous pressure massing behind his eyes. With darkness pressing from the front and fear pressing from behind, he was terrified his eyeballs would burst like grapes in a vise. This was the strongest evidence yet that something must be terribly the matter with Shelley: no sane human being would want to hide out down here.

  They inched their way down the incline, hands outflung so they wouldn’t run face-first into the rock. The cavern walls were slick with some viscid substance: algae, maybe? Max pictured tiny albino crabs scuttling along the gluey stuff, their pincers tik-tik-tikking. He imagined millions of them forming a chittering umbrella above their heads. His cheek came into contact with a shelf of slimed rock: it felt like a giant raspy tongue. That he didn’t scream out in terror had to count as a minor miracle.

  The darkness was disorienting. Nothing could moor itself to it: not even their breathing, which seemed to float out only to hit some unseen barrier and rebound back at them. It could make a person go mad simply because it consumed them: creeping into their mouths and into their ears and up their noses and behind their eyes, invading every part until they were one with it.

  The boys moved deeper into the silent cavern . . . and then came the sounds.

  Those horrible sounds, from God only knew what.

  SHELLEY HEARD them coming. His ears were very keen now. Oh yes. Very keen indeed.

  He could not see the boys yet. The boys who’d come to collect their little prizes. The silly little boys who wanted to get back to their stupid homes, their stupid lives.