Something Stinks in Deep Cove (The Vellian Books Book 4)

by Reed, Grant T.

  “Are you coming or what? I’m not going to wait all night.” Johnny’s voice held its usual tone of contempt.

  Merle’s pencil tapped a hollow thudding beat on the metal desk. Sighing, he pushed himself back from the table. “Alright,” he groaned. He knew it was their allotted time to shower, and Gunther was waiting for them to shout down the hall to his station. He also knew Gunther was not a patient man.

  “Cell eleven, ready to shower,” called Johnny through the bars of the door. He held his soap in one hand, and his white towel was draped over his shoulder.

  “OPEN ELEVEN,” echoed Gunther’s voice.

  “Where is my towel?” asked Merle. He scoured the floor and cringed when he saw the wet bundle near the head of the bottom bunk. Gingerly he picked it up by a corner and gagged. The once white fabric was streaked with rusty stains.

  “Oh ya,” remarked Johnny, sauntering into the hallway, “the toilet backed up, again.”

  Stoneman ambled after his master, and Merle made a gesture behind Johnny’s back. He thought about staying in the cell, but knew he wouldn’t get another shower for five days. Sighing in frustration, he flung the soiled towel onto Johnny’s pillow and raced after them.

  * * * *

  Two Rusty Baritones occupied the stalls on the left of the shower room. Seeing Johnny and Stoneman head for the middle cubbies, Merle thumped his way to the last stall on the right – the furthest from his annoying cellmate as he could get. Merle’s feet made a flapping noise in the water on the tiles. Abruptly he realised that, not only was he devoid of a towel, but in his rush to get out of their cell, he had forgotten his soap. Slipping out of his jumper, he kicked it into a pile against the wall.

  The stalls each had a one foot wall protruding between them, but this only gave the merest illusion of privacy. Entering his wash area, Merle pulled on the overhead chain and gurgled in delight as the warm water hit him. Soap or no soap, he was going to enjoy the steamy heat for as long as he could.

  “My girl don’t like dirty armpits, she like’s em nice an clean,” sang the first Baritone from his stall. His partner thumped a beat on the tiles and whistled in unison.

  Then, the first singer whistled, while his buddy took up the next line. “If my junk is ever dirty, she’ll polish it til it gleams.”

  “My baby’s a scrubbing monster; she works that elbow grease.”

  “She’ll flay the skin from your backside; and she won’t miss a crease!”

  Merle buried his head under the flow of hot water, enjoying the massaging heat. He turned around to warm his back, and stopped dead. A mop handle was pointed at his throat. A large Ponceman shoved him against the wall with the pole. Fear gripped the dragon, as he realized the shower room now contained ten newcomers. Five Monarchs and five Poncemen had slunk in behind them. Nine of the men were fanned out in a half circle, behind the unsuspecting Johnny.

  ‘Oh, this is really bad,’ realised Merle. ‘If they’re working together, they mean business.’ The Ponceman in front of him held a finger up to his lips. The man’s long braids flapped from side to side as he shook his head in a silent warning.

  Further down the room, the Baritones ditty ceased. Merle swallowed and watched as one of the baldies – Marcus from cell ten, motioned his head toward the exit. The two naked singers ran from the room, hugging each other.

  “Girlfriends that don’t like it dirty, all they do is complain,” sang Johnny. His head was buried under the warm spray as he shook his butt to his own beat. “So come on and stick with Johnny, I prefer to abstain.”

  “Get ‘im Dave,” snarled Marcus.

  Dave, a plump baldie with a star tattoo on his forehead, rushed in as Johnny turned, sputtering in surprise. Dave’s fleshy forearm connected with Johnny’s nose, cutting off his squeal of terror. In the stall beside him, Stoneman lathered up, oblivious to his master’s peril. Johnny dropped like a brick, but was quickly hauled up by his hair. Dave threw an arm around the skinnier man’s neck and clamped a hand over Johnny’s mouth to quiet his screams. Merle tensed at the sudden assault, but the mop handle only pushed him harder against the wall.

  Merle now noticed the men were carrying socks. Some of the men twirled these weapons, and the dragon guessed it was soap in the stockings weighting them down. Marcus looked to one of the Ponceman and nodded. “As agreed, your men get the first blows.” All four of the braided men rushed in and began wailing on Johnny. The heavy thuds and smacks echoed loudly in the tight confines of the room. Johnny squirmed and squealed, Dave’s hand only partially blocking the horrible noises escaping the skinny man.

  “Your buddy ain’t much use to you when you can’t tell him what to do, is he?” asked Marcus, with a nod at Stoneman.

  Johnny sobbed in response. “I’M SORRY!” he screeched, from behind Dave’s arm.

  Marcus’ soap weighted sock rocketed into Johnny’s ribs, cutting off his pitiful cries. Now the rest of Marcus’s Monarchs rushed in, beating on the young man.

  Johnny sobbed and struggled, but eventually, even this resistance ceased. His body hung limp in Dave’s arms and Merle could see the deep purple bruising covering Johnny’s white skin. The dragon’s heart was racing. Though he disliked Johnny, he couldn’t stand here and watch the man being murdered.

  Lightening arched across the room, following the water trails on the floor. The man with the mop was sent flying with the sudden burst of electricity. Several of the men shrieked and were thrown from their feet – Dave and Johnny included. Dave scrambled out from under Johnny, and all of the men eyed Merle as he stomped over to them.

  “He’s had enough, don’t you think?” snarled Merle. His little dragon paws were curled at his side, and his angry glare was focused on Marcus. He walked over to stand next to the leader of the Monarchs.

  “I say when people have had enough, around here,” argued Marcus, picking himself up.

  Merle’s hand shot out to grab Marcus by his undercarriage, and another electrical jolt lit up the room. Marcus screamed and collapsed, and several of the men received a secondary blast of electrical current. The Poncemen ran from the room as Marcus whimpered and crawled toward the door. “That’s enough,” he begged.

  Merle watched as Marcus’ cronies helped him from the floor. All of the men were frightened and gave the dragon a wide berth. None of them looked back as they fled from the showers.

  “Stoneman!” yelled Merle, but the golem ignored him. Merle’s eyes went to where Johnny lay in a pool of soapy water. The man’s eyes were closed and his mouth was open. His breathing was shallow. Beside Johnny, his broken glasses diverted a small stream of water on its way to the drain. Merle went to his cellmate with a sigh. Latching onto the man’s skinny wrist, he grunted with the effort and dragged Johnny toward the exit.

  * * * *

  Johnny remained in his bunk, from which he had not moved for two days. He had refused to go to the infirmary, so the doctor had been brought in to examine him. Nothing was said to Merle by the guards or the doctor, but Johnny had been allowed to stay in his cell to recover. Now, two days after the incident, the warden appeared at their cell door. He looked to be in his fifties, with iron grey hair and stern features. He stood unmoving, outside the bars. The man’s posture was rigid and his hands were laced behind his back. He stared at the bruised and beaten figure of Johnny. At last, he turned to Merle, his voice cold. “What happened?” the words were spoken direct, no hint of emotion.

  Merle also remained cool, an open folder before him on the writing desk. Without looking over, he answered. “He slipped in the shower.” The warden nodded and walked away.

  Merle released the breath he had been holding without even realizing it. For a minute, he had been afraid Johnny would speak out against his attackers. Closing the folder, he rubbed at his temples and his eyes skimmed over the dozens of notes taped to the wall. In the hallway, the Warden’s footsteps faded completely. ‘Where the hell are you, Garrett?’ he wondered not for the first time. ‘Enjoying your vacat
ion, no doubt.’

  “This is your fault,” moaned Johnny. The accusation snapped the dragon from his thoughts. “Your golem cheated and destroyed my career. If I had never met you, I would be enjoying the high life right now.” He rolled over to face the wall, groaning with the effort.

  “Save it,” mumbled Merle. He was too tired to argue. “He copied your voice and cheated. I know.” Merle paused, his eyes growing round. Snapping to attention, he faced the stacked paperwork in the corner. His hands darted out, and he pulled the heavy security log from the pile. Tapping a claw on the heavy tome, a slow smile spread across his face. ‘Of course! How could I have been so stupid? You really were in that room, and now I know how you did it!’

  14

  Willie’s Choosing

  A light snow was falling, and a gentle wind blew the flakes into the barren holes of the hemlock hill. The delicate snowflakes settled briefly on the brown grasses and leaves, before promptly melting. Willie leaned against a moss covered log, staring into the grey sky. He watched a flake spiralling towards him, and felt its tiny cold bite as it landed on his cheek. He grinned at the shaman beside him and reached into the darkened crevice beneath the log. The sweater he retrieved was made of thick wool. He pulled it over his head and quivered happily at the warmth.

  “Are you sure you can’t come with me, Chief?” asked Willie, again. He crossed the clearing, below the great hemlock boughs, and gazed down the side of the knoll. A creek tumbled its way along the log and boulder strewn ravine. The snow was only now starting to accumulate on the foliage of the hillside.

  The chief remained dressed in his fur loincloth, the man’s necklace of teeth his only other adornment. Unhurriedly, he shook his head, his white locks brushing his shoulders. “No. Other Mogi need Chief’s guidance.”

  Willie scratched at his ear and nodded. He had suspected as much. Kicking at the leaves, he uncovered a squirrel hole. With a grin, he reached into the ground and pulled out a leather glove. He pulled it on and nodded. “Where do you suppose the other one is?”

  His friend approached him, with a cackle of delight. A flourish behind the bowman’s ear produced the other glove. “Behind ear, and you not even know.” He winked at Willie.

  The bowman clapped the little man on the shoulder and bounded for the edge of the ravine. Taking one last look down the valley, he watched as a black bear made its way toward the distant spirit tree. The Bear left a trail of paw prints in the snow. Willie pulled his friend along, behind him. Half way down the hill, Willie stopped and approached a hole in the base of a giant oak. The bear tracks had emerged from this den. Willie knelt before the opening and scooped an acorn off the ground, holding it out, towards the chief. “You ever eat one of these things? Very bitter.” Willie scrunched his nose and crawled headfirst into the opening. He rooted in the shallow depths for a heartbeat before backing out again, his leather cloak in hand. He stood and unraveled the garment, with a snap. Maneuvering the protective cape over his shoulders, he took another long look at the spirit tree.

  “What kind of tree do you suppose it is?” he asked abruptly. “I know all kinds of trees. I even made my home in one once. I’ve never seen a tree like that, though.”

  The little man shrugged beside him. “It spirit tree.” Despite the grey sky and the falling snow, the spirit tree remained vibrant and full of green leaves. Even from this distance, Willie could see its heavy boughs were massive: much bigger than those of any tree he had ever encountered. A flock of geese winged overhead, their cries echoing over the two men as the birds flew down the valley. “If you want, we go look?”

  Willie was silent for some time, and then he turned from the tree, trudging through the ankle deep snow. “No, I don’t think so.” Behind him, his friend nodded and followed.

  The wind picked up and the sky darkened overhead. No longer did gentle flakes drift to the ground, but instead, gusting driving snow buffeted the two men. ‘Where is it?” wailed Willie. Behind him the chief shouldered the Impaler, but said naught. “It has to be here somewhere,” he cried. He dug through the mounds of snow, coming up with nothing but a handful of dead brown leaves. Picking himself off the ground, he ran through the woods, the trees becoming more skeletal at his passing. All around them, the temperature was dropping, and great wisps of steam escaped Willie’s lips as he panted for breath. “I have to find it!”

  Willie struggled through the knee deep snow as the storm intensified around them. Just when he thought he could go no further, he emerged from the dark forest onto a ledge of stone. Before them, an ancient rope bridge extended into the distance, its destination lost in the driving snow. Thirty feet out on the bridge, just on the edge of his vision, nestled a familiar brown jug.

  Willie trembled with relief. “Thank God,” he sighed. He took a step onto the bridge, and it swayed alarmingly. As if he sensed his friend had stopped, he turned back to the little man. “Aren’t you coming?”

  The chief remained unmoving on the lip of the canyon, the burnished wood of the Impaler black against the snowflakes accumulating on the man’s skin. “I no go where Willie go.”

  “Will I see you again?” asked the bowman and then as an afterthought, when he espied his bow slung over the other man’s shoulder, “Hey, my bow! You found the Impaler.”

  The chief nodded. “We see each other again. Next time we go to tree if you like. We visit Willie’s Mom.”

  Willie looked hesitant for the briefest of moments. Then he went to the chief and hugged him. “You’re a good friend,” he said. “If you see my mom, tell her there was something I had to do.” He removed the Impaler from the little man.

  He bent low against the howling wind and worked his way out onto the bridge. Arriving at the brown bottle, he scooped it up. He turned back and was able to make out the shadowy outline of his friend as the little man waved goodbye.

  Then the bridge heaved, and he was falling.

  * * * *

  Roget lay on the cold ground, his chin buried in wet leaves. His head did not move though his eyes searched the hillside below. Smoke rose from the mouth of the cave, and twice, he had seen Willie’s companion come out to retrieve an armload of wood. Even from across the gorge, Roget could see the man’s bandaged wrist and the way he avoided using the arm as he gathered the wood. Sometime after that, the woodsman Avros, had made his careful way from the cave. Moving slowly, the man’s limp was pronounced. The hunter had not gone far, but circled up over top of the cave to a spot that was out of sight of his companions. Here he found a suitable log to use as a toilet.

  The sun had been warm on Roget’s back as he lay beneath the birch tree. The previous night’s trials had caught up to him, and he slept briefly. Now it was nearing dusk, and his stomach grumbled loudly. Moving deliberately, he pulled his pack from under his side and reached into its shallow depths. Retrieving the last of his apples, he bit into the crisp fruit. Despite the sweetness of its juice, he would have preferred a medium rare steak and a tankard of beer.

  His next bite was interrupted, when a shadow stirred at the edge of the cave. His hand froze, the apple a mere inch from his lips. The same two men appeared on the ledge as earlier. There remained no sign of Willie. Without realizing it, his free hand crept to his hip, reassuring himself of his knife’s presence. He watched as the one man went to the pile of uncut brush and used a hatchet to remove several limbs. Avros eased himself from the lip and retraced his steps from earlier in the day. This time, the man stood with his back to Roget, relieving his bladder against a tree.

  Roget bit into the apple as the man carrying the wood disappeared back inside the cave. He had not seen Willie with his own eyes, but unless he could confirm the bowman had succumbed to his injuries, he would have to work out a way of dealing with the other two men. He watched as Avros retied his breeches and swung back for the trail below. Chewing on the apple core, Roget nodded to himself.

  He surveyed the cave mouth for a further twenty minutes as the woods grew dark around him. H
e was about to back himself over the hill, when he froze, his heartbeat doubling and the hair on his arms jumping to attention. Instantly, his chin touched the leaves again, and he pushed himself backwards as fast as he dared. Scrambling through the wet foliage, he fought the panic that threatened to overwhelm him. He had only spied it for two seconds, but he needed no second glance to know what his eyes had told him. Silver fur rippled over sleek muscle as the beast snuffled the air for scent of its prey. Ambling down the darkening path, it lumbered toward the cave.

  Roget was up and running now. Down one hill and up another, he fled. He had circled this hilltop, as part of the route he had taken, earlier in the day. Knowing the beast was out there, he had taken the time to scout for a suitable safe haven to spend the night. Clambering onto a large rock, he reached up and grabbed an overhanging branch. This tilting beech was far up on the side of the hill and leaned out dangerously over the valley below. If he worked his way into its upper branches, he felt, the beast would not reach him.

  Climbing into the lofty heights of the tree’s embrace, he settled in, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He could feel the sweat dripping down his back. He untied the hatchet from his belt and sunk it into the wood beside him, all the time scanning the forest floor below. Seeing no sign of pursuit, he exhaled. With any luck, the creature would enter the cave and do Roget’s dirty work for him. If not, tomorrow he would make his way to a spot above their hideout: to the log Avros had chosen for his privy.

  * * * *