The Conch Shell of Doom

by Ryan Hill

  Mr. Lovell laughed. “I’ve taken everything you’ve ever held dear, yet you’re still so sensitive. It’s not healthy.”

  “You might want to think about what you’re doing.” Franklin laid the blade on the ground and waited a moment before revealing the mirror. “I mean really take a look at yourself. See what you’ve become.”

  The mirror caught Mr. Lovell by surprise. The sight of his mangled body sent him into a shrieking fit. He fell to the ground, an arm shielding his eyes. “No more. Please.”

  Franklin didn’t have long. The mirror wasn’t big enough to have any real lasting effect. He moved to deliver a swift kick. Mr. Lovell rolled out of the way and then disappeared with a snap. Another snap and the mirror was gone from Franklin’s hand. He dove toward the blade, snatching it up.

  “Do you really think you can get close enough to stick me with that thing?” Mr. Lovell’s voice sounded phlegmy and painful.

  “I can try.”

  “And you’ll fail. Accept it. You lost. The Awakening is going to happen. Your brother’s return is imminent. His army will rise again. I wonder. What will you do then? Where will you go?”

  “Disney World, maybe?” Franklin needed to get out of there. He doubted running deeper into the cave would lead to an escape. Most caves came with a dead end, not an exit. Even if there were another way out, it’d take days to find it, provided the flashlight didn’t run out of batteries first. He didn’t have that kind of time.

  No, the only way out was past Mr. Lovell. He said he’d transport away before letting himself get stabbed. Time to call his bluff.

  “I’m getting bored,” Mr. Lovell said. “Just give it to me. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get out alive. I know your brother wouldn’t mind you witnessing the breadth of your failure.”

  Franklin knelt down and then sprung forward like he’d been launched off a catapult. He held the blade tight and slashed at Mr. Lovell. He spun out of the way, but the weapon caught his coat and easily tore through the fabric. The spinning became faster. Franklin moved fast and sloppy, trying too hard to land a critical blow. Anger and adrenaline exaggerated his strikes. Mr. Lovell disappeared and then reappeared behind Franklin. The blade sparked as a wide swing nicked the side of the cave.

  Mr. Lovell teleported from spot to spot so fast that Franklin struggled to adjust. Every attack landed a second too late, leaving him vulnerable. Mr. Lovell took advantage, punching Franklin in the face with each crack. After several misses, he noticed a left, right, back, and front pattern to his adversary’s movements. With the last miss being to the right, Franklin whipped around as fast as he could, thrusting the blade forward. It landed in Mr. Lovell’s shoulder the moment he appeared.

  “Gotcha.” Franklin pulled the blade out, blood dripping off the tip.

  Mr. Lovell clutched his shoulder and staggered back. Franklin looked at the Blade of Hugues de Payens. Blood coated almost half the weapon. He’d landed a major blow.

  “Enjoy this little victory,” Mr. Lovell spat. “It will be the last one you ever have.”

  “Says you.”

  Franklin moved in for the kill. Mr. Lovell spun again, faster and faster. He looked like a mini-tornado. The gust of wind pushed Franklin back toward the cave’s exit. The whirling blur of Mr. Lovell inched closer. The crack had the force of a powerful explosion. Franklin was thrown out of the cave and over the side of the mountain. Holding the blade to his body, he closed his eyes and prayed for a soft-ish landing.

  This might hurt a little. Even for an immortal.

  Bailey Southwick hated driving in the middle of a panic attack. Steering a vehicle while his body shook, his head felt dizzy, and his vision swirled was not Bailey’s idea of a fun Friday night. He took exaggerated breaths in the hopes of slowing down his frantic breathing. Having anxiety sucked. It was always there, like an exposed wire waiting to be set off. In his sixteen years, all sorts of things had sent him into a panic. Tests he didn’t study enough for. Clutch situations in basketball. Approaching a girl he liked. Too many people talking to him at once. The latest panic was justified. Bailey panicked because of a genuine fear for his life. So what if it happened because he went to pick up the new Call of Duty game from home? He refused to let that underscore the severity of his panic attack.

  His right hand shaking, Bailey could only steer with his left. That wasn’t the easiest thing to do, but at least he had put on sneakers earlier that day. Sandals always forced him to drive barefoot. If things got worse, he’d have to pull the car over until the attack calmed down. Bailey narrowed his eyes, trying to put his entire focus on the drive ahead. Any thoughts beyond that fed the fire of his panic.

  After grabbing the game, he’d gone into the kitchen for a granola bar to snack on during the drive back to Marshall’s. Bailey overheard the party next to the kitchen in the living room, but it was odd. He didn’t hear the typical bubbly chatter, scattered bits of laughter, or even his parents’ horrific collection of Van Morrison and Billy Joel albums playing on top of everything. The party sounded a lot more like a business meeting. Curious, Bailey leaned his head against the door. A static charge in the wood made parts of his brunette hair stand up.

  “Do we have assurances we’ll be protected after the Awakening?” a woman asked. It sounded like his friend Marshall’s mom.

  “Absolutely.” The man’s scratchy voice sounded like it had been dragged through a tunnel of broken glass. “Trenton Maroney has always honored those loyal to him. We’ve been working toward the Awakening for decades. Giving up so close to the end would be unwise.”

  “Nobody’s talking about quitting,” Earl, Bailey’s father, said. “I think we just want to make sure we’ll be taken care of after the fact.”

  “Consider yourselves fortunate. Had the Conch Shell of Doom not been discovered in your town, all of you would be dead after the Awakening. Now, you have the once-in-a-millennium opportunity to be part of his cabinet,” the mysterious man said. “You and your loved ones will be well provided for, as promised. You’ll enjoy all the spoils and riches the world has to offer. Power beyond your wildest dreams. But, most importantly, you’ll live.”

  Bailey stifled a laugh. What kind of weird assed party was it?

  Conch Shell of Doom? Power? Riches?

  It sounded like some sort of Ponzi scheme. Maybe his parents were high. Wouldn’t be the first time Bailey caught his parents smoking up. A handful of occasions he’d found the two sitting outside, eyes bloodshot, giggling over something stupid, like almond milk, an empty bag of chips on the ground. It didn’t take a genius to do the math.

  Bailey eased the door open and peeked through the crack, trying to get a look at the owner of the mysterious voice. No luck. The man was turned in the opposite direction. He wore a large overcoat and hat, which seemed odd, considering they were inside. His parents taught Bailey wearing a hat inside was bad manners. You’ll never eat dinner at the White House acting like that, they’d say.

  “Earl,” the man said.

  “Yes, Mr. Lovell?” Earl sat in one of the two reclining chairs in the living room.

  Mr. Lovell took off his sunglasses as he turned toward Bailey, whose mouth fell open at the sight. Either someone gave that guy a hell of a makeup job, or all the crazy stuff they talked about was real. It couldn’t be. That creature? Things like that existed? How? Bailey tried to tell himself it was just his overactive imagination mixing with anxiety to make a big deal out of nothing. He closed his eyes and cleared his mind, hoping it would level off his emotions. A loud crack behind him ruined those chances.

  Holyshitholyshitholyshit.

  Fear wrapped its icy fingers around Bailey’s heart and squeezed. He opened his eyes. Mr. Lovell, with his twisted skin, pitch black eyes, and rotted meat smell loomed over the kid like a power-mad hall monitor.

  “It seems we have a Peeping Tom in our midst.”

  Bailey’s eyes watered from the terror. Not even one of his patented Stephen King-induced nightmares pulled off tha
t trick.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Where Do You Think You’re Going?

  Fear took over all sense of coordination as Bailey ran out of the house. He bumped his shoulder against the kitchen’s archway, sending a throbbing sensation down his arm. The pain doubled after he couldn’t get the front door open in time and slammed into it full speed. Outside, he tripped on a bush and face-planted in the grass. Bailey couldn’t believe he made it to his late model Honda Accord without losing any body parts. The key slipped out of his hand, jingling as it fell on the floorboard.

  “Of course!”

  With that kind of luck, Bailey figured the car would explode when the engine started. He closed his eyes and turned the key in the ignition. The car rumbled to life without issue.

  He patted the dashboard. “Lucille, baby, I love you.”

  Bailey’s parents and the other partygoers came outside. None of them, including Marshall’s mom and dad, made a move toward Bailey. They stood on the front yard, looking confused about what was going on. Mr. Lovell appeared in front of the car with that same crack. Bailey screamed and put the car into reverse, driving down the street backwards until he reached the intersection. Driving away, he was too scared to look in the rearview mirror. After a few minutes his heart calmed down, and the rest of him soon followed. Bananarama’s Cruel Summer played on the radio. He laughed at the irony of it. Bailey focused on the song, hoping to ignore the fact that he saw someone appear out of thin air. Twice.

  His brain jumped from thought to thought, unable to latch onto any one thing. It was impossible to process what happened. Who was that nasty guy? What were Bailey’s parents, and everyone else, doing with whoever that was? Worse yet, would anyone believe Bailey’s story? His friends? What if they were in on it? That was a depressing thought. If they were, why didn’t anybody ask him about joining? He’d have said no, but it would’ve been nice if someone asked.

  Ten minutes later, Bailey stood in the middle of Marshall’s basement, drained. Bailey figured they weren’t involved with Mr. Lovell, which would’ve been a pain in the ass to deal with. It left Bailey with the even bigger problem of getting them to believe his story.

  “Took you long enough.” Marshall wore a sleeveless shirt, showing off his muscular arms. He hopped off the couch, and snatched Call of Duty out of Bailey’s hand. “I could’ve gotten in five workouts in the time it took you to get here.”

  “Right. The game.” Bailey wondered how he’d held onto it the whole time.

  “Are you okay?” Tim asked. “You look like you stumbled upon a horde of ninja assassins.”

  Bailey shook his head. “Have you guys ever heard of a Mr. Lovell?”

  “Nope,” Tim said. He was shorter than his friends, thanks to a growth spurt that died out after an inch. “Who is he?”

  “Drink this.” Marshall thrust a shot of vodka in Bailey’s face. “We’re a few ahead of you.”

  Bailey downed the drink in one gulp. The alcohol warmed his stomach, giving him something tangible to focus on. He started regaining control of his thoughts. A few more shots and his nerves would be a non-issue. He sat on the velvet love seat and told them everything, including Marshall’s parents, the talk of Trenton Maroney, and Mr. Lovell.

  “He sounds like some kind of history teacher.” Marshall sprawled out across the couch. “Hello, I’m Mr. Lovell. Today, we’ll be discussing Lewis and Clark, and the homoerotic feelings they had for one another but never acknowledged. Be sure to take notes. This will be on the test.”

  “I thought it all was a joke at first,” Bailey said. “But then I saw those eyes of his. Like eight balls without the white.”

  Tim laughed and popped Call of Duty into the PlayStation. “You don’t hear that every day.”

  “I have to call bull on this.” Marshall rolled off the couch and then poured himself a shot. “My parents wouldn’t have anything to do with that. They’re accountants. Way too serious for something that crazy.”

  Bailey’s internal defenses sprung to action. “Do you really think I’m making this up?”

  Marshall and Tim said, “Yes,” at the same time.

  “Unbelievable.” Bailey leaned his head back and looked up at the popcorn ceiling. He should’ve known they wouldn’t believe him. “We have to do something. Our parents could be in serious trouble.”

  “So?” Marshall picked up a controller. “Our parents are full of shit, but they’re not idiots.”

  “He’s got a point.” Tim stared at the TV, waiting for the game to load. “What can we do? It’s not like our parents listen to us anyway.”

  “And say you’re wrong about this.” Marshall swallowed his shot and then held a hand up to his head like a telephone. “You think Earl Southwick won’t throw you in the loony bin for saying you overheard him and your mom talking to some guy with crazy eyes about a sea shell of death?”

  “Conch Shell of Doom,” Bailey said under his breath. He should’ve known they’d piss all over his story.

  “My bad,” Marshall spat. “Conch Shell of Doom. That sounds much more rational.”

  “We have to do something.” Bailey’s defenses couldn’t take much more. He knew what he saw.

  “You can Tweet about it.” Marshall smirked.

  “Yeah.” Tim used the controller to get to Call of Duty’s multiplayer. “Or make a Vine video. That’ll show ‘em.”

  “Your parents were there too, Marshall.” Bailey was losing his temper. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  Marshall’s phone rang. “Speak of the devil.” He showed Bailey the display. It was Marshall’s mother.

  Bailey flew into a panic. “Don’t answer it.”

  “Don’t be a little bitch.” Marshall answered the phone. “Hey. Why yes. Bailey’s right here.”

  Bailey bit the inside of his mouth. It was a mistake coming there. His parents knew he was sleeping over. Bailey needed to go on the lam. Right after he searched the Internet on how to do it.

  “Okay, yeah. No, I get it.” Marshall set the phone down on the coffee table.

  “What did your mom say?” Bailey asked.

  “She said you interrupted their dinner party in the middle of some mystery game they were playing and freaked everyone out.” Marshall hopped up off the couch. “Your parents are coming to get you. They’re worried about you. Freakin’ drama queen.”

  “I’m not going back there.” Bailey started for the stairs. “No way.”

  Despite feeling betrayed, he understood why they didn’t believe him. Though, it would’ve been nice if they didn’t throw him under the bus. It seemed like a dick move.

  “I keep a ninja star in my car if you want it.” Tim was still glued to the game, mashing buttons on the controller as he tried to blow up other players. “For protection.”

  “Get over it.” Marshall cheered as Tim blew up a tank. “Nice hit.”

  Bailey went up a few stairs.

  “Hey.” Marshall hopped up off the couch and jogged over to Bailey. “Just stay here. Your parents probably want to give you a Xanax or something, and then they’ll go home and you can get drunk with us. You know this is just your anxiety messing with you, right?”

  Bailey’s temper spilled over like a boiling pot left unattended. He pulled at his hair, fighting the hopeless, sinking feeling in his chest. “Anxiety doesn’t have anything to do with this. It doesn’t make me see things, damn it. I’m not making up the fact that some ugly assed dude teleported right in front of me. Twice!”

  “Don’t yell at me,” Marshall said. “Just tell them your blood sugar is low and you want a milkshake. Milkshakes make everyone feel better.”

  “Whatever.” If Bailey stuck around much longer, he’d say something he couldn’t take back. “All I’m saying is I think our parents are into some really shady stuff, and it would’ve been really nice if my friends believed me.”

  “Yeah, well, I wish the Mets were halfway decent, but wish in one hand,” Marshall said. “Just stay here, we�
�ll figure out something to tell your parents.”

  Bailey took the keys out of his pocket and squeezed. It helped keep the shaking away. “No, you guys have fun.”

  Tim paused Call of Duty. “Come on. Don’t go rogue on us. Besides, where would you go?”

  Bailey glanced at his friend. At least Tim showed a little compassion. Not much, but a little. “No idea.”

  Franklin sped down Interstate 40, the engine in his red 1969 Ford Mustang purring like a satisfied kitten as he pushed it to ninety-miles-an-hour. He’d be in the coastal town of Mooresville, North Carolina within a couple of hours. The swan dive off the Copper Canyon broke almost one hundred bones by his estimation. His body took entirely too long to heal, putting him behind schedule. For two thousand years, he’d prevented the Awakening weeks, even months, in advance. He’d never cut things that close. At least Mr. Lovell didn’t have the Blade of Hugues de Payens, the one thing that could kill anything, including immortals. Franklin smiled at the idea of the final Awakening. He’d fantasized about life after Trenton since the days of the Roman Empire.

  Two flashing blue lights appeared in the rearview mirror, cutting Franklin’s daydream short. The cops. Always there when you didn’t need them.

  “Damn.”

  The blade lay in the seat next to him. He covered it with his leather jacket. The Mustang, El Cid, could easily outrun the cops, but nothing could outrun radios or helicopters. Every Highway Patrolman, Sheriff, and City Police within a twenty-mile radius would be all over Franklin within minutes, and time was too precious to deal with a manhunt. He smacked the steering wheel as he pulled over onto the shoulder and then rolled down his window. A breeze brushed against his face every time a car passed. The police officer, a Highway Patrolman, shone a flashlight in his eyes. Franklin handed over his license and registration before the cop had a chance to speak.

  The patrolman looked over the ID, making sure it was authentic. Franklin knew how to make a fake better than anyone, and he’d never been caught. The cop looked too stupid to break that trend.