The Conch Shell of Doom

by Ryan Hill

  “No clue,” Bailey said. “But it wasn’t Percy.”

  Marshall snorted. “Wait. So two people were dumb enough to break into the museum just to steal a sea shell?”

  “Looks like it.” Bailey said, noticing Alexis crouching behind a Ford in the condo’s parking lot.

  The three of them made their way over to Alexis, crossing the street when no cars were coming, doing their best to avoid the streetlights. They made it to the Ford unnoticed and crouched beside her.

  “Glad you could make it,” Alexis joked.

  “You got him?” Bailey asked.

  Alexis pointed. “Fourth floor.”

  Bailey’s muscles tensed up. If they were discovered, who knew what would happen to them? His parents erased his memory because he saw something. Was the next step snuffing out his entire identity? Maybe even his life? What about the others? He wished he was in a movie. In the movies, a big, intimidating hero would take charge, guns blazing, and save the day. The only one in the group that came close to that description was Marshall, and he was the furthest thing from a hero. Not to mention, none of them had a gun, let alone a plural amount of gun, so they could go blazing.

  Bailey hated how scared he was. Stupid nerves.

  “So, what’s the plan? Sneak up there and peek in the window, like a bunch of Peeping Tom’s?”

  Bailey nodded. “That’s all I’ve got.”

  Marshall smacked Bailey’s shoulder, furious there wasn’t a decent plan. “Are you kidding me?”

  “It’s not very ninja.” Tim’s voice trailed off.

  “It’s not very anything.” Marshall set a hand on the pavement for balance.

  Alexis looked back at them, out of patience. “We’re all ears, if either of you have a better idea.”

  Tim shook his head. “Anything I’d come up with would require ninja stars, which we don’t have.”

  Alexis’ eyes fell on Marshall. “You?”

  Marshall’s pride deflated. He glanced down at the asphalt, unable to hold her look.

  “Then, unless you’ve got something better, shut up.”

  Bailey’s mind raced as he tried to think of another idea. Short of knocking Percy out with some kind of concussion bomb, nothing came to mind. At least anything that didn’t involve Call of Duty. Bailey wished he could’ve called in a drone strike.

  “Do you think we could tell the cops they got the wrong guy?” Bailey asked.

  Marshall glanced at him for a moment. “Moron. They caught that guy in the act. As far as they’re concerned, they’ve done their job.”

  Alexis glanced out of the corner of her eyes, like she was doing the math in her head. “I’m with Marshall on that one.”

  Bailey sighed. “Then I guess we go in for a better look. Shit.”

  Alexis took a sprinter’s ready position. “On the count of three.”

  After the three count, they crept out from behind the Ford and quietly hustled over to the building, avoiding being discovered by any lights while making as little noise as possible. They made it across the parking lot safely, stopping at the stairwell.

  “Ready?” Alexis whispered.

  Bailey nodded, along with the rest of them, even though he wasn’t close to ready. He figured none of them were either, including Alexis. “Let’s do it. Not like we’re getting any younger.”

  “Nothing bad is going to happen.” Alexis held out her fist. Bailey bumped it.

  “That doesn’t make me feel better,” Tim said.

  “You want a bump too?” Alexis held her fist out again. Tim smiled, bumping it.

  “What about me?” Marshall complained. He got a bump too.

  “Can we go now?” Bailey asked, starting up the stairs.

  It only took a handful of steps before the complaining settled in. After turning onto the next set of steps, Tim bumped into Marshall.

  “Watch it.” Marshall pushed Tim.

  “You’re too slow.” Tim smacked Marshall’s arm away. “Move that fat ass of yours.”

  “Fat? This is all muscle and you know it.”

  Alexis shushed them. “Ladies? Can we stay on topic?”

  “Sorry,” they both said, lowering their heads in shame.

  The group tried to look normal as they walked up the stairs, in case some random tourist walked past them. After a couple of minutes, they stepped onto the fourth floor. Alexis took the lead in place of Bailey, since she knew which unit Percy stayed in. They passed a few doors before arriving at his. Marshall and Tim were in the rear, standing in front of one of Percy's windows. Bailey motioned for them to move back.

  Marshall scrunched his face and made the same motion at Bailey.

  “Dickhead,” Bailey whispered. He wanted to slap Marshall, but nodded at the window instead.

  “Oh, shit.” Marshall was so surprised he spoke at an almost normal volume. He stepped back, knocking into Tim, and pushing him back as well. The two of them silently bickered.

  Bailey tried to peek in through the corner of the window, where there was a slight opening between the frame and the blinds. He could hear his friends breathing behind him, raising his own excitement level. His heart beat so hard it felt like an alien would burst through his chest at any moment. Bailey thought he saw something move inside, but before he could make out what it was, he heard the long, slow sound of a fart.

  Tim.

  Bailey gawked at his friend.

  “Sorry, it was Seaside’s pepperoni pizza,” Tim whispered. He glanced at Marshall, whose face turned three darker shades of red. “Don’t look at me like that. It tears you up too.”

  “Real ninja of you,” Marshall said. “At least I can let mine out without anybody noticing.”

  “Quiet,” Bailey whispered.

  “Seriously, do you two mind?” Alexis asked.

  Tim and Marshall zipped their lips. Marshall pinched his nose shut, breathing through his mouth. Bailey looked through the window again. The bag Percy held earlier lay on the bed. What was in the bag? The Conch Shell of Doom? Gwyneth Paltrow’s head? He hoped not, on both counts. Gwyneth’s severed head scared him enough in the movie. Bailey could hear two voices speaking inside, but he couldn’t make out what they said.

  “Now what?” Marshall asked. “Knock on the door, say Avon calling?”

  “You can.” Bailey motioned at Alexis with his shoulder. “He knows what we look like.”

  Before Marshall could respond, Bailey’s laser pew-pew ring tone went off. He closed his eyes, despair seeping into every pore of his body. Unbelievable. Of course it would happen at the absolute worst imaginable moment. Whatever cosmic, all-powerful entity was making his life hell could spend eternity with bad breath and no sex for all Bailey cared.

  Alexis jumped at the sound, smacking Bailey’s arm. “Turn it off.”

  “Idiot.” Marshall punched his shoulder from behind. “How could you leave your ringer on?”

  “Sorry.” Bailey yanked his phone out, set it to vibrate, and pressed ignore, ending the call from his parents. Bailey held his breath and rubbed his shoulder. That shot from Marshall hurt. Bailey prayed the people inside the condo didn’t hear the ring. The agony of waiting to find out felt like the most gripping fear since seeing the first Paranormal Activity movie. Man, did that movie freak Bailey out. After a few moments of silence, the group seemed to relax all at once. They’d know by then if anyone heard them. Bailey exhaled and tried to relax his nerves.

  There was a loud crack behind him. He glanced at Alexis. She stared at something beyond Bailey with eyes so wide they looked to be the size of tennis balls. He followed her gaze and jumped at the sight of a man in an overcoat. The coat’s collar was pulled up to cover his face and the hat pulled down, probably for the same reason.

  Bailey immediately remembered the guy. Looking at Mr. Lovell, Bailey worried his brain would take a breather and pass out. And he thought the fear rippling through his body when the phone rang was bad. Passing out from terror was a real option at that moment.

/>   “I see your parents didn’t give you enough of my tea,” Mr. Lovell said. “Young Southwick.”

  Tim gasped and tried to run away. Mr. Lovell spun in place so fast he became a blur. He disappeared with another loud crack, reappeared in front of Tim and knocked him down. Mr. Lovell grabbed Tim by the shirt, dragging him back to the others.

  “Holy shit!” Marshall squealed. “That guy just teleported!”

  Alexis grabbed hold of Bailey’s arm. Tight. Her breathing was heavy as she locked eyes with Bailey, who was so far beyond terrified he sort of felt okay. Plus, it was mildly comforting to remember seeing Mr. Lovell do the same thing last night.

  “Let’s go inside, shall we?” Mr. Lovell asked.

  Though that didn’t stop Bailey from wishing he’d passed out.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Prison Life

  Franklin had four hours to kill before Julie showed up to bail him out of jail. If she showed up. If she didn’t, well, it was too early to think about a jailbreak. It’d be pretty stupid on her part to pass up a thousand in cash on top of whatever bail cost. Franklin was confident she’d come. In the meantime, all he wanted was to sit down, lean his head against the wall, and get a little shuteye, but that wasn’t in the cards.

  Twenty minutes after his phone call, Portman, Jackson, and a third, more athletic, cop stood in front of the cell. Portman, fingers in a bandage, slammed his nightstick against the metal bars, the loud clanging making the prisoners sit at attention.

  “You boys are good.” Portman pointed at Franklin. “I only want him.” The other inmates slid away from him.

  Franklin picked his nose, flicking a small booger on the floor. He couldn’t have cared less about Portman, who showed off the bandage.

  “You broke two fingers.”

  Franklin wanted to ask the man if they were broken in more than one place but kept his mouth shut. Franklin was no dummy. These cops were looking for payback, and anything he said now would only make it worse. Jackson’s key ring jangled as he unlocked the cell. The door swung open with a rusty wheeze. Jackson and another patrolman, a younger guy named Lucas, walked in, looming over Franklin, who wasn’t intimidated.

  “We need to inspect you,” Lucas said. His neck was littered with red spots from ingrown hairs.

  Didn’t his dad teach him how to shave? Sickening.

  Portman chuckled, making his belly jiggle. “Yeah. We have reason to believe you may have smuggled some illegal contraband into our little big house.”

  “That so?” Franklin asked. “You inspect these other fine gentlemen?”

  “Don’t you be draggin’ us into this,” ZZ Top beard said. “This is your problem.”

  Jackson rested his hands against his love handles. “You don’t have to come willingly.”

  “We’d almost rather you didn’t,” Portman said.

  Franklin rubbed his legs. “How about I ask for a lawyer?”

  Jackson hmmed. “You could, but the phone’s out of order.”

  “It worked just fine for me earlier,” Franklin said. “Though it did stick when I tried to hang it up.”

  Jackson laughed obnoxiously and then leaned in close. “Normally, parts of this job rub me the wrong way, but you broke my partner’s fingers. Few things get me in the mood to serve and protect like attacking a cop. Now, I get to do the fun part. Thumpin’ your skull.”

  Franklin sighed. He could beat the hell out of everyone, but that would only get him in more trouble. He took off his jacket and reminded himself that Julie would be there soon. Or more to the point, she better be. Otherwise, he may have to key her Camaro or burn that bar down. It’d depend on his mood.

  The cops led Franklin down the hall toward the isolation cells, where they could have him all to themselves. Portman led the way, with Jackson and Lucas behind Franklin, in case he tried to do anything.

  “You see, Lucas.” Portman turned around, walking backward. “We have a code. And one of those codes is you don’t break a cop’s fingers, especially at the station.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lucas said. “We have to protect our own.”

  “Because nobody else will.” Jackson poked Franklin in the back with his nightstick. “We had a tourist come through here about a year ago. Picked him up for public drunkenness and general vagrancy. You remember that one, Portman?”

  “The kid with the goatee?”

  “That’s the one. Anyway, he thought he was smart, like you. And you know what we did to him?”

  Franklin tried not to smirk. He was willing to take a beating like a man, but that jab with the nightstick rubbed him the wrong way. What did it matter if he got beat worse? He’d live, so why not cop an attitude? “Made him chief of police because he raised the average IQ of the entire department by twenty points?”

  Jackson poked him even harder. “I guess some things are better seen, not heard.”

  Franklin narrowed his eyes and tried to look at Lucas, who grabbed his head and forced it forward.

  “Eyes front,” Lucas said.

  Portman unlocked the empty cell. The other two threw Franklin inside. He laid his jacket on one of the beds so blood wouldn’t get on it. He turned, and Portman walloped him in the stomach with a nightstick before Franklin could react. The pain sent him to his knees, stomach in so much pain he worried about throwing up. Suck it up, Franklin. You are not throwing up in front of these guys. To extend the period between shots, he acted like the blow hurt more than it did by rolling around on the floor, clutching his stomach.

  “We don’t ask for much in this world.” Portman paced around the cell. “But we do ask for some God damn respect.”

  “Amen,” Jackson whooped.

  Oh, how Franklin wanted to break every bone in Portman’s body. If the timing wasn’t so bad, he would have. Slowly. But any defiance would extend his stay in the Mooresville Police Station, allowing the Awakening to take place as planned. That was unacceptable.

  Franklin finally made himself get up, but Jackson connected on a vicious blow with his nightstick. Franklin fell back to the floor, his spine screaming out, sending waves of pain through his body. Portman kicked him in the side, making his ribs feel like they were on fire. Franklin wasn’t sure, but one of his ribs might have been broken. He curled himself into a ball, hoping it would protect him from their blows. Immortal or not, getting beaten with nightsticks hurt.

  “You know something, Jackson?” Portman asked.

  “What’s that?” Jackson pulled Franklin up by his hair.

  “If Buddy boy here don’t make bail, we get to do this all over again tomorrow.”

  Portman whooped. “Finally, a reason to come into work.”

  “Screw that.” Franklin glared at Portman. “This is so much fun, you ask and I’ll come running.”

  Jackson picked Franklin up and then slammed his face into the wall. The rough texture chafed his cheek, leaving it raw and stinging. Franklin tried to take the beating, but in two thousand years, he’d never bothered to master the art of submission. Fighting and rebellion was in his DNA. He smiled wide, showing off his bloody mouth.

  “Who wants a kiss?”

  The cops continued on for a little longer, until their faces were drenched in sweat. Jackson had some spots of blood on his tan uniform. Franklin was glad the beating ended, but even happier that he didn’t cry out in pain or do anything else to give those assholes additional satisfaction. He crawled over to the toilet and spit out some blood. He closed one nostril and blew. A string of dark red snot flew out. After taking care of the other nostril, Franklin leaned back against the wall and felt his ribs. Each touch made it difficult to breathe, but one spot was particularly sensitive. Yep. They’d broken one of his ribs.

  Jackson and Lucas left the cell, each of them smirking with content. Portman poked Franklin’s broken rib with his nightstick.

  “You took a hell of a beating. Remember that the next time you mess with the police.” Portman hummed to himself as he closed the cell’s door behind
him.

  Franklin hurt so much, he couldn’t even think about the time lost because of the detour. Alone at last, he crawled onto the bed and closed his eyes. Sleep came for him so quickly, he didn’t realize it until Lucas kicked the bed and shouted, jarring him awake.

  “You made bail,” Lucas said. “Tell anyone what happened and you’ll die.”

  Franklin didn’t respond. He yawned and rose from the hard bed, gingerly walking down the hallway, jacket draped over one shoulder. Rounding the corner into the lobby, he saw Julie, her face buried in her cell phone. She looked up and gasped at the sight of him.

  “What happened to you?” Julie stuffed the phone back in her purse and moved closer to Franklin, eyes darting from one injury to another. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Franklin waved her off. “One of the other inmates tried to get fresh, and I told him I was flattered but not interested; that made him mad, and one thing led to another. You should see what he looks like.”

  Julie scowled at Portman, who stood by the coffee machine. “Is this a police station or Thunderdome?”

  Portman took a sip of some coffee, holding the cup with his bandaged hand. “Got injured myself tonight. We try to keep an eye on the prisoners, but I can’t help it if some of them try to treat jail like a dating service.”

  Julie draped an arm around Franklin, helping him walk outside. She smelled like fried food. Going down the steps irritated the broken rib. He clutched them, trying to ease the pain. The thought of throwing himself down the stairs to put a quick end to the agony crossed his mind, but it’d probably do more harm than good. Mercifully past the steps, Julie led them over to her late model Chevrolet Camaro.

  “Nice car,” Franklin said. It wasn’t a classic like El Cid, but with half his brain devoted to coming up with variations of the word “ouch,” a Mustang vs. Camaro debate was out of the question.

  A small laugh escaped Julie’s lips. “Good to know they didn’t beat the humor out of you, Evan.”

  “Franklin.” He extended his hand. “My real name is Franklin. Evan is just the name on my fake ID.”