The Conch Shell of Doom

by Ryan Hill

  “Don’t you run away from us,” the mustached cop said. “Get out here.”

  Debbie stood by the front door, looking none too pleased. “You can tell the Southwicks this is beyond ridiculous.”

  Jackson ran his fingers over his mustache. “We’ll get right on that.”

  Debbie noticed Bailey and put a reassuring arm around him. “It’s okay. Your parents just have a burr up their ass about something.”

  “Got a call you ran away from home,” Jackson said, giving Bailey a death stare. “You know they’re calling for an evacuation? Big storm’s coming.”

  “Picked a pretty bad time to assault your mom and run away,” the other cop, Portman, said.

  “Is this all really necessary?” Chuck asked. “We can call his parents, let them know he’s here. And what storm? The weather hasn’t said anything.”

  “Just announced,” Portman said. “It’s all over the TV. Now sir, if you can’t tell, this is a police matter. The boy assaulted his mother.”

  Debbie snorted. Literally. “Sure you’re lookin’ for the right kid?”

  Jackson shook his head. “Your own mother. What kind of degenerate assaults their own mother?”

  Chuck waved his hand in front of the cops. “You don’t have to ignore us. We’re standing right here. We’re not ghosts.” He frantically turned to his wife. “Aren’t we?”

  Debbie elbowed him in the side. “Not the time.”

  “Yes, ma'am.” Chuck straightened up.

  Bailey was terrified. His parents accused him of assault? Worse, would he get shipped off to some juvenile detention center, forced to make friends with car thieves named Johnny Lee or budding drug dealers with names like Loco or Andrew? Bailey would be toast. Those delinquents would see him for the scared weenie he was and tear him to shreds. He looked back to make sure none of his friends saw what was going on. He’d explode from embarrassment if they were.

  Sure enough, they were.

  Portman snapped his fingers, getting Bailey’s attention. “Do you hear us? You’re in big trouble, boy.”

  “She really said that?” Bailey’s voice cracked. Of all the crazy things that happened in the past two days, being accused of assaulting his mother, oddly enough, felt like the worst.

  “This will got a lot easier if you shut up and get in the car,” Jackson said.

  Chuck stepped in between Bailey and the two policemen. “Let’s not go overboard here. He’s just a—”

  The cops shoved Chuck to the side. He tripped on a patio bench and fell down. The two grabbed Bailey by the arms and dragged him off the patio toward their cruiser. Alexis burst out of the house, mad as fire.

  “What do you two think you’re doing?” she yelled. “I’ve watched more than one marathon of Law & Order, and you can’t just drag him off like this. He’s a minor!”

  “Everyone’s a critic,” Portman joked.

  He and Jackson ignored Alexis’ protests, shoving Bailey into the back seat of their car. He looked back at Alexis, eyes watering. Shame overflowed through his body. He felt very small, like an ant someone was about to step on.

  Don’t you dare cry. Not here in front of everybody.

  If they’d handcuffed him, there wouldn’t be a question of whether he could hold back the tears. Thank goodness for little things, he figured. Portman and Jackson got into the front seats, and Jackson started the car.

  “Your mom is pretty upset with you,” Portman said. “Dad too.”

  “Hell, I’m pissed we had to deal with this.” Jackson fiddled with the rearview mirror. “On a Sunday, no less.”

  “I hear that!” Portman high-fived his partner. “If this were the fall and I had to miss my Panthers, there’d be hell to pay.”

  “You’re lucky charges aren’t being pressed,” Jackson chuckled. “That said, I bet you’re in for an epic spanking. Am I right?”

  “I don’t know what you guys have heard, but I didn’t touch my mom.” Bailey’s fingers latched onto the gate separating him from the cops. “She’s crazy. She and Dad both. Please. You have to believe me.” If only he could tell them the real truth.

  “We’ll be the judge of that.” Jackson turned the car onto Bailey’s street.

  He ground his teeth together. The cops were escorting him to the one place he didn’t want to be. The belly of the beast. Wherever Percy and Mr. Lovell were ran a close second, but nothing scared him more than home. That used to be where the heart was, but now it’s where the heart stopped dead in its tracks.

  The cruiser turned into his driveway and then came to a stop. Jackson opened Bailey’s door and then haphazardly pulled him out. Bailey banged his head on the roof. Even with an ow, Jackson didn’t apologize. Bailey stared at him, his mind screaming asshole.

  “I want a lawyer.” Bailey made his legs go dead, like a dog that didn’t want to go inside a veterinarian’s office. “Take me downtown. I’m a bloodthirsty drug dealer. Come on, guys. What about a donut shop? My treat.”

  “Give it a rest, kid.” Jackson tightened his grip on Bailey’s arm.

  Bailey’s shoes scraped against the ground. Portman and Jackson groaned, each of them carrying Bailey’s body weight by his arms. His feet knocked against each step leading to the front door. Jackson took a second to catch his breath and rang the bell.

  “I’ve got twenty dollars in my wallet.” Bailey’s instincts told him to run like a cheetah, or fly like an eagle, anything to get far, far away from here. “It’s yours. Just let me go.”

  Portman snorted. “We could talk if you maybe added a few zeroes to the end of that.”

  “That might be the worst bribe we’ve ever gotten,” Jackson said.

  “Close. Don’t forget about that one hippie who offered us a half-smoked joint.”

  Jackson nodded. “Oh, yeah. Forgot about him. Tree-huggin’ bitch. Knocked two of his teeth out with my night stick.”

  Oh. Fantastic. Bailey figured he could either go inside or get beaten by these cops. Gee, which one to choose? They’re both so enticing.

  Wanda opened the door. Bailey wondered how she’d look. Angry? Super angry? Furious? Nuclear war furious? There were too many options to choose from. Instead, she had a blank look on her face, one that unnerved Bailey more than anything. It was like the lights were on, but nobody was home.

  “Where have you been?” She sounded lifeless. “We were worried sick.”

  It didn’t sound like it. Based on her emotionless tone, Bailey figured they were more worried about trying to impersonate a Vulcan than finding him.

  His mother had a hand-shaped bruise around her neck. Where did that come from, Bailey wondered. Did his parents stage that for use as evidence? He’d have never thought his dad would lay a hand on her. He wouldn’t. No way. So how did it get there? Maybe it was fake, like his mom used makeup for the bruise. That had to be it. Makeup. It was definitely a new low for Earl and Wanda.

  “You sure you don’t want to press charges?” Portman squeezed Bailey’s arm until it hurt. “That’s a nasty bruise. If my son did that, I’d lock him up for the rest of his life.”

  “Mine wouldn’t live long enough to think about getting locked up,” Jackson said.

  Wanda’s blank look narrowed into a sharp gaze. “Well, fortunately for Bailey, he’s not yours to deal with.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jackson said.

  Bailey gave in, standing on his own two feet. His mother only stared at the cops as he walked inside. Portman tipped his hat to her.

  “Be sure to give Mr. Lovell our regards.”

  Franklin parked El Cid across the street from Percy’s complex. Only a handful of cars were in the lot, none of them the A-Team van. Still, he needed to be ready if it showed up.

  He made sure the small mirror was in his jacket. It was. He checked the Blade of Hugues de Payens. It was securely holstered to his belt. A knife and a mirror didn’t seem like a lot of firepower. If only Franklin had a gun. That would’ve been nice. He wondered why mystical weapons were
knives or swords, never guns. Probably some stupid joke played on everyone by the powers that be. A mystical firearm would make things a little too convenient for fighting the supernatural. Swords, and especially knives like the de Payens Blade, were messy. They required getting close to an enemy, but that intimacy ran both ways. The enemy was close as well. Some people preferred the personal nature of killing the old-fashioned way. Not Franklin. All he wanted was to do what was necessary and move on, while staying on schedule.

  Franklin briskly made his way across the parking lot and up the stairs to Percy’s condo. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself by running, though he didn’t want to waste any time either. Standing outside of Percy’s door, he unsheathed the knife. He couldn’t hear any movement inside, but that didn’t mean anything. He kicked the door in. Or at least tried to. The door didn’t budge an inch. His knee screamed in pain, the force ramming bone against bone. Franklin hopped around on one foot, as if that would do anything besides make him look like a chicken.

  The pain settled into a dull burning, low enough to where he could give the door another kick. Before doing so, Franklin checked the handle just to be safe.

  Unbelievable.

  “Of course.” He pushed open the unlocked door. “Why wouldn’t you be unlocked?”

  The condo was empty. It didn’t even look like someone stayed in it recently. No dirty dishes in the sink, no suitcases in the bedrooms, nothing. The place seemed ready to welcome whomever would be staying in it next. Franklin shook his head, frustrated. As much as his body hurt and needed sleep, he should’ve drunk a case of Red Bull and powered through like a champ last night. Now they were gone, off to who knew where, the Conch Shell of Doom in tow.

  Franklin slid open the patio door, the salty air greeting him with a gentle breeze. He stepped outside, sheathed his blade, and leaned against the guardrail. Listening to the waves crash, he looked across the beach. Completely empty. Odd, for a Sunday morning. Even if most people went to church, there’d still be some people enjoying the beach.

  Oh, no.

  Gazing out, Franklin saw a storm cloud the size of a basketball at the horizon’s vanishing point. A few centuries had passed since Franklin last saw a storm cloud like that. His spirits sank, stress and worry gripping his heart. He wanted to slam his head through a wall. All of the planning and scheduling, everything he’d done to make sure the Awakening wouldn’t go through, was for naught. Time had run out. Mr. Lovell and Trenton performed the ritual already, and by the looks of the storm cloud, it was only a few hours ago. The Awakening would happen, no matter what. He tried to figure out whom to be angrier with. The kids, for getting in the way, the crooked cops Mr. Lovell paid off, or himself, for being an idiot. It didn’t matter. Everyone was to blame. He threw an elbow against the patio door window, cracking it, and then stormed back inside.

  Franklin picked up the remote and turned on the TV to a local station. There was an emergency newscast, warning Mooresville inhabitants that an evacuation was in effect and to get out as soon as possible. His head sunk with a sigh. “Damn it.”

  The anchorman’s spiel about a dangerous storm annoyed Franklin, who turned the TV off. He rose to his feet, remembering a promise he’d made on his father’s deathbed all those years ago.

  “We failed your brother,” his father said. “You can’t let him become a monster. Promise me you’ll never let that happen. My heart’s broken enough.”

  Franklin held his father’s hand tight. “I promise.”

  He rose, ready to do everything within his power to stop Trenton and Mr. Lovell. Franklin stopped, the sight of what stood before him crushing his spirits. Two seconds after psyching himself up to stop Trenton, life came along and dropped a ten-ton trailer on Franklin’s head. Seriously? How could things get any worse? The day was shaping up to be an all-time shitter, even worse than the day before, which earned an honorable mention in the all-time worst category.

  “Hey, boy-o. Been a while.” Deckland O’Halleran patted the giant wooden club he held. His fire-red hair stood out in every direction. One of his ears was gone, and he had an extra thirty pounds of muscle on his frame compared to Franklin. “You and I got some unfinished business.”

  “Should’ve known they’d bring you into this.”

  “You should’ve. This ain’t gonna be like last time.”

  Deckland was sort of muscle for hire. Mr. Lovell liked to call him in when things got especially hairy, which was whenever Franklin got close. The last time they’d met, he beat the ginger by running around in circles until the Irishman got so tired his superior strength became a non-issue. That was a long time ago, on the docks of Vancouver. Franklin couldn’t use that strategy there. Not enough room. A confined space went completely in Deckland’s favor, and they both knew it.

  “I’m gonna rip your head off and use your skull as a piss jug.”

  “Or, we could play some cards, get a drink or two, maybe let bygones be bygones, forget this whole thing, and then you go home, eat some potatoes, herd some sheep, and we both call it a day.”

  Deckland laughed. “Oh, I’ll go home soon enough. But not before I’ve had my way with you.”

  Franklin winced. There were so many different ways to interpret that statement, and none of them were good. “Are you sure? As far as I’m concerned, it’s no harm, no foul.”

  “Let me think about it.” Deckland glanced down at the club. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure.”

  Wonderful. Franklin would have to win the fight fair and square. There was a better chance of beating the devil in a fiddle-playing contest. He reminded himself to get to the bottom of the mystical gun mystery, because one of those would’ve really come in handy. Scanning the room for something to use, Franklin remembered the remote control in his hand. He threw it, hitting Deckland in the eye.

  “Dirty bastard!” he rubbed his eye. “Can’t fight fair to save your life, can you?”

  Franklin didn’t answer. He lunged for the brute. Franklin landed a solid hit with his shoulder, jarring the club loose. The Irishman wrapped his arms around Franklin and twisted as they fell to the floor. Deckland landed on top, knocking the wind out of Franklin. Breathing was hard enough with a giant on top, but with his lungs completely empty? Forget about it. At least that club wasn’t in the Irishman’s hands. It’d reduce Franklin’s head to a bloody pulp.

  Deckland head-butted Franklin on the nose, crushing it with a hollow thump. Warm blood oozed from the wound. His cartilage throbbed, and the pain made his eyes water. The room spun, each wave of pain making the place do another revolution. Before he could get some sort of bearings, the bruiser landed a couple of crushing blows to Franklin’s jaw, each hit making him black out for a moment.

  And football players thought they had it bad.

  The massive ginger crawled off him and picked up the club. Franklin’s mushy brain could barely figure out what was coming next. If he didn’t move, his nose wouldn’t be the only crushed part of his face. He tried to stand, using the chair for balance. A vicious kick to the chest put an end to that, knocking him into the wall. Franklin tried to push aside the pain and focus on crawling to the door. Every second spent within arm’s reach of Deckland was giving the Irishman the chance to find out if he could kill an immortal.

  Franklin felt something slam into his back, making his spine vibrate like a metal pole. He lost control of his body and went down, looking like a frog that had been run over by a car. Deckland’s club landed next to Franklin’s face.

  “I never thought you’d hit someone in the back.” Franklin tried to roll himself over but couldn’t. Heat rushed to his head. Sweat formed on his brow, a rarity for the immortal. Not even tumbling down a mountain made him break a sweat.

  “There’s an exception to every rule.” Deckland grabbed a handful of Franklin’s hair and pulled him to his feet. It felt like a hundred needles being jammed into his scalp. He pushed Franklin through the front door and out onto the fourth floor walkway. “Especially f
or a cheat like you.”

  Franklin kicked his legs backward, hoping to hit the ginger, but it was pointless.

  “Always wanted to see if pigs could fly,” Deckland spat into Franklin’s ear.

  He planted a foot against the rail. Even against a giant ginger, legs were still stronger than arms. The Irishman struggled to throw Franklin over the side. Immortal or not, a four-story fall would hurt worse than getting stabbed in the stomach with a katana. Deckland groaned, pushing as hard as he could. Franklin did the same, but his legs were starting to give. Wow, Deckland was powerful. It was only a matter of time before the tug of war ended.

  “Okay, you’ve got me. Vancouver was a fluke. I give up. You win.” Franklin’s legs burned as he used all his strength to hold steady. They’d stopped pushing back almost immediately.

  “I’m also bored. I wonder how easy it’d be to break every bone in your body.” Deckland picked Franklin up, and then heaved the immortal over the railing.

  Only one word flashed through Franklin’s mind as he fell: typical. A Cadillac broke his fall, the hood crushing under the force of his body, along with the front windshield. He couldn’t have moved, even if he’d wanted to. Pieces of glass and metal pierced his legs. His bones ached down to the marrow. If he weren’t immortal, his body probably would’ve broken into a million pieces.

  Yep, he thought, picking a piece of glass out of his forehead. A mystical gun would really be useful right about now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Not-So-Great Escapes

  Deckland jumped off the fourth-story rail, landing on his feet in between cars. The Irishman was so muscular the downward momentum didn’t make him fall, or even roll, to a stop. Not even Franklin could’ve pulled that off. It was like Deckland took a short leap, not a four-story dive.