The Conch Shell of Doom

by Ryan Hill

  Of course he’s not hurt. He’s three times my size. Franklin rolled off the Cadillac’s hood, keeping the car between the ginger and himself. Grabbing the Cadillac’s door handle, Franklin pulled himself up, and then staggered toward his car across the street.

  “Oh no. Don’t run,” Deckland taunted. “Whatever you do, don’t run! How will I ever keep up?”

  Franklin didn’t exactly consider what he was doing running. It was more like drunkenly stumbling around, only sober and without falling. His body hurt so much; even if someone offered him a million dollars to run, he wouldn’t be able to.

  Deckland grabbed his arm from behind and spun him around. “You’re not getting away from me this time. I still owe you for my ear.”

  “You threw me off a building.” Some blood spilled out of Franklin’s mouth as he spoke. “I call Even Stevens.”

  “I don’t.” Deckland kicked Franklin’s legs out from under him.

  He crashed shoulder-first onto the asphalt. It felt like someone dropped a two-ton dumbbell on his shoulder. Bits of broken glass dug deeper into his skin.

  “I’m going to enjoy this.” Deckland knelt over Franklin, pinning him down with a knee on his chest.

  “Me too.” Franklin went for the low blow, latching on to Deckland’s privates as hard as he could. “Doubly so.”

  The Irishman laughed, like it tickled him. He smacked Franklin’s hand away. “You keep doing that, I’m going to start thinking you fancy me.”

  “Not my type. I prefer Brits.”

  “Don’t you talk about those greasy bastards in front of me.” Deckland’s face turned serious. Like some people of Irish descent, especially those older than forty, he had little love for England. Face as red as his hair, he grabbed Franklin’s ear and twisted.

  He clutched Deckland’s wrist, trying to pull him off. It was no use. The Irishman was too strong, and Franklin too broken to put up a good fight. He tried not to scream, but it felt like his ear had been set on fire. The pain made him howl like a little girl. He was so embarrassed.

  Deckland laughed. “Music to my ear.”

  If Franklin weren’t trying so hard to save his ear, he’d have said something sarcastic in response to that awful pun. He wondered how much longer before it was ripped from his head as he used his free hand to punch Deckland, but it was like the ginger didn’t feel a thing.

  That ear won’t be attached to my head much longer. Can’t be.

  Franklin felt the flesh begin tearing away. Warm blood leaked from the wound. The burning pain exploded like Napalm. Maybe if the Irishman ripped the ear off, he’d be happy? Then, he could give it back to Franklin. After putting the loose ear on ice, he could have it reattached at the hospital. He screamed even louder.

  Get real. Deckland will make sure something like that never happens. He’ll probably eat the ear.

  “I don’t know that tune you’re singing, but boy I love it.” Deckland mocked the screams with his own high-pitched version.

  Franklin tried to kick Deckland in the crotch, but the awkward positioning made it so Franklin’s foot only hit the ginger’s rear end.

  Deckland giggled. “You really do fancy me, don’t you? Tell you what. Once I have your ear, I’ll eat it. That way, there’ll always be a part of you inside of me.”

  Franklin knew it! The ginger monster wanted to eat the ear! If that happened, once it was digested in that cauldron of acid Deckland called a stomach, there would be nothing left to surgically reattach. Nasty Irish bastard.

  A minivan pulled into a parking spot nearby. A little boy hopped out and locked eyes with Franklin, who tried to call out for help, but the only sound that came out was ahh! The kid was confused about the scene happening in front of him. The dad, with the same confused look, rushed over and picked his son up.

  “Hey, what’s going on over there?” The dad held the boy tight. “Do I need to call the cops?”

  Deckland leered at them. “Never you mind what’s going on over here, unless you want me to rip out your tongue and rape your wife with it.”

  “Daddy, he’s mean.” The boy buried his face in his dad’s shoulder.

  “He certainly is.” The dad rushed his family into the building, leaving Franklin alone to fend for himself. He noticed Deckland’s eyes followed the family as they hurried away, probably to make sure one of them didn’t pull out a cell phone to dial 9-1-1.

  If Franklin wanted to keep his ear, it was the time to act. Ignoring the pain pulsating through his body, he rolled into Deckland, knocking the brute to the ground. Franklin grabbed a car’s rear bumper and pulled himself up. The Irishman wrapped one of his gigantic hands around a leg. Franklin stomped on the Irishman’s face with the free leg until he let go.

  Franklin hobbled his way past the parking lot. El Cid was just across the street. He glanced back at Deckland, who’d given chase. Without looking where he was going, Franklin slipped and fell into a run-off ditch between the road and the parking lot. All he could do was laugh.

  Deckland caught up. “This just ain’t your day, is it?”

  “No, it’s really not.” He noticed sand coated the bottom of the ditch, and grabbed a handful.

  Deckland picked him up by the shoulders, bringing them face-to-face once again. Without missing a beat, Franklin threw the sand in the Irishman’s face. The ginger dropped him and staggered back, furiously rubbing his eyes. Franklin didn’t stick around long enough to see how badly he got the ginger; he sprinted across the street, barely dodging a SUV before reaching El Cid.

  “You sorry sack of moldy cow dung!” Deckland called out.

  Franklin opened the door to his Mustang and saluted the Irishman for the proper ass kicking. The sign of respect would eat away at the ginger like a mosquito, pissing him off to no end. Sticks and stones might not break his bones, but words, or in Deckland’s case, gestures, always hurt.

  Bailey knew he was in hot water when the cops showed up at Alexis’s house. After they mentioned Mr. Lovell, that hot water turned acidic. Bailey felt a chill in his bones. Goosebumps sprouted up and down his arms. Earl stood to the side of the foyer, the same dead gaze in his eyes that Bailey's mother had. His father also looked a few shades paler than the white paint on the walls.

  Wanda closed the door behind Bailey, the bolt clicking into the locked position. The sound felt final, like a mousetrap being sprung.

  “Well, now you’re home, safe and sound,” she said. “I’m so glad.”

  Bailey didn’t feel up for false pleasantries. “You said I assaulted you.”

  “Who else could have done this?” She craned her neck to show off the bruises. “Your father would certainly never do such a thing.”

  “Not in a million years.” Earl and his wife each sounded artificial, like two terrible actors reading off an even worse script.

  “Maybe it was your precious Mr. Lovell,” Bailey said. “Because I wasn’t here. You know that.”

  Wanda slapped Bailey. “How dare you try to blame somebody else! Bailey Southwick, you take responsibility for your actions!”

  Bailey felt a mixture of shame and anger at being slapped. His hand instinctively went to the burning mark his mom left. The fear trickled into a mix of dread, sorrow, and loneliness. Could anybody in the world feel as alone as he did?

  “You probably forgot what you did,” Earl said. “That’s been happening to you quite a bit lately. It explains your denial, but it doesn’t change what you did.”

  Oh, no.

  Bailey’s heart jumped up his throat. Had they made him forget things again? Could they have even pulled that off? If so, when? He may not remember hitting Wanda, and Bailey was ninety-nine percent sure that was because he didn’t, but that didn’t excuse his mother striking him. Hard.

  “It wasn’t me. You know that.”

  “That’s all you have to say for yourself? It wasn’t me?” Wanda said the last part with a whining child voice.

  Despite moving away from the two of them, Bailey’s pare
nts inched closer to him. A claustrophobic feeling overtook him. His throat felt tight. The walls seemed inches from his face. He had to get out of there. Call his friends for help. “I feel sick.” He rushed into the bathroom next to the kitchen, locked the door, yanked out his phone, and sent a mass text to his friends.

  Help! Trouble at my house! Danger!

  Wanda banged on the door, making Bailey jump. “What are you doing in there?”

  “Get out here right now,” Earl demanded.

  “A little privacy, guys? I think I’m going to throw up.” Bailey made fake gagging noises. “Too much anxiety. Sorry.”

  He turned the air vent on. Waiting for someone, anyone, to respond, his nervous body couldn’t stay still. It felt like an hour passed, yet nobody got back to him. Couldn’t one of them have the decency to say, “We’re on the way?” He jumped at the sound of Earl bashing his fist against the door.

  “You think you can hide in there long enough, we’ll forget everything? You’re not that lucky. Our memories are better than yours. Now, wipe the vomit off your face and get out here.”

  “I’ll be out when I can.” Bailey did his best to think on his feet. “It’s coming out both ends. Oh, gosh!”

  He made a fart sound with his mouth and moaned.

  “At least you have the vent on,” Earl grumbled. “Get out here soon as your body stops leaking.”

  Bailey stood in silence for a moment, amazed at his tiny victory. The ruse worked. Hopefully, his parents would leave him alone long enough for help to arrive. He chewed on his lower lip. There still wasn’t a response to the text. Bailey needed a back-up plan. Otherwise, he was only wasting valuable time.

  He tried to think of a Plan B, but his brain refused to cooperate. It wouldn’t be long before his parents broke down the door and then messed with his memory some more, and that was unacceptable. Bailey flushed the toilet and ran the faucet. There were only a handful of seconds left before the door opened. Anxiety forcing his fingers to wiggle, he tried to find something to use for defense. The only thing within reach was a can of peach-scented air freshener. It’d have to do. He stuffed it in one of his cargo short pockets and left the bathroom as the toilet finished flushing, the water in the tank refilled.

  His parents weren’t in the foyer. Bailey moved toward the den. So far, the coast was clear. One step into the den, and his mother’s hand shot out from out of nowhere, taking him by the throat. She squeezed so hard he thought his head would pop like a pimple. Wanda forced her son back against the wall. He reached for the air freshener and banged his leg against an end table, knocking over a framed family photo. She slapped the spray can away before he could use it.

  Wanda’s death grip got tighter as she lifted Bailey up with one hand. His neck stretched. Breathing was impossible. Feet banging against the wall, it felt like his body would break off at the neck at any second.

  Wanda’s eyes turned pitch black. Ho. Lee. Shit. Bailey’s heart pounded against his chest. He coughed, his lungs desperate to somehow get air. He met his dad’s eyes, also black.

  Earl grinned, looking like a crazed maniac. “The chickens have come home to roost, son.”

  “Mom.” Bailey’s throat burned as he tried to speak through a collapsing voice box. He tried to claw free, but his mother’s killer grip was too strong.

  “Don’t Mom me.” She carried him into the den like he was a piece of paper.

  Without the wall for support, gravity pulled Bailey’s jaw down against her hand, choking him to the point he became light-headed. Locusts appeared out of nowhere. Wanda’s words sounded like they came from far away. The lack of oxygen made Bailey think his lungs would explode. His vision blurred. He couldn’t be sure, but a serene feeling seemed to come over him.

  Won’t be long now. Goodbye, world. I haven’t had a chance to get to know you well enough to call you cruel.

  “It’s time you learned actions have consequences, and the bigger the action, the bigger the consequence,” Wanda snarled.

  “Be a man,” Earl said. “For once in your life.”

  A rock crashed through the window, surprising Wanda to the point she let go of Bailey, who collapsed on the floor. He sucked in as much air into his lungs as possible, thankful for the chance to breathe again.

  The can of air freshener was a couple feet from Bailey. He rolled over and grabbed it. His mom turned away from the shattered window to her son. Bailey sprayed her in the face with the air freshener, a sweet-smelling mist coating her face. She screamed and shielded her eyes. Bailey coughed, his throat still rough from choking. Each breath moved death further away and his senses closer to returning.

  Marshall, tire iron in hand, dove through the broken window. He thrust the weapon at Wanda, like he was some low-level fencer. Tim carefully stepped through the window frame, a football in his hands.

  “I’ll crack your head wide open.” Marshall gripped the iron with both hands. “I mean it, Mrs. Southwick. I’m not afraid to get some brains on my shirt.”

  “What the heck is up with their eyes?” Tim asked.

  Wanda and Earl hissed, freaking Tim and Marshall out.

  “Gross.” Tim stuck his tongue out. “Hissing?”

  Marshall cocked his head to the side. “Seriously?”

  Bailey made a dash for the front door. “You all coming?”

  Marshall, waving the tire iron in every direction, backed up to Bailey. “Dude, your parents have major issues.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “The Awakening has begun,” she said. “The longer you live, the more painful your death will be.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” Bailey opened the door. “Good to know.”

  “Get back! Back, you heathens!” Marshall raised the weapon, ready to strike.

  Bailey’s parents didn’t stop as he opened the door. Tim threw the football at Earl, nailing him in the nose.

  Earl pinched his nose, making him sound like he had a cold. “That stings.”

  “Ninja blast, sucker!”

  Bailey pulled Tim out the door before he could showboat too much. In front of them, Marshall sprinted over to Alexis and her car, getting into the passenger seat. Bailey and Tim dove into the back and then Alexis sped out of the cul-de-sac.

  “I forgot to mention,” Tim said. “We got your text.”

  “Good idea with the window.” Bailey raised himself up, so Tim could get in the other seat.

  “You like that?” Tim buckled his seat belt. “All my idea. I’ve never broken into a place before. Well, I guess we broke in. I should probably say we used an alternative means of entry, so as not to violate the ninja code.”

  “I would’ve figured you’d come sliding down the chimney or something super silent like that.” Bailey glanced back at the house. His parents had yet to give chase.

  “He’s not a real ninja,” Alexis complained. “Please stop encouraging him.”

  “I am too a real ninja,” Tim said.

  “I really felt the emotion with that one,” Alexis quipped.

  “Did you see me nail Mr. Southwick in the face with the football? No? Well, I did. Just like it was a ninja star.” Tim waved his sister off. “So stop being jealous.”

  Bailey glanced at Alexis, who stuck her finger in her mouth and mock-gagged.

  “Funny,” Marshall said. “So, what the heck do we do now?”

  Bailey knew what they needed to do. Find Franklin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Hideout

  Bailey’s knuckles hurt after knocking on Franklin’s metal door a few times. It felt like each knock caused a reverberation through every bone in his hand. Come on, answer. If he wasn’t here, Bailey had no clue what their next move would be. Mr. Lovell got to him at Alexis’s, and odds were good money he could do the same pretty much anywhere else. Franklin seemed like the only one who could handle Mr. Burnt Bacon Face, so of course he’d know what to do, Bailey and his friends just needed to find him first.

  “I don’t think he’
s home,” Marshall said.

  Bailey gave up knocking and rubbed his knuckles. “You think?”

  “What now?” Tim asked. “Hide in the woods? Start living in a tree at the base of a mountain?”

  “Vacation in the south of France?” Alexis asked. “I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”

  Bailey shook his head. Leaving town wouldn’t do any good. Everything going on with Mr. Lovell wouldn’t magically disappear if they skipped town. Bailey banged on the door with his fist one last time, though it hurt like crazy. Why couldn’t Franklin be home?

  “I’ve got it.” Marshall had a smile on his face.

  Bailey didn’t want to hear some sarcastic remark right now. “Nobody wants to hear it.”

  “I think you do.”

  “Let me guess,” Alexis said. “The Playboy Mansion.”

  Marshall’s smile grew wider. “Normally, you’d be dead on. But not today.”

  “Craigslist ad,” Tim made double guns with his hands. “Single white male seeks same, only younger.”

  “That’s it!” Marshall feigned mock surprise.

  Bailey was bored already. “Just spit it out.”

  “First, I’m disappointed in you,” Marshall said. “How could you two forget the exquisite rack on that bartender Franklin was with?”

  “I don’t know,” Bailey said under his breath. He remembered them vividly. He just didn’t want to say so in front of Alexis. “Had more pressing things at hand, like Alexis dying?” Nice one! Bailey deflected Marshall’s comment about the bartender, while also showing concern for Alexis.

  “How dare you accuse me of forgetting about those luscious boo—sorry, sis.” A rush of red clouded Tim’s his cheeks. “I vaguely remember. What about them?”

  Alexis psshed. “Oh, please.”

  “I can’t believe you guys. If you knew a hottie like that, where would you be?” Marshall crossed his arms, waiting for an answer. Alexis rolled her eyes and crossed her arms in disgust but didn’t speak. “Duh! As close to those sweet babies as humanly possible!”

  “So, you’re saying check the Thirsty Alligator,” Bailey said.