Crypto-Punk

by George Traikovich

  Principal Hoyt didn’t think much about the added security at first, but he’d started to wonder since his talk with Drew.

  He’d raised his concerns with Vice-Principal Frost a few days before but didn’t get anywhere. “I thought separating the special studies students from the others was for the best,” Frost had told him. “This will let them advance at their own pace, free of peer pressure.”

  What he’d said made sense, of course, but whenever Hoyt tried to get more specific about the program’s status, Frost became oddly evasive, so he didn’t press. Besides, the Superintendent was eager to cooperate, and the school really needed the money and the infrastructure repairs the grant provided.

  The Old Man passed by the west wing on his way out, as he did every night, his soles scuffing against the checkerboard linoleum floor. The lights were off, leaving the long hallway dark and quiet, and for the first time in all the long years he’d been at Bixby, he was overcome by how strange and unfamiliar everything appeared when no one else was around.

  “It’s that kid, Drew,” Hoyt fumed. “He put this idea into my head.”

  But it was more than that. During the last few weeks, he’d seen strange shadows moving through the west wing late at night, long after the students and teachers had gone, appearing and then disappearing without a trace. Unnatural sounds echoed through the pipes, seemingly coming from nowhere and then abruptly falling silent with no explanation. He’d dismissed the phenomena as the oddities of an old, eccentric building and the imagination of an old, eccentric man, but lately he’d begun to doubt that explanation.

  The night janitor dragged the vacuum back and forth across the worn and frayed carpet at the school’s common area, stopping occasionally to pick up the bits too big for the machine to handle. He smiled and nodded to Hoyt in polite acknowledgement.

  Hoyt grumbled something that sounded like “good evening,” tipping his hat without lifting his head, and limped toward the exit.

  “This is nonsense,” he growled. “Just my imagination running away with me.” He buttoned the top button of his coat and pushed through the door.

  He was back a minute later, swearing under his breath. “That little punk has got me all paranoid. Wait ’til I get my hands on him!”

  He hobbled down the hall, hanging a sharp left, his anger at his own gullibility growing with each step, and by the time he got to Room 113, he was apoplectic with rage.

  He punched in his key code and jerked the handle.

  The door didn’t open.

  He took a deep breath to calm himself and tried again, taking his time to make sure he pressed the buttons all the way down. Nothing.

  “I’m sure I got the right numbers,” he muttered. “Maybe they changed the codes. There’s a lot of valuable equipment in there. They probably had something stolen. Yeah, that must be it.”

  He turned and headed the other direction, though he wasn’t quite ready to leave yet.

  * * *

  The Principal followed the lights strung up along the sewer tunnel, sloshing through the stagnant, ankle-high water and cursing under his breath. “That kid…wait ’til I get my hands on him.”

  He pushed through the muck until he came to the sewer’s four-way junction.

  “That hatch doesn’t belong here,” he muttered. “Wasn’t here the last time I was down here, anyway. How long ago was that?”

  He came up with a dozen perfectly rational explanations why it might be there, but he didn’t buy any of them. Instead, he kept coming back to Drew’s story and the seed of suspicion that he’d planted—which by now had blossomed into full-fledged paranoia.

  “Don’t suppose I’ll be able to sleep tonight unless I find out what’s on the other side of this hatch,” he said. So he pulled his leg up after him and gave the handle a turn.

  * * *

  Romeo’s death put Harley’s dilemma into sharp focus and strengthened their resolve—at least that’s what Drew thought would happen. Instead, he had to make promises and concessions like a politician until he finally convinced the others to follow through with the plan—up to the part where they got to the island, anyway. They weren’t sure what they would do once they got there. They just knew that doing something was better than doing nothing.

  The others were waiting for him in front of the Windmill when he pulled up on his bike. He lowered the Stingray’s kickstand, trying his best not to laugh.

  “So whatcha think? Clementine asked.

  Each of them had sacrificed for the cause, letting Newton spray-paint their hoodies with the dazzle camouflage pattern he was so convinced would work.

  “If we run into a buncha choreographers that wanna dance-battle, we’re good,” Drew said, turning toward the Windmill.

  “Hey. Hey, what’s with the jacket?” Spider asked.

  Newton looked down at the hoodie tied around his waist. “Whatcha mean?”

  “Looks like a cape for your butt,” Spider said.

  “Shut up. Hey, did we leave the lights on?” Clementine asked.

  “Don’t think so,” Drew said, but the truth was that he didn’t remember. “But maybe…”

  “Maybe what?” Newton asked.

  “Maybe she got away!” Drew said. “Maybe she outsmarted everybody out lookin’ for her!”

  Maybe he was right. Lazy-Eye Susan was smarter than almost anyone they knew. Maybe she was smart enough to avoid the cops and everyone else in the city that was looking for her. Maybe she was keeping Jamphibian hidden away until it was safe to come out, and maybe she’d somehow made it back to the Windmill in time to launch their plan into action.

  The kids burst through the door, their spirits lifted by the thought that Lazy-Eye Susan had gotten away—but their enthusiasm didn’t last.

  Drew slid to stop a few steps in, the others slamming into him one after another like billiard balls. “Old Man Hoyt!”

  “The door wasn’t locked, so I let myself in,” Hoyt said, rising to his feet.

  It took a minute for the shock to wear off, but when it finally did, Drew had only one question: “How’d ya find us?”

  Hoyt cleared his throat. “Word on the street was—”

  Drew cut him off before he could finish. “Word on the street? What street was it that you live on again?”

  “Apple Blossom Lane,” Hoyt mumbled under his breath.

  He meandered through the interior, stopping every few feet to pick something up, just to put it back down again. The Old Man seemed anxious, like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

  “Don’t mess with that!” Drew screeched.

  Hoyt looked at Drew and then at the vial he’d absentmindedly grabbed. “What is it? Mercury?”

  “Better ya don’t know what it is,” Drew said. He took the lightning-in-a-bottle from him, and tucked it into his pocket for safekeeping. “So whatcha want?”

  Hoyt took a deep breath and told them everything--what he knew, what he suspected, and what he feared. He talked and they listened.

  “I thought I was going crazy for a while. But it was her—Miss Croy—trying to keep me off-balance so I wouldn’t dig into what they were doing. Raising the temperature…then lowering it. Forging my signature. Making me think that I was losing my mind, that all this was just my imagination.”

  “We tried to tell ya,” Drew said.

  Hoyt wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “I know. I’ve been asleep at the wheel, running out the clock ’til retirement. But I gotta do something to fix this. You gotta tell me what you know.”

  Seeing him break down wasn’t easy, and they felt a little ashamed of themselves. Maybe they owed him one for all the grief they’d given him through the years.

  Maybe they could help each other.

  They turned their backs to him and huddled together. They went back and forth, voices rising and lowering. Every once in a while, one of them would look back at him and either nod their head yes or shake their head no. This went on for a few minutes
until they broke the huddle and turned to face him.

  “We can help you…but we can’t tell ya what we know, we gotta show you. But we want somethin’ back,” Drew said. “We do you a favor, but we get a favor back later.”

  Hoyt looked them in the eye, measuring the depth of their resolve. Kids growing up in this section of town had a hard outer crust, built up like a scab from the constant scraping against the neighborhood’s hard asphalt. He knew they wouldn’t give up the information, no matter how much he threatened them.

  What else could he do? He reluctantly agreed to their terms.

  They’d seen him as the enemy for so long that it was hard to imagine him now as an ally, but they shook hands, and the unlikely pact was struck.

  Hoyt stepped back, trying to stay out of their way while they gathered what they needed. “So, what’s the plan?”

  “First, we gotta do something about your clothes,” Clementine said, looking him up and down. “You’re gonna stick out like a sore thumb wearin’ that trench coat.”

  Hoyt opened his coat, revealing camo fatigues. “I got it covered.”

  “You was a soldier?” Grady asked. “Which side, North or South?”

  The Old Man ignored the jab and pointed to his leg. “How do ya think I got this limp?”

  The more they learned about him, the more they realized they really didn’t know anything about him. In that moment of somber self-reflection and quiet contemplation, Newton turned around with a thick coating of dazzle makeup spackled onto his face.

  “Who’s ready for some dazzle?” he asked, and they all cracked up.

  CHAPTER 10

  The cab rattled to a stop near a jetty on the lonely, mist-shrouded docks. Across the bay, the shop lights glowed red, green, and orange, like a Christmas tree, while on the near side, the drabness of the dock houses reminded them of the port’s faded industrial past.

  They tried their best to convince the Old Man to put on the makeup during the ride over, but he wasn’t having any of it, deciding to play it straight. He paid the cabbie, and the kids climbed out of the taxi and unpacked their gear.

  The gruff cabbie was unfazed by their appearance, but he did take offense at Hoyt’s tip. “Halloween brings out all the freaks,” he muttered, and drove away.

  “What now?” Drew asked.

  All eyes turned to Newton for an answer.

  “What now?” Newton repeated. “I don’t know.”

  “Whatcha mean?” Spider asked.

  “I mean…I don’t know,” Newton said.

  Clementine snatched the map from his grasp. “Let me see that. Wait. This map only says how to get to the pier, not how to get to the island.”

  Their accusing stares put Newton on the defensive. “I assumed there’d be a boat or something here.”

  “You’re an idiot!” Clementine fumed.

  They started arguing back and forth, each of them blaming the other for the jam they now found themselves in.

  The Old Man watched the spat from the sidelines until he’d had enough. He ended the bickering with a shrill finger-whistle. “What about the bell?” he asked calmly.

  Drew looked at him like he was crazy. “What bell?”

  “The one at the end of the pier,” Hoyt said.

  He was right. A tarnished brass bell hung from a post at the end of the pier, chiming in the breeze.

  “Maybe you ring the bell and you get service, like at a hotel or something,” Hoyt said, though even he realized how stupid it sounded.

  Clementine volunteered Newton for the duty, shoving him forward with her shoulder. Newton took the hint and made the long, slow walk to the end of the pier.

  “Dead man walkin’,” Spider joked, but Clementine shut him up with an elbow to the gut.

  Grabbing the strap with a nervous hand, Newton rang the bell three times, each sharp clang echoing across the bay loud enough to make them cover their ears.

  After the echo faded they turned to face each other once more.

  “Guess we wait,” Clementine said.

  * * *

  A few minutes passed, and the only response was the rhythmic lapping of water against the pier. Something was wrong. They weren’t sure what was supposed to happen next, but they were sure nothing was happening now.

  “What was I thinking?” Hoyt grumbled. “I’m a grown man. I should know better. I put my pension in the hands of a bunch of ten year olds when I shoulda called the—”

  “Wait! What’s that?” Clementine shouted, pointing across the bay.

  A profile formed from out of the mist, taking shape and definition, separating itself from the darkness in the middle of the black water.

  “Yeah. Yeah, it’s a boat or somethin’,” Spider said.

  The barge floated toward them in eerie silence, the Boatman pushing the craft methodically across the channel with a barge pole.

  The craft landed against the pier, and the Boatman extended a skeletal hand toward them, his face hidden by a hooded cloak knotted around his neck with a length of frayed rope.

  “I withdraw my objection,” Hoyt mumbled.

  They pushed forward, ready to climb aboard, but Newton threw his arms out, holding them back, and said the kind of thing that only he would say; “Beware the ferryman who guides the dead across the river Styx to the netherworld.”

  The Boatman pulled his hood back to reveal a horrific, grinning countenance, the flesh stripped from his bleached skull.

  The kids recoiled in horror. They’d seen a lot of strange things the last few days, but this was by far the strangest. Coming face to face with this abomination tested their nerve more than any of the trials they’d faced. And then the Boatman sneezed.

  “Allergies,” he apologized. He pulled his mask back and adjusted his glasses, greeting them with a bemused grin. “Hello, Principal Hoyt, kids.”

  “B-b-birdsong?” Hoyt stammered. “What the…”

  “True story,” Birdsong said. “During my senior year in high school, I was voted most likely to become the ferryman that guides the souls of the dead to the netherworld.”

  His joke fell flat and only confused the kids even more.

  “Naw, I’m just messin’ with ya,” Birdsong chuckled uncomfortably. “I’m headed to a Halloween party after my shift is over.”

  He could tell by the looks on their faces that they had a lot of questions. So he explained about being fired from the restaurant, being fired by the ice-cream company, and being fired from a few more places along the way.

  “Of course, I also got fired from Bixby,” he reminded them, forcing still another uncomfortable laugh, which seemed to be the only kind he was capable of producing.

  They waited for the awkwardness to boil away before Birdsong spoke up again. “So I guess you’re headed to the island?”

  “You know where it is?” Hoyt asked.

  “That’s my route. Back and forth, back and forth, for the last few days. You wouldn’t believe the people I’m meeting—generals, senators, scientists. Lotsa networking opportunities if you’re lookin’ for a job-- But not me. I got this sweet gig right here.”

  They started loading up their gear when Drew grabbed Old Man Hoyt by the arm and pulled him aside. “Remember that favor you owe us?”

  Hoyt looked at Birdsong and knew right away what Drew was thinking. “Yeah, I remember,” he grumbled.

  * * *

  Drew broke the surface gasping for air, coughing up the brackish water he’d swallowed when he hit the waves with a crash. He looked around but didn’t see any sign of the others—not that he could see very far in the fog anyway. Calling out to them brought no reply, so he swam forward until he could feel the shore beneath his feet and collapsed in the sand.

  He’d hit his head pretty hard when the barge broke up on the rocks. He could barely keep his balance because of the double vision, but he struggled to his feet and walked farther up the beach through the thickening mist.

  “Where’s everybod
y at?” he wondered.

  He emerged from the fog, but stopped in midstep. Somewhere along the way, the sand beneath his feet had given way to wooden planks.

  He looked out over the edge of the deck into the pitch-black emptiness, but couldn’t see the ground below. “How’d I get up this high?” he wondered, easing back from the edge.

  He turned and headed back the way he came, but he started getting dizzy.

  Muddy footprints ran across the deck in every direction, turning, twisting, and overlapping each other. Whatever had happened, had been chaotic, confused.

  “Musta been a fight,” Drew decided.

  He stepped carefully through the empty shell casings littering the scorched deck, toward the still smoldering pyre just ahead of him.

  “What are those? Bodies?” Drew asked, “They look like…”

  He recognized the dazzle-camouflaged hoodies and fell to his knees. “Clem—Grady—Newt--Spider,” he repeated in memoriam. “My fault—my fault. Ya wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t convinced ya.”

  Something warm and salty trickled into the corner of his mouth. He dabbed his fingers in it. Blood.

  His head snapped toward movement in his periphery. Alien shapes separated themselves from the mist, coming at him from nowhere—from everywhere.

  “Cryptos,” he uttered in resignation.

  There were six of them, spacing themselves so he could only face one of them at a time. They crept forward, coming so close that he could feel their hot, rancid breath on his face.

  There was no use in running, because there was nowhere to run to.

  “Go ’head and start swellin’ up now,” he said, putting his hands up to fight. “That way ya don’t have to wait for me to actually hit ya.”

  But he never got a chance to back up his boast.

  At first he thought she was a trick of the light or a figment of his imagination triggered by his concussion. She appeared from out of nowhere, standing between him and the encroaching Cryptos. She was pale, almost colorless, except for a birthmark that divided her face into equal halves.

  The little girl tugged at his hand, and he knelt down. She leaned in and whispered in his ear…

  * * *

  “Wake up!” Clementine shouted.