Kid vs. Squid

by Greg Van Eekhout

  Gurgling and splashing, a lobster man the size of a sumo wrestler rose from the water. He must have followed us down the chute, which meant he’d gotten past Fin and Coriolis and Concha and all the rest. And if that was true, what had happened to the Flotsam?

  Grasping the boat with two claws, the lobster upended it, and we went spilling into the channel. Our feet hit the shallow bottom and we thrashed away, scrambling up among displays of Atlantean artifacts to get away from the lobster.

  The tip of an antenna brushed the back of my neck. I grabbed a crusty goblet and chucked it behind me to hear it ricochet off hard lobster shell. Claws snapped over my head. Another claw slammed into the side of my skull. I went down, sprawled over the wreckage of Atlantis. Dizzy and barfy, I struggled to get up, slipping on ocean-weathered Atlantean coins and pottery fragments. My hand landed on a handle of some kind, and my fingers instinctively gripped it as the lobster loomed over me, reaching for my face with a pincer big enough to engulf my entire head. I raised my arm in defense and saw what the handle was attached to: a length of volcanic glass fashioned into a sword blade.

  The pincer came down at my face. I swung the blade and shaved inches off the point of his claw.

  With a whistling scream, the lobster man looked at his injury, eyes the size of billiard balls twitching on the ends of his eyestalks.

  The hundreds of nicks in the blade’s edge made it look even more deadly. What kind of warrior had wielded this weapon in the ancient past, I wondered. What battles had it seen? Maybe it had been handed down from generation to generation, soaking up blood and sacrifice. And now it had come to me. I was determined to do it proud.

  “Back off,” I said.

  To my astonishment, the lobster man did.

  “Back off more.”

  He did again.

  “She’ll win,” the lobster man said. “The witch always does. You think you can fight her, but you’re wrong. You think I wanted to be a lobster man? Look, just give up now. Give me her head. You’ll be saving yourself a lot of trouble.”

  I swung the sword again, right into his damaged claw. The blade bit, and he screamed.

  I raised the sword blade a little higher. “Get lost.”

  Cursing even worse than Griswald, he scuttled back into the channel.

  I should have felt good. Triumphant. Or at least relieved at having dispatched an enemy and prevented the capture of Skalla’s head. It’s what Coriolis had told me to do.

  Instead, the lobster’s words echoed in the dark tunnels of my thoughts.

  He hadn’t wanted to be a lobster man.

  But Skalla always got her way.

  Skalla always won.

  CHAPTER 12

  The tunnel emptied into a salt marsh a few hundred yards off the beach. While Trudy consulted her map, trying to figure out exactly where we were and how to get back to the highway where we’d left Griswald, I kept the Atlantean sword ready and watched out for more lobster men.

  We found our way back to Griswald on the side of the road. Using rope and a boat anchor, Griswald had managed to get the flat tire changed.

  “There you are!” he bellowed like a ship’s horn, hobbling over with his crutch as he saw us emerge from the fog. “I was worried about you!”

  And after we’d told him everything that had happened at the Flotsam’s palace and the Tunnel of Love, he was even more worried.

  “I thought I saw a school of big lobsters go by,” Griswald said as we loaded into his car. “They were driving pickups, with big bundles in the back. I would have followed them if I’d gotten the flat fixed in time.”

  I had a sinking feeling that these bundles Griswald was talking about were the Flotsam. We made Griswald drive us for a return visit to the palace, where my fears were realized. King Coriolis and Fin and Concha and all the rest were gone, leaving behind some snapped trident spears and just a few fragments of giant lobster shells.

  Skalla had Shoal, and now her family as well. She’d do to them whatever awful thing she’d dreamed up in that disgusting head of hers. And considering that she was a 100 percent disgusting head, it was sure to be dreadfully awful.

  “I hate those lobsters,” Trudy seethed. “They’re even worse than the jellies. We should get the biggest pot of water we can find and make fish stew from the whole lot of them. Make them tell us how to defeat their boss. Or else, they can boil.”

  I mostly agreed with Trudy. But another part of me couldn’t forget the sumo lobster’s words. He hadn’t always been a lobster. Skalla’s hate had made him what he was.

  But Trudy was right about at least one thing: Skalla’s creatures were the key to rescuing the Flotsam.

  “Uncle Griswald, do you know where we can find the jellies?”

  He surprised me with a helpful answer. He knew, and he agreed to take me and Trudy there.

  At the edge of a cliff overlooking the beach hunkered a row of small cottages. Once upon a time, maybe, they’d been charming little bungalows, perfect for a seaside vacation. But now they were weathered down to gray, chipped wood. Even the boards over the windows looked ancient. There was, however, one exception—the cottage in the middle. I wouldn’t say it looked like a place where you’d spend money to stay, but the windows were intact, and a warm yellow glow came from inside. That was where I saw the jellyfish boys approach. They leaned their bikes against the cottage and went inside.

  Trudy and I didn’t even need to speak. We just nodded to each other and got out of the car, ignoring Griswald’s warnings as we began cutting through ice plant and dune grass, up to the cottages. We knew it was a gamble, taking the witch’s head closer to Skalla’s enemies, but if the jellies knew how we could get Shoal back, we were willing to risk it.

  From a small patch of dead grass in front of the door, the rusty handle of a wagon poked out like a periscope. It hadn’t been played with in a long time. There were also some soil-encrusted toy cars and a dusty, deflated football.

  We walked up three sagging wooden steps and knocked on the door. Trudy held her flashlight like a club. My sword in hand, there was no way they’d get their stinging fingers anywhere close to us. After a moment, a woman with silvery purple hair opened the door. A choker of pearls ringed her wrinkled neck.

  “I’m not interested in the newspaper,” she said. “Not since they dropped Mary Worth from the funnies.”

  “We’re not selling the paper,” I said. “We want to talk to the boys.”

  “My boys? Are you friends of theirs?”

  “Yes,” Trudy said immediately.

  The woman smiled pleasantly enough. “I’m sorry, they’re not home.”

  The flat-out lie angered me, but I couldn’t bring myself to take it out on this spindly old grandmotherly lady.

  “Ma’am, we saw them walk up. Those are their bikes right there.”

  She didn’t have much reaction to being caught out. She merely shrugged. “You’re welcome to come in if you’d like to wait for them. I’m sure they’ll be home soon.”

  It smelled like a trap, but since I was expecting it, I decided it was worth the risk. And actually, it smelled more like lemon-scented furniture polish than a trap. In contrast to the outside, the cottage’s living room was clean and tidy. Large-print issues of Reader’s Digest and a Bible rested on an oval-shaped coffee table in front of the sofa. A vase of silk flowers sat atop a boxy old television.

  There was no sign of the jellies. Maybe they were hiding in the closet. Maybe they had a secret compartment to curl up in and be slimy together.

  “Would you like some cookies?” the woman asked us.

  I almost said no, but then I figured any time she spent in the tiny kitchen was time Trudy and I could spend snooping. “That’d be great, thanks.”

  She went off, and while Trudy peered at the shelf under the coffee table, I examined some framed photos on the wall. Most of them were of a pair of boys, twins, climbing a tree, playing with a red wagon, opening presents by a Christmas tree, riding bikes. />
  “That’s my Tommy and Dicky,” the woman said, returning to the living room with a plate of seashells. Not cookies shaped like seashells, but actual shells. She took one herself and bit into it. The shell wouldn’t crack, so she put it back down on the plate and selected another. “Hmm, just a little stale. What was I saying? Oh, yes, my grandsons. They used to like being in pictures, before that hideous witch turned them into jellyfish. They’re so camera-shy now.”

  “Does everyone in town know Tommy and Dicky are jellyfish?” Trudy asked.

  “Why, I wouldn’t know, but we’ve got nothing to be ashamed of in this house. Tommy and Dicky are good boys. They just fell in with a bad crowd.”

  “That happens to many youths in my peer group,” I said numbly. “It’s our violent video games.”

  “No toys or games till homework is done,” the woman said. “That’s the rule in this house. Or it used to be, when the boys still went to school. They had to drop out, I’m afraid. The witch has them so busy they couldn’t keep up with their courses. Also, because they’re jellyfish.” She picked up the plate of shells and held it out for Trudy. Trudy took two.

  “Thank you. What sorts of things does the witch have them do, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  I was happy Trudy could get her question out. Me, I was struck dumb by the woman’s openness.

  “They won’t try to take Skalla’s head back from you, if that’s what you’re thinking. Unfair to ask that of them again, I think. They’re just boys, my Tommy and Dicky. No, that job went to the witch’s bigger helpers. You won’t be able to fight them off with sticks and stones. I’m happy for that, because your rock-throwing hurt my boys. I had to give them chewable aspirin and shrimp ice cream just to calm them down.”

  “Are they still working for the witch?” Trudy asked.

  “Oh, I’m afraid so. Once you’re hers, you stay hers. Soon everyone in this town will belong to her. This town and beyond. The time is in her favor. The planets and tides and things are all in the right place. I don’t pretend to understand it all, but she has the Flotsam where she needs them. Anytime now, she’ll cut them open and empty them of the magic she put in them when she cast her curse. And then the soup will be on.”

  That’s why Skalla kept the Flotsam coming back to Los Huesos. Not just to torment and humiliate them, but to keep them handy for when she was ready to work a bigger act of magic. And now that the time was near, she’d had her lobster men kidnap them. She would drain them of magic, like Shoal had bled to share her resistance to the curse with us. Only, I had a feeling what was coming next would involve much more blood and much worse magic.

  “Thank you for admitting this to us, ma’am,” Trudy said. She sounded polite, but I could tell she was as alarmed as I was. “We’d still really like to talk to Tommy and Dicky. Could you ask them to come out?”

  “But I told you, they’re not here. As you came in, they left out the back. Why do you think I’ve been so willing to have this chat with you? I just wanted to give my boys time to get away from you awful children.”

  Trudy and I made a quick search of the cottage, just to make sure the woman wasn’t lying now, but the jellies really did appear to be gone.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Trudy told her. “If you know what the witch is up to, you should be helping us stop her.”

  The woman’s eyes grew moist. “I can’t,” she whispered. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. So many of us have tried to fight her. But she’s too strong. Even as just a head, she’s too strong. Bless your hearts, but you’ll lose.” She sank onto the sofa and wept quietly. “We always lose.”

  Only then did I notice the gills sucking air into her wrinkled neck.

  The boardwalk was empty the next morning, with just a scattering of tourists complaining that the shops and stands and rides were closed. Nobody manned the tattoo parlor. The popcorn stand remained shuttered.

  Trudy and I searched the entire length of the boardwalk and caught no sign of the Flotsam. I wondered if we’d ever see them again. Or Shoal. When we passed the midway, Trudy gripped my arm to keep me from wandering off to the ring-toss stand, and I did the same for her when we passed the saltwater taffy shop. And when we stopped to gaze out over the water, we both felt it calling us. The ocean wanted us to wade in. The waves hungered, and I could feel myself losing the will to resist.

  We kept searching.

  At the north end of the boardwalk, electronic beeps and blips leaked through the weathered wooden doors of a large, canary yellow building with arches over the entrance.

  “That’s weird,” Trudy said, stopping in front. “All the rest of the businesses are closed.”

  I gave the doors an experimental tug. Locked. “So’s this one. They probably just leave the machines on at night.”

  Trudy didn’t seem convinced.

  We stepped away, but a muffled voice beckoned us from inside: “Secrets … fortunes … reveal all …”

  Trudy frowned. “Tell me that’s not suspicious.”

  “It’s just a video game, I’m sure. They talk. Don’t you play games?”

  “Well, there’s an autopsy computer simulation I downloaded from the FBI …”

  “…secrets… reveal all …,” said the voice.

  Trudy retrieved a screwdriver from her backpack. “We have to check this out.”

  “You realize, of course, we’re probably walking into a snare,” I said as she began monkeying with the door handle.

  “At this point, all of Los Huesos is a snare. But we can’t afford not to investigate every lead.”

  Unfortunately, I agreed with her.

  “There!” Trudy said as the door handle and lock broke apart into fifteen separate pieces. She pushed the door open. “Just keep your sword ready.”

  Dim light filtered in through skylight windows high above our heads as we treaded quietly between long rows of battered video games. Some were old enough to qualify as museum pieces. Flashing messages under glass begged us to insert quarters. I felt like I was being besieged by robot panhandlers.

  More games lined the back wall: pinball machines with ringing bells, Skee-Ball, a baseball game that let you knock Ping-Pong balls into scarred outfielders.

  We encountered no people. No customers, no arcade workers. Except for some roosting pigeons, we appeared to be the only living creatures here.

  “Zoltan knows secrets!” an enthusiastic voice rang out. “Let Zoltan tell your fortune!”

  Shoved into the corner was a cluster of glass and wood-framed cases. Inside one of them, a waist-up mannequin outfitted in a dusty black tuxedo and red turban glared at us. His hands hovered over a cloudy crystal ball.

  “Zoltan will tell all you wish to know! Just ask Zoltan!”

  “It’s just a fortune-telling machine,” I said.

  “Yes, and it’s talking to us in an apparently abandoned arcade,” Trudy pointed out.

  Zoltan smiled with a wide mouth. His lips were too red. Dust coated his glass eyes.

  “Give Zoltan a quarter! Zoltan will reveal all!”

  “They could stand to turn his volume down,” I said. “Okay, Zoltan, what have I got in my pocket?”

  “Zoltan tells all! Ask a question of Zoltan!”

  “Zoltan doesn’t even know I asked him a question.”

  “You didn’t give him a quarter,” Trudy observed.

  “Fair enough.” I dug out a quarter and shoved it into his coin slot. Whirrs and buzzing and creaking and boings came from inside the wood case. Zoltan turned his head a little to the right, then left, as though stretching a stiff neck.

  “Ask a question of Zoltan! Zoltan will tell you everything!”

  “Where are the Flotsam?”

  Zoltan’s hidden speaker buzzed. Then, “Ask Zoltan a question,” he said. “Zoltan will tell you all he can!”

  “Zoltan’s an idiot,” I said to Trudy. “Come on, let’s go.”

  We got a few steps away when the fortune-telling
machine blared at us: “Zoltan can’t tell you what you need to know if you don’t ask Zoltan the right question!”

  We turned. He looked back at us with his frozen, ever-smiling face.

  Trudy approached Zoltan and stood close. She got out her pen and notebook.

  “Zoltan, are you alive?”

  The mannequin looked back at her, smiling with his red lips, silent. Trudy continued to stare Zoltan down. She was pretty formidable, but I figured she’d blink first since Zoltan didn’t have moving eyelids.

  I jumped when Zoltan blurted out, “Zoltan tells fortunes!”

  Trudy took a deep breath. “Zoltan, how can we find Shoal and the other Flotsam and nullify Skalla’s curse and also avert the big disaster Fin said is coming in three weeks?”

  “Ask a question Zoltan can answer! It costs but a quarter!”

  “Maybe I haven’t asked the right question yet. Let’s try him again.” Trudy looked at me expectantly.

  “What, you carry cameras and firecrackers and doughnuts but you don’t have a quarter?”

  “Thatcher …”

  “Okay, okay, here.”

  I inserted my second-to-last quarter, and Zoltan’s body shuddered like an unbalanced washing machine.

  Trudy cleared her throat. “Let’s try this: Zoltan, what do you know?”

  And Zoltan said, “Sorrow.”

  The other half-dozen fortune-telling machines lit up, fizzing with static and squeaking and grinding. They all started speaking at once, their voices colliding in the morning chill. It was impossible to make out everything they were saying, but here and there I was able to pick out a few words and phrases:

  “… was a mother …”

  “… was a reporter …”

  “… was the police chief …”

  “… was the librarian …”

  Thunder boomed over the sea, a great cracking blast of sound that rolled out from the water and blanketed the town, and the voices fell away. It was as though they’d been shouted down by the sky.

  “We are Los Huesos,” Zoltan said, his mechanical voice softer now. “We are the ones who asked questions. We are the ghosts in the machines.”