Kid vs. Squid

by Greg Van Eekhout

  “Who … who were you?” I asked.

  “I was always Zoltan. Bob Zoltan, of Zoltan Hardware and Garden. I had a wife. I had children.” His voice grew more staticky, his words spoken more slowly. “They are gone.”

  His life went out.

  “We’re getting somewhere now,” Trudy said. “Give him another quarter.”

  I dug into my pocket to retrieve a coin and sank it in his slot. “Last one.”

  Zoltan’s light flickered back to life and he boomed, “Zoltan will show you your fortune!”

  The clouds in his crystal ball boiled slowly like a lava lamp, sharpening into an image of a dirty sea. Wreckage and debris floated in the laundry-water waves: wood and plastic, oil slicks and parts of houses, drifting like rafts past islands of accumulated junk. Roller-coaster cars bobbed like discarded coffee cups in a gutter, and I made out the sign of Pantastic’s, where I’d had breakfast with Trudy and Shoal just a short time before. There were books too. And bodies. Animals and people, floating lifeless.

  “Is this what Skalla’s going to do?” Trudy asked in a shocked whisper.

  “It is only the beginning!” Zoltan shouted. His enthusiastic bombast only made his message more horrifying. “She will leave Los Huesos wrecked! She will drown the beaches and towns up and down the coast! Houses and shops! Highways and skyscrapers! Her reign of destruction will dwarf what she did to Atlantis!”

  I thought of how many people lived on the coast of California. And what made it worse was that Skalla was going to use Shoal and the rest of the Flotsam to achieve her goals. We had to rescue them, no matter what, before it was too late.

  “What can we do?” I asked.

  Zoltan’s box whirred and creaked weakly. His light fluttered.

  “Pain and sacrifice … pain and sacrifice … pain … pain …”

  I gave him a shove to get him to stop skipping.

  “Pain and sacrifice,” he said, softly now, more fuzz than voice. “Pain and sacrifice. What will be your fortune?”

  And his light went off for good.

  CHAPTER 13

  Trudy’s mom stopped by to see the museum, and after Griswald gave her a complimentary tour of all the weird things in jars, she agreed to let Trudy spend another night. She left behind a tuna casserole. We ate cheese spray on old pizza instead.

  Griswald had said the museum contained secrets and artifacts that might help us defeat Skalla, but in his damaged state, he couldn’t remember what or where, so we spent the day searching through the exhibits, hoping to jar Griswald’s memory into dredging up something useful.

  “What about this?” Trudy said, holding up a tiny model ship in a bottle.

  “Oh, I remember that,” Griswald said brightly. “That’s the SS McPrineas. A stolid whaler, she was.”

  Trudy blew dust off the bottle. “Whatever happened to her?”

  Griswald squinted. “What do you mean? That’s the SS McPrineas.”

  “Yes, and I’m asking—”

  “He means you’re holding the SS McPrineas in your hands,” I said. “The witch shrunk the boat and stuck it in the bottle. Am I right, Uncle Griswald?”

  “Aye,” said Griswald. “Now she can go after only the very tiniest whales.”

  Trudy very carefully put the bottle back on the shelf.

  The rest of the afternoon continued this way: we’d hold up an object for Griswald and we’d get nothing useful out of it. By late that night, we’d put our hands on every exhibit in the cluttered museum and still had nothing to show for it.

  Time was running out, and hope along with it.

  Turning in for the night (or what was left of it), I lay staring at the ceiling. All I could think about were lobster men and severed heads, and Shoal in the belly of the fish, alone. That, and the image from Zoltan’s crystal ball of the wrecked Los Huesos, floating in the sea. The sight of the bodies would never leave me.

  I made a decision.

  When I heard Trudy snoring in her sleeping bag, tucked in the room next to mine where Griswald kept his string collection, I lowered myself from my hammock. Pulling the Atlantean sword of black glass from where I’d stowed it under my laundry, I examined the ragged edge. The blade had seen action in its days, and it was about to see some more. But I’d need a way to carry it in public that wouldn’t attract attention. Remembering a movie I’d seen on television about sword-wielding immortals from Scotland who liked to behead one another, I got an idea. From the bottom of my suitcase, I dug out my raincoat (I’m an overpacker) and fetched a roll of duct tape. Then I found a poster tube in the gift shop of the museum and squished it flat to fashion a scabbard. Finally, after experimenting with placement, I taped the scabbard down on the inside lining of the coat. When I tried the coat on, having the sword up against my spine forced me to stand ramrod straight, but anyone not familiar with my usual slouch would just assume I had excellent posture.

  Okay, I had my weapon. Now I needed some bait.

  Tiptoeing into the hallway, I looked down at Trudy, sealed up in the sleeping bag, one strap of her backpack looped around her hand. I didn’t know her well enough to know if she was a light sleeper, but in other ways, I knew her better than I did my own parents. I wished I could include her in what I was about to do. Having her with me would make me feel braver. But she’d never let me get away with it.

  In Griswald’s storage closet I found an old duffel with a strap similar to those on Trudy’s backpack. I slipped the strap beneath her hand. Her fingers twitched. I waited. I counted to twenty, each slow beat accompanied by Trudy’s sniffly inhalations. Then, with a smooth motion, I slid her backpack away. She made a noise. Murmured. Gave a little kick. And then her fingers closed fully on the old duffel strap.

  Moving as quickly and quietly as I could, I stepped away from her, trying not to jostle the witch’s head as I carried Trudy’s backpack away.

  My shoes clomped against the fog-slicked planks as I paced the boardwalk. Only the barest hint of sunlight tinged the sky in the east. To the west, the waves still came in and out like the breath of a giant.

  For the fourth time this morning, I passed Coriolis’s shuttered popcorn stand. It was still too early for any of the boardwalk businesses to be open, but even hours from now, the Flotsam wouldn’t be back. Like Shoal, they were likely being held captive in some bizarre prison of Skalla’s making.

  I whistled and hummed, deliberately trying to be noisy. Trudy’s backpack swung carelessly from my hand. I could hear the What-Is-It?? shifting around inside.

  Reaching the bait and tackle shop on the south end of the boardwalk, I turned around to start another lap. Just a few dozen yards away in the gray mist stood four hulking figures.

  Trouble.

  Just what I’d been looking for.

  Skalla’s creatures would tell me where the Flotsam were being held, and if they didn’t want to cooperate, they’d just see what I was willing to do to their boss.

  Swallowing, I drew the sword, and they began approaching. The boardwalk was empty. Just me, these thugs, and a lone, gray seagull that gave up looking for stray bits of food among the planks and flew off.

  The thugs came toward me in slow, menacing strides.

  They looked like salads.

  Yes, salads. Big ones. These men were made of kelp. They loomed over me as they drew close, rubbery, braided ropes and bumpy, serrated leaves draped over their bodies in cloaks of green, yellow, and brown. Polypy dreadlocks hung over faces with flesh the color of squash that’s been in the crisper too long. A halo of sand fleas danced around their heads.

  “Give us Skalla,” one of the kelp guys said. His vocal cords sounded like mushy cucumbers. His eyes were as green as limes.

  “Tell me where the Atlanteans are,” I answered back. “All of them, including Shoal.”

  The kelp guy looked at his buddies. “Maybe he doesn’t speak English.” The others shrugged their green shoulders. He looked back at me. Very slowly and loudly, he said, “Give us the head. Or w
e’ll pummel you. Pummeling means hitting.”

  “I know what pummeling means. I’m very verbal.” I aimed the point of my sword at the backpack. “Do you know what shish kebab means?”

  “Hurting Skalla won’t solve your problems, mud trudger,” said the lead kelp guy. “Her plans are already in motion. She’s cast her curses and organized her servants. The soup’s already been made. Now it’s just a matter of time till it’s ready to serve. So you might as well hand her over before you make things worse for yourself.”

  He cracked his knuckles. It sounded like snapping carrot sticks.

  “Maybe,” I said. “But at least the world will be minus one disgusting severed head.”

  “I’m warning you—,” he began.

  I thrust, just an inch. The tip of my sword punctured the nylon and went into the bag. The thought of impaling Skalla’s face struck me as a very pleasant thought. She had it coming.

  The kelp guys stepped forward, but I held my ground.

  “I’m not kidding. I will perforate her. Where are the Atlanteans?”

  The kelps waited for word from their leader. Ropes and leaves shifted as their muscles flexed in agitation.

  “Okay, okay, we’ll take you to the Flotsam,” the kelp-in-chief said.

  “Right, and I’ll go along with you because I’m just that stupid. No. You’ll tell me where they are.” I slid the sword another inch into the backpack, splintering wood. “Now.”

  The lead kelp held out his hands. Long strands of green sea grass hung from his fingers. “Stop it, you little creep. I’ll tell you. Just don’t—don’t stab the head. I—”

  A sound interrupted him. A sound that chilled my stomach.

  “Thaaaaatcher? Thaaa-AAAAA-aaaatcher?”

  Trudy.

  Her voice rang out in that little singsong people use when they’re searching for someone.

  “Girlfriend?” asked the chief kelp.

  “I don’t know her. Take me to the Atlanteans.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t want us to take you to them.”

  “I changed my mind. People with swords at the heads of kelp guys’ bosses get to change their minds.” I didn’t want Trudy anywhere near the kelps. I remembered how close the jellyfish boys had come to killing Shoal, and the kelps seemed just as dangerous. Getting them to lead me off, even if it meant heading into a trap, looked like my best bet for putting distance between them and Trudy.

  But it was too late. Trudy emerged from the fog. Taking in the scene, her nose crinkled with anger. I knew she’d hate me for running off by myself, especially with the What-Is-It?? And that was why I’d done it without telling her.

  “I see you’ve made some new friends,” she said.

  The kelp men chose that moment to spring. Moving faster than a giant vegetable man should, one of them grabbed Trudy by the midsection and lifted her off the ground. The three others rushed me. I showed them no mercy. My sword whispered through the air. With an iceberg-lettuce crunch, the blade sliced all the way through a grasping arm. But my victim didn’t care about his arm. He merely kicked it aside as though it were any piece of junk. Cut the limb off a plant, and it’ll eventually grow back. Unperturbed, the kelp drove his fist into my jaw. It felt like getting hit by a rock wrapped in spinach. The blow drove me back, which actually turned out to be a good thing because it gave me a little space. I managed to turn the point of the sword back to Trudy’s backpack, still in my other hand.

  Trudy thrashed in her captor’s embrace.

  “Let her go or I’ll chop the witch up,” I snarled, my head ringing and my jaw thundering with pain. I took another step back and awkwardly unzipped the backpack. I removed the What-Is-It?? The sword had already chipped an ugly scar in the box.

  The chief kelp held up his hand to stop the others from assaulting me again.

  “We’re not going to let your friend go,” he said. “And you’re not going to kill Skalla. I know this because if you did, you’d have nothing left to bargain with. And then we’d crush your girlfriend, right before we smeared you to mammal paste.”

  I’d pushed things too far, and now I could see only one way out of it.

  Grunting with effort, I hurled the What-Is-It?? over the rail. It sailed in a graceful arc before dropping into the water with a deep kerplunk. Where it went after that, I didn’t care.

  CHAPTER 14

  The kelps paused for a moment, stuck in indecision. Would they go after the What-Is-It??? Or would they beat Trudy and me into messy residue?

  They chose to follow their boss. Vaulting over the rail, they plummeted off the boardwalk and into the sea. I watched them surface-dive, and when I was satisfied they were 100 percent occupied with recovering the box, I turned to Trudy to take my punishment.

  “… of all the thimble-brained, dunce-headed, Thatcheristic maneuvers …”

  I let her yell. Trudy was smart. She’d figure it out. Eventually, her tirade sputtered to a stop.

  “But … Skalla’s head wasn’t in the box, was it?”

  “No. I left it back at the museum. The only thing I tossed into the drink was the box and a cannonball from Griswald’s collection to make it sink. It’ll take the kelp dudes a while before they find it.”

  “And once they do and figure out the box is empty?”

  “Then they’ll come at us in full force,” I said. “Maybe with Skalla’s entire zoo of creatures as backup. So let’s get back to the museum and secure the head before they do.”

  I returned Trudy’s backpack to her. She scowled at the hole I’d made with my sword.

  “You shouldn’t have done this without me,” she said. “I could have helped you. I could have watched you from a hiding place, or rigged my bag with explosives, or … I don’t know. You shouldn’t have done it without me.”

  We didn’t talk as we hurried through veils of drizzle back to the museum. I knew she was right. And I knew I should apologize. But, despite the fact that I could talk paint off a wall, I couldn’t quite find the words to tell her I was sorry. Maybe because the time for sorries was long past. I hadn’t brought the witch’s curse to Los Huesos, but I’d brought it on Trudy, and so far I hadn’t managed to do a single thing to make it better.

  Anxious to escape worsening weather, we dove into the museum just as a crack of thunder shook the building to its foundations. Rain clattered against the roof like a million bullets.

  “Where’d you stash the witch?” Trudy said, wiping a sleeve across her face.

  “In a pillowcase under my dirty laundry. I figured the smell of my socks would keep people away.”

  “Good thinking.”

  Sinbad yowled in irritation as I shooed him off the pile of my stinky, unwashed clothes. To my relief, I found the lump of Skalla’s head where I’d left it, but knowing the ruse I’d pulled with the cannonball-filled What-Is-It?? box, Trudy insisted we look inside the pillowcase to be sure Skalla’s head really was inside. It was. The duct tape still covered her mouth, but her eyelids were twitching, and the sound of her dry lips struggling to move sounded like a cockroach scuttling over sandpaper.

  Back in the exhibit room, Sinbad poked his head out from behind one of the sawhorses holding up the mummy. I said his name, but he wouldn’t come over.

  “He seems spooked,” Trudy said.

  “Maybe he’s just hungry. Griswald must be so busy drinking beer with the seagulls, he couldn’t be bothered to feed him.” I turned to the kitchen to get Sinbad a can of minced fish guts when I heard a clatter, and the sound of big things falling over, and a muffled scream.

  I was starting to get used to sounds like these. It’s like working in a bell factory. After a while, you barely notice all the ringing.

  Another series of sharp thumps and a gruff cry, and Griswald’s bulk crashed through the wall in an explosion of plaster and wood. He lay on the floor in a cloud of dust, blinking at the ceiling. His hand gripped a long brass tube studded with little switches and buttons. Affixed to it was a lethal-loo
king harpoon tied to a coil of rope.

  “Monsters in the tunnels,” Griswald said with a cough. “Help me up.”

  We managed to get him up on his one foot. Using his harpoon contraption in place of a crutch, he started thanking me and seemed in danger of trailing off on a story about tuna fishing near the Great Barrier Reef, so I cut him off.

  “Now would be a good time to tell us about the monsters in the tunnels, Uncle Griswald.”

  Trudy snapped a picture of the Griswald-shaped hole in the wall. “Start with the tunnels,” she said.

  “Are you kidding? Start with the monsters!”

  It turned out Griswald didn’t have to. The monsters had followed him. A school of puffer fish on legs swarmed through the hole in the wall, and I almost laughed; they looked ridiculous, no bigger than birthday balloons, with bulging eyes and puckered fishlips. Their tails wiggled as they ran around us like excited dogs. But then one inflated to full size, expanding to a huge globe of lethal spikes, six feet across. It shoved me against a wall and mowed over Trudy.

  “Stand clear!” Griswald shouted, swinging the harpoon gun around. But in the cramped quarters of the museum, he couldn’t get off a shot and only managed to knock things over. Meanwhile, Trudy battled with six or seven little puffers to hold on to the pillowcase containing Skalla’s head. I swung my sword at them like a golf club and sent little fish flying. But they didn’t stay little. They blew themselves up like hot-air balloons. Display cases went crashing, glass exploding. A fish rolled over me, knocking my wind out and leaving me with dozens of little holes.

  Woozy, I lifted myself up on my elbows, only to see the puffers deflate back to their soccer-ball-sized form and jump through the gap in the wall. One of them dragged the pillowcase along with it.

  “Get them!” I screamed, and the three of us charged after them through the wall.

  A bare bulb cast lemon-colored light down a narrow set of sandstone stairs diving a long way down. The bottom of the steps opened to a cavern bigger than my school’s cafeteria. Crates were stacked against the walls. I read a few of the stenciled labels: Miscellaneous Teeth. Random Severed Tentacles. Green Things with Spines That Smell Like Oyster Juice, Some of Which Have Tongues.