The Conch Shell of Doom (3 page)

His brain jumped from thought to thought, unable to latch onto any one thing. It was impossible to process what happened. Who was that nasty guy? What were Bailey’s parents, and everyone else, doing with whoever that was? Worse yet, would anyone believe Bailey’s story? His friends? What if they were in on it? That was a depressing thought. If they were, why didn’t anybody ask him about joining? He’d have said no, but it would’ve been nice if someone asked.
 

Ten minutes later, Bailey stood in the middle of Marshall’s basement, drained. Bailey figured they weren’t involved with Mr. Lovell, which would’ve been a pain in the ass to deal with. It left Bailey with the even bigger problem of getting them to believe his story.
 

“Took you long enough.” Marshall wore a sleeveless shirt, showing off his muscular arms. He hopped off the couch, and snatched
Call of Duty
out of Bailey’s hand. “I could’ve gotten in five workouts in the time it took you to get here.”

“Right. The game.” Bailey wondered how he’d held onto it the whole time.

“Are you okay?” Tim asked. “You look like you stumbled upon a horde of ninja assassins.”

Bailey shook his head. “Have you guys ever heard of a Mr. Lovell?”

“Nope,” Tim said. He was shorter than his friends, thanks to a growth spurt that died out after an inch. “Who is he?”

“Drink this.” Marshall thrust a shot of vodka in Bailey’s face. “We’re a few ahead of you.”

Bailey downed the drink in one gulp. The alcohol warmed his stomach, giving him something tangible to focus on. He started regaining control of his thoughts. A few more shots and his nerves would be a non-issue. He sat on the velvet love seat and told them everything, including Marshall’s parents, the talk of Trenton Maroney, and Mr. Lovell.

“He sounds like some kind of history teacher.” Marshall sprawled out across the couch. “Hello, I’m Mr. Lovell. Today, we’ll be discussing Lewis and Clark, and the homoerotic feelings they had for one another but never acknowledged. Be sure to take notes. This will be on the test.”

“I thought it all was a joke at first,” Bailey said. “But then I saw those eyes of his. Like eight balls without the white.”

Tim laughed and popped
Call of Duty
into the PlayStation. “You don’t hear that every day.”

“I have to call bull on this.” Marshall rolled off the couch and then poured himself a shot. “My parents wouldn’t have anything to do with that. They’re accountants. Way too serious for something that crazy.”

Bailey’s internal defenses sprung to action. “Do you really think I’m making this up?”

Marshall and Tim said, “Yes,” at the same time.

“Unbelievable.” Bailey leaned his head back and looked up at the popcorn ceiling. He should’ve known they wouldn’t believe him. “We have to do something. Our parents could be in serious trouble.”

“So?” Marshall picked up a controller. “Our parents are full of shit, but they’re not idiots.”

“He’s got a point.” Tim stared at the TV, waiting for the game to load. “What can we do? It’s not like our parents listen to us anyway.”

“And say you’re wrong about this.” Marshall swallowed his shot and then held a hand up to his head like a telephone. “You think Earl Southwick won’t throw you in the loony bin for saying you overheard him and your mom talking to some guy with crazy eyes about a sea shell of death?”

“Conch Shell of Doom,” Bailey said under his breath. He should’ve known they’d piss all over his story.

“
My bad
,” Marshall spat. “Conch Shell of Doom. That sounds much more rational.”
 

“We have to do something.” Bailey’s defenses couldn’t take much more. He knew what he saw.
 

“You can Tweet about it.” Marshall smirked.

“Yeah.” Tim used the controller to get to
Call of Duty
’s multiplayer. “Or make a Vine video. That’ll show ‘em.”

“Your parents were there too, Marshall.” Bailey was losing his temper. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

Marshall’s phone rang. “Speak of the devil.” He showed Bailey the display. It was Marshall’s mother.

Bailey flew into a panic. “Don’t answer it.”

“Don’t be a little bitch.” Marshall answered the phone. “Hey.
Why yes
. Bailey’s right here.”

Bailey bit the inside of his mouth. It was a mistake coming there. His parents knew he was sleeping over. Bailey needed to go on the lam. Right after he searched the Internet on how to do it.

“Okay, yeah. No, I get it.” Marshall set the phone down on the coffee table.

“What did your mom say?” Bailey asked.

“She said you interrupted their dinner party in the middle of some mystery game they were playing and freaked everyone out.” Marshall hopped up off the couch. “Your parents are coming to get you. They’re worried about you. Freakin’ drama queen.”

“I’m not going back there.” Bailey started for the stairs. “No way.”

Despite feeling betrayed, he understood why they didn’t believe him. Though, it would’ve been nice if they didn’t throw him under the bus. It seemed like a dick move.

“I keep a ninja star in my car if you want it.” Tim was still glued to the game, mashing buttons on the controller as he tried to blow up other players. “For protection.”
 

“Get over it.” Marshall cheered as Tim blew up a tank. “Nice hit.”

Bailey went up a few stairs.
 

“Hey.” Marshall hopped up off the couch and jogged over to Bailey. “Just stay here. Your parents probably want to give you a Xanax or something, and then they’ll go home and you can get drunk with us. You know this is just your anxiety messing with you, right?”

Bailey’s temper spilled over like a boiling pot left unattended. He pulled at his hair, fighting the hopeless, sinking feeling in his chest. “Anxiety doesn’t have anything to do with this. It doesn’t make me see things, damn it. I’m not making up the fact that some ugly assed dude teleported right in front of me. Twice!”

“Don’t yell at me,” Marshall said. “Just tell them your blood sugar is low and you want a milkshake. Milkshakes make everyone feel better.”

“Whatever.” If Bailey stuck around much longer, he’d say something he couldn’t take back. “All I’m saying is I think our parents are into some really shady stuff, and it would’ve been really nice if my friends believed me.”

“Yeah, well, I wish the Mets were halfway decent, but wish in one hand,” Marshall said. “Just stay here, we’ll figure out something to tell your parents.”

Bailey took the keys out of his pocket and squeezed. It helped keep the shaking away. “No, you guys have fun.”

Tim paused
Call of Duty
. “Come on. Don’t go rogue on us. Besides, where would you go?”
 

Bailey glanced at his friend. At least Tim showed a little compassion. Not much, but a little. “No idea.”

Franklin sped down Interstate 40, the engine in his red 1969 Ford Mustang purring like a satisfied kitten as he pushed it to ninety-miles-an-hour. He’d be in the coastal town of Mooresville, North Carolina within a couple of hours. The swan dive off the Copper Canyon broke almost one hundred bones by his estimation. His body took entirely too long to heal, putting him behind schedule. For two thousand years, he’d prevented the Awakening weeks, even months, in advance. He’d
never
cut things that close. At least Mr. Lovell didn’t have the Blade of Hugues de Payens, the one thing that could kill anything, including immortals. Franklin smiled at the idea of the final Awakening. He’d fantasized about life after Trenton since the days of the Roman Empire.
 

Two flashing blue lights appeared in the rearview mirror, cutting Franklin’s daydream short. The cops. Always there when you didn’t need them.

“Damn.”

The blade lay in the seat next to him. He covered it with his leather jacket. The Mustang, El Cid, could easily outrun the cops, but nothing could outrun radios or helicopters. Every Highway Patrolman, Sheriff, and City Police within a twenty-mile radius would be all over Franklin within minutes, and time was too precious to deal with a manhunt. He smacked the steering wheel as he pulled over onto the shoulder and then rolled down his window. A breeze brushed against his face every time a car passed. The police officer, a Highway Patrolman, shone a flashlight in his eyes. Franklin handed over his license and registration before the cop had a chance to speak.

The patrolman looked over the ID, making sure it was authentic. Franklin knew how to make a fake better than anyone, and he’d never been caught. The cop looked too stupid to break that trend.

“A Yankee, huh?”

“Sure. Whatever the license says.” Franklin’s fake license included a home address in Pennsylvania. He wasn’t sure of the actual name of his birthplace, since it’d changed names so much over time. Maybe Switzerland or Austria? He couldn’t remember.
 

Man
, he thought.
That’s depressing
.

The cop gave Franklin back his ID and registration. He tried to open the Mustang’s door. Locked.

“Step out of the car.”

Odd. Cops didn’t usually try to open the door like that. Something didn’t feel right. Franklin hadn’t smoked weed in a while, so it couldn’t be a suspicious smell.
 

“What’s the problem?”

The cop jutted his chin out. “I don’t like your face. I don’t like Yankees. I think you might have a record of indecent exposure. Pick one. They all give me probable cause. Out of the car.”

Franklin reached for his jacket, hoping to grab the Blade of Hugues de Payens underneath it. He figured he’d get tased, or worse, if John Q. Law saw the weapon.

“Don’t do that.” The cop laid a hand on his service weapon. “Show me your hands and come out slowly.”

Franklin closed his eyes for a moment. He had a healthy respect for police officers. Every day on the job their lives were on the line, even if some of them got a perverse pleasure out of clubbing someone over the head without getting in trouble. That respect was the only thing keeping the cop’s neck from being snapped. Franklin got out of the car, holding his hands up.

The cop pushed Franklin up against the car. He laid his hands on the roof while enduring a rather thorough pat down. He also noticed a hint of scotch on the patrolman’s breath.
 

Shame, Shame! What would your mother think?

The patrolman spit on the Mustang’s hood. “Hiding anything in the car I should know about?”

Franklin stared at the saliva, imagining a million different ways to kill the cop. Time was ticking, and Franklin’s destination seemed farther and farther away.
 

The cop poked Franklin in the back. “You deaf?”

“Oh, you know. An engine, seats, radio, the usual.”
 

“How ‘bout I see for myself, Yankee boy?”

“Just make it fast. I’m running late.”

“Can’t have that, can we?” The patrolman grabbed Franklin’s hand and pushed it into his back. “Why don’t you have a seat in my cruiser while I take a look?”

“I don’t think so.” Franklin laughed. He wasn’t a lawyer, but he knew his rights were somehow being violated. Great. Nothing like a dirty cop getting in the way.

“What are you hiding in there that you don’t want me to find? Drugs? That why you wanted your jacket so bad?” The patrolman slapped handcuffs on Franklin and then threw him into the back of his cruiser.
 

“I run cold.”
 

“I don’t give a God damn.”
 

The lawman slammed the door on Franklin. He watched the officer walk around the Mustang, peeking inside with his flashlight. The cop opened the door and got in, going straight for the jacket. Franklin knew it didn’t take a genius to figure out what would happen next.

The highway patrolman found the Blade of Hugues de Payens. He pulled it out of the sheath, pressing his finger against the tip, testing the sharpness. It pierced the patrolman’s skin. He jerked his finger back, sucking at the wound. Franklin laughed to himself.

That’s what you get.

Franklin worried the cop would confiscate the knife. Under no circumstances could that happen. He didn’t break half the bones in his body down in the Copper Canyon only to watch a cop steal his prize. No way.

Franklin pulled on his thumb as hard as he could, snapping it out of joint. He winced at the sharp pain. It didn’t seem to matter how many times he broke that thumb to get out of a jam it still stung. The cop walked to the cruiser, blade in hand. Franklin slid the cuffs off. He fumbled around, trying to push his thumb back into place. The grating pain of bone on bones made him grunt, as if setting the thumb hurt more than the actual breaking. The officer sat down in the front seat, dangling the blade in front of Franklin.

“Fancy weapon you got here.” The patrolman gave Franklin an up-close look at the knife’s handiwork. “Sharp too.”

“It’s from the Middle Ages.” Franklin kept his hands out of sight. “I’m a collector.”

“She’s a beaut.” The patrolman held up a bag full of marijuana. “This, on the other hand, is a little bit of a problem. Marijuana may be legal on the wrong side of the Mason-Dixon, but it still ain’t legal here.”

Typical
. Something was definitely off about the cop, and it wasn’t just the liquor breath.

“Do you really think that’ll stick?” Franklin asked.

“Probably not. But by the time that gets sorted out, the Awakening will have happened. By then, it won’t matter one bit how good a lawyer you got.”

And there it was. Franklin wondered how many more cops were on Mr. Lovell’s payroll. Most cops were too intimidated by El Cid to pull Franklin over, and the ones who did only wanted a closer look at the car.

“Whatever Mr. Lovell is offering you, it’s not enough,” Franklin said.

“I’ll be the judge of that, city boy.”

The cop turned away from Franklin and picked up the CB radio. In one swift motion, Franklin punched through the steel grate separating them and then broke the radio and the patrolman’s hand. The cop’s bones crumpled like paper, as he cried
ouch
over and over. Franklin let go of the lawman, who held his broken hand close to his chest.