The Conch Shell of Doom (8 page)

“You’re sure you can do this?” Mr. Lovell asked.

You do relish intimidating the mortals, don’t you?
 

Mr. Lovell scratched at his chest.

It’s okay. I enjoy it too. Especially when they wet themselves.

“You sure you can keep my family safe?” Ron asked. “Give us everything we want?”

There were a million different ways to kill Ron, and over ten thousand of those took longer than six hours. Mr. Lovell gave strong consideration to each of them. People didn’t mouth off to him, not without paying a severe price for it. Trenton’s laughter only served to egg him on.

Leave him be. With bravado like that, we both know his fall from grace will be longer, and more unexpected, than the others. He’ll watch his family die piece by piece. When begging for mercy doesn’t work, he’ll beg for a quick death. He’ll cower and snivel like a cockroach as he realizes the extent of his impotence.

Mr. Lovell agreed with Trenton. Ron could live for now. But after the Awakening, Mr. Lovell would take no small amount of pleasure in seeing Ron and his family die. Mr. Lovell’s cell rang. He thanked Ron and Christine for their time and then stepped onto the balcony to answer the call. “Running late as usual, I see.”

“It wasn’t my fault. I swear.” Percy sounded scared. Out of breath. “There was a wreck on the highway. I was late getting to the bar. I figured I could take care of Franklin myself.”

“What happened?” Mr. Lovell focused on the waves, trying to keep his anger in check. It was always something with Percy.
 

“I’m sorry. Can you come get me?”

Mr. Lovell held the phone away from his ear. “Damn these mongrels. Why can’t it just be you and me again?”

Calm down. You don’t know what’s happened. He’s still useful to us. You’ll get the chance to kill him soon enough.

Mr. Lovell squeezed the phone and held it back up to his ear. “Where are you?”

Teleporting wasn’t all it was made out to be. At least, it wasn’t for Mr. Lovell. The spinning always left him dizzy, and it took his brain a few seconds to adjust to the new surroundings.

Percy got out of his ridiculous van, one hand covering his eye. He waved to Mr. Lovell.

“You were supposed to call me. All you were supposed to do was stall Franklin.”

“I, I know.” Percy seemed taken aback at Mr. Lovell’s lack of remorse. “I thought he’d gotten caught in the same wreck as me. He was on me within a minute of stepping in that place. What was I supposed to do?”

“Excuse yourself and call me from the bathroom.”

“I’m sorry man, but I had to do something!”

And look what it got him.
 

Percy’s sleeve was soaked in blood. “My eye, man.”

What did my brother do?
 

“Show me,” Mr. Lovell said.
 

Percy
nuh-uhed.
“It’ll fall out.”

This is rich.
 

“I can’t help if I can’t see,” Mr. Lovell said.

“Oh, man!” Vomit spilled out of Percy’s mouth and onto his shirt. He bent over to get the rest of it out.

Mr. Lovell moved to the side, away from the splatter. “Not on the shoes.”

“That sucked.” Percy spit and then used the clean sleeve to wipe his mouth. “Can you use your magic mojo to put my eye back?”
 

“My experience lies in the darker, more sinister arts,” Mr. Lovell said. “I don’t do healings.”

We could give him immortality. How does that sound? Percy rounding out our little group?
 

Mr. Lovell cleared his throat.

No, you’re right. He’s too much of a buffoon.

“Come on,” Percy whined. “I need it.”

“Go to the hospital,” Mr. Lovell said. “Look at my face. I can do nothing for you.”

Percy glared at Mr. Lovell’s face. For once, it seemed like the stoner was actually putting some thought into something.
 

“Shit!” Percy faced the van and then buried his face in his arms. The shoulder heaves came next.

The boy’s crying. What a sad, pathetic excuse for a person.
 

Mr. Lovell scratched at his stomach.

That said, we need to fix this. It’s too late to find a replacement.
 

“Stop whining. It’s disgusting. Let’s go inside. They should be able to help.”

Mr. Lovell led Percy into the pharmacy. The cashier, an overweight black woman with wild, curly hair, greeted them from behind the register.

“Oh!” She pointed at Mr. Lovell’s face. “You need some Aloe?”

He swallowed back his anger. “I’m fine, but if you could point my friend toward the First Aid section.”

The cashier yelped at Percy’s face. “What’s up with you two?”

“First Aid,” Mr. Lovell growled.

“Aisle three,” the cashier said. “Though I think you’re way past the point of Band-Aids. I’m going to call 9-1-1.”

Percy ran down aisle three, and then tried to pick out a box of bandages. Mr. Lovell strolled over, the fluorescent lighting and brown carpet giving everything a deathly ill look. He laughed to himself. He scanned the aisle, picking out some heavy-duty gauze and medical tape.
 

“This will do.”

The two of them went to the counter to pay. Percy scanned the candy rack in front of the register. Watching such a wreck of a person ogle at the sweets made Mr. Lovell feel the slightest bit of sympathy.

Why not? We still need him.
 

“And whatever my associate picks out,” Mr. Lovell said.
 

Percy smiled and stashed a couple packs of Peanut M&Ms in his pocket. Mr. Lovell gave the cashier a fifty-dollar bill.
 

“You want change?”
 

“Keep it.” Mr. Lovell was ready to move on with his night. Percy’s mishap with Franklin had held things up long enough.

“Can I get some painkillers, on the house?” Percy asked.

The cashier shook her head. “Pharmacy’s closed, honey.”

Outside, Percy leaned against his van, while Mr. Lovell tucked Percy’s eye back into the socket. Once it was packed in nice and tight, Mr. Lovell rolled the gauze around Percy’s head. Blood seeped through the first few layers, but the makeshift bandage did the trick. He looked like a mummy when Mr. Lovell finished.

He hasn’t mentioned the cargo. We need to know if Franklin got to them.

“I swear,” Percy dumped the last of the M&Ms in his mouth. “Nothing is going my way tonight. Not one damn thing.”
 

“Do you still have Trenton’s body parts?”

Percy looked down at the ground. “Course. They’re in the back.”

He’s lying.

Mr. Lovell grabbed Percy by the neck. He tried to claw free, but it was no use.
 

“I really hate being lied to,” Mr. Lovell said.
 

“Franklin. He got them.”
 

Mr. Lovell squeezed harder. Not because he needed more information. He wanted to. Percy’s mistake led to most of Trenton’s body being destroyed. Mr. Lovell enjoyed the feeling of Percy’s throat collapsing under his grip.
 

“Boss,” Percy said, his flailing weakening by the second. “Please.”

Let him go. I’m as disappointed as you, if not more so. That was my body he failed to protect.

Mr. Lovell let Percy go. He massaged his neck, trying to ease the pain. He coughed as his lungs tried to take in large gasps of air.

“He was just one guy. I had a gun. I didn’t think he’d smash my eye in with a cue ball.”

Something we may want to thank him for.

“You have to think. Always think.” Mr. Lovell patted down Percy’s wrinkled shirt. “You’ve never met Franklin in person. I should’ve been more diligent in explaining how dangerous he was.”

Percy’s cigarettes had fallen on the ground. Mr. Lovell picked up the pack. He took one out and stuck it in Percy’s mouth. The boy tried to suck on it.
 

“Need to light it first.” Mr. Lovell took the lighter out of Percy’s pocket and gave it to him.

Hands shaking, Percy lit the cigarette and took a long drag, the cherry burning through the paper and tobacco. The ambulance’s siren could be heard in the distance. They’d be there any minute.
 

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” Mr. Lovell said. “You know that.”

“I’m so, so sorry. I fucked up. Why can’t I ever do anything right?”

This is pathetic. Does he realize what someone his age was like five hundred years ago? A king? A killer? Master of his destiny?

Flashing red lights bounced off the van. The ambulance was about to turn into the parking lot.
 

“I’ve got to go,” Mr. Lovell said.
 

“Wait!”

Mr. Lovell teleported away before Percy could finish what he was saying. In less than a second, Mr. Lovell was back in his condo. He threw his hat across the room and screamed. It felt like everything was falling apart.

“Everything we’ve worked toward. Preparing this place for the Awakening. All that effort. For nothing.”

It doesn’t matter if the Awakening fails. My brother must die. No more of this back and forth.
 

“Can you even be awakened without your entire body?”
 

Yes. We may need to… borrow some parts, but if my head survives, I survive. The rest of my body will only make the assimilation easier.

Mr. Lovell couldn’t believe what Trenton was saying. “I didn’t know you had this power.”

My father wanted Franklin and me to be fishermen, like him. They loved the sea. I did, too. Even after it took my first life. That’s when the Conch Shell of Doom came to me. Gave me this power.

“I’ve never heard this story,” Mr. Lovell said. He was amazed.

You may be a master of the dark arts, but I created them. I used the shell to curse myself with immortality.
 

Mr. Lovell took his gloves off and looked at his deformed hands. If Trenton had the power to use other people’s bodies, surely that ability could be passed on. “You mean to say all this time…”

No. Only I have that power. You knew the price of immortality when I offered it.
 

“I did. Do. Perhaps one day, I’ll be strong enough to have a new body.”

Perhaps, but living in a body that isn’t yours can be troublesome. They wear out over time and sometimes reject their new master.
 

Bailey woke up with a wicked case of cottonmouth. His head swirled, like it was being flushed down a toilet. He swallowed, burning his dry throat. The previous night was a cloudy haze, but judging from the sore tongue and throat, he’d drunk something super-hot. Why couldn’t he remember? What the heck happened? Did he get drunk off liquor and hot sauce?
 

Bailey held his head in his hands. “Think.”
 

It felt like something important happened, but his brain only produced scattered bits and pieces, nothing concrete to go on.
 

Huh. Bailey had woken up sick, tired, hungover, and once with his hand down his boxers, but never with zero memory of the night before. Maybe Bailey had gotten black out drunk with his friends, but if that were the case, he’d have stayed over there. So why was he home?
 

He checked his cell phone for any hints. There were three unread texts from Alexis, all asking how everything went with his parents.
Huh
? How did what go okay with his parents?
 

“Stupid brain. I wish I could trade you in for a new model.”

Bailey glanced at the alarm clock next to his bed. 9:17 a.m. Alexis probably hadn’t gotten up yet, but he texted her anyway.

What are you talking about?

Bailey rolled out of bed. Why couldn’t he remember the previous night? It was the oddest thing. The only thoughts that came to mind were a nightmarish image of some grotesque man with burning eyes and his parents pinning him to the floor. Even those felt like a fading dream. Nothing real.

Alexis texted back.

Are you on drugs? You came to my house last night.

“Whoa.” Bailey’s head reeled. He was at Alexis’s house? What kind of insanity had he gotten into? Did they fool around? A darkness fell over Bailey. It would be a stain upon his soul if that happened. Girls weren’t exactly knocking down his door, begging to hook up. The rare instances when he did mess around with a girl made him pay extra attention to every little detail, because it was anybody’s guess as to when he’d get another chance.

He checked the rest of his text messages. There was the typical snark from Marshall, but nothing that shed any light.

I don't know what you’re talking about. I never went to your house.

Bailey rubbed his eyes, hoping to kick-start his memory. He got a flash of Marshall and Tim, and another of hiding behind the bushes at the end of the driveway. Still, they felt like pieces of a dream he couldn’t remember. His phone beeped.

Yes you did. Called me too.

Bailey checked his phone log.
Huh.
He’d called Alexis not once, but twice. The day had barely begun and was already shaping up to be an all-time weird one.

Why can’t I remember?

“Bailey?” his mom shouted from downstairs.

He hopped out of bed and peeked out the door. “I’m on the phone.”

She played with the keys in her hand, staring up at Bailey from the bottom of the stairs. “Your father and I have some errands to run. You feeling okay? You seemed a bit under the weather last night.”

He did?
“I’m fine.”

“Want us to pick up some lunch?”

“No, Mom! I have to go. I’m on the phone.” Bailey closed the door.
So
. He’d been sick. Maybe he ate a bad corndog or something and then went home? Wouldn’t be the first time. Corndogs were the bane of his existence. Much as he loved them, they almost always upset his stomach. But corndogs wouldn’t explain why the previous night was a giant question mark. What in the wide, wide world of sports was going on?