The Conch Shell of Doom
Read The Conch Shell of Doom Online
Authors: Ryan Hill
Chapter One - The Copper Canyon
Chapter Two - Where Do You Think You’re Going?
Chapter Three - To Be or Not to Be
Chapter Six - The Kindness of Strangers
Chapter Seven - The Morning After
Chapter Nine - The Amateur Detectives
Chapter Twelve - Trouble in the Big House
Chapter Thirteen - The Price of Loyalty
Chapter Fourteen - The Wrong Man
Chapter Seventeen - Death Becomes Her
Chapter Eighteen - The Consequences of Running Your Mouth to an Immortal
Chapter Nineteen - Father of the Year
Chapter Twenty-One - A Storm is Brewing
Chapter Twenty-Two - Not-So-Great Escapes
Chapter Twenty-Three - Hideout
Chapter Twenty-Four - The Truth of the Matter
Chapter Twenty-Five - Business Hours
Chapter Twenty-Six - The Armory
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Carpool
Chapter Twenty-Eight - The Scotch Interrogation
Chapter Thirty - The Sacrificial Lamb
Chapter Thirty-One - Trenton Maroney: Live in Somebody Else’s Flesh
Chapter Thirty-Two - Let Slip the Birds of War
Chapter Thirty-Three - Sharks!
Chapter Thirty-Four - We All Scream… for Ice Cream
Chapter Thirty-Five - Second Thoughts
Chapter Thirty-Six - This Situation Calls for a Take-Charge Kind of Guy
Chapter Thirty-Seven - Not Always Cute and Cuddly
Chapter Thirty-Eight - The Calm After the Storm
Chapter Thirty-Nine - Kiss Her, You Fool!
The Conch Shell of Doom
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Just don’t steal the novel, okay? I worked really hard on it.
Copyright © 2016 Ryan Hill
All rights reserved.
ISBN:
0-9974628-0-9
ISBN-13:
978-0-9974628-0-7
Cover design by the awesome Michelle Johnson
https://www.facebook.com/BlueSkyOverBoston/?fref=ts
All rights reserved. The scanning, uploading, sharing, or tomfoolery of any part of this novel without the permission of the author is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. It would also make me sad. If you would like to use materials from the novel (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at
[email protected]
. Thank you for being cool about all the legal stuff in advance.
Visit the amazing author at
www.ryanhillwrites.com
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First edition: May 2016
Also by Ryan Hill
For the Hill gang
The Copper Canyon
Franklin Maroney distanced himself from the pathetic, painful groans coming from behind the bush. After seven years of scouring the globe for the Blade of Hugues de Payens, the blasted thing would be in his possession within the hour, provided Wade didn’t have a nasty case of Montezuma’s Revenge. Franklin estimated they’d lost at least two hours so far because Wade refused to listen to reason.
Don’t drink the water. You’ll get sick. Stick with beer.
“I know… You told me so.” Wade wheezed.
“One of these days you’ll learn.” Though Franklin doubted it.
After three years together, it’d become a given that Wade would put them behind schedule. A flat tire, forgetting to pay off the right police officer, a case of the runs… the list went on and on.
A flock of birds passed overhead. Flying would’ve made completing the journey infinitely easier for Franklin. The train they took into the Copper Canyon shaved a week’s worth of walking off the timetable, but that still left a five-day hike. Five days in the Mexican heat with Wade and his exploding stomach. Three hours in, Franklin gave strong consideration to killing the poor guy and ending both their suffering.
Wade emerged from the bush, face pale beneath a faded Yankees cap. He’d lost a few pounds since the trek began. His cheeks had more definition. Sweat-soaked clothes hung looser over his body. Belt pulled even tighter on his shorts. Veins more pronounced on his arms. He took a GPS locator out of his backpack.
“Looks like we’ve got about a two-hour hike north, then we get to climb that big fella right there.” He pointed to a mountain ahead.
The natives called it
El Caballero Durmiente
—the Sleeping Knight—and to most people, that was what it looked like. To Franklin, it seemed more like a dead man lying on his back, arms stretched out at his sides. Then again, his perspective was different from most others'. To call him an old soul was a massive understatement.
“No time like the present.” Franklin marched forward. He doubted Wade’s two-hour estimation accommodated his frequent trips into the bushes to relieve himself.
The two were silent for much of the hike, taking turns cutting through the thick leaves and branches blocking their way. Wade groaned with each swing of the machete. He was covered in a thin, misty layer of sweat.
“Here.” Franklin held out his hand for the machete. “Take a break.”
Wade gave it over and then rested his hands on his knees. “How are you not sweating? I’m dying out here.”
“Guess I’m just in better shape than you.”
Franklin knew that wasn’t entirely true, but he didn’t elaborate. Wade had enough problems keeping his pants clean.
“Prob—” Wade slapped his mouth shut, watching a snake slither over his shoe.
Franklin tried not to laugh at his friend. He slid the machete under the snake and flicked it into the trees. The reptile disappeared into the brush with a hiss.
“Thanks.” Wade took off his hat and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Good thing I just cleaned myself out. That would’ve been a close one.”
Franklin smirked. He liked Wade. Sure, the guy didn’t come close to being the best person Franklin worked with, but for all the man’s faults, he also wasn’t close to being the worst. That title belonged to Caleb, a farm boy from the ninth century. That kid was terrible. He whined the entire time. Franklin almost felt relieved when a shark took Caleb’s head off. It didn’t help that Franklin hated children on principle, mostly because he couldn’t bear any of his own.
“Come on.” Franklin moved forward, slicing through the brush with the machete. Wade took a few more minutes to rest before rejoining his boss.
Thanks to only one more stop to empty his bowels, Wade’s estimate turned out to be pretty accurate. He and Franklin reached the base of the mountain in a little over two hours. Wade let his backpack drop to the ground and then leaned against a boulder. He poured the remaining water in his canteen over his head.
“Mind if I sit this one out, chief?” Wade asked. He didn’t bother wiping the water off his face. “Montezuma is about to avenge himself again.”
“No problem.” Franklin looked up at the steep climb ahead. “Just keep an eye out.”
“For what?” Wade handed over the GPS. A small, red X blinked on the screen. “There’s nothing out here but us.”
And snakes. Of all sorts. Some the kind a simple flick of a machete won’t save you from.
“I don’t know. Ruffians. Banditos. Indigenous cannibals.”
Wade’s eyes went wide. “Cannibals? You never said anything about cannibals. Look at me. Why would someone want to eat me?”
“Conjecture, Wade. Fire a round in the air if there’s trouble. Hell, someone does try to eat you, shoot ‘em in the mouth. I don’t care.” Gazing up at the mountain, Franklin let out a deep breath. All that remained was to finish the climb, and he’d have the blade. And finishing the climb was going to be a pain in the ass.
Located in the heart of the Copper Canyon, the Sleeping Knight was a twelve-hundred-foot mountain with an almost-straight-up, ninety-degree climb. Franklin stepped on a large rock and pulled himself up to the next one. The ritual continued, and after a while, he’d made it to five hundred feet. His muscles ached, begging for a rest.
Sharp rocks jutted from the side of the mountain. He leaned against them and caught his breath. As he gazed across the horizon, the Copper Canyon stretched for miles, like a giant landscape painting. On the ground, Wade seemed no bigger than a coin. Franklin checked the GPS. Three hundred feet until his destination. That high up the mountain, there weren’t any trees to provide shade from the sun. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. He laughed. Wade would’ve gotten a kick out of that.
Franklin looked up. That three hundred feet felt like a thousand. He understood more than most the need to hide something as precious as the Blade of Hugues de Payens in a random spot, like the boonies of Mexico, but he’d have zero complaints if someone just hid the damn thing in a drainage pipe behind a 7-11. The climb was more than a little ridiculous.
Franklin tucked the GPS back into his cargo shorts and resumed climbing. A few pebbles came loose with each step, forcing him to move slower and with exaggerated care. That worked until about one hundred feet to go, when everything fell apart.
A rock the size of a football broke free as he reached for it. The rock tumbled down, bouncing off the side of the mountain on its way to Wade. Franklin swung back and forth from one hand, nothing but eleven hundred feet of air between himself and the ground. He refused to look down. He knew the fall would be awful. Why visually confirm it? At least he had quick reflexes. It would’ve pissed him off making that climb a second time.
Swinging over to his right, Franklin gained more stable footing. He pushed against the rock above, checking to see if it would fall on his head. It didn’t. Continuing the climb, he reached a plateau and pulled himself up. He stretched his back and noticed a crevice cut into the side of the mountain.
Finally
. His burning muscles needed another break.
Franklin smacked his hands together, a cloud of dust rising up. He glanced back down the mountain, a twinge of satisfaction tugging at him. So what if it sounded dirty? He’d climbed atop the Sleeping Knight. Climbing was never his thing, yet there he was, no muss, no fuss. Franklin took a pocket flashlight out, clicked it on, and walked into the crevice.
The cave was rough and full of hard edges, as if it hated any sort of intrusion. Nature had carved it out over thousands of years, like it knew the cave could one day become a secret hiding place. Water dripped from stalactites, giving the place a sharp, rocky odor.
Interesting. Didn’t think there’d be water
.
One could stay there for several days, if necessary. Maybe that was why Sir Chapman chose a spot one thousand feet up the mountain. The only other reason: he was a masochist who got off on ridiculous tasks, like climbing. Franklin cupped his hand under a stalactite, a small pool of water forming in his palm. He took a sip and made a sour face. It tasted like dirt. But his body needed the liquid after the climb. After forcing down a few more sips, Franklin journeyed farther.
Past the stalactites, the flashlight picked up a crude, faded crucifix symbol carved into the rock. The design was angled and jagged. Franklin figured it had to be made with a large, blunt instrument. Perhaps even a sword.
Sir Chapman’s sword.
Franklin flipped the flashlight in his hands. He was close. Sir Chapman’s body couldn’t be far. Franklin wanted to jump in celebration, but the rocky ceiling had a low clearance. But still—all these years, and finally so close to the blade! The excitement could only be compared to an explorer discovering El Dorado or the City of Atlantis, times fifty. He moved deeper into the cave, adrenaline heightening every movement. Turning a corner, Franklin glanced back. The cave’s entrance was out of sight. From here on out, the flashlight would be the only source of brightness.
“Should’ve brought night vision.”
As he moved deeper into the cave, the beam picked up a glare against a piece of armor.
Jackpot.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sir Chapman.”
Franklin inspected the withered remains of the knight. The rising dust made the skeleton look like it was encased in a body made of dirt. Chapman’s remains clutched a rust-covered sword to his chest. Franklin picked it up, and a cloud of dust and cobwebs made him sneeze. He banged the weapon against the wall, testing its strength. The metallic echo bounced back and forth against the cave’s walls, but the sword itself broke into pieces.
