The Conch Shell of Doom (28 page)

“Har, har.” Franklin felt drowsy. His head dipped and then jerked back up. “I’m all right.”

“Yeah. That’s why you almost passed out.” Julie walked around the bar and held Franklin in her arms. He tried to stand but lacked the strength to keep his balance, making the two of them fall to the side and bump against a table. Franklin’s eyes fell on the customers, most of whom looked envious, the rest concerned. He gave all of them a stupid grin.

“Let’s get you in the back, cowboy.” Julie’s steps were short, making it easier to keep them from doing a face-plant on the floor.

“Hey, you never take me in the back,” one of them shouted.

“Shoot, you can take me in front, won’t bother me none,” another said. The two of them laughed together, making a loud, boorish sound.

“One more word and I’ll call your wives to come get you. Don’t think for a second I won’t.” Julie helped Franklin into the back.

With the exception of two overweight Latino men joking around, the kitchen was empty. The smell of fried food hung in the air, and everything seemed to be coated in stainless steel. The tabletops, the cabinets, even the utensils. Past the kitchen was a small room full of different cases of beer, and a cot in the corner. A rumpled, green blanket lay on top of it.

“I save this for the regulars who’re too drunk to drive and too broke to get a ride.” Julie helped Franklin down on the cot, which made a stale, vomit-like odor creep up. “Can’t do much about the smell, sorry.”

“My nose is too broken to smell anyway.” Every rib in Franklin’s body ached as he leaned back against the wall. “This is perfect. Thanks.”

Julie looked him up and down, taking in the damage. “You need a doctor?”

Franklin waved her off. A wry smile crept across his lips. “I could use a few more beers.”

“Three bucks a bottle.”

“You’re making a wounded man pay?” Franklin acted genuinely hurt. “What happened to that famed Southern hospitality people like to talk about?”

“A girl’s gotta eat.” Julie walked toward the main area of the bar and then stopped. “You wouldn’t buy the cow if you could get the milk for free.”

“Please? I’ll be your best friend.”

Julie stuck her lips to the side, thinking about the offer. “Okay, but if you’re not paying, you get the cheap stuff.”

“Bless you.”

By the time Julie returned with a bucket full of beer, Franklin dropped his head on the pillow and passed out.

Something jerked him awake. He didn’t know how long he’d been out, or how long Deckland and Julie had been screaming at each other. It seemed like a dream at first, but his brain rebooted, and he soon figured out the truth. Franklin sat up and winced, clutching his painful ribs.

“That was a mistake.”

He slowly stood, taking care not to further agitate his sore ribs, which should’ve healed by now. Deckland must’ve handed out a fantastic beating if they still hurt. Franklin made his way to the revolving door that led to the main bar and listened in.

“I know he’s here, you mouthy whore.” Deckland pointed at El Cid, which could be seen through a greasy window. “That’s his car outside.”

“That’s been there since last night,” Julie said. “You know how many times someone left their car here for a few days while they dry out? How do you think I stay in business? People think this place is crowded.”

Franklin was impressed. Even he didn’t have the nerve to yell at Deckland, and Julie did it with the ferocity of a bear protecting her cub. Then again, she thought he was just some guy, not some Irish Hulk that’d been around for two hundred or so years. Trenton didn’t grant Deckland full immortality, but it seemed like it, considering how hard the Irishman was to kill. Franklin peeked through the circular window on the door, taking care not to stand directly in front of it and give himself away. Why on Earth didn’t Julie have her shotgun?

“Lassie, if you only knew how easily I could rip that pretty hair from your scalp—” Deckland sneered “—you’d be a wee bit more respectful.”

“I’ve heard that one before.” Julie laughed. “You’re not the first drunk to threaten me. You’ve got five seconds to get out.”

Deckland smiled, a slight groan coming from his throat. “I like your sass. I do. The hair I’ll take. But you can keep that tongue.”

One of the patrons stood up, holding a hand to the ginger monster’s chest. Franklin wished it was him out there standing up for Julie, but he was in no condition for Round 2.
 

“That’s enough out of you,” the bearded patron said. “Quit causing a ruckus and just leave.”

Deckland glanced down at the hand and grabbed it. Franklin heard the bones crack through the door, followed by the bearded man screaming. That did it. Franklin had to do something, but what? He paced back and forth, nibbling at his thumbnail. Flashing the Blade of Hugues de Payens was a no-go, especially if things went south. Then, he might just lose the thing. Still, he needed a weapon.
 

Ah-ha! The kitchen!

He rushed in, searching for a decent weapon. Franklin opened the drawers quietly, but he was too amped up to keep the contents of each drawer from moving and making a little noise. All he needed was a knife, but all he saw were forks, spoons, and a ladle. The two cooks stood in the corner, looking at him with blank eyes.

“You guys don’t have one stinkin’ knife in here?” Franklin asked.

Neither moved. They just kept gawking at him with blank stares. It pissed Franklin off. There wasn’t time for games, so he asked them in Spanish. Still, no response. One of them looked over at the dishwasher, which was running.
Oh.

“I need a weapon.” He made a stabbing motion with his hand, hoping that would tip them off. “Chopsticks. Bat. Anything. A gun? What about a gun?”

The cook, wearing a New York Yankees hat, grinned. “Si, we got the hook-up.”

He led Franklin and the other cook out the back of the bar to his beat up Subaru. There was a large Mexican flag sticker on the rear window. The cook opened the trunk and held up a Magnum.

“You trying to take someone’s head off?” Franklin wanted to thank them for
finally
giving him a gun to work with, but the hand-cannon could take someone’s head off.

The other Latino, wearing a chef’s hat, made a
blop-blop
sound and motioned with his finger like he was pulling a trigger. “It’s like Dirty Harry. He makes his day.”

“Stay outside.” Franklin checked the cylinder. Fully loaded. “If you hear this bazooka go off, call the cops.
La policia
.”

“Si.”

Franklin cocked the gun before heading back in the bar. He aimed the gun at the revolving door, moving as quickly as possible without making any sound. That one cook was right. Somebody’s day was going to be made. Hopefully Franklin’s.

Slowly creeping toward the front of the bar, Franklin heard Julie’s shouting reach a fever pitch. Deckland matched her decibel for decibel, quite a feat for someone with a voice that sounded like gravel. Franklin peeked through the window again.

Deckland moved toward the door, but Julie stood her ground, arms crossed, refusing to budge. Good girl. She blocked his line of sight.

“He’s back there, isn’t he?” Deckland sneered. He shoved her aside as easily as he would a fly.

“That’s strike two.” Julie threw her hands up and then marched behind the bar and grabbed her shotgun. “Last chance. Get the hell out of here, or you’ll be blowin’ boogers full of buckshot out your nose for the rest of your life.”

Deckland laughed, inching closer to Julie. “That so?”

Julie raised the shotgun, ready to fire. “It is.”

The shotgun was snatched out of her hands so fast, she yelped. O’Halleran bit down on the barrels, his teeth crushing them until they broke in two. Julie looked like her eyeballs were about to fall out of her head and onto the floor. Deckland sneered, the end of the barrel still in his mouth.

“How?” Julie asked.

Deckland grinned and made an unintelligible sound. Franklin figured the ginger said something about his extraordinary strength or how he could chew throw a wall if need be. Franklin made a yap-yap-yap motion with his hand. He stepped through the door, Magnum raised. “That’s enough fun for one day, don’t you think?”

The Irishman turned, eyeballed the Magnum aimed at his face, then spit the barrel out of his mouth. The metal landed on the wooden floor with a loud clang. Franklin smiled, knowing the ginger wasn’t dumb enough to even try and take a bite out of his gun. O’Halleran wasn’t the brightest, but he knew there would be a bullet from a .44 Magnum in his mouth if he got within five feet of Franklin.

“Guess you got me.” Deckland held his hands up. He took a few steps back toward the door, bumping into it. He used his rear to push it open. “I’ll be seeing you soon, what with your brother waking from his nap and all.”

Franklin didn’t say a word as he watched O’Halleran disappear outside. Franklin lowered the Magnum and held it at his side. Julie set her mangled shotgun down on the bar. She exhaled, the tension in her body relaxing.

“You okay?” Franklin asked.

“Might need a change of underwear. And a bottle of my strongest stuff.”

There was a loud metallic crash outside, followed by the sound of tires screeching from a car leaving the parking lot. Franklin closed his eyes and lowered his head.

Oh, Deckland. You ginger-haired little bastard
. He slapped his leg with his hand.
That was totally unnecessary
. Julie ran to the door and peeked outside. Her groan confirmed his suspicion.

“That’s no way to treat a classic.”

“He didn’t need to bring El Cid into this.” Franklin lowered his head. “I think we both need a bottle of your strongest stuff.”

Mr. Lovell needed a few hours to regain his strength. Calling forth an oceanic army capable of taking over the world tended to take a lot out of someone, even if they had help from a mystical head residing in their body. Percy drove the two of them to Mayor Benchley’s home to celebrate. So many cars were parked in front of the mayor’s house Percy had to park four blocks away.
 

“Quite the get-together,” Percy said, helping Mr. Lovell out of the car.

“I want you to enjoy yourself tonight. You’ve earned it.”
 

Percy smiled, more out of surprise than anything else. “Thanks.”

Despite his grotesque appearance, Mr. Lovell always loved a good party, especially when he–or Trenton–were the center of attention, and that evening was supposed to be quite the get-together. Most of Mooresville’s elite played a role in the Awakening, each of them hoping to secure a position of responsibility in the new world.

Funny, nobody ever asks what that position will be. It’s like they think it will all be sorted out after the fact. Once these ants witness my power, all of them will scramble to serve at my feet, eager just to have a seat at the table.

Mr. Lovell walked up the patio stairs, rubbing his stomach in approval. Percy dashed in front of his boss to open the front door for him. Inside the mayor’s foyer, people stopped to clap and cheer their conquering leaders. Percy moved behind Mr. Lovell, disappearing into another room.

Once everyone had a chance to congratulate Mr. Lovell and Trenton, the party migrated into the large dining room, with people laughing and chatting the night away like it was
the
social event of the season. Mr. Lovell always liked the pre-Awakening celebration, with its drinking and glad-handing.
 

It makes you feel accepted. Me too, in an odd sort of way.
 

Mayor Benchley, an overweight man in his fifties with a bushy silver mustache, stood in the middle of the room, holding up a glass of champagne, stomach pouring over his waistline. He stood on a large, red and blue Oriental carpet, moving in a small circle, waving his hands, trying to get everyone’s attention. When that didn’t work, he picked up a spoon and clanged it against the glass until the partygoers settled down.

“I want to thank you all for coming out tonight.” Mayor Benchley paced around the room, his large presence and booming Southern voice helped him take control of any room he wanted. Probably helped him get elected, too. “So much has been accomplished already, but the real work has yet to begin.”

Wait. Shouldn’t we be talking about this?
 

Mr. Lovell cleared his throat. Trenton was right. What did Mayor Benchley think he was doing, talking about what needed to be done going forward? The buffoon didn’t have a clue. The mayor continued shoveling garbage into the ears of the partygoers, so caught up in his pomp that he didn’t notice Mr. Lovell standing so close. He cleared his throat again. Mayor Benchley grinned, but Mr. Lovell knew fear when he saw it.

“Sorry about that,” Mayor Benchley said. “Sometimes I just get carried away. Not the best thing when you live so close to the ocean.”

Some of the party guests laughed, and Benchley laughed with them, his ego feeding off their approval. Mr. Lovell held up a hand. Everyone except Benchley, who’d once again turned away, shut up.

“Hollow words may get you a vote,” Mr. Lovell said. “But they’ll never give you power.”

There were more than a couple low-level murmurings among the group. Mr. Lovell noticed the terrified looks on some of the women’s faces. It angered him. Benchley was the one they should be mad at.
 

That may be, but it’s up to you to smooth this over
.

“If you would be so kind, Mr. Mayor.” Mr. Lovell gestured for the mayor to take a seat. “Please.”

Benchley shrank into nothing as he staggered back, not taking his eyes off Mr. Lovell. The mayor bumped into a chair and lowered himself onto it.

“Mayor Benchley is right. The real work is yet to begin.” Mr. Lovell took off his sunglasses. A slight gasp made its way around the room, making him ashamed. Tonight was supposed to be a celebration of him and Trenton. An appreciation of their efforts. It didn’t matter these people would be dead soon. It was the thought that counted. “I must apologize for my appearance. I was injured in a fire many years ago.”