Haunted Shipwreck (6 page)
“What brings you boys by at this hour?”
Jack and Bobby whirled. Old Man Willard lurked at the bottom of the stairs, caressing the bright neon pentagram of the bellows. His eyelids and lips were caked with blood. His clothes were dotted with burn marks. He was definitely not himself, even more so given the circumstances.
Bobby screwed up his face. “Are you senile, old man? The town’s burning to the ground!”
The foyer window shattered. Jack and Bobby ducked. A fiery cannonball rolled to Willard’s feet.
A boom echoed like thunder. Jack heard it over the night’s cacophony. Seconds later another window smashed in the shop. It was bad enough they were being chased by Willard’s antiques, now they had a cannon firing at them.
Jack focused on the bellows. Wisps of smoke snaked from the nozzle and the pentagram simmered. He noticed that the cannonball on the floor had Willard backpedaling. That was when the light bulb flickered.
Jack nudged Bobby and nodded. “The bellows. It’s like they’re magnetic. We’ve got to get it from him.”
Bobby had his rifle drawn. He was on the verge of popping caps through the broken window. “I’m not going near that guy! Look at him!”
“Then at least shoot him for me.”
A crash resounded upstairs. The double doors jarred. Jack glimpsed flames leaping outside the foyer window.
Bobby aimed at Willard. “I’ve got the barrage for you, soldier.”
The red-hot cannonball leapt and drilled Willard’s kneecap. He groaned, clutching his leg. Bobby shot him in the forehead. He yelped and then screamed when he saw that his pants had caught fire. Jack pounced and snatched the bellows. Willard could have cared less; he slapped at the flames with his bare hands.
Jack aimed the bellows at the cannonball. He opened and shut the handles.
Nothing happened.
The cannonball rolled toward him, leaving behind a trail of fire.
“Crap! C’mon, Blue! The damn thing’s after the bellows!”
Jack was not about to drop the antique. It was obvious it was responsible for the chaos. From the pentagram to the blazing iron army, he knew he had to do something with it in order to restore peace to Passing Bell.
Bobby had his back against the doors. “We’re holed up!”
“Move!”
Bobby sidestepped and Jack shouldered the double doors. They slammed and the burgundy fog rolled in, as did the boneshaker, acting as a battering ram. Jack grabbed Bobby’s sleeve and dove to the right. The horned bike gonged by and gored Willard. The boys stumbled outside, and then tumbled down the knoll.
Their descent ended at the curb. Jack hugged the bellows, relieved that he still had it. He looked toward the shop. The army lined the walk and was advancing around the knoll. Fires burned on both stories of Reed’s Antiques.
Bobby stood and did a three-sixty, searching for his helmet. He gave up and shook his head. “Now what? You need to trench that puffer or we’re x’ed! It has a pentagram, for Christ’s sake!”
“I know. They’re after it. It’s like some kind of witch tool. But how are we gonna get rid of it?”
Bobby looked around. They were running out of time. The full salvo was on their heels. His gaze roved from the infernal town to the hillside on their right, which hid the harbor fifty feet below. “The docks! We toss the pineapple out to sea!”
“And that’s gonna stop these things?”
“It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
Jack couldn’t argue there. They had to do something. Standing still would only give them literal heartburn. They had to turn tail. The harbor seemed as good of a plan as any. If it failed, then it would be their dead end, with nowhere to go but to the sharks.
He tightened his porkpie and nodded. “Run for it.”
The cannon boomed twenty yards back. A fireball whizzed over their heads and transformed a tree into a torch.
Bobby laughed maniacally. “Ha-ha! We got ourselves a SNAFU! It’s World War Three, Jericho!”
Jack knew Bobby had lost it. In fact, there wasn’t anything funny about their situation. Their families and friends were probably dead, and here they were fleeing to the ocean from objects that should have been inanimate. They were screwed.
They sprinted up the hillside. When they reached the top, Jack glanced over his shoulder. The boneshaker barreled toward them, its wheels and frame coursing with electricity. Hammers and pokers spun through the mist as if tossed. The cannon rolled at a snail’s pace, firing an impossible cache of ammunition.
“What the hell?”
Jack turned and looked below. Beyond the hillside, swaying at the docks, was a pirate ship that could be none other than the legendary Bloody Cutlass. Amidst the burning skull, scythe sails and seaweed-veiled hull was Blacktongue beaming on the forecastle deck. His smoldering coat flapped in the wind, revealing his blood red bones. He snarled in a red aura, his torso tank writhing with cannibalistic monkfish. Beside him stood the robed girl, the mapkeeper, holding her cupped hands to her face. She opened them and blew embers overboard.
Regardless of the anchored evil before them, there was nowhere for Jack and Bobby to go but down.
A boom resounded and another blazing cannonball split the mist. It hit the hillside a few feet from the boys, spraying them with rock and dirt.
Jack waved the bellows, taunting the army. “You want it? Come and get it!”
Jack jerked Bobby’s sleeve and dashed downhill. They had to make it to the docks and cast the bellows out to sea. His gut told him it was the right thing to do. And the more he racked his brain on past science classes, he was certain he recalled some kind of adverse reaction regarding water and iron. But how would drowning the bellows solve their predicament? He was clueless. He just prayed that Blacktongue and the creepy mapkeeper kept their distance.
Halfway to the harbor the odor of salty fish hit them. The bellows’ pentagram kindled and crackled, as if sensing Blacktongue’s presence. The tide crashed on the docks, soaking every post and plank. The scourge of the seven seas growled and slashed his cutlass in a downpour of embers and ashes.
The pirate’s requiem growled in the gust.
Blow ye winds at midnight, blow ye winds hi ho!
Kill ‘em, spill thar insides, blow boys blow!
Bobby risked a look back, huffing and puffing beside Jack. The army charged downhill. The boneshaker still led the pack; it screeched and gonged like some sort of quirky clown show. Roasters somersaulted and spit fire. Pokers, hammers, and pitchforks continued to whirl and fly in midair. Bobby felt as if they had an avalanche of junk on their heels.
“This better work, Blue!”
“If it doesn’t we’re KIA, soldier!”
Their feet hit the planks, and the tide rained down on them. The boys cursed in unison from the cold shock. The ship loomed at the end; its enormity made everything else seem Lilliputian. Gored pirates plunged from the deck onto the dock’s edge, cutlasses drawn. Jack and Bobby soon found themselves trapped.
Bobby waited for the tide to crash in, soaking them to the bone. The pirates charged toward them while the iron avalanche was seconds from impact.
“I’ve got a plan, Jericho! Throw that bellows overboard when I give the word!”
“Why? What are you gonna do?”
Bobby ignored Jack’s question, dropped his waterproof backpack, and fished out a pack of Roman candles and a lighter. He quickly aimed the salvo at the pirates and lit the wicks.
“Sky it!”
Jack understood Bobby’s plan now. He was providing a distraction so he could toss the bellows out to sea. He obeyed and hurled it into the air.
The rockets launched, screaming through the mist. The iron avalanche crashed onto the docks and the planks collapsed. Jack and Bobby lurched forward and lost their footing, plunging into the depths.
Below was chaos. Jack gasped and struggled to hold his breath. He saw the ironworks sink to the ocean floor, bubbling and rusting. Planks and posts drifted everywhere. He frantically scissors-kicked. His head bobbed above water. He glimpsed the Roman candles shrieking and zigzagging like an Independence Day celebration gone bad. The bellows plummeted toward the sea.
Then the near impossible occurred. A Roman candle collided with the bellows like a heat-seeking missile. The handles exploded, catapulting the burning body back into the air. But only momentarily, as a second rocket slammed dead center on the pentagram, blowing it to smithereens. An ethereal scream split the air amidst a spider web of electricity.
Jack submerged. He thrashed, his feet kicking broken boards. He saw the antiques on the rocky floor. They were a twisted mass of junk, extinguished and corroded. He wondered where Bobby was. He had to find him. He kicked hard to the surface.
“Blue! Blue!”
Jack merely saw destruction: a sea of driftwood and a stray Roman candle fizzling to the tide. He saw a post to his right and lunged for it. He clutched it and scanned the waters. The pirate ship had vanished, along with the pirates, swallowed by the mist. And there was no sign of his best friend.
“Blue!”
Jack glanced back. The shoreline was maybe thirty yards away. He had to swim for it. Maybe Bobby had done the same. Though the mist was thick, he still could not see him anywhere.
He swam for the beach. Weaving through planks, he made it to land. He collapsed on the sand, exhausted, his mind reeling. He looked down the shoreline.
No Bobby.
His eyes darted out to sea.
Nothing.
Jack was alone, the tide crashing at his feet, washing ashore boards and rope, but no Bobby. He stood and staggered.
“Blue!”
He felt as if he wandered in a dream. What had happened? Had any of it gone down? Or had he lost his marbles? And where was his best friend? He stumbled up the hillside, sobbing.
“Blue!”
Jack reached the top and fell to his knees. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He squinted in the mist. He could make out fires still burning.
He stood and walked toward town. He felt like a zombie, dead tired, delusional, and addled. When his feet touched Skean Street, the mist lifted slightly. He saw that the houses were ablaze. A voice drifted to his ears.
“Jack! Jack!”
Was it Bobby? Had he made it to shore after all? He knew it! How could he have underestimated his gung-ho friend?
A figure emerged from the fog and gasped. A warm embrace enveloped Jack. An aromatic odor clouded his head, quite unlike Hell’s foul stench.
It was his mother’s perfume.
“Oh, Jack! I thought I’d lost you!”
His mother cried on his neck. A hand squeezed his shoulder. He thought his blurry vision was playing tricks on him.
Willard, looking half-dead with a bloodstained face, stood behind him. “I’ll take that ten fer the hospital now.”
Though everything had been lost - his best friend, his house, his antique collection - Jack still managed a ghost of a smile. The surviving townspeople may have had no idea what had transpired, but he knew that every Passing Bell tall tale was fact. He hoped he would never have to relive the legends again, or suffer through a retelling.
Like iron submerged in water, Jack had every intention of letting his antique addiction rust away.
Thunk!
Jack looked to his feet. He crouched and picked up Bobby’s helmet. He removed his porkpie, handed it to Willard, and then placed the steel pot on his head. His mother smiled. Willard nodded, knowing he had lost his number one customer.
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