The Conch Shell of Doom (26 page)

Franklin slid open the patio door, the salty air greeting him with a gentle breeze
.
He stepped outside, sheathed his blade, and leaned against the guardrail. Listening to the waves crash, he looked across the beach. Completely empty. Odd, for a Sunday morning. Even if most people went to church, there’d still be some people enjoying the beach.
 

Oh, no.

Gazing out, Franklin saw a storm cloud the size of a basketball at the horizon’s vanishing point. A few centuries had passed since Franklin last saw a storm cloud like that. His spirits sank, stress and worry gripping his heart. He wanted to slam his head through a wall. All of the planning and scheduling, everything he’d done to make sure the Awakening wouldn’t go through, was for naught. Time had run out. Mr. Lovell and Trenton performed the ritual already, and by the looks of the storm cloud, it was only a few hours ago. The Awakening would happen, no matter what. He tried to figure out whom to be angrier with. The kids, for getting in the way, the crooked cops Mr. Lovell paid off, or himself, for being an idiot. It didn’t matter. Everyone was to blame. He threw an elbow against the patio door window, cracking it, and then stormed back inside.

Franklin picked up the remote and turned on the TV to a local station. There was an emergency newscast, warning Mooresville inhabitants that an evacuation was in effect and to get out as soon as possible. His head sunk with a sigh. “Damn it.”

The anchorman’s spiel about a dangerous storm annoyed Franklin, who turned the TV off. He rose to his feet, remembering a promise he’d made on his father’s deathbed all those years ago.

“We failed your brother,” his father said. “You can’t let him become a monster. Promise me you’ll never let that happen. My heart’s broken enough.”

Franklin held his father’s hand tight. “I promise.”

He rose, ready to do everything within his power to stop Trenton and Mr. Lovell. Franklin stopped, the sight of what stood before him crushing his spirits. Two seconds after psyching himself up to stop Trenton, life came along and dropped a ten-ton trailer on Franklin’s head.
Seriously?
How could things get any worse? The day was shaping up to be an all-time shitter, even worse than the day before, which earned an honorable mention in the all-time worst category.

“Hey, boy-o. Been a while.” Deckland O’Halleran patted the giant wooden club he held. His fire-red hair stood out in every direction. One of his ears was gone, and he had an extra thirty pounds of muscle on his frame compared to Franklin. “You and I got some unfinished business.”

“Should’ve known they’d bring you into this.”

“You should’ve. This ain’t gonna be like last time.”

Deckland was sort of muscle for hire. Mr. Lovell liked to call him in when things got especially hairy, which was whenever Franklin got close. The last time they’d met, he beat the ginger by running around in circles until the Irishman got so tired his superior strength became a non-issue. That was a long time ago, on the docks of Vancouver. Franklin couldn’t use that strategy there. Not enough room. A confined space went completely in Deckland’s favor, and they both knew it.

“I’m gonna rip your head off and use your skull as a piss jug.”

“Or, we could play some cards, get a drink or two, maybe let bygones be bygones, forget this whole thing, and then you go home, eat some potatoes, herd some sheep, and we both call it a day.”

Deckland laughed. “Oh, I’ll go home soon enough. But not before I’ve had my way with you.”

Franklin winced. There were so many different ways to interpret that statement, and none of them were good. “Are you sure? As far as I’m concerned, it’s no harm, no foul.”

“Let me think about it.” Deckland glanced down at the club. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure.”

Wonderful
. Franklin would have to win the fight fair and square. There was a better chance of beating the devil in a fiddle-playing contest.
He reminded himself to get to the bottom of the mystical gun mystery, because one of those would’ve really come in handy. Scanning the room for
something
to use, Franklin remembered the remote control in his hand. He threw it, hitting Deckland in the eye.

“Dirty bastard!” he rubbed his eye. “Can’t fight fair to save your life, can you?”

Franklin didn’t answer. He lunged for the brute. Franklin landed a solid hit with his shoulder, jarring the club loose. The Irishman wrapped his arms around Franklin and twisted as they fell to the floor. Deckland landed on top, knocking the wind out of Franklin. Breathing was hard enough with a giant on top, but with his lungs completely empty? Forget about it. At least that club wasn’t in the Irishman’s hands. It’d reduce Franklin’s head to a bloody pulp.

Deckland head-butted Franklin on the nose, crushing it with a hollow thump. Warm blood oozed from the wound. His cartilage throbbed, and the pain made his eyes water. The room spun, each wave of pain making the place do another revolution. Before he could get some sort of bearings, the bruiser landed a couple of crushing blows to Franklin’s jaw, each hit making him black out for a moment.
 

And football players thought they had it bad.

The massive ginger crawled off him and picked up the club. Franklin’s mushy brain could barely figure out what was coming next. If he didn’t move, his nose wouldn’t be the only crushed part of his face. He tried to stand, using the chair for balance. A vicious kick to the chest put an end to that, knocking him into the wall. Franklin tried to push aside the pain and focus on crawling to the door. Every second spent within arm’s reach of Deckland was giving the Irishman the chance to find out if he could kill an immortal.

Franklin felt something slam into his back, making his spine vibrate like a metal pole. He lost control of his body and went down, looking like a frog that had been run over by a car. Deckland’s club landed next to Franklin’s face.

“I never thought you’d hit someone in the back.” Franklin tried to roll himself over but couldn’t. Heat rushed to his head. Sweat formed on his brow, a rarity for the immortal. Not even tumbling down a mountain made him break a sweat.

“There’s an exception to every rule.” Deckland grabbed a handful of Franklin’s hair and pulled him to his feet. It felt like a hundred needles being jammed into his scalp. He pushed Franklin through the front door and out onto the fourth floor walkway. “Especially for a cheat like you.”

Franklin kicked his legs backward, hoping to hit the ginger, but it was pointless.

“Always wanted to see if pigs could fly,” Deckland spat into Franklin’s ear.

He planted a foot against the rail. Even against a giant ginger, legs were still stronger than arms. The Irishman struggled to throw Franklin over the side. Immortal or not, a four-story fall would hurt worse than getting stabbed in the stomach with a katana. Deckland groaned, pushing as hard as he could. Franklin did the same, but his legs were starting to give. Wow, Deckland was powerful. It was only a matter of time before the tug of war ended.

“Okay, you’ve got me. Vancouver was a fluke. I give up. You win.” Franklin’s legs burned as he used all his strength to hold steady. They’d stopped pushing back almost immediately.

“I’m also bored. I wonder how easy it’d be to break every bone in your body.” Deckland picked Franklin up, and then heaved the immortal over the railing.

Only one word flashed through Franklin’s mind as he fell:
typical
. A Cadillac broke his fall, the hood crushing under the force of his body, along with the front windshield. He couldn’t have moved, even if he’d wanted to. Pieces of glass and metal pierced his legs. His bones ached down to the marrow. If he weren’t immortal, his body probably would’ve broken into a million pieces.

Yep
, he thought, picking a piece of glass out of his forehead.
A mystical gun would really be useful right about now
.

Deckland jumped off the fourth-story rail, landing on his feet in between cars. The Irishman was so muscular the downward momentum didn’t make him fall, or even roll, to a stop. Not even Franklin could’ve pulled that off. It was like Deckland took a short leap, not a four-story dive.

Of course he’s not hurt
.
He’s three times my size
. Franklin rolled off the Cadillac’s hood, keeping the car between the ginger and himself. Grabbing the Cadillac’s door handle, Franklin pulled himself up, and then staggered toward his car across the street.

“Oh no. Don’t run,” Deckland taunted. “Whatever you do, don’t run! How will I ever keep up?”

Franklin didn’t exactly consider what he was doing running. It was more like drunkenly stumbling around, only sober and without falling. His body hurt so much; even if someone offered him a million dollars to run, he wouldn’t be able to.
 

Deckland grabbed his arm from behind and spun him around. “You’re not getting away from me this time. I still owe you for my ear.”

“You threw me off a building.” Some blood spilled out of Franklin’s mouth as he spoke. “I call Even Stevens.”

“I don’t.” Deckland kicked Franklin’s legs out from under him.

He crashed shoulder-first onto the asphalt. It felt like someone dropped a two-ton dumbbell on his shoulder. Bits of broken glass dug deeper into his skin.

“I’m going to enjoy this.” Deckland knelt over Franklin, pinning him down with a knee on his chest.

“Me too.” Franklin went for the low blow, latching on to Deckland’s privates as hard as he could. “Doubly so.”

The Irishman laughed, like it tickled him. He smacked Franklin’s hand away. “You keep doing that, I’m going to start thinking you fancy me.”

“Not my type. I prefer Brits.”

“Don’t you talk about those greasy bastards in front of me.” Deckland’s face turned serious. Like some people of Irish descent, especially those older than forty, he had little love for England. Face as red as his hair, he grabbed Franklin’s ear and twisted.

He clutched Deckland’s wrist, trying to pull him off. It was no use. The Irishman was too strong, and Franklin too broken to put up a good fight. He tried not to scream, but it felt like his ear had been set on fire. The pain made him howl like a little girl. He was so embarrassed.
 

Deckland laughed. “Music to my ear.”

If Franklin weren’t trying so hard to save his ear, he’d have said something sarcastic in response to that awful pun. He wondered how much longer before it was ripped from his head as he used his free hand to punch Deckland, but it was like the ginger didn’t feel a thing.

That ear won’t be attached to my head much longer. Can’t be
.

Franklin felt the flesh begin tearing away. Warm blood leaked from the wound. The burning pain exploded like Napalm. Maybe if the Irishman ripped the ear off, he’d be happy? Then, he could give it back to Franklin. After putting the loose ear on ice, he could have it reattached at the hospital. He screamed even louder.

Get real. Deckland will make sure something like that never happens. He’ll probably eat the ear.

“I don’t know that tune you’re singing, but boy I love it.” Deckland mocked the screams with his own high-pitched version.

Franklin tried to kick Deckland in the crotch, but the awkward positioning made it so Franklin’s foot only hit the ginger’s rear end.

Deckland giggled. “You really do fancy me, don’t you? Tell you what. Once I have your ear, I’ll eat it. That way, there’ll always be a part of you inside of me.”

Franklin knew it! The ginger monster wanted to eat the ear! If that happened, once it was digested in that cauldron of acid Deckland called a stomach, there would be nothing left to surgically reattach. Nasty Irish bastard.

A minivan pulled into a parking spot nearby. A little boy hopped out and locked eyes with Franklin, who tried to call out for help, but the only sound that came out was
ahh!
The kid was confused about the scene happening in front of him. The dad, with the same confused look, rushed over and picked his son up.

“Hey, what’s going on over there?” The dad held the boy tight. “Do I need to call the cops?”

Deckland leered at them. “Never you mind what’s going on over here, unless you want me to rip out your tongue and rape your wife with it.”

“Daddy, he’s mean.” The boy buried his face in his dad’s shoulder.

“He certainly is.” The dad rushed his family into the building, leaving Franklin alone to fend for himself. He noticed Deckland’s eyes followed the family as they hurried away, probably to make sure one of them didn’t pull out a cell phone to dial 9-1-1.

If Franklin wanted to keep his ear, it was the time to act. Ignoring the pain pulsating through his body, he rolled into Deckland, knocking the brute to the ground. Franklin grabbed a car’s rear bumper and pulled himself up. The Irishman wrapped one of his gigantic hands around a leg. Franklin stomped on the Irishman’s face with the free leg until he let go.

Franklin hobbled his way past the parking lot. El Cid was just across the street. He glanced back at Deckland, who’d given chase. Without looking where he was going, Franklin slipped and fell into a run-off ditch between the road and the parking lot. All he could do was laugh.

Deckland caught up. “This just ain’t your day, is it?”

“No, it’s really not.” He noticed sand coated the bottom of the ditch, and grabbed a handful.

Deckland picked him up by the shoulders, bringing them face-to-face once again. Without missing a beat, Franklin threw the sand in the Irishman’s face. The ginger dropped him and staggered back, furiously rubbing his eyes. Franklin didn’t stick around long enough to see how badly he got the ginger; he sprinted across the street, barely dodging a SUV before reaching El Cid.

“You sorry sack of moldy cow dung!” Deckland called out.

Franklin opened the door to his Mustang and saluted the Irishman for the proper ass kicking. The sign of respect would eat away at the ginger like a mosquito, pissing him off to no end. Sticks and stones might not break his bones, but words, or in Deckland’s case, gestures, always hurt.