Young Writers Society

Stairs were behind the doorway. It was a winding staircase, yet with only a couple of turns because there wasn’t much up, to go. There was an overload on my mind and not enough time to think about it before we had to face a shabby-feathered Freaktosaur.

How could I have lost his necklace? I hope we've moved fast enough to at least save lives.

I looked at the sack lightly jiggling on Malibu’s shoulder with each step.

I pondered. “Malibu, the sack doesn’t look like it did when we put it together.”

“Huh?” he uttered, momentarily confused. “Oh. Well it has been through a lot.”

“Uh-huh, that’s exactly what I’m getting at,” I said. “It looks deflated, considering how it resembled a popcorn ball earlier when we first packed it.”

He slid it off of his shoulder, stopping and turning to me as he did so, and bounced it a little. Then he concluded, “Might be a little lighter.”

“It definitely could be,” I said, pretty sure it had lost some weight. “It’s not even heavy anymore is it? It’s just a trash can liner.” I poked a finger into the white fabric. My finger did not break, instead it sank in an inch before something hard blocked any further impregnation. A whole inch. “And the trash has elbow room,” I griped.

“I had the elves make a surplus amount of toys as a failsafe. There’ll be enough for all the little girls and boys.” As he talked I noticed something about his face looked naked. “We’ll be fine.”

“Did Santa have the elves manufacture a pair of replacement spectacles, too?” I said, sympathizing, but doubtful. “Are you sure you’ll be able to read the names on the list correctly and find the right address of every house without your glasses?”

The expression on his face moved like a shrug. “I’m getting used to it. Kinda bummed about how it will screw up my accuracy.” He flashed a half smile. “Takes some of the fun out of stickin' it to the bird, you know?” I returned the flicker of a smile and snorted. I wasn’t usually the one looking up at him, physically, but thanks to the stairs I was. “Hmm,” he lightly rumbled, “You’re mighty pale. Is it bothering you that much, the confrontation? But hey, we succeeded in getting out of there, so at the least we get a stay of execution.” He made a circling motion at my chest with his elbow. “Now, at your funeral, nobody can say that you weren’t a successful person.”

As if anyone would ever come to know about our bizarre excursion and fortunate escape through a space-warping Gatling gun in the basement of a shack in an uncharted swamp, supposing they could ever even find my body if I met my end out here. That was a real help. I mean, I guess I might OD on dread of Vinny’s wrath, or later of a missing heart if he decided to hate me forever. The bird could inflict misery, but no torture like heartache.

“You really know how to soothe a soul,” I aimed distantly at my companion, feeling my flesh buckle under the heat of a fresh wave of anxiety.

We had already resumed climbing. Malibu interrupted his stoic whistling long enough to throw out there, “Santa has quite a touch don’t he?”

“Yeah, he does,” I obliged. “But you’re not him.”

“Don’t count me out of the running.”

“Didn’t know they were hiring.”

“Only for us old guys,” and he whistled his way, rather awfully, to the top where another door greeted us. He shoved it open, coolly, leading the way. It opened into a wide, dark hallway. The ventilation system overhead felt familiar, and when we walked a little further on, so did that water fountain.

“Oh,” I said aloud, “That’s where that door leads.”

“Oh,” said my friend, slightly surprised. “You been down this way before?”

I chuckled remembering my mad scramble to find the bathroom. “If I would’ve known it was locked, I’d’ve saved myself the trouble and gone the other way. Wait a second. It was locked, so how did you open it without a key?”

In a mock-mysterious voice he said, “Magical powers.” Since he shouldered the bag and had his back to me, the lack of hand gestures butchered his attempt to sound convincing. That and magic not being real.

Quickly he added, “Messin’ with ya. Key’s only necessary from the outside. When I want to leave, I don’t want to bother with a darned key. Besides, the stairs behind the wall are pretty well hidden, only knownst to me and a couple other highly regarded customers.” He shot a glance over his shoulder. “And now you, son. Only the right people ever see the inside of the place. My place, My rules.”

I felt kinda special. I had doubted, told him it didn't meet my expectations, that it wasn't up to snuff. And he let me in. He could've taken someone else from our group, but he took me. He even let me shoot Heschita, when he could've done it and assured safe passage to the facility and back again. “Right, masterfully hidden unless you wish to make it known.” I beamed. “Things were scary as hell at times, especially when all the lights went out, but looking back, it was an... insane sort of fun, and we worked it out together, so thanks.”

I was grateful to the point I felt I could never repay him. Astonished and overwhelmed to be counted worthy in his eyes. But between our relations, I could understand why I would be allowed to enter inside central control. And boy, had it been a long-awaited day to behold its wonders. And it was all the better amplified an experience for not getting to have it when I had first wanted it.

Malibu snorted, “You were a little premature in there, and the circumstances may have prompted me to throw you in a little early, but you proved that you can learn as you go.”

“I’m still going,” I managed to say, hedged in by a maze of brain benders, “Still processing.”

Processing my sanity, processing how substantial the world engulfing me was, a world I thought had to behave in certain ways. Where were the boundaries? Which should I keep, which to expand?

Fresh memories spiked in my mind: the visions, or whatever they were, whoever that creep was. I know I had been frantic, especially when all seemed futile and I felt absolutely wretched, and I know I hit my head, but all the enigmas, their presence; it was all too real to simply be figments of my imagination corresponding to my mental state. The first vision could not have been brought on by head trauma. It happened well before. And why were some sounds, some voices in them so comforting, but just as many gave me the opposite impression? Maybe they'd visit me again—and next time I'd be ready for them. Then again, the whole experience wasn't the nicest thing to behold.

“Malibu,” As I stretched out the sounds of his first name which I hardly ever addressed him by, I chose my words and their structure carefully. “After being exposed,” my pal only thought he knew what I meant by exposed, “I can only see one thing through my foggy world, the only thing I can be sure is not an illusion.”

“We’re being attacked by a giant bird?” he barged in, splitting my line of thought.

I almost snapped a vehement, no, at him, but his guess kind of pertained to what I was saying before he interrupted. “Sort of,” I began, with a touch of irritation. But terror flung irritation to the edge of the farthest sea like it weighed five ounces. “There’s bad blood in this neck of the woods, and I don’t like the idea that it’s in my home.”

“Don’t you think it’s more in my home? Onmy home, actually. Well, there's my real home, then there's this lodging that it's actually on, and then there's the secret place back there. But all in all, it's in my domain.”

“If you wanna look at it that way,” I relented. I was applying home as a different term: in my town, in our little blip on the map, in Earth's little corner of the galaxy. The monster that took Minca, now this one… Paranormal encounters are usually once or nonce in a lifetime. We were a goddamned monster goldmine!

That was the end of that conversation. We chewed the silence. The bird was digging into the box and we knew we couldn’t intentionally walk this batter. I could already hear the grinding rasp of the monster’s voice. It was too frightening to give me a headache. A cold sweat came over me. Gladly, I’d let my chums reason with it; if I didn't have to speak, to shudder in my shell would be downright rapturous.

My pride had settled to a hushed glow. Getting so agitated and riled up earlier had made me malfunction out of character: made me into a talky turkey squawking out contemptible gibble-gobble from the saddle of my high horse.

“So,” I warmed up, “What’s the big show for our homecoming?"

“To not put on a big show.”

Our mates were, surprisingly, sitting, however rigidly. That meant despite the cunctations crammed within our absence like sardines into a can, they had held things in check.

Because Matt's circular cushion chair faced us more directly than the grey half-moon couch the rest of the pack were huddled into, as we came into the light beside the bar, he saw us first and his hair all but budded forth new rusty springs in delight. The fifteen-year-old's mouth was opening, too. Gut and I were already doing our best to prevent a slip of the fool’s tongue, warning with muted messages. The aged man slashed an entire arm in front of his jugular, turning his wrinkles into canyons, while I frantically pointed at the contents slung over his back and made the universal “shhh” sign. He’d get his stupid toys for Christmas if he didn’t give away our position. If not, Christmas would never come again. For anyone.

Matt reined in whatever he had intended to say. But not without a soft squeak. The bird dropped whatever subject it was in the middle of discussing and snapped, “What is so breathtaking?”

Incredible. Incredibly scary. It had placed the emotion within motley background noise that it definitely should not have been able to hear while it was speaking.

For a millisecond even the trees outside seemed to lean in closer and observe with respiratory system on hold. The corners of Matthew’s face withdrew into what was more a grimace than a frown, and a hand flew in to hide it. Then, cleverly, Matt summoned up a dry cough, hacking like his lungs were full of dust, black eyes intently sewed into the skin of our slinking figures. His stare got the desired head-turning effect from our allies.

Vinny popped up from his seat like he’d been sitting on a hot iron, just as quickly motioning for the group to remain where they were as he backed away to leave.

“Our man is having a problem breathing all too well," he told the creature. "May I get him a drink?”

The creature released a brief, high-pitched note that instantly pierced, and then slithered around in my skull. “So reliant upon water,” it gloated. “Very well, I don’t wish to have water deduct any pawns from my brigade.”

Vinny made sure not to go until he received permission. They all seemed to have adopted a great deal of respect towards it since we'd left them defended by words alone.

Vinny skedaddled over, mounting the ramp to reunite at last. We already had weapons strewn across the balcony floor overhanging the mini-bar, before Vinny reached us, organizing firepower with deftness, for the bird would be expecting his return with the drink shortly. Then again, with the others keeping up a flurry of chit-chat, his seemingly harmless errand might slip its mind. I had to hand it to the posse, they just stole the arts and crafts with all those dis-tractics!

Our schedule would still be tight, but given some breathing room, and for the time being, Vin would probably be too high-strung to notice the necklace was not about my neck. Nevertheless, I kept sorting, not yet ready to meet his eyes.

“Looks like it was good fishing,” Vinny whispered, any speech was meant to be secretive.

Guilt got the better of me and I just threw something out to say it, “Sorry to take so long.”

Gut never looked up, hands blurring, and muttered, “The storms out at sea were a dime a dozen, too.”

“Only about a hair longer than I expected,” he answered me, dropping sarcasm as much as he was dropping onto his knees to join in the task. “Bird didn’t spill all that much, but clearly it didn’t strike, and it went on evidently unaware that you guys left. Or at least it didn't let on if it knew.”

“That sounds like there’s a catch,” I said. “What do you think it’s waiting for? Does it want a ransom for Buck, some bologna pie, or what?”

“Well, we had to be careful not to offend the beastie, play it polite. Being underdogs, and without leverage, we couldn’t just demand answers; no subtle pokes lead anywhere too valuable. From what I could tell, it wants to mess with us because it enjoys lording itself over us or something. For example, when we asked it why it was out here in the first place, all it said was that it was a tourist, as well as a merchant who drives high prices and hard bargains. Then it told us some tale about a con-merchant who sold tourists genies, but didn't tell them that he was master over all the genies and had used one wish on every genie that they should never again, under any circumstances, grant anyone other than himself any wishes ever again. Why does he need to be a con artist to rake in the dough when he's already got supreme wish boxes lying around? And, when I asked that, it just said," and Vinny mocked its voice as best he could, " 'Do you not understand the essence of the things that make the deceiver's heart merry?' as if it was sad that we didn't delight in the fact that the bamboozler laughed happily ever after! Man, this thing's full of fucking riddles and fairy tale Bee Ess.”

“Thank you. That gets us a lot of nowhere." I sighed a bit. "Now it must have a genuine reason; things that powerful aren’t liable to drift to and fro with no aim, or obligation. We don’t know why it came but it wants to play a game.” I started to think harder. “Kinda makes sense: a game where the stakes are life and death, takes a hostage for leverage… Hey, you know the saying fight or flight. It tilted the scales to where we couldn’t ditch. Might’ve even been tracking us from the beginning, from the treetops, until it saw an opportune time to corner us.”

“So…” he added things up. “You’re saying it came prepared.”

“And there’s more,” Gut cut in. We had forgotten he was there. “If that abomination showed up resting assured of a foolproof plan, you know what that means.” We stared blankly, waiting for him to finish, and when he didn’t we shook our heads. The guns were arranged, so he started digging around for matching rounds.

“It’s smug.”

That seemed a correct bridge of thought, now that it was brought to the surface. The way it spoke down to us, handing us beat-around-the-bush answers like a wise acre. Hell, it could’ve ended us in a heartbeat, but it wanted to give us time, an opening wide enough to think we could get away. But it was in the driver’s seat all along. When it decided we had been allowed far enough, it would induce the grand finale, swoop in and watch us struggle to the point where we gurgled on our own blood. Simple bird and mouse. “Ding, ding, ding we have a winner,” I said slowly, looking between my two buddies, gleaning confidence from their bollixed outlooks. “It wants to stage a fair fight.”

They both stopped working at that. Before they could waste their breath asking what in the world I meant, I took the drama out of it.

“It’s unduly equipped, therefore,” I planted my eyes on Gut. “You're right, it is a contemptuous bastard, sitting all high-and-mighty, thinking us too insignificant to whip up a worthy retaliation. It gives itself no chance of being defeated so it makes sport of us, plays a game. But it’s wrong: this is a fair game, because though the bird may be toying around, we're at war. Better plot it solid now, cause there ain’t no half time.” I licked my lips and showed my teeth, which probably sparkled reflections of a gun on every tooth, even the molars. “All’s fair in love and war.”