“Why did you come here? Why did you come over the mountains?” Zalika asked.
“I was looking for someone,” Charlie said, opening his backpack to pull out his toothbrush.
“This girl, here. In the rags?” Zalika gestured toward Abigail.
“No. It wasn’t her,” he said, still trying to find his toothbrush. There were his extra socks, his hat and mittens, the rubber werewolf mask, but no toothbrush.
“Charlie, come. Come look at this,” Abigail called. “It is truly amazing . . .”
Charlie abandoned his search but stuffed the mask in his pocket thinking that he would scare Zalika’s brother if he saw him again.
“You see?” Abigail said, pushing the tattered bonnet back on her head.
Walking toward the gate, Charlie followed her gaze out to the desert. A huge wall of sand was approaching them from across the plain, stretching as far as he could see. The storm was almost upon them.
“Sandstorm, I guess,” Charlie said.
“No, Charlie,” Abigail said. “Look closer.”
He looked into the storm again and saw what had caught Abigail’s attention. On the fringes, Charlie could see odd-shaped silhouettes that grew larger as the storm grew closer. There were winged creatures, witches on broomsticks, and a line of werewolves, trolls, and hobgoblins, all pushing forward alongside horses with headless riders and ogres with heavy clubs.
“That is not just a storm,” Zalika said, turning back toward the pyramid. “Marauders! It is a raid!”
As she said the words, sand from the storm began to whip across their faces in heavy sheets. They stumbled blindly back toward the well as the first of the witches made her descent. The witch flew hard, buzzing the courtyard just above their heads in a cackling black blur. A second witch followed, and then there was an explosion.
“Charlie!” Abigail cried.
Charlie reached out for her, but Abigail wasn’t there. He could barely see a foot in front of him through the thick wall of sand.
“This way!” a voice called.
Charlie stumbled forward and fell into Zalika, who had pulled her wrappings up like a scarf to protect her eyes.
“We have to get inside. They will take us, Charlie!”
“Take us?”
“For ransom!” Zalika shouted over the storm. “Come on!”
“I can’t leave Abigail out here,” Charlie called back, but Zalika had already disappeared. Suddenly, a horse burst forward from the storm, its chest knocking Charlie to the ground. He heard Zalika scream in the chaos, and there were more hooves. Then a thick leather-gloved hand dropped from above, lifting Charlie and throwing him across the pommel of the horse. The horse spun sideways and leapt forward into the storm.
“Franklin!” Charlie screamed, though he knew it was no use. With the surprise attack, the Monster was more than likely in the midst of his own battle.
The sand continued to beat down on Charlie as they rode. All he could do was cover his face with one hand and hold the horse’s long, tangled mane in the other. They rode for what felt like hours before Charlie sensed them drop down the far side of a hill, where the wind still blew but they were somewhat sheltered. The gloved hand grabbed Charlie roughly by the collar and jerked him down from the saddle. He looked up at his captor but turned away horrified and as quickly as he could. There was no skin on its face. No repaired flesh, like Franklin. No bandages or werewolves’ cowls, just pure bone against a dark hood—nothing else—a skeleton.
The tall, sticklike creature dragged Charlie to the back of a crude wagon, where it picked up an empty canvas sack.
“All right. No troubles,” it shouted over the storm. “In you go.”
Charlie struggled against the creature’s grip as it stuffed him in the sack. He fought to get his head out, and for a second he thought he saw Abigail, but he was pushed back into the sack before he could be sure.
“Quit your squirming,” the skeleton ordered, punching the sack. “And up you go.”
Charlie felt himself fly through the air and land with a heavy thud in the back of a wagon. He tried to get out of the sack again, but the skeleton had done a good job with his knots. Charlie felt other sacks land next to and on top of him, and then the wagon lurched forward.
“Abigail! Can you hear me? Zalika!” Charlie called, but the storm drowned out his words.
Charlie couldn’t tell how long they traveled, so he was relieved when he heard the storm die down and, eventually, felt the wagon rocking to a halt.
“Okay. We’ve reached the rendezvous, so a wee little break,” a sniveling voice said. “I’ll let you little piggies out of your sacks, but don’t even think about running. There’s nowhere to go anyway.”
Charlie was lifted from the wagon to stand in the sack, but when he stood, he realized that his entire right side had fallen asleep during the journey, and he immediately fell sideways.
“Aw, this little piggy’s had a rough ride.”
Charlie could hear the voice more clearly now. He knew that it sounded familiar. He had heard it somewhere before.
“Here ya go . . .”
Charlie was jostled again as the canvas opened, and he stood up out of the sack to take in the fresh desert air.
“You!” the voice said, though Charlie could not make out the face. His eyes had not yet adjusted to the harsh sunlight. “I should have known we would cross paths again!”
The rest of the canvas sack was pulled back, and Charlie was pushed toward the voice.
“And where’s the big fella and his claptrap companion? And your friend, the kid with all the wolves?”
The haze was starting to clear, and Charlie could just make out the outline of an X on the man’s pockmarked cheek. Then he recognized the voice. It was the traveler Lester Mortlock, who had attacked them with the ogres.
“I see. They ain’t around, are they?” Lester Mortlock said, looking over his shoulder as if he expected Franklin to jump out at any moment.
Charlie swung blindly at the man, shouting, “You let us go. You let us go now!”
“Let you go? Ha,” Lester spat, pulling a long knife from the sheath on his belt. He slashed out with the knife, and Charlie fell back, covering his head with his arms. “You’re lucky I don’t fillet you like a fish!”
Charlie looked down at his arm and saw the wet red welt that was rising across his forearm underneath the fresh rip in his coat.
“You like that? Huh? Want some more?”
Charlie crawled backward, thinking about Franklin’s warnings and reluctance to continue. He wondered, staring up at the knife, if maybe Franklin was right, maybe they should have turned back, gone home. But then his thoughts quickly turned to the man standing over him and, more optimistically, to what Franklin would do to this Lester Mortlock if he were here.
“No, I didn’t think so.” Lester returned the knife to its sheath. “Now, get down there. And be glad the lot of you will fetch me a pretty price once the ransoms come in . . .”
Lester turned to a one-eyed ogre who lumbered from the front of the cart. “You. Keep an eye on this one.”
“You hear him?” the ogre said, pointing a grotesque finger toward its face. “I’ve got my eye on you. Now, move.”
Charlie still had trouble seeing in the harsh desert light and stumbled down the sand dune toward a small, muddy well. He was handed a wooden bucket, which he eagerly accepted and drank as fast as he could, letting the dirty water splash over his head when he had his fill. Out of breath, he fell back against the well, rubbing his eyes, and as they slowly adjusted, he saw Abigail Rose.
“Abigail!”
“Hello, Charlie,” she said in her typically understated fashion. “Well, here we are in the desert.”
“Yep,” Charlie said, breathing heavily but happy to see her. “Here we are . . . and he’s right. There
’s nowhere to run. Are you okay, Abigail?”
“I’m fine, Charlie. I got pretty scared, but I’m fine.”
“Yeah, I was scared too,” Charlie said, looking out on the great expanse. It was flat as far as the eye could see, with a few windblown dunes of sand. He looked to the horizon and recognized this place—it was the desert from his dreams. But now he wondered if Billy had been calling him this whole time or warning him to stay away.
“Your arm, Charlie. You’re bleeding,” Abigail said, kneeling beside him.
Charlie glanced down at his arm, where blood was seeping through his coat sleeve.
“We need to find a way out of here.” Charlie looked back at the wagon. “Before it is too late.”
“Another little piggy,” Lester said, handing a third sack to the one-eyed ogre, who threw it over his shoulder and carried it to the well. “This one will be worth a pretty penny . . .”
“Not to get out,” the ogre said to the contents of the sack. “Just the head.”
The ogre dropped the sack to the ground and pulled open the string at the top. Zalika thrust her head forward and began to yell.
“How dare you!” she cried. “I demand that you untie me at once! Don’t you know who I am?”
The ogre looked over at Lester.
“Go ahead,” Lester spat. “Where is she going to go?”
“Okay. Then I build a fire?” the ogre asked.
“No, you don’t build a fire. There were very implicit instructions against fires.” Lester turned away and mumbled to himself as he returned to the wagon. “Over and over, the same things. I’m constantly repeating myself.”
“So, no. No on building the fire?” the ogre said, a puzzled look on his face.
“Yes!” Lester cried.
“Yes?” the ogre repeated, scratching his large bald head.
“No! No! No! No! I’m saying yes to the no on the fire! You would think after a while it might . . . just might sink in!” he yelled, disappearing over the dune.
“Yes, to the no to the no to the yes to the no on the fire,” the ogre said, trying to work out the logic. “Okay, I will look for wood,” the ogre concluded, dumping Zalika out of the sack and onto the sand.
“That beast will find his head on the end of a spear when my mother hears of this!” Zalika rolled to her knees, gritting her teeth beneath her linen wraps.
Charlie handed her the bucket filled with water.
“We do not require water, but thank you,” Zalika said, her voice returning to its calmer state.
Charlie set the bucket down. He was dizzy and leaned against the side of the well to regain his balance.
“Charlie, you are injured,” Zalika said, grabbing ahold of him.
“That horrible man cut him pretty good.” Abigail moved to help.
Charlie could feel warm blood dripping under his sleeve. A few drops landed in the sand at his feet.
“Yeah, he got me pretty good, all right.”
“I see,” Zalika said. “We can heal your wound.”
Zalika unwrapped a series of bandages on her arm and removed a small blue vial that was tucked against her bones.
“Pull up your sleeve,” she instructed as she ripped a bandage from her linen wrappings. She splashed water on the bloody cut and removed the blue crystal stopper from the bottle. “We all use this from time to time, as things tend to come undone. It is similar to cauterizing. It will seal the wound.”
“What is it?” Charlie winced as Zalika leaned forward and cleaned the area.
“Many things—bitumen, herbs, spices, minerals. It will sting a bit and then mummify the trauma to stop the bleeding.”
“Wait, did you say ‘mummify’?” Charlie exhaled.
“Yes. Now, hold still.”
Zalika tilted the bottle, and a few tiny drops fell into the jagged cut on Charlie’s forearm.
“Ahhh,” Charlie cried. He could feel the liquid burn his skin as it seeped into the cut. Then the wound began to close and itched horribly for a moment before going numb.
“There, how is that?”
Charlie unclenched his teeth. “Uh, it’s fine,” he said, surprised. “Doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“And the bleeding has stopped. Here, you hold on to this. I have plenty.” She handed Charlie the small blue vial.
The newly healed skin looked gray and dead, and the jagged line made by Lester’s knife felt as hard as a rock, as if the wound had been filled with a line of concrete. He thumped the area with his finger and found he could not feel a thing. However, the blue solution had stopped the bleeding.
“Thank you,” Charlie said, taking the vial and shoving it in his pocket along with the photograph of Billy. “Now what?”
“Now what?” Lester repeated. He was walking down the dune toward them. “Now you sit, and we wait until the others join us. Then we will take you to Mr. Tok, and that is when I can wash my hands of this business.”
THEY SPENT THE AFTERNOON FOLLOWING THE SLIVER OF shade around the well and watching the ogre as it looked in vain for firewood among the drifting dunes. Lester rarely took his eyes off Charlie and occasionally motioned to the knife that he now wore on the outside of his coat. At dusk, they were joined by another group of marauders, their wagons and carts also filled with captives and other bounty. A witch circled overhead on her broom while the other beasts killed an old mule behind the well, tearing at its flesh with their fangs and claws.
“Looks like it’s almost payday,” Lester announced to his captives when his fellow marauders started moving back to their horses. “Drink up, then it’s back in the sack.”
The ogre tied the sacks over Abigail’s and Zalika’s heads, hoisted them over his shoulder, and threw them back into the wagon, where the ghouls and goblins snorted and pulled at the bundles.
“Hands off, hands off!” Lester shouted, beating back the beasts. “Valuable cargo here! Ransoms await!” He then turned to Charlie. “Now, little piggy. Your turn,” Lester taunted. “Got to keep moving. Wouldn’t want your big fella and that wolf pack riding up on us, would we?”
“You better hope he doesn’t,” Charlie said as they pulled the sack over his head and tossed him into the back of the wagon.
The wagon lurched forward, and Charlie lay listening to groans and grunts of the marauders who now traveled with them. At some point, they were at an incline and Charlie rolled with the other cargo until he hit the side of the wagon. Once there, he sat up in the sack, feeling his way up the boxboards with his elbow through the canvas. He then let his arm slip over the top as far as the material would allow and pushed off the bed of the wagon with his feet. Though he couldn’t see, he felt himself leaning over the edge of the wagon box. If I could just, Charlie thought, and then he pushed again—
Charlie hit the ground with a thud and began tumbling head over heels in the sack. He rolled to the bottom of the incline and then lay there a moment to make sure the marauders’ wagons had passed. When he could no longer hear them, he wrestled with the bag and pulled at its heavy seams, biting the tiny exposed threads until they frayed. It took some time, but eventually Charlie pulled back the sack and stood.
The moon was up high in the night sky; its light shimmered on the white sands, illuminating the surrounding desert in an eerie glow. It was cold, so he wrapped the canvas sack around his shoulders and found his way back to the wagon tracks. He studied their trail and was able to determine which direction they were headed. Charlie knew he needed water, so he checked the tracks again before heading back toward the well.
Looking to the stars to mark his direction, as Franklin had taught him, Charlie followed the trail up over the dunes and across the flat, open expanse. As the night wore on, Charlie began to count his steps, noting that the urge to do so had not been as strong here in Monsterland. But he counted them anyway—it helped somehow—with the
growing fear and dread that he felt weighing down on him. Near dawn, he could see that a circle of vultures had already found the dead mule from the previous day. Just beyond, he saw the muddy well.
Charlie drank from the well eagerly and then sat again in the shade at its base. The sun was higher now and burned hot. He looked out over the desert, watching the vultures pick at the remnants of the mule. After a while, he emptied his pockets on the flat stone beside him. All he had were the werewolf mask, the fangs, the vial from Zalika, and his photograph with Billy.
What am I doing here? Charlie pondered, looking down at the photograph. Alone and lost in the middle of the desert, a desert in the midst of this forgotten land. Where was he going and what was it he had to know? Why did he have to see Billy again? And what if what they said back home was true? That Billy was just gone? Charlie shuddered and turned his thoughts to Abigail and Zalika, to Franklin, Rohmetall, and Ringo. He hoped that they were all okay. Then he thought about his parents and Old Joe. He wondered what they were doing at this very moment, and what they would say to him if they were here.
“Chin up,” he said out loud. That’s what Old Joe would say, he knew it. That’s what they’d all say, even Franklin. “Chin up . . .”
Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie saw something streaking across the sky and ducked down behind the well. It was a witch, more than likely out looking for him. The werewolf mask—Franklin had said it might work from a distance. Charlie pulled the mask on, waited until she passed, and then swung his leg over the side of the well and lowered himself just below the rim. No use pushing his luck. He held on to the muddy walls with the tips of his fingers as the witch circled back, which sent the vultures flying into the air. Charlie could feel his fingers slipping but held on as the witch made one last pass. When he was sure that she was gone, he counted to twenty and climbed out of the well.
“She didn’t see me,” Charlie said, pulling off the mask. Proud of his quick thinking, he stood up. “Ha-ha, she didn’t see me! Take that!” he shouted after the witch. “I’m going to find Billy, and no one, not you, not anyone, is gonna stop me!”
Monsterland Page 19
