80 Days or Die

by Peter Lerangis

  Before joining the others, he quickly flicked the oven temperature all the way up.

  The living room lights were out. Everyone whispered nervously, hiding behind furniture. On the coffee table was a cookie-dough ice-cream cake with a sugar-photo of Mom, Dad, and Max. It was inscribed HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MICHELE! WE LOVE YOU!!! MAX, ALEX, & GEORGE. Streamers hung everywhere, along with collages of favorite family photos.

  “I see them—quiet!”

  At the urging of Max’s dad, the room fell silent. Outside, a car engine grew louder, then stopped. Footsteps clomped up the front walk. A key was thrust into the lock, and the door slowly opened. Dad counted to three by holding up his fingers, then . . .

  “Surprise!”

  There was Mom, standing in the doorway with her book club friends behind her. A knit cap covered her short but growing hair. Her brown suede coat was still a bit too large, but Max could tell she was putting on weight. She just stood there for a long moment, framed by the door, her face pale in the porch light. Max expected her to burst out laughing.

  Instead, she began to cry.

  She wasn’t supposed to cry. He’d only seen her cry once—on the day he found out she had cancer. That was one of the worst days of his life. He pushed his way through the living room, shoving aside the partygoers to reach her. “Mom?” he called out. “Mom?”

  She swept him up in a hug. He felt his feet leave the ground. He hated both of these things normally but he sometimes made an exception with Mom, in small doses. “Thank you, sweetie!” she said.

  “Are you sick again?” he asked.

  Sometimes she gave him the LSS Look too, like now, but it never lasted long. Now she was crying and laughing at the same time. “I’m fine, Max. I’m crying because you and Dad make me so happy!”

  Max nodded. As he touched his head to her shoulder, he caught the scent of something burning. “I smell smoke.”

  Alex and Smriti were hugging Mom now, catching Max in the middle like a big, uncomfortable sandwich. Alex laughed. “Smoke? That’s a new one. I know fish for fear, gasoline for embarrassment, ham for confusion . . . What does smoke mean?”

  “It means I smell smoke.”

  Smriti’s face fell. “So do I.”

  “Could it be the cupcakes?” Alex said. “You didn’t touch the oven, did you, Max?”

  “I had to,” Max said. “I turned the temperature up to the highest, so the cupcakes would cook faster.”

  As the smoke detector’s shrill beeping rang out, the guests fell silent.

  “Max, you can’t broil cupcakes!” Alex shouted, running back to the kitchen.

  Max sprinted after her. The entire room was engulfed in black-gray smoke. As Alex yanked open the oven, a thicker cloud belched out. Coughing, she pulled out the cupcake tins with a potholder and threw them onto the counter. Smriti, Dad, and Mom were pushing the windows open as far as they could go.

  Alex waved away the smoke. The cupcakes looked like little lumps of charcoal.

  “I can scrape off the burned parts!” Max said, rummaging through the kitchen drawer.

  He grabbed a kitchen knife and turned. But no one was looking at him or the cupcakes.

  Evelyn was in the corner of the kitchen, exactly where he’d left her. But she was clutching her coat in her lap and staring at Max’s mom with wide eyes. Her face was nearly white. “Ha—happy . . . birth—” she rasped. “Couldn’t get . . . to the stove . . . sorry. Gotta go home . . .”

  Max knelt beside her, taking her hand. “Evvie? What’s up? Are you OK?”

  “Fine,” Evelyn said. “I . . . j—just need to get . . .”

  She never finished the sentence. Her eyes rolled back into their sockets, and her head slumped onto the back of the wheelchair with a solid thump.

  3

  THE clock in the waiting room at Savile General Hospital showed 8:53 a.m. Seven whole minutes till morning visiting hour. Max paced in front of Alex and an elderly woman. He’d barely slept the night before. For about the twentieth time, he rearranged the flowers in a vase he’d brought for Evelyn.

  “Are you OK?” Alex asked. “You look upset.”

  “I smell garlic,” he announced.

  The elderly woman looked up from a magazine. “I smell roses.”

  “He smells garlic when he feels guilty,” explained Alex. She was sitting hunched over a coffee table, typing on a laptop. “Which he shouldn’t, because he has no reason to.”

  “I see,” said the woman, although her face said I don’t.

  “The smoke made Evelyn sick, Alex,” he moaned. “From the burned cupcakes. So it’s my fault.”

  Alex reached out and touched his hand. “Max, Evelyn has a serious condition. It’s unpredictable. She spends a lot of time at the hospital, and it has nothing to do with smoke. Come on. Chill.”

  She patted the seat next to her and Max sat. He drummed his fingers on the chair’s arm as Alex went back to her work. “I finally finished translating that last note Grandpa Julesy left,” she said. “I’m checking it now. It’s just as weird as all the others.”

  Next to the laptop was a note scribbled in French on a yellowed sheet of paper—the last message left by Jules Verne, which they had found at the bottom of the treasure.

  They’d found a whole series of them, not long after Max’s parents had left for his mom’s cancer treatments at the Mayo Clinic. One message had led to another. Together they took Max and Alex on a journey that Verne himself had made, a wild submarine chase that he used as research for his famous novel Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.

  As usual, this message was in his native French. Alex was fluent, but with all the post-adventure excitement, she’d only now had a chance to finish translating this one.

  She turned her laptop toward Max.

  * * *

  THE LOST TREASURES

  —PART FOUR—

  . . . What follows from my adventure with Nemo is a wonder greatly surpassing the glitter of earthly wealth. For wealth, as we know, does not travel with the possessor after death.

  As it happens, death itself was the subject of my further adventure. Namely, the reversal thereof. There exists in human biology a vexing problem: cells within the body so vigorous, so alive with growth, that they devour all around them and destroy the very body they occupy.

  This condition goes by the name of the greedy beast visible in the night constellations, Cancer the Crab.

  Who knew that my tragic voyages with Nemo would bring into my possession one specimen (among thousands collected) that would lead to a discovery too powerful to expose to the world in my lifetime. A cure to that disease which knows no mercy.

  For this, reader, one cannot begin without Isis hippuris.

  For years had I read fantastical accounts of the properties of Isis hippuris, a type of rare deep-sea coral also known as “sea fan.” Rumors abounded about this substance—some said it would cause human cells to correct their own defects. Or that diseases would be reversed. Or it must be ground into a powder and rubbed on the feet. Or digested by a weasel and then excreted. Or, if immersed in holy water, it could cause age itself to stop! Such rumors were powerful enough to send the great explorer Ponce de León on a failed search for the Fountain of Youth.

  When a person of science hears the cries—Magical powers! Instant healing!—skepticism is in order. I thought it no more than an amusing tale, and I added it to my growing list of possible ideas for a novel.

  On the day I was shot by my nephew Gaston, everything changed. My beloved physician decreed that I had three months to live!

  I pause here to declare that the pain of the gunshot was excruciating. Yet I blamed not Gaston. For he had an illness of the mind, a malady eating his brain alive. I felt for his pain as well as mine. If only, I thought, there would be a cure for us both.

  In my fevered state, I thought again of Isis hippuris . . .

  And the idea of altering human cells . . .

  My desperation got the better of my
skepticism. If this claim were true, what boundless possibilities! This miracle substance might not only cure cancer but all maladies! I buried myself in research. Among much failed scientific speculation were the reports of the brilliant, neglected American scientist Kinsey Loren Steele, who claimed to have released the healing properties of Isis hippuris by immersing it in a combination of waters derived from many remote and inaccessible parts of the world. The substance was destroyed in a laboratory fire, but after great sleuthing and greater expense, I recovered a carefully written list, documenting the locations of these waters.

  I knew that replicating these results would require a great deal of travel. This, of course, necessitated funding.

  And that, dear reader, is when I approached some English financiers at the Reform Club. It took many weeks for them to reach a decision. They had certain demands:

  1. I must create a record of my account, solely for their use and not the public’s.

  2. I would have a time limit for the successful completion. After much discussion this was set at eighty days.

  3. If I failed I would return the money.

  Harsh, but arguably fair, thought I. Still, how could I—a writer of some renown!—not proclaim to the public about what promised to be such a dramatic journey? Yet how could I not agree to such a fantastical voyage?

  Above all, this question: upon the (quite likely) failure of this endeavor, how would I survive the financial ruin?

  My nephew concocted a solution: write two books! One would be a novel—with the locations and incidents wholly made up. Complete fiction. The other would be the true account for our financiers. Gaston pointed out that if our mission failed, and the money were returned, well then, the novel would sell enough copies to reimburse the author! With great pride, he volunteered to write the latter.

  What guile and brilliance! The nephew who attempted my murder would be my helpmeet, my literary manservant! With great cheer I struck an agreement with the wealthy English gentlemen. I secretly set to work on my novel, inventing my character Phileas Fogg. His manservant Passepartout was modeled after Gaston himself. The book, Around the World in 80 Days, indeed succeeded beyond my dreams.

  But enough of vanity! I see your impatience as you read this. Verne, you ask, was this voyage—the real voyage—a success?

  Yes, I say.

  And no.

  The substance exists. But there is no longer any trace.

  But do not lose hope, dear reader, for with my guidance you may find it. To do this, one must begin with the true account of our voyage, as written by loyal Gaston.

  It remains under lock and key with the LeBretch Forum.

  * * *

  “LeBretch Forum?” Max said.

  “That’s what he wrote—letter for letter, not even translated,” Alex replied. “I Googled it, and I found nothing. But I’ve read Around the World in 80 Days. It’s amazing. The main guy, Phileas Fogg, is a little like you, super-OCD, efficient, smart, unflappable. He’s at his club in London one day with his BFFs, smoking cigars and stroking beards and saying Well, fuff fuff fuff, old fellow, and they come up with this idea—”

  Max giggled. “They said, ‘fuff fuff fuff’?”

  “They’re English,” Alex replied. “Anyway, Fogg brags he can travel around the world in eighty days. Which now seems like yeah-big-whoop, but back then? With no airplanes, no phones, no internet, maybe a few railroads? Unthinkable! So of course these guys are like Ho ho, what a fool! They bet him a crazy amount of money he can’t do it, and Fogg’s trusty sidekick, Passepartout, is like, No, master, this is impossible! But Fogg is cool as a witch’s nose in Hades. He says yes to the bet, and off they go. But—cue sinister music!—they don’t realize they’re being followed. Seems there’s this police chief who thinks Fogg is a bank robber, and he vows to track him to the ends of the Earth. Literally.”

  Max could barely sit still. “Wait. So Verne just made that story up to make money, while he actually went around the world looking for a secret formula to heal himself? If he found it, how come no one knows?”

  “He didn’t lie to us about the secret treasure,” Alex said, scratching her head. “He had his reasons for hiding that. We can’t know what his reasons are here. He could have used the healing formula on himself, Max. We know he didn’t die from that gunshot wound.” She shrugged. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  “No,” Max said.

  “No, what?” Alex replied.

  “No, we’re not going off on a crazy chase again. We almost died the first time.”

  “We have a jet now, Max. And we have experience decoding Verne’s messages. We can do this.”

  “Don’t you have to go home to Quaflac?” Max asked. “And write a best-selling novel, and go to college?”

  “It’s Quebec,” Alex said. “And yes, I do. But this could be world changing, Max.”

  “Then do it yourself.”

  In the opposite corner of the room, the old woman blurted out, “Oh dear! Oh my gracious!”

  Max and Alex had been so deep into their conversation, they’d forgotten she was there. And now she’d heard every word of their conversation. “Don’t pay attention to anything we said,” Max told her. “It’s fake news!”

  “I overheard you saying Jules Verne!” she exclaimed. “I know you! You’re the young people I saw on the evening news! I know this is . . . oh, I’m so embarrassed to ask . . . but may I have a selfie to show my granddaughter?”

  As she fished in her purse for a phone, a nurse stepped into the waiting room and announced, “Ms. Lopez is ready to see you.”

  Max and Alex jumped out of their seats and followed. The nurse was a thin, smiling young man with a badge that read Arthur Ramos. “Does that happen to you a lot?” he asked. “The celebrity treatment?”

  “Too many times,” Alex replied.

  Max spotted Evelyn’s name in a frame outside a door at the end of the hallway. He raced ahead to the room and peeked in. Evelyn was sitting up in bed, an enormous, striped stuffed animal by her side.

  She was smiling.

  “Zebra?” Max asked.

  Evelyn smiled and gave the animal a hug. “Quagga. It’s extinct. I love extinct animals. One of the perks of having a mom who works for a conservation society.” She picked up an iPad and showed Max a collection of images. “I’ve been adding to my Pinterest page on endangered species. If I die, Max, promise you’ll never torment or kill an endangered animal or plant.”

  Alex rushed around Max to hug Evelyn. “You’re not dying. You look so much better!”

  “Thanks, I feel better,” Evelyn replied. “Did you bring me a cupcake? I love the taste of charcoal.”

  “Was that sarcastic?” Max was very good at facts but not so good at sarcasm.

  “Yes.”

  “But the promise about endangered species was not sarcastic?”

  “No, that was serious.”

  “OK, I promise.” Max cringed as Evelyn signaled him to come close. “Do we have to hug?”

  “Don’t worry. I just have to tell you something, that’s all.”

  Max stepped forward and leaned down, turning his ear to Evelyn’s mouth. When she spoke, he could feel her breath on his ear. This made him smell mint, and then gasoline—mint for excitement, gasoline for embarrassment that he was smelling mint.

  “My dad helped me on the details of our experiment,” she said softly.

  “The new drone?” Max asked.

  Evelyn shook her head. “The other one. Charles the flying robot.”

  “Uh-oh. Nerd break,” Alex murmured to the nurse.

  In robotics class, Max and Evelyn were called the Genius Twins, which Max never understood because they were neither geniuses nor twins. Evelyn had helped Max develop Vulturon. Charles was their new project, a hang-gliding robot.

  “Dad checked our calculations about Charles’s collapsible wings,” Evelyn said. “We were right. It won’t work. They’re too heavy.”

  Max sighed.
“Back to the drawing board.”

  “Not so fast.” With a grin, Evelyn pulled a small duffel out of her backpack. “Voilà. This is for you. Happy belated your-mom’s birthday!”

  Max unzipped the duffel. Inside was a tangle of thin plastic sheeting and folding poles, tied tightly with a cord. “A tent?”

  “It’s the whole glider, Max—with harness too,” Evelyn said. “Dad’s company made a prototype, using our design. He said it was perfect. Ready to strap onto Charles the robot. If we ever finish making him.”

  “Wow . . .” Max lay the glider on the floor and unwrapped the cord. The wing fabric was attached to a lightweight skeleton of folded aluminum rods, which in turn was attached to a harness. As Max lifted it, one of the aluminum poles shot outward with a loud sshhhhhickk. The fabric went taut and a wing sprang into shape, its tip clanging against a metal cabinet. “Sorry!” he said.

  Max stood and leaned over Evelyn’s bed. “Thanks!” he said.

  “You’re . . .” She yawned. Her eyelids were heavy. “Welcome. Arrrgh, I get so tired. This sucks.”

  Nurse Ramos looked at his watch. “All right, you two, I’m afraid we need to leave.”

  “Go ahead, I promise I’ll be OK,” Evelyn said. “By the time you come back . . . from London . . .”

  “London?”

  “The funeral.” Evelyn stared levelly at Max. “You are going, right?”

  “I—I—” Max’s breath caught in his throat. He looked nervously at Alex. “We haven’t talked about it.”

  “Well, talk about it. It’s important to remember people after they go. That’s how they live on, inside you.” Evelyn smiled. Her eyes fluttered and she nestled back into her pillow. “When you come back . . . we’ll take those gliders . . . you and me . . . and we’ll . . .”

  Her voice drifted off as she fell asleep.

  Nurse Ramos took Alex and Max both by the arm and quietly led them out of the room. Max’s head felt light and spinny. Evelyn hadn’t finished her sentence, but in his brain he imagined her voice saying the last word, over and over.

  Fly.

  As they walked down the hall, he stuffed the glider into his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. On the trek to the elevator, neither of them said a thing. But Max couldn’t stop thinking about what was happening to Evelyn. And what she had said.