80 Days or Die

by Peter Lerangis

  The car was slowing down as Bitsy swerved around potholes. On either side of the street, boarded-up buildings alternated with rubble-strewn lots like broken teeth. A rat peeked over a toppled brick, grabbing a tossed-off chunk of pizza on the other side. On the next block was a long parking lot ringed by a razor-wire fence. Just beyond it stood a stout brown-brick building with faded white letters on the wall: PRESTIGE STORAGE.

  “That’s the place,” Bitsy announced.

  “A storage facility . . .” Alex said. “OK, this is making sense. I’m figuring the club told Queasly to burn the list, but he didn’t want to. He knew that the men were just acting out of anger. It was crazy to just destroy it. So he reported it ‘incinerated’ to the archives. But he really snuck it away to this place. Does that sound right?”

  “Spot on,” Bitsy said.

  “And storage lockers have locks.” Alex was looking at Queasly’s note again. “If the numbers in the middle are the street address, then these other numbers, at the bottom of Queasly’s message? Maybe they’re a combination!”

  “Lo . . . go . . .” Max squeaked, pointing toward the back of the car.

  As Bitsy drove up to the gate, an imposing sign stared back at them, reading Admission Only to ID Holders with Appointment.

  “We don’t have an appointment,” Alex said. “Or an ID.”

  “We’ll just have to convince them to let us in.” Bitsy waved her fingers to a guard who approached them from a side door.

  “Us!” Max blurted, pointing to himself and then Alex. “Us! This us!”

  “Pardon?” Bitsy said.

  “Alex and me us!” Max said. “Just Alex and me. Alone.”

  Alex looked at him oddly. “Max, what has gotten into—?”

  “Because . . . Bitsy has to go back to her mummy!” Max said. “She’s really angry!”

  Bitsy sighed. “Well, you know, he does have a point.”

  The guard was a short, heavy man with thinning hair and a nose that twisted and turned like a ski slope. As he lumbered toward them, Bitsy rolled down the window. “We’re looking for the security guard.”

  “That would be meself,” the man growled, pointing to a badge on his chest that read PRESTIGE STORAGE SECURITY: GUS. “Do you have your ID?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Gus,” Bitsy said with a laugh. “I saw you, and I just assumed a modeling agency worked here.”

  The guy’s face contorted into a pained expression that Max realized was his smile. “Aw, well, heh heh, people do say that sometimes,” Gus said. “Me mum does anyway.”

  “Would you be a love and let us in?” Bitsy said. “Sadly, sweet Grandmama has left us, and it will be such a comfort to retrieve her effects for the memorial service.”

  “Sweet Grandmam—?” Max blurted, but Alex put her hand over his mouth.

  “Of course, lass, so sorry,” Gus said, as he inserted a key into a metal box.

  The gate slid open and Bitsy quickly drove through. She pulled up to a door at the side of the building marked Entrance and said, “Will you text me when you’re finished? I’m ever so eager to learn what happens!”

  Max nodded. He thought his heart was going to bust right out of his chest.

  He and Alex left the car and walked into the building. Just inside the door was a grimy-windowed office, where a white-shirted woman gave them a bored wave. “Max Tilt, what was that all about?” Alex demanded as they walked down a hallway. “Bitsy has been helping us, and you’re acting like a goon!”

  “Did you see the back of her car?” Max rasped, trying not to shout.

  “Why would I look at the back of her car?”

  “Well, I did. There’s a Niemand Enterprises logo on the trunk! She’s working for . . . him. He who must not be named! Even though I just did.”

  Alex stopped. “Wait. What? Really?”

  “I should have known this would happen,” Max said, pacing the corridor. “I don’t know why I opened my big mouth. I shouldn’t have trusted her. Or her mother. They make me nervous. ‘The Times crossword puzzle’ . . . ‘a quick spot of tea’ . . . ‘Mummy’ . . . ‘old toffs’ . . . they both sound like they’re in a movie.”

  “They’re English! They think we talk funny too.” Alex pulled him toward the elevator. “Now are we going to figure out what to do next or just wander around this place arguing?”

  Max gulped, looking at a directory above the elevator buttons.

  FLOOR 1: 100–199A

  FLOOR 2: 200–299A

  FLOOR 3: 300–399B

  FLOOR 4: 400–498

  “There are two numbers left from this note—24013 and 361,” Max said. “I’m guessing 361 is the locker number.”

  Alex pressed 3. “OK, Max, let’s be like Max. Think this through. Why would Gloria Bentham have a Niemand Enterprises car?”

  “She is Basile’s sister,” Max said. “Basile worked for you-know-who. It’s a degree of separation! That’s what you called it. So maybe Basile got her involved in the company.”

  “Or vice versa. Gloria might have gotten the job first, then gotten Basile involved. It doesn’t always start with the guy.”

  Max nodded. “Plus, she’s old and smart and well-dressed and all. So she probably had an important job. Like vice president or something.”

  Alex groaned. “This may be worse than we thought.”

  “How?”

  “Think about it. After Stinky is thrown in jail, the other officers of the company move up in rank. So there’s a chance Gloria Bentham is now . . .”

  Her words hung in the air, and Max nodded. “The boss,” he said softly.

  “If Niemand Enterprises was so eager to find the treasure,” Alex said, “they’re going to be all over this. And we’re giving it to them.”

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you!” Max said.

  As the elevator opened to the third floor, they walked quickly down a cement floor. Their footsteps echoed hollowly against the walls of floor-to-ceiling lockers, until they stopped at number 361. A thick combination lock hung from the handle. “We get this thing and we leave,” Alex said.

  “Right to the plane,” Max agreed. “And Brendan.”

  “Brandon,” Alex said.

  Max pulled out the note from Queasly, checked the numbers, and carefully spun 2, 4, 0, 1, 3. “Cross your fingers,” he said.

  With a deep breath, he yanked downward, but the lock didn’t budge. “Wait. Maybe the numbers are supposed to be grouped. Like 24, 0, 13.”

  He tried 24, 0, 13. And 2, 40, 13. And every single other combination of the digits, until finally he threw up his hands. “What are we doing wrong?”

  “It’s old,” Alex said. “It needs oil.”

  “Did you bring any?” Max asked.

  “No, but I brought this.” Alex stepped back, let out a roar, and gave the lock a sharp kick.

  The clang echoed down the hallway. “Yeeeeeow!” Alex screamed, hopping away and holding her leg.

  From inside the locker came a dull thump. The lock swung left and right. Max cupped it in his hand, and it fell open with a soft click. “That,” he said, “was awesome.”

  “They . . . teach . . . martial arts . . . in Canada too. . . .” Alex said through a grimace.

  The door let out an angry squeal as Max pulled against cranky, rusted hinges. He planted his feet and gave it a solid yank. With a deep GRO-O-O-CK, the door opened. Out of the shadows inside, a massive, jagged shape hurtled toward him. It had a face and wide, glassy eyes.

  11

  MAX leaped backward, hitting his head against a solid metal locker. Alex screamed. He scrambled to his feet and ran. When he got to the end of the hallway, he stopped.

  Alex’s scream had turned into raucous cackling. “What’s so funny?” he cried out.

  “I’m sorry!” Alex was squatting on the floor, holding her stomach and laughing so hard she was almost crying. Next to her, cocked at a strange angle, was the head of a reindeer with broken antlers. “I must have kicked the loc
ker pretty hard. Looks like I shook loose Blitzen here.”

  Max dusted himself off and walked back to the locker. Already a bump was growing on the back of his head. Ignoring Alex and the reindeer, he peered inside the locker.

  Against the back wall, piled at least two deep, were tightly packed wooden file cabinets topped by stacks of white cardboard boxes marked REFORM CLUB. On top of those boxes were dusty old relics that looked like they’d been thrown in at the last minute—lamps, books, a bicycle wheel, several rusted spray cans, a fake beard, a basket of plastic fruit, a stack of old hats, and a solid black metal box.

  A space remained, about the size of a mounted, stuffed reindeer head. Max did not have the urge to put it back.

  “We’ll never find it in all this junk,” Alex said.

  But Max’s eye was on the black box. It had a combo lock on it too. “Maybe we won’t have to look that far,” he said.

  “Oh, sweet, another combo,” Alex said.

  “Well, there’s one more thing in Queasly’s message,” Max said, reaching into his pocket.

  Alex stepped into the cramped space. She watched as Max unfolded the note. “The letter Q,” he said. “Where he signed it. Or started to.”

  Alex nodded. “Those guys were being so mean to him. He was trying so hard. He didn’t have a chance to finish.”

  Max eyed the combo lock. Around the circumference, instead of numbers, were the twenty-six letters of the alphabet. He spun the dial, and then settled on the letter Q and pulled. “Ognib,” he said.

  “What?”

  “That’s bingo backward. Bingo would mean, ‘Yay, it works!’ Ognib means the opposite. ‘Boo, it doesn’t work.’ Want to give the box a kick?”

  Alex thought a moment. “Maybe I don’t have to. Why would he be signing his name, Max? Just for grins? Queasly has seven letters. What if we try them?” She took the lock from Max and spun out Q, U, E, A, S, L, and Y.

  With a solid click, the lock fell open. “Sometimes,” she said, “it’s easy.”

  Max held his breath as Alex pulled out a manila envelope. In it were a few sheets of paper, held together with a rusted, old paper clip. The sheet on top fell to the floor.

  Alex and Max both stooped to get it, but Max got to it first. He brought it out to the bright light of the hallway, where they both sank to the floor to read it, their backs against the lockers.

  The Reform Club

  London

  To Whom It May Concern,

  I write this with the full knowledge that it may only be read after I have shuffled off this mortal coil.

  “Queasly danced on coils?” Max said.

  “Shuffled off this mortal coil means ‘died,’” Alex replied. “He thought no one would read this until he died.”

  I certify here that as club archivist, I have always discharged my duties loyally and without question. But I fear I have been forced to take action against a sea of ignorance.

  For more than a century, the club has possessed an extraordinary work, left to us as part of an agreement with one Jules Verne—a list that summarized the account of a secret voyage, written in English, the fruits of which were to be shared by the club and Verne. Verne assigned the task to his nephew, Gaston.

  It has been said that Verne held back the translation of this list, and by extension the release of the entire book, until an extortion payment was received. If true, this would have been a dastardly deed!

  But, dear reader, it was not true. My grandfather, Septus Queasly, was a club vice president who kept the facts about this incident to himself. He knew Verne to be a fair, scrupulous man. No, in fact, it was our hallowed Reform Club that sought to cheat Verne of his payment! Half was promised before he left, and it was indeed paid. The other half, however, was promised upon delivery.

  Verne was merely seeking what was due to him.

  While Verne was on his voyage, it seems, the men had other ideas about the promised money. Rather than being held for Mr. Verne, every last farthing was spent on cigars, venison, parties! What to do upon Verne’s return? A plot was concocted. Verne was informed that the club would need to read the manuscript first. They would pay him only if “its findings could be successfully replicated”—in other words, only if he or someone else could perform the search successfully again.

  Verne was aghast! Insulted! He knew the club meant to avoid paying him. So he turned the tables. He held on to Gaston’s work and instructed Gaston to produce a brief list—merely the basics—in code. Only if the club paid him—as agreed!—would Verne reveal how to read the text. In angry response, the club consigned the list to the chaos of its basement.

  Whereupon I enter the story. Years later, upon the purge of documents, I was tasked with the destruction of this precious but cryptic work.

  I could not do it. I have served the inebriated toffs of this organization with loyalty for my entire life, and they reward me with scorn and condescension. If they cannot comprehend the value of this list, it is up to me to preserve it.

  The key to the reading of this has been lost to the ages. It was said that only one copy of this cipher existed. It was in the possession of Verne’s nephew, Gaston Verne, who alas descended into a terrible dementia. Rumor has it Gaston’s son inherited his possessions, which allows for the possibility that it still exists, passed down through the generations.

  And the possibility that you, dear reader, will be the one to discover its secrets.

  “Is this for real?” Alex said.

  Max let the letter fall to the floor, reached into the box, and pulled out two sheets of paper, clipped together. They stared at the top one.

  ZOUMF SGO SQAO IBBYAMS YD I

  LUQIBAKYAR VYQKC TYEIFO

  ZE YMO HAKOR TOQMO

  “It’s gibberish,” Alex said.

  “It’s code,” Max said. “If we can figure it out, we’ll know everything about Jules Verne’s search.”

  “Any ideas how to get a code key that went missing generations ago?” Alex pointed out.

  Max smiled. “Well, according to Queasly, we would have to find Gaston’s son’s son’s son. Or son’s daughter’s daughter’s daughter. Or son’s daughter’s son’s daughter. Actually, there are five more permutations—”

  “Yes, and . . . ?” Alex said impatiently.

  “And . . .” Max smiled. “One of those permutations might be the dancing guy with the droopy eye.”

  He took Nigel’s note from his pocket and spread it out on the top of the cabinet.

  “OK, that key decoded his message,” Alex said. “How do you know it’s going to decode this one?”

  “I don’t,” Max said, fishing in his pocket again. “But let’s give it a try. We’ll need that little cheat sheet we made.”

  He pulled out one last piece of paper.

  vowels:

  a e i o u y =

  u y a e i o

  consonants:

  b c d f g h j k l m n p q r s t v w x z =

  c d f g h j k l m n p q r s t v w x z b

  Alex’s phone beeped, but she silenced it and stared at the two notes and the manuscript page.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” Max said. “Say I’m Nigel, OK? I’m descended from this guy Gaston. My family has inherited the code key, so it’s been around now for generations.”

  “If no one threw it out,” Alex pointed out.

  “Exactly,” Max said. “So way back, Gaston’s kids or grandkids are like, dudes, we can decode this secret message—only they don’t say dudes, maybe more like old chums. They figure the feud with Verne is over, so they go back to the club. But the club guys get all fuff fuff-y and say ‘You can’t have it!’ When the family keeps trying, the club says leave us alone, we burned it! The family goes bonkers. But somebody learns the truth—maybe Queasly drops a hint, whatever—that the list exists, somewhere unknown. Boom, cut to the present. I, Nigel, hear that two kids found one of Jules Verne’s big secrets. I also hear about Basile’s funeral and I figure the kids will show up�
��which they do! These kids are so smart, maybe they’ll find the book. So I give them the code key—”

  “And write a note using that code,” Alex continued. “A note that says ‘Gaston’s list lives.’ So number one, the kids will know the truth. Number two, in order to learn it, they will have cracked the code. And number three, cracking the code will make them ready to decode this list! That’s brilliant! Go for it, Max. Substitute those letters!”

  Max took a pen from his pocket. “Each vowel shifts two vowels earlier, each consonant one consonant ahead . . .” Looking at the key, he replaced each letter, one by one:

  ZOUMF SGO SQAO IBBYAMS YD I

  BEING THE TRUE ACCOUNT OF A

  LUQIBAKYAR VYQKC TYEIFO

  MIRACULOUS WORLD VOYAGE

  ZE YMO HAKOR TOQMO

  BY ONE JULES VERNE

  12

  “WOO-HOO!” Alex grabbed the two sheets and began dancing. “Do you realize what this means?”

  “Whoa . . .” Max said softly. “We might be able to save Evelyn.”

  “It’s in English!” Alex screamed. “I don’t have to translate!”

  “OK, keep going . . .” Max said. “Next page.”

  Alex pulled it out, and they both stared.

  Hkcta nbk Hgyci Yozzgncut ul Krnxguxjctgxcfs Iuzvfcignkj Kpktny, Fkgjcta nu nbk Jcyiupkxs ul g Yohyngtik ul Otyvkgeghfk Xkpufoncutgxs Czvuxngtik nu nbk Bozgt Xgik

  Yohzcnnkj hs Agynut nbk Zgatclciktn

  Hkact qcnb Cycy bcvvoxcy, ghupk gff gtj qcnbuon qbcib tunbcta igt bgvvkt.

  Gjj nbk ygfohxcuoy gtj igngfsncigffs zgxpkfuoy kllkiny ovut nbcy yohyngtik, jkxcpkj lxuz nbk luffuqcta qgnkx yuoxiky:

  * Vxkykxpkj qcnb nbk nctinoxk ul iucf joyn lxuz nbk Eumbcz Xcpkx

  * Krnxginkj lxuz nbk xkj iugn ul nbk gticktn qkn xcpkx buxyk lxuz nbk yuoxik ul nbk Xcpkx Ynsr

  * Ngekt lxuz g aufl hgff y iktnkx ct nbk lgn zuotngcty ul Zkrciu

  * Jkxcpkj lxuz nbk hfgie yzkgx ul knkxtcns lxuz Gxzgtju ul Egnbzgtjo

  * Xkyiokj lxuz g bun igpk ct nbk quxfjy iufjkyn fgtj zgyy

  “Yuck,” Max said.

  “It’s really long,” Alex agreed. “We’ll be here till next month.”

  “But you translated Verne’s messages pretty fast.”