Doc Harrison and the Masks of Galleon

by Peter Telep

  “See anything?” I ask.

  Meeka glares at me and whispers, “Quiet!” She takes a few tentative steps, stops, and listens.

  A faint hum floats on the wind.

  “Hear that?” I ask.

  She shushes me again with a wave of her hand.

  Now the hum breaks into random notes like a third grader puffing into a recorder for the first time.

  Meeka glances over her shoulder. “Can’t go that way.”

  “Schmemmers?” I ask.

  She nods and crosses to my left.

  We fall in behind her.

  “With a name like that, you’d think they’re nice,” I mutter.

  As we slip around the next tree, I spot something over Meeka’s shoulder, lying about fifty feet ahead. It’s all sharp angles and curving roll bars: a bucket with batteries that aren’t dead like ours.

  “Got one,” I say, dashing past Meeka and holstering my pistol. I already picture myself in the driver’s seat and racing back to Verbena to save my parents.

  My breath’s heavy. My pulse thunders in my ears.

  The girls call after me, but we’re good to go. Let’s do this.

  Hell, yeah. Something’s gone right for a change.

  I reach the bucket. No doors. I just hop in the driver’s seat, whose springs poke through the vinyl-like fabric. Beneath the wheel lies a panel of buttons and toggle switches, old school tech like you see inside an Apollo space capsule from the 1960s. There are no keys or ignition, so I’ll need the girls.

  They jog toward me and stop short. Their eyes bug out.

  “Doc, don’t move,” Meeka orders. “Don’t do anything.”

  “Is it them?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Just breathe through your mouth!”

  Something flashes and thumps onto the bucket’s hood.

  “Whoa.” I jolt back and stare at the creature.

  And then I can’t help myself.

  I bust out laughing.

  The “deadly” schmemmer is a chubby little persona barely two feet tall and covered in thick fur. He’s got the flattened nose of a pug, two tongues hanging from his black lips, and four enormous ears jutting out like antennae.

  At the sound of my giggling, he wobbles toward me like a bowlegged cowboy waving mittens for hands like he’s trying to fly. And speaking of flying, two tiny birds orbit his waist to create a glow-in-the-dark belt. They randomly speed up and slow down. I catch a glimpse of one and realize they’re not birds at all but miniature schmemmers themselves. Babies?

  Is he a she? Who knows? But now he rocks his head to and fro, and his bright yellow eyes flash like warning lights.

  “Do not smell him,” Steffanie says.

  I just sit there, even more tempted to steal a whiff.

  Noticing this, the little guy leans toward me and hoots and whistles through his smashed-in nose, playing those odd, random notes.

  The tones get louder and increase in number.

  Oh, no, he’s called for back up.

  More schmemmers gather near the trees around us.

  And now I understand why Steffanie told me not to smell them—because they smell awesome, like hot apple pie and popcorn and chocolate and nachos made from five pounds of cheese—all the things I really love. I’m getting a little high on these smells.

  “Doc, listen very carefully,” Meeka says. “Do you see the switches under the wheel?”

  “What?” I ask dreamily.

  “Doc!”

  I jolt my head. “Yeah, switches. Got ‘em.”

  “The two on the right turn on the batteries.”

  “Roger that.”

  “The one on the far left starts the engine.”

  “Wait… I see it.”

  “Accelerator’s just like any car on Earth.”

  I dig around with my boot and find the pedal. “Okay, I’m ready. But why are you so scared? These things are really cute. Maybe we could be friends.”

  I’m slurring my words… like I’ve been tasting whiskey.

  “Doc, they’re not the problem,” Meeka says.

  “What?”

  “Just shut up. On three, you start the engine, you hit the accelerator, and you drive straight at us. We’ll jump in. You ready? One, two, three!”

  I hit the switches. Bang my foot on the accelerator.

  The engine vibrates and whines.

  But I’m not going anywhere.

  “Where’s drive? Where’s drive?” I shout. “How do I put it in gear?”

  Meeka answers, but I can’t hear her.

  The rain stops. The air gets hot and sticky, like we’re back in Orlando on an August afternoon.

  And then… the most disgusting sound I’ve ever heard—like Godzilla choking on a bone—rises from behind me.

  I’m afraid to look back, and the girls are already sprinting toward me, screaming their heads off.

  Whatever’s behind me exhales again, blasting me with a stench that’s hardly perfume, more like a landfill or backed-up toilet.

  Meanwhile the bucket’s engine thrums uselessly as Meeka stops, raises her rifle, and unleashes a three-round burst to her left, and then another to her right, like she’s targeting certain parts of whatever’s back there.

  Well, I hope she and Steffanie make it, because I’ll be the first one to go. Maybe while the creature’s eating me, they’ll have time to escape.

  And I hope this beast has a cool name—because I refuse to be killed by something called a “schmemmer.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  During our first visit to the Highlands, we struck a deal with the grren to harvest snowter branches from their valley. The rumms use the bulbs from those trees to make mirage.

  Me, competitive ballroom dancer that I am, fell on a tree and brushed into a bump-like thing that’s actually a creature: the mawzz. They live on snowter trees and project a persona nicknamed an “arrow” that resembles a manta-ray with an eagle’s claws. The arrows go out and hunt food and bring it back to the “thorns” who remain on the tree.

  The schmemmers do the opposite. They’re so tiny and cute and smell so good that they distract and/or lure their prey to the creature that projects them.

  As I scream for help, Steffanie leaps into the passenger’s front seat, rips the pistol from my holster, chambers a round, and begins firing.

  Without ear protection, the shots threaten to blow out my eardrums, and between them, the roaring thing behind us, and Meeka hollering something, it’s all just noise, and I have no clue what to do.

  But then Meeka vaults like a gymnast into the back seat, and Steffanie shoves forward one of three handles built into the dashboard.

  The bucket lurches forward, snapping back my head.

  Yes! We’re moving! And now I’m so excited that I forget to put my hands on the wheel.

  The bucket drifts to the left, straight toward a tree.

  Steffanie stops firing. “Steer!”

  She and Meeka are unaware of my superior driving skills, but now it’s time for a demonstration.

  Of course navigating through a maze of trees at night, in the rain, with no clue where I’m going, should be interesting, if not the last ride we ever take.

  Another wave of smelly breath washes over us, followed by galloping thunder, as though from a horse—only this one must be twenty feet tall because the vibrations rip through the ground and send us bouncing through the mud.

  “Lights!” Meeka orders.

  Steffanie bangs on another switch. Headlights peel back the shadows, and the beams fill with rain. I flinch as we pass between trees with inches to spare. Just ahead lie the faintest impression of bucket tracks being washed out.

  Good, we’re going the right way, retracing the route used by the despers.

  Behind us, the creature cackles, coughs, and then roars.

  I imagine he’s bigger than any land animal on Earth, with skin that’s extremely porous so rainwater seeps right into his body, which is why he rules the Highlands duri
ng the rainy season. For most of the year, he lies dormant underground, hibernating like a bear until the rains return and signal that it’s feeding time once again.

  He’s gaining on us, but we’re moving as fast as we can.

  We ascend the next hill, the engine straining, and then bound over the top as lightning flashes and the headlights fade into the foothills below—the ones leading down toward the Palladium and the city off to our west.

  For the better part of a second I think, okay, we’ll make it. This demon will run out of breath and find something slower to eat. But then something smashes into us from behind—

  And with a thunderclap of crunching metal, I’m thrown back into the seat and ricochet forward, my helmet clanging hard on the steering wheel.

  Steffanie wails as she collides with the dashboard while Meeka’s thrown from the backseat, landing right on top of her friend.

  Whether the thing took a slap at us or accidentally booted us, I’m not sure. But we’re a few feet off the ground and rotating in a full three-sixty like a bumper car.

  As we spin back, I catch sight of the creature as the headlights flash over his body:

  He’s plastered with mud and leaves, so I can’t see very much, but he’s huge, maybe twenty feet tall, a humpbacked beast standing on two broad, fur-covered legs like a bear. His head is shaped like a smooth, dark kidney bean, and he has the long snout of a wolf. Four weird arms begin to unroll from his sides like they belong on an octopus.

  In fact, those arms are like those paper noisemakers you see on New Year’s eve, and after each one is fully extended, a claw with nails the size of samurai swords snaps at the air while the arms themselves bend and flex and clatter like bones against bones.

  I’m not sure if he usually walks on just two legs or if he leans forward and gets those arms involved to produce that galloping sound.

  At the moment, he’s carrying the schmemmers on his shoulders and back like he’s their bus and they’re his furry school kids glued on for the ride.

  Meanwhile, our bucket continues in its rotation, and we’re about to collide with a tree.

  I tense… hold my breath.

  And with a sound like a giant sledge hammer blasting into the bucket—

  We’re all ejected and soaring through the air.

  The creature wails in victory as the girls scream.

  Crunching metal and shattering glass punctuates their terror—

  But then there’s nothing, utter silence... except only my own breathing…

  Until I splash into a puddle and completely submerge. It’s only a few feet deep, so I roll and kick up, scrambling to my feet. Mud seeps into my eyes, and blinking hardly clears it.

  “Meeka? Steffanie?” My voice sounds weak and hoarse, but I keep calling their names.

  I crane my head toward the creature’s booming approach.

  I glance over at the bucket, idling next to the tree.

  It’s smashed to pieces, but that doesn’t matter.

  We wouldn’t reach it anyway.

  Meeka and Steffanie splash up from another mud puddle just behind me. They’re dizzy and groaning and Steffanie’s clutching her shoulder again.

  The creature shoots out its arms as it spots us, as though measuring the distance for a grab. With a deep exhale, he trudges over on just two legs, the ground trembling so hard that I lose my balance and go down again.

  When he gets within twenty feet, he brings himself to full height, haloed by a sudden downpour.

  His snout swings in our direction, and his eyes pulsate just like the schmemmers’.

  With a shiver, I crawl back to the girls and huddle with them in the mud.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  You can die waiting for a miracle. Or you can make one happen yourself.

  Tommy said that every time I got pinned down in a game and wanted to throw my controller across the room.

  Roger that, Tommy. Time to make my own miracle.

  I burst up and run toward the creature while waving my hands. I’m thinking if I can slip between the thing’s legs, maybe he’ll chase me.

  Dozens of schmemmers react to my approach with a flurry of whistles.

  As they continue their battle cry, they leap down from the creature’s back and wobble over like a pack of drunken puppies balancing on hind legs.

  They surround me as the creature opens its V-shaped mouth, the upper lip sagging across shark-like teeth.

  The schmemmers toot their noses and sway around me like we’re in a mosh pit—

  Or worse: it’s a meal prep ritual they perform before their master chows down.

  “Just go!” I call back at the girls.

  “No, Doc!” Meeka cries.

  What part of this confuses her?

  I’m the diversion, and they escape.

  It’s not particle physics.

  “Steffanie, take her!” I shout.

  Meeka’s looking around for her rifle as Steffanie grabs her wrist and yanks her from the puddle.

  I face the creature—

  Just as his arm unrolls so fast that I barely see it—at least not until the claw’s already wrapping around my chest.

  Nail tips dig into my vest, squeezing… squeezing…

  My stomach heaves as he wrenches me off the ground, waving me around like a toddler with an ice cream cone. My gaze sweeps down, past the trees, searching for Meeka and Steffanie.

  The beast lifts me to his eyes, where I see my reflection in its flashing irises. I look absolutely pathetic.

  And yes, I want to raise my fists. Curse him with my last breath. Go out like some defiant gladiator. But honestly, I’m so scared that my mouth has gone dry, my throat is lumped, and I’m trembling so hard that I can barely breathe.

  Now my eyelids peel back as he exhales again, and I’m left coughing from the stench.

  Noticing this, he brings me in closer to his broad, dark nose with three nostrils. He sniffs and then yanks me back. Awesome. I smell as bad to him as he does to me.

  Maybe he’ll change his mind.

  But then his mouth opens.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a flash of movement and glance down:

  Steffanie and Meeka race away toward the trees.

  They’re getting away.

  I sigh and grit my teeth and remember Tommy saying:

  Never say quit.

  Solid copy, roger that, sir.

  I’m wet and covered in mud and begin jerking around, slipping a little, and then a little more. The beast tries to squeeze me tighter now, but the mud is making it harder for him to keep his grip.

  I scream and put everything I have into spinning and drilling myself down through the claw.

  With a gasp, I slip out the bottom, bounce off one of its furry feet, and plunge into another puddle.

  He wails in anger. I guess I bruised his ego. Forgive me for not wanting to be dinner.

  I burst up from the puddle, and, on shaky legs, I start running for the nearest tree, where I can slip into the clusters of roots at the base. I bet he can’t reach me in there.

  However, when I look back, he’s on me again, one arm shooting out to snatch me.

  I curse.

  I won’t reach cover in time.

  But at least the girls are getting away.

  And I’ll fight till the end.

  As I dive forward, an explosion flashes close to my head, followed by something pinging off my helmet—like pebbles traveling at high speed.

  Before I hit the ground, I steal a look over my shoulder—

  Just as the thing’s arm blasts free from his body.

  I belly flop into the mud and start to roll over as the arm lands right on top of me.

  I groan as the flashes and explosions continue overhead, blinding me.

  At the same time, the trees come alive with rifle fire and the whoosh of rockets.

  The creature stomps around, wailing, and I sense one of its feet or hooves or paws has just slammed down next to me. One more st
ep and it’ll crush me. I start prying off the arm, but it’s heavy and gives off a harsh chemical smell like paint.

  The gunfire grows even more fierce, rat-tat-tating and echoing across the foothills.

  Rockets detonate in one-two punches.

  Something sprays all over me, and it’s not rain…

  In reaction to that, the schmemmers join ranks in a chaotic chorus of whistles, and then… just as my blurry eyes begin to clear and the sparkles grow more dim, the creature jerks around and drums off into the trees.

  A final gunshot echoes away.

  And then a cheer lifts from the forest as the stench from all those rounds thickens the air.

  Footfalls squish toward me. Get closer.

  “Doc!” Meeka cries, dropping to her knees, along with Steffanie. They begin prying off the arm.

  “You? Nomads?” comes a hard female voice from the tree line. “Stop there!”

  The arm comes free, and the girls haul me up in time to say “hi,” to a group surrounding us at gunpoint.

  They think we’re nomads… but who are they?

  These kids wear rain ponchos with goggles shoved up on their foreheads. Their shoulders sag under the weight of heavy backpacks, and most have small lights clipped on their ears. No Monkshood scars. No severe malnutrition. And no adults among them.

  Looks like twelve in all, with one even shorter than Blink. Another kid stands taller than Tommy. If he were back on Earth, he’d be playing basketball at my school. He has pointy eyebrows that give him a permanent mean look and the hint of a goatee that he’s struggling to grow. He carries one of our backpacks and munches on one of my granola bars.

  “Show us your hands,” comes that stern voice again.

  We do.

  Two kids shift aside, allowing a girl about my age to come forward.

  She’s dressed like the others, with long, black soaking wet hair pulled away from her narrow face.

  Her left foot, strapped into a heavy boot, drags a little, and there’s something off about her expression. I realize she has no eyebrows and one ear seems larger than the other.

  Even so, she has these silvery blue eyes that seem to glow between the mud-caked portions of her face. Too bad she’s using those eyes to study us like cockroaches.