The Thing At Black Hole Lake Page 9

  Burger Burglar

  The jukebox at Buck’s Burger Barn kicked out a twangy country song. Milo watched, fascinated, as Lucy took a big slurp of her mint milkshake. It was green, and not because it was infused with a healthy dose of kale.

  “I can’t believe you’ve never been here before,” said Lucy, a dab of whipped cream on the tip of her nose. “This is the best restaurant in Sticky Pines.”

  Milo sipped his iced tea and took in the barnyard decor. This place looks like a scarecrow’s fever dream. “We usually eat in.”

  “Order something.” Lucy pushed the menu towards him. “You need to eat. You did all the rowing.”

  Milo had offered Lucy a lift to shore in his kayak, as the inner-tube contraption she’d lashed together had more or less disintegrated by the time she’d reached the island.

  The kayak was just big enough for both of them to squeeze into and, with only one paddle, Milo had to row twice the weight he was used to. Sitting in the restaurant two hours later, he could feel his biceps burning. I’ll need a long Epsom-salt bath tonight.

  “Why don’t you try a burger?” Lucy pointed to one titled the “Howdy Doody Double-Decker”. She leaned in. “I’d skip the hot dogs.”

  “Burger it is.”

  The gingham-clad waitress approached, chewing gum and playing with a pigtail. Her nametag read: MICHELLE.

  “May I have one of these?” Milo pointed to the “Howdy Doody” on the menu rather than saying it out loud. “Medium rare, please.”

  Michelle scratched her nose with her pen. “I’ll be honest, kid, Bernard’s just gonna cook it how he’s gonna cook it.”

  “I’ll trust the judgement of the chef.” Milo smiled tightly.

  “Rings or fries?” asked Michelle.

  “Rings.”

  Lucy held up a hand. “Those’re too greasy for your sophisticated taste buds. If I may?”

  Milo shrugged.

  “He’ll have the sweet potato fries. And I’d like a grilled cheese with all the fixin’s, please.”

  “You got it.” Michelle winked at Lucy. “Tell your folks I say hi.”

  “Will do.” Lucy gave her a thumbs-up.

  Michelle sauntered off to the next table. It was early evening and the restaurant was filling up with the Saturday-night crowd. Milo had yet to experience the local nightlife, but he suspected things could get rowdy.

  “Sweet potatoes are yams, right?” he asked.

  “Forget the yams,” said Lucy. “We need to plan.”

  “We? Who said there’s a we? You lied at the factory, and I still don’t know if I can trust you.”

  “I didn’t want to lie.” Lucy looked like a cat caught eating the Christmas goose. “It’s all so confusing. This fight between us has been killing me, Fish. You don’t even know.”

  “I do know. It’s been killing me, too.”

  “I hope…” Lucy seemed to be fighting the urge to say something. “I hope someday you’ll understand why I did what I did.”

  Milo sighed. She sounds exactly like my father.

  “I just want us to be friends again,” said Lucy.

  “Well.” Milo stirred the ice in his tea. “I’m here.”

  “That’s a start,” said Lucy. “Let’s shake on it.”

  Milo held out a hand. Instead of taking it, Lucy tossed him a straw from the dispenser on the table. She gestured for him to drink from the thick green milkshake.

  Together, they sipped from their straws. Milo was certain the shake would taste like toothpaste, but it was creamy with just a hint of mint.

  “That’s utterly delicious,” he said.

  “You can have the rest.” Lucy passed it over. “You’ve earned it.”

  Milo hadn’t realised just how hungry he was. He sucked down the shake until he felt a searing pain behind his eyes.

  “Oh dear,” he winced.

  “Brain freeze.” Lucy burst out laughing.

  Michelle came by with two steaming plates and slid them on the table. Unable to control himself, Milo started eating before Lucy’s plate had even touched down. The sweet potato fries were heavenly. This place isn’t bad at all. My dad said there’d be nothing but salmonella on the menu.

  “So.” Lucy splurted some mayonnaise and ketchup on to her plate. “If we wanna know what Thingus is and where he comes from, we need to translate the symbols on that stone.”

  Milo bit into his burger, which was, thankfully, cooked medium rather than well done. “And how are we supposed to do that?”

  “Well…” Lucy gripped her sandwich. “There’s one person I can think of who’s translated symbols like that before.”

  Milo frowned. “No.”

  “C’mon, Fish. I’ll bet a smart guy like you knows exactly where his dad keeps important documents and such.”

  Milo thought of his father’s high-tech briefcase and its mysterious contents. I wonder if… He banished the thought. “No!”

  Lucy tried to catch his eye. “It’s all in service of the Truth.”

  “Look,” he said, “I want to learn about Thingus as much as you do, but what you’re asking for is impossible. And, what’s more, I wouldn’t do it even if I could. He’s my father. It would be a supreme violation of his privacy. End of story.”

  “Fish.”

  “Lucy.”

  She looked at him forlornly with large doe eyes, magnified by her glasses.

  “I told you,” he snapped, “I won’t do it.”

  Milo stifled a yawn as he sat in bed, staring at the clock on his bedroom wall. His dad had gone to bed an hour ago. By now he should be fast asleep. The clock struck two. Milo’s head fell into his hands. Fie on Lucy Sladan and her endless stream of insane yet compelling ideas.

  Dressed all in black, Milo pulled his turtleneck over the lower half of his face, then tiptoed across the hallway and down the stairs. At last, he reached the door to the master bathroom, which connected to his father’s bedroom through a large walk-in closet.

  He paused, his sweaty hand resting on the doorknob. What would happen if he got caught? I’ll probably get sent to boarding school. What would happen if he turned back? I’ll never learn the truth about Thingus. Which option was worse?

  Resigned, he opened the bathroom door. The dim glow of his phone screen illuminated the way past a trio of glass sinks, a Japanese toilet that squirted water, a stone-tiled rainfall shower, and a large egg-shaped bathtub. Finally, Milo reached the second door.

  He opened it without a squeak, revealing a walk-in closet the size of Lucy’s bedroom. His father’s crisply pressed suits, ties and dress shirts hung on the left. On the right were his stepmother’s designer dresses, handbags and rows upon rows of shoes. Milo crept along until he reached the bedroom door, his father’s saw-like snores rumbling faintly on the other side. How thoughtful of nature to provide a sound effect to let you know when someone is not conscious.

  Cautiously, Milo stuck his head into the room, his eyes landing on the king-sized bed on the other side. Neither his father nor his stepmother stirred. So far so good. Now where’s that briefcase?

  The cavernous swan-white bedroom was impeccably tidy. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the forest. Instead of curtains, the glass dimmed itself automatically at night. Milo could barely make out the shape of the moon, half full and high in the night sky.

  He silently made his way across the sheepskin rug. Mr Fisher lay on his back, his mouth open, his eyes darting around under closed lids. He’s probably dreaming about work. Kaitlyn lay on the other side, face down, her platinum hair tousled over a silk pillowcase.

  Milo dropped to his knees and peered under the bed. Oho, there it is! The briefcase was exactly where he thought it would be. Milo Fisher, do you know your father or what? He slid it out and set it at his side. At any moment he was going to have to move, and fast. Now came the hard, nay, the impossible part. Getting the code from his dad’s watch without waking him up.

  Fearing he’d lose his nerve, Milo gently lifted
the grey duvet. His father’s chest rose and fell steadily, his arms crossed over his midsection. The two watches were stacked one against the other on his left wrist. Milo strained to see the code, but it was too dark. There must be a light on that thing. Holding his breath, he reached out to press the button on the watch.

  His fingers were mere millimetres away when Mr Fisher’s snore caught in his throat and turned into a cough. He stirred. Dismayed, Milo pancaked to the floor and slid under the bed. He waited, his heart pounding in his ears and rug burns stinging his elbows. Finally, his father rolled over, muttering something about “bonds”. His arm fell over the side of the bed.

  Mr Fisher’s wrist dangled just above Milo’s head. As soon as the snores returned at regular intervals, Milo counted to three, then, careful not to touch his father’s skin, pressed a button on the side of the not-watch. The face lit up in ghostly green, displaying a string of seven numbers. The code changes every thirty seconds, Milo remembered. How long does this one have left? Just then, the numbers switched.

  Milo rolled out from under the bed, arching away from his father’s hand, repeating the numbers in his head. 6-3-8-9-0-4-7, 6-3-8-9-0-4-7… He snatched up the briefcase and raced quietly over to the walk-in closet, silently shutting the door behind him. How much time had elapsed already? Ten seconds? Twenty? He knelt by a shoe rack and pulled out his phone, fumbling with it until the flashlight turned on.

  He punched the numbers into the interface. 6-3-8-9-0…

  Oh no. What are the last two? Milo was pretty sure the next number was 4, which he pressed, but was the one after a 2 or a 7? I should have written it down! I’m not cut out for a life of crime. His time was nearly up, and may have run out already. Flipping a coin in his head, he punched the number 7 on to the keypad. With a mechanical BEEP the briefcase unlocked. Huzzah!

  Had anyone heard? He pressed his ear to the door. Nothing. Time to see what was inside.

  The briefcase’s contents were mostly documents. Milo rifled through a stack of manila folders, reading the typewritten headline on each tab: “Hypothetical Taxonomy of Preternatural Organisms”, “SP Biological Subversives”, “Deviant Biochemical Susceptibilities”. Holy cow. Milo wasn’t sure what all of those words meant, but he knew that Lucy’s glasses would melt off her face if she ever saw them.

  Tempted as he was to read it all, Milo had struck a bargain with himself: he would look for the key to the symbols, which was precisely what Lucy had asked for, but he wouldn’t invade his father’s privacy any further, NO MATTER WHAT HE SAW. Frankly, he wished he hadn’t seen this much.

  He flipped through until he found one titled: “Compendium of Preternatural Linguistic Symbology”. Symbology. Symbols! This was it. He pulled out the folder. Inside were dozens of handwritten pages, all filled with bizarre-looking letters, phrases and their English translations. Bingo Thingo.

  Silently, Milo snapped picture after picture with his phone, mentally patting himself on the back after each one. He was just photographing the last page when he heard the sound of a knee bumping into a side table. “Oof. Owie.”

  Kaitlyn was awake. Oh no. Oh no, no, no…

  Milo shoved the folder back in its place and closed the case as quietly as he could. He dived into a densely packed rack of clothes and hid behind a sparkly blue gown covered in sequins and a white fur coat that smelled like dog. He hugged the case and tried not to breathe too loudly, which inevitably made him feel like he was suffocating.

  Kaitlyn stumbled through the closet on her way to the bathroom, her silk floral pyjamas brushing against Milo’s hiding place. She flipped on the bathroom light and, mercifully, shut the door behind her.

  Milo’s nerves crackled with anxiety. What should he do? Stay put? Sneak out through the bedroom door? Bad idea. Dad might have woken up, too. Visions of his father’s reaction to his only son’s betrayal spun through Milo’s head. Worse, he felt a tickle on his nose. He was going to sneeze. What is this ridiculous coat made of?!

  The toilet flushed. Oh please, not now. Milo held his breath and plugged his nose as Kaitlyn opened the door.

  Just then, Milo’s phone began to buzz. NOOOO! The vibrations echoed around the room. Who could be calling now? He fumbled with the device but couldn’t find the button to stop the call. Fingers sweaty, he pressed everything until the buzzing stopped.

  Kaitlyn turned on the light.

  Hardly risking a movement, Milo checked the screen to see who might have brought on his untimely demise. “Sladan Home”, it read. Lucy. Of course. She must have stayed up to find out how his ill-conceived caper had gone. He wondered if she’d attend his funeral.

  His stepmother’s footsteps drew nearer.

  Should he surrender now? Maybe he could pretend he was sleepwalking or had recently developed an obsession with sequins? Milo peeked through the garments.

  Hand on her hip, Kaitlyn turned towards the hanging dresses. Milo braced himself for the inevitable scream. It never came. Kaitlyn turned the other way, then back again. She was looking at herself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. Something orange was sticking out of her ear.

  Earplugs! Milo exhaled a whirligig of relief. She wears earplugs because of Dad’s snoring! Milo had never been so grateful for his father’s noisy medical condition.

  Kaitlyn yawned, flicked off the light and returned to bed, leaving the closet door open. After a brief pause, Mr Fisher’s snores resumed.

  Milo emailed Lucy as he waited for Kaitlyn to fall asleep. “GO TO BED,” he typed. “It’s done. I’ll show you everything tomorrow.”

  He hit send, then exited his hiding place. Careful as a contortionist on a high wire, Milo returned the briefcase to the exact spot he’d found it, then slipped through the closet and out the bathroom door. Once in the hallway, he raced back to his room and hopped into bed, panting.

  The phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Lucy. Her message contained nothing but twelve thumbs-up emojis followed by six exclamation marks.

  Milo replied with a smiley face.

  The Siren Stone

  “I got another one!” Lucy exclaimed triumphantly. She bundled Milo’s printed compendium under her arm and scribbled the definition to the symbol she’d just translated. After many hours of work, she had nearly finished deciphering all of the mysterious glyphs on the “Siren Stone”, as she’d christened the graffitied boulder.

  Milo was sat cross-legged on the ground next to Thingus, who was waddling around in the form of a seabird with massive grey wings.

  When the kids had arrived at the island that morning, Thingus had appeared as a white stag and greeted them with an enthusiastic prance. Milo, using more of Millepoids’s candy, had spent the day coaxing the creature to shrink down smaller and smaller until he spontaneously morphed into an albatross. The ease with which he transformed suggested he had adopted this shape before.

  Lucy pointed to a spot on the boulder. “These four symbols say: ‘Crawl. Swim. Fly. Stand.’”

  “Huh,” said Milo. “Is that a sentence?”

  Lucy double-checked her translation. The symbol key from Mr Fisher’s briefcase contained an incredible assortment of hand-drawn glyphs, each accompanied by a definition. “Maybe it’s like, a list of all the stuff Thingus can do?” she ventured.

  Milo curled his lip sceptically. “Well, he can crawl, swim and walk. Watch this, though.”

  He tossed a gumdrop high into the air. The albatross jumped, flapping its massive wings clumsily before face-planting in the mud.

  “See?” said Milo. “He can’t fly.”

  With dirt caked on his orange beak Thingus scrabbled across the clearing and pecked the gumdrop out from under a bush.

  Lucy laughed. She couldn’t remember ever having felt more alive; she was currently probing beyond the boundaries of the unknown in the presence of another actual person who not only believed the things she was saying, but who was PHYSICALLY INTERACTING WITH A MIRACULOUS CRYPTOZOOLOGICAL SPECIMEN RIGHT BEFORE HER EYES. Had she died an
d gone to heaven? Today – Lucy inhaled the freshest air she had ever tasted – anything is possible. If only she could tell Milo the Truth about the Pretenders, it would all be perfect.

  Milo crawled over and scratched the shapeshifter between his useless wings. “I wonder if there are any more creatures like Thingus? I’d hate to think he was all alone in the world.”

  “That is an interesting question,” said Lucy, heat flooding to her cheeks.

  “I was thinking,” said Milo. “Based on how the glyphs on the stone have worn away over time, these symbols could be old.” He lured Thingus closer with a chocolate button. “Really old.”

  “You might be on to something there,” said Lucy, thinking of the hundred-year-old yearbook photos of the Other Mrs Stricks and Alastair Chelon.

  Who had created these glyphs, and why? Was it the Pretenders? If not them, who? After all, the symbols under the factory had spelled out the warning “Beware the Pretenders”. Why would they create a warning about themselves? What did it mean? It would be so much easier to figure all this out if she could just discuss it with Milo. I can trust him, can’t I? But I definitely can’t trust his dad. Ugh, why can’t he be an orphan?

  Lucy returned her attention to the Siren Stone. “Ooh, this circle with a dot in the middle means ‘lake’.”

  Thingus looked up from the pile of chocolate he was munching on, his feathered tail twitching. Lucy blinked. Was she imagining things, or was the creature listening to her? He fluffed out his feathers and went back to his favourite pastime: eating.

  “Hey, you,” said Lucy. Thingus continued gorging himself with gusto. “Refrigerator,” she said. “Crudberries.” The bird ignored her. “Thingus.” The creature stopped and looked up. “I think he knows his name,” she gawped.

  “I told you he was smart,” Milo grinned. “Aren’t you, you little genius?” He tickled Thingus’s tummy and the albatross leaned in with pleasure. A sound escaped his beak that was halfway between a bird’s titter and a child’s laugh.