The Fathom Flies Again Read online

  The Fathom Flies Again

  Forty First Wink II

  ©2016

  Cover Design by Shawn T. King

  Edited by Gwendolyn Nix

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Worldwide Rights

  Created in the United States of America

  Published by Ragnarok Publications | www.ragnarokpub.com

  Editor in Chief: Tim Marquitz | Publisher: J.M. Martin

  Thank you for purchasing this Ragnarok Publications eBook.

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  Dedicated to those who took the maiden voyage, and those who made a second one possible.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Oddly enough, it wasn’t a dark and stormy night, as may have been befitting of a tiny figure’s midnight scuttle across the gloomy landing to his parents’ room.

  Only two things were likely to prompt a seven year-old to make the ominous journey out of his bedroom and into the night: either too much juice before bed had led to an urgent visit to the bathroom, or there was a monster under the bed.

  Worryingly for little Terence, it had been the latter.

  He tried to convince himself it had been a trick of the light, which probably would have carried some weight, had there been any light. He had awoken to a soft click, as the dim glow from the nightlight at his bedside extinguished, and the goblins in his head came out to play. Except they weren’t in his head. He could hear them, skulking beneath his bed, scurrying, even whispering? Maybe he hadn’t needed to go to the bathroom, but this new, alien sound beneath him had certainly given his bladder a little squeeze.

  He cast a nervous glance back towards his bedroom door. It was ajar, but thankfully absent of boogeymen. He rapped softly on his parents’ door.

  “There’s a monster under my bed.” He quivered as his dad appeared, disheveled and half asleep before him. Dad rubbed his eyes, focusing on the meek figure before him, and put a hand on Terence’s head. “It’s just a nightmare, buddy. Go back to sleep.” He smiled and yawned, already heading back to bed, almost oblivious to his son’s protests.

  Why does nobody listen to the kid? Terence wondered, realizing that he now had to go back into that dark room and battle the monster alone. Battle, of course being little boy code for ‘leap onto your bed and hide beneath the covers’, and in three skipping steps, Terence landed on his mattress, throwing the protective blankety shield up for protection. Clutching his teddy bear in the darkness, he wished that the little toy would somehow come to life, protecting him and standing up to the unseen bully beneath. “Stupid,” he whispered. “Toys can’t do that.” He shifted under his flannel barrier. “It was just a dream,” he chided, clutching Captain Fluffbags tighter anyway.

  There was a faint hiss from under the bed, almost inaudible, and for a moment, Terence thought it was his own fear, flatulently getting the better of him. He sat upright, the covers sliding from him. He hadn’t had nachos for supper, so the phantom chuckle couldn’t have been his own doing. Again, it gurgled, almost contentedly, smugly, from below. Thrusting Captain Fluffbags out in self-defense, Terence closed his eyes tightly against what was now definitely not a gaseous intruder.

  “You moved.” A voice churned out from beneath the bed, like steam escaping from some kind of despicable kettle. “That means you’re it,” it rasped, the words arriving like intangible vapors on the night air. Clenched eyelids popped open as a decidedly real looking shadow fell over Terence. There was an instant flurry of activity, masked by the midnight gloom, followed by an instant stillness. There was nothing more to mask, but the gloom remained, probably wishing that it had been a dark and stormy night, to enhance the atmosphere.

  Captain Fluffbags stared cheerfully up at the ceiling, as the room fell into an eerie silence. An empty, Terence-less silence.

  #

  Joe was drunk. Not the kind of drunk where one might proposition a long-suffering bar maid or commandeer a traffic cone for one’s own nefarious purposes, but blind, can’t-find-your-own-face, hammered. He stumbled out of the dingy bar, struggling to remember how many feet he had. An imminent, onrushing hangover was heading straight for him, and it tasted like the bottom of a garbage can in an alley, possibly because he had just fallen into a garbage can in an alley. Hangovers have such a way of finding the wayward over-indulger.

  The ground, and how to operate it, was becoming rapidly more alien with each lurching step. Joe hunched over. Hands on thighs, he waiting for the world to stop wobbling. “Ugh,” he managed, gagging as his stomach threatened to mutiny. “There’ll be beer monkeys in the morning.”

  Realizing that morning was already fast approaching, he breathed a silent prayer and began the long stagger home. The first order of business would have to be negotiating the alleyway, into which he had arrived through no conscious thought or intent. Perhaps the grinning figure who peered out from behind a pile of stacked beer crates would be gracious enough to help. Of course, Joe wasn’t about to question what a leering stranger was doing here in the middle of the night or why he was all painted up like a mime from hell.

  The mystery alley-dweller stepped forward, and Joe almost laughed out loud. It was a clown. The laugh may have upgraded from surprised to amused, had the thing standing before him not been so utterly horrendous. It seemed contorted and unnatural, and worse, it was approaching. Two more garish figures appeared behind the ghastly joker, filing in and making their way towards the puzzled drunkard. Rooted to the spot, Joe made a stab at convincing himself that he was seeing double, or in this case, triple. Even if that were the case, it didn’t belie the fact that he faced something he didn’t even want to see one of. He tried to move, somehow lurch back the way he had come, but his legs were full of beer and sloshed uncooperatively, skewing him sideways. With no other option available, Joe landed in a boozy heap, staring blearily up as white gloved hands grasped for him.

  As the hellish circus troupe dragged him slowly back into the darkness of the alley, two thoughts occurred to Joe. His dear old mum had been right, the sauce was going to be the death of him, and for once, the beer monkeys didn’t seem such a bad option.

  #

  Far, far, away, although not altogether that far really (certainly not over the rainbow), a picture book blue sky heralded what would surely be a glorious day. Beautifully intricate c
louds hung high in the ether, drifting endlessly on a faint breeze.

  It was absolutely the last place that one might expect to see the soaring, silent shape of a pirate galleon, and yet there one floated, bold as brass. Or more specifically, bold as wood and brass. It hung in the air, like a resounding punch in the face of gravity, and carved wispy swathes through the cumulonimbii which surrounded it. Though the sun shone large and bright in the heavens, the deck sat in shadow. A large, bird shaped shadow to be exact. Small forms scurried from port to starboard beneath the mighty sails, and high above them in the rigging, the caster of the shadow gripped the central mast in massive claws. The giant metallic bird hovered in mid-air, holding the ship in its grasp.

  One of the diminutive figures below stood at the ship’s bow, peering through a small, brass telescope at something off in the distance beneath them. This was not your standard, common or garden, run of the mill something, however. It was large, had no discernable shape, and gave off a bright orange glow. Given that it was the most unusual thing in a skyline already populated by a massive floating pirate ship, it certainly merited closer inspection.

  The galleon shifted, angling towards the twinkling anomaly and descending out of the sky. The light expanded, bursting outwards and filling the horizon up ahead, and the telescope wielder on deck whistled excitedly.

  “What is it?” A voice from the deck behind him asked.

  Lowering the telescope from his one good eye, Timbers, captain of the Flying Fathom, shook his head, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “I have no idea, but it’s shiny. Let’s go take a looksee.”

  Heaving forward, they vaulted recklessly into the center of the sparkling vortex. High up in the rigging, the huge steel bird shot out a robotic squawk as the Fathom disappeared into the blinding light, plunging through, but not out, the other side.

  Mysterious portals tend to be funny like that.

  Chapter Two

  Harvey the Space Beagle nonchalantly reached up and yanked his own head off. Sprouting out from beneath, a Marty-shaped face sighed as it was reintroduced to the night air. Bringing joy, and occasionally confused terror to hundreds of children was decidedly stuffy, and lacked adequate toilet facilities.

  Marty pulled the cord attached to the zipper on his back, and the oversized space suit fell to the ground, delivering yet more relief. It wasn’t compulsory to wear clothes under the giant fluffy suits that paraded around Stellar Island all day, but Marty felt that some dignity needed to be upheld. What if he got into an accident, and was forced to evacuate the suit in a hurry? “Hi, kids, behold Harvey’s tighty whities!” No, it just wouldn’t do, and so he suffered for his art.

  The dim light in the changing rooms was still bright enough to cause him to squint, having been behelmeted all day, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. This was the unseen backstage of Stellar Island. Metal lockers spanned the walls, and low wooden benches gave the pretense that management gave a damn about the monkeys in their employ. High up in one of the halogen light fittings, a moth decided to grace Marty with its presence and flitted redundantly, casting shadows into the stark, paltry chamber. Disneyland, this was not.

  Flitting less airily, but no less annoyingly, Geoffrey entered the room. He was the guy that crops up in every office, who one has to converse with out of necessity, but probably wouldn’t be top of anyone’s list of people to save from a burning building. Geoffrey shrugged off the Cosmo Badger suit he was wearing, and sidled over to Marty, who was doing his best ‘not here’ impression in an attempt to avoid detection.

  “Marty!” He yelled, way too loudly. “You’re pulling the graveyard shift too, huh?”

  Marty nodded, not wishing to add fuel to a conversation which was already threatening to become a fire hazard, although in truth, nothing had come close to setting off the sprinklers lately. When you’ve spent time sailing through the skies with miniature buccaneers, battled freaks on pogo sticks and rubbed shoulders with superheroes, everyday life seemed to range from gray, to slightly less gray.

  “You should have been down at the Zero G Funhouse earlier,” Geoffrey continued, oblivious to Marty’s apathy. “I scared a bunch of pre-schoolers, chased `em round for ages, it was hilarious!”

  Marty raised an eyebrow, suddenly glad he’d been at the other end of the park that day. He made for the door, vaguely aware that Geoffrey was continuing his oneman crusade against decency. Marty had no problem with people in general, just those people who abused their oxygen privileges.

  The door opened and shut quietly, and his escape was complete. Sadly, no giant galleon sat waiting to whisk him away to some ludicrous adventure. No whirling chambers of chaos from which to implausibly escape. Marty was trapped in reality, and it was boring the hell out of him.

  Stellar Island’s concourse was shrouded in darkness, and bereft of frantic merrymakers. Even though all lights had gone out as the last of the patrons left, Marty knew his way out only too well. The cable car which led back into town was the only structure which still sparkled, almost beacon like, for the late leavers and night shifters. Not wishing to dawdle, lest he learn more of the hilarious misadventures of Geoffrey, Marty made for the light, already halfway home in his head.

  As he reached the cable car station, doors sprung to life automatically, and the nearest car opened, chirping a cheery autonomous response as it did so. Thank you for visiting Stellar Island, please come again soon, we miss your face already!

  “Thanks, man!” Marty replied, almost wishing for something more. “I had fun. The costume itches a little, maybe don’t wash it in asbestos tonight, eh?”

  Thank you for visiting Stellar Island, please come again soon, we miss your face already!

  Clearly the cable car was lacking in the humor department, not to mention a lousy conversationalist. If he’d been dreaming right now, the thing would most likely have given him a lecture on how hard it was being a cable car, and how it wasn’t easy washing clothes, you know, without arms and such. Oh, to be dreaming again.

  Marty boarded and stared blankly out the window as the car jolted onto its short journey back to civilization. At least if Kate had been here, he’d have gotten a human response.

  Since that fateful call, on that morning after, things had gone well. Not fireworks, champagne, standing at the bow of a cruise ship in each other’s arms well, but when does that ever happen? A few dates down the line and things were progressing at a decent pace. Sure, some might call it a snail’s pace, but how many heartbroken snails were there? Not many, and that was surely a good sign.

  So wrapped up was Marty in this bizarre line of reasoning, that he barely heard the human response he’d been craving. “Good evening to you, Marty,” the labored, gentle voice greeted from behind him. Immediately, Marty remembered that Cabbie was on duty tonight. So called because his sole job, and apparent raison d’etre, was to man the cable car station which linked Stellar Island to the town. What he was doing surfing the cables at this hour was a mystery, and Marty’s expression seemed to beg the question.

  “I’m getting out of the office for a while. It’s just me down there, so it gets a little boring,” the old gent offered. He stared at his feet forlornly. “You get to my age, and a trip on the cars is like a day out.”

  Marty’s expression softened. Cabbie was a nice old guy, older than God’s dog it seemed, and almost as hairy. He saw something of himself in that tired face, wistful of adventures past, and seeking some small crumb of excitement through a ride in a rickety old carriage. “Hey, Cabbie” he mumbled, “I know what you mean, sometimes life needs a kick in the pants eh?”

  Cabbie continued to ramble on throughout Marty’s reply, misty-eyed, oblivious, and mid-sentence. “…back when I was working for the British Secret Service. They were more exciting times, make no mistake…”

  Marty, still lost in his own thoughts, offered a stray one into the mix. “Do you ever feel like you’re missing out, Cabbie? Like there’s so much more out there th
at puts reality in a headlock and makes it cry?”

  “…I had no idea why he needed so many watermelons, but I was under orders…” Cabbie yapped on, unabated.

  “I mean, things could be worse, don’t get me wrong.” Marty pressed on with his train of thought, talking over the old man’s meandering mine cart. “I’ve got a steady job, a nice girl, occasionally all the ingredients for a hangover in the fridge…”

  “…of course, that sort of thing should never happen, I don’t care if he was a licensed tree surgeon…” The babbling was getting worse, and simultaneously more intriguing, had Marty been listening.

  “…I guess I just miss the pirate life.” Marty blurted, immediately realizing he had said too much. He glanced furtively over at the aged cable car operator.

  Cabbie gazed longingly out of the window, lost in his own memories. “…I managed to smuggle all the llamas out of the building before the bomb went off. I was a hero.” He sighed, returning his attention to his bewildered passenger. “Happier times, eh?”

  A knowing smile crept awkwardly across Marty’s face. In truth, he had no clue what the old geezer had been going on about, but the closing sentiment rang true, and he nodded a half-hearted agreement.

  Cabbie opened his mouth, no doubt to regale Marty with more intrepid and befuddling tales of his younger days, when a blinding flash of light shook them almost out of their respective seats and back into the here and now. Outside, daylight took hold for a brief moment, ejecting something into the world before darkness presided once more. Whatever it was cannoned past Marty’s cable car like a bull piloting a juggernaut, that china shop firmly in its sights. Through the deafening roar and whoosh of an object suddenly deposited into this world, Marty thought he heard shrieking voices. Complaining voices. Shrill pirate voices, grumbling loudly about something shiny?

  As quickly as it had appeared, the calamitous din subsided, trailing into the darkness behind the now swaying cable car, like unexpected thunder on a calm summer’s evening. Cabbie whooped tamely, like a hamster who’d overdone it slightly in its wheel, and was once again swimming in his own nostalgia. “That was rather fun, wasn’t it? It reminds me of the time…” he trailed off again, embarking on a story which seemed to involve saving the world in some unfeasible way, again.