“For heaven’s sakes, Afrin, you’re the worst archeologist I’ve ever laid eyes on!”
“I’m a detective, Abraham,” I said, fingering my brimmed hat.
He folded his arms, his eyes on the vista around us. “Four months we’ve been hiking in the Andes—and for what?”
“The Egg of Creation,” Pedro said.
“Mr. Everhart, you’re daydreaming again.” Mrs. Crandle taps the screen at the front of the room, her finger poised like a knife, ready to slice through what’s left of my dignity.
At that moment, the heavens smile. “Mrs. Crandle,” Principal Owens’ voice booms through the intercom. “Daniel Everhart is needed in the office.
By Justin Mynheir “This is quite a pickle. Isn’t it, dear?” Dave leaned against the inside of the rusted cage. Down the cliffside, across an amphitheater of ancient stone ruins claimed by jungle growth, suspended over a bubbling pool of lava, Karen fidgeted in her rope bindings. “You think?!” “I think plenty, but even my
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“Do you really think this’ll work?” It hurt to ask the words, but I had to know.
“You designed airplanes. If anyone can pull this off…” My wife Stella patted the side of the hulking drone, the result of a month’s hard work. An arm-length sewing needle rested against her shoulder, the thick steel dwarfing her long, delicate fingers.
I creep down the ancient stone hallway, barely containing my anticipation. Months of tracking down clues, solving riddles and dodging hamster attacks are finally bearing fruit. Beyond the door at the end of the hallway lies the Donut of Time, last breakfast artifact I must recover before I can challenge the Hamsters of Doom and stop them from destroying humanity.
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If I walked away from this mission having learned only one thing, it would be that millennia of shifting sand dunes were no match for a stubbornly brilliant paranormal archivist. Unfortunately, the odds of me actually walking away were decreasing every second.
“Hey, Miriam, I could use some help over here!” I shouted as I deflected an obsidian sickle.
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