Trouble & Treasure by Dave Moyer (robert munsch read aloud .txt) 📕

it had been bashed in more times than a piñata.

“Get in the car.” I pressed the keys into her hand, and after the barest moment of hesitation, gave her the book also. “Lock the doors.”

I didn’t bother to turn to check to see whether she was doing as I told her to; if there was one thing I knew about Amanda Stanton, it was she was pretty good at running away from trouble. There was no doubt that trouble with a capital T was walking across the road to me. I shook my head, realizing my only weapon was tucked under the driver seat of my car, not that I could whip out some guns and start shooting at this guy on a sleepy British village high street. But this guy wouldn’t have the same compunction.

I saw him reach for something behind him, saw the glint of metal as he pulled it out from the back of his pants. Fuck, this was it.

I ducked behind a lamppost, for all the protection it would give me, before the guy could start shooting. As he did, the first bullet ricocheting off the pavement by my feet, I heard screeching tires. The part of my brain that wasn’t currently over-invested in trying not to get shot, realized they sounded like my tires; and yes, I was enough of a car-man to know what my own tires and the rumble of my own engine sounded like.

My Lexus screeched to a halt in front of me, whatever bullets my attacker had fired moments before slamming into the doors and body of the vehicle. Amanda was in the driver’s seat and she was screaming like a banshee, hat still on her head, wide red lips all I could see as she navigated around some of the most powerful and high-pitched screams I’d ever heard. Somehow she kept it together enough to lean back and open the door for me. I didn't need any more incentive. Keeping low, I rolled into the back of the car, slamming the door behind me and smacking the back of Amanda’s seat as I shouted at her to “go, go, go.”

Still screaming, she hit the accelerator, tires screeching on the uneven cobble of the village street as a new set of bullets slammed into the side of my car. I was no fool, and all of my cars had reinforced metal plating; considering my job, well, my other job, it was a given.

Amanda had her foot anchored down all the way down on the accelerator, and my car's engine revved with a great roar as I caught sight of the thick-necked goon running towards us. His gun was aimed right through the glass at Amanda. I jumped up, moving between the front seats, and tackled Amanda as I tried to cover her body with mine. The car swerved as her hands slipped off the steering wheel, but I managed to grab it and yank it hard to the right before we could careen into several parked vehicles. More importantly, the bullet meant for Amanda's head missed its mark and lodged itself into the driver’s head rest. I didn’t let Amanda up, one arm still pressing down roughly on her back, my other hand latched on the steering wheel, but I was sure to yell at her to keep her foot flat on the fucking accelerator.

Several more bullets whizzed past, one smashing into the side of my driver’s-side mirror, but in a moment I managed to turn a corner, leaving the thick-necked goon behind.

I still didn't let Amanda up, keeping my own head low, about level with the dash-board as I checked wildly from side-to-side in case more bastards with guns popped out of the woodwork. Then, driving so fast that the car got some air time as we went over a speed hump designed to slow people down before they got into town, I removed my hand from Amanda's back.

I grabbed her hat, throwing it into the passenger seat. She straightened up, body convulsing as she shook wildly with fright.

I thought I’d seen the gamut of her possible expressions, but this was a new one. Her eyes were as wide as they could be, a couple of tears even streaking down the sides of her cheeks, her lips open and still with fear.

While I was intending to make some tough wisecrack or point to the passenger seat and tell her to move over, I paused. “It's all right, Amanda, it's all right,” I managed.

She looked back at me, wide eyes closing a touch as she wiped at her tears with her wrist. She kept her foot on the accelerator through it all.

I indicated the passenger seat with a flick of my head. “Try to keep your foot on the accelerator, and move over.”

“I can drive.” She turned her head back to the road, grabbing the steering wheel with both hands while my hand still held on tightly at the top.

“Trust me, honey, we don't need your type of driving.” I didn’t let go of the steering wheel, but neither did she.

“I don't know....” She took a rattling breath that pushed her chest out and up against the tight linen of her shirt.

Distracting though it was, I only looked down briefly.

“I think we just need you shooting more,” she finished her sentence.

“I can shoot and drive,” I snapped back, wondering what kind of treasure hunter couldn't.

Before I was ready to push the issue, she swerved, grabbing the steering wheel with both hands and using her wrist to pivot my hand off. Before I could complain, I heard a gunshot, and my remaining passenger-side mirror was shot off.

“Fuck,” I managed tersely, peering through the window and seeing another massive goon with a gun, twisting on his feet as he stood in the middle of the road, tracking us as Amanda zoomed past him and firing off several more bullets that slammed into the trunk of the car.

I didn't bother wasting my ammo on him, as Amanda sped up and shot around the corner, blocking us from view.

Without another word of protest, I climbed into the passenger seat. “Put your seat belt on,” I commanded her, though I didn’t even bother to touch my own; if we faced any more brazen, gun-toting criminals smack bang in the middle of the road, I would need to have the freedom of movement to twist around in my seat and shoot from any angle. I didn’t bother grabbing Amanda’s hat and handing it to her either, reasoning it was fairly obvious people were on to us.

Soon, with Amanda’s impressively quick and competent driving, we hit one of the far narrower but less exposed roads. There was a long ditch on one side that led down to farmland, and on the other side the woods and hedgerow pressed up to the verge.

I didn't speak, and surprisingly Amanda didn't attack me with a volley of questions. Instead, keeping one hand on the steering wheel at all times, she picked glass out of her hair and threw it out the gaping hole in her window. There were several superficial cuts over the back of her hands, and a light one across the top of her head along her hairline. Through it all, she kept driving, and though I didn't want to admit it, Amanda was pretty good.

With the woods growing even thicker on both sides of us and the road growing ever more circuitous, Amanda let out a big sigh that jumped around a bit, as if it was turning into a hiccup at the end.

Before I could say something suitably macho and maybe comforting, she took a surprise turn. Rather than continuing along the road, as I thought she would, she took a sudden turn onto a gravel road that led up through the woods. She slowed down enough to give the tires traction on the new surface, but then sped up halfway through the turn, hardly losing any speed at all. As I didn’t have my seat belt on, I had to fight hard to keep myself steady, legs sprawling out everywhere, shirt even riding up and over my belt.

“What the hell are you doing? Where are we going?” I snapped out my words as soon as I had steadied myself.

Face still pressed with concentration, cheeks dry from where they’d once been splattered with tears, Amanda didn’t take her eyes off the road. “We are going to the first location,” she said through a sniff, “Before anyone else can get to it.”

“Sorry?” I asked, grabbing a hand at my tie, loosening it, and chucking it into the back seat along with Amanda's hat.

“Keep up, Sebastian, we are going to get the first globe, before anyone else can.” She still didn’t take her eyes off the road. Which was probably a good thing, because my expression was some ridiculous mix between impressed and incredulous. Was she joking, was she about to take us to the police? Or was this irascible, overemotional chick taking the driving seat and getting us to where we needed to be well before I’d even thought of it?

Rather than question her, I leaned back between the seats and tried to find the leather-bound journal I’d seen on the back seat as I’d rolled into the car earlier. I twisted around as I searched for it, my leg pressed up against Amanda's arm. When I got it, and twisted back into my seat, I fancied I caught her staring at my butt. “Enjoy the view?” I asked as I grabbed both hands to either side of my suit jacket and tugged it until it was neat.

“Fuck off,” she exploded.

I grinned as I began to search through the old, yellowed pages of the journal.

Before I could waste my time searching through every page for the clue that would tell me that Amanda was on track here, she reached over, eyes still on the road, snatched the book out of my hands and pressed it up against the top of the steering wheel as she flicked through it. She found the page and handed it back to me without a single word.

I let my eyebrows press up and tipped my head to the side as for the second time that day I forced myself to reassess Miss Amanda Stanton.

As Amanda continued along the road, as fast as she could considering the massive potholes and the uneven terrain, I read the page she’d handed to me. There was a scant, quick picture of a church drawn on one side with the caption “Holy Church of St Carlotta.” I narrowed my eyes. Not only had I never heard of a church by that name, as far as I knew there wasn't a saint by that name either. I kept reading, and on the other side of the page there were several numbers jotted down; they looked like a set of directions, six points in space that were obviously meant to be the three-dimensional equivalent of an X marks the spot. I ran my tongue over my teeth and swore quietly.

Before I could ask Amanda whether she was sure she was on the right road and whether she was sure this church existed at all, we crested a hill, the thick, dense woods falling back beside us to reveal a naked hilltop. Right on top of that hilltop, with the woods encroaching on all sides, sat a rundown church. There was a small graveyard off to one side, covered in old leaves and fallen-down branches that had cracked most of the remaining headstones. In front of the church was an old turning circle, the gravel dirty and mostly washed away, deep cracks and grooves channeling through it as god knows how many years of water had run its course. In the center of the turning circle was an old stone statue. What it had once been, I had no idea; it was almost completely crumbled. Next to the base stood a