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

of the dusty floorboards beneath us.

“Where are they?” he demanded, a definite note of finality in his voice.

Below, despite the sound of the storm, I could still hear the occasional gunshot, the occasional shout, the occasional crunch of tires as a vehicle neared from outside. I had no idea what was going on down there, I had no idea who was winning, but I had a fair idea it didn’t matter. The only thing that held any meaning for me was the fact Maratova was barely a meter away from me with a gun pointed right at me, and a good reason to use it.

“They are in a... secret wall compartment,” I said, coming up with a lie.

“Where?” Maratova snapped at once.

“I,” I kept snapping my gaze around, trying to find my bearings in the bare flashes of light through either window, “It's hard to see in the dark.”

“Where?” Maratova snapped again.

My mind was slowing down, my ears filling with a distinct buzzing noise. I was like a deer stuck in the headlights; I couldn’t move, I couldn’t think of anything else, and I couldn’t answer him.

“Amanda.” He roared. “Give me the fucking globes.”

The exact note of rage in his voice was enough to jolt me into action. I gave a sudden shake that ran all the way down over my back and legs. I darted to the side, noting there was a large cupboard off to my left that was pulled away from the wall. I saw it in another flash from one of the roaming lights from below, and blood bellowing in my ears, I threw myself towards it.

He yelled, not firing at me, but I heard the weight of his body shift as he threw himself towards me, heard the groan of the floorboards as they absorbed the force of his chase.

Heart hammering in my throat, I made it behind the cupboard, but I didn’t collapse there as my brain told me to do, too overcome by fear to move on. Instead I pushed hard at the cupboard, flattening my shoulder into it and giving it all I had.

It moved, teetering forward, and smashing to the ground. In the dark I had no idea whether it had hit Maratova, or even where he was. I heard him trip against something, heard the floorboards groan as something heavy hit them. He swore harshly.

I turned, spying another tall bookcase pulled away from the wall further up the attic, as yet another slice of light darted through the windows at the other end. I ran towards it, leg collecting the side of a desk but not tripping me up.

I reached the bookcase and pressed my back into it just as I heard his breath, heard his growl.

So I pushed again, and the bookcase teetered then fell, slamming onto the attic floor with an enormous thud. Before I could pause to wonder whether it had collected Maratova, I felt a move beside me, felt him grab out a hand and latch it onto my elbow.

I screamed louder than I ever had before.

Before I could do anything, his arm was snapped away as I saw a dark shadow collect into his side. There was a massive grunt and I staggered back as I realized someone had grabbed Maratova off me, and that same someone was grappling with him on the ground.

I had no idea who was fighting Maratova, but my only hope was that they won.

Eyes wide, I watched the scene, trying to track what was going on. Then I realized I had to do something; I had to help whoever it was down there, because if I didn't and they lost, then I would lose next. Chapter Eighteen

Sebastian Shaw

Maratova shoved his hand right into my face, his palm cupping my chin and forcing my head backwards. In reply I punched deep into his gut, regretting it as my knuckles bashed up against the hard weave of his body armor.

Maratova brought his other arm around, gun still in his hand, and smashed it against my left temple.

Though the blow was hard, this stabbing pain shooting across my brow, I didn't let go of him. I managed to grab a hand over his elbow, yanking it back, the gun falling from his grip and clattering across the ground.

Jesus Christ it was dark in here; the only thing I could know for sure was that Maratova was on the floor with me and he was murderously angry.

He brought up his leg, kicking it into my knee, the tread of his boot dragging across my flesh. It hurt like hell, but I rolled back, regrouping and throwing myself back at him.

I managed to land a punch to his jaw. Though it was hard and solid, it didn't knock him out, but it did make a crack.

Maratova redoubled his efforts, kicked at me again, and landed a blow right in my gut. It sent me slamming backwards, and he jumped on top of me, hands around my throat. Choking, spluttering, unable to suck in a breath, I brought my hands up and tried to push him off. I was losing energy, losing strength, and as I grabbed his hands, I began to black out.

I didn't even have time to think it was over; my brain was too starved of oxygen to bother.

There was a sudden loud crack, and Maratova fell backwards.

The instant his hands fell away from my throat I sucked in several choked breaths, staving off the unconsciousness that had almost claimed me.

Dizzy and only barely aware of my surroundings, I saw someone standing over Maratova, something heavy and dark in their hands. They had obviously hit him over the head, and in doing so had saved my life.

The person dropped to their knees right beside me. In a sudden and erratic slice of light that filtered in through one of the windows behind me, I saw Amanda.

“Sebastian? Sebastian?”

I couldn't answer; I could hardly breathe. I was only holding onto consciousness, staving off the blackness looming at the edges of my vision. I was choking and coughing hard, throat wheezing as I tried to suck in breath after breath.

Amanda leaned over me, grabbed both my shoulders, and in another flash of light I saw the expression on her face. Her brow was pulled up, her eyebrows peaked in the middle, her lips open wide, her cheek slack. She was worried, she was worried about me.

“God, are you alright, are you okay?” she asked, words jumbled together.

After I managed to suck in enough breath, the darkness at the edges of my vision subsided, and I managed to push myself up.

Amanda put a hand on my shoulder to steady me. “Are you okay?”

It was obvious I wasn't okay; I had almost been choked to death by the world's greatest psychopath. But I managed to nod my head in a complete lie.

“Are you okay?” I asked her, my throat so growly and croaky I sounded as though I was recovering from a week-long cold.

She nodded vehemently. Obviously it was also another lie, as I doubted she could be that okay considering the day she’d had. But her enthusiasm counted for something.

I sat on my own, still panting, but not about to lose consciousness any time soon. I rubbed my throat, as if to convince myself it was still there and wasn't the crumpled mess it would have been if Amanda hadn’t clocked Maratova on the head in time.

I let out a heavy sigh and managed to push myself to my feet. Amanda was there every step of the way, hovering next to me like a protective mother hen. Though her movement was distracting and made me smile, I turned my head to that dark shadow of Maratova on the floor.

I didn't like to kill people; it was illegal for a very good reason. Murder was abhorrent. Killing could only ever be the last option after you'd exhausted every other means to solve a solution. That being said, in that instant I still felt the desire to reach around to the gun still tucked into the back of my pants and shoot Maratova.

He was a monster, fuck it, he was a monster.

The feeling passed. It was obvious he wasn't going to get up any time soon; Amanda had done a sterling job in knocking him out.

I still pulled my gun out though.

Gun in one hand, I dropped beside Maratova, pressing my fingers into the side of his throat, trying to get a pulse. He had one alright; the big brute wasn’t dead.

“Let's go,” I called over to Amanda.

“Where?” she asked. “Is everything fine? Are all the criminals gone? Is the army here?”

When she wanted to, Amanda could ask several million questions at once. She could bombard you like a machine gun. But in her position I would be asking questions too.

“No, they are still downstairs, and this is still a bad situation,” I said truthfully.

She gave nod. “How do we—”

“Get out of here. A miracle,” I shrugged, “And if that doesn't work, we find a nice place to hide and we wait it out.”

With the amount of firepower gunning it out downstairs and outside, I didn't think I could safely shepherd Amanda out of the house.

I nodded towards the open attic door.

It had been a stroke of luck finding Amanda in time.

Jesus Christ, I would never forget the rush of blood to my head as I saw the ladder leading to the attic, and heard the thumps and shouts from above.

“Where should we go?” Amanda asked by my side.

I had no idea; this was her house. Or, technically her great-uncle’s estate, as I had no doubt that Imelda Stanton would sell this place off as soon as all the junk was cleared from it.

As I motioned Amanda to the attic door, I heard footsteps on the floor below. Heavy footsteps, followed by fairly gruff shouts, the kind of gruff shouts that told me the shouters were not sodding army, because nobody that trained would give away their position so easily.

I silently mouthed a litany of swear words and shook my head in desperation as I grabbed Amanda’s hand.

I pulled her away from the trapdoor and down to the other end of the attic.

I heard a shout from downstairs, fancied I even picked up several words, among them 'attic' and 'Maratova.’

Right at the other end of the long attic sat an array of furniture lined up against the wall. We made our way to it just in time as I heard Maratova's men begin to climb the ladder.

I searched for a good hiding place, but before I could find one, Amanda began tugging my hand, pointing in the dark to a heavy chest of drawers off to my side. I couldn’t see anything, but I let her pull me along until we made it to the chest of drawers. It was in the corner, one of the only windows in the attic above it, one of the long walls of the house on its other side. When I reached it I realized there was a considerable gap behind it.

I let Amanda go in first, and she dropped to her knees, breaking my grip as she squeezed into the gap. With a final look at the rest