You’re Next

by Kylie Schachte

  But there is something. A dull, droning roar. I take a step forward, more mindful of my feet now, and then another. The sound gets louder. It’s like… cheering? Like people. A lot of them. A crowd.

  I turn left, then right. The sound sharpens. Bloodthirsty shrieks. The thunder of applause.

  I take another turn and stop short. At the end of a long stretch of tunnel, there’s an open door. Inside, lights flash and pop, illuminating a crowd of people. A behemoth of a man guards the entrance. He doesn’t look surprised to see me. Doesn’t say a word.

  Beyond the doorway, the crowd cheers. It’s the kind of sound I imagine you heard a lot at the Roman Colosseum, back in the day. Gleeful but vicious.

  All of my fear evaporates in fast-forward. I want in there.

  “Twenty,” the man grunts as I approach.

  I stand on tiptoes while I count the money, hardly paying attention to the bills as I strain to see over his shoulder. He takes my cash and jerks his head inside.

  I step through the door and into a nightmare of flesh, screams, and smoke. I blink, trying to adjust to the sudden change in light—it’s much darker in here than in the tunnel. The air is thick and humid with the smell of sweat and spilled beer. Pulsating, bass-heavy music throbs inside my brain. From what I can see, we’re standing in some kind of massive underground storage space, long since left empty. Just like the tunnels, the walls and floors are concrete. The ceiling is low and close.

  And there are people everywhere. Hundreds of them. Yelling to be heard over the music, jostling each other for space.

  What is this place? There’s music, but no one’s dancing. It’s not a club. A bar?

  Nearby, a girl in teetering heels laughs with her friends, liquid sloshing from the red cup in her hand. To my right, two guys start shoving each other. Their friends grab them by the arms, pulling them apart. The whole room has the electric feel of a mob teetering on the brink of a riot.

  I’m caught up in that current. My skin hums with pure aliveness.

  The space is hazy and dim, but for a cluster of blazing bright lights grouped in a circle at the center of the room. The crowd reacts as one sinuous blob, jeering, gasping, shouting at something in that circle of light, but I can’t see over the wall of bodies.

  I push forward. People press and jam against me on all sides. Someone stomps on my foot. An elbow to my ribs. I don’t feel a thing.

  I break free at the edge of an elevated platform with netting along the sides. A ring. Inside, two girls are beating the shit out of each other. A referee in traditional black-and-white stripes watches from the corner. The audience shrieks and howls.

  Holy fuck.

  One of the girls lands a kick to her opponent’s jaw. Her long brown braid whips out behind her as she spins. The other girl crumples backward, and the crowd swells around me. The ref counts the girl out on the floor. She doesn’t get up. Her sports bra is a jarring hot pink under the glare of the ring lights. The ref gives two short blasts on his whistle.

  “And that’s the Butterfly, down for the count!” An announcer appears with a microphone. He’s got Elvis hair and a ridiculous salmon-colored suit. “This signals the end of the Butterfly’s winning streak. I know there will be some unhappy folks in the audience tonight!”

  He’s not kidding. People around me are still yelling, although it’s unclear who’s celebrating and who’s furious. A man turns and screams right in my face. The stale stench of his breath washes over my cheeks. The humming electricity inside me skitters and jumps between thrill and terror and back again.

  “The Butterfly” fell on my side of the ring. Up close, her face is very young. My heart lurches. She’s my age, maybe younger. A man carries her off. Her neck flops lifelessly in his arms.

  There are kids here. Kids my age. Fighting.

  That feeling from earlier creeps over me again. Ava was the girl who taught me how to kiss. Who was always picking at her nail polish. Who ran the voter registration booth at the homecoming fair. I can’t make her fit in here, whatever this screaming hellhole is.

  I’m trying to look everywhere at once. There’s a makeshift bar on the other side of the ring. Two bartenders work side by side, one filling plastic cups from a keg, the other mixing drinks from giant bottles of liquor and soda. It’s hard to make her out in the low light, but I’m pretty sure that girl in the silver dress is Penelope Simmons—the lead in the school play—laughing with another girl as they hand over cash to the bartender. A man passes in front of them, and then they’re gone.

  I scan the rest of the crowd. There are some of your basic underbelly types: shifty-eyed dudes and low-rent crime lords, along with assorted bimbos and hangers-on. But there’s also a lot of teenagers.

  I spot a tall kid in a green shirt I could swear is a sophomore at my school. He turns and walks away, the crowd reabsorbing the empty space he left behind like he was never there at all. I spot another guy, not from Hartsdale, but I feel like I’ve seen him at a party before, back when I still got invited to parties. I think he goes to one of our neighboring schools. Maybe Garfield?

  The announcer gets on the mic again. “And now, for our third match of the evening, a true clash of titans!”

  I turn my attention back to the ring.

  Announcer dude struts around, his slick showmanship an absurd contrast to the grimy, makeshift feeling of this place. “In one corner, we have the Destructinator!”

  Yikes. That name has to be a joke, right? The first contender lumbers into the ring and raises a meaty fist in the air. He’s older than the last contestants, probably in his twenties. The crowd cheers. I wrinkle my nose. People root for this guy?

  “And in the other corner, his opponent! Coming off a twelve-round undefeated streak! Can he maintain it? It’ssss… VT!”

  This guy gets a much louder response. A group of girls shoulders up next to me at the edge of the ring. They press against the platform, tossing their hair and adjusting their sparkly dresses.

  A second later, I get it. VT—whatever that stands for—lopes into view. I am not above noticing he is far and away the prettiest boy I have ever seen. He’s young, got to be close to my age, and his face is almost girlish, with a delicately angled jaw and long lashes. Soft little-boy curls are pulled back in a stubby ponytail. He’s wearing an old-fashioned mauve silk boxing robe, like he thinks he’s in Pulp Fiction or something, and nothing but tight black shorts underneath.

  VT is much, much smaller than Destructo-whatever, but he doesn’t seem worried. He feints back and forth, hamming it up for the crowd. Blows kisses to the girls next to me, who shriek and fall against each other, giggling. His massive opponent tracks VT’s movement with his eyes, like the ugliest house cat watching a fly.

  The bell dings.

  VT is whip fast. He darts in and lands three lightning punches, then dances back out of range before the giant can grab him. Destructinator lunges and VT dodges the wrong way. One monstrous fist comes down hard on top of VT’s head, leveling him to the ground, but before I finish my gasp, he rolls out of the way and lands a kick to his opponent’s kneecap. A gruesome crack echoes through the room.

  I’ve seen Ultimate Fighting Championship–type stuff on TV before, but this is brutal. There are clearly no rules.

  VT gets in a few more good hits to the other guy’s legs and face, avoiding Destructinator’s torso altogether. Smart. The guy’s built like a rhino. He wouldn’t even feel a chest hit through that thick hide.

  I don’t know much about fighting, but VT is weirdly… graceful? He throws a few leaping kicks to his opponent’s head, and his body jackknifes so elegantly, I have the crazy thought that he must have been a dancer who fell on hard times.

  The giant almost goes down after a ruthless blow to his face, but then he reels forward and swings an almighty arm out, grabbing for that fly.

  The shattering force of his fist connects with VT’s face, and he’s sent spinning toward me.

  For half a second, everything slows
. VT is suspended in air, caught midway through his fall. His eyes meet mine. A bead of sweat slides from his temple down one cheekbone to collect in the bow curve of his mouth. He blinks once in slow motion. I can count his eyelashes.

  The animal frenzy of the crowd returns.

  VT whips himself around to attack his opponent with a wild savagery that makes something squirm in my stomach. I force myself not to look away. The predatory grace is gone. He’s feral now, mauling the other guy’s face like he wants to kill. Destructinator, poor dude, doesn’t stand a chance. He’s down and out within a minute.

  “And VT, our reigning champion, brings down the Destructinator!” the announcer screams. People yell. VT wipes some blood from his forearm and preens for the crowd. He doesn’t look my way again.

  His back is to his fallen enemy. He doesn’t notice the guy heft himself up. I yell some kind of warning, but it gets lost in the din. Destructinator bellows, cocks his fist back, and lands a mean sucker punch to VT’s kidneys.

  Ouch.

  VT goes down hard and doesn’t get up. A bunch of guys swarm the ring and haul the Destructinator away, but my eyes are locked on VT, still out cold on the ground. A man in a gray suit bends over him and jostles his shoulder. With a little help, VT staggers to his feet and exits through a pair of doors at the back. I lean forward on the balls of my feet and watch him go.

  Green flashes in my peripheral vision. It’s the green-shirt kid! I squint across the ring at him. I’m almost positive that guy goes to my school. His eyes catch on my face, and even in the dark I swear there’s a shiver of fear.

  He knows me.

  The guy immediately turns and shoves past the people behind him, but I’ve got him in my sights now. His head sticks up above the crowd enough for me to track him. Being tall must suck sometimes.

  Still, it’s like the people around me have merged into one many-limbed creature. Hands and legs drag at me as I fight my way through a spiderweb of human flesh. I finally burst out the door I entered through, but Green Shirt is gone.

  “Which way did he go?” I ask the bouncer. “The guy in the green shirt? Tall string-bean dude? Which way?”

  The tiniest movement of his shoulders. I guess it could charitably be called a shrug.

  Fan-fucking-tastic.

  I take off down the hall, following the lights out the way I came. Left. Right. Right. I have a stitch like a tiny Swiss Army knife in my side, but I push harder. I don’t want to wait until school tomorrow for answers. That guy is going to explain what so many people I know are doing in this place.

  Last turn. Up the stairs. Out the doors.

  The parking lot is empty. I gasp for air, and the icy specter of my breath shimmers in the moonlight. A cold tendril of sweaty hair sticks to my forehead. There’s the coyote howl of a siren in the distance.

  The guy is gone.

  A scream of frustration wells up inside me, then pops just as fast, like a balloon. All the exhaustion of the last few days barrels into me at once. My ears ring in the absence of the crowd. That shivering bloodlust ecstasy has left me wrung out, my nerves shredded. I’m sticky and cold, and my guy has vanished.

  A new lead is like a drug—euphoria, adrenaline—but it disappears so quickly, leaving nothing but more questions behind.

  It’s time to call it a night.

  I trudge across the parking lot and kneel down to unlock my bike. My bones creak under the weight of my fatigue.

  “And she rode her bike here. Isn’t that darling?”

  It’s like something out of a comic book: the flash of flame in a dark corner, the glowing red ember of a freshly lit cigarette. A person slouches out of the shadows. I stand up. His face passes into the light, and I’m stock-still like a deer in the road. He’s bruised and bloody, but still strangely beautiful.

  “Been waiting for you, Red.”

  The soles of my feet itch with the flight instinct, but I don’t run. Yet.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “Thought we might get a chance to chat.” VT’s showered—his hair is out of its ponytail, hanging to his shoulders in damp curls. His hands have been bandaged, and a black eye swells across his cheek.

  “Yeah?” I tighten my grip on my bike. “About what?”

  “Got some things worth knowing.” He takes a drag on his cigarette.

  “What makes you think I’m here looking for information?” Convenient as it is, informants don’t usually waltz up and offer me their life stories.

  He sneers. “Oh, I can tell, Cherry. You’d love to hear all my nasty secrets.”

  “Hard pass.” I throw my leg over the bike seat. I do want info, but I’m not going to let this greasy little rat jerk me around.

  “Know a thing or two about this establishment, for one.” He takes a sideways step closer. “Insider’s knowledge, yeah? Be happy to pass it on if you’ll let me buy you a soda pop.”

  His eyes are hard, almost resentful. Not sure what I’ve done to piss this guy off already. That usually takes at least five minutes, and after all, he approached me.

  I toggle my bike pedal with my foot, deliberating.

  I’m tempted to make a break for it—I have indeed heard about the dangers of accepting candy, or in this case soft drinks, from strangers—but I have so many questions, and this guy might have answers. The humming buzz of adrenaline starts up again.

  Sensing my hesitation, VT continues. “There’s a diner not far from here. Twenty-four-hour place. We can talk in public.”

  That girl. The Butterfly. Crumpled on the floor of the ring, she looked nearly dead. The address of this place, scrawled in Ava’s handwriting across the top of her diary page. The hollow stillness of my bedroom.

  Do I want to go home? Stare at my ceiling and try not to think about Ava, or Cass, or Olive, or any of the other people I’ve let down today?

  “Okay.” I hop off my bike. “But I have a Taser and three knives on me. Get any creepier, and I promise you’ll find out where I’m hiding them.”

  Something like delight flares in his eyes. “Deal.”

  We don’t talk for the first few blocks. I keep glancing at him, but he’s looking straight ahead. I’m still a little winded from the emotional roller coaster of today, plus the dystopian hellscape acid trip of the fight club, and now there are little flutters of hope that this guy might have actual information. But in all likelihood he’s luring me back to his place, where he can cut me up into little pieces and tuck into some Flora fajitas.

  “Why do they call you VT?” I ask eventually. It’s a pretty bland stage name, compared to the Butterfly or… Destructinator.

  “It’s my name.”

  I frown. “Your mother named you VT?”

  “In a way.”

  “Does it stand for Vermont?” I guess.

  He snorts. “No.”

  “Victor Theodore?”

  “No.”

  I throw out a wild card. “Vanya Telemachus?”

  “My girl’s well-read, huh? Still no. This bothers you, doesn’t it? Not knowing.”

  “I’m Flora. I know things. And I’m not your girl.”

  He rolls his eyes and flicks his cigarette away. “My apologies, didn’t mean to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

  We turn onto a street lit with the fish-tank glow of a 24/7 diner. Inside, a bored waitress seats us in a back corner booth. Under the diner’s fluorescents, VT looks a lot more beat up than he did on the dark streets.

  “You look awful,” I tell him.

  He drapes an arm over the back of the booth. “Not so charming yourself, Cherry. Could do with a shower and a good night’s sleep, I bet.”

  I hold back a snarl and resist the urge to smooth my hair.

  He gestures to his battered face. “And you should see the other guy.”

  “I did.”

  He tilts his head to one side with a look of sly calculation. “That’s right. So what’s a girl like you doing in my club?”

  I cross my arms.
“What’s with the questions? I thought you were supposed to be the one with the information.”

  “Gotta give a little to get a little, Pippi.”

  “Do you just sit around all day thinking up nicknames in case you meet a redhead?”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  Our waitress appears. VT and I realize at the same moment that we’re leaning across the table toward each other. We both sit back. She dumps menus in front of us and departs without a word.

  I’m suddenly starving. Recon always makes me hungry.

  I hold the menu up in front of me, pretending to study it so I can examine his face. He takes a sip of his water. His bruises are sort of sexy in a way that makes me have all kinds of weird guilty thoughts about The Patriarchy and the sexualization of violence.

  “See something you want?” he taunts.

  “Yeah.” I fold up my menu. “French fries. And a milkshake. Possibly pancakes down the line, but we’ll see. You’re buying, right?”

  “Sure, Ginger. I’ll buy you dinner.”

  Once we’ve ordered, he says, “Back to my original question. What brought Anne of Green Gables to the club tonight?”

  “Why should I tell you?” I ask. It’s making me nervous, how interested he is. Why did he seek me out?

  “Come on, you spill a couple secrets, and I’ll tell you my whole story,” he coaxes.

  I want it, but I don’t want him to know how bad I want it. “Whatever. I could guess, anyway.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. I’m good at that sort of thing. Could read you right now, not so hard.”

  “That is a tempting offer. Not exactly unreadable yourself, sweetheart.”

  “You think?” I’m well aware he’s manipulating me, but I can’t help it. I’m charged with the same ferocious voltage from earlier, and I’m ready for a brawl.

  “Oh, yeah.” He looks away like he couldn’t care less, but he’s sitting on the very edge of the bench, too. “It’s written all over you.”

  “Well, let’s have it.”

  He tilts his head as he considers me—a long, sweeping evaluation—then says, “Sure, a little game, then? I’ll show you yours if you show me mine? If you’re as good as you say, I’ll tell you what I know. Gotta warn you, though. Might not like what you hear.”