by Clayton Wood
Nothing.
“Damn it,” Neesha swore.
“Guys!” Corey yelled. His shoulder passed through the wall, his upper chest sinking slowly into the blackness. His face was only inches away from the inky surface now. He jerked his head backward. “Guys!”
“Pull damn it!” Neesha shouted. She heaved backward, and Taylor followed suit, straining as hard as he could. Sweat trickled down his forehead, stinging his eyes, his biceps burning. But it was no use.
Corey screamed as the right side of his face touched the blackness, as it was pulled inexorably inward.
Then his eyes rolled in the back of his head, and his left arm and leg began to jerk uncontrollably. Taylor’s grip on Corey’s leg slipped, and he stumbled backward, falling onto his butt on the stone floor.
“Come on!” Neesha urged, yanking on Corey’s leg again. “Marc, help me!” Marc rushed up to Corey’s still-spasming leg, trying to grab it. But he was kicked in the chest, and nearly fell backward as well. Neesha swore, grabbing both of Corey’s legs and leaning backward, the muscles of her arms going taut.
The left side of Corey’s head was sucked into the blackness, his right leg starting to jerk uncontrollably as well, yanking Neesha forward. She stumbled, letting go of Corey’s legs and falling onto her belly on the ground.
“Neesha!” Taylor cried, rushing to her side. “You okay?”
“Grab him!” Neesha shouted, struggling to get on her hands and knees. Taylor grabbed one of Corey’s legs, realizing the man’s head had passed through the blackness, his chest now being sucked into it. He was being drawn in faster now, the darkness greedily consuming him.
“Shit,” Taylor swore, pulling backward as hard as he could. But it was no use…Corey’s upper body vanished through the wall, his waist passing through rapidly, and then his upper legs. When Corey’s knees passed through, Taylor let go, backing away from the wall quickly.
Corey’s legs sucked into the wall, then his feet, the blackness swallowing him whole.
“Well shit,” Neesha swore. Taylor stared at the spot where Corey had been, unable to believe his eyes.
“What the hell just happened?” he asked.
“Babe,” Neesha said.
“I can’t believe he just…”
“Babe!” Neesha repeated, louder this time. Taylor looked down at her. She was on her hands and knees near the wall, staring at her left hand.
The tip of her index finger was touching the wall.
Taylor rushed to her side, dropping to his knees. His blood went cold.
“Can you pull it out?” he asked. Neesha ignored the question.
“Get out your knife,” she ordered. Taylor stared at her blankly. She glared at him. “Your knife!” He hesitated, then reached for his belt, for the hunting knife there. He unsheathed it. Neesha twisted to the side, exposing her stuck finger.
“What do you…”
“Cut it off,” Neesha ordered.
“What?”
“Cut my finger off,” she clarified, her voice icy calm. He just stared at her. She grabbed the knife from his hand, then pressed the blade against her index finger, just beyond the last knuckle.
“Babe!”
“Shut up,” she commanded. Her jaw rippled, and she slid the blade across her finger, blood welling up immediately, the skin parting easily. Yellow fat was exposed beneath, blood pouring out of the wound. She bit back a scream, sawing into her own flesh. The sound of metal grating on bone echoed through the large tunnel.
And then her finger began to pull into the wall.
“Babe…” Taylor repeated. But Neesha ignored him, biting back another scream, sawing faster. Blood began spurting out in regular intervals, spraying the blade and Neesha’s other hand. Marc backed away, his face turning deathly pale, and promptly vomited.
“God damn it!” Neesha shouted.
“What?”
“I hit the goddamn wall with my goddamn knife!” she exclaimed. She was right; the tip of the knife had plunged into the wall. She pulled on it frantically, but it didn’t budge.
“Move your finger against the blade,” Taylor offered. Neesha glared at him.
“I can’t move my finger!”
“Can you move the blade at all?” he pressed.
“No,” she answered. She leaned back, jerking her left arm from the wall. Her partially-severed finger continued to spurt blood, but it held. “Oh come on!”
Then the finger pulled further into the blackness, the wounded part vanishing beyond it.
“Marc, do you have a knife?” Taylor asked. Marc fumbled through his equipment, then shook his head. Taylor swore, turning back to Neesha. Her finger was now entirely engulfed by the blackness, her knuckles dipping into the void. “Baby, grab my hand,” he said, reaching out to her. She swatted his hand away.
“Get back,” she ordered. Taylor stared at her uncomprehendingly.
“What?”
“Get away from the wall,” she clarified. “You can’t get trapped too.”
“Babe, we have to…”
“You’re not getting me out,” she interrupted, her tone harsh. “You need to be there for our son.”
“We can still…”
“I love you hon,” she said, reaching out and touching his cheek. She gave him a smile. “I’ll always love you.”
“Baby, no!” Taylor insisted, grabbing her hand and pulling it back, trying to pull her free. It was no use…the blackness consumed her, pulling her in past the wrist now. Her forearm vanished, then her elbow.
“Let go babe,” Neesha requested, her tone gentler. Her shoulder passed through, her head only inches from the wall now.
“No,” Taylor shot back, his vision blurring as tears welled up in his eyes. “No baby, no.”
“Take care of our son,” she insisted. “He can’t lose both of us.”
“Baby, please…”
“Kiss me,” she demanded. He hesitated, then leaned in, pressing his lips against hers. He felt the soft crush of her lips, smelled the sweetness of her breath, of her skin. That intoxicating scent that meant everything was going to be okay…that he was home.
She pushed him away, staring into his eyes.
“Goodbye love,” she murmured, smiling at him again, tears dripping down her cheeks.
And then the back of her head passed into the darkness.
“No!”
Her face stiffened, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. Her arm spasmed, then her legs, convulsing rhythmically. Her face passed through the blackness, then her right shoulder, her arm sucking inward rapidly. Her hand reached out for him, her fingers spreading wide.
And then she was gone.
Chapter 1
Hunter sighed, drumming his fingers on his desk, glancing up as a young woman got up from her chair, walking up to the teacher's desk and handing in her test. It was Tiffany, easily the hottest white girl in school. She had the kind of body that kept a guy up at night…in more ways than one. Tall, slender, sexy as hell, with a glorious booty and long, luscious golden hair, she was like a magnet for the eyes…and his eyes tracked her as she walked back to her chair from Mr. Stanson’s desk, sitting down.
God damn, he thought.
He glanced at the clock on the wall; it’d been over twenty minutes since he’d finished the exam, being the first to do so, as usual. Like anything else, pre-calc was easy if you actually paid attention. Not exactly shocking that a lot of kids were failing the class. The fools goofed off during class, cheated on their homework, then bitched and moaned when they bombed the tests, blaming the teacher for making the tests “unfair.” Clueless bastards actually believed their own bullshit, too.
It was all highly entertaining.
He continued to drum his fingers on his desk finding himself staring at Tiffany again. Or rather, at her cleavage. She’d chosen a particularly low-cut shirt today, for which he was immensely grateful.
Man, he mused. What I wouldn’t give to be with her.
&nbs
p; Fat chance of that ever happening, of course. She was already taken, dating a dumb jock in class called Tyler. But hey, a guy could dream…and he planned on doing just that later on tonight. Among other things.
More students got up to pass in their exams, and eventually the bell rang, signaling the end of class. A tall, muscular guy in the back row hurried up to Mr. Stanson’s desk to drop off his test, and Hunter found with no small amount of satisfaction that it was Tyler, Tiffany’s intellectually-challenged boyfriend. The moron was usually the last to finish. God only knows how he managed to stay on the football team with his shit grades.
The teacher dismissed the class, and Hunter got up, walking toward the exit. But his teacher gestured for him to come up to the front desk. Hunter hesitated, watching the last of the students leave, then walked up to the desk.
“Yeah?” he asked. Mr. Stanson, a short, middle-aged man with reading glasses, handed Hunter some papers. Hunter took it, realizing that it was his test.
“I graded yours already,” Mr. Stanson declared, leaning back in his chair and eyeing Hunter disapprovingly. “Almost as quickly as you took it.”
“Gee, thanks,” Hunter mumbled. He glanced at the score, written in bold red marker on the top of the page. 82%…not terrible.
“You made some pretty stupid errors,” Mr. Stanson stated disapprovingly. “If you’d taken your time, you might have gotten a better score.” Hunter shrugged.
“Not bad for not studying,” he countered. Mr. Stanson sighed.
“Yeah, not bad,” he agreed. “Ever imagine what you could do if you actually tried?”
“Sure,” Hunter replied. “I could get rich, get me a trophy wife…and still get shot by the police during a routine traffic stop.”
Mr. Stanson sighed again, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his desk.
“You know,” he began, “…every year I get someone like you. Smart, but lazy. I used to think it was because they weren’t stimulated enough…that things were just too easy for them.” He took a sip from a glass of water on his desk. “You wanna know what I think now?”
“Not really.”
“I think you,” he stated, jabbing a finger at Hunter, “…are afraid.”
“Of what, getting an A?”
“Of what you might be able to accomplish if you actually tried,” Mr. Stanson corrected.
Hunter glanced down at his test, then back at Mr. Stanson, furrowing his eyebrows.
“You mean if I try real hard,” he replied, “…I might be able to make minimum wage being a math teacher?”
Mr. Stanson stared at Hunter silently for a long moment. Then he snatched Hunter’s test away, putting it back with the others. He jabbed one finger at Hunter.
“You know,” he stated icily, “…one day, your mouth is gonna get you in a whole lot of trouble.” He waved Hunter away then. “Next time, don’t hand in your test until time’s up,” he ordered. “Now get the hell out of my sight.”
Hunter was all-too-happy to oblige, walking out of the classroom and into the hallway. He trudged toward his locker at the far end, weaving around other students in his path. He made it to his locker, opening it up and dropping his textbook inside.
“Hey Hunter,” he heard a voice say. He looked up, seeing Tyler – Tiffany’s jock boyfriend – standing next to him. “Finished early again, huh?”
“Uh huh.”
“Heard that was a problem for you,” Tyler quipped, smirking at him. “Caught you staring at my girlfriend again,” he added. “Need to change your underwear?”
Hunter ignored him, grabbing the textbook for his next class. He felt more eyes staring at him, and knew that Tyler’s knuckle-dragging cronies had swooped in to enjoy the show. As usual.
“Aww, it’s okay man,” Tyler continued, patting Hunter on the shoulder. “You’ll get laid someday. Somewhere out there, I’m sure there’s a guy that’s perfect for you.” Tyler’s friends laughed at that, and Hunter rolled his eyes.
“You volunteering sweetheart?” he asked, not even bothering to look at the moron.
“Oh damn,” one of Tyler’s friends blurted out. “Tyler, I think he wants you!” Tyler laughed.
“Yeah, you know what,” he said, “…I think I did catch him trying to sneak a peek at my dick in the bathroom.” He sneered at Hunter. “You a faggot, boy?”
Hunter froze.
“I asked you a question,” Tyler pressed. Hunter turned to face him.
“You sure had a hard time finishing that test,” Hunter replied coolly. “Maybe you should switch to the special needs class. You know, with the rest of the retards.”
Tyler stared at Hunter for a long moment, then stepped in closer, staring down at him. He was a good eight inches taller than Hunter, and a whole lot bigger.
“Careful boy,” he shot back. “Or I’ll hit you so hard I’ll make you a retard.”
“Right,” Hunter muttered, turning back to his locker. “Is that what you did to Tiffany?” he asked. “That explains why she’s going out with you.”
Tyler stepped in closer, glaring down at him.
“What did you say?”
Hunter ignored him, zipping up his backpack and closing his locker door. Tyler shoved him backward, and Hunter nearly fell, catching himself at the last minute. Tyler stepped in again.
“I asked you what you said,” Tyler growled. Hunter stared right back, feeling anger rising within him.
“Need me to talk slower so you can understand?”
Tyler went to shove Hunter again, but this time Hunter pushed back, and they both moved back a step. Tyler’s face turned red.
“You little black piece of shit,” he spat. Hunter smirked.
“Dumb and racist,” he shot back. “How does it feel to be white trash?” Tyler shoved him again, pushing him back a few steps.
“At least my white trash dad didn’t knock up some dirty nigger ho,” he spat.
The rage was instant.
Hunter burst, forward, swinging his fist at Tyler’s face as hard as he could, his knuckles slamming into the jock’s nose with a loud crack. Tyler dropped like a stone, landing on his back on the floor. Blood spurted from his nose, gushing over his face and onto the floor.
He was out. Cold.
“Jesus!” one of Tyler’s friends blurted out. Hunter ignored him, rushing up and kicking Tyler in the nuts. He felt arms grab him from behind, pulling him away. He resisted, trying to break free.
“Stop it!” he heard a man shout. “Stop now!”
It was Mr. Stanson, he realized. Holding him from behind.
Well shit.
* * *
Hunter slumped into the car seat, pulling on his seat belt and not bothering to make eye contact with his father. Dad sighed, starting the engine and pulling out of the high school parking lot. They drove in silence for a while, turning down this street and that. Hunter stared out of his side window glumly, hearing Dad clear his throat.
“What happened?” Dad asked.
“Some kid dressed up as a punching bag,” he answered. “It wasn’t my fault,” he added. “The costume was so realistic. How was I supposed to know?”
Dad just glared at him.
“Some douchebag started pushing me around,” he admitted. When Dad didn’t say anything, he glanced over at him. “He started it.”
“You broke his nose, Hunter,” Dad countered.
“He started it,” Hunter repeated. “I tried to talk my way out of it, but he kept going after me.”
“Okay,” Dad replied. “But now you’re suspended.”
Hunter said nothing, staring at his own lap. He was suspended…for a week. He was lucky he hadn’t been expelled. With only a year left, that wasn’t a mistake he could afford to make. Even his suspension might cost him dearly. With his Dad’s salary, he had to get a good scholarship if he wanted to have any chance of going to college with his friends.
“Sorry Dad,” he muttered.
“I am too,” Dad replied. “That was
really stupid, Hunter.”
“I know.”
“You can’t just hit people when they piss you off,” he continued. “You have to learn how to control your temper.”
“I know,” Hunter repeated. He’d heard the lecture a thousand times.
“If you knew it,” Dad pressed, “…you’d do it.”
Hunter sighed, staring out of his side window, at the houses whizzing by. They were close to home now, only a half-mile away.
“He made fun of Mom.”
Dad sighed, running a hand through his short, salt-and-pepper hair, stopping at a red light. His jawline rippled, and he accelerated rapidly when the light turned green.
“He called her a…”
“I don’t want to know,” Dad interjected. “I really don’t want to know.”
“He used the N-word,” Hunter continued. Dad grimaced.
“I understand why you got upset,” he conceded. “But it isn’t an excuse to hit someone.” He turned down a side street. “You could’ve gone to a teacher, you know. Then you wouldn’t have gotten suspended.”
“Yeah, well,” Hunter muttered, still gazing out of his window. They were passing a few greenhouses now. “Mom would’ve hit him.”
Dad slowed down, then turned into their driveway, parking the car in the garage. He pulled his keys from the ignition, getting out of the car without saying anything. Hunter sighed, opening his own door and getting out. They both went into the house, taking off their shoes and walking into the kitchen.
“She would’ve,” Hunter insisted. Dad turned to glare at him.
“I know she would’ve,” he replied. “That doesn’t make it right.”
“Yeah, but…” Hunter began, but Dad put up a hand.
“Stop,” he ordered. Hunter obeyed, glaring at his father silently. “You screwed up,” he stated. “And now this suspension is going on your permanent record. Think about that,” he added. “You wanted to go to college with your friends? Too bad. You wanted to get into a good college at all? Good luck.” He turned away from Hunter, his jawline rippling. “I need to go think for a bit,” he stated. “We’ll finish this conversation later.” He walked to one of the kitchen cupboards, retrieving a tall glass. “Go to your room.”