Darkborn

by Matthew J. Costello

  Put a hold on a late breakfast later, he thought.

  He imagined poached eggs sitting on toast, looking like rheumy, diseased eyes. And then he’d poke his fork right in the center and all this yellow goo . . .

  Kiff started his chant again. Louder, his mouth spitting out the words.

  Enough of this shit, Will thought. I’ve got to sit down. I’ve got to get out of here and —

  Kiff spoke English.

  The same rhythm, the same sound, but now in English.

  “Come visibly and without delay,” he said. “In a human form, not terrifying . . .”

  English, thought Will.

  But then —

  It was back to the gibberish.

  Will looked at everyone. They were standing still. Where had all the laughs gone? Will thought. We need some laughs. Why won’t Whalen say something funny and cutting? Why won’t Narrio fall down, so goofy and convulsed with how damn funny this all is?

  He looked away.

  And saw someone.

  Further down, standing on the rocks, right near the water’s edge.

  “Hey,” Will said. But then there were two people there. And — it was hard to see, there was no light. But —

  Someone was watching them.

  Will looked back to Kiff. “Hey, guys . . . we’re —”

  “Come . . .” Kiff said.

  Shit, Will thought: We’d better get out of here. Better …

  He looked back at the people standing away from them, watching, what the hell . . .

  They were gone.

  Will looked at Whalen.

  He seemed to rock on his feet, on the stone that was tilted forward, right toward the sea.

  He watched Whalen rock back and forth.

  Whalen’s going to fall, tumble forward, Will thought. Will went to take a step toward him, to catch him before his head smashed against the rock.

  But first he looked back, out to the darkness again. There was nobody there. Probably just a shadow, thought Will. He looked down.

  At the circle. At the rock.

  At the point of his star. His feet were planted right on the tip.

  Whalen rocked like a stalk of wheat being blown by a wind that couldn’t make up its mind.

  Will raised his hand.

  “Meisto lamal . . .” Kiff said.

  But Will didn’t move.

  And Whalen fell forward, his chin smashing against the stone with a crack that made Will wince. And Will saw blood gush out of the cut, more blood than Will had ever seen.

  “Shit,” Tim said, kneeling down beside Whalen.

  Kiff was still chanting.

  “Cut that crap,” Will said.

  Narrio still stood on his star point as if unaware that anything had happened.

  Will crouched beside Whalen too. And with Tim’s help they tried to pull Whalen to his knees. They got him up into a doggie position. Whalen’s chin dripped blood, but Will saw that it wasn’t a bad cut, just a bloody one. A small flap of skin hung open, bit it didn’t look like anything that would need stitches.

  Whalen looked up at them. “Guess I chugged a little bit too fast. I just — all of a sudden —”

  And Whalen looked up, out to the sea, as if he had just seen the most incredible thing. He opened his mouth wide . . .

  And proceeded to shoot a spray of vomit that must have reached the water’s edge.

  Will — no steady sailor at this point himself — felt his own stomach go tight, ready to join the party.

  But he took a breath of the suddenly full and too-sweet air, and he was able to steady himself.

  I guess the fun part is over, he thought.

  But, once again, he was wrong . . .

  12

  ‘‘I’m okay. No problem, really.” Whalen looked up and around. He wiped at his chin, grinning, as if he had just been splashed with a messy wave that broke too high.

  Mike Narrio laughed. Everything was so damn funny to Narrio again, even Whalen wiping puke from his chin.

  Will shivered. The wind shifted a bit and he smelled his friend’s vomit, splattered across the rocks. Whalen held his tie against his chin. The flow of blood seemed to have been stemmed.

  “Maybe we should bag it,” Will said. “It’s getting cold out here.”

  Will saw Kiff standing there. Looking disappointed. The streetlight sputtered, flaring into increased brilliance. Will saw the dots of Jim Kiff’s freckles. Then the light shriveled to a paler glow.

  Let’s get out of here, Will thought.

  “Hey, no,” Whalen said, forcing a hearty laugh. “I’m fine. No problem.” He reached out and took the bourbon bottle from Tim’s hand. He held it up to the milky light. “There’s still a few more drinks here. And we can always hit that friendly liquor store again.” He turned to Kiff. “Right, Kiff? Right?”

  But Kiff was staring at the circle, at the trail of upchuck, at the sea.

  “He’s disappointed that nothing happened,” Tim said. “No demons . . .”

  “Hey,” Whalen said, standing up, “you call what happened to me nothing? I’d say I did a pretty good impression of a volcano.”

  Will smiled. Whalen was trying to bring himself back from

  the land of the dead. And Will felt his own stomach start to settle. Then, incredibly, Whalen reached out —

  Don’t do it, thought Will . . .

  And grabbed the bottle again and took a slug of bourbon.

  “Hair of the dog,” Whalen said.

  Will groaned.

  “Shit,” Kiff said to the stone.

  And Will knew that Kiff, crazy Kiff, had thought that something might actually happen.

  He’s somebody to stay away from, Will thought. No doubt about it. Jim Kiff is certifiable.

  “Let’s go,” Will said. He took a step, climbing from one flat piece of broken stone to another.

  But Tim waited.

  Tim stood there, in his shadow, and said, “Wait.”

  Narrio laughed. He was so drunk that everything was funny to him. Whalen gave Narrio the bottle and Narrio took a slug, nearly killing the bottle.

  Oblivious to whatever taste might linger on the bottle.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Tim said.

  “Breakfast?” Will said.

  Breakfast didn’t sound like such a great idea. But it would get them away from here, off the rocks, away from the sea, and —

  “No.” Tim took a step up to the rock next to Will. And . Will felt the others watching Tim, the next scene to be played

  out.

  “What’s that?”

  “Let’s go to Steeplechase,” Tim said.

  “It’s closed,” Whalen said, laughing. Narrio howled.

  Tim barely turned to them. Instead he kept focused on Will. “No. It’s going to be torn down. One of the great places in the world about to vanish.”

  “Like Ebbets Field,” Whalen added.

  “Yeah,” Tim said, “like fuckin’ Ebbets Field. And once it’s gone, you’ll never see it again.”

  Will knew where this was leading. And he didn’t like the direction. He looked out at the sea, looking for some escape route, some way to end the night, get back home. Turn on The Tonight Show.

  Crawl into bed and sleep until noon.

  “So what . . . they’re tearing it down.”

  Tim grabbed him hard. “There’s nothing like it anywhere, Will. We could see it, at night. A private fucking tour. It would be the highlight of our senior year.”

  Tim always cursed when he argued for something. Sometimes — in the middle of a debate on nuclear nonproliferation — Will thought Tim might lose it.

  As if he’d say, screw the Affirmative’s plan. It won’t fuckin’ work.

  “I don’t know,” Will said.

  Then Whalen, the rocky sailor, was there, grinning ear-to-ear.

  Trying to regain his land legs.

  “I’m game,” he said. “Why not?”

  Sure, Will thought. Whalen was tryin
g to reclaim some respect after his little show. He’d agree to anything just about now.

  “How about you, Mikey?” Whalen said.

  Narrio laughed.

  “Great,” Narrio said.

  “Kiff?” Tim said.

  Kiff looked lost, deflated. But he looked up, still grim-faced, and nodded.

  In a few seconds a big decision had been made. And then the potato was passed back to Will.

  “Will?” Tim said.

  He shook his head.

  The water was black and oily. The streetlight made a tiny sputtering noise, as if the bulb was on its last legs. “I don’t know.”

  “C’mon, Will. Don’t be a pussy.” Tim came close, pushing his body right up to Will’s. “We’ll run in and right through the place. Then we’ll go for some food . . . promise.”

  “I’ll pass on the food,” Whalen said, laughing, echoed by Narrio’s braying.

  “What do you say?”

  And Will said, “Okay,” thinking …

  Thinking . . . that if nothing else, at least we’d get off the rocks.

  He turned and led the way, quickly, up to the road.

  * * *

  They were halfway to the subway station, past the empty field covered with tall grass that blew in the sea breeze, when Will stopped.

  Froze in his tracks.

  And he remembered.

  “Shit,” he said.

  Tim turned to him. “What is it?”

  “I left my books back there,” Will said.

  Because I wanted to get away so badly.

  Tim nodded. Somehow, the others had all remembered, even drunken Narrio with his worn St. Jerome’s Preparatory School bag.

  Tim nodded. “Uh-huh. We’ll walk slow,” he said. “And meet you at the subway.”

  Right, thought Will. While I turn and walk back to the rocks, to the water.

  All by my lonesome.

  Whalen, without hesitating, turned and started walking away in the direction of the station. “Get a move on, Dunnigan.”

  The others followed, while Tim nodded, as if it was okay, and said, “We’ll see you there.”

  Will turned. To look at the water, the dwarf houses, the eerie field, abandoned and dead.

  He took a breath.

  And he started running.

  For a second he thought that he had come to the wrong spot. It all looked different, the slabs of broken concrete, the water crashing over them. The lines of streetlights, spaced so far apart.

  Except — no — this was right. The nearest streetlight glowed more dully than the others. And he saw the stone with faint markings, the circle, the pointed star.

  That seemed like years ago.

  Now it was there, like a child’s scribble on the street or sidewalk, dotted with clumps of Whalen’s vomit.

  Where are my books? he thought.

  I’ve got to find my books.

  He stepped down onto the rocks.

  Splash! The water smashed right next to him. He stood right by the water’s edge. The black water that sent a tiny phosphorescent spray into the air.

  Will came down here so that he could turn and look up, searching for a lump that he’d recognize as his books. There was no color here. Just gray and black.

  If my books are in the shadow of one of the stones, he thought, I’ll never see them.

  He looked all around. He saw the bag from the liquor store. He saw the bits of charcoal that Kiff had used. Some cigarette butts crushed into the stone.

  But no books.

  Until he took a step forward, and something caught a bit of light. The buckle part of the thick rubber book strap. Just a bit of light, but enough to catch his eye.

  He took a breath.

  Salvation, he thought.

  And he walked straight to the books, hurrying, eager to get the hell out of here, not watching where he was going.

  He got to the books, and he picked them up. They felt cold and alien in his hands.

  Of course . . . they’d been sitting here, in the dark, in the cold, covered by a thin wet spray.

  He turned to leave, still hurrying, taking big steps.

  He stepped into something slippery, and one shoe, a brown loafer, slid comically.

  Will felt his knee buckle.

  What the — ? he thought.

  But just as he was going to put down his hands to stop himself, he saw what he had slipped in.

  Whalen’s upchuck.

  Spread all over Kiff’s demonic artwork.

  Will gagged.

  He didn’t put his hands down. That would have been too gross. But he was able to stop his legs from moving. Stop them. And then he moved his unsullied foot to another rock and pushed himself up, and away.

  The light sputtered.

  He took another step, another, hurrying still.

  Got to get up to some flat pavement. This is like something from Wonderland. A road gone mad, right by the ocean, and —

  He turned and looked back at the pentacle, the circle.

  He took another step.

  And the shoe, still coated with a tiny veneer of gummy goo, slid on the stone. His leg slid, moved, and —

  Went down.

  He felt the edge of the stone, and his leg fell into some kind of hole.

  He turned around to see what was trapping his leg.

  I’ve fallen between the stones, he thought, into the crack between two stones.

  But it was worse than that.

  He had slid into a hole, a cavern made by one rock lying askew on top of another. His foot hit bottom. It twisted. He felt pain as rock rubbed against his anklebone, trapping it.

  The light sputtered. Will looked up at it.

  No, he thought.

  Please.

  No.

  I’m all alone.

  There’s no one else here. There’s no one for blocks. . I could be on another planet somewhere. Another world —

  No . . .

  The light sputtered.

  And then it went out.

  * * *

  13

  He tried to yank out his leg quickly.

  Just get it the hell out, he told himself, and keep moving. The road was only yards away. There were more lights, houses. Just get your leg out . . .

  But one tug told him that it was wedged into the hole.

  Good thing the tide’s not coming in, he thought.

  He looked at the ocean.

  Or is it?

  As if in answer, a wave splashed noisily only feet away.

  He reached down with his hands, palms down, and pushed against the edge of the upper rock. He kicked with his free foot. He grunted.

  He felt the skin of his trapped ankle scraping against rock.

  It hurt, but he pushed some more, and the pain grew, turning sharper, and he knew that he had torn his skin.

  And his foot still wasn’t moving.

  I’ve got to twist the leg somehow. Work it out. Try another angle.

  After all, it got in there, didn’t it?

  It got into this — so it has to come out.

  He looked at the hole.

  He remembered this hole.

  I do? he thought. How could I remember this hole? What on earth — ?

  And through his alcoholic haze, he did remember. Getting here, and seeing something move, something fat and gray. Disturbed by their coming.

  But now he was alone. And it was dark.

  Will chewed his lip.

  Oh, no, he thought. Oh . . . no …

  He imagined it moving down there, hearing his foot scratch at the rock, and — yes — maybe even smelling the blood.

  And it might come a bit closer, its tail snaking this way and that, cautiously, nervously.

  But when I didn’t run away, this bleeding thing . . . Why, the rat might . . .

  “No!” he yelled, and he twisted his foot, grunting, pulling as hard as he could.

  Pushing his hands against the stone.

  He felt more
skin being torn, the pain sharp, biting, as the skin was peeled away from the bone.

  But then his foot moved.

  Great, he thought, and now his leg flew up, out of the hole.

  His foot came out.

  But —

  His shoe slid off, back down into the crack.

  “Oh, shit,” he said, standing. He rubbed at his ripped ankle and felt the blood. It wasn’t bad, more of a scrape. It would hurt to walk but that wouldn’t be so bad.

  He stared back at the hole.

  Leave the fucking shoe.

  Yeah, he thought, his decision process surely affected by the Old Grand-Dad.

  Leave the shoe and get on the subway and keep going.

  But they were new loafers. And just how would he explain that to his parents?

  We had a wild dance, Mom and Dad. Real wild. Great time, but I lost my shoe.

  I’ve got to get it, he thought.

  I’ve got to reach in and pull the damn shoe out.

  He nodded.

  Then he tried convincing himself that it was no big deal.

  The rat was probably nowhere in sight, scared by the noise, all their laughing. Yeah, the chunky rat was probably long gone, down to Sheepshead Bay where he can munch on fish heads and dried chum from the day’s party boats.

  Will knelt down.

  He was breathing hard.

  He tried to decide which hand he’d use. Left or right?

  As if he were trying to figure out which one he’d be less likely to need the rest of his life.

  But, Will thought, speed is called for here. Do it fast. Snatch the shoe, yank it up, and we’re home free.

  He leaned forward. Now even the stone was black in the darkness. There was no moon, and the stars were washed to a yellow dullness by the clouds and smog.

  He took another breath.

  He stretched his hand into the hole.

  Deeper, deeper, his fingers bunched together.

  Lest he touch something he didn’t want to touch. And further.

  But he felt nothing.

  He didn’t even touch the ground. It’s deeper than I thought.

  Will moved his hand back and forth in the hole. He opened his fingers — just a bit. He felt nothing. The shoe was still lower.

  He leaned forward, pressing his shoulders tight against the stone, letting his face press against the speckled concrete, until, finally, his fingers scraped at something.