Which it proceeded to do, shadow onboard: a Shadow of Death.
“Exactly how do we get out of here, then?” Conner asked. “I mean, how did you do it last time?”
Conner squinted into the darkness, still not really seeing anything. The problem was, the four of them were all located in a blank abyss of nothingness. So, by its very definition, not much to see.
He was able to detect, however, the ghostlike shapes of his compatriots. Just blobs, really, like some Scooby-Doo costume party during an electrical blackout.
“Almira, that you?”
“Yeah, it’s me,” said one of the blobs. The blob expanded, which Conner took to mean that Almira was moving closer.
She stopped a foot or two away from him.
“Let me think,” she said.
“’Let me think?’ Really? You mean, we came in here without any kind of a plan? WTF, Almira. I mean it.”
“Jeezuz, calm down, okay? All I said was let me think, not that I didn’t know.” She stood silent for a few seconds, fuming. “Okay, well, we ran off this time. That was different than before. Last time, Flower and I just kind of stood close to where we had come in, where we had broken through. This time, we’ve moved pretty far away from our original location. So, yeah. Just let me think.” Her voice trailed off as Flower’s chimed in.
“We should backtrack.”
“Brilliant,” Ricky said.
“Shut up, you jerk. I mean, we should start systematically backtracking. Anyone remember how many times we’ve turned around since we started running?”
“It’s not like we kept the ocean to our left and the forest to the right or anything,” Conner taunted.
“No navigating by the stars, either,” Ricky added.
“Okay, dickholes, you have a better idea?” Almira asked.
“Yeah, we came through the opening because it must be some kind of tear or fissure, right?”
“Well, maybe,” Flower said.
“I see where he’s going,” Ricky said. “So, maybe there’s a light spot in all this fabric of darkness. Is that what you’re thinking?”
“That’s it, my brother.”
The two sent fists out into blackness, waved them briefly, then pulled them back. As good a fist-bump as they were likely to get under the circumstances.
“Problem is, geniuses,” Almira said, “we still don’t know which way to go. We ran for quite a while. We might pick the wrong direction, which would be easy to do. We could end up wandering in this black hole for the rest of our lives.”
“Thanks for the pep talk,” Ricky Martin said.
“We can’t just stand here. Hey,” Conner said. “There’s four of us, right? How many possible directions can we travel in?”
“Theoretically, infinite,” Almira said. “But I suppose you mean how many significant compass points—north, south, east, west. Right? Then it’s four.”
“Right! So, let’s split up. We each take one direction.”
“Split up? Are you mad?” Flower said. “Clearly, you have never seen a single horror movie in your whole life, have you?”
“Those movies are made up. Fantasy. Nonsense. This is real,” Conner shot back. “We have to do this. That way, even if three of us get lost, the fourth might find the way out.”
“Or we might all die out there, killed off one by one,” Flower said.
“Yeah, but Flower, it just might work,” Almira said. “But how do we communicate?”
“Shouting, I guess,” Conner said.
“That will just bring the shadow demon thingy back on us again. Still don’t know how or why it left us alone.”
“Yeah, that’s a good point. Um, anyone have a suggestion?”
“What if, I don’t know . . . ” Ricky hesitated. “What if we all count to, like, a hundred and one? Then we return to this spot and regroup. Then we go out again, for like the count of 202. You know, like we had an invisible rope.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Ricky? You’re such an idiot.” Almira shook her head.
“No, wait, he may have something,” Conner said. “I think we can work with that. Only, how will we find our way back to this exact spot, once we all start wondering off?”
“We need a fifth person,” Flower said.
“We don’t have one,” Almira said, sneering.
“Is there some way to mark this spot?” Conner said.
“Ricky!” Flower said. “Didn’t you carry a flashlight in here with you? Did it make it through?”
“Hell yeah, I forgot all about it.” He took the flashlight out of his jacket pocket and snapped it on.
“Ow!” Everyone shouted in unison as the light blinded them, painfully shrinking their overly enlarged pupils, which had opened as wide as biology would allow to adjust for the deep darkness.
While everyone kept their eyes shut, Conner gave instructions. “Ricky, put the flashlight on the ground, pointing up. That’ll be our beacon in stormy weather.”
“What stormy weather? It’s going to rain now?”
“Don’t be an idiot. It’s just an expression. It means our predicament.”
“I knew that.”
Ricky Martin crouched and slowly unsqueezed his eyes. His pupils relaxed and he was able to see the group standing around him. He placed the flashlight onto—what: nothing?—onto where the ground would ordinarily be in an ordinary universe. It shown straight up, but not brightly.
“Batteries look like they’re dying,” Conner observed.
“No, they’re new. It’s this damned blackness, this nothingness. It’s like it’s absorbing the light. Sucking it away, trying to force the darkness back.”
“Then,” said Conner, “we better work fast.”
Ricky Martin’s mother, Michelle, was a no-nonsense kind of woman. Although once slender and alluring, she’d gained weight steadily since her wedding day, and now was heavy but happy. She ran a strict household, with good food, good laughs, and timelines that must be adhered to.
Which is why when Richard didn’t return at the designated and agreed-upon time of 11:00 PM, she was furious. She rubbed her chin as she stood in the hall looking at the front door. She ran her hand across her mouth and then scratched her cheek, head tilted, deep in thought.
Her decision made, she strode purposefully into the kitchen, took out her cellphone, and speed-dialed Conner’s mother.
“Jennifer? Michelle here. How are you? Fine, fine. No, Richard Senior’s fine, too. How’s Travis? Good. Say, listen.” She paused while Jennifer said something. “Yes, that’s exactly why I was calling you. It’s nearly midnight and I was hoping Richard Junior was with Conner at your house. No? Really. Hmmm. I’m getting a bit worried, I have to admit. All right, well sorry to bother you. You weren’t asleep were you? No, me neither. I’m usually in bed by this time, but not tonight. Something doesn’t feel right. No, I’ve tried his cell. He’s not picking up; I think it’s turned off. It goes right to voicemail. Conner’s, too? Really. Now that’s interesting. Well, call me as soon as you know something and I’ll do the same, okay? Yes, goodbye. Yes, you, too.”
She hung up and stood with her hand on her hip, looking out the window into the dark night. This is when she would light up, if she still smoked. This would be the perfect time. She paced briefly, wondering whether to awaken her husband, but the last time this happened, early in the summer, it had turned out that Richard, Jr. had only fallen asleep in his car right in the driveway. Richard, Sr. was quite cross that he’d missed sleep. He got up frightfully early each morning for his long commute.
No, best wait until she knew something more, something different. No sense raising the alarms yet, only to look foolish once again. She padded to the foyer, threw on her light coat, and stepped outside. She shut the door behind her with quiet care.
Outside, the night was still. Traffic on the highway a few miles away hummed, but on here on their road were no cars at all, no late night returns. She stuck her hands in her pockets to k
eep off the chill as she glanced at the driveway. No dark blue Camaro. No Camaro at all. She didn’t expect it to be there. Not after last time, and the hell her husband had given them both.
She felt something in her left pocket. Could it be?
She pulled out an old packet of Kent cigarettes, with a pack of matches stuck underneath the cellophane on the outside. She remembered that she hadn’t worn this jacket since last year. Had it already been a year since she’d quit? It felt very much like only a week, a day even. Not a minute went by when she didn’t think of having one.
But she mustn’t, she must not succumb. This was a bad time to have discovered these cigs, when she’s under pressure and so worried.
Well, but isn’t that the perfect time for a cigarette? She was under tremendous stress, after all. Young Richard could be dead, for all she knew. No, mustn’t think that way!
One smoke couldn’t hurt, just maybe one drag and she could stamp it out and throw the pack away. Yes, that was the perfect compromise. She just wanted one taste, just hold the smoke in her lungs for just a second and help her calm down.
She took the pack and removed the matches. Like old times, she instinctively tipped the pack upside down and tapped it lightly on the side of her other hand. She pulled one out and put it between her lips. She struck a match, lit the cigarette, then put both the Kents and the matches back in her pocket.
She tilted her head back and took a long draw, enjoying the taste, the warmth. She held it in a long time, finally exhaling when she no longer had a choice. The smoke cloud blew away from her, some lingering under the porch lamp. Blue smoke from the cigarette in her hand swirled past her face.
I should crush it out now, she thought, but maybe just one more drag.
She took another hit and smiled. It was so darn delicious. And reassuring. Why’d she ever give them up? There was no real, concrete connection between cancer and smoking. That was all Richard, Sr. He was a worrywart. Forced her to stop when she didn’t want to. He wasn’t home all day. It got boring. A cigarette break was so nice, especially when on the phone or watching television . . .
She sucked back some more tobacco smoke. I’m going to un-quit. No reason for him to know. I just won’t tell him. If I don’t tell him, there’s no way he can find out. She smiled to herself again as she exhaled. Crossing her arms, she contentedly examined the landscape across the street.
Strange shadows this evening, she thought. Weird shadows at the Millers’ house, for sure. What was that shape? Didn’t look like a tree or telephone pole. Oh well, it was a shadow of something, that was for sure.
Well, better give Richard, Jr., another try. I’m sure he’ll pick up this time.
This time, it went right to his voicemail.
As if he’d gone someplace you couldn’t reach by phone.
CHAPTER FIVE
We Run
“Now, let’s get back to back,” Conner said.
For a minute, the four of them shuffled about, but eventually they managed to line up in a kind of circle, their backs facing in to the middle.
“Okay,” Conner continued. “We should now each proceed by heading off in the direction in front of us. So, um, I guess I’ll go that way.” Conner pointed straight ahead.
“That’s as good a plan as any,” Ricky said. With that, he stepped into the darkness and soon disappeared. He called out of the gloom, “Don’t forget to count to a hundred as you go. That’s the turning around point.”
“We’re not going to forget,” Almira shouted back. “God!”
“Whatev’.” Flower said, under her breath.
“Okay, Almira, Flower: off you go. Be back here in like two minutes. This is just the dry run, to make sure this has a chance of working.”
“What if we see something?” Flower said.
”Great, then just tell the rest of us when we’re all back together.”
“No, I don’t mean if I find a doorway out of here. I mean, like, a monster or something . . . ”
“You know, Flower, I hadn’t thought of that. Um, scream I guess?”
“Great plan,” Almira said, as if to get back at him for mocking her lack of planning earlier.
Conner chewed his lip. “If you scream, we—or at least one of us—will run toward you. Best to be together than apart at that point. Yeah, scream and keep screaming,” Conner said. He raised his voice a bit. “You hear that, Ricky?”
“Yeah. Got it,” Ricky said, calling back to the group in a kind of shout-whisper hybrid.
“Okay, everybody. Let’s move out. And good luck.”
“Yeah, you too,” said Flower.
They tremulously headed off in the three remaining directions. The girls were only slightly more tentative than the boys. But none were eager to be all alone in utter blackness, in some crazy parallel universe filled with shadow monsters.
Conner expected the girls to fold pretty early.
But the first one to shriek like a little girl was Ricky Martin.
Jennifer Croyant placed her cellphone back on her bedside table.
“What was that all about?”
“Michelle Martin. You know, Ricky’s mother.”
“Yeah. Still can’t get over them naming their kid that.”
“We’ve been over this. Ricky Martin wasn’t famous yet when they had their Ricky.”
“Yes he was.”
“Well, they never heard of him, anyway. At least that’s what they say.”
“Yeah.”
“Look, who cares? She called because she’s worried that Ricky isn’t home yet. He was supposed to be home by eleven. It’s a week night, you know.”
“Yeah, I know it’s a week night. Remind me how come we haven’t given Conner a curfew?”
“Because he’s never home later than ten, typically.”
“True.”
“Anyway, Travis, honey . . . ?”
“What is it?”
“Well, now she’s got me worried. This is the latest Conner’s ever been out. Ever.”
“Kids will be kids. I mean, he’s seventeen for crying out loud. Gotta give him a little room, a chance to grow up.”
She looked at him with big doe eyes and a trembling bottom lip.
He dropped a bookmark into his James Patterson novel, closed it, and placed it on the table beside him. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Believe me, I’m taking this seriously. But Conner is with Ricky and that kid doesn’t drink and more importantly, he loves that car. Ricky, for one, is not going to be reckless.”
“I guess. But where can they be?”
“Can you spell G-I-R-L?”
“At twelve-thirty on a Wednesday night? What parent would be okay with that?”
“I’m sure they’ve already been sent on their way home. Probably stopped at Taco Bell to chat about ’babes.’ I’m sure we’ll hear the car pull up any minute.” Travis slid over and put his arms around his wife. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m sure everything’s fine. Why don’t you lie down and get some sleep?”
“You’re probably right. But I can’t possibly sleep.” Jennifer threw the covers back, grabbed her bathrobe, and put it on. “Not until our son is home.”
“What are you doing?”
“Gonna go watch TV downstairs for a little.”
“Well, I’ll go with you.”
“No, don’t. I’m being ridiculous. I wasn’t worried at all until Michelle called. Stay in bed. I’m sure he’ll be home soon, and I’ll be back up here again in no time.”
“I’ll keep the bed warm.”
“Good,” she said, leaning over to kiss him. “Sleep tight.”
Ricky Martin could just make things out in the dark now. Though black and impenetrable at first, he could distinguish different levels of black and gray now. He was thinking he had bat eyes. Or cave eyes. The adjustment wasn’t much, but he could now tell the difference between a wall-like partition and an opening-like passageway.
As he stepped slowly through the misty blackness, a d
ark shadow, much blacker than all the other blackness around him, rose up, waving and growing larger. As if someone were inflating one of those wavy-armed man-balloons at a car dealership. The thing, the black shapeless thing, grew and danced in front of him. A drunk ghost in negative.
Then the thing’s eyes opened. Hollow and red, more eye sockets than eyes.
Ricky squealed and backpedalled, nearly peeing in his pants—again. He sprinted back toward the light of the flashlight, which he could just barely discern in the opaque monochromatic spaces in front of him. He could feel the heat of its breath on his back, as if the thing carried a torch and was waving the flame at him—at his back, then his head, then his legs. Ricky stumbled here and there, and he did not, could not, look behind him.
The heat was growing, as if the flame on the torch he imagined grew brighter, hotter. But if it was a flame, it threw no light, it offered no solace, it provided no direction in the dark.
“It’s . . . ” Ricky shouted, his throat constricted, sweat running down his face into his eyes, his lips paper. “It’s . . . behind . . . me . . . ” he choked out. His ears could not tell him how loud he yelled, or if he had, in fact, yelled at all.
Something gripped him, then let go. His shoulder. Next, his waist.
This wasn’t like the other Shadow. Not at all. That one never touched them. Either it couldn’t or it wouldn’t—Ricky didn’t care. That one was like dark air passing around them and through them.
But this one, this Shadow, had form. Substance.
And it wanted Ricky’s life.
“Shit, help me!” Ricky Martin yelled. The thing had something around the back of Ricky’s neck now—its hands? its paws? its gripper?—tightening and loosening. It was almost as if the thing were squeezing a melon at the market, testing for ripeness.
So, Ricky had a change of heart. He wasn’t the smartest kid in school, in terms of book smarts. But he was pragmatic. If it was cold out, he wore a coat. If he was hiking, he brought extra water. If he was swimming, he brought a towel.
SHADOWS OF DEATH: Death Comes with Fury (and Dark Humor) To a Small Town South of Chicago Page 4