Dead Girls Society

by Michelle Krys

  Lyla crouches low to the water, tensed and ready, as if she’s waiting for a coach to blow a whistle. But her shoulders and back are stiff with tension. She isn’t going to do it. She’s going to back out. I won’t be the first one.

  Just as I have this thought, she straightens up, lifts her chin, and dives in.

  It’s messier and louder than when Hartley did it, and I cringe, thinking about the wildlife she might have attracted. I pace away from the shore. I can’t imagine holding my breath for that long, can’t imagine it feeling like anything but impending doom. I fight the sudden, crazy urge to scream.

  Why does the Society want us to do this? What is the point? Who would want to see us suffer like this, put ourselves at risk?

  Sick and twisted people, that’s who.

  There’s a splash near the little island. A moment later Lyla is back. She sucks in a big breath when she resurfaces.

  The whole thing is over in minutes, but I don’t breathe right even now that she’s safe. I wonder if I’m doing as much damage to my body watching them as I would if I just participated in the dare.

  But I can’t. Won’t. Not this.

  Hartley gives Lyla a high five as she stumbles out, tripping in the mud.

  “Holy shit,” Lyla splutters, coughing up water. “That was insane.”

  “All right, I’m doing it,” Farrah says suddenly. She kicks off her ankle boots and pulls her hair into a bun with shaky fingers. Before she steps up to the shore, she looks back at us. “No jeering or sudden noises or anything like that, okay? I don’t want any of you to wake up whatever’s in that water.”

  Lyla smiles, even though I couldn’t picture her doing something so cruel anyway. It’s Hartley she should be lecturing.

  Almost as if she can read my thoughts, Hartley says, “Aren’t you going to take off your dress?”

  “You wish,” Farrah says.

  “Whatever, don’t say I didn’t warn you when you have to wear a muddy dress home,” Hartley answers.

  Farrah seems to consider it, then grunts with annoyance and shimmies out of her dress. She’s wearing a racy pair of boy-cut lace underwear and a matching push-up bra.

  Hartley whistles.

  “You’re such a perv,” Farrah mutters.

  “Wait!” Hartley says. “Did you hear that?”

  We keep still, listening in the dark for whatever it is Hartley heard.

  “What?” Lyla whispers.

  “It was like…a grunt or something. From over there.”

  We turn to face the water. It’s as black and still as ever, shining dully in the moonlight.

  “You’re hearing things,” I say. I have no idea if it’s true, but I want it to be true.

  Hartley shakes her head adamantly. “Must’ve been the swamp monster.”

  Farrah heaves an annoyed sigh.

  “I’m serious,” Hartley says. “My friend saw the monster once.”

  “You’re an idiot,” Farrah says. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

  Hartley leans closer to Farrah. “He was seven feet tall and had gray hair and bright yellow eyes, and he smelled like rotten sewage.”

  “Stop trying to scare me,” Farrah says. “It’s not working.” Though it’s clear from the way her voice trembles that it is.

  Still, she faces the swamp, rolls her shoulders once, then glides into the water.

  It doesn’t matter that two people have just done this very same thing. My legs are weak, and I have to sit down as she makes the tunnel crossing in unbearable silence. Farrah reaches the island a moment later, and I drag in a ragged breath.

  “Are you okay?” Lyla asks.

  I nod, pressing my head between my knees to stave off a dizzy spell.

  “Are you sure? You don’t look good.”

  “I’m fine!” I snap.

  She stares at me in shock, and I release a harsh sigh. “Sorry. I just…” I let the words trail off. I don’t know why I’m being so rude. It’s not anyone’s fault that my lungs suck.

  Farrah gasps out of the water. She’s shivering violently as she sloshes toward shore. Her knees buckle, and she trips face-first into the mud. We jump back from the splash. Cackling laughter ripples behind me.

  Farrah clumsily gets to her feet, then gives Hartley the middle finger. Hartley smiles wickedly as she flicks her lighter.

  I’m the only one left.

  “Well?” Hartley raises her eyebrows at me. She’s got her T-shirt draped around her neck. Could be waiting for her bra to dry off, or could be trying to make Farrah as uncomfortable as possible.

  “If you’re not going to do it, can we hurry up and get out of here?” Farrah says. “Hartley, turn around so I can wring my bra out.”

  “Not a chance, princess.”

  Farrah huffs and yanks her dress out of the grass, then starts stomping up the embankment. “I’m waiting in the car. Don’t follow me,” she adds to Hartley.

  “Wasn’t planning on it,” she answers.

  Hartley wanders off to the cabin, examining the trinkets hanging from the wooden beams across the porch roof like she’s some sort of antiques specialist.

  And now we’re alone, just Lyla and me. No one thinks I’m going to do it. No one even bothered to hang around for a few minutes to see if I would.

  I want to be offended, but why should they believe in me? I’ve been sitting here having a mini panic attack at just the thought. I can feel Lyla’s eyes on me. I try to recall the feeling I had at Six Flags, standing on top of the world, ready to tip over the edge. Was I afraid like this? Could I breathe in that moment? Is it fear holding me back this time or sickness? I realize with alarm that it’s actually hard to tell the difference between the two. I’ve been raised to be fearful of everything, and the result is, I have no idea what I can and can’t safely do.

  Can I hold my breath for longer than a few seconds? I haven’t actually tried.

  “Wait!” My voice rings out in the silence. My heart beats fast. I’m not so sure about what I’m doing, but I rise to my feet on weak legs.

  Lyla cheers as I peel off my sweater. I hesitate a moment, then push down my plaid pajama pants. I really wish I were wearing cuter underwear. I kick off my shoes, and my feet sink into the cold, wet mud. Hartley has reappeared, but Farrah stays absent.

  “Nice undies, Callahan. Get those in the big girl section?” Hartley jeers.

  I tune her out.

  The girls are talking, but I can’t hear them over the sound of my own heartbeat rushing in my ears.

  I wish I had my inhaler.

  “Just do it,” Hartley mutters.

  “Shut up,” Lyla snaps, and then to me, “Take your time, Hope.”

  I nod. The trick seems to be not overthinking it, so that’s what I’m going to do. I won’t think about my shitty lungs. I won’t panic. That’s my plan of attack.

  Attack.

  Alligator attack.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to dispel the image of alligators circling hungrily in the water. It occurs to me I’m at a serious disadvantage going last. All the movement and chatter from the other girls’ crossings could have woken up whatever’s in that swamp. Which is probably a lot. Places like this are known to let tourists feed the gators to encourage them to return. It’s basically guaranteed to be full of loyal gators who look to humans for food. And now I know exactly why this swamp was chosen.

  I tell myself to relax. The entrance is just six feet away, and gators probably can’t get into the tunnel. If I suspected there was one around, I could swim back to safety within thirty seconds. Surely alligators don’t attack that quickly.

  Unsurprisingly, the thought doesn’t calm me.

  I pop my knuckles. Tension fizzles out of my body with each satisfying crack. My feet slurp-suck in the mud as I step toward the water.

  All right, Hope. You can do this. It’s just a matter of swimming fast. Confidently. You’ve swum before…for therapy. With a coach spotting you.

  I shake myself out.
It will be fine. I’ll be fine.

  I bend low, take a deep breath that does nothing to slow the banging of my heart, and slink into the swamp

  It’s warmer than I expected, like a bath left to cool to room temperature. That’s about the only pleasant thing about it. The water is so murky and cluttered with floating debris and reaching vines that I can’t see a thing, just flashes of movement where my hands thrash at the water. I should have realized before: It isn’t just about holding your breath for a long time. It’s about holding your breath for a long time in the dark, not knowing what could be swimming just feet from you, waiting to strike.

  Fear clamps a tight fist around my chest, the first whisper of pressure appearing in my lungs. I push back the thought and plunge toward the place where I remember the marker to be. I can do this. My fingers bump into something. I grapple furiously and trace the outline of the tunnel. But by the time I’ve figured it out, the weight on my chest has expanded and the urge to breathe is unbearable. I let go of the tunnel and kick up, my body slicing through the sludge water. I gasp as my head breaks the surface, coughing and choking and sucking in frantic lungfuls of hot air.

  “Are you okay?” Lyla calls.

  I can’t answer. There’s a wad of phlegm blocking my airway that I need to work out. If Mom were here, she’d slug me on the back and it’d clear. But she isn’t, and I’m alone in this. I wade in the water, kicking savagely so my head doesn’t go under again. I finally work up the blockage and spit into the murky water. The tension in my chest breaks up, scatters apart, and I can breathe.

  I hate that the girls are seeing this.

  You don’t have to do this, I tell myself. Whatever the punishment is, it’s better than dying in a swamp tunnel on a dare. Mom’s right, you’re too sick.

  But I don’t want Mom to be right. I’m already here, already in the water. Going back would be so humiliating. I know where the tunnel is now—I can dive back down and get through it in seconds. I can do this.

  I blow out a calming breath, then fill my lungs with air and dive.

  The blackness is disorienting, even the second time around. Fighting gravity, I plunge deeper and kick, swim, kick, until I find the tunnel, and then I’m inside, the space so small that roots claw at my skin from all angles. I have to remind myself that this is good news, that a gator couldn’t follow me in.

  The pressure in my lungs is back too fast. I remember how far it is to the island and settle into a steady, rhythmic pace, swimming hard, pulling myself forward with the vines, reaching my foot down every so often to propel myself forward faster, faster, faster.

  The tightening builds until my lungs feel blown up like a balloon, ready to pop. I have to breathe. Need to breathe.

  Just a little bit farther, Hope. You can do it.

  Don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic you’re fine you’re fine you’re fine.

  Where is the opening?

  My arms are weak, gelatinous. I know I need to move faster, but I can’t make my body comply.

  Just as I have this thought, my foot hits mud instead of roots. I must have reached the end. I propel my body in a straight shot up, and my head breaks the surface.

  I suck in a huge, desperate gulp of air; it razors down my raw throat as if it’s being sawed in half from the inside. I crawl out of the water and slump into the tall grass, coughing and hacking as breaths jerk in and out of my lungs. Goose bumps flash on my wet skin, hair plastered against my face. My eyes sting with mud. There’s cheering from the faraway shore.

  I made it. I’m halfway done.

  I should be happy, but I’m not. I can’t go back the way I came.

  My teeth chatter so hard it hurts. Now that the adrenaline has faded, I feel every inch of my soaking-wet body. I shake uncontrollably, and my chest is tight with the memory of the water.

  That’s when I realize it’s quiet. Too quiet. No crickets chirping. No vines shaking in the dark. I edge backward, away from the still water. But there’s nowhere to go. The island is too small.

  There’s a splash in the dark. Panic shoots up my spine, and I shriek, rocketing to my feet. I whirl left to right, looking for movement in the rippled water. I’m so dizzy from lack of oxygen that my vision drags and blurs like a movie on fast-forward.

  My heartbeat rushes loudly behind my ears, and I can’t hear, can’t hear. There’s something in there.

  There’s another splash behind me. I scream and whip around, breathing hard and fast. Another splash to the left. No, the right. I spin again and again, stumbling in the dark.

  “We’re coming for you!” Lyla calls back.

  I risk a glance at the shore and see Lyla hauling the boat out from under the cabin into the swamp.

  “Hurry!” I yell.

  Glass shatters distantly, but I’m too focused on the movement to investigate.

  It all happens so fast. There’s another loud splash. Something flashes out of the water. And then a gator blinks at me from the shore.

  The gator stares at me with reptilian, predatory eyes, shifting on its short, powerful limbs. Sharp white teeth slice out of a pointed jaw, scales shining like a suit of armor in the dark.

  I don’t move, don’t breathe. There’s nowhere for me to go. I can’t outrun it. I definitely can’t outswim it. I close my eyes tight. Make it quick, please.

  An explosion pierces the night.

  I shield my face as water showers over me. I wrench my eyes open and blink away the droplets in time to see the gator skitter into the swamp.

  Hartley is standing on the shore with a shotgun propped under her arm and her sights set toward me. The boat is in the swamp, cutting through the sludge like a knife through warm butter.

  Hartley shoots again. The bullet lands just left of the island— of me—and a huge splash of water rains over my head.

  The boat slides up to the island.

  “Get in!” Lyla calls when she’s as close as she can get without wedging into the mud and risking getting stuck. She extends her arm.

  I don’t want to go anywhere near the water with the gator inside, but the only other way back is the tunnel crossing, and that’s not happening.

  I slosh quickly inside, grabbing onto Lyla’s outstretched hand. She hauls me up, and I drop heavily into the bottom of the boat, curling into a ball, as far away from the edge as I can manage. A keening noise escapes me as I realize how close I came to getting attacked by an alligator.

  “Hope! Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Lyla inspects my body for wounds.

  I send a panicked glance around the swamp. “Just g-get me out of here. Please.”

  Lyla nods and grabs onto the oars. I desperately pull in air while she heaves the boat back.

  The bow lodges into the muddy shore. Lyla jumps out, Farrah at her side, helping to haul it farther up the bank. My legs are shaky and unstable when Lyla helps me climb out of the boat. Hartley appears and hooks her arm under my other shoulder.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  I don’t know. But I nod.

  “Good,” she says, and she sounds like she means it. Then her eyes return to the swamp, ever ready for more danger.

  I look too, but the water is still and dark, as if the whole thing were a figment of my imagination. A violent shiver racks my body.

  She saved me. They both saved me.

  Lyla’s in the middle of telling me she’s got all my stuff in her bag, but I interrupt her. “Thank you. For coming after me,” I say. “You—you didn’t have to do that.”

  “Of course we did,” Lyla says.

  I send her a wobbly smile. I can’t speak, or I think I’ll cry. I’ve never been so grateful to be alive.

  “What do you think the Society will say?” Hartley asks darkly. And it hits me what she means: I didn’t complete the dare.

  “She can’t have been expected to get back in the water with a gator right there,” Lyla says. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her speak so forcefully.

  “Maybe not, but th
ey’ll probably consider it a fail,” Farrah says. “Like with Nikki.”

  They argue about what this means for my game, but I tune them out. The only thing I care about is going home. Climbing into bed with Mom and forgetting about this whole messed-up night.

  A flash of movement by the cabin catches my eye. I inhale sharply, instantly remembering the figure I thought I saw at Six Flags. Only I know I didn’t imagine it this time.

  “What?” Lyla asks.

  “There’s someone here,” I whisper, eyes trained on the shadows that moved just a second ago.

  Hartley abruptly lets go of my arm and springs toward the cabin.

  “Hartley, stop!” Lyla yells. “Shit.” She swings to face me. “You okay?”

  I nod mutely, and then she’s off. I limp toward the edge of the cabin just in time to see Lyla crash into the woods.

  “Where’d Hartley put that gun?” Farrah asks coolly, but she’s already pushing past me toward the cabin. She’s back a moment later with the shotgun propped under her arm. Somehow she found extra rounds and is sliding two fresh shells into the chamber.

  “Farrah, there are already two of us out there. I don’t think this is a good idea,” I say.

  But Farrah isn’t listening. She marches off toward the blackened woods. With a final snap of a twig, she disappears.

  I’m alone. I cock my head toward the trees, trying to hear what’s going on in there. But it’s quiet. Too quiet. I wrap my arms around myself, my whole body tight, reined in.

  A gunshot pierces the air. I yelp, my heart shooting into my throat.

  Someone was shot. Farrah killed someone.

  I don’t know what to do. Where to go. How to help. I clamp a hand over my mouth to keep from crying.

  There’s a rustling in the woods, and then Farrah and Hartley crash out of the trees. Relief pours through me.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “This idiot grabbed me from behind,” Farrah says. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to grab the person holding the gun?”

  “I didn’t know you were going to shoot!” Hartley bends over and tries to catch her breath. She’s got fresh scratches all over her arms and stomach from her race through the woods.