Not that he was complaining.
She reclined the seat and lowered herself toward the dash, contorting joints in an uncomfortable looking pose, then she took him into her mouth. Last week he would’ve bet a paycheck that she was inexperienced but tonight he would’ve lost the bet. Her tongue worked miracles and every time he dared a glance downward she was watching him with those dark eyes.
“Do you want to fuck me or should I just do all the work?” She moved her head to the right and bit into his thigh.
He tensed, his erection shriveling just a bit. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”
She smiled and in the darkness of the car he swore her teeth had grown. “You’ll see.”
Before he could say anything else, she moved forward, slid him into her. All of his disgust and fear disappeared for roughly five minutes until he came.
Vickie sighed and slid off him. “Not bad,” she said. “Another few minutes and I would’ve cum too.” She didn’t seem the least bit out of breath.
His face flushed as he pulled up his pants. “This isn’t exactly my natural element.” He nodded toward the school. “Place kind of puts a damper on the mood, you know? Had we been in my bed, it would’ve been a different story.”
She wiped her mouth and began to reapply black lipstick in the mirror. “Promises, promises. I don’t suppose you’ll want to go down on me now that you’ve gotten yours?”
“I… if you want…”
She touched his thigh. “I’m only kidding with you. Besides, we’ve got work to do.”
For the first time that night, Tom relaxed a little. “Sounds good. I failed the first trig quiz, you know.”
“I wasn’t talking about that kind of work.” Satisfied with her lips, she put the tube back into her purse.
He cocked his head in confusion but didn’t ask. Instead he watched her eyes focus on something else. He followed her line of sight, winced at the Lynnwood High ruins. There was only darkness out there but the way she stared made him think otherwise. For a moment, he imagined the front doors opening, something large and hungry crawling out and heading for the car.
“Tom?”
He shook his head, sweating badly now. “Yeah?”
She sighed. “Were you even listening?”
“We should get back now.”
“I asked if you could unlock your door and let our friend in.”
“Friend?” He turned toward his window and saw something standing just outside, a tall humanoid shape that stood perfectly still, as if it had been there the whole time, watching them talk, watching them fuck.
Tom yelled much like an infant as she reached for the lock. He batted her hand away and tried press the button again but the thing outside was too fast. It pulled the door open, grabbed him by his hair, and tossed him onto the ground.
●●●
Later, though he wasn’t sure how much later, he woke in a pure darkness. For a moment, he thought he was dead or in a coma but he could feel a draft, cool air blowing on his face, could feel his pulse skyrocketing, his internal alarm system sounding off.
Water dripped somewhere to his left, a stray drop landing on his neck every so often. He breathed in and nearly gagged at the scent. It reminded him of overflowing trash, of milk left to curdle in the sun.
Of dead things.
He tried to move but found he was stuck in place. There was pressure around his wrists and he noticed for the first time his feet weren’t touching anything. Which meant he was dangling in the air.
“I’m sorry about that.”
He nearly screamed at the voice. It was undeniably Vickie and it seemed to come from just in front of his face.
“I really am. I thought I’d get you nice and tired from fucking and we could get you initiated without any violence. You’re a tough cookie. Busty here said he didn’t think he’d be able to get you down and he’s pretty strong these days.”
What the hell was she talking about and who was Busty? He struggled again, tried to force his hands through the frayed rope but it was useless. The knot was tied too tightly.
“Don’t bother,” Vickie said. “You’re better off giving in. It’s easier that way.”
He began to hyperventilate. “Give in to what?”
Sudden light blinded his eyes. After an eternity, his vision adjusted so that he saw Vickie’s ghoulish face. She was holding a flashlight, the beam pointing at her chin like she was about to tell a ghost story. “Tom, consider this your last day of being you. You’re part of something bigger now. Something more powerful than you or I can even speculate. And you’re not alone. You’ll never be alone again.”
He wanted to ask her what she was talking about but his thoughts were drawn elsewhere. She pointed the beam at another figure, the one that had dragged him from the car. It was a tall man, with jet-black hair and skin paler than Vickie’s if that was possible. He had several piercings and a tattoo on the back of his hand, a flaming skull. “Welcome,” he said. “Class is about to begin.”
The light was shone down what looked like an endless hall. The walls were crumbling and almost every inch was covered with graffiti. Large spider webs hung like loose pieces of flypaper. But none of that drew Tom’s attention more than what lay at the end of the tunnel.
It was large, perhaps the size of a Jeep, and it was misshapen. He could just make out what looked like tendrils, too many to count. They slithered on their own accord, like snakes in a garden. Thick ooze plopped from its slimy skin, landed on the floor and seemed to scuttle off like a gelatinous rat.
“I think he likes you,” Vickie said.
The thing was quick, speeding down the hall on its tentacle legs and grabbing onto Tom as if hugging. The pressure was unbearable. He felt slime all over his body, felt those tendrils invading his every orifice until there was nothing to do but lay back and suffocate.
Then came the teeth.
Chapter Eight
As he’d done every Sunday since June, Justin brought his father a root beer.
He cracked the bottle open, slid a finger around the rim to check for cracks—just as his dad had taught him as a child—and set the bottle on top of the grave. The stone was tall and wide, with a space below his father’s saved for his mother. Seeing her name and birthday made his stomach churn for a moment, reminding him that she too would be buried beneath his feet one day. As if he wasn’t already depressed enough.
He opened his own bottle, checked for cracks again, and took a sip. He sighed at the taste, so sweet it was almost overbearing. The bubbles tickled the back of his throat and nose.
He surveyed the graveyard. Aside from a few nearby seagulls, he was alone. “You know, Dad, some people might think this is, how shall I say, crazy.”
The gravestone did not talk back, but he imagined his father’s husky voice answering. “Crazy? What’s so crazy about a kid shooting the shit and sharing a soda with his dead dad?”
“That’s exactly what I said. The nerve of some people.”
Justin looked at the label on his bottle. The paper was starting to ripple from the condensation. There was a picture of a tall lighthouse and a misty seascape. Fog Horn sodas were brewed and bottled down in Cape Cod. Neither Justin nor his father liked the Cape that much. Too many tourists and yuppies. But they’d always made monthly trips down there to get cases of their root beer. Justin wasn’t much of a drinker like other kids his age, but if he ever found a real beer as delicious as this, he’d have himself a problem.
These days he made the trips himself. His mother had gone once in August, when their schedules lined up, but since then she’d been too busy working instead of being at home. Not that he could blame her.
He didn’t like walking through the living room much either. He could still see his father lying there, aspirating, each breath quicker and more labored than the last. When Bruce Wright had been diagnosed last year, the doctors had given him six months to a year. He’d lasted just under eight and a half months and the time
had sped by in what seemed like microseconds. Justin thought knowing the approximate end date would help matters but it had the opposite effect. At the end of every day, he crossed out the box on his calendar, knowing what was coming.
But Bruce Wright, as Justin’s mom had been telling him since June, would not have wanted his son to sit around and mope. His father had been a comedian to the end. Hell, the guy had owned a joke shop when Justin had been little, which had drawn little to no business, forcing him to close soon after opening. Then he’d bought a diner two towns over and managed the place until he’d gotten too sick.
But now the diner had been sold, his father was gone, his mother was burning herself out at work, and the girl of his dreams was dating a cadaver. How was that for a shitty year?
He imagined his father drinking his root beer, belching and repeating his favorite saying. “When life kicks you in the balls, you get back up and kick it right back. Kick until their blue and swollen and life has to limp its way home.”
“You’re right,” Justin said, wiping away a stray tear. “But right now it feels like life is wearing a cup. It feels like the harder I kick, the more fucked everything gets. I don’t know what else to do. If I work out anymore, I’m going to look like a ‘roid freak.” He flexed his muscles and laughed, his nose filling with snot.
He finished his root beer and swapped it out for his father’s. “Hope you don’t mind. This whole mourning thing has got me thirsty.”
From behind someone cleared their throat.
Justin spun around and saw Frank Tanner standing over him. From his spot on the ground, the man seemed like a giant and despite himself, Justin’s lip began to quiver. He nicked his front tooth on the bottle and brought a hand to his mouth. “Son of a bitch.”
“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that,” Frank said.
“How long have you been standing there?” Justin felt for chips in the tooth but it seemed smooth.
“Long enough.” He nodded toward the root beer bottle on his father’s stone. “You do this often?”
Justin shrugged. “Only every week.”
“I’m not one to judge.” He held up a watering can. “I water Jeremy’s flowers three times a week until winter comes around. You believe that? I got to tell you, loss is enough to drive a man crazy.”
“You got that right.”
“Look,” Frank said. “I think you and I may have gotten off to a rocky start.”
“You think?” Justin rubbed his jaw, could almost feel the swollen flesh from the night Frank had cold-cocked him during his and Alyssa’s final argument, which had started in his bedroom and finished on the Tanners’ front lawn.
“Don’t get defensive. If you had a daughter and she ran home crying while her boyfriend was chasing her down, you would’ve done the same thing. Wouldn’t have mattered if the kid lived next door or not.”
“I wasn’t chasing her. I just wanted to know why.”
“Why what?”
“Why she broke up with me. One day everything was fine, the next she told me she never wanted to see me again. Don’t you think I at least deserve an answer?”
Frank snickered. “You’ve got a lot to learn about women.”
Justin stood up and wiped dirt from his jeans.
Frank held up a hand. “I’ve got something else I want to bring up while we’re at it.”
“Yeah, what’s that?” Please don’t ask if I slept with your daughter.
“Believe it or not, you and I share a common interest. Or maybe a common enemy is a better way of saying it.”
Justin gritted his teeth, still sensitive from the bottle. “Busty Brown.”
Frank nodded. “I don’t trust that bastard and it’s not just because he’s dating my daughter, though that’s what Alyssa would have you believe. She thinks I won’t give him a chance because of the way he dresses. Sure, the kid looks like an undertaker, but I’m a teacher. I’ve seen just about every outfit you can imagine. The truth is that I know in my gut that boy’s a bad seed. And I always trust my gut.” He patted his stomach, which had grown in size these last few years.
“I’m right there with you. Why do you think I spend so much time at my window? I’m not trying to be a stalker. It’s creepy. I get it.” He paused, thinking how pathetic he was about to sound, thinking how miniscule he felt losing sleep and waiting for those headlights to illuminate the night. “To be honest, I just like to make sure she gets home okay. I don’t trust Busty either. And not just because he’s dating your daughter.”
“Then it’s settled,” Frank said. “We both hate the kid. Which means you’ll agree to help me.”
Justin wrinkled his brow. “Help you how?”
Frank set the watering can down and dusted his hands off. He looked to his left and right, as if making sure no one was listening. “I need you to do some digging on him, find out what his story is. I need to know if he’s ever been in trouble.”
“What am I, a detective? Why not do it yourself?”
“Because if Alyssa finds out, she’ll never trust me again. We already have our differences, to put it lightly, and that’ll only make things worse.”
“You let me do the dirty work so I have even less of a chance getting back with her.”
Frank cracked his knuckles. “All I’m asking is that you give me something on him, something I can use when I tell her she’s not going to be seeing him anymore.”
“Why not just play the big and tough father card and tell her you don’t need a reason?”
Frank shook his head. “Kid, you really don’t know anything about women, do you? Look, she already knows I’m not a fan and that I’m a bit…”
“Overprotective?”
“That’s one way of putting it. I prefer emotionally involved. And I can’t exactly tell her the truth, can I?”
“And what is the truth?”
Frank spat onto the ground, narrowly missing Bruce Wright’s grave. He looked at something in the distance. “You know that kid that committed suicide?”
“I’ve heard about it, sure. Happened before I was born. At the old school, right?”
Frank nodded. “He shot himself the last week of his senior year. Poor kid got picked on by just about everyone. I was on lunch duty that day.”
“Yeah, so. What’s your point?”
Frank looked up and finally met Justin’s eyes. “Turns out that was Busty’s older brother. And I may have turned my head away from some of the hazing. I’m not proud of it but I was a new teacher and I was trying to focus on my lesson plan. That’s no excuse but it’s the truth.”
“If that’s the case, you don’t think that Busty would…”
“All I’m saying is that him dating Alyssa seems a little too convenient. I’d just like to err on the side of caution.”
“Maybe we should let the police know if you’re that worried.”
“No need,” Frank said, picking the watering can back up. “Because if that scumbag lays a finger on my girl, he won’t have any hands left to cuff. Do we have a deal or not?”
“On one condition.”
“Son, you don’t get to make demands here.”
“You’re the one asking for my help, which means you must be pretty desperate. I’d say I have some power, whether or not you like it.”
Frank sighed. “What then?”
“If I help you, then you have to promise to give me another shot if I ever get Alyssa back.”
Frank spat again. “One step at a time. But I promise I won’t knock your lights out right away if that day ever comes.”
“That’s a start.”
Justin held his hand out and they shook.
Chapter Nine
On Monday morning, the start of the semester’s second week, Frank thought senior prank day had come nine months early. He stepped into class a minute or so after the bell sounded, set his book and markers down on the desk, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He couldn’t stop yawning, hadn’t slept much the nigh
t before. In his dream—nightmare was more like it—his yearbook had grown in size, transforming somehow, the cover becoming scaly skin and the pages becoming slimy tentacles.
By the time he finished blindly taking attendance and actually looked at the sea of students, he nearly yelped at what he saw.
Three of them.
There were three students dressed in black garb, their eyes dark as if they’d been up for weeks, their skin pale white, the color of subterranean things. Three kids that had been normal last semester, two of them normal just last week, but now they looked only vaguely familiar, like they’d gotten total makeovers in the span of days.
The first was Vickie Bronson, who looked even less like her normal self this week. Her skin was twice as ghostly and her outfit even more outlandish.
The second was Tom Parkins, who had just last week been the epitome of a jock, though he was a nice kid who didn’t pick on anyone. Now he looked ready to dish out wedgies and noogies at a moment’s notice. His hair, blonde before, was now dyed black, the bangs hanging onto his forehead like gelled talons.
Then there was Sylvie Platt, a short and quiet girl whose school newspaper articles excited even the potheads. She had a way with words and her shy smile had always made Frank feel like he was doing an okay job. Today her smile was gone, replaced with a sneer, like Frank was the butt of some unknown joke. Her lipstick, dark purple, made her grin seem maniacal.
The other students were uncomfortable, sneaking glances at the three every so often and trembling when they stared back.
Frank’s mouth hung open for a long time until a boy in the closest seat cleared his throat. Frank came to, realized he needed to teach class, that it was too obvious for him to observe the three students like that.
Don’t let them see that you’re afraid.
He turned toward the board and frowned. He wasn’t afraid of some kids who wanted to start dressing and acting differently. It was probably just a phase, one that would pass within a few months. He’d be laughing about this come spring and he’d forget all about those students that looked liked corpses.
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