Cruel Winter

by Anthony Izzo

  Ordinarily, Jack would have been on the ground trying not to let his bladder burst from laughing, but something in Ronnie’s eyes chilled him. They got wide, and his eyebrows twitched. For a second, there was a blank stare, as if Ronnie were looking right through him, trying to read something tattooed on the inside of Jack’s skull. He’d seen footage of Charles Manson as he was led into court, and it was that same type of stare. But Ronnie wasn’t a homicidal maniac. At least Jack hoped not. He really didn’t know the kid all that well, but he didn’t doubt after seeing that stare that Ronnie Winter would turn that flashlight into plastic shards if provoked.

  It was starting to look like they had made a horrible decision. The kid had popped a spring in his clock.

  The tunnel wound left until they came to two archways, both darker than deep space.

  “This is where it happened. The tunnel on the left,” Ronnie said.

  He shone the beam on the archway but the darkness resisted, as if it were solid and capable of breaking the light in half.

  “One of us has to go in there,” Ronnie said.

  “I’m not going in there, bucko.”

  “I need to hold the flashlight, so that leaves Jack to go by himself,” Ronnie said.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “To prove our friendship. It’s like blood brothers. A real friend would do it.”

  “What if I don’t do it?”

  Ronnie waggled the flashlight back and forth. “Then it’s bye-bye, Mr. Flashlight.”

  It was either listen to crazy Ronnie or deal with his mother. He didn’t forget the warning, the admonition to be nice to Ronnie and the underlying tone that something bad might happen. Jack had no choice.

  “I’ll do the dare,” Jack said.

  “That’s more like it, Jackie.”

  CHAPTER 16

  The dare sounded simple enough. Go into the tunnel and sit on a rubble heap for one minute. No flashlight and Ronnie would count out the time.

  “How will I know when to stop if I can’t see?”

  “Guess. Try not to trip over any bricks. It’s back a ways.”

  “All right. But I do this and we get the hell out of here. Or I’ll take that light from you and leave you with your thumb in your ass,” Jack said.

  He saw the sting on Ronnie’s face, as if Jack had spit on him.

  “You going or not?” Ronnie asked.

  “Don’t rush me.”

  Jack started forward, and Paul grabbed his arm, nearly stopping Jack’s heart cold.

  “Don’t scare me like that.”

  “You can’t go alone. You’ll get killed,” Paul said.

  “Nothing’s gonna happen,” Jack said.

  “I’m not telling your mother you got killed. I’m going with you.” He jerked his thumb in Ronnie’s direction. “Flashlight boy can wait here by himself.”

  “But Jack needs to go alone,” Ronnie said, stomping his foot like a kid used to getting his way.

  “It’s a test of loyalty, right?” Paul said.

  Ronnie nodded.

  “Then we’re both loyal, two blood brothers.”

  Ronnie’s face lit up and Jack half expected him to shout Eureka!

  “I never thought of it that way. Okay, I’ll count to sixty and yell when it’s time to come out.”

  “I’ll go first,” Jack said. “Hold on to the back of my shirt and don’t let go.” He started forward and Paul fell in behind, wadding up Jack’s T-shirt in his fist.

  “Leave the shirt on my back.”

  “Sorry. Nervous,” Paul said.

  The two boys reached the archway, a piece of stone crumbling and bouncing off Jack’s shoulder. Jack ran his hand over the stones, feeling cracks running through most of them. That made the prospect of a cave-in more frightening than any ghost.

  “Is it safe?” Paul asked.

  “Not really, but I think he’ll bust that flashlight if we don’t go along.”

  They moved ahead, Jack the engine and Paul the caboose. Jack hoped for a sliver of light, but the darkness was complete. He reached out in front of him, feeling for the brick pile or anything else that might be in his way. Paul’s tattered breathing echoed behind him.

  They had walked about a hundred feet when Jack stubbed his toe on something hard. A brick or rock rolled ahead of them, clanking on the concrete.

  “I think we’re here,” Jack said.

  “How can you tell?”

  “I’ve kicked a couple bricks or stones. We have to be near the stone pile.”

  “Just be careful.”

  Jack caught his foot on a pile of something hard and stumbled forward, for a moment visualizing his skull cracking open on a rock. He put his hands out to break the fall, and they hit cold, hard stone. His knees hit harder and Paul landed on Jack’s back. The weight of Paul drove him into a pile of rubble and he groaned.

  “You all right?” Paul asked.

  “Not really, but we found the cave-in site.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’d be better without a fairy on my back.”

  Paul pushed off and rolled to one side, stones scraping as he moved.

  Jack got to his feet, palms stinging and knees aching. Cold air kissed his knee where the concrete had torn his jeans open.

  “Where did you go, Paul?”

  “Right here.”

  His voice came from Jack’s left.

  “Reach your hand out and feel around,” Jack said.

  Paul’s hand brushed Jack’s pants, and he was grateful to feel his friend’s touch. It would be a nightmare being trapped in here alone.

  Jack turned around and lowered himself like a ship slipping beneath the waves. His rear end found hard stone. Cupping his hands over his mouth he yelled, “All right! We’re on the pile, so start counting!”

  No response from Ronnie.

  He hollered again and once again, no response came. The only noise was the drip-drip of water coming from an unseen source. It hadn’t occurred to him that the fucker might abandon them in the tunnel, but that’s exactly what had happened.

  “This sucks. You try and help the guy—”

  “Jack.”

  “What?”

  “Someone’s in here with us.”

  “Bull crap.”

  “Really. Listen.”

  Under the drip-drop of water and the occasional hollow clank in the tunnel came a low shifting noise. Jack pricked his ears, trying to determine the location of the noise. It came from his right, although how far he couldn’t tell.

  “Hear it?” Paul said.

  “It’s nothing.”

  The stone shifted, clicking, rolling, a sound like two bowling balls tapping together.

  “Are you moving?” Jack asked.

  “No.”

  “Put out your hand. We’re getting out of here.”

  “I got a porterhouse and a Budweiser waiting for me.” John turned his hand, checked his watch. “Where are those two fools?”

  He had been sitting in the limo for half an hour, the heat blasting out of the vents. He had stripped off the ski vest and gloves, nearly on the verge of passing out. Gave them five more minutes, then turned the motor off. John exited the limo and climbed the steps, the two stone lions now coated with snow.

  Once inside he glanced at the baby grand piano, thinking it would be nice to take an ax and chop the bastard into firewood. Most folks would do somersaults at the thought of living here, but the estate made him want to puke. He put on a good face in front of the bitch, playing little Mr. Sambo. That was only because she had him by the marbles and would never let go.

  The thought of Maureen and Ray kept him going, but as time went on, it became apparent he might never see them again. But Cassie dangled his family in front of him like a steak before a wild dog. She told him they would all be together again someday, and part of him wanted to believe that.

  For now he had Ronnie, and although he liked the kid, keeping up with him was a full-time
job. The kid insulted bullies twice his size, egged houses, and made prank phone calls by the dozen. John was the one to clean up Ronnie’s messes, soothing angry home owners with raw egg on their windows. Without John, Ronnie would not make twenty-five without going to Sing Sing or sleeping on a morgue slab.

  He searched Ronnie’s room and the kitchen with no luck. Next stop was the great room, where Cassie kept all the goodies. John expected to find the boys lounging on the furniture, or staging a mock wrestling match, but they weren’t there.

  “I find that kid and he’s getting a size fourteen up his rear end.”

  He stuck his head into the butler’s pantry and what he saw made him want to punch a hole in the wall. The fridge was moved back from the wall and cans of soda littered the floor.

  “That fool.”

  At least now he knew where they had gone. John pulled open a drawer and he flipped aside silverware and a bottle opener, but found no flashlight.

  “Have to find them in the dark,” he said, and ducked into the entranceway. He dreaded the descent into the bowels of the estate and realized it was too damn dark to be without a flashlight. He would have to go back and get one.

  He was halfway through the kitchen when Ronnie stumbled out of the doorway. His face was smudged with dirt, and he gave John a lopsided grin.

  “What did I tell you about going down there?”

  He stomped across the floor and pulled Ronnie up, brushing cobwebs from the boy’s hair.

  “Ow.”

  “Don’t give me no ‘ow,’ ” John said. “Where’s your friends?”

  “Still down there. Jack made me do it.”

  “And I’m Ronald Reagan. Where are they?”

  “Near the cave-in site.”

  “And they don’t have a flashlight.”

  Ronnie nodded.

  He snatched the flashlight from Ronnie and warned him to stay put.

  CHAPTER 17

  Stone shifted and rocks clattered like marbles in a sack.

  “Listen,” Paul said.

  Slow footsteps echoed, a soft crunch-crunch in the dark. At first Jack thought Ronnie turned the flashlight off and snuck into the tunnel in order to scare them, but the footsteps were too heavy. They belonged to someone bigger.

  “Reach out your hand, Paul.”

  “Okay.”

  “Snap your fingers.”

  Paul snapped his fingers and Jack reached out, gripping his cold hand. Jack tugged his own shirt and placed it in Paul’s hand.

  “Hold on to me. Stand up.”

  Paul tugged on the shirt and pulled himself up. They wouldn’t be able to go fast, but it was more important to stick together in the dark. If they were lucky, they wouldn’t trip and wind up a tangle of legs and arms on the ground.

  Jack took Paul’s hand and put it in his own.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’re going to hold hands and run side by side.”

  “I’m not holding any guy’s hand.”

  “See you later, bater.”

  “All right.” Shallow breathing from Paul. “It’s getting closer.”

  “Don’t hyperventilate on me.”

  “Give me a break. I’m nervous.”

  They linked hands as more rock tumbled in the darkness, and the stone shifter came closer.

  “Here it comes!” Paul jerked forward, nearly taking Jack’s arm with him. Jack held tight and got his legs moving.

  “Slow down.”

  “It’s coming.”

  Jack’s worst fear came true as he got too close to Paul, his right foot tangling with Paul’s left. Both of them whacked the cement, Jack flipping over on top of Paul.

  Jack got up, totally disoriented, feeling as if he had a dark sack over his head, yelling for Paul to get up.

  “Jack! Where are you? I can hear it!”

  “Keep yelling.”

  “Over here.”

  He felt around like a blind man, sure that he would smack into a wall and knock his teeth out, or worse, run into whatever was down here with them.

  “Again!” Jack said.

  “Over here.”

  Paul was smart and stayed put. Luckily Jack had only fallen seven or eight feet from Paul, but down in the darkness it may have been as bad as seven or eight miles. He continued ahead until he felt hair, Paul’s hair. Paul let out an involuntary yelp.

  “It’s me. Reach your hand out again and snap your fingers.”

  Paul did, and Jack gripped his hand.

  They started to go but something found Paul first.

  It jerked Paul back, and purely out of reflex, Jack clamped on to Paul’s hand, this alone preventing him from being torn back into the tunnel by whatever was down there.

  “It’s got my shirt!”

  Jack dug his heels in and held on to Paul’s hand tight, fearing that Mr. Skin-and-Bones-Fussel’s arm would snap like a chicken wing. He couldn’t see who had Paul.

  “Oh, Christ! It’s got me hooked. Its arm is around me!”

  Jack felt Paul leave his feet as the attacker hoisted him in the air, intent on dragging Paul back into the tunnel.

  It pulled again, like a shark dragging a swimmer down, and it was too strong. Paul’s hand slipped from Jack’s, and Paul shrieked.

  “Let me go! Bastard! Let me go! God, it smells bad!”

  Dull thuds came from yards away as Paul pounded on his captor.

  Jack charged ahead and slammed into someone as solid as a muscle man in a magazine. He wrapped his arms around the waist and pulled, but it was like trying to drag down a redwood tree. He was being dragged behind the guy like tin cans on a wedding car. It stank like old leaves or hair that’s clogged in a drain, wet and dead.

  What is it and why did we have to run into it?

  The vomit came up, hot and sour. Emma puked into the garbage can, trying not to be too loud, but sure Mom heard her downstairs. She felt like crying, and the thought of Jacob’s hands squeezing her rear end made her stomach lurch again, and she dry-heaved.

  “Oh God.” She pulled a tissue from the box and dabbed her lips.

  What was she going to do? Go down and tell Mom that Jacob had groped her? Mom would never believe her, because even though he was a total turd in Emma’s eyes, Jacob never got into trouble for anything. He was usually pretty quiet and no one would ever suspect him of doing something like this. Aunt Sam would get defensive and say that her little Jacob wasn’t capable of something like that; Emma was surely making it up.

  She wished Jack were with her right now. He was a good listener and usually pretty smart about things. Maybe he would even be chivalrous and offer to punch booger Jacob right in the mouth for her.

  Somehow she knew she could tell Jack about what happened even if she couldn’t tell her mom. But not in front of the other two, Chris and Paul. They were okay guys, but not like Jack. He wouldn’t laugh or go running to school the next day and tell all the boys in the locker room.

  Right now she had the issue of dinner and a garbage can full of barf to deal with. She stood up and threw the dirty tissue into the trash can. Looking in the mirror, she saw there were no chunks on her shirt, but her face was the color of pea soup. Mom would know something was wrong.

  “Emma, dinner.”

  “Coming. Just have to use the bathroom.”

  “Hurry up.”

  She picked up the garbage can and went downstairs, peeking around the corner to make sure no one would see her. The chattering and the clinking of silverware from the dining room told her they were seated at the dinner table. Good. She ducked across the hall and into the bathroom. Once inside, she turned on the hot water and let the vomit sluice off the sides of the can (luckily Mom had emptied it before she threw up). Then she dumped the pukey water in the toilet and flushed.

  She rinsed out her mouth with water, then grabbed Listerine off the vanity, swished, and spat a gob of blue into the sink. Satisfied that her breath didn’t resemble rotting cabbage, she set the trash can on the sta
irs and went to the dining room.

  Jacob sat next to Aunt Sam, head down, gnawing on a dinner roll. Aunt Sam sipped her wine, and Mom spooned mashed potatoes onto her plate in globs.

  “Do you feel all right?” Aunt Sam asked.

  “Just a little nauseated.”

  “Your color’s off, Emma. Are you sure you’re okay?” Mom said, pausing in midspoon.

  “Something made me sick. Can I be excused?”

  “You don’t have to eat, but stay at the table, okay? Your cousin and aunt are anxious to spend some time with you.”

  “I’m sure they are . . . especially Jacob.”

  “Of course,” Mom said.

  Mom went back to spooning out potatoes, completely unaware that her only daughter had been in danger of being raped.

  It became clear to Emma that Jacob was her problem and she would have to solve him on her own.

  CHAPTER 18

  Jack’s hold on the guy slipped and he fell, arms still wrapped tightly, but now around the ankles. The guy tore his foot away, and Jack hung on to a single ankle. It dragged him across the cement.

  “Jack, where are you?”

  “I’m still here.”

  His arms throbbed, his knees ached from banging on the concrete, and the stink of the thing made him gag. When he didn’t think he could hold on any longer, he heard footsteps smacking the pavement.

  Please, God, let that be help.

  He was running out of options, for the hulk in the darkness was too strong, but he couldn’t let it take Paul without a fight. He followed his nose to where the rotting smell was strongest, about six inches in front of his face. He opened his mouth and clamped his teeth onto the ankle, biting through fabric, and then flesh. The man grunted, and Jack bit harder. Fluid dribbled from the wound, and it trickled into the corner of his mouth. It tasted like rancid cough syrup and he half expected his tongue to curl up and turn black.

  He jerked his head back, feeling like he had tasted poison.

  It was enough to get the guy to stop, and he kicked at Jack, flinging him off to the side.

  The heavy footsteps got closer, and Jack turned in their direction.