In Stone (19 page)

“No! I am absolutely not going to kill Jack.” She shoves her finger in my face.

“If you come back up here without him I’ll...”

“Rachael. What are you doing?” Jack asks from the mouth of the cave.  He bounds over to my rescue.

“I wasn’t doing anything. We were just talking. Right...Beau?” Rachael smiles like an angel. I’m half expecting her to start twisting a pigtail around her finger. Jack looks at me, his face still flushed and sweaty from our make-out session. He’s recently run a hand through his hair and pushed it back off his face. I want to jump on him again.

“Beau?”

“We were just talking,” I reply, forcing enthusiasm. His eyes analyze my face for signs of deceit. He finds nothing.

“We need to get going if you want to make it home by Monday.”

RACHEL KNEELS ON THE
ground, closes her eyes, and starts waving her arms around like a spooked Octopus.

“What is she doing?” I whisper to Jack.

“Mostly, she’s being dramatic.” One of Rachael’s eyes pings open.

“I heard that.”

“Just open the gate, Rach.”

There are symbols -- nonsensical, but still beautiful -- tattooed on Rachael’s forearms. She throws her body forward and outstretches her arms, pressing the markings against the cold black concrete. She looks like she’s bowing to a maharajah. I can hear her whispering to the ground. Within seconds the crack of a whip echoes around the stone arena and the solid black top splits. I watch, amazed, as the land eases apart, and a gap that’s only slightly bigger than a laundry chute opens up. Rachael looks up at Jack; he leans down and kisses her forehead.

“Thank you.”

“Four notes of caution before you skip off into the darkness.” She holds up one finger. “Prolonged Underworld openness makes the demons kind of cranky and ultra-suspicious, so although melting the knife is objective numero uno, haste must come in a close second.” A second finger pops up. “Whatever you see, hear, and feel; ignore it. It’s not real. If you don’t find the strength to shut it out you will drown in your own self-pity. Period.” A third finger. “If one of those bitches closes the gate from inside, I can’t -- repeat -- I cannot re-open it from up here. So, if you get seen, drop everything and run like shit to your nearest exit. Fourth and final note, don’t bring anything back with you. You’re not going on vacation; the Underworld isn’t a pet store. If it’s down there it belongs to one of them. These guys are like toddlers; they’re in a permanent state of ‘mine’, so suppress all your natural I’m-a-Gargoyle-I-must-protect-anything-and-everything-that-looks-all-doe-eyed-and-fragile urges. And all your I’m-an-easily-manipulated-human issues because if you bring something back whatever owns it will come and claim it. Any questions?”

“I think you pretty much covered everything. Thanks,” Jack replies frostily. “She didn’t scare you did she?” he asks, rubbing my arm.

“I have the only weapon capable of killing these…bitches. What’s there to be scared of?” I reply with a firm smile. Mentally, I’m flipping Rachael the bird. Jack pulls me into his chest. “How far down is it?” I ask as we shuffle to the edge of the hole.

“You don’t want to know,” Rachael chirps. “Just keep your eyes closed. And don’t scream. You don’t want the entire Underworld on your back before you’ve even touched the ground, do you?”

“That’s enough, Rachael.”

“Just telling it like it is.”

“Are you ready?” Jack asks. Probably not, but I don’t say that. Instead, I bury my head in the soft wool of his sweater. His tail coils around my waist. I feel him shift and my body becomes weightless in the exact same second.

We’re falling, dropping out of the sky like shooting stars.

My stomach slips into my shoes. I sink my fingers deep into Jack’s back and focus on not throwing up until finally the thud of Jack’s landing shakes me.

He sets me down on solid ground. I’m jittery, but still in control of my motor functions. I don’t feel anywhere near as rough as I did when Lisa dragged me through the air.

“You’re really good at falling.” Jack smiles, shifting stray hairs out of my face, pulling them free from my suddenly dry lips.

“Take a few deep breaths; get your body used to the air,” he says. “How do you feel?”

“I’m okay.” As soon as I say it the tart taste of garlic and burnt egg hits the back of my throat. A warmth rises in my windpipe, and I just about have enough time to turn away from him before I hurl a stream of blackberry tea.

“Oh god,” I groan. He rubs circles on my back. I die a little inside.

“It’ll pass. Have a swig of this.” He hands me a bottle of water from my bag. I gulp nearly half of the contents.

“Better?” I nod, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, way too embarrassed to make eye contact.

“It’s the sulfur in the air,” he says, closing in on my face. I hold my breath because I don’t want to breathe vomit-breath on him. He traces my jaw with his thumb. His eyes are illuminated. I wait for the gleam to give way to the ice blue, but they’re stuck in a permanent state of chrome.

“Your eyes have changed color.”

“It’s a reflex.”

I get lost in the shine for a second. His fingers lace around mine, and we’re moving away from a jagged brown wall that shoots up into the sky. It reaches all the way up to a crack in the granite clouds. I presume this is the crack we just fell through.

I’m hyper alert to my surroundings. Ears open, eyes wide. The Underworld is nothing like what I was expecting. There’s no fire pit or soul-swallowing inferno. No rattling chains or three-headed dogs waiting to eat us. It’s a picture of depression though. A baron wasteland; the victim of an apocalypse. The ground is grey and as dry as a bone. A couple of rocks and boulders are scattered about, but like Rachael’s front yard, nothing lives or grows here. Morose climbs up my back and sits on my shoulders. It weighs as much as an elephant.

“Don’t forget what Rachael said, whatever you see, whatever you hear and whatever you feel down here, ignore it. This place, it’ll mess with your mind if you allow it. Don’t lose sight of who you are and why we’re here. Okay?” Jack warns.

“Ah ha,” I reply as a shadow over his shoulder catches my attention. My full attention.

“Beau, look at me and tell me you’re listening.”

“Yes. I said yes,” I snap and push him to one side as the shadow transforms into a figure, walking toward us. “Jack.” I reach back, looking for his hand, but my fingers are only finding air. I spin frantically in search of him, but he’s vanished. “Jack?”

Panic, rolling in my guts like thunder. Leaking from my eyes in tears.

“Beau, what’s wrong?” I feel a hand on my shoulder and hear my Mom’s voice. There’s a dull noise inside my head like a bee trapped in a bottle. I ignore it and instead turn to see…

“Mom. What are you doing here?”

“What’s wrong sweetheart? Why are you crying?” she asks, her fingers skating over my cheek. I search her face. It’s all familiar. The crows-feet stretching out from the side of her emerald eyes, her glossed lips, the unruly curl of her black hair. For just a split second the hum inside my head is deafening. I stumble. She catches me. Her grip is tight, painful even. I lift my head to meet with her face again. Fear has me recoil from her grip. Her eyes are black.

“Beau, it’s okay.” Jack. But his words are ice cold as they infiltrate my ears. There’s something alien about the way they sound.

“Where did you go? Why did you leave me?” I turn to meet with him and find myself staring into another pair of onyx eyes. “Jack, what’s happening?” My voice trembles. I don’t understand. In my mind I hear the sound of shattering.

“Shhh,” he soothes, walking toward me. I. Am. Not. Soothed.

“I’m scared,” I whisper to no one in particular. I don’t think I’ve ever said that out loud before. Jack’s stare drills into mine. This can’t be happening. My head is shaking from side to side like an eraser being pulled back and forth across the page, trying to wipeout the hideous picture of my Mom and Parker, Jack Parker.

Working against me is this painful sense of hopelessness. It envelops my insides. It’s like grief -- I felt the same when dad first left. My eyes well. I back away from the both of them, and they start marching toward me, arms outstretched like a couple of zombies. I dig the knife from my bag and hold it up at them. I try to conjure my fearless, demon-head-butting-warrior counterpart, but down here she’s dead.

“Don’t come any closer,” I warn halfheartedly. My hand is as sturdy as a house of cards. The hum -- the bee trapped in a bottle -- rattles around inside my brain and makes it hard to concentrate. There’s no way I can outrun one demon, let alone two, but I can’t find the strength to use the knife. These aren’t demons. Mom is my only family, and Jack, he’s the boy I was kissing less than an hour ago. The more I look at them the stronger the feeling of despair becomes. My insides have been crammed into a jam jar. Screw it. My feet make the decision to run.

Each step I take drags up a cloud of dust. I barely clear three feet when Jack grabs my shirt. I spin, instinct forces my arm forward, and I punch him the face. My knuckle cracks. I feel bone crunch. His nostrils fill with blood. Not black, red. That’s not right. Demons bleed black. Dazed, Jack lets go of me, pinches his nose and snaps it back into place. I use the moment to make a second escape and start hurtling toward the openness. There’s nowhere to hide. I’m a sitting duck -- a lame deer during open season, the chick running up the stairs in a slasher flick. My body is tense in anticipation for a football inspired take down, but it doesn’t happen. I look back over my shoulder. There’s no one there. The landscape is deserted. I skid to a stop and end up tripping over my own feet. My body hits the floor.

Get up.

No.

Get up.

I don’t want to. I want to lie here on the floor. The hum in my head keeps playing. I pull my knees up to my chest and hug them tight. My cheek is pressed down into the dirt. Tears run over the top of my nose and are sucked up when they splash onto the parched ground.

Grief is crippling me.

I’m trapped at the never-ending funeral of a friend. All the misery and pain of the mourners is floating around in the air, and I’m breathing it in like a bacteria.

I don’t know how long I lie there. I know that it’s long enough for my tears to dry up.

In the dirt, I’m sketching Francisco Goya’s The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters. I’m just rounding the edges of a bat wing with my pinky finger when the stray stones on the ground start moving. Jitter-bugging. I sit up. A vibration ripples up my core. Panicked, I get to my feet and start reversing.

A bit crazed and a lot confused, I’m half expecting a stampede to materialize in front of me until my back clashes with something hard. A giant concrete wall has sprung up from nowhere. It’s seven, maybe eight, times taller than me and stretches out across the landscape as far as the eye can see.

After prodding it a couple of times, to make sure it’s real and not just a mirage, I decide to scale it. I dig my fingers into the rough stone and try pulling myself up the incline. I keep slipping. It’s so coarse it scratches off my fingerprints and chews through the denim of my jeans. I drop back down and start thrashing my fists against it.

“Please...somebody...please, help me,” I whine as the fight abandons me. Of course the wall can’t hear me anymore than it can help me.

I’m sucking the blood off my fingers when a creak to my left snatches my attention. The wall has grown a door. The door is ajar. I peer inside to a dark tunnel.

“Is this where I’m supposed to go, huh? You want me to go through here?” I shout up at the sky. I’ve gone mad.

With not even my sanity left to lose, I spread myself out like a starfish, hold my breath, and start side shuffling down the barely breathable space. I once got trapped for twelve minutes in a mall elevator with six other people, a seeing-eye dog, and a stroller. This feels a lot like that did. Hot, close, sweaty.

Finally, I reach the end of the tunnel. Trying to slip out of the opening is a struggle. I have a whole new respect for the butterfly and its elegant departure from a cocoon as I push myself through it and flop out onto the floor with a thud. More open landscape. More nothingness.

“Now what?” I ask the sky. “Where do I got next?” The hum sound spikes in my head. I drum on my temple with a closed fist, trying to knock it out, but it persists.

“You know what? I don’t give a shit. I’m tired. I’m bleeding. I don’t want to walk anymore, so you can hum all you want. I’m just going sit down here and wait. I don’t care if it kills me. I’m not taking another step until Jack gets back,” I inform the sky as I lie on the floor of the Underworld with my arms folded up under my head. This could be Miami Beach in July. The hum breaks out its best pneumatic drill impression.

“I’m not listening,” I sing and keep singing until I feel a vise-like grip around my ankle. Then, like a sack of soil, I’m being dragged along the floor by an invisible force. I flip myself over and paw at the floor. I kick and scream until I’m not being dragged anymore. I’m on my feet in the same second with the knife poised, ready to plunge into my tormenter.

“You see this? Do you see this? I will kill you!” I snarl. Something flickers in my peripheral. I twist sharply to try and catch the culprit, but the only thing I catch is the sight of my reflection in a newly manifested mirror. I’m well and truly down the rabbit hole. A tremble tears through me as I step closer and my reflection becomes crystal clear. I know this face, these eyes from the airplane bathroom. Dark and dangerous. Polished marbles.