Dale pouted his lower lip appreciatively, nodded slowly. He then leaned down to hit his trunk button. The arrant cart fit enough that he could drive it home further up the hill.
Charlie watched him go, thinking her situation could be worse. She and Dale fooled around one weekend in the eleventh grade, going far enough that a sober version of herself was very relieved when her period came on time. She could’ve mothered a little Carver kid, offer it a piece of the Carver castle, a trailer and a woodshed. Got it a job in the Carver empire of firewood cutting.
Shit, bad can usually get worse.
No, she’d take her current luck over that. At least now, she had money and no longer had to go to work.
Up, she continued. She hadn’t stepped into the Pick ‘n Save in two weeks. Little as she ever wanted to go again, she didn’t have a choice until she left Happy Village, couldn’t make that choice until her bed-ridden father finally went. He’d been dying for Charlie’s entire life, you ask him. You ask Charlie, she’d say the same, but also suggest that people can choose to live, sometimes.
3
Thursday, September 15, 1932: 5:32AM
The tink-tink-tink of hammer on rock had become Pierre Laurence’s life. The mine was all but dry, and wasn’t a steal of a deal at all. He and three others went all-in; the other two had tucked their tails and took their deeds up to the Yukon. He had two weeks to wire them with news or be proven wrong. Two weeks and they’d sell if the mine didn’t show renewed signs. They’d get less than they paid and hope for a windfall somewhere else. That was the new plan.
Being wrong was not something Pierre cared to admit. In fact, he’d shot his father over the notion only two years earlier and this whole mess was the old man’s fault. If he hadn’t been such a prick, he’d be alive and Pierre would’ve never had an inheritance to invest on a dead mine.
Tink-tink-tink. The sound had changed over the last hour, gradually enough that Pierre didn’t notice. The rock began coming away in chunks and then flakes. He shined the kerosene headlamp onto his hands and let his mind wander.
He pondered the lake a few miles from his childhood home, remembered how the water glistened on his childhood neighbor’s breasts, melding her blouse to her chest until he flung it away and Pierre had the only girl he’d ever loved. Of course his uncle wasn’t pleased, tried to kill Pierre when he found out his thirteen-year-old daughter was in love with her twenty-four-year-old man, and was dancing in a way God reserved for whores and married women—in that order. No child came of it and the girl was shipped off to Montreal.
Tink-tink-tink. Pierre’s erection was stiff enough that he considered shirking his gloves a minute. He was alone and what a man did in the privacy of his own mine was his business. His mind got far enough to wonder what that dirt might do to him if he really rubbed it into his cock when the rock beneath him shattered and dropped.
Suddenly, the ground was far below and coming at him fast. Black on black everywhere until orange light blazed. Mushroom caps glowed like dull streetlamps. Pierre screamed as he made out the ground below.
His feet hit first, the breaks compounded like folded bamboo—kakunkakunkakunk… His spine rattled like a quiet xylophone and his neck seemed to pop his head off like a dandelion, though remained connected by flesh and muscle.
He awoke after an indeterminate time when a shower of pebbles landed on his face. He attempted to move, found himself still disconnected. It hit him then, he was a dead man unless one of the others happened to have turned around, changed their mind about the mine, and set out to look…
Far overhead, Pierre heard the rumbles of a cave-in. More pebbles rained. Incredibly, the light on his helmet continued to blaze. He was lucky that the canister hadn’t broken and blanketed an oily, burning death over his head.
“Instead, I’m dying slow,” he said, he words raspy as a sandpaper sandwich. “Help!” This was louder, but not loud enough to hear in the real world what might be a thousand feet above him—who knew where he’d landed?
He’d started on the side of the mountain, in a new vein of the mine, one that seemed almost welcoming in how loose the stone was. Off and on, Pierre entertained notions of destiny, of finding gold and taking out, never telling his partners. They deserved that. Quitters.
No gold. Instead, he found a strange chamber with giant luminescent mushrooms and certain death. At least he’d never had to admit his error.
Not far away he heard sounds, regular as footsteps, but huge. Impossibly huge. They shook the world. He tried to look around, but his head remained perched in one spot like a wooden owl nailed to a rooftop. He tried to speak again, tasted blood, began choking, quit trying to force out words. A gentle wheeze departed from a hole in his cheek steadily as he tried to calm himself.
If it’s possible to crane eyes, Pierre craned his eyes. The big sound was coming closer, mostly from behind him, but the way the echo rang through the chamber made it seem like the steps came from everywhere. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, felt great pangs slice into his lungs, a fresh deluge of blood pumped up his throat.
The sounds came closer, faster. Pierre hacked and gagged, vomited blood, let it trail down his chin. Didn’t have a choice. Tears spilled naturally though nothing hurt in a physical sense.
The fit ceased and he took little sips of breath while he let his eyes settle. A loud cracking sounded behind him, echoing like a wave in a gale, washing over him. The world brightened doubly.
If Pierre could’ve turned, he would’ve seen one of the luminescent mushroom caps knocked onto its side. He would’ve seen more than that too. He would’ve seen something impossible.
The steady stepping came closer yet and a shadow played huge over the fresh new light. The steps drew nearer and the shadow began to shrink, but solidify.
Up, he strained, peering into the blood matted to his lashes and bangs, into the lip of the helmet, into the burning light of the headlamp. His face shook gently as the ground around him rattled. He tried to think of his childhood neighbor’s breasts, of her ass, of the sweet caress of her vagina. Couldn’t, that repeating noise was too close, way too close.
Then it stopped and the shadow darkened. His straining eyes fought to make sense of the line of jagged ridges and the damp, stinking air wafting over him. Strange, the light banked back off those ridges, and suddenly he understood the scent was rotten meat. Then it was all gone and for one heartbeat, he lived inside a mouth the size of a Model B.
More ridges came together and ground the last of Pierre’s life from his body.
4
Tuesday, April 29, 2019: 9:39AM
Stevie Drew was behind the big maple tree at the back of the schoolyard. A chain-link fence butted up against the trunk, separating school from freedom. Stevie had no good reason to skip, but give him any reason and he was bound to say yes. Life was for the living and sitting around, watching the clock was killing time while time killed him. Plus nobody expected him to amount to much. So his skipping class was the status quo.
His high marks weren’t within expectation, but only the teachers knew about that. His mother sure didn’t care enough to look into it, and who knew who his father was.
On Facebook the night before, Stevie read the quick stream of angry, frustrated words from his pal Rob Hill. Rob was one of the good boys in the grade eleven/twelve class that year. He’d never skipped before, but suddenly had to, was so mad he couldn’t be in class, asked if Stevie wanted to skip with him.
Stevie said sure. Rob said he’d bring beer. Stevie said bonus.
Rob hadn’t shown up by the maple and Stevie was fairly certain good boy Rob had a change of balls and went to class.
Not that it was all bad, being alone. He had cigarettes and no longer had to share. Getting buzzed would’ve been nice, but you can’t win everything. Also, he wouldn’t have to listen to Rob complain. Stevie was pretty sure Rob didn’t want to go to school because Juliet Snyder turned him down. Juliet was a ninth grader, an eleventh grader asking her o
ut was supposed to be a sure thing.
Rob didn’t see himself. Tons of dudes out there don’t see themselves, their inner ugliness and tedium, dudes who mope and moan when chicks don’t want to watch them play video games and eat Doritos, chicks who’re bored by South Park, chicks who want something more than a pimply nothing up to nothing. Rob was the worst of the worst of the type because he actually thought he was better than girls, not just ninth graders, but girls in general. The type of guy to call all the girls a dyke when they didn’t want to dance with him in grade school. The type of guy who’d be just like his parents.
Stevie had heard Rob’s mother go on about girls making up rape stories and how whores got what was coming, and Stevie had only ever heard the woman talk a handful of times. What had Rob heard? And shit, Rob’s father…he worked construction and his idea of a classic was to call women on the street babes or ask to see some tits.
Part of Stevie had decided he’d try to spit some sense into Rob, but the pussy had skipped on the skipping, was probably sitting in class like a jerkoff.
“What you doing?”
Stevie looked up, took a puff from his cigarette. “Having a dart. What you doing?”
It was Emily Keene. She wore scuffed Nike sneakers, blue jeans, and a blank white tee. Stevie wore the very same and it made Emily grin. “Nice outfit.”
Emily was in the same class, but she was in twelve while Stevie was still in eleven. Not that there was a big difference. More than half the projects due were given to both sides.
Stevie looked down to his feet, his legs, his chest, and then back to Emily. “Just trying to be like you.”
Emily came over and plunked down against the tree. “Cigarettes are bad for you.”
“So are hotdogs, don’t mean I can’t enjoy’m.”
Emily had her book bag between her spread legs, she tapped Stevie’s toe with her toe, their legs pressed together. “Why you skipping?”
“Was supposed to get drunk with Hill, but he bitched out.”
“Rob Hill?”
Stevie nodded, exhaling a white cloud and then sucking it back in.
“That fuck face said he was going to kill Juliet Snyder ‘cause she didn’t want to go out with him.”
“You talk to Juliet Snyder?” Stevie was much more surprised by this than by the idea Rob would threaten to kill a girl who rejected him.
“Ophelia told me. I guess Juliet called her, crying. Rob’s a fucking douche.”
“No doubt, but he said he would bring the beer. Also, not like I have a big pool of friends to choose from.”
Emily snorted at this. “How do you think I feel? You just gotta be friends with those guys; I’ll end up having to date some of them.”
“Some of us are all right.”
“Oh yeah.”
Stevie took a deep drag, spoke through an exhale, lifting his voice a few octaves, “You want me to show ya?”
Emily nudged him with her elbow and he blew out the rest of his held lungful. “You wish.”
“Sometimes.”
Emily side-eyed him. Stevie was the wrong side of the tracks incarnate. “Oh yeah.”
Stevie turned to face her. Her eyes shot forward. He grinned at her. “That all you can say?”
“You’re trouble, Stevie Drew.” Emily waited, oddly, for Stevie to put a move on her. Instead, he faced forward as well, peered into the foliage ahead of them. “You should come in with me. We have a test.” She stood up.
The coquettishness fled Stevie in a snap. “For real?”
Emily laughed, held out her hand. He took it and she lifted. He gave it an extra squeeze before letting go. Right then, both wondered why they hadn’t noticed much of each other before. They started toward the street and sidewalk, around the chain-link fence.
It was warm and nice. The rain had held off for an entire week, a rarity at that time of year. They squinted into the sun as they moved the gentle slope upward to the old brick building. They could see into four classrooms, all the elementary and middle grade classes. The teachers who saw them wouldn’t care and the students were too young to know them beyond name recognition.
The school housed students from kindergarten to grade twelve, one hundred twenty-five kids, give or take a few heads. Most who attended to Happy Village School went on to leave after graduation, some came back, but most didn’t. The town was all but dead. Many parents didn’t work or were under-employed, taking remote call center jobs. More than half the kids lived with a single parent. Rarely could anyone say specifically why they stayed in town. Most times it was family and familiarity, but families can move and familiarity comes in strokes. Changes become the normal once you live them long enough.
They circled the yard designated to the younger grades, otherwise they’d have to go in through the main office doors. Stevie slowed. “Wait, why are you just getting to school now?”
They stopped by the windows of the nine/ten classroom. “I slept in. Was up late watching TV.”
Stevie had hoped for an exciting tidbit, a segue into a conversable topic, start building something to come back to later. He started walking again, Emily matched his pace. “What were you watching?”
She laughed nervously. “Old X-Files episodes.”
Stevie stopped again, grip on the door handle. “Really?”
“Really.”
He was about to swing the door open when he heard the unmistakable bang of a shotgun. He let go and stumbled backward. Emily was behind him, again, matching pace. The sound was coming from within the school, and nearby. Screams, high and incessant rang out. Another shot sounded and a voice shouted, “Shut up! Now!”
They were behind the windows again and looking in on the ninth and tenth graders. There were girls bleeding on the floor. At the front by the chalkboard, Rob Hill charged back and forth at the front of the room.
“Holy Christ,” Emily said, too loudly.
The windows were open and Rob heard it. He turned to face the window and aimed at Emily. Stevie grabbed her arm and yanked her sideways. The window shattered and more screams rang out, though only momentarily.
“Run! Run!” Stevie kept pulling. They ran further up the hill, out toward the forest where nobody bothered to continue the chain-link fence.
“Did you see? Did you see?”
Stevie had Emily’s hand. “I saw. He’s nuts. We have to get to the fire station or something. This is so fucked.” They slowed to a jog, checking over their shoulders almost as much as they looked forward.
“What if—what if he follows?”
“We hide and wait then.” Stevie tugged Emily left. Twigs snapped and leaves crunched underfoot. The breeze seemed to whisper doom and the birds seemed to laugh at the haplessness of their fleeing. And still, they continued, pushing hard, but moving below a good jog by the time they reached the gravel of a storage lot.
“I have…to…stop.” Emily gasped as she spoke.
Stevie’s chest banged a little, but he was in good shape, smoker or not. “Okay. We…hide.”
They didn’t stop, moving wayward until they saw a thirty-foot pleasure cruiser boat. It had a tarp over it, but both recognized it to be the property of Scout Wallace—he had all the best toys. They scrambled up the side over the wheel fender of the trailer. The boat shook, but was never closer to teetering. Emily straightened the tarp and then followed Stevie into the cabin.
“In here.” Stevie swung open the bedroom door and pointed to the closet. Emily did not question it and huddle in tight while Stevie closed the door behind them.
The closet smelled like ocean, Stevie’s cigarettes, and terror.
5
Monday, December 26, 1977: 10:09PM
Jane Hartman rode with the flow for the ninth straight day of an extended high. Only thing that had changed in that time was that she wandered from the camp. Had to get away for a while. Christmas in the forest, snow up to her hips in some places, was no fun unless she stayed absolutely wrecked and zooming like a fighter jet. S
o that was how she’d stayed.
She was so high that when she slid into a hole that continued well below the snow, she didn’t notice right away. She tried to grab onto the walls, but the hole was slick with freeze and her arms were like rubber. One hundred feet. Two hundred. She kept sliding, her parka lifted over her head, disappeared into the past.
“Help! Help!” Jane howled up the shaft, still falling.
The time she fell was ridiculous and had to be the drugs. There’s no way she slipped for that long; the slope angle was no worse than a kiddie toboggan hill, but she couldn’t stop. On and on. Three hundred. Four hundred. Four-forty, she dropped, falling forward into a bright orange cavern.
Surrounding her were mushrooms as big as houses. And they glowed. Surely this was a trip, and suddenly she felt better about everything. None of this mattered. Hell, she was likely still in the tent. Maybe she was sleeping, maybe she was hallucinating, maybe she was puking on Gary, that prick—he’d decided love was love and since they shared a tent, her body was to share as well, and it might’ve been had she been awake when he started. Gary was a big reason she took off from the group. She couldn’t sleep near him again, what if he got more ideas?
But that meant she wasn’t in the tent, and had left, and maybe she had fallen down that crazy shaft. “Hello?” she said, rising to her feet, rubbing her sore knees and wrists. She’d landed hard, but was pretty loose, so she guessed maybe that worked in her favor.
Nah, this was wrong. She slapped her face. “Wake up.” Again, really swinging this time. “Wake up.”
It stung and she was wide-eyed and moving. Ahead, the white stems, thick as Douglas Fir heritage trees, big enough that it would take a dozen hippies with linked hands to hug it. Jane pushed and squeezed, came out on the far side of the mushroom wall. The luminescent fungi were everywhere, large and small, soaring and squat, each glowing the same amount. In the areas where the mushrooms weren’t, the floor of the earth was a stringy moss. The atmosphere was cool and damp, but much warmer than it was before she’d fallen.
Great Big Teeth Page 2
