Darkborn

by Matthew J. Costello

  Sand.

  Great. I can feel the bottom.

  Now, where the hell is my shoe? Where the hell — ?

  He felt the tip of the shoe. And he flailed at it with his fingers, trying to move it closer, until he felt the open end and the heel . . .

  Until he could close around the shape and bring it up, and . . .

  And it slipped from his fingers.

  He grabbed it again, a practiced hand now. Squeezing the shoe tight.

  He pulled it up.

  When something slid across the back of his hand. Slowly. Like a cold wet strand of spaghetti.

  He wanted to scream.

  He wanted to jerk his hand up.

  But then I’ll drop it again and I’ll have to start all over —

  He held on, feeling the tip of the shoe hit some rock, turning it, easing the shoe over.

  The snakelike thing slid off his hand.

  Will heard a chirp.

  Almost like a bird. Then again, another chirp. And —

  Bristly things touching his fingers, poking him. Hard, bristly —

  Oh, God.

  He yanked his hand out hard, not caring if the damn shoe fell back in.

  He yelled.

  A low, guttural sound, a scream of revulsion.

  But the shoe came flying out, up into the air.

  Will rolled back from the hole.

  And for the few seconds he sat there — watching the hole, watching if the rat would climb out, disappointed, hungry — he thought he heard something.

  Thought he heard it . . . because he knew it couldn’t be real.

  Couldn’t be.

  I’m just hearing this because I’m scared. And it’s cold and my heart is beating a thousand times a second.

  My ears are ringing.

  So I’m not really hearing this, he thought.

  But it sounded like . . . clicking.

  Clicking, chattering . . .

  The sound of teeth, hundreds, thousands of teeth, clicking, chattering, quietly at first, then louder and louder, until it was a chorus of chattering, clicking teeth.

  “Oh, God!” Will yelled. He brought his hand up to his ears.

  He heard his name.

  He took his hands off his ears.

  “Will, what the hell’s taking you so long?”

  He turned. And he saw Tim . . . Tim’s shadow, at least, up on the road.

  Watching him.

  “I — I —”

  Well, what was it? he thought. What is my big problem?

  “I got stuck. Between two rocks —”

  “C’mon, dork. Everyone’s waiting.”

  Will nodded. He slipped his foot into his shoe.

  Stopping for a second, thinking that his toes would meet something. But they didn’t.

  Then he picked up his books and ran up to his friend.

  * * *

  14

  The rattling of the subway train did little to ease Will’s queasy stomach or his confused mind.

  What happened back there? he wondered.

  I fell into a rat hole. I cut myself.

  He reached down and touched his ankle, the thin crust of blood now meshed with his dark blue socks.

  But what of the chattering, the clicking?

  Sounding so much like teeth.

  The wind. Must have been the wind.

  Or a rat’s nest. Or —

  Who the hell knows . . . after half a bottle of bourbon?

  The subway wheezed into the Brighton Beach station. Tim had been sitting on the other side, watching the dark ocean and square apartment buildings roll by. But when the train stopped, he got up and came over to Will.

  “What’s the matter with your leg?” he asked.

  Will looked up, smiling. “Nothing.”

  The train lurched forward again. Tim sat down. “I can’t believe I gave up getting my rocks off to hang out with you dorks,” Tim said, grinning. Will smiled back.

  Then Will asked, “Do we have to go to Coney Island? Shit. It’s getting late.” Will paused, licked his lips. “It’s a stupid idea.”

  Tim turned and looked out the window.

  Kiff was laughing at something that Whalen said, which, of course, set Narrio off again.

  If a transit cop comes in here, he’s going to haul our asses right off this train, Will thought.

  “Why not?” Tim said, still looking out the window. They had a clear view of the lights of the apartments, the houses ending at the blackness of the sea. “It’s early. The dance would have another hour to go — at the least.” Tim turned and looked at him. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Will nodded.

  But he did anyway.

  And all too soon, they were at the Coney Island station. They went screaming down the stairs, hooting and yelling.

  But when Will got to the bottom, to Surf Avenue — the main strip of Coney Island — he saw that their high spirits weren’t appreciated.

  There were men down there, some black, some Hispanic, a few whites. They all had small, dark eyes. Hungry, nasty eyes.

  They hung around on the corner, leaning against the wall of a place that sold — the sign yelled — CORN ON THE COB! In big puffy red letters.

  The men were talking.

  Looking at us, Will thought.

  He felt as if he had just fallen into the bear pit in the zoo.

  “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, gang,” Kiff joked.

  “Just keep fucking walking,” Tim said. And to demonstrate, Tim stormed off, out, across the street as if he had an appointment with his stockbroker.

  Will hurried to follow, not wanting to get caught in his wake.

  Then, from behind him, he heard Narrio.

  “I want some corn.”

  Will looked back. Narrio stood on the corner, digging into his back pocket for some money.

  Whalen was halfway across the street, looking back, laughing at Narrio.

  “Will you get him away from there!” Will hissed. just loudly enough for Whalen to hear. And Whalen ran back to the sidewalk and hooked Narrio by the collar of his trench coat.

  “Jesus,” Will said when they came abreast of him. “Narrio’s got the street smarts of a puppy.”

  Whalen laughed at that.

  They passed a bar, and Whalen said. “Shall we try our luck?”

  Will shook his head, but he saw Whalen stop and look in.

  He heard the song thumping out . . .

  “I Got You, Babe . . .”

  Sonny and Cher. America’s favorite rock and roll couple, Time magazine insisted.

  Yeah, thought Will. And by next year they’ll both be history.

  Will was stopped, just behind Whalen. “Hey, c’mon, Whalen. Let’s keep —”

  But Whalen studied the bar, sizing it up to see whether they could troop in there and actually get served.

  Will looked at the name of the bar. McCann’s. It seemed as if every sleazy corner in New York had a McCann’s. Sandwiches and booze. Booze and sandwiches. And more booze. Until you didn’t care whether you had a sandwich anymore. As long as there was booze.

  He thought of a joke.

  What’s an Irish seven-course dinner?

  A potato and a six-pack.

  Cue laughter.

  Too fucking true, he thought. Too —

  He saw eyes looking out of the darkness.

  “You got me, and I got you . . . babe . . .”

  “Hey, Whalen, c’mon. Let’s go.”

  So dark inside. Just a bit of a glow over where the bottles were, and reddish lights over the trays of steaming meat. Real meat, or just an amazing simulation?

  Let’s go get a sandwich . . . and ten shots of Canadian Club, with chasers, please.

  Will looked up at Tim, still trooping away, leading Kiff further down the street.

  Into the dark part of town, Will saw.

  “Hey, Whalen, give it up. We’ll get something later.”

  After we leave this ghost town. />
  And Will looked back the other way, to see if any of the corn-on-the-cob men, the lean and hungry men, were doing more than watching. He looked to see if any of them were following.

  But they weren’t.

  “I’m going to catch up with Tim,” Will said. “And you can do whatever the hell you want to —” And Will stormed away, leaving Whalen and Narrio frozen outside the bar, sizing up their chances with all the discretion of plastered sailors wobbling outside a whorehouse.

  Will hurried up to Tim and Kiff, and then he heard steps behind him as the others abandoned their quest and followed Tim.

  “What the hell gives with the streetlights?” Will said.

  There were two lights out on this block alone, and another across the street was flickering feebly.

  No one answered him.

  They walked past a crumpled figure collapsed in the doorway of a building. A neon sign, off for centuries, said The Shore Hotel.

  The perfect place for your Coney Island stay . . .

  “I didn’t know it had gotten this bad,” Will said to Tim. Of course, nobody he knew ever went to Coney Island in the summer. It was a beach for the masses, the great unwashed herd, as Tim called them. But now the place looked more like a penal colony.

  “Just keep your wits about you, Willy.”

  Will looked over his shoulder again. A few blocks back there were some bright lights, and a crowd in front of Nathan’s purchasing the world’s best hot dog. But down here . . . this was the edge of the world. The bottom of the universe.

  And ahead, down the next block, was Steeplechase.

  He saw the giant wood and glass building, catching the light from the washed-out streetlights. The word “Demolition” was pasted right across the name, right across George C. Tilyou’s Steeplechase Park, cutting off the top of the words The Funny Place.

  It didn’t look too funny now.

  The big face, the big leering face, was nice and clear.

  Tim started crossing the street.

  Will turned. He saw a police car down near the corncob joint. But it turned right and disappeared.

  It probably doesn’t want to linger here, No, sir, not where there’s any real problems. Just take a cursory peek and slip back to the world of normal people who stay at home on Fridays and watch Jack Paar.

  Tim picked up his pace, his short legs hurrying them to the giant building, and the amusement park surrounded by a massive fence.

  Whalen came up to him. He looked excited, back to normal. The fresh air seemed to be doing him some good, Will saw. “What’s the plan, guys?” he said.

  But Kiff danced in front of them just as they hit the curb. He put his hands out dramatically, stopping them. “We can’t just go in this way,” he said. “But there are doors around the side, big doors. That’s where we can break in.”

  “Are there dogs?” Will asked.

  “What?”

  “Are there dogs, I said. You know. Guard dogs.”

  Narrio burped.

  He’s not long for holding all that shit down, Will guessed. Best to stay out of his firing range. He took a few steps away.

  “Shit, Kiff, do they use guard dogs inside? Big German shepherds? Doberman pinschers? Understand?”

  Kiff looked at the fence and into the park. The rides were still there. Most were shrouded with heavy tarps that made them strange, misshapen lumps. But a few were exposed, as if ready for a late night party. The kiddie rides were here — the small boats, tiny Model Ts — right near the front of the park.

  The real stuff was further in.

  “No,” Kiff said. “No. I mean, why would they have dogs? The place is going to be torn down. I —”

  Tim cut him off.

  “Let’s just go around the side and see what we can see.”

  “Punking out?” Whalen said.

  Will shot him a look. Ah, yes, Whalen was back to normal. The cut on Whalen’s chin made him look like a gangster.

  “No, Whalen. I can hang in as long as you don’t puke at us again.”

  Everyone but Whalen laughed.

  Whalen came close. “Fuck you,” he said.

  Tim yanked Will away, down the block. Down to the side of the Steeplechase building.

  And that seemed to decide it.

  But as they walked that way, Will cocked an ear, listening for the sound of a dog growling . . . behind the fence … or inside the building itself . . . waiting.

  Waiting, Will thought, for such fools as us.

  It was like a garage door, all splintery. The ground was dotted with white flakes of paint and tiny chips of wood. The wind blew from the ocean, carrying the dull, thundering roar of the waves. It made Will shiver.

  The garage-like door was bolted with a lock the size of a horse collar.

  The street was dark. Just two lamps. Spaced too far apart to take any of the funereal gloom out of the side street.

  And Will remembered a rhyme:

  Up the narrow alleyway,

  Down the dirty street,

  To the place where a man lives

  Who wants children to eat.

  “Hey, no way,” he said, watching Tim handle the lock. And he thought: What are we doing? Isn’t this breaking and entering? And aren’t I getting to be an old pro at that? Is this how you get to be a criminal?

  Or is this still just a prank? Just normal teenage high spirits?

  That’s all, Officer.

  He looked back to Surf Avenue.

  Someone was crossing the street. A man seemed to stop, to slow. Pausing halfway across.

  “Someone’s watching us,” Will whispered.

  “Fuck him,” Whalen said. “He can’t see us.”

  Will looked back.

  Whoever it was had vanished.

  “We can get this off,” Whalen said, fingering the lock. “No problem.”

  Tim turned to him. “Then do it!”

  Whalen grinned. “The bolt is attached to the wood, and it’s rotting away. All we need is” — he looked around on the ground —”some kind of —”Whalen walked to the curb and then went further down the block. “Look up the other way,” he ordered. “Up toward the road.”

  Kiff started toward Surf Avenue.

  “This is crazy,” Will said.

  Tim looked at him.

  “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.” He said it flat, without any feeling. And it made Will feel like shit. The criticism was right there . . .

  I want to punk out again.

  “No, Tim, it’s just —”

  “Hey!” Kiff yelled. “Is this any good?” He held something up and waved it in the darkness.

  “What is it?” Whalen yelled back.

  “A wire hanger,” Kiff said.

  “Forget it.”

  “Dork,” Tim said, laughing.

  Will nodded.

  He hoped that they didn’t find anything.

  The waves seemed closer. Was the tide coming in? It was roaring, a repetitive drumming on the beach, just a hundred feet away.

  “I’ve got something,” Whalen said. He ran back to them.

  “I gotta take a piss,” Narrio said absently.

  Tim turned to him, grinning. “Then go piss.”

  Narrio walked away from the group. Out of the comer of his eye, Will saw Narrio huddle close to the building wall.

  “This should do it,” Whalen said, brandishing an oddly curved stick. It looked like a piece of driftwood. It looked like —

  Whalen quickly stuck one end of his prize between the curved loop of the bolt and the metal latch of the door. Whalen started pushing against it, using leverage to pry the bolt off the door.

  “It’s giving,” Whalen said.

  Will heard a siren in the distance. I almost hope it comes here, he thought.

  Save us from this.

  “Yeah, it’s moving.”

  Narrio came back.

  Will looked at the stick.

  It turned in Whalen’s hands, twisting jus
t a bit as he pressed harder, and —

  Will knew what it was.

  “It’s a fucking bone,” he said. He stepped back.

  Whalen looked up at him. Then Tim turned and said, “What?”

  “The stick — it’s a goddamn bone,” Will repeated. “It’s someone’s bone. Damn. Look at it.” He felt his voice rising. “Will you look at what you have in your hands?”

  Now even Whalen stopped. He let go. He backed away. The bone was wedged in the lock, sticking out at a severe angle.

  “What the hell?” Whalen said.

  They all studied it. Will saw the indentations of the joints … the anklebone connected to the kneebone . . . the kneebone connected to the —

  What bone was this?

  “What the — ?”

  “It’s probably just a dog’s bone,” Tim said.

  “Go ahead, finish up,” he ordered.

  But Whalen didn’t move. In fact, it looked as if the more convinced Whalen became that it was a bone, the further back he stepped.

  “Shit,” he said.

  What happened next happened fast.

  Tim went to the door. He grabbed the bone. He threw all his weight against it, pressing hard, flush against the door.

  There was a splintering noise. Then the metal bolt flew off one door and slapped against the other. The heavy lock dangled, useless.

  The door creaked open a few inches. And Will smelled something inside, a warm, sweet smell.

  Tim tossed the bone back into the street, where it landed with a dull sound.

  A wave broke. Closer, closer . . .

  “Now let’s get the fuck inside,” Tim said.

  And — for some reason — it seemed like a better idea than standing out in the street.

  * * *

  15

  Tim pulled open the door. The bottom edge ground against the sidewalk, and the hinges creaked, and more of that smell gushed out.

  Old wood, Will thought. That’s what the smell is.

  And Tim disappeared into the building, into the darkness.

  Kiff followed him. He made a spooky owl sound.

  “Ooooooo!” he howled. Narrio and Whalen crept in.

  Another wave broke as if lapping at the boardwalk.

  And then Will went in.

  It was pitch-black.