Survive the Night

by Danielle Vega

  Shana still hasn’t broken the surface of the water below us.

  “Sam, wait,” I say. “Shana’s still down there.”

  “I’m not slowing down, Case.” He climbs one more rung. Then another. I stare at the water, my heart pounding. The surface stays still.

  “Sam . . .” I say again. We climb up another rung, but this time Sam pauses, his breathing heavy. He grits his teeth together and reaches for the rung above us.

  Shana bursts from the water below, gasping. She grabs the rungs and pulls herself out of the water, making the ladder shake.

  “Keep going!” she shouts. She climbs quickly—barely tightening her fingers before she pulls herself up to the next rung. Then, halfway up the ladder, her hand slips.

  “Shana!” I scream. She gropes at the air, swaying backward. Just when I think she’s going to fall, she lunges forward, wrapping an arm around the ladder. I exhale.

  “Be careful,” I say. She nods, giving me a wobbly grin.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m coming.”

  “Just two more,” Sam says, groaning. I nod, darkness flickering at the corners of my eyes. My arms loosen around Sam’s neck.

  “Casey!” Shana shouts. She shakes the ladder, and I jolt awake, tightening my grip again.

  Sam pulls us up the last rung and reaches for the manhole cover above his head. I hold my breath, expecting this one to be stuck, too. Metal scrapes against metal, and a circle of blue appears above me. Fresh air rolls into the tunnel.

  I close my eyes, relishing the light hitting my cheeks. The air is clear and cool. It smells like grass instead of urine and sweat. The fear I’ve been carrying all night drains out of my shoulders.

  Sam crawls out of the manhole and collapses onto the ground. I roll off him. Grass tickles my cheek and the sun beats against my face. A line of sweat forms below my hair.

  “Oh my God,” I gasp, pressing my face into the grass. “We’re out. We’re finally out.”

  Sam rolls onto his back, smiling at me. We seem to be in some sort of park. Water glistens in the distance, and I hear leaves rustle as wind breezes past.

  I conjure up my last bit of energy and prop myself onto my elbows, army-crawling back to the manhole. I squint down, but the sudden brightness makes it hard to see anything but black. I blink, and the shadows begin to separate.

  Shana’s only four rungs down. I exhale, relieved, and start to reach for her when a twitch on the far wall draws my attention. I narrow my eyes.

  Daylight pours into the subway opening, slowly bringing the rest of the tunnel into view. Thick gray tentacles cling to the walls like vines. They crawl from the water and curl over moldy bricks, twitching when the breeze gusts past them. I stare, horrified.

  Shana’s too focused on the ladder to see them. I open my mouth to yell at her to hurry—then hesitate. The tentacles surround her on all sides. They swell and undulate over the bricks, claws curling over scales the color of oil.

  They’re too close. Any sudden movement, and they’ll strike. I force myself to look away, trying to keep my face neutral.

  “You’re almost here,” I say, instead. My voice trembles. I stretch my hand toward Shana and she reaches for me. My fingertips graze her chipped, dirty nails.

  “Casey,” she says, smiling her too-wide toddler smile. A tentacle unpeels from the wall and curls toward the back of her head.

  Shana gropes for my hand. I hold my breath.

  A tentacle whips out of the pool, spraying me with water as it twists into the air. Its gray scales look nearly black, and its claws glint in the sunlight.

  “Shana!” I scream, but it moves too quickly. My best friend is still smiling when the tentacle wraps around her waist.

  Claws flare out from the tentacle and tear the fabric of her shirt. Shana opens her mouth, and a wet gurgle bubbles from her lips. The claws dig into her flesh, shredding the skin on her arms.

  She gropes for me, but I’m too far away to reach her. The monster wrenches her off the ladder and drags her down.

  “No!” I scream. Shana crashes through the surface of the pool and disappears below the water.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  MY SKIN STILL TINGLES WHERE HER NAIL GRAZED MY finger. Just seconds ago, I was reaching for her hand. And now . . .

  The water ripples, then goes still. Something white and ghostly flickers below the surface, and I imagine it’s Shana’s face. Hope rises in my chest. She’s stronger than the others were. She’ll fight this thing. I watch the water, waiting for Shana to burst through the surface, gasping.

  But the pool stays calm. Bile clogs my throat. I pull my leg beneath me, cringing at the sudden ache, and drag myself onto the ladder. Shana’s there. She’s still alive, and she needs me.

  The metal rungs dig into my palms, and the cold subway air envelops me. I take a deep breath, then tug my leg around and position my foot on the ladder. Bright, furious pain rushes over me. It’s so intense that my vision swims in and out of focus. My hands go slack . . .

  “Casey!” Before I know what’s happening, Sam has his hand around my arm, and he’s dragging me away from the ladder. My cheek hits the cold, wet grass.

  “Shana!” I sob. I try to crawl back to the manhole, but Sam stops me.

  “She’s gone,” he says. He holds me by the shoulders to keep me from trying to crawl back to the tunnel. I try to pull away, but he holds tighter.

  “Let me go!” I sob, pounding my fists against his chest. “I need to save her. I need to save her!”

  The last of my energy drains away. I collapse against Sam’s chest, tears blurring my eyes. Shana’s giddy smile flashes through my head. I hiccup, and fresh sobs jolt through my body. I should have warned her about the tentacles. I should have tried harder to grab her hand.

  Sam pushes the wet hair off my face and kisses me on the forehead. “It’s okay. We’re safe, Casey. You’re safe.”

  “Shana . . .” My voice gets caught in my throat. I huddle closer to Sam, taking comfort in the warmth of his chest beneath his damp T-shirt. Images force their way into my head: Aya’s vacant eyes, Julie’s bloodstained fingers. I weave my arms around Sam’s neck, holding tight. Like I’m afraid he might disappear. His hands find the small of my back.

  “It’s okay,” he murmurs into my ear. “You’re alive. You’re safe. It’s going to be okay.”

  I’m still trembling when Sam tilts my head back and kisses me. Our lips move together, desperate and hungry. I kiss him so I don’t have to think about the look on Woody’s face when the tentacle tore through his chest, or Aya’s bloodstained dress floating in the water where her legs should have been.

  The sun warms my shoulders, and the grass tickles my bare feet. I feel Sam’s heartbeat, his breath against my neck.

  It’s okay, I think to myself. I’m safe. It’s going to be okay. I press my lips against Sam’s, harder, waiting for the memories to grow dim.

  Sam’s lips freeze on mine.

  I jerk away. “What’s wrong?”

  Sam’s eyes widen. His skin turns the color of ash.

  “Casey . . . ?” Blood spurts from his mouth and oozes over his teeth and lips.

  “Oh my God!” The voice doesn’t sound like mine. Sam releases a choked gasp and doubles over, holding himself up with one hand. I grab his shoulder to steady him, and my hands start to shake. He coughs again, spraying the grass with blood, before collapsing onto my lap. A deep red stain pools at the base of his spine. Blood seeps through his T-shirt and spreads up his back. Tears spring to my eyes. I glance down at my own hands, horrified to see blood clinging to my fingertips.

  “No.” I peel the T-shirt off his back, revealing a deep, ugly gash.

  The wound slashes across Sam’s spine. It’s at least six inches wide, and it gapes open, revealing the raw meat of Sam’s back, and bones poking through a thick laye
r of blood. The skin around the edges has already blackened.

  “We need an ambulance,” I say. I dimly remember hearing that you have to apply pressure to keep a wound from bleeding out. I press both hands against Sam’s back. He cringes, and fresh blood oozes through my fingers.

  “Casey.” Sam pushes me away. His eyes have a cloudy cast to them. He frowns. “I can’t see you.”

  “Sam?” My voice cracks. “Sam, I’m going to go get help.”

  “Don’t.” His fingers enclose my wrist. He’s barely touching me, but it feels like every single bone in my body breaks at the same time. I squeeze his fingers.

  “Sam . . .” I whisper.

  He gives me a lopsided grin. “Did . . . did I tell you Woody’s going to let me crash in his apartment . . . after graduation?” He stares at something behind me, something he doesn’t seem to see.

  “Sam,” I whisper. I touch his chin, turning his face so he’ll look at me.

  “He knows a guy . . . let us play on weekends.” Sam’s voice gets weaker. I huddle closer, wondering if he still knows I’m here. Tears flood my eyes.

  “Don’t cry.” Sam tries to lift his hand and touch my cheek. He drops it halfway there, pain flashing across his face.

  “Don’t move,” I say. Sam’s arm starts to shake, and he collapses back onto my lap. I sob, and brush the hair back from his face. “Sam!”

  “You can come, too,” he mutters, eyes fluttering.

  “No!” I say. “Look at me!”

  Sam’s eyes lose focus. His limbs go still.

  “Sam!” I shake him, but he doesn’t move. “Wake up! Sam. Don’t leave me!”

  Agony crashes over me. I gape down at Sam, a silent scream frozen on my face. Static buzzes in my ears, blocking out everything but his final words.

  You can come, too.

  My arms start to tremble, and I collapse onto my dead boyfriend’s chest. A ragged sob claws from my throat. A gust of air brushes over my skin, freezing the water still clinging to my arms and legs.

  I burrow deeper into Sam, trying to ignore the chill that’s already crept into his body.

  “I want to come,” I whisper. His T-shirt is still wet, and it smells like sewer. But below that, it smells like Sam. My Sam. I grab handfuls of it in my fists and breathe it in. “Please don’t leave me here.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see something move toward me. I stiffen. It’s just a jogger. He rounds the corner of the lake, hesitating when he sees me.

  “Everything okay?” he calls. I open my mouth, but I can’t speak. The black is pulling at the edges of my senses. It won’t be long before I fall unconscious. I know I should fight to stay awake, but I can’t fight anymore. There’s no one left to fight for.

  I lower myself to Sam’s chest and finally let myself rest.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  LIGHTS FLASH BEHIND MY CLOSED LIDS. THEN THEY flash off again.

  I feel myself grow lighter and fight against it. It’s like swimming. I try to push myself farther, into the deep, fathomless ocean of sleep. My friends are down there. I see their faces in the darkness. Shana is just inches away from me, her bright pink lips parted in a little-kid grin.

  “You look deranged,” she says. But the current pulls me up. The light grows brighter, and pain seeps in through my arms and legs. It stabs at me like knives. Shana’s face disappears.

  I open my eyes. It’s dark. Blue lights flash from a machine to my left, and an IV stands at my right. Plastic cords connect to my wrists. A velvety night sky stretches beyond the hospital window, and in the distance, I can see the dusky glow of city lights.

  Someone’s shouting.

  I blink, listening. The shouting cuts off, abruptly.

  Then: “Female victim. Seventeen years old.”

  They must be talking about me. Sleep tugs at me. I don’t fight it. Everything’s so much easier when I’m asleep. My eyelids flutter.

  An ER tech pauses in front of my room, his hands resting on a stretcher. Suddenly I’m wide awake. A sheet covers the body, but a bare leg wearing a muddy black boot dangles over the side of the stretcher, along with a single pink-tipped lock of hair.

  “Shana,” I whisper. I try to push myself out of bed, but my arms wobble beneath my weight, and I crash back against my pillows. Darkness flickers at the corners of my eyes, and before I can move, the morphine pulls me under.

  • • •

  My eyes twitch open hours later, still heavy with sleep. Something woke me. I lie curled on my side, listening for a sound. The machines beep. A car honks on the street outside. A nurse in the hall says something about going for coffee.

  My eyelids grow heavier. I’m about to drift off again when movement flickers at the edge of my vision. My eyes shoot open and I sit up in bed, the mattress creaking beneath my weight.

  Someone stands in the hall outside my room, a shadow hovering near the doorway.

  “Mom?” My voice cracks. It feels raw and unused. Whoever’s watching me doesn’t move. I curl my fingers around the scratchy hospital sheets and scoot back against the headboard. My heart thuds against my chest. The shadow shifts.

  “Shana?” I say.

  Shana drifts forward, dazed. A film of sweat coats her skin, and her hair frames her face in limp, tangled clumps. She wears a hospital gown just like mine. But hers is several sizes too big and the neck droops over her shoulder, revealing deep red gouges on her neck and chest.

  “Oh my God.” I push back my blankets and climb out of bed. The drugs make me slow and clumsy. The room spins, and I have to lean against the wall for a second to regain my balance. The dizziness subsides and I yank the IV out of my hand, then stumble across the room and grab the door to keep myself steady. Pins and needles race up my injured leg. Gritting my teeth together, I take the last few steps toward Shana and throw my arms around her neck.

  “You’re alive,” I whisper. Tears spring to my eyes. Shana feels small beneath my arms, her bones thin and fragile. I hold her tighter, but she doesn’t hug me back. Her hands hang next to her sides, limp.

  “Shana?” I loosen my grip slightly, but then Shana jerks her arms around me. Her fingers crawl to the back of my head and press into my scalp. Chipped nails dig into my head.

  “What are you doing?” I squirm, but she tightens her grip. Her nails claw at my skin. “Wait, you’re hurting me.”

  I start to pull away, but then I see something jutting out of Shana’s back, and I hesitate. The object looks sharp and long as a steak knife, but curved in a subtle arc. I raise a trembling finger as it sinks deeper into Shana’s body.

  Nerves prickle over my arms and the back of my neck. I push her off me and she stumbles back a few feet, giggling.

  “No,” I say. She’s trying to be funny. This is one of her stupid jokes. The muscle in my leg twitches, telling me to run. I edge backward. “Shana, what the hell is going on?”

  The light hits her face, and dread washes over me. Skin droops from her cheeks and jaw. Her mouth stretches. This smile is different from Shana’s giddy, little-kid grin. There’s no joy in it. It widens, all jagged teeth and bleeding gums. Her normally brown eyes burn icy blue. Just like Aya’s had.

  “Shana,” I whisper. The scratch Aya left across my face flares, like a warning. This thing couldn’t possibly be the real Shana. Shana’s dead. The creature from the subway took her body, just like it took Aya’s body, and Lawrence’s body.

  And now it’s come for me.

  The creature’s blue eyes darken into twin black pools. Something appears from deep within Shana’s throat. It pulses and writhes against the roof of her mouth. It pushes on her teeth.

  A tentacle uncurls over Shana’s cracked lips. It lashes at me, gray scales flashing under the dim hospital lights, and cuts, whiplike, into my cheek. The tentacle crashes into the wall behind me, and the plaster crumbles unde
r its weight.

  Terror grips my chest and I run for the door, but Shana darts into my path and pushes me back into the room. I lose my balance and slam into the tile. Pain shoots through my hips.

  The tentacle loops around my ankle. Tiny, jagged claws flare out from the scales and cut into my flesh. I scream and kick, but the tentacle constricts and the claws dig into my leg like a grappling hook. I push myself to my hands and knees and start to crawl, but the tentacle yanks my legs out from under me. My forehead smacks into the floor and darkness blossoms in front of my eyes. My head feels thick and dizzy.

  I can’t move. A shadow falls over me. I can practically picture the tentacle hovering above my head, its claws about to dig into the soft flesh around my neck. I groan and try to roll over, but pain washes over me in waves. A tear forms in the corner of my eye.

  This is it. I’m going to die.

  Voices sound in the hall just outside my door, but they fade before I can call out for help. Shana’s bare feet pad across the floor.

  Then, silence.

  I roll onto my back. Something flickers at the corner of my eye, and I flinch and throw my arms around my face again, expecting Shana to lunge. But nothing happens.

  I lower my arms, trembling. The doorway where Shana had stood is empty. I push myself to my knees, eyes darting around the small hospital room. Did she run away? Or is she still here? Hiding?

  The blue machine beeps in the corner. My IV stands next to the bed, cords dangling to the floor. The curtain rustles.

  My heart thuds in my ears. I rise to my feet. Pain flutters through my bad knee, making me cringe. The door to the hall is just past the window. If Shana’s behind the curtain, I’ll never make it.

  The curtain moves again. I grit my teeth and creep across the room. The tile chills my bare feet, and my fingers shake. Goose bumps raise the hair on my arms and neck.

  I reach forward, grab the curtain, and yank it back—revealing nothing but an open window. A cool breeze drifts into the room, rustling the curtain.