by Chuck Wendig
She takes it, gives it a sniff.
A high-octane whiff of burned sugar.
She takes a sip. Her eyes water. “The heck is this?”
“Some of my dad’s whiskey. Bourbon. Good bourbon.”
Atlanta wouldn’t know good bourbon if it came in a gold cup, but it’s a drink, and at this point she’s pretty sure she needs it.
She takes another sip. It burns. But it’s kinda good, too.
“Works for me,” she says, and then ducks back through the crowd.
He wants to follow her, it’s his business.
Atlanta wanders for a while, trying to scout out Samantha. After a while she parks herself in the corner of the living room, keeping a watch out. The blue glow from the back patio and pool shines in, shimmering like light cast through scattered sapphires.
She tries to keep an eye on everybody. Moose Barnes is across the room, leaning up against a baby grand piano—his hand tucked in the back of some blonde’s loose jeans, him cupping her butt while she’s got a hand slid down into one of his front pockets, maybe playing a little pocket pool, who knows. He gives Atlanta a look then he smirks at her. She scowls back.
Couple dudes are playing a game of quarters on a nearby table.
A couple chicks are dancing in a trio, stropping up against each other like cats who got into the catnip.
Some girl is crying, and a guy is trying to console her. Probably just trying to get in her pants, Atlanta thinks.
Next thing she knows, though, her little hide and stand vigil plan is ruined by Petra Bright and Susie Schwartz when the two of them come up on her like they’re connected at the hip (those two always were). They start nattering at her about Oh, man, it’s good to see you again, and It’s nice that you’re starting to really connect with people, and Isn’t this party great wow this house wow that pool wow the cars out in the driveway and then Petra leans in and says, “Did you hear about Bee?” and Suzie says, “How crazy is that?”
Atlanta bites back some of her crueler responses, and just says: “I heard. That’s why I’m here. You seen Samantha around?”
Petra shrugs. “Kitchen, maybe?”
Susie concurs. “Yeah. Kitchen.”
Atlanta puts both her hands together like she’s praying, then uses it to wedge the two apart so she can head to the kitchen.
Along the way she passes Babycheeks, who now looks like a complete space-case—eyes unfocused, mouth in a crooked, boozy smile. Drunk out of her pumpkin, that one. A couple of frat types are leading her by the elbows, keeping her moving. A third comes up behind her and puts a blindfold on the girl’s face. Atlanta worries for a second—but Babycheeks is giggling and seems into it, so that’s her business. Atlanta makes a face and goes past and into the kitchen.
Of course, Samantha’s not in the kitchen, either. Damon’s there, though, flask in hand. He’s talking to two guys, one girl. One of the guys she thinks is a wrestler: he’s got a head and neck like a telephone pole stuck up out of a squat, beefy body. Next to him, the other guy, a tall length of rope with a soul patch and bad acne, is pouring out white powder onto a red dinner plate.
The girl, who Atlanta is pretty sure is on the softball team and is named . . . Tina? Toni? Tanya? . . . points to the plate and looks to Damon. Like a caveman she asks: “Want?” But Damon just holds up the flask and says he’s “covered.”
Then the girl spins, sees Atlanta. “You want . . . whoa. You’re Atlanta. Atlanta Burns,” she says, and whistles.
“Like the city and what Sherman did to the city in 1864,” Atlanta says.
“Who’s Sherman?”
Atlanta shrugs. “My accountant. Also: my lover. Sherman. Sweet, sweet Sherman.” The girl just nods knowingly, like that all makes sense somehow. People, Atlanta thinks, will pretend to understand what you’re talking about just so they don’t have to look embarrassed.
(Of course, Atlanta wouldn’t know jack squat about the city of Atlanta getting burned, either, but when she lived down South, at least once a month some history buff or enthusiastic yokel had to tell her about Sherman setting fire to the whole damn city during the Civil War.)
“You want?” the girl says, holding up the plate.
Atlanta scrunches her nose and shakes her head.
Damon hands her the flask. That, she takes. Sips a nip.
It’s starting to taste pretty good, this whiskey. She hangs out for a while, shoots the shit with everybody. But eventually she asks:
“You guys seen Samantha?”
Soul Patch, the skinny dude, says: “Upstairs.” Then points upstairs as if Atlanta doesn’t know what the word means.
He hoovers a line of coke up his nose. Then gags a little.
The wrestler dude says, “Amateur.”
Atlanta nods and ducks out of the kitchen.
Moving through the crowd is like crawling through mud. Too slow. She didn’t take any of the coke, but even still, she’s feeling edgy, worked up. Atlanta eventually gets to one of the two sets of steps that go upstairs, and she pushes past the crowds. Upstairs she finds a hallway lined with doors—more doors in this one hallway than in her whole house, inside and out, she thinks. Bedrooms and bathrooms and probably an office or two.
Atlanta goes door to door. Lot of the doors are open. One’s got a crowd doing drunken karaoke. Another’s got a ring of stoners on the floor smoking from a hookah that looks not unlike an octopus. They invite her to join, but she keeps walking, because again, there’s a mission: get in, get intel, get out.
The first closed door, she opens. There, just a mound of sheets with lots of thrusting and humping going on underneath. Looks like some kind of monster eating its kill. The sounds coming from within don’t disagree with that assessment.
Atlanta moves on.
Another closed door.
Before she even grabs the knob—a voice from inside.
Samantha.
Finally.
She opens it to reveal three people in what looks like a guest bedroom.
Against the far wall is a set of patio doors leading out to a balcony overlooking what must be the pool area. Samantha stands in front of it with something in her hands—something wrapped up in a brown paper bag.
A man stands there, too, facing her. He doesn’t go to Mason. He’s older—maybe even older than college age. Got a bit of a gut. A button-down shirt with a flared collar, showing off some chest hair. Bit scruffy all over. Big arms, too.
And on the bed, a half-naked girl. Face down. Jeans pulled half down, shirt pushed half-up. Head hanging over the end of the bed, hair like strawberries cascading down to the floor—
Oh, god. It’s her. It’s Babycheeks.
A string of drool connecting her chin to the carpet.
Samantha’s saying, “I know it’s not her, I don’t know—”
She stops. Sees Atlanta. The guy keeps on talking: “I’ll take whoever, I guess, I just figure—” But then he follows her gaze.
There’s a moment between everybody. Silence drawn and quartered.
“Speak of the devil, and the devil shall appear,” Samantha says.
“That’s her?” the man says.
Samantha smirks. “Hey, Atlanta. Come on in.”
It takes Atlanta a second for her whiskey-fuzzed brain to catch up.
Babycheeks lying there.
I know it’s not her.
Speak of the devil.
That’s her?
The cup. Red cup. Purple drink. Hunch punch.
Atalanta.
They drugged that cup.
Damon warned her about that, but she didn’t understand the warning . . .
Bee’s voice in the back of her mind: And everything was going good. But I got drunk. Real drunk, I guess. I . . . blacked out and . . .
She thinks: Run.
But her feet stay planted. That girl on the bed, whoever she is, she’s not all the way out, but she’s down for the count. Anybody can do whatever they want to her. That man, right there. W
hat’d he say? I’ll take whoever, I guess.
She could run, call the cops. But how long will they take to get here?
What will happen to this girl before then?
Atlanta swallows hard, steps into the room.
“Close the door,” Samantha says.
“I’m gonna help this girl up and go,” Atlanta says. She doesn’t close the door.
“Wait, wait, wait,” the man says. “You don’t have to leave.”
Samantha says, “Atlanta, I know this freaks you out. But look.” She holds up the paper bag. “There’s money in here. Two grand. I’ll give you half if you stay.”
And there, a little itch at the back of Atlanta’s neck: You need money. You wanna bail on this town and set up a life of your own, you can’t do it with slobbery dog kisses and empty shotgun shells. But she gets the cost, and she says as much, too. “You want me to stay for him. You want me to . . . do things with him.”
He smiles. A devil’s look on his face. Hungry and lean. “That’s right.”
“Like I said . . .” Atlanta creeps farther into the room. “I’m gonna wake this girl up, and we’re gonna go.”
“Atlanta,” Samantha says, exasperated. “This is real money. Dude, what’s your name?” she asks to the guy.
Guy says, “I’m not telling her that.”
“Ugh, whatever. Up your offer,” Samantha says.
The man looks angry and confused. “What?”
“Throw in another thousand.”
“Hey, we had a deal—”
“Situation is changed,” Samantha says through gritted teeth. “Atlanta’s now part of the bargaining table, and that means you gotta make her a real offer—”
“I’m not part of some fuckin’ auction,” Atlanta seethes.
Samantha clucks her tongue. “Atlanta. Just be cool. Okay? Be cool.”
The man’s hands bundle up into fists. “Be cool or I’m gonna make it cool. I didn’t come here to pay for nothing.”
And with that, he starts to move around the side of the bed. Slowly. Like he’s a zookeeper approaching an escaped lion.
The desire in his eyes. Atlanta knows it. She’s seen it before. He’s a thirsty coyote who hasn’t had a sip of water in a while.
He’ll do what he has to, to get it.
And she’ll do what she has to do to stop him.
That word goes through her head one last time—run—before she rejects it.
She doesn’t need to assess the room much to know what to do next.
Her hand darts out, grabs a lamp off the bedside table. The man sees her moving and starts moving fast himself—coming at her hard.
Which is the wrong thing to do.
The plug pops out of the wall, the lamp cord lashing like a stingray’s tail as she smashes the ceramic base of the lamp right against the man’s forehead. It’s like slamming a pie into somebody’s face, but much harder, much meaner.
The ceramic shatters with a pop. The man cries out and drops to the ground, knocked cold—
Atlanta quick moves, and kicks the door shut. Just in case Samantha has backup out there.
Samantha curses, and heads to the other bedside table, fumbling for the drawer—whatever she’s going for, Atlanta can’t have that. She jumps up on the bed, lets the springs carry her forward—
She slams into Samantha as a stun gun spins out of the other girl’s hand.
Samantha’s head thumps against the wall.
Atlanta straight punches her in the jaw.
It hurts. Hurts like she wouldn’t believe. Her hand throbs, pain shooting up through her wrist and all the way to her elbow.
Dang!
Samantha leers with a bloody mouth. “You dumb bitch. You’re ruining a good thing. You could’ve been rich.”
Atlanta paws at the wad of money inside the paper bag—now on the floor. “Already am. And what the hell do you need money for, anyway?”
“Mommy’s new book is tanking. Her advances shrink with every new book coming.” Her tongue snakes out of her mouth, tastes a line of blood running from her nose. Nearby, the dude groans. Samantha flits her gaze toward him like he might be her savior—but he stays down and out. “We’re almost broke.”
Poor baby. “Is this what you did to Bee?”
“Bee?” She barks a laugh. “Bee knew what she was getting into. Just not who was getting into her, if you know what I mean.”
“Who? Who was it?”
“That did the deed? I dunno.”
Atlanta smacks her.
“I said I don’t know!” Samantha protests. “Jesus. It was different with her, all right? They . . . came, they picked her up. Took her somewhere. Brought her back and . . . dumped her on the lawn like she was garbage for the curb.”
From behind her, the girl on the bed starts to moan.
“You, though,” Samantha says. “You fetched big dollars.”
“Who was it? Who picked her up? Bee. Who picked up Bee?”
“I dunno him. Some thug. Mahoney or something.”
Atlanta still has more questions—but there’s a pounding on the door.
From the other side, a voice: “Sam. Sammy. Everything cool?”
“Uh-oh,” Samantha says with a smirk. “Cavalry’s here.”
Move fast. Atlanta’s up. Back onto the bed. Bounding toward the door as Samantha is yelling: “Get in here!” The door starts to pop—
Bam. Atlanta jams her shoulder hard against it, slamming it shut. With quick fingers she bolts the lock. The door strains against its hinges. And of course when she turns back around, there’s Samantha standing up, the lower half of her face a mask of blood—she staggers toward the bed.
Atlanta’s like a Ping-Pong ball, from one side of the room to the next. She back-hands Samantha, grabs the stun gun, and jams it into the other girl’s ribs.
Every part of Samantha goes rigid like a coatrack. She makes a sound like ngh ngh ngh ngh—part of her pink tongue sticks out from between clenched teeth.
Then she drops like a lung-shot deer, moaning and writhing on the floor.
From the other side of the door, the voice again:
“Sam, you okay? Sam, answer.” Atlanta knows that voice. Moose Barnes. That prick is built like two refrigerators belted together. He’ll have that door down in no time. Which means—
Atlanta gets under Babycheeks. Drapes that girl’s arm over her shoulders, and hauls her up. Thank heavens she’s tiny, Atlanta thinks. She gives the girl a jostle and a shake. “Wake up. Hey. You. Wake up.”
She smacks the girl’s face.
The door rattles as someone slams into it.
The girl’s eyelids flutter. “Wuzza,” she says, drool swinging from her chin.
“Can you swim?” Atlanta asks.
“Swih? Wuh?”
This is a bad idea.
But it’s the only idea.
Atlanta moves—the girl’s legs only barely keeping up—toward the patio doors. She pops them open. They head out onto the balcony and sure enough, it overlooks the pool below: crystal-blue waters. Music in the air. The beat going doom doom doom doom. Kids in the water. Horsing around. Feeling each other up.
Behind her: the door rocks open, splinters thrown wide.
Atlanta yells: “Watch out!”
She thinks: Please don’t drown, Babycheeks.
And then she throws the girl over the edge.
Moose yells for her. She feels the floor shake with his footsteps bounding toward her like he’s a loose T. rex trying to catch a goat.
Soon as Babycheeks hits the water, Atlanta bunches up Josie’s very nice taffeta dress and jumps.
Water blue like Windex surrounds her—lights glow beneath her, the dark of night floats above. Feet churn water nearby, not far from her head. A flurry of bubbles like marbles tossed in zero gravity. The sound of a roar rising up—
Atlanta breaks the surface.
The roar is applause.
Clapping. Hooting. For she and Babycheeks—
Atlanta hazards a look up, straight up.
Moose Barnes stares down over the railing at her. He ducks back inside, fast. Which means he’s probably coming for them.
“Gotta move,” she sputters to Babycheeks, both of them blinking away stinging chlorine. They tread to the side of the pool. Hands appear to help them up. Everybody’s congratulating them, laughing, slapping Atlanta on the back—each slap smacking wetly against what is likely a completely ruined dress.
First chance she gets to wear a dress in forever, and Atlanta ruins it.
Typical. And not at all surprising.
No time to ponder that now. “We have to go,” she says to Babycheeks.
“Okay,” Babycheeks manages to say—she’s still high, but the fall and the pool water sharpened some of the softer edges. The girl’s confused but aware.
They start to weave their way back to the party. People are talking to Atlanta, but she can barely hear them. The water in her ears makes everything sound like wah womp wah and she’s not really paying much attention, anyway. She gets to the patio door, and already she sees a head slightly taller than the others coming down around the one staircase—it’s Barnes.
Goddangit!
She wheels back around.
And there’s Damon.
She’s never been happier to see him.
“You need to get us out of here,” she says.
His eyes, wide. Mouth slack. She forms her thumb into a weapon and jabs him hard in the ribs.
She hisses: “I said, we need to go.”
He nods, and she points to the same exit she used last time she was here—the gate at the far end of the patio. They cut a sharp line, duck around the side of the house, and get to his truck. Tires peel asphalt, and they’re gone.
They stop at the same place because comfort, however small, matters. Same fence rail, same duck pond. Nobody gets out of the truck, though. They sit there with the heater on because as it turns out, being sopping wet on a late-September night is a very good way to make your teeth chatter so hard they crack.
