6. Teeth in the Dark
CHAPTER SIX
teeth in the dark
The sound starts like a sigh. Wood groaning under a weight too heavy to bear, a complaint from the structure itself. Then a snap. Sharp. Final. Like a spine breaking.
Move.
Instinct takes over. It bypasses thought, bypasses fear. I throw myself over Clara, covering her body with mine, creating a shield of flesh and bone—the roof drops. The world explodes into white noise.
Snow pours in—tons of it. Heavy, wet, suffocating. It crushes the air out of my lungs, a physical blow that drives me down. A beam hits my back—a massive, bruising impact that slams my face into the dirt. I taste copper and mud.
Darkness. Then cold. Violating, absolute cold. It fills every gap, every pore.
The world has compressed. There is no shack anymore.
Just a pocket of air the size of a coffin, carved out by the fallen beams and the angle of my own body.
I’m pinned. The weight on my back is crushing, forcing my ribs against my lungs.
I can’t move my legs. I can’t move my arms. I am a statue made of pain.
"Clara," I gasp. The snow swallows the word.
"Rowan?" Her voice is close. Right next to my ear. Trembling. "I can't see. I can't see anything. Is it... are we dead?"
"Don't move," I wheeze. "The snow... It's heavy. If you move, it might shift. It might finish us."
"Are we buried?"
"Yeah."
"Are we going to die?"
I try to inhale. It’s a struggle against the pressure. Three minutes, my brain calculates, cold and detached. That's how long you have before CO2 levels build up. Maybe five if you don't panic.
"No," I lie.
"You're heavy," she whispers.
"Sorry."
"No... It's good. You're warm. You feel real."
We lie there in the crushing dark. The silence isn't empty now. It’s heavy. It presses against my eardrums. It has a texture: velvet and leather.
"Rowan," she says softly. "I have a secret."
"Don't waste oxygen."
"I have to say it. Before the air runs out, if I die with it inside me, it’ll rot." She pauses. I can feel her breath on my neck, shallow and fast. "I never liked hockey."
I choke out a laugh that turns into a cough, jarring my bruised back. "What?"
"I hated it. The violence. The noise. The way the crowd cheers when someone gets hurt. I only took the job because... because my father loved the team. He died last year. I wanted to be close to something he loved. I wanted to understand why he loved the violence more than he loved me."
"Jesus, Clara."
"I know. Stupid."
"No. Not stupid. Sad."
I try to shift. The beam groans above us. Pain shoots down my spine—white hot, blinding.
"I have a secret too," I rasp.
"Yeah?"
"I'm afraid of the dark."
She stays silent for a second. Then she laughs. A tiny, breathless sound that sounds like glass breaking. "The Enforcer? Afraid of the dark?"
"It’s not what’s in it," I whisper. "It’s what isn't. It’s the void. The idea that no one is watching."
"I'm here," she says. She moves her hand—I feel it brush my cheek. Cold fingers finding my skin in the blackness. "I'm in the dark with you. Someone is watching."
The touch sparks something. Not hope. Anger. Pure, distilled rage. I will not die in a hole. The anger spreads, hot and violent. It fuels the machine. It burns the fear out of my blood.
"Clara," I say. "Cover your head."
"What?"
"I'm getting us out."
I scream, but my mouth fills with snow. I push up. My muscles scream. My bad shoulder pops. I feel fibers tearing. Lift. Lift, or she dies. I heave. I become nothing but force. The beam shifts. Just an inch. Then another.
"Clara!"
"I'm... I'm okay!" Her voice is muffled.
I drag her out from under me. We scramble backward, away from the collapse, clawing through the snow like moles, into the only corner of the shack still standing.
The fire is dead. Buried. The room is filled with snow.
The wind is inside now, tearing at our clothes, screaming in triumph.
And Clara is screaming. Not in fear. In pain.
"My shoulder! Oh God, my shoulder!"
I look. A splinter of wood—a shard from the roof beam—is embedded in her shoulder. It’s deep. Ragged. Blood is pumping out, dark and rhythmic, turning the snow black. It’s arterial. Or close to it. She’s dying.
"Do we have bandages?" she gasps, clutching at the wound, blood spurting between her fingers.
"No. We used them."
"The tape?"
"Gone."
She’s bleeding out. I can see the life draining from her face, turning her skin the color of old paper.
I look around. Panic claws at my throat.
Think. Think. My eyes land on the only thing left.
The knife. And the embers. A single corner of the fire pit is still exposed, protected by a fallen plank.
A few coals glow red in the white chaos. Usage. Violence.
"Clara."
She looks at me. She sees where I'm looking. The realization hits her like a physical blow. "No," she whispers. "Rowan, no."
"We have to stop the bleeding. You're losing too much."
"No, Rowan, please... I can't..."
"There's no other way. You bleed out in two minutes, or we do this."
I grab the knife and shove the blade into the embers. I wait—the seconds into hours. The steel darkens, then begins to glow. A dull, malevolent cherry red. It looks like the eye of a demon. Clara is sobbing, trying to crawl away, but she’s too weak.
"I can't. I can't do it."
I move to her. I pin her good arm with my knee. I pin her legs with my own. I am heavy. I am inevitable.
"You can," I say. "You have to."
"It will kill me."
"No. It will save you."
I pull the collar of her shirt down, exposing the wound. The splinter is gone, knocked loose in the struggle, leaving a gaping, weeping hole. I bring the knife close. The heat radiates against my own face, singeing my eyebrows.
"Look at me," I command.
She looks. Her eyes are wide, drowning. "Please..."
"Scream," I tell her. "Scream as loud as you want. Scream at the mountain."
"Rowan..."
I press the glowing steel to the wound. The sound is the worst part.
A wet hiss. The sizzle of fat and meat. The smell hits instantly—sweet, cloying, burnt pork.
It fills the small space, choking us. The smell of us.
Clara screams. It’s a sound that rips the throat.
A sound that has no language, no humanity.
It is pure, animal agony. She thrashes underneath me, bucking like a wild animal caught in a trap.
I hold her down. I hold the knife steady.
I watch smoke curl up from her shoulder.
I am the Enforcer. I am the one who hurts to save. My own tears freeze on my face. I hold it until the smell fills the room, until the hissing stops, until the flesh is sealed in a black, ugly pucker. Then I pull back.
The wound is black. Sealed.
Clara goes limp. She’s passed out. Her head lolls back into the snow.
The knife drops from my hand, hissing in the snow as it cools.
I collapse next to her, shaking so hard my bones rattle.
The wind howls through the broken roof. The shadows on the wall look like teeth.
Rows of them. Biting the dark apart. I look at my hands.
They are stained with ash and blood. Pain translated into faith, the wind whispers—a burnt offering.
I realize I am praying. Keep something alive.