Chapter Fifty-Three
BLACK. COLD. WET.
I’m nothing else as I crawl through the tunnel.
The space is just big enough for me to squirm through like a slimy worm.
The mud beneath my hands squelches as my palms dig into the earth.
I pause, my heart jumping into my throat.
The walls are trembling. But—no. It’s the flashlight crammed in my mouth.
My teeth scrape against the metal like nails on a chalkboard.
I flinch away from the eerie sound, take a deep breath.
Refocus. Which would be a whole lot easier if this flashlight didn’t suck so goddamn hard.
Its little glow casts long, creeping shadows along the cramped tunnel.
Endless is the black that I must crawl through.
Suffocating are the clay walls that kiss my shoulders.
I’m dying.
I can’t breathe.
One hand in front of the other.
Drip, drip, drip.
Muddy droplets fall from the ceiling, sending chills down my spine as they wet the top of my head. The tiny bullets of water are my only friend, the only sound I can hear besides the beat of my heart.
Kota, they cry, their voices tinny like the Dinks in that movie West forced me to watch as a child. Spaceballs.
Puh-lease, can we watch Clifford the Big Red Dog instead?
He’s just a big dog, Kota.
No, West, he’s also red.
West thumped me on the forehead. Too bad, so sad.
West always won. Until Grandma killed him.
Dink, dink, dink, dink, dink, dink, dink, dink.
Fuck! A fingernail snaps off. The muddy buildup beneath my fingernails mingles with gushing blood.
I’ve got nowhere to wipe it off, to stop the flow.
Unless . . . I could lick it off. It’s dark enough that the gory mixture looks like chocolate.
Is it my imagination, It also kind of smell like a chocolate chip Quaker Oat bar.
Nope. I spit it out, opting to instead brush my left fingertips along the wall. No, no, no—I’m not tracing a wet clay wall. I’m touching clothes on a rack at a store. I’m caressing a cashmere blouse, a silk tank top, a cotton button-down.
And is it just me, or are the walls tighter now, constraining me?
How much longer is my journey?
I check my watch. It’s been five minutes.
Drip, drip, drip.
The ceiling shakes, sending soot raining down on my head. I scream, despite myself, my voice echoing throughout the infinite chamber. A chill scurries down my spine.
It was nothing. I’m fine.
As I crawl forward, my foot gets stuck in a wet hole, and mud clings to my mottled ankle like a hand. For a second, I’m back in the lake, the zombie clutching my ankle.
And then I think: zombies.
How did I not consider there could be zombies in this tunnel?
Invisible hand wrapped around my ankle, I plunge face-forward into the mud, dropping my flashlight on the way down. The light goes out. “Shit!”
I push myself up and scramble for my flashlight. I ram the heel of my palm against the butt of it. “Come on, come on! Please!”
It’s no use. The flashlight is dead.
I said it once, and I say it again: “Shit.”
I must make the rest of the journey sans flashlight.
I crane my neck around, but the action is futile. I’m shrouded in nothing but darkness. My bones rattle. Colors blur my vision.
I won’t let myself go down this path again.
I squeeze my eyes shut and scream. This time, to release energy. To gain power. To show this tunnel that it will be my bitch.
And I charge forward.