The Narrows, page 3
He kept returning to the same thought: the man choking out, “Stop.”
He then unplugged his phone and the screen lit up, nearly blinding him. The clock read 11:23 P.M.
With a swipe of his finger the screen was unlocked, and he tapped the Phone icon, pulling up the dial pad. He stared at the screen, knowing he should dial 9-1-1, but he felt a reluctance.
What the fuck would I even say? he wondered. A man just turned into orange goo in front of me? Come quick?
He wasn’t even sure if what he’d seen was real. A terrible headache was setting in, and he suspected that maybe the stress of the entire week was getting to him. Perhaps he’d hallucinated the whole thing. The man had been practically screaming at some point, and yet no one had come outside to investigate.
But it had been so visceral.
He plugged his phone back in and turned on the car. Kendrick Lamar blared from his speakers and he quickly shut off the audio.
A light rain began to descend over the neighborhood, illuminated by the streetlights. He shivered, suddenly aware of how cold he was, and he slammed the car door shut. He watched the rain fall for a minute, wishing it was snow, then drove away.
SATURDAY 12/29/18
The Park
The aroma of seasoned beef wafted through the winter air, the sizzling of burgers crackling on the grill.
Davontae attended to the meat while Sophia lounged at the nearby table, noisily munching on a bag of jalapeño chips, an accidentally perfect pairing with the southwest-inspired burger patties Davontae was grilling. The trio had settled on meeting at Pine Ridge Park to hang out and cook up some lunch.
By all accounts, the park was shit. The playground equipment was decades old (Oliver could not remember a time when it had ever been upgraded or had new additions built), at least one of the two toilets in the dingy bathroom was always out of order, and trash littered the wooded pathways. But it was a place the group had spent a lot of time in during their high school years, when they had finally obtained driver’s licenses and yearned for hours away from their parents. The park was near all of their houses, and best of all back then, it was free. Many a meal had been eaten there, and they had completed several school projects in the woods, filming stupid videos that were only tangentially related to whatever the assignment was, receiving A’s regardless. Oliver suspected they had mostly gotten by on Davontae’s goofy charm. Teachers loved him.
For years, Davontae had been the group’s go-to grillmeister. Even as far back as high school, he was the one who manned the grill, and that tradition had continued every college summer at apartment complex pools. He loved to cook burgers and roast corn, but Oliver was partial to his friend’s grilled chicken. There was something divine about the marinade he used.
“I’m stuck on the reward system,” Davontae said, momentarily turning away from his meat. While he grilled, he had been explaining his idea for a new video game he was developing.
His first game had taken nearly five years of hard work to complete, but it had absolutely paid off. The revenue allowed him to quit his day job and focus solely on game development. He’d had countless interviews and articles written about him, reveling in the adoration and critical acclaim while pushing out fixes and updates to his game. Now, almost two full years after its release, he was finally ready to begin work on a new project in earnest.
He continued. “Obviously, people are gonna be replaying it over and over, starting from the beginning. But there needs to be some sort of meaningful progression, or else they won’t wanna continue, because then what’s the point? But I’m not sure what might be too much or not enough.”
“What’s gonna carry over from playthrough to playthrough?” Oliver asked. Sophia crunched another chip, passively listening as she checked her phone. She enjoyed playing games and had completed Davontae’s, but she didn’t have much interest in the design side of things. Oliver didn’t understand the first thing about the actual programming, but he enjoyed talking through the process of designing gameplay.
Davontae checked on the burgers, then said, “Not weapons. That’d definitely be too much, I think. But I’m toyin’ around with the idea of some sort of hub, with shops and people to get quests from and shit, and maybe that’s what can progress?”
“So the more you play, the more people show up in the town with different quests, the shops upgrade with better equipment, stuff like that?”
“Right.”
They’d been discussing various aspects of the game for a little while now, and Oliver was grateful for the distraction of the conversation. Anything to take his mind off of what had transpired during his return to Shumard Springs earlier in the day, only an hour before coming to the park.
Coming up with solutions to Davontae’s problems was a good exercise to keep his thoughts far away from that neighborhood. The intoxicating smell of the patties cooking certainly didn’t hurt either. Davontae had bought beef patties that were mixed with corn, diced jalapeños, and shredded cheese. The thought of that cheese melting practically made Oliver salivate.
“What’s the difference between the shops having better stuff and you just carrying over weapons when you die?” he asked.
Davontae pondered this for a moment.
“Shit,” he said, flipping the three burgers over. The sizzling intensified.
Sophia laughed at him, looking up from her phone. “Maybe the stuff sold in the shops are, like…less-good versions of the stuff you get in the dungeons? So you’re still getting better stuff, but it’s not fully upgraded or something.”
“Yeah, you unlock new things in the shop by finding them in the dungeon, but the versions with higher stats are in the dungeon. So you can start out with a better base-level weapon, then go find more powerful stuff,” Oliver said.
“I like this,” Davontae said. “It’s a tricky balance I’m tryin’ to hit. The progression here really has to be the hook since it’s gonna be less story-driven than the last one.”
“That’s what I was gonna ask about,” Oliver said. “How deep is the story gonna be in this? I know what a lot of people liked about your other game was the writing in it.”
“There’ll for sure be a story, but this one’s focused on the gameplay mainly.” Davontae checked the underside of the patties to see how they were coming along, then placed a single slice of thick, yellow cheese on top of each one. “These are almost done, by the way,” he informed them. “Better grab you a plate. Oh, wait…”
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Oliver sighed. He had been charged with acquiring the chips and plates, but had forgotten to grab paper plates at the grocery store on his way to the park. His mind had been preoccupied with other things, and the thought of disposable plates had slipped out. “I think my choice of chip should make up for any other shortcomings, but…”
“You serious?” Davontae barked. “Jalapeño chips are the most basic-ass chip to pick!”
“Everybody loves them!” Oliver retorted.
“That’s why they basic! Ain’t no risk there.”
“Who wants to risk a chip?” Oliver demanded. “And besides, they go perfectly with the southwestern burgers. I did a great job.”
“You did half a great job,” Sophia chimed in.
“Half at best,” Davontae nodded. “She did a full great job with the cream sodas.”
“Thank you,” Sophia said, sliding her phone into her purse.
“Goddammit,” Oliver muttered.
They both laughed at him.
“Come on over,” Davontae enthused, sliding his spatula underneath the first patty, transferring it onto a fluffy, plain, store-bought bun. “Grab you one of these badboys.”
~
It was almost eleven o’clock by the time Oliver dragged himself out of bed earlier that morning. It was close to a decade since he’d slept in that late, and he woke feeling groggy and irritable. So much of the day had already been wasted.
He curled up his body like a pillbug, trying to trap as much warmth underneath the blanket as possible, his head propped up on the too-stiff pillow. The house was always freezing, even in winter. His mother must have been afraid of keeping the thermostat at a comfortable temperature. It drove him nuts.
As he lay there shivering, he couldn’t stop thinking about the previous night. The red-haired man gasping and choking and vomiting. The event plagued his dreams, causing him to toss and turn and wake in a cold sweat every couple hours. It was no surprise he ended up sleeping for so long.
And yet—
The first thing he did was make himself a bagel sandwich. Ham, pepperjack, and strawberry jelly on a toasted bagel. The jelly was already slathered on the sandwich by the time he realized it reminded him of the orange glop the man had excreted. It was a wonder he’d been able to keep the sandwich down. Then he got dressed and told his mother he was going out for a little while.
“Are you going to dinner with us?” his mom yelled from the living room while he pulled on a pair of jeans in his bedroom. The room had been sparsely decorated by his parents when they moved into the house while he was away at school, leaving it to him to put up all the posters and trinkets from his old bedroom. They were still gathering dust in the closet, which was rarely ever opened. He lived out of a backpack whenever he came to visit.
“I don’t know,” he called back. “I’m supposed to see Davontae and Sophia at some point. I’m not sure what we’re doing or when.”
“Well, let me know.”
The sun shone bright against a cloudless blue sky as Oliver made his way through town, back to Shumard Springs. He had to be sure whether what had happened the previous night was real or not. It felt like a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare.
But he didn’t have high hopes.
He parked in the same spot as before, a few blocks away from where the incident had occurred. As he killed the ignition, he noticed a text from Sophia suggesting that they go to Pine Ridge Park to grill and hang out. He was currently only minutes away from the park, so he replied saying that it sounded fine to him, then slipped the phone back into his pocket and got out, embarking down the street.
Cold air dried his skin. He felt brittle.
The warmth of the sun was a mild comfort, but his breathing grew shallow as he approached the spot. The world was suffocating him.
He put a fist to his mouth and coughed, worried that if he looked down at his hand he’d find specks of orange.
As he reached the corner of Stillwater and Galloway, it was hard to decipher whether what washed over him was relief or panic. There was a tingling in his body, a rush of adrenaline.
The orange puddle was gone.
Not as if it had evaporated—he was sure it would have left behind at least a faint stain on the concrete. There was no trace of it at all. No evidence that it had ever been there, seeping into the ground, broiling.
Only the oil spot remained. The mark Noah had left behind.
Oliver took a moment to sit on the curb, struggling to wrap his mind around this.
If the puddle was gone, then perhaps it truly had just been a bad dream, which was good in the sense that it meant the world wasn’t insane and falling apart at the seams.
But it had been so real. It was no fever dream. He had definitely come here last night. He was positive.
So had he hallucinated? Was he losing his mind?
“No,” he whispered to himself. A meager attempt at self-assurance.
Maybe Noah’s death was inflicting more stress on him than he was willing to admit. It was the only logical explanation, as scary as it was to consider.
He ran his fingers through his hair. There was not much to run through; he had gotten his hair cut a few days before, in preparation for the funeral. He wasn’t accustomed to how short it was now. It made him feel like a child, in a way. Thinking back to sitting in that barber’s chair the first time he ever got a buzz cut, with his father by his side assuring him the razor wouldn’t hurt. Tapping the edge of the vibrating razor to his own fingernail and saying, “See? No problem.”
Just to be sure, Oliver looked at the spot again. There was still no orange goo. Only oil. Nothing else.
Fuck, he thought. He propped his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands. A stiff breeze blew and he flipped his jacket’s hood over his head.
While he was trying to think of a way to frame this wild story when he told it later at the park, that same buzzing from the night before returned, drilling into his left ear. He dug in with a finger, as if he could pry the noise out of his head and flick it into the gutter.
It droned louder, and as he looked up from his feet, the puddle flashed into view on the concrete.
But only for a second.
Then it was gone.
Then it flickered back into existence. It was there, clear as day. Clear as the sky. Right next to the oil splotch.
And then it was gone.
“What in the fuck?” Oliver muttered, his voice tremulous. He peered out from underneath his hood. With the buzz in his ear, he felt there was no other explanation. He was hallucinating. He was losing his mind. He needed to—
And then the world was gone.
Not gone, but different.
He was still in Shumard Springs. Still at the corner of Stillwater and Galloway. But at the same time, he wasn’t.
Oliver sat there on the curb, and his gaze drifted from the orange puddle on the ground up to the sky, which was now covered in roiling black clouds set against a blazing sun. There was a hazy, green hue to the world now. Everything was off-color ever so slightly. The houses all around him looked malignant. Their mahogany bricks were chipped and cracked, looking almost spongy, like his finger would sink in if pressed against them. Roof shingles were dented, cracked, or missing entirely. Some had fallen, littering yards of dead, yellowed grass. The sidewalks were splattered with dried orange gunk exactly like the puddle in the street. Thunder clapped overhead, and the suffocating feeling Oliver had experienced was beginning to overtake him. There was a rumble in the earth.
Then it was gone.
He choked out a sharp breath, grasping at his chest, frantically whipping his head back and forth. Everything was back to normal.
Once again, he wasn’t sure if that called for panic or relief.
“What in the fuck?” he asked again, to no one. He was the only person on the street, and he certainly didn’t have an answer.
I’m losing it, he thought. Right?
He then felt a vibration in his leg, and pulled out his phone to see he’d received a handful of texts from Davontae and Sophia in their group chat. They would be meeting at 12:15, in less than twenty minutes. Davontae would be picking up the burger supplies. Sophia would provide the drinks. Oliver was in charge of plates and snacks. Knowing now that Davontae was going to be cooking, he regretted so recently eating a whole bagel sandwich.
He pushed himself up off the ground and headed back to the car. He needed to hurry up if he was going to buy everything and get back to the park by 12:15.
As he glanced backward where the puddle should have been—or still was, perhaps—he thought, Maybe they don’t need to hear about this.
~
The burgers were excellent, as always. Juicy, flavorful, and best of all: warm. Oliver had reservations about coming to the park in the cold, but at the same time it felt like an appropriate way to honor their friend.
They discarded their trash after they finished eating, then grabbed the half-full bag of chips and headed into the woodlands that encroached upon the park.
Pine Ridge Park was technically comprised of around 110 acres, but a vast majority of it was thick woods that were not really navigable except by teens who desperately did not want to be caught smoking weed and would brave the trek into the depths. Near the tree line was Shumard Creek, a pathetic little stream that flowed from a county a short distance north of Shumard and eventually snaked its way through Texas down to the Gulf of Mexico. When the town received heavy rainfall, it could get pretty deep, but for the most part it was fairly shallow, with the water level usually only knee-high at most. A walking trail just shy of a mile long wove through the woods, mostly following alongside the creek.
It was in those woods where the group had oftentimes filmed their high school video projects, which had been assigned in surprising frequency. Whenever they needed to film something, someone always dreamed up a premise that would necessitate a wooded location so that they could all enjoy an afternoon hanging out back there (which also, in Oliver’s mind, granted their projects more visual flair and a perceived higher production value than simply filming a scene in the middle of a lame neighborhood street like their contemporaries).
“What do you think was our worst shit we ever made back here?” Davontae asked, digging around for a handful of chips. He was leading the pack, followed by Sophia, with Oliver bringing up the rear. The dirt path was cold and hard at their feet.
“That Bigfoot thing, by far,” Sophia answered instantly. “Not only did it look like shit, but the writing was shit, and also how much more unoriginal can you get than doing a found-footage Bigfoot movie in the woods?”
“I thought the Bigfoot one had a neat ending, at least,” Oliver said. “I was stoked on that ambiguous ending, with everyone sitting around eating sandwiches while the camera battery died. What happened to those hikers? You’ll never know. Left our classmates wanting more,” he laughed.
Sophia laughed as well. “I’m sure they were on the edge of their seats,” she said. “They’re probably still posting fan theories on Tumblr to this day.”
“We got away with so much bullshit,” Davontae said. “What class was that even for? It was so barely relevant to whatever the fuck it was.”
