When it was over he was given a forty of malt liquor and a blunt the size of a corn cob and he lay on a sofa for ten straight hours, drunk and stoned and bleeding and happy, while his new gang family partied around him all night long.
Meadow clown-walked into the trees, strutting with a perfect gangsta limp and lean, head bobbing, fists clenched, feeling that same uncertainty he did two years ago when joining the SDs. He knew something was about to happen, and every cell in his body told him it was a bad idea confronting whatever was staring at them, that he should turn around and run away as fast as he could. But he kept denying his instinct, kept moving forward.
Ain’t no such thing as having no fear. Best a brother could do was to not project any. Then perception became reality. Act tough, and you were tough. That’s what being street was all about.
However, this wasn’t the street. And that figure he was heading for wasn’t no mark, no rival bopper. Meadow had a really bad feeling he was heading toward some crazy cannibal mutha like Martin was talking about.
But he maintained direction, pimping out his c-walk like he was bangin’ in the hood, heading straight for the silhouette. When the bushes were only fifteen feet away he heard that skank Cindy yell, “Meadow, don’t!”
But Meadow wasn’t going to back down. He hadn’t backed down since he was five years old, jumping on a cousin who stole his hot dog, a cousin who was twice as big and mean as spit. You had to fight for everything in life, and standing around waiting for things to happen to you was a sure bet things would happen to you.
Better to be the man doin’ than the man gettin’ done.
“You wanna roll with this?” he challenged the shadow, spreading out his palms in welcome. “Let’s roll.”
The figure ducked and disappeared.
Meadow braced himself, waiting for the attack. He watched for movement, listened for any sound, still feeling that skin-prickly sensation of being watched but now unsure where it was coming from.
“That how it is?” Meadow opened and closed his fists like he was squeezing tennis balls. “You ‘fraid to come out and face me, muthafucka? Then I be bringin’ it to you.”
“Meadow,” Tyrone warned.
Meadow didn’t pay his friend no mind, and stepped through the bushes, into the trees.
It got real dark, real fast. Meadow felt his resolve disappear with the campfire light. Five steps into the woods and it was blacker than it was when he closed his eyes.
He stopped, listening hard to the darkness, trying to pinpoint the location of his enemies.
Some time passed, a few seconds at most but they felt much longer, and Meadow was just about ready to turn around and head back to the fire when he heard something.
A clicking sound. Like someone snapping their teeth together.
He turned toward it, momentarily blinded by a bright flash only a few feet away.
“Who’s there, muthafucka!”
The clicking sound stopped.
“Come out here and face me!”
More seconds limped by. Meadow could hear his heart beating. This was worse than waiting to be blooded in. At least then he knew what was coming.
Then, barely above a whisper, Meadow heard the most frightening voice of his life. Breathy and somewhat squeaky, but definitely male.
“The boy should run now.”
That’s when Meadow’s nerve ran out. He did run, away from the voice, back in the direction of the camp, and then something lashed out and cracked him in the head, sending him sprawling to the ground.
Sara shook the Maglite, the sickly yellow beam barely reaching the trees ten feet in front of her. When the light finally burned out—and it was going to very soon—Sara wasn’t sure what she’d do. Panic, probably. Even though she had to maintain composure for Laneesha, who stood so close she was practically in Sara’s pocket, Sara knew that when the darkness came, she would lose it.
Darkness and Sara were old enemies, going back almost twenty years. Sara had been nine years old, happy and well-adjusted, growing up in a nice neighborhood with loving parents and a decent extended family. In fact, she could truthfully boast that the most traumatic thing that had ever happened to her in early childhood was diaper rash.
Until that day at Aunt Alison’s.
Alison was Mom’s younger sister, and she had five kids all within a few years of Sara’s age. They lived on an apple orchard in North Carolina, and one summer Sara’s Mom and Dad took a cruise and left her in Aunt Alison’s care.
Sara didn’t mind. She liked her cousins, all girls except for a pudgy boy named Timmy who was a few years older. Being on a farm, Aunt Alison was a bit more lax in her childrearing techniques than Sara’s mom, and she let Timmy do all sorts of potentially dangerous things, like drive the riding mower and light firecrackers and play with knives.
Timmy had a bunch of knives, mostly small ones, but he had a blade in particular that frightened the heck out of Sara. It was one of those long Army knives with a jagged back. He called it a survival knife, which made no sense to Sara, because anything that got stabbed with that awful thing most certainly wouldn’t survive. She refused to go in Timmy’s room, because he kept it on his desk on a little stand and it scared her to see it.
For the first few days of Sara’s visit, everything had gone well. She had fun playing with her cousins, the food was terrific, and creepy Timmy was told not to handle any knives around Sara.
On the morning of her fourth day there, the girls were gathering wildflowers by the old barn when Timmy came over, his scary knife in his belt, and asked if they wanted to play truth or dare.
Mostly, it was just dare, without any truth. Timmy, being the oldest, tried to show off by performing unimpressive feats of heroism like climbing trees, jumping down hills, and standing on the roof of the old barn.
The barn had a hayloft, which Aunt Alison used for storage. Among boxes of clothes and baby toys was an antique trunk. Made of leather and wood, with a rusty latch and tarnished brass corners and edges.
Timmy dared Sara to get inside and close the lid.
Sara didn’t like how the trunk looked, all old and beaten up, and she didn’t like how it stunk when Timmy opened it. Musty and moldy.
“That’s what a coffin smells like,” Timmy said.
“Is not,” Sara answered, even though she’d never smelled a coffin before.
“You too chicken to get in?”
“No. But I’m sick of truth or dare.”
“This will be the last one. Then we can play something else.”
“Let’s play something else now.”
“Chicken. Bock bock bock.”
Sara knew she wasn’t a chicken, but she didn’t want to get in the trunk. Especially since her other cousins had also gotten tired of the game and were leaving the barn.
“It’s a dare,” Timmy said. “You have to.”
He had his hand resting on the hilt of that scary knife when he said it.
“For how long?” Sara asked.
“Ten seconds. Then you can come out.”
Sara decided she was brave enough to do anything for ten seconds, so she got in the trunk, tucking her knees up into her chest so she could fit, and Timmy closed the lid.
It was dark. Dark as the darkest night. It was also tight and stinky and uncomfortably warm.
Sara counted to ten in her head as fast as she could then reached up to open the lid.
The lid wouldn’t open.
“Timmy! Open up!”
Timmy didn’t answer.
Sara pushed with all of her might. She heaved. She strained. Then she screamed.
The screaming went on for a long time.
Sara had no idea how long she was in that trunk. So long she’d wet her pants. So long she became tired enough to go to sleep, if the fear would have allowed it. But the fear didn’t leave. It kept building, and building, each passing minute worse than the last. And in the silence, the darkness whispered to her. Taunted her. Promised her that she would never get out, that she would die here.