Authors: Travis Thrasher

Solitary: A Novel (13 page)

Just in case someone is around.

What if they have armed guards on their property?

What if security cameras are watching me now?

What if there are booby traps wired up somewhere?

The animals in the forest have apparently all gone to sleep.

A slight gust-invisible, almost unheard-brushes up against my skin. I try to hurry up to stop feeling so cold.

I feel like eyes are bearing down on me. Not just from one direction, but from all around me.

Whoever is turning the lights to dim is doing a fast job of it. I consider turning on my flashlight, then decide against it, knowing it would attract attention.

There's a slight dip in the ground, and my foot plunges in, sending me falling. My face lands an inch away from a jutting tree limb. I know even in the growing darkness that the sharp edge could have done something nasty to my face. Especially my eye.

I stand up and brush the leaves and dirt off my shirt. I find the flashlight I dropped.

Better start trying to figure out a way over the wall before the night swallows me whole.

I've been walking downhill close to the wall. So far, I haven't seen another tree growing against it like the one that got me in here.

I stare downhill.

Beyond the trees, I see a reddish glow seeping through.

Maybe it's the Staunch house. The one they don't want people to either see or come inside.

I feel a dread come over me. It's as if the ruby glimmer down below is starting to glide up toward me like a ghostly fog.

I check alongside the wall for anything-an opening, something to stand on, another tree.

Then I hear the sound.

A slight rustling along the forest ground.

I stop and listen.

Then I hear something else.

I hear the clink of a chain.

A dog chain.

I think of Gus's face and the sign that says No Trespassing.

What kind of dog would Gus get?

I think of a pit bull, like the one we used to have in our neighborhood that was always in the news because of his love of biting strangers. They eventually had to get rid of him, something that caused a unified celebration along our block.

I hear a slight jingle and shine my light toward a group of trees nearby.

Then I see them. Slivers of white.

At first I think it's the dog's eyes. Then I realize that it's his teeth.

His mouth is open, panting, the sharp teeth ready to attack.

I back up, still facing toward the dog, moving slowly until I hit the stone wall.

An an idiot, and this is what happens to idiots.

I'm still holding the flashlight, but I don't think it will be much help in fighting off this dog.

It moves slowly toward me.

It's black or mostly black. I still can't see exactly what type of dog it is. I see its eyes. For a minute it seems as if ...

They're not glowing those eyes are not glowing.

I stumble over something and almost lose my footing.

The dog growls.

As if to warn me. As if to say, "You can try and run and I'll even give you a head start, but your hide is mine."

Things like this don't happen back in Libertyville, Illinois.

You don't get lost in the woods behind your house.

You don't get trapped inside a fortress-like wall ten feet tall.

You don't stumble upon demon dogs with glowing eyes.

I'm walking downhill next to the wall, my hand rubbing its rough texture as I move in the darkness with my head turned back toward the dog.

I swear that its eyes are glowing.

And there's something else.

Thats crazy. You're imagining it, just like the burning eyes.

I smell something putrid. Something that makes my eyes water.

Nothing smells like sulfur, thats just your crazy mind playing games.

But I believe it because the hairs in my nose are telling me.

So far the big beast hasn't moved.

I keep slipping down the slope.

Then I hear a loud, gasping growl, a sound like something being shredded apart, like the top of a can being pried and popped open.

It's followed by a clicking sound, as if something in the thing's mouth or throat is recoiling.

You're crazy its not a thing its a dog and its probably as friendly as a Pixar movie.

My breathing is ragged. I can't tell if it's my mouth sucking in air or the thumping of my heart.

I hear the thudding of steps, which sounds like the hooves of a horse digging into the dirt.

I run. And the thing behind me quickens its pace and launches itself.

Something massive flails against the tree to my left. I hear the small tree bend and shift as whatever the thing is stumbles and rolls around in the leaves.

I'm not just running now. I'm sprinting downhill next to the wall, trying to avoid anything in my way.

If my old track coach, who told me I never applied myself, could only see me now.

Whatever's beside me-the dog, the thing-is massive.

It's a big, black, hulking mess.

I hear it inhale in a high-pitched screech, then cough and start scrambling behind me.

The leaves and dirt on the ground sound like they're being rooted out of the earth, spit out all over the back of the forest floor.

The thing is breathing in and out like a hundred-year-old smoker with something sick and deathly in the back of its throat.

The smell-the smell hovers just under my nose and my mouth. I can taste it.

Your imagination you can taste and smell your imagination there's nothing behind you Chris nothing at all.

And then I start to lose my balance.

I'm going too fast and the slope is too steep and the darkness too black and I'm leaning a little too far in front.

And I hit a black metal object.

Something made of steel takes out both of my legs, cutting down my shins like a dirty kick might in soccer.

Now I'm soaring through the air.

I land on one shoulder and half my head, doing a somersault and then twisting and turning and landing in a half-buried rotting log that nearly swallows me as I finally come to a stop.

The dog-or the thing-is behind me, a little ways up the hill.

The eyes are now burning embers, fully on fire, enraged.

It's massive, the size of a bull.

What if thats what it is-some random bull thats completely ticked off

Then I see what I tripped over.

It's a ladder.

The steel arms go to the very top of the wall.

Thats my ticket.

The creature starts to move again, this time not running but rather slipping through the darkness.

Every time it moves it seems to change shape, like liquid, as if its shape is bending and changing to its surrounding.

Thats crazy, Chris. Its the darkness playing tricks on your eyes. Get up and get going on that ladder.

Just as I get to it, the shape smothers me, the smell burning my nostrils and eyes, the hair wrapping around my feet and legs, something digging into my shoe and my foot.

Teeth.

They feel like scissors, a dozen of them tearing down and into my skin and bone and cartilage. I howl and in a crazy, mad gasp of desperation take the ladder and try to pull myself up on it.

The beast isn't letting me.

So I pick up the ladder from its bottom and manage to move it a little.

I hoist it up-it's heavy-and then I bring it down on top of the beast from hell.

The thick metal of the ladder hits something.

It sounds like a cantaloupe being dropped onto the street and splattering.

I bring the ladder up and down, again and again, hearing the sound of something hard digging into something soft, a knife digging into jelly, a pole scooping up thick mud.

Whatever had my foot lets go.

And with it comes a howl like I've never heard in my life.

It sounds like a baby mixed with an old man, both singing in unison in a coughy, sweaty, sickly scream of pain.

I lift up the ladder and drop it, again, again, again.

The massive beast underneath me and surrounding me suddenly explodes like a balloon full of black paint.

Liquid jettisons everywhere.

The scent is like raw sewage, making me dry-heave and cough. I look down and see a remnant of a gray cloud hovering in the air.

With trembling arms, I slam the ladder back against the wall and desperately scramble over it.

I don't even see the top of the wall as I flail blindly over it onto the other side.

It seems lighter over here. Not only in actual visibility, but in terms of being able to breathe.

I don't look back. I run straight through the woods, knowing that sooner or later I'll run into something.

Hoping that I'll see the lights glowing from my cabin.

Hoping that the darkness that hovers behind me is all in my mind.

"Chris?"

"Yeah?"

"Where've you been?"

"Just outside."

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah, sure."

It could be any exchange between any mother and son on a late Friday night. Any exchange where the mother stands outside the door to the locked bathroom wondering what's going on. Any exchange where the teen is in trouble but desperate not to give it away.

But instead of being drunk as a skunk or high as a kite, I'm trying to clean up a bloodied shoe and sock and foot.

The wound isn't as bad as it looks.

Thank God for my Adidas. Bet the marketers would like to know that they can also help fend off devilish dogs.

There are five cuts in the middle of my toe, all looking like dog bites.

Not some bullish, crazy demon dog, Chris. just a dog.

The blood is coming out fast and furious. I've already used up a roll of toilet paper, and I've already flushed four times.

Making Mom surely wonder what my deal is.

"Are you sick?" she asks.

That cliched image of the teen hiding something from his parents suddenly irks me.

What am I hiding?

And why am I hiding it from her?

"I'm not sick," I say.

But in a sense I am sick. I'm sick of being on my own and keeping things to myself and living and breathing behind a wall. Or a closed door or a closed room or a closed life.

If things are going to change, I have to let someone in.

I get off the toilet seat and unlock the door. Mom is there in her robe, looking notably out of it but nevertheless concerned.

She gasps when she sees my foot.

"It's better than it looks," I say. "It's just a dog bite."

"What?"

"Yeah, I know."

"What happened?"

I give her a quick synopsis of what happened, including the bit about the wall. I leave out things such as the dog smelling like sulfur and being the size of a bull.

I also leave out how I left things with the dog.

I don't even know how I left things.

"We have to get you to a doctor."

"No."

"Yes, right now. You don't know the dog. We need to get you a rabies shot."

"Mom-we can't."

"What do you mean we can't?"

"We don't have money for that."

"We have as much money for you as we need, Chris."

I stare at her, not understanding what she means.

A part of me thinks, If thats the case, lets go shopping, starting with the nearest Apple store.

"Mom, it's fine, really. Where are we going to go at nine on a Friday night?"