Jeremy Finley - The Dark Above

Mom would be helping add the fried onions to your orzo pasta. Dad would be on his phone, pointing out to Brian and Greg that the Cardinals still had a chance at a wildcard spot if they’d just beat the Reds in the series. Roxy would stand before the pantry for at least five minutes, complaining that it was impossible to find the Doritos with all the gluten-free healthy junk everywhere. Maybe Aunt Stella would FaceTime in from New York, letting everyone know for the hundredth time that the kitchen was bigger than her entire apartment.

The oven dinged.

Just because I dropped out of college doesn’t mean I can’t eat like a college student. William used a heavily stained oven mitt to pull out the pizza. But you’re safe, Nanna. As long as I’m not near you. And that’s what matters.

The pizza clanged on top of the scorched cooktop. After slicing it in half and piling it on a plate, he walked over to the table, looking for the remote. The Cards game would have started by now.

His hand hovered over the power button. Especially after this carb coma and being broke-ass tired, the lull of the announcer would certainly slip him into a deep sleep.

The dreams would be waiting.

Nope. Not yet. Let’s put that off a bit, shall we?

He bypassed the TV to kneel on the floor by the stack of his latest haul from the library. Among all of the techniques his therapist had suggested to combat the anxiety, only two had truly stuck: running and reading. Of every material possession he left behind, he missed his paperback of Huckleberry Finn the most.

After scanning his options and shoveling down the pizza, The Sword of Shannara won the draw. He slumped into the couch, feeling the busted spring jab him in the familiar spot on his right shoulder. It would soon poke through the cloth and give him a wicked scrape. The pillow he’d bought for a dollar at Goodwill was serving as his shield.

Just as Flick Ohmsford’s descent into the valley began, the knock came at the trailer’s cheap metal door.

He strained his neck over to the table. Carlos’s notebook rested there where he had left it. Again.

“You’re killing me, compadre.” He climbed out of the rapidly collapsing couch and snapped up the notebook.

He slumped over to the door, turning the handle. “I swear I’m going to chain this thing to your belt—”

The light outside the door momentarily blinded him. Wincing, the first thing he could see were the professionally bleached teeth of a woman standing with a microphone pointed towards him.

“William Chance? The whole world has been looking for you,” she said, shooting the words at him as fast as major league pitcher.

She licked her lips. “I’m Stephanie Stiller with Hollywoodextra.com. We have been trying to find you for a long time. Let me say what a relief it is to know you’re alive and OK!”

His chest constricted so hard that the woman might as well have reached in and squeezed his heart, her French manicure puncturing the upper chambers. The heavy, humid night air rushed into his lungs as he tried to breathe.

“I only want to be able to tell your side of the story,” she continued, holding the mic closer.

Never slam the door. Whatever you do, don’t slam the door.

That was Aunt Stella’s guiding words after a tabloid videographer had snuck up to the front door of his parents’ home, barking questions on the tenth anniversary of his disappearance. Watch , Stella had instructed, pointing to the video online. It will play a million times on a loop if you get fired up. And for God’s sake, never, ever hit the camera. A slow, painful close of the door makes for bad television. And if you think of it, look sad. Makes people feel for you, and the network gets slammed by angry viewers. It’s why us honest journos never ambush innocent people.

“Please, William, I just need a moment—”

He’d heard the pitch a million times. The request was usually accompanied by, “I want to be fair to you and your family.”

After he slowly closed the door, he rushed to the windows, drawing the vinyl blinds, seeing the photographer outside zooming in on his every move.

Why does this keep happening? he’d lamented to Stella after a janitor at his high school was fired for carrying around a hidden camera. The man had later admitted that a magazine had offered to pay him more for those photos than he would make in a year. When is this ever going to stop?

Blame the genes from your parents, she’d answered, gently holding his face. This mug sells tabloids; it gets ratings, it gets clicks. Sad truth: If you weren’t six foot one with those dimples and built like a swimmer, they’d have lost interest a long time ago. Go eat more donuts.

The girl at the gas station. It had to be.

It was stupid of him to buy that magazine. She’d obviously walked back over to the rack, looked at the issue he’d bought, and quickly put two and two together. The words from the article snuck in like a sucker punch: One entertainment outlet has set up a toll free hotline and a cash reward for any information leading to his whereabouts—

He scrambled for his keys and snatched the phone from the drawer. Knowing the back door creaked, he slowly unlocked it and gingerly stepped down the wobbly wooden stairs leading to the ground.

Creeping around the back to the side of the trailer, he peered around to see the reporter talking excitedly into her phone. “He’s here! He’s inside! We got video!” She was practically shouting while her photographer chewed his gum.

Thankfully, his landlord didn’t spring for exterior lights, so he moved in the dark to the Jeep. He awkwardly climbed over the stick shift and shoved the key into the ignition.

Knowing the photographer could be focused in on him in a second, he fired up the engine and threw the Jeep in reverse.

He was barreling down the road a heartbeat later. He looked back to see the reporter frantically pointing in his direction.

There was simply no way they could catch up with him, especially given how he knew to navigate the back roads. Confident now that the top light on the camera couldn’t capture a single frame of him, he extended his middle finger and drove.

If the news crew had been able to keep up to see where he ultimately stopped, they would have drooled.

William ignored the government sign indicating that the Toltec Mounds Archeological State Park closed at dusk, pulling into the visitor parking lot. Arkansas wasn’t exactly flush with money, and the budget didn’t include constant monitoring of state parks. It meant for the teenage couple hoping to get laid, and anyone on the run trying to survive a panic attack, there was ample ability to do so in the privacy of one’s own vehicle.

You are not dying.

He killed the headlights and his eyes adjusted. Away from the meager lights of downtown Little Rock and thanks to a swollen moon, he could make out the hills.

Focus on them. Distraction helps. You’ve gotten through this before.

The first time he’d stolen his brother’s laptop, he’d typed in “alien abductions” in Google, and coverage of his own story, Area 51, and the Toltec Mounds in Arkansas were right at the top.

The websites claimed the hidden purpose of the mounds, and the reason for the disappearance of the ancient people who built them, were obvious. From the skies, the hills corresponded with certain clusters of stars. A map reflecting the heavens on earth.

How could a prehistoric society know to do that without guidance from beings from beyond? the websites wondered, and theorized that the mounds were designed to be landing sites for ships, and on their last return to earth, they took the worshipping people on the ground back to the stars.