Between The Doors. Wes Peters

sighed. “Yes, yes we are.”

      VI

      The stench was bad at sunset the previous day. It was absolutely horrid at midday. The choking waft of dry feces was nearly enough to send them back. They pressed on instead. The dark, sticky passageway was illuminated by light streaming in through the sewer grates, but as the two boys wandered deeper into the sewers it grew darker.

      “How far to go, Nick?” asked Andrew at one point, his voice cracking a bit. Nick did his best to sound brave.

      “Not too far, I don’t think. The tunnels are just sort of turn-ey down ‘ere in the center of town, like a maze.”

      They were in the midst of making a right turn when Nick froze. Thankfully there was faint light behind them so Andrew could see Nick stop, otherwise they would have ended up falling over one another. Immediately Andrew saw why Nick had stopped; voices were audible up ahead. Or, rather, one voice was audible. Andrew put a finger to his lips and listened in.

      At first Andrew couldn’t quite make out what the voice was, but eventually, as the voice approached them he heard words. A shadow drew near to them, the shadow of the person talking, projected onto the wall in front of them. A hunched shadow danced on the wall in the fleeting light. Andrew tensed up as the voice approached, and it was an eerie one: high and wavering, as if it were floating on an icy wind.

      “Race now, race through these dark corridors just as fast as you can! Find the door, for I know it’s here! The door, the door, the door, the door! Find the door, the door to the new place, the new world, I know it’s here! Somewhere in the dark…” And the rustle of tiny ol’ legs through the dark brought chills down Andrew’s back.

      “Hurry, no time to lose. Go now, through the dark, find the door. Speed to all of you!” Suddenly the voice rose in pitch. “And don’t let me catch you crawling around til you’ve found it! There’s not a second to waste! I need the door! I need to know what’s on the other side. Behind the door, there’s something that won’t let me sleep! Find the door, crawl through the dark to find the light! Now scram, all of you miserable creatures, don’t come back til you have the answer!” The rustle of tiny legs once again filled the chamber.

      “Spiders,” whispered Andrew. “Don’t make a sound.” But his racing heart was too loud to quiet. The boys huddled together as the tiny black beasts approached. Andrew felt the sweat on Nick’s face, pressed against his shoulder.

      “Somebody’ll come, don’t worry,” he whispered to Nick. The terror was rising now; Andrew had begun to tremble and shake in fear. Some good I’m doing him, thought Andrew. I can’t help from shaking too.

      In his head Nick heard his mother’s words: They say everyone eats eights spiders in a lifetime, Nick. She hadn’t meant to scare him; she had just tried to comfort him one night when Nick had woken screaming with a spider in his mouth. The screams had come out gargled, as if his mouth was full of taters. But these weren’t taters; taters didn’t wriggle and squirm when you ate them. After a moment Nick had coughed up the beast, which lay twisted and mangled on the floor, dragging its crippled mass away to safety. He’d never done well with spiders since-- the feeling of wriggling taters in his mouth was simply too much to bear.

      “Nick,” Andrew said beside him. “Nick, grab my hand.” They joined hands, a huddling mass of fright, awaiting the dark terror in the sewers. The spiders came round the corner, and they came in droves. They drowned the fleeting light on the walls and ceiling, bringing utter darkness to the boys.

      “Don’t let go!” screamed Andrew. He didn’t think holding hands would do much, but his instinct told him to do it. Something about it felt right, too; in some weird way he felt safe with Nick’s hands in his. He closed his eyes.

      “We’re going to be all right,” he said, as the spiders swarmed by. Beside him, Nick was saying it in unison with him. A sea of green-silver eyes peered ahead at the tunnel, yet missed the boys entirely. In the dark the spiders lit up, with a similar fluorescent writing upon their bodies as the hipster writing on the walls of Sunsetville. The rustling of legs stopped as the black mass swarmed away from the children. Light gradually returned to the tunnel, and the boys stood up slowly. Nick cried out in joy.

      “Ha-ha! Take that, and that, and that-” Nick stopped dead silent. The projection of the figure on the wall was no longer a projection. A long dark shadow stood before them.

      VII

      The figure waited silently at the end of the hallway. Nick walked beside Andrew, peering at the strange man-shadow.

      “Who comes to the hall of spiders?” asked a powerful voice. Andrew felt the voice in his head, echoing around. Before he could answer Nick had stepped in front of him.

      “You’ll not lay a hand on Andrew!” the boy cried down the corridor. Nick held the fire poker in his hands, ready to strike out.

      Nick, you fool, Andrew thought, reaching out for his friend. The shadow’s laughter echoed through the hallway. It was a deep and powerful laugh. Nick cried out in pain and dropped the fire poker. It fell on the stone floor, and as Andrew watched it, it began to melt. Nick began to blow on his hands, red in the dim light from the melting fire poker.

      “So quick to rise after your fall, boy?” came the voice again. Nick quit blowing and looked up. “How would you like to fall again?” Andrew heard something ugly in that voice. He’d heard the same ugliness the day before, as he fled through his mother’s garden. The boy took a deep breath, his hand on the gun in his waistband, and stepped forward.

      Stand tall, he thought.

      “Who’s this?” the voice asked. In the dark he was only a shadow, but Andrew thought he could hit him.

      Andrew drew the gun, and the voice shut up. The tide had turned.

      “Fuck you, old man,” Andrew said, and fired. The gun jerked backwards in his hand—the boy nearly dropped it. The crash of thunder from the gun echoed in Andrew’s head. The shadow cringed as the wall beside him exploded in plaster and dust. He’d missed.

      Andrew didn’t have time to think. He turned the cylinder, thumbed the trigger back and aimed. He looked up and the figure was right in front of him.

      Andrew saw the grimace on St. Gerardo’s face. He was short, squat, and ugly. He wore robes with a gold cross across his chest. He was balding, yet thick, black sweaty hair lay across the back of his head. A thick beard ran under his chin, an Abe Lincoln beard if Andrew had ever seen one. The rest of his face was bare, except for his twisted snarl and fat nose. Andrew saw the yellow eyes.

      They’re the color of dust, Andrew knew.

      “Give me the gun, boy,” St. Gerardo spat. His voice had lost its power. It was thin and hateful. St. Gerardo reached out and grabbed the barrel of the revolver. Andrew felt a bolt of electricity travel up his arm. He didn’t let go, both hands on the handle of the gun.

      “Shoot ‘im!” he heard Nick cry behind him. He tried to pull back the hammer, and St. Gerardo cawed out. He began to shake the gun fervently back and forth. Andrew held on for dear life. Then a new voice filled his head and silenced his racing heart.

      VIII

      Come to me, gunslinger. There is safety in the Southern Woods.

      Both Andrew and St. Gerardo quit struggling for the gun. The voice spoke again.

      Come quickly. There is hope yet for this world. Make haste to the Southern Woods.

      After a moment of silence, St. Gerardo made a move. He cried out and pulled away, retreating quickly. Andrew raised the gun to shoot him in the back, but the man was too fast. He retreated down the corridor into the shadows. In a moment he was gone. Andrew took a step forward after him. Nick cried out behind him:

      “Sir! The crawlies!”

      Andrew heard it now. The tiny rustle of legs approached. Like tiny snapping, Andrew thought with a shudder. They’d heard the crash of the gunshot. He turned and saw Nick beckoning him