Bottled Abyss (6 page)

Hope that Brian is in the apartment with Jamie—good people—like them—they work well as a couple and so few really do—maybe I’ll find that for myself someday too—maybe this coin will change my luck and I won’t have to play videogames until five in the morning and smoke myself silly—who knows—? I might end up in Calculus 1B and shock the professor—

Look at the coin, a dark puddle in my hand, somehow taste it in my mouth, like a swamp stew of leaves, rot, death and life, and beyond that my mouth is dry, tasteless, envious of that placenta and bone gruel that tightens there, drawing up the corners of the tongue, busting my cold sore into fragments—

Still, don’t feel bad for taking the coin from that bizarre hobo in the store—should I feel bad—?

Hear sounds—dogs yipping and yapping somewhere up ahead in the shadows of the dormitory I happily left last year— no lights are on—not normal—there’s always lights on, always people messing around with something or other—who do those dogs belong to—? Nobody was allowed to bring pets in the dorms—it could have been strays—I grip the coin harder in my sweat-gloved hand—gonna see if Brian has a magnifying glass so I can give it a better look when I get back—it’s a killer looking coin, like something out of a role playing game or something—

Without any kind of announcement, four-legged fiends leave their hiding places in the bushes lining the dorms—the group slides out on paws that make no sound—ears are pinned back, monstrous aerodynamics in place, ready for flight, for a fast charge—

Back away, turn, don’t make eye contact, keep hands close to body—this is how you deal with aggressive dogs, right—?

These aren’t dogs though—big foxes—no they’re coyotes, except bigger—they aren’t running after me yet, but their strides are quickening—don’t want to look them in the eyes but imagine they are sizing me up, choosing which place on my body is the sweetest to tear away meat from the bone—

Going faster—what the hell are those things—?

Glance behind me—have to—the coyote monsters have their mouths open, saliva running down in awful tributaries through several rows of fangs—and their eyes, what in God’s name is wrong with their eyes—

Like a precious metal harvested from Mars, they shine up at me, coins of red gold—

Coins…