The Blue Blazes Read Free

seen before and will never be seen again once they crawl back down into the deep. They could rush the train, break the windows, drag passengers out through the holes screaming into the black.
    It won’t happen. Probably. Hasn’t yet. Most know better. And the trains move fast.
    But Mookie knows what could happen. He’s seen worse.
    So when the train plunges through the tunnel before Penn Station, when his cell signal goes dead and out there in the darkness he sees the sparking blue of powerlines snapping, he feels his teeth grit, his eyes water, his balls cinch up toward his belly. He thinks he sees something, or someone, standing out there on an abandoned platform, lit by the sparking blue, but then the train moves and the shape is gone.
    Then it’s light and the muffled voice coming over the speakers.
    Penn Station, New York City.
    Mookie gets off the train.
    Everyone avoids him as he exits. It’s not just because he’s a big sonofabitch. It’s because he looks like he could knock the heads off their shoulders with but a flick of his wrist. It’s because he looks like he might eat them if he gets hungry enough. It’s because he looks like something out of a bad dream.
    Maybe he is.
     
    Dreams of hands pulling her down through water. Then into the muddy bottom. Bubbles in black muck. Down, through the mud, wriggling like a reverse worm, into the catacombs. The maze like a bundle of snakes, loops and whorls against loops and whorls, her running through tight tunnels that empty out into epic chambers, past glowing rock like tropical coral, past fungal shelves that smell of rotting meat, past an overturned shopping cart with a human skeleton draped upon it – skull-teeth clack-clack-clack ing.
    Something chasing her. Away and into the dark.
    A black shape. Flinty, silver eyes – like hematite catching light.
    It’s faster than she is.
    Suddenly she’s above. City streets. Flickering lights. People are screaming. The earth shudders. Something dark coils around the Chrysler Building.
    Then: another sound. Feet stomping on rock. Like hooves on cobblestone.
    A hand falls on her shoulder–
    Big hand. Hard hand with scabs on the knuckles. A hard shove and she’s down on the ground. Palms stinging against asphalt. She rolls over. She sees. It’s him.
    “Daddy?” she says, voice damp and smothered – something in her throat –
    Nora awakens. Mouth gaping as if emerging back up through the water in her dreams, gasping and then gagging and then coughing. Mouth thick with the treacly mouth-breather spit-crust. She makes an ugh sound, fumbles on the coffee table – she fell asleep on the couch last night – for a bottle of iced tea. Not much in it and it tastes foul, but wet is wet and she doesn’t feel like getting up, not yet.
    There, next to the bottle, on the far side of a cat-chewed remote control, lies a small Altoids tin. She grabs for it, gently opens it, the little metal hinges squeaking.
    In the corner of the tin sits a small residue of blue powder.
    Just looking at it makes her heart flutter. Makes her brow hot.
    So little left. Less than a thimble’s worth. One use, maybe two.
    Part of her itches to use it. Grab it. Smudge it. Give into it.
    But she doesn’t. There’s no point. She has to be practical with this stuff. Reserve it for when she’ll need it most – and that time may be coming soon.
    As though on cue, her phone vibrates on the table. Screen lights up with a text.
    From her boy-toy:
    Will I see you tonight? <3 C.  
    Another swig of rancid tea to wash down the bad taste and the worse dreams.
    “You bet your ass you will,” Nora says, texting him with a more moderate:
    l8r, yes.  
    She holds the phone to her chest and smiles. The whole thing will flip soon enough. Thanks to her. And then she’ll have all the Cerulean she could ever want.
    And Daddy will have to ask her for permission to get a taste.
     
    Mookie gets a text from Werth. It’s the address. Then a follow-up text, all