A Night on College Town

“Take a hit.”
          Dalton turned, pushing the blunt away. “Nah, man, I’m good.”
But Jack was persistent. “Dude, come on… Just one hit, bro.” He smiled as he offered the joint again, his bloodied eyes gazing wondrously. Dalton shoved him back. “I’ve told you before, I don’t do that shit.”
          Jack laughed. It was an uncontrollable laugh. The laugh of a bonger. The laugh you got when you had single-handedly ingested over a pound of grass. Dalton irked away, plopping himself in the swivel seat. He tapped the mouse. The Gateway hummed to life.
          Jack quieted. He looked up, the joint sizzling between his fingertips. “You’re gonna give that girly a call, aren’t you??” Dalton frowned. “It’s an email, and actually yeah, I am. Why not?”
          Jack shrugged and took a hit. His inhale was long, deep and throaty, like a clogged vacuum. “Bro… listen, bro… you need to chill with this bird.”
          Dalton turned. “What the hell are you talking about?” Jack pointed his finger to the ceiling. He had that stupid look on his face he always got when he was stoned. He exhaled and watched the smoke curl above his head.
          “Don’t trust the genus, man, cause that shit is fuckin’ fucked, man. You’ve gotta watch your back, you know. This girly, girly girl…she’s a fuckin’ swindler, man…”
          He rose up, his face white as a ghost. “Trust me… trust and trust and you gotta trust me…” He repeated the words for effect, marveling as his soft voice hit the air.
          Dalton shook his head. “You’re high. You think I’m going to listen to a pothead?”
Jack jumped. “Hey man, we’re freakin’ friends, bro…don’t go turning all fuckin’ Goth on me now man….” Dalton nodded instinctively. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he mumbled, his eyes flicking across the computer screen.
          Jack began again, this time on one of his philosophical ponderings. Dalton interrupted. “Would you mind finishing your stash in your room?” Jack look startled.
“Dude… but my bong’s in this-“Well, then get it outta here!” Dalton shouted.
          Jack tossed his joint to the floor. He pressed his foot to the ground and in one quick twist the embers were gone. Dalton watched him collect his various paraphernalia and then escorted him to the door, extending an arm outward into the hallway. Stumbling, muttering, and utterly wasted, Jack ambled away.
          Two hours later, Amber, the “swindling bird” as Jack called her, was lying on Dalton’s bed. Dalton glanced about the room, trying to act nonchalant. “So, uh, what do you want to do?” Amber laughed. “I’m on your bed aren’t I? Why don’t you start by taking off those pants.” Dalton hesitated. “How about you take off your clothes first.”
          Amber tossed her hair back. It was a deep smooth hazel, the kind of hair that cascaded perfectly downward. She smiled. Dalton watched her take her shirt and pants off. Underneath she had this two-piece, this red Victoria’s Secret thong and bra. God, was it hot. Dalton wanted to just do her right then and there. She adjusted herself on the bed, allowing her thighs to fall loose and open. “Your turn,” she whispered.
         Dalton obliged, tearing his shorts and shirt off in one Herculean swipe. She giggled. “Get over here NOW,” she commanded, her lips slow and deliberate. He hopped onboard, straddling her by the hips. Dalton was in the mood. He didn’t want foreplay, he didn’t want role-play–he just wanted to fuck.
                    And then came a knock at his dorm room door.
          It was Jack. His voice came hoarse and low. He was high, still. “Dude, you there…? Dude, it’s me.”
          Dalton nearly choked with anger. “What the hell do you want!?”
          There was a pause, then Jack’s stupid voice. “Dude, I think I left my bowl under your bed.”
          Dalton grimaced then, slowly, slid down onto the floor. He found the bowl immediately, blackened and burned from its constant use, and tip-toed to the door. Sticking it through the open crack, he placed it into Jack’s hands.
          “There, now go.”
Jack took the pot-smoking utensil and peered around through the crack. He caught glimpse of Amber, laying calmly on the bed, and smiled.
          “You and the bird, eh?” He gave Dalton a playful shove. Dalton frowned.
“Seriously, I would really appreciate it if you left. I’m kind of busy here…” He spoke softly, but behind him he could hear Amber stirring.
          Jack nodded, still smiling goofily. “Okey dokey…just watch your back there. She’s a crazy one, that bird.”
          Dalton nodded impatiently. “Alright, Jack, whatever you say...” He pushed the door shut as his drugged friend backed away, the slurred, bumbling voice fading down the hall.
          Sighing heavily, Dalton turned back to the bed. Amber was smiling; she had a look of mild amusement. Dalton leaped on top of her, absorbing her delicate features. “What’s so funny, Missy?” he asked, his lips nearing hers. She smiled and then mumbled something, under her breath, pulling him closer. He kissed her, his hands running to the string on her back. Gently he loosened it, pushing it aside as her bare breasts pressed his chest.
         Only a matter of time
He knew once he got her out of her thong, it was “on”. Amber had this way about her, this voracious appetite for sex that just burst out of her. When you met her, she was this sweet, thoughtful girl, but when you got her in the bedroom…when you got her in the mood… well, there was just no way to describe it. She could fuck like nobody else–a real tigress.
          They had only done it a few times before, but for Dalton that was enough to know. She had battered him like they were at war. He hated to be trite, but she had definitely, in every meaning of the phrase, “rocked his world”.

          Some odd 20 minutes later, it was “on”.

                    He kicked her thong loose, feeling the cool thread slide down her thighs and onto the floor. She laughed, a small half-moan of a laugh, and then seized his neck. Pulling him closer, she drew him inside. Her sleek legs curled around him at the waist, entwining him like some sort of matriarch spider. He groaned as he went deep. She was warm inside, a pleasant moistness that tingled the skin. He began to thrust. She countered. He repeated. Back and forth, back and forth.
          The bed shook as their bodies convulsed. She was grabbing him by the shoulders, her fingernails leaving winding ravines along his upper back. As he gouged her, she cried. He fought, harder and harder. He could feel his cracking point, like the impending blow of Krakatoa.
                    Almost… Almost there…
          And then the walls broke, and the flood raged forth.
It felt like he had just torn a fissure in the world.
          One big, god-lovely fissure.

Dalton woke some time later. His vision, dim at best, blurred as he opened his eyes. The red contour wavered a moment, and then he squinted. 9:54. What time had Amber come over?
          He rolled to his right. The covers were gone; they had been undoubtedly tossed in the “struggle”. Amber was gone. Dalton cursed. She was always like that–disappearing after sex. He could hear something coming from the floor beside the T.V. He squinted again. Clicking. What was that noise?
          There was somebody sitting on the floor.
He squinted his eyes again. Was it… “Chalmers?”
The man turned. He stopped his hands above the keyboard and lowered his laptop to the carpet. “Ah, Dalton. Good to see you survived the tussle.” He laughed at this last word, turning calmly back to his computer.
          Dalton pulled himself up. “Chalmers, what are you doing here?”
The man continued typing, his eyes flaring about the screen in mad succession. “I thought I’d stop by; I had some work to get done, you see.” He brushed his hair from his eyes, and clicked the mouse. His hair was long–real long. It hadn’t been cut for over a year and a half, and to this point it was growing wildly over his shoulders and eyes, extending almost down to his chin when combed immediately after a shower. Scraggly and brown, it was the kind of hair you expected to see on a pothead, a burnout. But Chalmers was far from a burnout.
          He was a genius–literally. He had been tested, tested, and retested. Dalton had learned of his high IQ when they first met in freshman year. 155, Chalmers used to say when asked. 163 on a good day. Regardless of what Chalmers called “fluctuations in intellect”, the kid was a braniac. But he wasn’t the normal type. He rarely read books, rarely did his assignments, and somehow, how exactly Dalton didn’t know, Chalmers maintained a perfect 4.0. Then again, maybe being a genius had something to do with it.
         Dalton dropped to the floor and walked over to him. “Actually doing your homework for once?”
          Chalmers looked up, almost surprised to see Dalton out of bed. “Homework? No, no…never. It’s too arbitrary.” Dalton picked up the book on the floor. It was a thick one, 1000 + pages, not to mention the ant-sized font. “Deeper Understanding: A Guide to Advanced Astrophysics,” Dalton read aloud mockingly. “I didn’t know you were in Astrophysics, Chalmers. You never cease to amaze.”
          Chalmers shrugged. “Well, that’s because I’m not.”
“You’re not?”
“No, no…it’s not my textbook. It belongs to a friend of a friend.”
“So you’re reading this for ‘fun’?”
Chalmers pulled the book from Dalton’s hands and flipped to the middle. His green eyes gleamed across the text, no doubt absorbing every word with ease.
          “I’m afraid this is not for enjoyment only. I’m obligated…in a way.”
“Obligated?”
“That’s right. As set forth by the terms of our negotiation.”
         Dalton shook his head. “What kind of deal this time?”
“4 reports by semester. 2 quarterlies, 1 experimental, 1 mid-term.”
Dalton nodded. “Sounds like a load.”
Chalmers frowned. “No, not too bad. It’s 75 for each quarterly, 100 for the experimental, and $180 for the mid-term.”
         “Who’s the ‘client’?”
Chalmers brushed it off. “Oh, some rich girl. Sarah, uh…Sarah Welschler I think it is. Her parents are rolling in it–stockbrokers. She’s got a Visa, a brand new Mercedes, and more cash than she knows what to do with.”
         “Sounds like a piece of cake,” Dalton added with sarcasm.
Chalmers turned back to his laptop. “It’s nothing really. The first couple hundred pages are essentially highfalutin fluff. The rest is based on gradual progression… She could easily do this herself if she just put in the time.”
Dalton smiled slyly. “Or she could have you do it for her in 1/10th the time, with 10 times the effectiveness.”
Chalmers clicked the keyboard. “Naturally.”
         Dalton walked back to his bed and plopped on the edge. Chalmers shot a quick glimpse and winced. “Remember, good friend, you’re not wearing any clothes.” Dalton looked down. He had totally forgotten. “Jesus, Chalmers. When were you going to tell me that?”
          Chalmers frowned. “I thought it was common knowledge that nudeness is a prerequisite for intercourse.”
         Dalton found his boxers on the floor and threw them on. “Wait, so you were…”
“No.” finished Dalton. “But I did, like the rest of this floor, hear the raucous you and your lady friend were making.”
         Dalton pushed his arms through the sleeves of his shirt. “When did you get in here, anyway?”
          “I arrived shortly after Amber left. She was in a real bustle when I came down here. Had just taken a shower. Said she had to get to some class.”
          “You need to learn to knock, Chalmers,” Dalton croaked.
          Chalmers laughed. “Don’t worry, I didn’t see anything. She was completely clothed, just on her way out.”
          Chalmers turned then, his face set in smirk, and plopped the laptop to the floor. His voice came low and secretive as if revealing some deep desire. “Between you and me…how is she? I mean, I hear the noises, I sense the excitement…but what’s it really like?”
          Dalton shook his head. “What’s what like? It’s sex, Chalmers… You do know what sex is…right?”
          Chalmers motioned toward the bed. His face was a portrait of awe. “Look at that thing. Any more thrashing and that mattress would be destroyed. You two really know how to go to work.”
          Dalton allowed himself a smile. “She’s definitely something, I’ll tell you that.”
          Chalmers nodded silently, his eyes suddenly glazed over. “I hope for your sake she’s smart enough to use contraceptive.”
          Dalton froze. He couldn’t remember if she had or hadn’t. He had been in such a goddamn horny mood; he didn’t even remember if he had worn a rubber. But then again, was there really any merit to his worries? She was clean; they had worn protection all the other times. Besides, she was probably on the pill or something. There was no way she could….no, no…..there couldn’t be….
          Dalton turned to Chalmers, trying to change the subject. “So… is Sarah the only one?”
          “Sarah? No, no, no. I’ve got Becky Eisendale, Jessica Talbot, Rachel Gleison, and Tina Burdock.” Dalton raised an eyebrow. “All girls…” Chalmers looked up. “Yes, and all very, very attractive.” Dalton smiled. “What kind of subjects?”
          Chalmers paused. “Hmm…well, they run the gamut as far as height is concerned, but they’re all very fit, robust, mainly blond-haired, large bust-lines…”
          Dalton laughed. “No, I mean what kind of subject areas in school?” Chalmers frowned. “Well, if you really care about that, then fine… I’d say anything and everything from Astrophysics to Biology to Psychology and maybe some English Lit. classes sprinkled here and there.”
          “And these girls trust you…?”
          “Well, of course. I think you’ll find I’m a very fair and approachable man of business. My prices are neither too high nor too low…”
          “You’re cheating is what you’re doing. There’s really no way to deny it.”           Chalmers waved his hand in annoyance. “That doesn’t really concern me.”
Dalton dropped to the floor beside his bed. “You’re lucky we’re good friends or I might just have to report you to the Honor Council.”
          Chalmers chuckled. “Is dejection the problem? You know I would be happy to entitle you to the same services. Pro-bono, of course.”
          Dalton frowned. “I’ll pass for now, but thanks.”
          “Anytime.”
Chalmers flicked the computer to a standby. The Dell hummed softly and then the screen switched black, and it was silent. He looked up. “Well, my work here is done. $150 in the bank.” He packed his laptop under his armpit and headed for the door. Dalton stopped him. “Wait. Do you want to do anything? I mean, maybe go out somewhere or something?” Chalmers shrugged. “I’m kind of tired, to be honest. I might stop by Jack’s to smoke a bowl, but I’m not really in the mood for much else.”
          Chalmers motioned toward Dalton’s disheveled clothes. “Besides, looks like you could use a thorough rinsing. And that bed…good god, give it a cleaning. You’ve got enough cum stains on it to rival a first-class demimonde facility.”
          Dalton watched him go and then closed the door gently behind. He looked around the room. Something red caught his eye. Crouching, he lowered himself to the level of the carpet. He reached beneath bed sheet and grabbed the object. It was silky and smooth. Amber’s thong. What a thing of beauty.
          When Dalton headed to his fridge, he found that it was barren to the bone. Wondering aimlessly what to do and noticing the increasingly louder growls of his stomach, Dalton grabbed his key, locked the door, and headed into the hallway. The place smelled of alcohol and pot. As he walked down that lonely narrow corridor, he could discern muffled cries from other rooms. There was the yelling of a boyfriend and girlfriend in mid-argument, the screams of a bunch of friends as they engaged in yet another weekend Halo tournament, and the faded shrieks of two seemingly gay roommates as they debated the aesthetic appeal of beige on red wall-coloring. Dalton sighed. At the end of the hallway, before descending down the staircase, there was a vending machine.
          The bright, red neon glow of Coca-Cola cooed him onward. Dalton sifted through his pockets, withdrawing a wrinkled dollar bill. He inserted it. There was a brief pause, then a bziiip and the bill emerged, rejected. Cursing, Dalton inserted it again. This time no pause–just rejection. Dalton kicked the machine. “Damn it, just take the fuc….” His voice trailed off. A guy was walking down the hall. He was fat and heavy, as rotund as the world was round. Dalton gave a nod. The guy walked by, unnoticing.
          Cursing again as the bill was spit out, Dalton headed down the stairs. He needed some fresh air. The place was too damn stuffy.
          When he got outside, he paused.
A girl and a guy were getting in a silver Mercedes. The guy was laughing, pushing the girl onto the seat as she struggled to break free. But it was a playful struggle. She laughed as he kissed her, their slurred, muddled words coming together in tandem.
          “Babes not noww, I needa go-sleep..…”
He frowned, dropping his Corona to the pavement. It shattered with a resounding thud, and the girl stopped, giggling like a child. The guy turned to the source of the sound, seemingly unaware that the bottle had left his hand.
          Dalton caught glimpse of his bloodshot eyes.
Then the guy turned back, and the girl, gazing lovingly, caressed his neck. He kissed her again. This time she conceded, pulling him closer as their mouths locked. Dalton tried to look away, but he was struck.
          He could see her tongue, a slovenly snake, curling and twisting about his mouth. For a minute they sat there, exchanging saliva freely, and then he urged her inward. She accepted, shutting the driver’s side door with a thud as they both tumbled into the plush forest of leather seating. Damn rich kids.
          Dalton watched for a moment longer, his eyes discerning the tumble of legs and arms amid the interior darkness. And then a bra hit the dashboard.
          Whoa Nelly…
          Dalton turned away. He couldn’t watch two people have sex… even if they were both wasted. It was wrong–morally. Wasn’t it? He found himself wanting to watch, wanting to keep his eyes sealed to that damn Mercedes.
          It’s just sex, damn it. Go get a porno if you want it that goddamn bad.

Maybe Amber was up for another round…

          He turned back. It was their stupid fault if they were going to do it in a public place. Suddenly he wished he had stayed in his room. No good could come out of this.
          I’m here, I’m staying here.
He couldn’t really make much out now. It was too dark in the car. They were probably in the backseat by now. Dalton hoped for the guy’s sake that she was using contraceptive.
          And then a body.
Dalton squinted. Two white thighs writhing amid the dim. The car was rocking now. Dalton wondered glumly if he and Amber were capable of such a feat.

          How hard can it be to rock a car?
They rolled to the front seat. They were both completely naked now. She had her panties down around her ankles; he was boring into her like a power drill in a sandpit.
          Ahh… nothing beats drunken sex
Dalton had actually never done it. He had once wanted to, to just lose himself, but Amber was totally against it. She wanted complete awareness, complete control. Dalton understood now. A fireplug like that was better enjoyed sober.
          Dalton looked back. She was pinned against the front seat and the passenger door. Every time he went in her, she would reach out, her fingers gripping the upholstery. Dalton noticed her legs, helplessly wild, jolting and coiling about the guy’s back; it reminded him fondly of Amber.
          For a while it was just that, thrust after thrust, her toes curling in the air, but then it moved back to kissing. It was a frantic kissing, a deep-throat sweaty kind; the type, Dalton imagined, that would leave your face and lips drenched in saliva. He had his head buried in her cleavage and her breasts were squished against his chest. She was arching her back, no doubt for his benefit, and her hands kept rolling across his shoulders and neck, ticking gently along the back of his head.
          Dalton took a quick breath. How long could they go? This was getting pretty intense.
          And if to answer, they rolled from the window, landing squarely on the gear-shift. She was now on top, and Dalton could see clearly her rounded rear, white as first snow, tilted upward. He squinted even more.
                    God bless perfect vision.
          He could make out her contractions; thin, fine lines of muscle, sharp and bold, protruded as her body shook. As the minutes ticked by, she began to rise upward, swaying back and forth until, at one point, her hips rotated backwards and her back curved like the crescent moon, delicate whimpering escaping the car as she climaxed.
          Dalton wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.
And then, just like that, it was over. She cried out, her hair spilling down across her breasts and shoulders, and fell downward, collapsing into the open arms of her partner.
          Dalton turned away.
Sex was truly a thing of beauty.
10 minutes later, he watched as they emerged from the car– by this point he doubted they would notice him.
          She was disheveled, to say the least. Her shirt and pants were ruffled, her make-up smeared, and her hair bore the distinction of a quick but ineffective comb-through. He was equal in appearance. His shirt was ripped, his pants were loose–no doubt stretched beyond their capacity–and his face looked ghastly. Without saying, they were two very tired students tonight.
          They kissed once more before splitting: he to his dorm, her to her car. Dalton watched as she hopped in the driver’s seat, turning the key to ignition. The engine purred to life, a powerful beast hidden beneath layers of speckles elegance. Dalton shook his head. It had been nice while it lasted.
          “Good show, eh?” came a voice.
          Dalton spun so fast, he nearly broke his spine. Sitting on the bench, just a few feet away, was a small old man. Judging by his dirtied clothes and sallow teeth, it was Mr. Green, the dorm’s janitor.
          “Mr. Green..?” Dalton could hardly speak. The man nodded proudly. “That’s da one.” Dalton struggled to find words. “Mr. Green….have you been here… “’Ole time, boy,” answered the custodian, a pleasant grin lighting up his otherwise brown face.
          Dalton coughed. “Listen, it’s not what it s-“Boy, ya think I care?” interrupted the old man.
          Dalton looked away, his eyes traveling to where the Mercedes has been. His voice came weakly. “…I couldn’t help myself…”
          Mr. Green laughed. “’Course ya couldn’t. Neitha could I.” Dalton wanted to run. This was the worst moment of his life. He watched Mr. Green shift on the bench. The wood timbers creaked loudly.
          “Ya’ll damn college kids got libido out da roof..” Dalton stayed silent. “That girl back ‘ere… She was Sarah Welschler; girl fucked like a damn whore, ’idn’t she?” The man laughed at this, spitting a big glob of black on the cement. Dalton wanted to vomit.
          Sarah Welschler was the girl Chalmers was helping out, or, better yet, the girl he was helping to cheat. He shook his head; his stomach was turning nauseous by the second. Dalton began to back away. “I can’t talk right now…I really can’t…”
          The man’s beady eyes followed him. “Where ya goin’ ofta boy?”
Dalton felt his feet going quicker and quicker. “I’ve got to go now,” he said meekly, ducking around the east side of the building. When he was out of view, he fell to the ground. Gaining his composure, he looked to the distance. He was still hungry. There was a mid-night sub shop open down the way, but it was quite the hike by foot.
          It would be easy to get to by car.
But Dalton was decidedly against using his car at the moment. What did it really matter anyway? A walk was a walk.
          And so he started off.
          The campus was dimly lit–especially for a Saturday night. The tall street lamps, their extended steel necks rooted in the sky, were only half-aglow, and as Dalton made his way down the darkened boulevard, he got an eerie sense that somebody was watching him.
          There was a noise. Soft, delicate.
What is it this time?
          Something, someone was whimpering. Dalton drew nearer.
It was coming from one of the flower arrangements lining the walkway. He couldn’t see in the darkness. It was too damn dark for anybody to see anything.
          Dalton pulled away.
He had had enough; it was somebody else’s job. He wasn’t goddamn superman.
          But then again, what if it was some girl? What if it somebody had been raped and beaten and left to die? What if somebody had gone into a diabetic shock and was in need of insulin, crying for help in the dead of night. Dalton’s mind raced to respond. Was he being ridiculous? Was it really his right to be concerned? Chalmers would know.
          Chalmers always knew.
Dalton could suddenly see his friend calmly standing over the distraught damsel, slowly and articulately explaining everything. He could see Chalmers, with his good-natured charm and humor, consoling the girl, bringing an honest smile to her face. Chalmers had a gift. Dalton had never said it outright–there was no need to.
          Chalmers just had that way about him. Nothing was ever out of his reach. He could smooth the biggest bumps, alleviate the greatest fears; he was a genius in more than just the intellectual sense. He had this emotional sensitivity, an innate moral and spiritual understanding, which could just wash away all problems.
          Thinking back, Dalton could remember the first time he had met Chalmers. They had roomed together as freshman. It had been the first day of college, a tough time; a tumultuous and life-changing moment for all, but to Chalmers, to Chalmers it was just another thing to take in stride.
          Dalton had been doing homework, some stupid text-book work for Advanced Calculus, and Chalmers had walked in the room, looking as if he was going to hit the sack. Dalton had resorted to using only a small lamp, a dingy light in the corner of the room, and as Chalmers walked in, seemingly ready for bed, Dalton hard turned the setting even lower, so that only a faint blur of yellow illuminated his pencil and paper.
          Dalton had half-expected to be ordered to turn the light off, but instead Chalmers had walked over, seemingly interested in the assignment, and had stopped. Chalmers had pointed to the problem on Dalton’s paper, then nothing more than a convoluted mess of erase marks and dark smudges, and had said the answer. “No, you have radii right, but you’re instigating the wrong formula. It’s 3/7 pi.” When Dalton had given a disbelieving look, Chalmers had taken the paper and, with flawless ease, scribbled the necessary work for the solution.
          Dalton still remembered his own skepticism when Chalmers would seemingly pull answers out of thin air, needing no more than several seconds to solve the same problems Dalton’s brightest classmates required days to do.
          There had been a time when Chalmers’ brilliance had become a burden. There had been a time when Chalmers’ effortless ways were nothing more than a reminder of Dalton’s relative stupidity. Dalton could still hear it today.
          “No, no, listen. It’s nothing more than a paradigm to validate the absolution. This is critical if you’re to understand the rest.”
“But I don’t understand this, Chalmers… I can’t think like you do. I can’t just look at something and get it!”
          Thinking of Chalmers was sometimes depressing. Why was this kid here? Why was he wasting his time with college? He didn’t need it. He didn’t need to go through class after class, semester after semester, year after year. He had already received countless job offers, offers from some of the most renowned conglomerates in the world; there was Intel, Microsoft, IBM, Gateway, American Nanotechnologies, and many others–all of which had laid their highest positions, occupations that routinely commanded 6 and 7 figure salaries, out for the taking.
          But Chalmers had denied the offers. He had denied every last one of them. He had always told Dalton about companies, about their inherent evil. “Monopolies are the world’s leeches,” he would say. “They might have their benefits from time to time, but when it comes down to it, they’re still sucking you for everything you got.” Dalton couldn’t grasp it. Here was a kid; a kid that could shoot out a chem. lab in a little over 20 minutes, a kid who was always 10 steps ahead, always thinking to the next thing. Here was a kid who had all the potential in the world, all the goddamn natural ability anybody could ask for, and instead of putting it to good use, he was helping others cheat their way through college so that he could make an extra buck and they could get their faces plastered on the Dean’s Wall, or as Dalton so fondly called it: The “Congratulations, You’re a Brownnosing, Self-Involved Overachiever” Wall. Suddenly Dalton imagined himself as Holden Caulfield, the great literary figure of Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye. Everybody was a phony–big, fat, lying phonies. He felt sick.
          They were all around. Sarah Welschler for example. There she was shucking out hundreds so instead of studying she could spend her nights partying, drinking, and fucking any damn meathead that came her way. Then after that, when the fun was over and the clubbing came to an end, she and her rich, Mercedes-driving friends, would head on down to the most exorbitantly-priced salon in town, get their pretty little nails and hair done, and then tell the stylists that they wouldn’t be back next week because they were going to be at “the country club.”
          Dalton could see himself working at the salon, flipping the “We’re Closed” sign against the glass when little Sarah and her clan of prima donnas came strutting up, stiletto heels and all.
          The fact that he had been unknowingly watching this girl “in action”, the fact that he had all along, in his strange perverse mind, enjoyed seeing others go at it–it was too much to bear. She did have a body, a striking appearance that would grace any Playboy spread–sure. But that wasn’t what mattered. What mattered really was on the inside. At one point Dalton had brushed that off as pure “rubbish”, as the excuse of the ugly people, but now he could see just how true it was. Either you’re hot as shit or you are shit, his friend in high school used to say. And back then it was believable. Because back then, you didn’t know people. You didn’t know people for what they were, for who they could be. It was all appearance, all exterior.
          Funny how times had changed.
And the worse part about it, the most damn pressing, aggravating thing about it was the ignorance. Not just the ignorance of people who didn’t see one another as who they were, but the ignorance of people not to accept it when it was right in their goddamn faces. People would call Dalton a hypocrite. They’d call him a stereotyper, a mindless, heartless hater. They’d say, “But Dalton, you don’t know her! You can’t assume she’s that way!” Dalton would spit it back at them, right in their smeary faces. “I don’t need to know her! Look at her! Look at the way she acts, the way she talks, the way she fucking walks! I don’t need to know her!”
         Somewhere Dalton remembered hearing that the first 90 seconds of a new encounter with somebody was the best time frame to develop an opinion. That in 90 seconds, whether you knew it or not, you were already convincing yourself that a person was this way or that way. Anybody could be hot. Anybody could be physically attractive. But it was rare person that carried that over to personality–a person that combined mind and body, so to speak.
         Amber was one of those people. Chalmers, though strangely mired by his own intellect, was also one of those people. Jack….well, Jack was in the process of being one of those people–you just had to know how to catch him when he wasn’t blazed.
          Dalton looked ahead. He vaguely realized that he had left the whimpering behind, abandoned all together. The sub shop rose to his right. The outside benches and tables were deserted. Save for a few lights emanating from within, the place was dead. Dalton walked inside.
          He loved the smell. That fresh, salty aroma of salami and ham, the sizzling grease-slathered soak of steak on a baked air. God, was it something to smell. He walked to the counter.
          A familiar voice filtered through the air. “Dalton, is that you?
A fat and tanned man, sweating through his stained undershirt, emerged from behind the stacks of menus and condiments. It was Tony Cierzello. His son was in a few of Dalton’s classes, and while the two were not the closest of friends, Dalton always enjoyed talking to him and hearing small tidbits about his dad’s latest work events–from the 300lb guy who consumed two 3ft cheese steaks, to the strange tye-dye-clad hippies who often entered the restaurant just to spread their “flyers of peace”.
          “What’s up?” asked Dalton, motioning needlessly to the large grills in the back. Tony frowned casually. “Nothing really. I was cleaning up ‘bout 5 minutes before you got here, but if you need something…”
          Dalton shrugged. “I don’t want to be a hassle or anything.” Tony waved his hand. “Don’t be crazy. Seriously, what can I get you?” Dalton nodded. “Alright, cool. Can I get a meatball sub with everything?”
          Tony spun around. “Coming up.” As he worked with the bread and meats, Dalton took a seat. “So what you been up to lately?” The man asked, his voice masked by the fizz of the grills. “Nothing much really,” Dalton lied. “Just kind of hanging around. Homework, school work–all that fun stuff.” Tony tossed a meatball into the vat.
         “Say, Dalton, have you seen my son lately?” Dalton hesitated. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen Joe in over a week and a half. Strange. He had kind of forgotten.
          “No, not really,” replied Dalton. “Is he away on a cross country meet or something?” Joe shook his head. “No…the season ended a while ago.” He turned and smiled. “I’m just hoping he didn’t get into some study abroad thing without telling me. He has always wanted to go to Italy.” Dalton laughed. “Yeah, that would sound like Joe.”
         Dalton sat a little while longer, talking to Tony, eating his sub, but when a good 20-30 minutes had passed, he got up, said his farewells, and left for the exit.
         As he walked down that lonely boulevard, he shot a quick glance at his watch. It was 12:03; save for a few late night parties, the campus was asleep. He yawned. Suddenly he just wanted to roll into bed and cover himself, shielded from the cold dreary air, cloaked from that still blackness. But it was not over. He still had to walk another 2 miles yet, and his damn legs felt like they were going to just give out at any second.
          He turned as a whistle caught his attention.
         A black SUV, the large escalade type, had pulled up alongside the curb. Dalton tried to see the driver, but the vehicle allowed zero light to permeate. The whistle came again this time, and Dalton, starting to feel aggravated, walked over to the open window.
          A voice, raspy and deep, almost to the point of humanoid, curled from the inside darkness. “Hey, you there…”
         Dalton walked closer. “Who the hell are you?”
A light. A bulb of yellow-orange, then illumination. The smooth sssss of an unfiltered Marboro. Dalton narrowed his eyes. The cigarette gave a soft foam of glow; its user was sitting back against the seat, contently.
         Dalton watched him slowly as he brought it to his mouth, lips pursed, and exhaled. The rings curled forth, spilling across Dalton’s face and eyes. The man smiled.
         “She’s in trouble.”
Dalton peered across the face of the speaker. It was gaunt, ashen as the clouds. His eyes were set in dark, black sunken holes. They were green, an almost venomous hue. Dalton stepped back.
         “What are you talking about?”
The man smiled. It did not extend to his eyes. “She’s in trouble…she needs your help…”
         Dalton watched him puff again. This time he released through his nostrils. The smoke billowed across Dalton’s face once more; he hardly noticed.
          “Listen, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
Dalton turned, his feet carrying him onward, but then the voice, again and even more alien, caught his ears. It came in a long drawn-out hiss.
          “Amber….”
Dalton spun. “What did you say?”
          But the car was gone.
Dalton looked around frantically, his heart playing fiercely against his ribs. The vehicle was nowhere.
          Dalton could hear himself swallow. He rubbed his eyes, sharply, heavily. What the fuck had just happened? Behind him the street lamp hummed. A fly, most likely on its last string of existence, buzzed against the dreary light.
          Dalton lowered himself to the nearest bench.
          It was so silent. So god-awful silent.
His head was swimming. There was a great pressure, a bold and relentless force, pressing against his skull. He rubbed his temples. It felt like somebody had gone in him with a hatchet. He touched the back, right at the top of his neck, right along the cerebellum.
          It was wet.
          He looked at his fingers. Blood. He was bleeding from the head. He felt again, this time both hands up against the area. He brought his hands back around to see.
          What the hell was going on?
Blood, endless and thick and cold. It was pouring from him now. He could feel the trickle along his neck and down his shirt. He stood up.
          There was something coming at him.
It wasn’t human. It was huge, but distorted. His vision flickered. The rays consumed his retina. Long, endless spines; blackened spikes and fetid hairs, thick and mutant, oozed from every orifice. Dalton began to run.
          He spurred his legs to go, faster and faster. His arms, chugging violently at his sides, carried him onward, down that empty boulevard.
          But the beast was gaining. The boulevard continued on and on, no end in sight. Dalton was going as fast as he could; his legs began to throb and burn with the effort.
          But the beast was gaining.
          It’s mouth opened, a myriad of daggered blades and serrated swords. Dalton screamed; he could feel his calves giving out. His feet were turning to sludge.
          He turned just as the beast was about to chomp. His eyes closed. His hands shot up in defense. It was over. All fucking over.
          But it never came.
          Dalton gasped for air, his diaphragm forcing his chest through erratic convulsions. He waited. And waited….
          His eyes sprung open.
          His hands removed from his face.

“Chalmers…?”

         Dalton awoke sometime later.
It was dark outside. The sky was pissing pellets. Dalton could discern the low fuzz of raindrops against the walkways. The small bushes and trees glinted in the moonlight. He checked his watch. 12:58 am.
         He looked up. The sub shop across the street was closed; the lights had shut off. His stomach was killing him. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead. They were cold. Dalton stirred. He could feel nausea rearing its ugly head. Turning to the side, he waited for it to come. But he never did throw up.
          Something in that damn sub. He sat there for what seemed 20 minutes, until at last he felt he was well enough to walk. Getting his composure, Dalton lifted himself to his feet and looked around.
          Somewhere off in the gloom, a siren was moaning. Dalton could perceive light, red and white, waning in the distance. He walked toward it.
          His eyes were sore. He needed to sleep; he needed to get back to his dorm. He wondered if the sub had given him the dream; he wondered if it was food poisoning that had done it. Could food poisoning cause hallucinations?
          Dalton shook his head.
As he neared the lights, he could see them for what they really were. An ambulance and police car. The vehicles, parked and open, was surrounded by people. In fact, the whole area was engulfed by people–college students. There was no sound. No murmur of words, no cries of fear or hysteria–Nothing.
          Dalton felt something inside him stir. What had happened? What was going on?
He watched the speechless faces before him.
          Quickly he made his way through the crowd. His heart was pounding. He could feel his pulse leaping in his veins, fire streaming through the sinewy fibers of every square inch of every organ. He was mad. He was furious. He didn’t know why. He wanted to see. He had to see.
          Pushing, shoving, fighting. Dalton squeezed, pulled through that mass of arms and torsos, heads and feet. Quicker and quicker, faster and faster. He could see it. He was almost there. Almost there…
          And then he reached the center.
“Chalmers…?”
          Dalton’s voice left him. His eyes wandered, downward, down to the ground, down along the bloodied shirt of his friend, down to Amber.
          She was unmoving. The hands, trained hands of paramedics, were covering her. Dalton watched the bag come to a zip. He watched as her face, gazing blankly to the sky, was sealed beneath the bag. Her eyes were gray. They didn’t blink, they didn’t smile, they didn’t cry.
          They were lifeless.
Chalmers stood motionless.
          “I found her like this…” He turned to Dalton. His voice was strangely detached. “I found her like this, Dalton…I swear to you…”
          Dalton looked at him. He looked at the blood across his hands and shirt, the streaks of red spilled along his pants and shoes. He looked at the knife beside his foot. Its serrated edges gleamed under the shine of the vehicle lights.
          There were policemen. They were walking toward Chalmers. Chalmers made no movement, no sign of distress or fear. He merely shook his head, staring Dalton straight in the eye. His face bore sympathy, grief, but his eyes, his eyes were unchanging. There was no emotion there. His eyes were merciless.
          “I swear, Dalton, I swear…” he whispered, the policemen taking him by the hands, binding his wrists in cuffs.
          Dalton watched the whole thing. He watched as they loaded Chalmers into the backseat, his head still shaking in wordless denial. He watched as the paramedics carried Amber’s body onto the stretcher, setting it down, tenderly, gently. He watched as the police car rolled away and then the ambulance, its back doors being shut, as it too began to leave the scene.
          But he caught something.
He saw something in the back of that paramedic vehicle.
          There were two bodies. There was another one, this one turned the other way; its head barely escaped the half-zipped bag.
          But it was enough, just enough.
Dalton recognized the blonde wisps instantly.
          It was Sarah Welschler.
And suddenly Dalton understood the whimpering he had heard.


          It would only be three days later when the body of Joe Cierzello would surface in a nearby river. Two days after that, his girlfriend, Becky Eisendale, junior Jessica Talbot, senior Rachel Gleison, and senior Tina Burdock would all appear. They would all bear the same scar, a single slash across the back of the head, a cut right along the cerebellum.




                   The End


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