VULKAN Literary Pause | SHORTcut by Milo Openshaw

In the passenger seat, Ariel is dancing and singing along to a loud pop song on the radio. His gyrating jostles the map out of his lap.

“Hey,” Peter says loudly, his hands refusing to leave the steering wheel.

“Oh, relax.” Ariel picks it up and spreads it across his thighs again, upside-down. “We’re going the right way. There haven’t even been any other roads for like ten minutes.”

Whether or not this really is a “shortcut”, like Ariel claimed at the beginning of the trip, Peter has no idea. The trees form solid walls on either side of the winding road, which started out as wrinkled concrete but faded into two thin tire tracks in the dirt as they drove farther.

In six months, they’re getting married. They made it official a couple of weeks ago, when Peter Karstendiek took his boyfriend out to where they had their first date– the aquarium– and proposed in front of the jellyfish. He almost couldn’t believe Ariel said yes. They had only been together for a year before the proposal, but Peter couldn’t let him slip through his fingers. Ariel is far, far out of his league, and everyone knows it. He has thick black hair that bounces with each movement and a permanent pearly-toothed smile. Not a fake smile, a genuine one, an open invitation for the world to take him in its embrace. He’s always laughing about something, or someone. Peter likes to make him laugh.

Although there are still some times Peter wishes his fiancé would take things a little more seriously. Ariel was the one who suggested a trip in the first place, to celebrate the engagement, yet it was Peter who booked the hotel on the beach, Peter who packed their bags, and Peter who has been driving for the last five hours. The least he could do is make sure they’re going in the right direction.

Peter turns the radio down. “I feel like we should have passed a landmark by now.”

Ariel reaches into the backseat, stuffed with bags and junk, and pulls a chocolate bar seemingly out of thin air. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Anything besides… more trees. It’s getting dark, too. God, I hate driving at night.”

“That’s what headlights are for.”

“Can you check the map again, please?”

Ariel holds the map up, squints, turns it right side up, and traces the veiny highways with his finger. The other hand precariously holds the chocolate and pins the map against the dashboard. “Ah… what way are we going right now?”

“It should be north.”

“Okay. That’s right.”

“So we’re heading north?”

“Yeah, we’re heading north.” Ariel puts the map down so he can unwrap his chocolate. “I can’t imagine how long it would’ve taken if we took the highway around the woods. Why don’t more people just cut straight up?”

“The dirt road probably scared them,” Peter says, because it definitely scares him. If he had known he’d have to trundle along at a snail’s pace down an unlit forest road, he would have insisted on taking the highway. At least Ariel seems to be having a good time.

Or, at least he does until the radio fizzes into static. After trying the old-fashioned method of repair and whacking it a few times, he gives up and turns it off, listening to the car rumble and crackle over stones and fallen twigs. Peter’s fingers are stuck to the leather of the steering wheel.

He wonders vaguely how many trees there are in this forest. As each trunk passes, Peter is more and more convinced that the forest is a single entity, and that their car is a clot traveling down a vein that was supposed to be clear. Browns and greens blend together in one muddy blur. When Peter is forced to switch the headlights on, he is horrified by the darkness pressed in on his car from all sides. Even with the brightest beams, the night swallows the light before it can go more than a few feet, casting everything visible in those thin circles in ghostly grey.

Ariel sinks down into his seat, closing his eyes and feigning sleep. He’s breathing too quickly to really be napping. Tiny crumbs of chocolate have fallen and melted onto his purple sweater.

“Do you think we should camp out here?” Peter asks, after almost a half hour of silence.

Ariel jolts out of whatever anxious stupor he has fallen into. “What? Camp?”

“Yeah. I mean, pull over to the side and sleep in the car. I’m just trying to think practically. I don’t like not being able to see where I’m going.”

“We could be almost there,” Ariel argues.

“Or we could be in the middle of nowhere.”

“Oh my god, Peter.”

“Ariel, we should have been there by sunset. It’s half past midnight.”

“That was a guess! You always worry so much. Just keep fucking driving, we’ll get there. It’s not like this forest is endless.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s actually driving.”

“You–” Ariel falters, eyes wide. He points toward the right side of the windshield. “Look! See that?”

“What?”

“Lights! Come on, pull over!”

Sure enough, through the trees, neon pink and blue lights twinkle. Peter slows the car to a bewildered crawl and turns into the driveway of a glimmering two-story building, lit up like a birthday cake with flashing colors. The exterior is painted rich, luxurious red. Cars and bikes are parked in front and along the sides. Music thumps through the ground, some kind of mid-tempo lounge mix that Peter can’t quite describe.

While Ariel gets out of the car, Peter fumbles for the map, squinting to make out the miniscule details. Nowhere inside the forest is there anything marked, except for a lake to the east. No civilization whatsoever.

Ariel calls his name. Puzzled, he steps out of the car.

If it weren’t so rich a red, he would assume it was some kind of Greek-style temple, the kind with columns and intricate carvings over the door, although the flashing lights combined with the swirling darkness make it impossible to determine just what those carvings are. The windows on each floor are lit with golden light muffled behind red curtains. Laughter and music and sweet smoke spill out into the clearing.

“I think it’s a bar,” Ariel says.

“I don’t see a sign.”

“It’s probably too dark.” He takes Peter’s hand, but Peter doesn’t move. Ariel smiles. “Don’t be nervous. We’ll just get a drink and ask for directions.”

“This wasn’t on the map.”

“Okay, well, this place was probably built after the map got printed. One drink, baby, please? We’re supposed to be having fun.”

Peter allows himself to be towed inside.

Immediately, Peter feels out of place. His bluish flannel is woefully inadequate next to the costumes draped over the rest of the patrons. This is more of Ariel’s scene, back when they first met at a drag club. Everyone is clad in long silky dresses, glitzy pinkish jackets feathered in sequins, furry jackets with dead tails drooping down to the floor, white shirts so crisp they might be made of snow, harnesses of leather and golden chains, shoes so shiny you could do your makeup in them, and everyone, everyone is dripping with excess. The guests lounge around the room in hues of scarlet and smoke. Nobody is alone. Everybody sips from the same sort of martini glass. 

He plants himself in an open stool at the bar, next to his fiancé. The bartender glides over as though they’re on roller skates. They’re improbably tall, with a long, narrow face and even longer blonde hair. Peter wouldn’t be surprised if he saw them on the cover of a fashion magazine. Not that he reads fashion magazines. 

“Passing through?” they ask smoothly.

“We’re on our way to Harbor,” Ariel says. “We’re going the right way, right?”

The bartender nods.

“See?” Ariel teases, elbowing Peter’s arm. Peter cracks a smile. His shoulders loosen, if only by a fraction.

The bartender catches his eye. “Will you be having the house special?”

“Oh, not me. One for my fiancé, please. If that’s alright…?”

“More than alright,” Ariel says.

“Your fiancé?” The bartender reaches behind for an unmarked bottle and begins to pour the contents into a glass. The liquid comes out mostly clear, with an uncanny pearlescent sheen that might just be a trick of the light. “Congratulations.”

“He just proposed,” Ariel brags. “Seventeen days ago.”

Peter can’t help but chuckle. “Was it really seventeen?”

“I’ve been counting.”

A glass is placed in front of Ariel, then Peter, who starts to protest, but the bartender holds up a thin-fingered hand. “It’s on the house. To your union.”

One drink won’t hurt, Peter thinks. He “cheers” with Ariel and drinks.

It’s nothing he’s ever tasted before. Whatever the liquid is, it’s most definitely alcoholic judging by the burn in the back of his throat and the tingling on his tongue. But it’s thicker than water, almost the consistency of warm honey. The flavor is smoky, sour, musky, like drinking an incense tray if it were dipped in sugar.

When he takes another sip of his drink, the glass is still full.

“How long will you be staying in Harbor?” the bartender asks. Their face has grown blurred around the edges.

Peter tilts his head towards them, to hear better over the music, which has grown louder. “Just a couple days. To see the beach, do some souvenir shopping, order room service, you know. Are you from there?”

“No, I’m local.”

“You don’t commute to work here? I mean–” Peter waves his hand around in the air. “You live around here?”

“There’s more life in these woods than you might think.”

“I guess. I didn’t even know there was a road through here until–” He turns to look at Ariel, but the stool next to him is empty. He blinks. “He was just here.”

The bartender raises their pale eyebrows. “Was he?”

“Yeah. Sorry, um–” Peter climbs down from his own stool, drink in hand. This isn’t the first time he has lost Ariel at a club and it won’t be the last. His fiance always gravitates towards the center of the action, no matter where they are. Peter’s anxiety never lessens whenever it inevitably happens. 

Time trips, falls, falls forever. Light and shadow blend like watercolors. There’s a hot sensation, pins and needles at the back of Peter’s skull, spreading like fungus to his forehead. The patrons of the bar swim around each other like fish in a tropical aquarium. Their clothes float weightlessly, and bubbles ooze out of their nostrils and lips. The bar is a cathedral window, a kaleidoscope, a single spinning plate in space.

He doesn’t recognize any of the people here. Their heads have morphed into animalistic masks. Even shouting Ariel’s name, nobody pays him any mind. Peter staggers around the bar, around leather booths, a small dance floor populated by swaying figures, an endless obstacle course of tables. His heart climbs into his throat. Ariel isn’t here. Maybe he went outside, back to the car. Maybe he’s feeling the effects of the drink more than Peter is.

As his panic sets in, he has to sit back down in his original stool. His gaze flicks from person to person, hoping to find Ariel by accident. A couple has become entangled in the window curtains like flies in a web. Some kind of drinking game is being played at one of the booths. One woman is spread out on a table, belly-up, arms outstretched, so two people can press their mouths to her biceps. If Peter focuses, he can see something dripping down her forearms and collecting on her fingertips.

The bartender leans into his ear out of thin air. “Hey. What’s the matter?”

“Ariel… Ariel is…”

“Peter!” Ariel lays his hand on his partner’s forearm. A wave of relief crashes around his ears. “Where have you been? Come meet some friends.” 

Before Peter can protest, he’s being pulled along across the floor, up a set of stairs he somehow hadn’t discovered. The second level is much the same as the first. More partiers sprawl around booths and tables and cushions. Something sticky has recently spilled on the floorboards. 

Peter is pulled into a red leather booth next to his fiancé, almost onto his lap. He is introduced to three strangers sitting across from them and promptly forgets each of their names. Ariel half-dances along to the music, half-drinks. 

The worry of the trip slips softly away. Peter realizes that he’s smiling. He’s on a trip with his fiancé, his sweet, handsome fiancé, who is smiling right back at him. They link hands. Peter toys with the ring on Ariel’s finger.

He’s lucky to be here.

Someone urges Peter to drink. He takes another sip. Then another. And another. He screws his eyes shut. The glass slips from his hand and crashes on the floor, and everyone roars with laughter at how funny it sounds. Ariel kisses him until he draws blood. Draws with blood.

They end up horizontal, somehow, somewhere. 

Ariel is drinking a neverending martini of house special and taking off his clothes. 

Ariel was never wearing any clothes, because he looks too good naked. 

Ariel borrows a cigarette from a stranger and brings it to his lips. The orange glow is supposed to be there, forming a halo around his mouth and lighting up freckles as though they’re stars.

Someone is kissing Peter, although he can’t tell who, and right now, it doesn’t matter. Someone slides their hands under his shirt. He smells Ariel’s cologne through the stench of the bar. Music pounds in time with his heart. Nobody has any drinks to spare, and he doesn’t want to get up now and ask for a fresh glass.

They were going somewhere. Peter was going somewhere. He can’t remember. There are fingers in his mouth. No, there’s something else in his mouth. Something is dripping with excess. 

Sight has been rendered obsolete, until–

The red. Sharp, nasty, hangover red.

The red light grows brighter, harsher by the minute. At first it was nice ambience, but now it gnaws on Peter’s nerves. 

And someone is sliding their ring across his back. That isn’t right. He came with someone. He extracts himself from the arms of a beautiful stranger and hobbles across the floor, down the stairs, in the direction he hopes is the exit. The bartender’s voice rings in his ears. He needs to find his car. He needs to leave. He was searching for something earlier and he can’t help but feel like he lost it again.

His hands fumble across the wall. His palm snags on a nail, ripping a small cut into the heel of his hand, snapping him from unknowing pleasure to unwitting pain. Peter swears. The corners of his eyes fill with tears. At last, with greater speed, he finds the door and stumbles outside.

The night air fills his lungs like it’s the first time he’s breathed oxygen. He gasps, shuddering in the frigid cold, clutching his wounded hand. His tongue lolls out as though he could capture the scent of the woods on his taste buds and drink it all down.

What he doesn’t know is how he lost his shirt. He turns around.

His car, headlights still blazing strong, is parked in front of a dilapidated old ruin. Moss and climbing vines attempt to tear the rotting wood down to the earth. The windows have long been removed of glass, black gaping holes where life used to be. A breeze rustles through the trees. The only noise for miles around.

Peter clambers through what used to be a door. A wave of nauseating stink smacks him back. A single beam from the headlight falls weakly through the threshold of the front door, illuminating a slice of the room. Blood has slicked the floor. Peter knows it’s blood, because of the half-obscured bodies scattered like a fallen house of cards. At least two dozen silhouettes are frozen in time. Bites have been taken out of their flesh. Tooth marks are apparent, littering their arms, legs, torsos, necks. The wounds ooze, congealing and turning black. A severed manicured finger lies innocently at Peter’s feet.

Grinning, blood smeared across his lips, Ariel is sprawled across the couch, eyes popping out of his skull.

“Hey,” he slurs.

Peter can’t get his tongue to move. 

Ariel brings his bloody fingers to his lips to slowly lick. “What’s… the matter?”

Shakily, Peter takes a step back. “I’m– going– going to get help,” he says in clipped tones, because if he opens his mouth too wide, he’ll vomit. It’s burning in the back of his throat already, like alcohol. “I’m– stay here. I’ll find– I’ll–”

“It’s… on the house…”

Peter sprints back outside and tries the ignition in his car after several attempts of slamming the key against the slot. The battery is far from dead. He buckles his seatbelt, pulls out of the driveway, and continues north down the road. His hands grip the steering wheel, his jaw wired shut, to keep from crying out as blood rolls down the leather.