Night As We Know It Read online

  NIGHT AS WE KNOW IT

  _______________________

  H.L. Sudler

  An Archer Publishing Book

  Washington, D.C.

  Night as We Know It

  Published by Archer Publishing

  1315 Park Road NW, Washington, DC 20010

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by H.L. Sudler

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any printed or electronic form. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  ARCHER PUBLISHING is a registered trademark of Archer Media Networks LLC.

  The ARCHER PUBLISHING logo is a registered trademark of Archer Media Networks LLC.

  Archer Publishing ISBN

  978-1-7351993-7-5

  Books by H.L. Sudler

  Patriarch: My Extraordinary Journey

  From Man to Gentleman

  Summerville

  From Man to Gentleman:

  A Beginner’s Guide to Manhood

  Return to Summerville

  The Looking Glass: Tales of Light and Dark

  CafeLiving’s Favorite Cocktails

  Stories by H.L. Sudler

  The Looking Glass: A New York Love Story

  Blood Moon

  You Won’t Forget Me

  Midnight

  Sandman

  Wake the Dead

  Daytrippers

  Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.

  Mark Twain

  _____________________________

  Night as We Know It

  It was night, full dark no stars. They were on their knees, outside, the two of them, hands up. The black asphalt was wet and shiny. Fire raged all around them. Intense heat radiating, the crackling infernos burning orange and yellow. Guns and rifles were pointed at them. They were bloody, their faces, hair and hands. They were panting, out of breath.

  Johns Mayweather turned to Nick Fullwood and said, “Tell them a story.”

  “Tell me a story.”

  This was how it was between them when they were at Franklin Charter Academy, Nick telling Johns made up stories as they sat across from each other in the school cafeteria.

  Johns was a football star, beefy, brown hair, and as the girls would say, hawt. Those eyes, those large hands, an upper torso that narrowed down to a trim waist, muscular ass, and hairy legs that fueled many a daydream, and caused many a sigh. He would sit across from Nick, chomping down on a sandwich, guzzling chocolate milk, prepping for the fruit cocktail and cookies he had ready for dessert.

  Nick had been an unlikely friend. Johns was good at sports but not good at too much else, and the two made an unspoken pact. They became pals. Each needing something from the other.

  Nick was a nerd, wiry, cute, shy (until you got to know him and he opened up). He was smart as a whip, but not the persnickety type like some around the school. The girls who walked the halls with their chin up and books tight against their bosom. Or the guys who wore sweater vests and sat on the debate team, who were suspected of having a little sugar in their tank.

  No, Nick was a watcher, eyes always scanning, recording everything. He was easy like Sunday morning, non-assuming, almost to the point of being aloof, bored. Some teachers hated him. Yes, hated. The way he could easily answer a question after getting caught staring out of the window nonplussed them. How he could explain the answer to a problem, logically, coolly, rationally. Most of all, they hated him because he was smart...and he knew it.

  He didn’t flaunt it, he wasn’t that type of guy. But there was always an indication in his voice that you were missing something and he wasn’t. It was almost like, “Don’t you see it? Don’t you see what I see?”

  Johns admired that, thought it funny, the way Nick wielded his intelligence.

  It was like a superpower, like his own; his strength, his bulk, his good looks, his charisma. He could just about charm or punch his way out of a penitentiary. And Nick…watching Nick in action from the back of a class, Johns thought that if he could bust his way out, smile his way out, Nick could certainly think his way out of any situation.

  Johns needed Nick.

  He deduced this in the quiet of his room alone with a dismal report card, in the cold, hard light of an undeniable truth. He was failing, and failing meant no football. Failing meant a regular life, no college, a low paying job working for his father at Mayweather’s Grocery, being nothing special. Eventually he’d have a wife, a beer gut, a divorce, some kids he hardly saw, then a long drawn out death before he died.

  Johns pushed aside his pride. The walls of his small bedroom, painted an uninspiring blue, mocked him. Even covered with posters of football legends long gone, handsome pictures of himself holding trophies, the walls mocked him. This was his cell. This was all he was, all he would ever be. A South Philly kid, who was born, and would live and die in this neighborhood.

  He had a choice to make. He could be content to be a footnote in Philadelphia’s history (good at high school football and fucking, and not much else), or he could make a run for it. Jump the wall and never look back.

  He needed a break. And that break was not going to come by a lottery ticket, through a will, or even an academic scholarship. He had but one way out. To take that route, he had to admit something to himself, a truth that lay acidic in his belly.

  He was not smart. He had no interest in school or any of his classes. He had one interest and one interest only. Football. The adoration of the crowd, the helmet, the uniform, the hot spotlights of an autumn night game. He loved the locker room prep talk, the cheerleaders, the tits and ass they threw at him, the touchdown dances, the Gatorade splashes, the high-fives around school, and how everyone knew his name.

  There was only one way out. The path many before him had taken. He needed a football scholarship. He’d go anywhere, to any college or university that was offering. Once there—like here—he would shine like new dime. And some pro team would pick him up.

  He’d make sure his combine scores were on mark. He would smile, wave, shake hands, take pictures, visit sick children, give excellent interviews, tell his hard-luck blue collar story; he was a phoenix risen from the ashes. He’d do as many years as he could pro and then continue with endorsements, side business franchises and on-air sports show commentary. And one day he’d have something named after him. Best of all, he’d be out of this hellhole.

  That was what he wanted.

  That was what he could see in his mind’s eye.

  And Nick Fullwood would help him get there.

  “Hey.”

  Nick jumped when he closed his locker door. Johns was standing behind it, and his hulking presence jolted him.

  “Hey.”

  “You’re Nick, right?”

  “Yeah,” Nick said quietly. His eyes were unblinking, his face perplexed.

  “I’m Johns.”

  Nick nodded. “Yeah, I know who you are.”

  “We have some classes together.”

  Nick turned away and started walking down the hall. Johns followed.

  “You’re on the Trojans,” Nick said.

  “Yeah. And you’re the guy all the teachers love.”

  Nick rolled his eyes over to Johns, gave him a look.

  “Just kidding,” Johns said, bumping h
im with his elbow. “Yo, you going to the caf—?”

  “You have a question you want to ask me.” Nick stopped and turned on Johns.

  Johns made a face.

  “Let me save you some time. No, I don’t suck dick. No, I don’t take it up the ass. No, I’m not poor; I dress like this on purpose. No, I don’t have a thing for Jenny Richardson; she’s just a friend. No, I’m not a virgin. No, I don’t spend all my free time reading books. Yes, I jerk off. Yes, I like a good party. Yes, I’ve had a couple drinks in my life. Yes, I’m perfectly happy being me. And no…I don’t want to be you.”

  Nick walked away leaving Johns standing there shocked, realizing he had been bitch slapped that easily, and that quickly. His eyes stayed with Nick as he turned the corner into the cafeteria. After a moment Johns followed, knowing Nick was exactly what he needed.

  “Tell me a story,” Johns said.

  As usual, Nick was eating at a table alone. He was reading a novel, not school related. He looked up and there was Johns with enough food to feed three guys. He had followed Nick to the cafeteria, eyed Nick as he methodically but casually chose his lunch.

  Nick frowned.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Johns said, sitting down. There was a ghost of smile on his face. “Tell me a story.”

  “What story?” Nick asked, blinking. He laid down his book, and Johns saw it was by a guy named Clive Barker titled, The Damnation Game.

  “I see you all the time telling stories to Jenny Richardson in the library.”

  “That’s because she likes my stories.”

  Johns shrugged. “So tell me one.”

  Nick looked him in the eyes, and Johns could see the wheels turning in Nick’s head, as if Nick was trying to size him up, figure him out.

  Nick said quietly, “There was once a guy who chopped off his wife’s head with an axe. Rich guy, lawyer, lived in the burbs. He told police the Devil made him do it. That the Devil had fucked his wife, and he had watched him do it. He couldn’t make the Devil pay, because the Devil has a way around things. The Devil stays with you even when you think you have him defeated. That’s the power of the Devil—and God. They’re both intangible and can’t be controlled. So the man chopped off his wife’s head. She was tangible. But it was all for naught. The Devil was still with him. In his head. And he went insane.”

  Johns blinked. “What kind a story is that?”

  Before Nick could answer, four guys sat down at the table with them, squeezing in next to Nick shoulder to shoulder. They were Trojans too, friends of Johns, all with their trays piled with food.

  “Whassup, whassup?” one of them said. He was Black, named Roderick Tomes.

  Johns clapped hands with him and the other guys.

  “What’re you doing hanging out with this geek?” Larry Edelston asked. He took a bite of his sandwich and threw it down. He spat out the rest, then started in on two slices of pizza.

  Nick looked over at the redhead, then to Johns with a look that said, “Take care of this.”

  “Guys,” Johns said, “This is Nick—”

  “I know who he is,” Edelston said. He looked at Nick and lowered his voice. “Yo, you still fucking Jenny Richardson, ‘cause I’d like to get in on that if you’re done?”

  Rod Tomes snorted. “I think everybody’d like to get in on that.”

  “Doesn’t she have a cousin named Axel?” Edelston asked.

  “Brother,” everyone else answered.

  “If you guys are done,” Johns said, “Nick was helping me out with something.”

  Nick raised his eyebrow and crooked his head, but said nothing.

  “What’s he helping you with? Being a Poindexter?” a linebacker named Frye asked, sounding pissed off.

  Nick slammed his hand on the table, and everyone jerked to attention. “Actually…” and he was looking directly into Johns’s eyes when he said this, “I was giving Johns some ideas on his English paper due on Monday. I know you’re all finished, but Johns isn’t.”

  Edelston looked up from his second pizza slice. “I haven’t even started that fucking thing.”

  “What ideas?” Tomes asked.

  Nick raised an eyebrow, folded his hands, and looked around the table, all eyes on him. He was suddenly holding court. “Have any of you thought about what you’re reading?”

  No one answered.

  Nick sighed. “This doesn’t look like a War and Peace crowd, so I’ll give you some ideas on what you can read and write about.”

  “I don’t even like reading,” Frye said.

  “Good, because what I’m going to recommend will be easy.” Nick looked at Rod Tomes. “You like horror?”

  Tomes shrugged. “Yeah…”

  “Go to the library and find The Monkey’s Paw. Short story. Spooky. You’ll like it.”

  Johns looked around the table and smiled.

  “I like horror,” Edelston said.

  Nick looked up to the ceiling a moment, then at the redhead. “Find Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery. Another short story.”

  “Spooky?”

  “Haunting.”

  “What about me?” Frye asked. Still agitated for no obvious reason.

  Nick turned to him and his eyes raked the thick and pasty Frye up and down slowly with something just shy of condemnation. “Find a book of short stories called Night Shift. Stephen King. Look for a story called One for the Road.”

  “You read all these stories?” Edelston asked.

  Nick turned to Johns and said quietly, “Yes.”

  “Dude’s the bomb,” Johns announced, smiling.

  “Can you help me out with some other stuff?” Edelston asked. He said this as if he were requesting to use his dad’s car for the prom.

  Nick’s eyes flashed to Edelston.

  “Yes,” he said smiling. “I can do that.”

  “Guys, c’mon. I want to hit the head before Bernstein’s class.” Tomes stood up and so did the Trojans that came with him. He looked down at Nick. “Fullwood…thanks. Will you take a look at my paper before I turn it in? To make sure everything’s okay?”

  Nick nodded. “Sure. Let me see it by Friday, that way you can turn it in by Monday.”

  “Me too?” Edelston asked.

  “Yeah.”

  They all patted Nick on the back, said their thanks, and walked away.

  Nick turned to Johns. “So what do you want for Christmas?” he asked slyly. “Because I have a feeling you’re having lunch with me for a reason.”

  Johns’s eyes fell. “Yeah…” he said, and ran his tongue around in his mouth. He sighed and cleared his throat. “Look. I can help you out around school.”

  Nick nodded his head slowly, understanding.

  “Those guys…they listen to me.”

  “But you want something in return.”

  Johns shrugged as if to say, “You’re looking at me like I’m gonna ask you to shoot somebody.”

  A small smile crept across Nick’s mouth. “What do you want from me?”

  “I…I need you to help me get into college. I’ll do whatever. I just need a football scholarship to get there, but my grades aren’t high enough.”

  Nick sighed and looked down at his hands. “Talk to me on Monday. I want to know everything for every class. We can work you up from there.”

  Johns smiled, looking relieved. “Thanks. I’ll…I’ll talk to you on Monday.”

  Nick stood, and Johns said something that made him stop.

  “We can be friends, you know. I don’t want you to think I’m pimping you just for good grades.”

  Nick laughed. “There are worse things to be pimped for. I’ll talk to you later. I gotta hit the library. I need a book for my report.”

  “What are you gonna to read?”

  Nick smiled, and said, “Henry James. The Turn of the Screw.”

  Nick beca
me something of a celebrity to the students at Franklin Charter, not that he wasn’t already. Where he was before a folk hero, a quiet whip-smart kid who caused fear and unease in the hearts of teachers, he was now the student body savior. He was going to help get them out of this pit, get them on to life after high school. Fame and fortune to follow. The girls flocked to the jocks, now elevated to deity levels; big, cute, and smart?

  Johns claimed proprietary rights over Nick, was always by his side, and Nick benefitted from this proximity. Girls noticed him too, despite his close friendship (no sex, remember?) with Jenny Richardson. Nick cleaned up his act, got new clothes, cut his hair, shaved. Looked cleaner, more attractive. And this change elevated his stock as well. One word from Johns, a look, a smile, a wink, and a girl would make a bee-line to Nick, show him love.

  Nick was not without his own talents. He was better looking now, but still quiet, still watchful. Girls liked his air of mystery. They also liked his execution. That he would open their sodas or bottled water before handing it to them. Their eyes would look up into his, and they would say breathlessly, with the right amount of sugar, “Thank you, Nick.”

  At parties, crowds would part like the Red Sea for this dynamic duo. Their names would be called out, they’d be waved over, laughter would ensue. They developed a routine, their chemistry, their bromance, on full display. A little Abbot and Costello, a little Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis, a little George Clooney and Brad Pitt. And once in a while they would look into each other’s eyes, either up close or across a room, and their eyes would ask, “Are we really this close?” They would raise their cups, their sodas, their glasses, and salute each other. They would look away, but the question would be with them still.