On Tenterhooks Read Online Free
Author: Greever Williams
passed.
Thok thok thok thok
Zack’s body was buried to the waist. His head rippled with each blow , like a deflated basketball.
DAMN, THAT’S GOTTA HURT LIKE HELL . WHAT A GAME FOLKS, WHAT A GAME!
“Zack!” she screamed again . Tears fell as she watched Bastille pummel him . She tried to bend down, hoping to drop below the front of the bleachers . She couldn’t even twist her small frame enough to slide behind the handrail.
Thok thok thok thok
Only Zack’s shoulders and head remained , as the wicked onslaught continued . Bastille was John Henry , and Zack was simple steel. Bastille crouched and continued his windmill assault.
“Somebody, please help him!” Abby screamed . “Help him; help my brother!”
WELL, I’LL BE DAMNED!
She punched at anything within reach . The crowd had become a faceless sea of soft coats and jackets . There were no faces of concern, no ears to hear her pleas. The weight crushed her thighs against the rail.
Thok thok thok thok
Abby wanted to cover her ears, to block out the wet and spongy pummeling. Only Zack’s head was visible .
“No!” she screamed. She was sobbing. “Zack, I love you!”
Thok thok thok THOK
With a final , powerful turn of the windmill, Bastille buried her brother’s face into the earth. Abby’s legs were numb. The weight of the coat-crowd behind her curled her over the top of the railing . Bastille stopped his spinning arm and stood up .
WELL , THAT’S SURE AS HELL ONE OF THE WORST PLAYS THIS ANNOUNCER HAS EVER SEEN.
He turned and looked at Abby. Only it wasn’t Bastille . It was an old man — an impossibly thin and tall man . Bastille’s uniform hung off his skeletal frame like massive folds of blue and silver extraneous skin. Shoulder pads jutted off his narrow shoulders like the small plastic wings of a toy dinosaur .
I DON’T KNOW HOW THE HELL S TECH’S GONNA PULL THIS ONE OUTTA THE FIRE NOW!
The man had an unkempt and greasy shock of white hair . His skin was translucent under the powerful stadium lights . A long , hooked nose and bulging hateful eyes sat over a sneering mouth . His pointed , yellowed teeth gleamed above a gray tongue . He was laughing at her.
Rut rut rut rut
Abby felt the snap of metal reverberate through her numbed legs. She fell forward from the stand . The fall happened before she could get her hands up to shield her face. She tasted the grass in her mouth as a thousand coat-people crushed her into darkness . . .
She woke up to excruciating muscle spasms that wracked her body . She was conscious , but had to fight her own body to regain control . She was buried in a mound of pillows, wrestling her comforter on the carpet next to her bed . Tentatively, she sat up on shaking legs . Her calf muscles burned , just as they had in her sleep , just as they did every time she had the nightmare .
She pulled herself up with a grunt and lay gasping on her bed , rubbing at her sore muscles. It was the same thing, over and over: a vivid and violent nightmare, a painful wakening. She had grown tired of this nearly nightly ritual.
In real life, her intuition typically served her well. But in these dreams, it never kicked in early enough to save her brother . Of course, it was a dream, and not at all like his actual accident. But somewhere inside, she was convinced that if she could find a way to get to Zack before Bastille (or the old man) did, she would save him . What had terrified her at first now left her frustrated and angry . She felt like the team player who could win the game , but the coach always failed to put her in . After Zack had died, she had felt that same nagging apprehension she always felt in her nightmare — that she was supposed to be doing something , but she didn’t know what it was until it was too late. It wasn’t something to discuss with her parents or something a counselor could diagnose. It was just a
Thok thok thok thok
Zack’s body was buried to the waist. His head rippled with each blow , like a deflated basketball.
DAMN, THAT’S GOTTA HURT LIKE HELL . WHAT A GAME FOLKS, WHAT A GAME!
“Zack!” she screamed again . Tears fell as she watched Bastille pummel him . She tried to bend down, hoping to drop below the front of the bleachers . She couldn’t even twist her small frame enough to slide behind the handrail.
Thok thok thok thok
Only Zack’s shoulders and head remained , as the wicked onslaught continued . Bastille was John Henry , and Zack was simple steel. Bastille crouched and continued his windmill assault.
“Somebody, please help him!” Abby screamed . “Help him; help my brother!”
WELL, I’LL BE DAMNED!
She punched at anything within reach . The crowd had become a faceless sea of soft coats and jackets . There were no faces of concern, no ears to hear her pleas. The weight crushed her thighs against the rail.
Thok thok thok thok
Abby wanted to cover her ears, to block out the wet and spongy pummeling. Only Zack’s head was visible .
“No!” she screamed. She was sobbing. “Zack, I love you!”
Thok thok thok THOK
With a final , powerful turn of the windmill, Bastille buried her brother’s face into the earth. Abby’s legs were numb. The weight of the coat-crowd behind her curled her over the top of the railing . Bastille stopped his spinning arm and stood up .
WELL , THAT’S SURE AS HELL ONE OF THE WORST PLAYS THIS ANNOUNCER HAS EVER SEEN.
He turned and looked at Abby. Only it wasn’t Bastille . It was an old man — an impossibly thin and tall man . Bastille’s uniform hung off his skeletal frame like massive folds of blue and silver extraneous skin. Shoulder pads jutted off his narrow shoulders like the small plastic wings of a toy dinosaur .
I DON’T KNOW HOW THE HELL S TECH’S GONNA PULL THIS ONE OUTTA THE FIRE NOW!
The man had an unkempt and greasy shock of white hair . His skin was translucent under the powerful stadium lights . A long , hooked nose and bulging hateful eyes sat over a sneering mouth . His pointed , yellowed teeth gleamed above a gray tongue . He was laughing at her.
Rut rut rut rut
Abby felt the snap of metal reverberate through her numbed legs. She fell forward from the stand . The fall happened before she could get her hands up to shield her face. She tasted the grass in her mouth as a thousand coat-people crushed her into darkness . . .
She woke up to excruciating muscle spasms that wracked her body . She was conscious , but had to fight her own body to regain control . She was buried in a mound of pillows, wrestling her comforter on the carpet next to her bed . Tentatively, she sat up on shaking legs . Her calf muscles burned , just as they had in her sleep , just as they did every time she had the nightmare .
She pulled herself up with a grunt and lay gasping on her bed , rubbing at her sore muscles. It was the same thing, over and over: a vivid and violent nightmare, a painful wakening. She had grown tired of this nearly nightly ritual.
In real life, her intuition typically served her well. But in these dreams, it never kicked in early enough to save her brother . Of course, it was a dream, and not at all like his actual accident. But somewhere inside, she was convinced that if she could find a way to get to Zack before Bastille (or the old man) did, she would save him . What had terrified her at first now left her frustrated and angry . She felt like the team player who could win the game , but the coach always failed to put her in . After Zack had died, she had felt that same nagging apprehension she always felt in her nightmare — that she was supposed to be doing something , but she didn’t know what it was until it was too late. It wasn’t something to discuss with her parents or something a counselor could diagnose. It was just a
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