Dark Ride: A Thriller

1

I’m lost, wandering, and somewhat stoned. This parking lot, when you’re in the middle of it, seems much vaster and more expansive than it does from the street. Or do I just seem much less consequential? That’s the question. One for the ages.

It’s July, hot as balls. I stare up. The sky, pale and papery, looks like it’s about to burst into flame.

How would you describe the sky to someone who has never seen a sky? You’d have to explain how it’s different every day. So many shades of blue, of gray. And we’re not even talking about sunrise or sunset. Plus the clouds! How would you describe clouds?

You need some help?

What? I say.

Some dude in a suit is about to climb in his car. He’s about my age, probably a couple of years out of college. With the suit and the haircut, though, he’s all business. Me, I’m wearing board shorts, flip-flops, and a vintage faded Van Halen T-shirt that I found for five bucks at Goodwill. I haven’t cut my hair in almost forever and I’m a minimum-wage scarer at an amusement park fright zone.

Who’s happier, though, him or me? I mean, I hope he’s happy, but I’m happy too. I don’t need much. I don’t want much. I have everything I need and want. The perfect balance.

You’re just standing there, the dude in the suit says.

Yeah. No. I’m good. Thanks.

Can you move so I can back out?

Oh. Yeah. Do you know where the new municipal court administration building is?

He points to the far end of the parking lot.

Right on, I say. Thanks.

The new municipal building isn’t actually a new building. It’s the old municipal offices inside a different old building. Inside is your standard grim government environment. Low ceilings and dying fluorescent tubes, scuffed floors and dented doors, smudged handprints climbing the walls like vines. People pace up and down the long hallway. One woman is muttering to herself.

Breathing in, I calm my body, she says as she paces past me. Breathing in, I calm my body.

I get in line at the parking window. I have a ticket I need to deal with by five o’clock today, which is eleven minutes from now. Waiting will probably take longer than that, but if you’re in line by ten till, they usually let you slide.

We inch forward. Down the hallway to my right a guy is kicking a closed door. The woman is still pacing and muttering. Two dudes in line behind me argue loudly and irately first about some quarterback, then about some politician, then about Sonic hamburgers vs. Whataburger hamburgers. It must be exhausting to have so many strong opinions. I only have mild preferences, and usually not even that.

A woman in front of me worries into her phone about a suspicious lump in her armpit. I’m very glad for the bowl I smoked in my car. The weed makes me feel like I’m being gently removed from this moment by a big rubber eraser.

Down the hallway to my left, a couple of kids sit by themselves on a wooden bench. I just now notice them because it’s an extra-large bench and they’re extra-small. Six or seven years old? A little boy and a little girl. I’m impressed by how well-behaved they are. They’re not squirming or wrestling or even swinging their legs. At their age I would have been crawling around, licking the fossilized chewing gum stuck to the bottom of the bench.

We inch forward. Finally, it’s my turn at the window.

Pay or delay? the clerk asks.

Delay.

The clerk stamps my parking ticket, authorizing my request for a thirty-day continuation. I step away from the window. While I’m here, I realize, I should go ahead and get a continuation for my ticket due next week. The dude behind me looks anxious, though, so I yield the window to him. A good deed, my mom always said, never hurt anyone.

On my way out, I see those two little kids still sitting all by themselves on the big bench. Is it kind of weird that they’re sitting all by themselves? I look around for a likely parent or guardian, but everyone is wrapped up in their own world. Nobody even glances at the kids.

It’s none of my business, and I have zero understanding of child development, but the little boy and little girl seem way too young to be on their own—especially in a place like this, with so many sketchy people pacing and muttering and kicking at doors.

I walk over to the bench. I give the kids plenty of space and crouch down so that I’m not looming over them like Godzilla in Tokyo. Technically I’m one of those sketchy people myself, after all.

Hey, dudes, I say. What’s up?

The little boy looks past me, over my shoulder. The little girl looks over my other shoulder. They’re brother and sister, definitely. Twins? Unclear. They have the same sandy blond hair, the same broad forehead, the same enormous green eyes. They don’t seem scared. It’s more like they’re riding the bus to work, arms folded across their chests and staring out at the same tedious scenery that rolls past every day.

Is your mom or dad around? I say.

No reaction. Just: This bus, this route, so tedious. I decide, with no scientific basis whatsoever, that the boy is six and the girl is seven. They’re wearing miniature sneakers and miniature jeans. The little boy is wearing a miniature striped rugby shirt, blue and yellow. The little girl is wearing a miniature T-shirt with happy! spelled out with sequins. Though some of the sequins are missing, so it’s just, Happy.

I move my face three inches to the right so the little boy can’t miss it. He doesn’t even blink. I’m invisible. His eyes are offline, open but empty, just a dim light and lots of shadows.

Same thing with his sister. Very unsettling. They’re cute kids. I really wish they’d smile or giggle. I’d get behind even a scowl or a glare.

Should kids be as skinny as these kids? With such narrow, delicate necks and chests, wrists and ankles? They’re more like stick figure drawings than actual human children.

I notice the little girl’s ankle, the exposed skin between her sock and her jeans—three round dots the size of shirt buttons. Moles? That’s my first thought. But the dots are all exactly the same size and too perfectly round. My second thought is: ink? But what kid that age has a tattoo?

From a distance the dots are black, but when I lean closer I see they’re actually dark, dark red, just rimmed with black.

Cigarette burns. That’s what they are. I can positively identify cigarette burns because in high school some lunatic sophomore dropped acid at a party and thought his skin was made from ballistic nylon fabric. Watch this, he said, then pressed a cigarette against the inside of his wrist. He screamed and screamed, even after people found some butter to spread on him.

I feel my stomach twist. Cigarette burns? The little boy’s socks are pulled up so I can’t see his ankles. But then I spot three dots lined neatly along his collarbone, just beneath the collar of his rugby shirt. These cigarette burns are a brighter red than the girl’s, with a thinner black edge. More recent.

I stand and take a step backward. One single cigarette burn might, possibly, be an accident. But three on the girl and three on the boy? Arranged in neat lines, evenly spaced? There’s no way that’s an accident. I’m dizzy. All the noise around me, echoing voices and clattering heels and buzzing fluorescents, drops away and then, a second later, comes roaring back twice as loud. The kids still don’t look at me. They just sit and gaze off at nothing.

A woman steps out of an office. She hurries over to the bench. She’s the mother. Has to be. She looks just like the kids, with the same sandy hair, the same big eyes. Blouse, skirt. I don’t know if she works here or is a citizen with municipal business. The main thing I notice is how sharp she is, her face and her body both, all corners and edges, like origami.

Let’s go, guys, she tells the kids. For the first time they stir. The little girl corkscrews slowly off the bench and slides to the floor. The little boy studies his sister’s move, then duplicates it precisely.

The mother is looking at me now. She’s suspicious, understandably. As in Who are you with the long hair and board shorts and why are you staring at my children? But then I catch movement and glance down. She’s tugging at the collar of the little boy’s rugby shirt, rearranging it—trying, I realize, to hide the cigarette burns on his collarbone.

What!

The mother eases between me and the kids, blocking my view, and hustles them away. It all happens too fast. My mind drags behind, still three minutes in the past, still processing that first look at the cigarette burns. Down the hallway sunlight flashes as the glass doors of the building slide open. Before I can think or move or even think about moving, the mother and her kids are gone.

I look around for help, but every nearby person is deep into their phone or yawning obliviously. There was a security guard roaming the ground floor earlier—wasn’t there? Maybe he’s down by the elevators. I jog in that direction, then wonder if I should be following the mother and her kids instead. I wheel around and jog back the other way. The glass doors take forever to slide open wide enough for me to squeeze through sideways.

A couple of vapers lurk outside the building in a cloud of peach-flavored steam. In the parking lot, there’s no sign of the mother and her kids. The glare from all the windshields is right in my eyes.

A dark blue car pulls out of a space not far from where I’m standing. A Volvo, I think. The passenger window is down—it’s the mother, staring straight ahead. Next to her is a man, driving. I can’t get a good look at him. In the backseat I see the tops of two small heads.

Now what? I freeze again. The Volvo is swinging around, heading out. I can chase it across the parking lot. I can probably catch it. What do I do then, though?

License plate. License plate! I start trying to memorize the numbers, but then the little girl lifts her head and turns in her seat and looks out the back window. I’m startled when she looks right at me, right into my eyes. As the car speeds up and speeds away, it’s like some strange spell has been lifted and I’m no longer invisible.

2

I go back inside. I need to locate someone, immediately, who is suited to handle this situation. Because I am definitely not someone suited to handle this situation. I have no special skills or talents, and nobody, ever, has put me in charge of anything. Scare acting at an amusement park fright zone doesn’t entail much responsibility. Neither does DoorDashing or Grubhubbing, the other jobs on my résumé. In middle school I was second man off the bench for the basketball team. In my one and a half years of college, four years ago, I passed all my courses with flying B-minuses.

All that’s fine with me. I like being ordinary. I enjoy the lack of pressure. But I’m getting squeezed hard right now. What am I supposed to do? The dark blue Volvo is gone. The mother and her kids are gone. I try breathing in to calm my body. It works, marginally. There’s still no sign of that fucking elusive security guard.

The mother came out of an office. I’ll start there. I walk over. The sign on the door says Driver Improvement Verification. Ah-ha. I know this place from the old municipal building. It’s where I had to show proof I completed traffic school a couple of years ago.

Inside the office, the waiting area is deserted—just empty chairs and a goth chick behind the plexiglassed-in reception desk, flicking through her phone.

How much do you know about anal warts? she asks me when I walk over.

What?

The internet is rife with conflicting advice.

She’s messing with me. Hey, I say, may I talk to someone, please?

Sign in.

She nudges a clipboard at me with her elbow, so she doesn’t have to put down her phone. Her skin is excessively smooth and white, like it’s been freshly poured or ladled, while everything else—her hair, the shadow around her eyes, her lips—is deep, heavy black. She must have to wear civilian attire at work, a vintage dress with flowers, frills around the sleeves, but her silver necklace spells out, in small letters, satan loves me, this i know.

I’m not here for an appointment, I say. Were you here, like, five minutes ago?

Sign in.

Just listen. There was a woman. She was in here five minutes ago. I saw her leave. Sandy hair, maybe thirty-five years old, kind of really . . . sharp. Like origami.

The goth chick looks up from her phone. I have her mild, momentary interest, like she’s noticed a dog wearing a hat. Origami? she says.

An older woman emerges from a cubicle behind reception. She has the stride of a supervisor, the chin up and out, hair the color of stainless steel. I’m relieved. This is a lady who lives to handle difficult situations.

How may I be of assistance, sir? she asks me.

I explain about the kids, the cigarette burns, the mother. The supervisor nods and nods and nods, and then, when I finish talking, she shakes her head.

Hmm, she says. The proper authorities should be notified.

I wait for more. That’s it, though. The supervisor’s eyebrows go up: So if there’s nothing else . . . ?

"But you’re the authorities, I say. I’m notifying you."

We’re city government, she says. You’ll need to speak with the state authorities. The Department of Human Services. Child Services, I would imagine.

I guess that checks out. At least now I know who to call. What’s her name? The mother? So I can report it to Child Services?

I’m afraid I can’t give you that information, she says. Our records are strictly confidential. It’s a matter of legal liability.

What! How am I supposed to report the incident to Child Services if you won’t give me the mother’s name? I say. It’s a genuinely sincere question. I’m not trying to be a dick.

The supervisor blinks slowly. She wants me to appreciate how patient she’s remaining. And then she turns, walks away, and disappears back into her cubicle. I stand there in disbelief.

Sign in, the goth chick says.

Seriously? I say.

"Dude. She glances at me, then down at the clipboard. She glances back at me, then back down at the clipboard. Sign the sheet."

Oh. Oh. I get what she’s trying to tell me. The sheet clipped to the clipboard is almost full. I scan down to the bottom. A lot of the signatures are just scrawls, but I have no problem making out the very last, most recent name. Tracy Shaw.

That’s her. The mother. Tracy Shaw. The goth chick shows me her phone—a gif of a crowd going wild in the stands of some sporting event, celebrating a victory. I grab the chewed-up ballpoint that’s Velcroed to the clipboard and write the mother’s name on the heel of my hand.

Thanks, I tell the goth chick and she shows me another gif—a guy in a race stumbling, falling, skidding on his face across the finish line.

In my car, I look up the Department of Human Services and call the main line. The automated system melts my brain. I press numbers. I return to previous menus. I keep getting dumped for some reason to the voicemail for Angela Prince-Stover, coordinator of Elders, Harmony, and Informatics. Who? Coordinator of what, what, and what?

Finally I get through to Child Protective Services. Because it’s after five, I have to leave a message. I explain everything. I state and then spell out Tracy Shaw’s name. I state and then spell out my name. I leave my number.

Call me if you have any questions or, you know, if you need any additional information, I say. Thank you very much.

I hang up, relieved. My job here is done. Child Protective Services will make sure those kids are okay and once again I don’t have a worry in the world.

3

Nobody likes to be the Dead Sheriff. The hassle factor, compared to other jobs, is extreme. Townfolk Ghouls and Zombie Outlaws and Boot Hill Ghosts get to chill most of the night, shooting the shit and eating weed gummies while they wait for the next group to move through. The Dead Sheriff, on the other hand, is always on, always dealing with guests. And then at the end of every loop you get dragged helplessly away by the Outlaw Zombies. You don’t even get a big finish.

I’ve worked at Haunted Frontier for close to two years, so I know how to lie low and avoid unnecessary irritation and labor. Today, though, I’m twenty minutes late. When I slink in, trying to stay invisible, the shift lead spots me and pounces.

Why, hello, you, Duttweiler says.

A couple of Zombie Outlaws cackle at my misfortune. I pretend I don’t hear Duttweiler. I grab a vest and a pair of cowboy boots and take a seat on a defunct bumper car. The scare actors use the park’s old tinker shop for a dressing room. Concessions uses it to store fat, sagging bags of surplus Mountain Dew.

Duttweiler tosses me the gold badge. My hero.

"Duttweiler. Duttweiler. My contributions to the team are much better utilized in a different capacity. Like chilling, for example. Like eating weed gummies. Please."

He walks away. Salvador hops up and volunteers to be my deputy. A couple of Townfolk Ghouls lob plastic water bottles at him. The Zombie Outlaws cackle. Salvador is only sixteen, still in high school. He’s too eager, too loud, and looks like a stick insect with braces. For some mysterious reason, and completely against my will, he’s appointed himself my loyal and relentless minion.

Duttweiler looks at me. He’ll throw me a bone and stick Salvador in a grave if I want. But I know the other Boot Hill Ghosts will just lob dirt clods at him all night. I feel bad for Salvador. Most of the reasons he’s annoying aren’t really his fault.

Right on, I tell Salvador. You’re with me. Let’s roll.

We pick up our first posse of guests in the central hub of the park. Beautiful America is a knockoff Disneyland that’s been teetering on the verge of bankruptcy since the seventies or eighties. Haunted Frontier used to be a part of the park called Frontier America, until Frontier America collapsed into disrepair and somebody in management thought, Huh, you know what, we can work with that, with collapse and disrepair.

Howdy, pardners, I tell the guests. Ready for a terrifying trip back to the Wild West?

Howdy, pardners! Salvador yells right in my ear.

I go over the rules. A tiny but ferocious-looking woman, like a teacup pit bull, is already grumbling. I don’t know why we have to pay a separate admission for this, she says. This better be worth the eight extra dollars.

Nope, I could assure her, not even close. But I just tip my Stetson, make sure everybody has a wristband, and lead the way. During the day, Haunted Frontier is just sad and depressing, all the broken windows and sagging balconies and splintered clapboard. After dark, though, the town achieves actual eeriness. Shadows stretch unexpectedly, darkness spills and puddles. There’s hardly any lighting—management cuts every corner.

A couple of Townfolk Ghouls stagger out of the General Store, moaning. I tell the tale of Infernal Gulch. Winter storm, massacre, cannibalism, etc. My mind drifts as I go through the spiel. I think about those kids at the municipal building. Do you know how painful a cigarette burn must be? How about three of them?

Those poor kids. I know someone else who’d have a hard time forgetting about them: my mom. She gave money to every homeless person she passed. She stopped for every flat tire and coaxed every lost dog into the backseat of our car. Once, I remember, we saw a dog standing frozen in the middle of the intersection. Traffic whizzed past, nobody slowing down. My mom pulled over and ran out into the street to get the dog. We spent an hour at least, probably more, going block to block in the neighborhood, ringing doorbells until we found the house where the dog lived.

I remind myself that those kids on the bench will be okay. They’re in exactly the right hands now. Child Protective Services—it’s in the name of the place, their literal reason for being!

More ghouls ahead, popping out of nowhere, shrieking and lunging. Up on Boot Hill: same. The Hanged Prisoner thrashes and gags.

This is definitely not worth eight dollars so far, the teacup pit bull grumbles.

We wind back down into town. Three drunk high school girls pull smuggled-in bottles of mango White Claw out of their purses and start guzzling.

Hey, I’m sorry, that’s not allowed, please, I say. No alcoholic beverages is one of the rules I went over barely ten minutes ago. You’ll have to put those away.

The high school girls ignore me. A guy taking flash photos—No flash photos at any time was another one of the rules—ignores me too. There’s nothing I can do. My badge is fake and my gun is fake and I have no duly appointed enforcement powers. Officially the Dead Sheriff is supposed to kick out anyone who violates the rules. Unofficially the Dead Sheriff is supposed to absolutely not kick anyone out because refunds will be demanded, complaints will be lodged. Officially the park’s customer service motto is Give every guest your best yes!

Now the drunk high school girls are taking flash selfies. For Instagram or TikTok, I guess? Or something newer than that? I’m not into social media. It takes too much effort. That’s my impression.

Here comes the pack of Outlaw Zombies, lurching ominously out of the jail.

Oh, dang, I say. This sure don’t look good.

This sure don’t look good! Salvador yells. He swats at a gnat and accidentally slaps himself in the face.

One of the drunk high school girls barfs up hard seltzer and blue cotton candy. The smell is unholy. Her friends squeal with delight. I’m not supposed to, but I slip the barfer a couple of free wristbands for a future visit. I can tell she’s not feeling great right now.

A Townfolk Ghoul rips out an eyeball and squishes it in the palm of her hand. It’s alarming the first few dozen times you see it.

I can’t say I love working at Haunted Frontier. Honestly, though, I don’t hate it either. The money isn’t great, but it meets my needs. Very little is required of me, zero brainpower. When I leave Haunted Frontier for the night, I forget it exists. Compare that to my brother, Preston, who works for the city planning department and has to bring his work laptop home every night and weekend, who is constantly gnashing his teeth and rending his garments about this deadline or that promotion.

I am content right where I am. The first Outlaw Zombie reaches me and I go down without a fight.

4

Morning. Well, almost still morning. I lie in bed. I like to wake up slowly, gradually, easing into the day. Alarm clocks on phones are an invention sent back from the dystopian future to destroy us. I reach for the one-hitter on my milk-crate nightstand and fire up.

My mom was born in 1972, so the music she loved was from the eighties, her teenage years. She was all about Madonna and Prince, the Go-Go’s and U2 and Whitney Houston, the Beastie Boys. Every morning before school she’d blast a song to wake me up, bouncing on my bed and singing along. She had a specific song for every day of the week. Manic Monday on Monday, of course. Vacation on Friday. That was our unbreakable tradition. Until she died, when I was nine, I don’t think we missed a single day.

I try to imagine what waking up is like for those two kids with the cigarette burns. Is there a moment when they’re not sure where they are? When they can hope that everything that’s happened to them was just a dream?

I check my phone. Is it semi-worrisome that Child Protective Services hasn’t called me back? No. It’s only been two days since I left the message. Give them a minute, right? And maybe they don’t even