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Unaware of the amassing dangers, Danny steadied himself and returned to his game, smiling at the satisfying pop as the ball released into the launching chamber. He pulled the spring plunger back and released it, propelling the chrome ball up the shooter lane.
His brow relaxed as his fingers slipped off the plunger knob. He watched with anticipation, listening to the ball rocket forward and zing around the back curve. A surge of exhilaration from the hypnotic lights and mechanical clangs synced with his pounding heart. The ball ricocheting off the bumpers set off a chorus of bells and metallic dings that resonated in his ears.
For the first time all day, his mind was quiet. The world outside—the chaos and grief that had haunted him—faded into a distant haze, leaving only the mechanical symphony of the game. The exhaustion that had weighed him down fizzled away, replaced by a fierce determination to beat the high score Jessie left behind... even if it took all night.
The keys on his belt buckle jingled against the lockdown bar of the machine. With a steady hand, he skillfully nudged the game table just enough to position his ball to his advantage—without tripping the tilt sensor.
The tilt sensor prevented players from abusing the machine or cheating. Bump the cabinet too hard or too much, and you could lose the game.
Many people viewed pinball more as a game of chance than of skill. But then again, they had never mastered the art of nudging and flipping.
Danny loved everything about pinball: the tilt sensors, bumpers, flippers, the backglass art, and the gleaming ball rolling across the playfield. To him, pinball was the epitome of analog elegance—a stark contrast to the cutting-edge digital world his father, Vincent Zoran, had built his career on.
Vincent sold high-tech computers, video systems, and sound equipment to corporations worldwide. It was a world his father tried to press upon him, fueling a psychological aversion in Danny to anything digital—including video games. So he embraced the elegant simplicity of pinball machines and record players—low-tech, as he called it. Now, standing at his machine of solace, he felt the familiar thrill building in his chest.
The metal ball zipped up the ramp, slipping through the spinning star gateway with a sharp clink—into a labyrinth of flashing lights, ringing bells, and bouncing bumpers.
His fingers danced over the flipper controls, eyes darting to follow the ball’s path. Each hit racked up points, and Danny grinned as the rhythm of the game consumed him. The room faded away, leaving only him, the machine, and the high score to conquer. Nothing else mattered.
This was the zone—pure Zen focus, where player and machine fused in perfect rhythm, action and reaction aligned.
He was so consumed with the thumpers and targets that he didn’t notice how close he was to beating Jessie’s score.
When he finally glanced up at the scoreboard, a surge of elation shot through him.
“Woah! I’m gonna topple him!” he cried, his voice brimming with anticipation. His heart raced as the points climbed steadily toward Jessie’s crowned score.
Danny braced for victory—then came the roar, low and guttural, like the growl of something ancient and angry.
He shivered as goosebumps rose on his arms, his ears popping. For a fleeting moment, the lights flickered.
He froze, eyes darting upward and all around as he muttered, “What the…”
BOOM!
The ground jolted violently, shaking Danny’s world as crashing and clattering erupted around him. Pictures crashed down from the walls, glass shattered onto the floor, and pans clanged in the kitchen. He staggered, clutching the pinball rail for balance as the floor bucked beneath him.
BZZZZZZZT!
It was the dreaded buzz of the tilt indicator.
Game over.
The shaking stopped. Danny regained his composure and looked around at the minor damage. “Ah, man… an earthquake? Are you kidding me?” he grumbled.
His hands hovered above the buttons, trembling as the weight of defeat sank in. The machine was silent. Lifeless.
Only the ball remained in motion—a would-be survivor, rolling to its doom down the table’s decline. Desperate, Danny tried to stop it from slipping into the out hole, but the flippers wouldn’t respond. He pounded the side buttons in frustration, but there was nothing he could do.
Helplessly, he watched the metal sphere roll down—each rotation a cruel reminder of how close he had come.
Into the drain. Into oblivion.
Along with his hope of crushing Jessie’s high score.
The scoreboard blinked out its final insult: 86,271. Its red digits frozen just shy of glory. He only needed thirteen more points. His face flushed—it was as if the machine itself had judged him unworthy.
Danny felt robbed of a sure victory. It wasn’t just the high score he lost—it was the brief escape from everything that weighed on him.
“Dammit!” he shouted, pounding his hand on the corner of the machine. He sighed, took a few deep breaths, and looked at his watch: 11:16 p.m. “Ah, maaaan—I wasted all that time for nothing!” he brooded, shaking his head.
Fatigue settled in, bitter with the taste of defeat. He wished now he had stuck to his original plan—just heading home and straight to bed.
He gathered his things, turned off the breakers, and stepped out into the cool night air. As he struggled to lock the front door, balancing a large pizza in his other hand, the anguish of defeat gnawed at him. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Earthquakes just suck!”
“Is all that pizza for me?” a feeble voice from behind asked.
Danny flinched, spinning around so fast the box of pizza slipped from his grip and tumbled to the pavement. Its contents scattered across the ground. He spotted Brock, standing in shadow.
“Geez! Don’t—do—that!” Danny gasped, his heart racing. “Man, ya wanna give me a heart attack?” He laughed, catching his breath.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Brock said, shuffling his feet. “I’ve just been waiting here like you asked me to.”
“Oh no—your food!” Danny’s eyes widened in alarm. “I’m soooooo sorry! Forgive me—I completely forgot.” He stared down at the mess of pepperoni, cheese, and tomato sauce, splattered on the sidewalk. “Ah, geez,” he groaned.
“S-okay, sir,” Brock said in a soft voice, crouching to retrieve two dirt-seasoned slices from the sidewalk.
“Don’t!” Danny raised a hand, shaking his head. There’s some clean ones still in the box...”
Brock smiled through his grimy beard, unfazed, and nodded casually, slipping one slice into his pocket as he brushed grit off the other.
Danny stared, dumbfounded by Brock’s lack of concern, then shrugged, pushing the dirty pizza back into the box alongside the clean. “Did you want the rest of this?” he asked, setting the box on his bicycle’s rear carrier, watching Brock for an answer.
Meanwhile, a roaring sound rumbled in the distance.
Danny ignored the noise, watching Brock open his mouth wide, ready to shove the dirty pizza in his mouth.
The roar grew. It was the sound of a revving engine booming.
The pair looked up in alarm as a large red truck zoomed past them. Brock flinched, clutching the slice of pizza, his eyes wide with fear as the tires screeched to a halt. The wheels spun with fury, smoking and screaming on the asphalt. Then the truck whipped around into a hard stop, its high beams flaring on—targeting Danny and Brock.
Brock stepped back, tugging at Danny’s sleeve, who stood rooted with a defiant scowl. Danny’s jaw tightened as he glared into the intense light. He sighed and raised an arm to shield his eyes. Brock crouched low behind Danny, shielding his eyes with the greasy pizza slice.
The truck idled for an eerie moment, its engine emitting a low menacing growl amid the spiraled tire marks tattooed across the street. It revved up to a deafening roar, and the monstrous wheels spun again, shrieking as the towering vehicle lunged forward—its path aimed directly at Danny and Brock, closing the distance fast.
It came dangerously close—mere yards separated them from its grill. Then the tires locked with a jarring screech, momentum driving the truck as it skidded haphazardly onto the curb, its front wheels jutted over the edge, stopping just short of where Danny and Brock stood.
The engine cut off, leaving an unnerving silence in its wake. The wheels smoldered, filling the air with the acrid stench of burning brakes and rubber.
Danny crinkled his nose, coughing as the driver’s door swung open.
Blake—short‑statured with a buzz cut—hopped down and chuckled, smoothing the red wool of his letterman jacket with exaggerated flair. Then he tugged at his yellow leather sleeves, smirked, and gave a sharp nod for one of the passengers to join him.
Aaron climbed down from the cabin, his lanky frame standing noticeably taller than Blake’s compact build. His greased black hair glistened under the dim streetlight, freckles dotting his nose and cheeks.
Karen, the trophy girl, remained in the passenger seat, arms folded. She peeked out the window, rolling her eyes as she let out a long sigh.
Danny glanced at Blake and Aaron, shaking his head in annoyance.
“Wizard, I was hoping I’d find ya!” Blake called out as he barreled toward Danny, landing a playful tackle and shove.
“When you gonna grow up, man?” Danny muttered, casually patting Blake on the shoulder.
“Ha ha! The looks on your faces!” Blake laughed, throwing his arms around Danny in a bear hug. “C’mon, is that any way to greet your buddy?”
Danny stiffened, making no effort to mask his irritation as Blake squeezed him.
“What’s doing? You hardly ever go out with us anymore,” Blake complained, throwing his arms up.
“We hung out the other day at the restaurant,” replied Danny.
“Yeah, but you don’t go out to places with us. All you do is play pinball or stay at home.”
“We just saw Jaws last week.”
“Only cuz I begged ya to come with us.”
“You only did it because my uncle gave you guys free drinks and pizza.”
“Well, this time he promised me a free calzone!” Blake laughed. “C’mon, man—come out with us tomorrow, let’s go see Jaws again, and then we’ll see what’s for kicks afterward. Plus, Larry’s gonna have a late-night shindig at the lake, too.”
“I don’t…”
“We’ll be here tomorrow... around noon. I’ll have Karen bring a friend—you’ll like her!”
“Aw, c’mon—I don’t want a blind date!” Danny groaned, rolling his eyes.
“What friend of Karen’s?” Aaron asked, glaring at Blake as he tapped his cigarette pack harder than necessary. “Don’t even think about setting him up with Selene!” He slid out a cigarette, and lit it with his Zippo. Then he exhaled a smoke ring with practiced ease, smirking at Blake and Danny. Neither of them reacted.
Aaron turned toward the truck, where Karen remained seated, gazing into her compact mirror as she puckered her lips. Aaron’s smug grin faltered. With a flick of his wrist, he opened his lighter again, and frowned, swaying his finger over the flame.
Brock’s eyes widened as Aaron toyed with the fire.
Aaron glared at Brock. “Why you eye’n me, old man? Wanna light or something?” Aaron held out the Zippo, glaring at Brock. He wrinkled his nose and stepped closer. “Geez, this zombie reeks!” Aaron cried out, recoiling and cringing.
Brock flinched and dropped his slice of pizza as he recoiled from Aaron, raising his scarred hand defensively as the flame came near.
“Ha ha, look at this bum—scared of a lighter!” Aaron sneered, his braces glinting behind the flicker of his flame. His scalp was exposed as he leaned closer, red roots peeking through the black facade of hair dye.
“Enough already,” Danny protested. “Can’t you see? He’s traumatized or something?”
“Lookit!” Aaron pointed at Brock. “He already has burn marks on his skin—should be used to flames by now! Maybe we can burn away his nasty stench!”
“Stop! Stop!” Brock cried, burying his face in his hands and trembling on the ground.
“C’mon, you’re a loser, you don’t even want to live, you just won’t admit it,” Aaron taunted, his voice brimming with malice.
“Aaron!” Danny shouted, his tone sharp.
“What?” Aaron snapped, turning to Danny. “Everyone tries to help him, and he won’t even help himself. Blake’s dad even offered to get him a place to stay and a job,” he said, turning to Brock, his expression darkening. “You don’t help anyone or do anything. You’re worthless! Why don’t you just end it now, or better yet––let me do it for you!”
Danny stepped forward, shoving Aaron away from Brock. “I said that’s enough! Just leave him alone.”
“Or what, Danelle?” Aaron spat, shoving Danny in return. “The guy’s a loser—and so are you!”
Danny clenched his fist, his glare unwavering. “Look around you. No one’s impressed.”
Aaron smirked and shifted into a defensive karate stance. “Let’s see how big you talk after I sweep the floor with you, Danny.”
“Guys, cool it,” Blake said, stepping between them with his hands raised.
“Honestly?” Karen shouted from the truck window, her voice sharp with disdain. “I can’t believe I ditched Selene to watch a bunch of turkeys trippin out over nothing.” She twisted open her purple glitter nail polish and gingerly began painting her nails.
“Put a lid on it, Karen!” Blake hollered up at her.
A short siren blast broke the tension. The group looked up to see Sheriff Raynor as he pulled up in his patrol car, blue and red lights flashing. “What’s going on here?” the sheriff demanded, poking his head out of the window.
“N-nothing, sir!” Blake said, quivering.
“Looked to me like you were harassing this man.” The sheriff pointed down at Brock. “He’s a war hero and a friend of mine. You’ve no idea what he’s been through! So, show some respect.” Sheriff Raynor exited his car and squinted his eyes as he scanned around the scene. He looked down at Brock. “You okay?”
“Y-yessir,” Brock replied, looking up at the sheriff with a solemn nod.
The sheriff exhaled through his nose, scrutinizing each of the kids. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm done then,” the sheriff said. He then turned to Blake, “But I just got a call from the janitor of Redgrave High. He tells me some kids in a red truck were doing donuts on the school football field, spinning out and tearing up the lawn. I sincerely hope that wasn’t you guys.”
“Nooooooo. We were at Herbie’s all night. Ask Danny here!” Blake said with a sheepish grin.
“Yeah, that’s right, we were at Herbie’s!” affirmed Aaron.
The sheriff looked at Danny and Aaron for a moment, shook his head, then looked up at Karen, who was blowing on her sparkling fingernails. “That true, Miss Karen?”
Karen gave a deep sigh as she chomped on her wad of gum and continued working on her nails. “Yes, sheriff,” she said as she blew a bubble that gave a loud crack.
The sheriff smirked as he watched Karen, self-absorbed and admiring her nails. Then he crouched, inspecting the muddy truck tire below Karen. His eyes narrowed as he plucked a blade of grass from the rim of Blake’s oversized wheel. He examined it briefly, tossed it aside, and glared at Blake, “Best not let me catch you parked up on the curb again, boy.” With a look of content, the sheriff smacked his lips, nodded, and pulled up his belt.
“Y-yessir,” said Blake, his cheeks flushing red against his tanned skin.
“Oh, and Blake, you better tend to your lil missy. She’s looking a mite bored.” The sheriff chuckled before his face soured again. “I better not hear about any more ruckus involving you tonight, boy. Now, get going!” The sheriff got back in his car and drove off.
Blake exhaled with a look of relief. “Man, that was a close call.” He cleared his throat and looked at his group. “Hey, let’s go up to the V-lots!”
“It’s gonna storm tonight, sir. Be careful,” Brock said in a low voice.
“Storm, eh? Yeah, someone else also told me that, too. Well, let’s go back to my place and crack open a few,” Blake said. “You joining us, Wiz?”
“Thanks,” replied Danny, “but I’m just going straight home to bed.”
“Suit yourself. Mind giving us some of your slices then?” Blake grinned.
“Um—I guess.” Danny chuckled. “Help yourself; it’s a special.”
“Right on! Can we take the whole box?”
“Suit yourself; I lost my appetite." Danny looked down at Brock. “How about you, sir—want any more?”
“No, thank you; I’m fine,” Brock said as he picked up the slice from the floor and slipped it into his large coat pocket.
The others had a look of disgust on their faces, but no one said a word. Danny just smirked and looked away.
“What kind is it?” asked Blake.
“Oh, justa leftover pepperoni and cheese with, uh, some—secret seasoning.” Danny chuckled as he handed Blake the box.
“What’s so funny?” Aaron asked with a tone of suspicion.
“Oh, nuthin,” Danny replied. “Let me know what you think of the pizza.”
“Yeah, thanks! See ya tomorrow?” Blake asked.
Danny nodded as Blake grinned and zoomed off with the others, laughter trailing behind them.
He sighed, watching after them until the red taillights faded in the distance—then he turned to Brock. “Let me help you up, sir,” he said, steadying Brock as he rose. “Um—I’m really sorry about Aaron.”
“It’s okay, son. Wasn’t your fault. This ain’t the first time this man’s gotten himself harassed by some rich kids.”
“Honestly, he’s really a jerk to everyone,” Danny said as he looked down at his watch. “Geez, it’s almost midnight! I gotta get going. Sorry again about Aaron; I don’t like him much myself.” Danny hopped on his bicycle, pausing to glance back at Brock. “You take care, now.”
As Danny rode off, thick droplets of water splashed down, sporadic at first but quickly growing in number and intensity. He felt the chill of the wind pick up, then heard the thunder growl, like a promise of a storm to come, or something more ominous.
That’s when he thought again about Brock’s warning: There’s bad omens tonight... But it wasn’t just the words—it was the look in the old man’s eyes. That quiet sorrow. That flicker of fear. The memory was seared into Danny’s mind, his thoughts swirling with unease. What could it all mean? he wondered, pedaling on with haste and caution.
Above him and all around him, the storm gathered itself—as if waiting for midnight.
