Hellhole by Gina Damico Read Free Book Online

giving way to a smile. “Well, sorry to disappoint there, pal. I’m still here, healthy as a glue-factory-bound horse.”
    He hated when she brought up the glue factory. “Okay. Uh, I’m just going back downstairs to . . . play some video games with Audie. Yeah. So if you hear anything weird, that’s . . . what we’re up to.”
    She raised an eyebrow. “You’re not doing drugs, are you?”
    â€œWhat? No!”
    â€œSorry. I’m contractually bound to ask.” She picked up the TV remote as some screaming reality show contestants began to throw mud at each other. “Have fun. Tell Audie I said hi.”
    Audie.
Max sprinted back down the hallway and headed for the front door. When he opened it, a piece of paper taped to the door fluttered in his face.
    â€œSorry to refuse your most generous Xbox offer,” it said in Audie’s handwriting. “But Mom made me go clothes shopping instead. Pray for my poor, doomed soul.”
    He flipped up the doormat—the key was still there.
Okay. So she was never here. Good.
    He grabbed the key, then a fireplace poker on his way through the living room. Pausing at the top of the basement stairs, he took his cell phone out of his pocket.
    â€œI’m calling 911!” he shouted down.
    â€œNo, you’re not!” the man yelled back.
    Instantly, the Beige Wonder went dead. Max stared at it, his eyes doubling in size. He ran back into the living room to click on the cordless but found only dead air, no dial tone.
    He planted himself at the doorway again. “How are you doing this?”
    â€œStop yelling and get down here. We’ll have a nice, reasonable chat.”
    Squeezing the poker, Max slowly made his way down the stairs. The man hadn’t moved—he was still on the couch, still playing
Madden
.
    Somehow, with his eyes glued to the screen, he sensed Max’s intent to harm. “Go ahead,” he scoffed. “Do your worst.”
    Max’s worst wasn’t very terrible at all, but years of shoveling had at least given him some decent upper-body strength, despite a poor showing in other areas. And there were laws about self-defense and protecting one’s own home, right? So he gave it a shot, hurling the poker straight at the man’s torso, where, amazingly, it hit its target.
    It even stuck. The poker sank several inches into the man’s beer gut, and yet . . . he didn’t flinch. He didn’t
bleed.
A second later he took one hand off the controller to casually pull the rod out, but in doing so, he gave up a touchdown and lost the game.
    â€œDamn it!” he shouted, hurling the controller to the floor. “See what you made me do?”
    Max watched, aghast, as the yawning stomach wound got smaller and smaller until it disappeared. “Sorry . . . ?” Max stuttered, unsure whether apologizing to the man who’d broken into his house was sound etiquette.
    Unfazed, the man began licking the Cheetos dust off his fingers one at a time. “No worries. I get that a lot.”
    Now unarmed, Max settled into what he thought, based on countless movies and television shows, was a fighting stance. “Listen—”
    â€œRelax, kid, will ya? I’m not going to hurt you.” He reached for the Cheetos bag, then, remembering that it was empty, frowned. “You got anything else? Combos?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œCheez-Its?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œMeth?”
    â€œWhat?” Max shouted, horrified. “No!”
    â€œUgh,” the man groaned. “No one
ever
has meth.”
    Max shook his head. Maybe
he
was on meth. Had Stavroula slipped some into his Hot Pocket?
    The man was now picking his teeth with the fireplace poker. Max backed up against the wall, hoping to be camouflaged by the horrid wood paneling. “Who
are
you?”
    â€œHmm?” The man paused in his dental work to shoot Max a disinterested