"The Tunnel" by Briana Morgan

The roar of the cars passing by in the tunnel fills your head with static. You've never liked the tunnel, but today, it's unavoidable.

Ethan wants you there for his graduation party, so you'll be there. Cynthia be damned.

You scratch the back of your neck. Dried skin clogs your fingernails.

Red lights flare in your periphery. The cars in front of you slow to a crawl before coming to a stop.

"Shit," you mutter.

As if he can hear you, the driver of the car in front of you twists around in his seat. He stares. You stare back. He looks away.

Maybe you should’ve just taken the toll road. If you’d taken the toll road, you’d be there by now.

You don’t know when you’ll get there. It’s possible you’ll miss the entire event, and Ethan will never forgive you for it. God knows you’ve been absent enough as it is.

When he was a baby, you swore you’d be different from your father. You promised to spend time teaching Ethan to throw a ball, helping him with his homework, and discussing the birds and the bees. For the first few years of parenthood, you followed the plan without a hitch. You and Cynthia were happy. Ethan was happy.

Then came the bills and the time constraints and extra hours at the office that never seemed to end. You had to keep working to keep food on the table. Years ago, you listened to the song “Cat’s in the Cradle” and cried. The second time you heard it, after Ethan turned six, you were sitting in traffic like this on the way home from the office. Your white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel was the only thing holding you together as the tears poured down your face.

You are just like your father.

Now, Ethan will be eighteen in a week, and time is passing faster as if it wants to spite you. Although you served your family well as a provider, you can’t help wondering how different things might have been if you’d spent more time at home.

In the passenger seat, your cell phone rings. You keep your eyes on the tunnel.

“Shit,” you say again. In the quiet of the car, the curse is grounding.

Someone ahead of you honks. It feels like an hour has passed. Still, no one is moving. You can’t understand the cause of the traffic, and no matter how far you crane your neck or twist in your seat to get a better view, you don’t know what’s going on.

Your cell phone is still ringing. How do you even have service in here?

You reach over, grab the phone, and answer. “Hello?”

“Where the hell are you?” Cynthia asks. “You promised Ethan you’d be here. I don’t give a damn if you show up myself, but he wants you here.”

“I know he does. I’m trying—”

“Remember when promises meant something?”

You wrangle the urge to hang up on her. Cynthia never fights fair. You should’ve anticipated this.

“I’ll be there,” you say.

“You’d better be.”

She hangs up. Once again, you’re alone with the rumble of your engine and the engines all around you, and not even the breathing technique you learned from your therapist helps you.

It feels like the road is rumbling, too. Moving and trembling beneath you. With your foot on the brake, you feel the tremors come up through the car and into your body until you’re shaking, too.

You tell yourself you’re losing it. You need to get a grip.

The car at the front of the line disappears. Just like that, it’s gone. You can’t see what happened, but you feel it in your bones—something bad is coming.

The next car falls. You see it plummet into what looks like a hole in the ground, stretching wider to swallow every vehicle in the tunnel. If you don’t do something, your car will be next.

You turn in your seat and wave your arms at the driver behind you. She shoots you a glare, but doesn’t seem to be able to see the hole like you can.

“Back up!” you yell, knowing full well she can’t hear you.

You grip the steering wheel with both hands, debating your options.

Another car plummets. You’re running out of time.

“Fuck!” You slam the heel of your hand against the horn, which lets out an impotent blare. What are you going to do now?

The ground rumbles again. It feels much closer than before, and it reverberates through your chest. You take a deep breath.

You must do this for Ethan.

With all your strength, you turn the car off and wrench open the driver’s side door. You all but fall to the pavement in your scramble to exit the vehicle. Someone opens a door. He is shouting at you, but you don’t know what he’s saying.

“Ethan,” you murmur. “Ethan, I’m coming.”

The sinkhole devours the car in front of yours. You take off running toward the entrance of the tunnel, beholding the light like salvation.

Another rumble shakes the earth. The ceiling of the tunnel cracks and crumbles, crushing the cars as it caves in. You’re almost there. Almost.

Ethan will be so excited to see you. As you run, you picture his freckles and crooked smile. You love him then. You love him forever.
​
Until the sinkhole finds you. 

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Come for the characters, stay for the scares. Briana’s writing combines her fascination with psychology and interest in the darker sides of life to create rich, compelling narratives. Her most recent work, The Reyes Incident, has sold more than 16,000 copies to date. Other books include Mouth Full of Ashes, The Tricker-Treater and Other Stories, Unboxed: A Play, and more. Briana is a proud member of the Independent Book Publishers Association (IBPA) and has a BA in English from Georgia College. When not writing, you can find her reading, traveling, playing video games, or spending time with her husband and cat.

Website: https://brianamorganbooks.com
Instagram: https://instagram.com/brianamorganbooks
Threads: https://www.threads.com/@brianamorganbooks

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