The Boy in the Tunnel

by Gardner Linn

24.

Peter Kirkland woke up, his nose filled with the smell of rotting paper. He was sitting on a cold concrete floor, his back against a thick pipe. The space around him was dark, the air thick with dust. He coughed and spat a grey wad onto the floor.

Kirkland tried to stand up, but something was wrong: his hands were tied behind his back, around the pipe. He twisted his wrists, tugging and testing the rope, but the knots didn’t give. Whoever tied this must have been a Boy Scout or something. Kirkland thought about standing—the pipe ran from floor to ceiling—but figured if he was going to be here a while, he might as well remain comfortable.

“You’re awake,” said a voice from the musty gloom, somewhere to Kirkland’s left. “Good.”

“Yeah, I guess,” said Kirkland. How were you supposed to respond to something so inane?

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“You’re the piece of shit who jumped me up on the roof. Am I right? I imagine tying me up and torturing me isn’t going to help your case any.”

“My case? I wasn’t the one who was assaulting a woman.”

God, this was tedious. Kirkland could teach this guy a thing or two about interrogation. “Oh boo-hoo. Do you even have any idea what you’re talking about? And if I was assaulting somebody, why not just call the police? Why tie me up and do this pathetic Frank Pembleton impression?”

“Because the Handbook said so.”

Oh, great. A true believer. Kirkland turned his head and tried to get a look at his captor, but the darkness was too great to see anything. He resumed staring ahead. “You do everything the Handbook tells you?”

The darkness didn’t respond.

“Here’s a clue, idiot: don’t get too attached to your precious Handbook. Once you graduate, you’re on your own. Graduate, or get expelled for attacking and torturing a University Housing employee.”

Again, no response, just a shuffling of old papers.

“Didn’t think this through all the way, did we? Didn’t think that maybe this guy had legitimate University business with Miss McKittrick.”

“She was trying to get away from you.”

“And where is she now? I haven’t heard her chime in yet. Did she not want to be a party to whatever you’ve got planned here? Did she even bother explaining what was going on before she ran away again?”

A flash of pain raked across Kirkland’s cheek. “I’m right here, asshole,” Joanie said.

“Well, good to see you again too. Now did you two kids have something planned for me or what? Or did the Handbook not tell you what to do once you got me tied up? The Handbook’s kind of an asshole that way: it tells you to jump off a cliff, but doesn’t bother telling you how to land.”

“Why did you take me to the roof?” said Joanie.

“I forget—which one of you is supposed to be the good cop? Or are there more than two of you in here? This isn’t a surprise party, is it?”

“Answer her question.”

“No. You might as well hook up the car battery to my nipples now, because I’m not answering any of your stupid fucking questions under my own free will.”

Another shuffling of papers, the squeak of rubber soles on concrete, then a whispered conference. These stupid kids didn’t have a clue.

Then hands were on Kirkland, searching under his clothes, in his pockets. He tried to wriggle free, but it was no use; the hands found what they were looking for.

A bare bulb sputtered to life, illuminating a low-ceilinged basement filled with ancient books and boxes of papers. Joanie stood hunched to avoid hitting her head. Her friend was shorter, blonde and solid. He held a purple Handbook in his hands.

“Peter Kirkland,” he said, reading from the cover. “Why are you still carrying this around?”

Kirkland ignored the question. No point in getting caught up in that conversation. Focus on the boy; Peter had seen him before, he was sure of it.

“I thought the Handbook stopped being useful once you graduated.” From surveillance footage. Or maybe a file. Maybe—definitely a resident file. He recognized that face, startled by an ID camera’s flash.

“Or maybe you never graduated. Is that it?” Andrew. Andrew something. He lived in 79 Wintertree. That’s why Kirkland knew his face. He always kept tabs on his old room.

“Andrew,” said Kirkland, and the blonde kid lost his smug little smile. He had no idea what he’d gotten himself into. “Take a look at page 37.”

Welcome to 79 Wintertree!

Congratulations—you have been randomly selected to live in one of the most sought-after rooms on campus. The unique architecture of Wintertree Hall has resulted in a few rooms with non-standard dimensions; as you will notice, room 79 has lofty 25-foot ceilings that make it feel more like a cathedral than the usual cave-like dorm rooms other students must live in. How lucky you are!

You will also notice that you and your roommate have inherited a loft from your predecessors; normally, lofts must be removed at the end of each school year, but due to the specialized nature of this room, DUH has allowed the loft to remain from year to year, which we’re sure you will appreciate.

“How’s that loft working out for you, Andrew? I added the uneven bars.”

“I don’t use the loft. I’m in 79A.”

“Even better. Listen, I left something in room 79 that I need to get back. You take me there to get it, and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

The kid thought about it. He might have been tough, but he wasn’t that bright. This was just going to be so easy.

*******************

“Alex?”

Oh man what the fuck happened in the kitchen. Seriously. Some dude passed out on the floor, a box of KRÜMMFAUVEN! spilled all around him like shrapnel. Xander had liberated that box from Weston two months ago and was saving it all special. Not cool.

Some of the cereal had fallen in a little pile, so there was a good handful that hadn’t touched the floor. Now’s just as special a time as any. Xander scooped up the clean cereal in a bowl and opened the fridge. No milk. Got to eat it dry. How could it be so crunchy and chewy at the same time? Goddamn Swedish geniuses.

Wait—something’s not right. Xander looked out the window. Fuck. It’s night. It’s totally night o’clock outside. The last Xander remembered, it was night too.

“Hey.” Xander kicked the guy on the floor. “Hey man. Wake up.” Kicked him again.

Dude opened his eyes, red and bleary. “kicking me man”

“Have you seen Alex?”

“thought you were Alex man”

“Get out of my house.” Xander stepped over the guy and down the hall to the living room. Christmas lights on the walls provided the only illumination, flickering weakly. They lit Audrey, passed out on the couch, in dusky sepia tones. There was someone else asleep on the recliner, naked except for boxers and one sock.

Xander stepped on something hard and knobby and cursed. He picked up the object: Tomax, fallen from his place of honor atop the VCR. Xander replaced him next to his scarred brother Xamot.

Xander nudged Audrey reluctantly awake. “What?”

“Have you seen Alex?”

“In my sleep?”

“Okay.”

“What time is it?”

“Night.”

“It was night when I went to sleep.”

“Me too.” Xander pointed to the guy on the recliner. “Do you know him?”

Audrey craned her neck to get a look at the guy’s pockmarked back. “Oh man. He’s still here?”

“You do know him.”

“Get rid of him, Xander. I’m not waking up till he’s gone.”

Audrey rolled back over into sleep. Xander tried to match the face of the guy on the recliner with a name or a bit of dialogue or any other scrap of identifying information, and came up empty. Xander must have met him at the party, but he couldn’t remember anything about the party. He remembered the show, their best ever, and inviting everyone at the club back to the Dollhouse, and then it was all just flashing lights on a black field until he woke up and found the guy passed out in the kitchen among the KRÜMMFAUVEN!

Except he couldn’t even remember waking up. First he was on stage, telling everybody to come to the party, and then he was stumbling over the cereal murderer (ha ha ha ha ha song title, don’t forget—tho too easy? run it by Alex) in the kitchen. Xander retraced his steps back into the kitchen, back over the passed-out guy. Here, KRÜMMFAUVEN! crunching under his feet, is where his memory had rebooted. And before that, he had been in—

Alex’s bedroom. The only room adjacent to the kitchen. Had he ended up in there as the party wound down, drunk and stoned, and been unable to climb back up the stairs to his own room? It was possible. But Alex wouldn’t have let him stay, not fiercely private Alex who wouldn’t even play on the skins team in pickup Ultimate. Alex would have kicked him out, made him sleep on the kitchen floor. And while Xander considered that a possibility, his body lacked the KRÜMMFAUVEN! residue such a sleeping arrangement would have produced.

The door to Alex’s room was slightly ajar, and Xander pushed it completely open and peered inside. “Northern Sky” emanated softly from the CD player on the bookcase; Bryter Layter must have been playing on repeat since the party. It was Alex’s favorite sex soundtrack, a fact Xander wished he had never learned.

The light from the kitchen reached the bed at the far end of the room, revealing a body in the bed, pushed against the wall, the covers in disarray on the unoccupied half of the bed. Xander knew his own body, which was to say he knew Alex’s body, and he could tell that wasn’t Alex in the bed.

Xander entered the room, stepping carefully over the clothes and CDs and bottles on the floor. He crept up to the bed and leaned over the body to see its face.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim room and the serene sleeping face of Renee, Alex’s girlfriend, resolved itself out of the dark, Xander started to remember what had happened at the party.

Renee stirred, awareness of Xander’s presence seeping into her consciousness. She opened her eyes and looked directly into his. She smiled and kissed him lightly on the lips.

“Alex,” she said.

**********************

Barlow paced, sucking down two cigarettes at once, pounding grooves in the ancient floor with his steel-toed boots. A film of sweat had formed between his face and the mask, and whenever his pacing brought him to the end of the line Chet could hear the suctiony sloshing sound it made, a biological, nauseatingly sexual sound that made Chet just about dizzy with revulsion.

One of the freshmen had arrived at 10:00, like he was supposed to, but Barlow made him wait outside until they could start the ceremony properly.

“I don’t think he’s showing up, Avery,” said Alex Pratt, the Viscount. “Let’s start this thing already.”

“Shut up, Alex.” Barlow threw one of his cigarettes to the floor and stubbed it out.

“Come on, we don’t need Dave to do the Oath. We all know it.” Chet put a hand on Alex’s arm, to warn him off this tack, but Alex shrugged it off. “I’ve got somewhere to be tonight.”

Now you’ve done it, Alex.

Barlow spat out the second cigarette, and it sputtered out a few sparks on the floor. He lifted off his mask, revealing his red face, slimy with sweat. “Somewhere to be?”

“We’ve got a show tonight. Supposed to go onstage in like thirty minutes.”

Chet had never liked Alex or his shitty band, and so normally he would have more than happy to see him take a verbal hiding from Barlow, but tonight was really not the night for Alex to pull his trademark too-cool-for-school shit. Making Barlow mad tonight was just going to mean more grief for everybody.

“A show tonight?”

“It only takes like five minutes to do the Abduction. I thought we’d be done by now. I mean it’s Dave’s fault more than anybody’s.”

Barlow pulled his mask back down over his face. “Quartermaster!” he shouted, rattling the cheap plastic of the mask.

Chet stepped forward, turned, and fell to heel two steps behind Barlow.

“Avery, man, come on,” said Alex. “You don't need to take everything so serious. Dude’s late, that’s all. I mean the keg’ll still be good when he shows up.”

Barlow clapped his heels together. “Quartermaster! What are the dead?”

“The dead are invisible and silent!” Chet yelled out the ritual response without having to think about it. He had to admit, even given all of Barlow’s bullshit, he liked the ritual, the giving over of your faculties to a higher authority, even if that authority wasn’t real; if everyone agreed to pretend it was real, then it became real. Alex was disagreeing, bringing them all back to the land of the living, where you had to take responsibility for your own actions.

“And the dead shall be?”

“The dead shall be remembered and honored!” It didn’t matter what he said, really; it could have been “I’m a Little Teapot” or lines from Pulp Fiction or anything. What mattered was that he and Barlow were participating in something greater than they were; they were creating an authority to which they simultaneously submitted. The other two Dead Men in the room, the Corpi, recognized this authority and swelled with desire to acknowledge it.

“Why do we choose to be dead?”

“Because to live is not a choice!” Chet and the two juniors shouted it together, voices mingling in frustrated harmony: a challenge, demanding resolution.

Alex’s dissent could not undermine that authority. It hung over them all: something to aspire to, something to obey, something to inevitably disappoint. Chet could see, even beneath Alex’s mask, the great filial fear he had for Barlow.

“Viscount, do you choose to be dead?” Less a question now than a line in a well-rehearsed, oft-performed play.

“I do, Secretary.”

“And why do you choose?”

“Because to live is not a choice.”

Barlow turned his expressionless mask to Chet. “Quartermaster, bring the candidate in. We shall start the Abduction without the Sergeant-at-Arms.”

“Yes, sir.” Chet about-faced and marched to the door. He opened it a crack, and whispered to the nervous, freckled boy shivering outside: “You may enter.”

The boy looked at Chet’s blank masked face and pointed across the quad. “Excuse me, sir, but I think they’re coming over here.”

Chet followed the boy’s finger to a spot halfway down the diagonal path. Two people were walking toward Yarrow, one limping and leaning on the shoulder of the other. Even from this distance, the signature blazer of Taddlington Taft was unmistakable.

“Wait here,” Chet said to the freshman. He marched back inside the hall to Barlow.

“Secretary, the Sergeant-at-Arms is approaching. He appears injured. And he’s not alone.”

© 2005 Gardner Linn