Twenty-three
Mort grinned as he swung the heavy head of the
sledgehammer into the shiny tile of the corridor wall. He had found a
treasure house of tools in the basement, the sledgehammer, pick axes,
shovels, post-hole diggers. For now, the sledgehammer would do just fine.
The shiny tile shattered and went flying in all
directions. Debris stung the side of his face. Once the tile had fallen
away, the sledgehammer bit its way into hollow cement blocks.
This, Mort decided, was major fun. Better probably
than making out with Marla van Kirk.
Almost.
Maybe.
As if he had ever had any experience at that sort of
thing. As if he'd ever let anyone know how successfully the girls of
Armstrong High had managed to avoid him.
Life had been one long study in rejection. Bitterly,
he smashed the wall all the harder. Bashing away at obstacles, it was the
only way to get anywhere. Taking what you want, because nobody was going
to give it to you.
He thought of the super gun in his latest dream,
blowing up cars and caving in the sides of buildings. He could put it to
good use right about now.
What a laugh. Wouldn't it be neat, though? With a
gun like that, he'd be all-powerful. He had always wanted to get his
hands on his father's gun. He had never dared try, sensing the danger the
dream had demonstrated all too vividly. Violence fed upon violence, like
a serpent trying to consume its own tail. His lethal fascination had been
short-circuited, but not his fear.
Mort banged away at the wall with the sledgehammer.
Old memories replayed themselves in his head as he worked and generated
more and more nervous tension to be invested in swinging the sledge
hammer. First his callous and unloving parents, then the kids at school
sneering derision when he tried to be tough and the authorities who
retaliated by threatening military service to top it all off.
With one final mighty blow, the sledgehammer buried
itself in the wall and stuck. He sighed and forced himself to relax. He
then pried the steel head loose from the hole and peered through the dark
opening.
A grin replaced his grimace of anger.
"Bingo."
He had a hole, although he couldn't see anything
beyond. He glanced up at a skylight overhead to confirm that the moon was
still shining in the night sky. It hadn't moved in hours. But he could
see no light through the hole.
"No problem," he muttered, and flipped the
sledgehammer end for end, shoving it through to see how far it would go.
Maybe a tree was shading the moonlight. He had to be all the way
through. This was an outside wall.
Mort stepped back, swung the sledgehammer, and made
the hole bigger. A mass of bricks above the opening collapsed and sent an
avalanche of debris tumbling across the floor. He could still see nothing
but darkness beyond the gaping escape route.
He poked the sledgehammer through it again. Then he
stuck his hand into it and watched it vanish into darkness.
"Wow."
He withdrew his hand and wiped it worriedly on his
pants leg. He dropped to his knees, reached into the darkness again and
felt the ground. He encountered a soft, dry resistance, like a rug rather
than the moist grass or bare earth he expected.
He climbed to his feet, reluctant to risk unseen
hazards lying in wait on the other side. But he had to investigate. He
couldn't back out now. He gathered his courage, stuck his hand into
darkness again and reached as far as he could.
On the other side, something or someone grasped his
wrist, yanked him off balance, and pulled him through.
