Just another typical day.
They all need to burn.
But at least for now he had forty-eight hours of freedom.
"I hate that teacher," Chris told Adam. "Mrs. Steiner gives everybody bad grades if they're not teacher's pets."
"If you're a high class shithead, your life's perfect," Adam said. "Those people are teachers' wet dreams. You got money, symmetrical looks, sociable parents and popularity, the world's your oyster. Any other way you are, you're screwed. And if you're like me, you're triple, quadruple-screwed."
Chris checked his watch: five minutes till eight P.M. The two young men were standing in Adam's dungeon-like basement, Chris fighting away spider-webs with a broom and Adam rummaging through a box, looking at old photos. He loved the atmosphere down here—faintly lit, dusty, damp, cold. It reminded him of some of the places in his horror stories. It was a concrete-based, confined space with
no windows
and was almost
soundproof
from the outside.
"How long did they say till the pizza would be delivered?" Chris wondered.
"Seventy minutes or so. Slowest fucking pizza place on the planet. I miss the ‘thirty minutes or less’ motto."
Chris stood and crammed the bristles of the dirty broom between the rafters, destroying the homes of many daddy-long-legs.
"Why are you killing them? They didn't do anything to you," Adam said.
"I hate spiders. Gross me out. When I feel them crawling on my skin, it's just—ewww. I can't stand the things."
Adam had half the notion to take the broom off him and whack him upside his head with it.
Chris went along the walls, standing on his tip-toes, reaching as high as he could, bound to exterminate them all.
"They're more afraid of you than you are of them."
"Hey, what's this?" Chris said. In the far back corner of the basement, behind the furnace and three pieces of old plywood, a large rectangle was cut into the concrete wall. It was fairly evenly cut, about three feet wide and five feet high.
"What's what?" Adam said.
"I don't know if it's a crack, or—" Chris began. Adam looked at it but could barely make it out.
"I'll get the flashlight," Adam said. He did it quickly and shined the sharp beam of tungsten against the wall. Now both boys saw it. Curious, they moved the wood aside and examined the outline thoroughly. "Is it a door? Doorway, or something?"
Chris blew some of the dust away from the crack. "Holy shit. This is crazy," Chris remarked. "I actually think it's a secret passageway. In eighth grade history class, Mr. Parker told us that the slaves used to build tunnels under the ground to escape. He said they were everywhere all over—actually under—town."
"What if there's something in there?"
"Diffuse the light beam. I'm going to give it a push."
Adam directed the beam. Chris took two deep breaths, then, with all his might, pushed on the carved piece of wall. His face turned pale, then red, then purple. His arms trembled as he exerted one hundred and fifty pounds of teenage force. Slowly, the wall gave way and went inward like the wall on The Temple of Doom ... until Chris was no longer standing in Adam's basement.
"What is it? What is it? What's in there?"
"Holy shit,” Chris said. "Come in here!"
The tunnel was not very big in diameter but extended so far in three different directions that not even a spotlight could reach their ends. Water, gas and sewer pipes ran each way, hanging from the ceiling like old machinery. Chris and Adam could hear the water running, could smell the stench of shit flowing its way toward the river.
"Wow!" Adam said. "I got a secret tunnel in my fucking basement! I wonder how far it goes."
"Jesus, I bet you this tunnel leads to every sewer, pipe, and septic tank in town."
"I have lived here for sixteen years and I haven't found out about this till now?"
Chris said, "Mr. Parker was right. I bet you the slaves dug out these tunnels and when they did all the pipelines later, they just used their tunnels as a guideline. I mean, it would be easier than having to re-dig, and cheaper. That's what I would have done."
"I wonder if there are any bones in here."
"Probably not. I'm sure that when they put in the lines, they would have taken them out."
"Let's go anyway. This is awesome! I have to see where this goes to."
***
Adam jumped in the lead and they both forged ahead, going north through the darkest tunnel, which seemed to lead toward the end of town. The sound of water never ceased to flow. Both boys could hear car horns beeping and a train rumbling over the streets above. It was like a lost civilization to Adam, an adventure into ancient ruins that hadn't seen the light of day in decades.
"Ahhh!" Chris shrieked as two oversized rats scurried past him, eating a small bone. "Maybe we should go back," he said.
"No fucking way. The rats aren't going to eat your leg off. Don't worry."
"It's not just that. What if the batteries in your flashlight die? What if we get lost? Stuck?"
"Oh, come on, Chris."
Chris continued reluctantly behind. He was afraid of dark, confined spaces and had once seen his older cousin almost get killed by a collapsing house. This place gave him the creeps, simply enough.
"Hey, look!” Adam said, pointing up.
To Chris, Adam looked eerie when he stopped and tilted his head back. For, right overhead, hung a sewer grate. The glow of the streetlight devoured Adam's figure with slats of whitish-blue.
"Where do you think this is?” Adam wondered, shining the light up through the sewer.
Chris joined him and looked up. "I can't really tell."
The sewer grate above was six feet up from the top of their heads. The half of a moon and the part of a truck tire were the only visible objects they could see. The sound of traffic was predominate: wheels on wet pavement, horns honking, the rumbles of mean engines.
"This is so cool!" Adam said. "We're like—"
"Bums looking for shelter?" Chris just wanted to get the hell out of there.
"No, we can do anything we want to down here. We can sneak up on people, spy, observe … go places all around town without a soul knowing about it."
Chris shrugged his shoulders. "Can we head back now, please?"
Adam turned dead still. "I feel like I left something at home, or completely forgot about something we were going to do—?"
They looked at each other and said,
"Pizza!"
***
By the time they got back, the pizza was lukewarm. Adam's mom, luckily, was at home to have paid for it. It was on the tip of Adam's tongue to tell her about the underground tunnel, but he felt he would have lost something if he did. So, instead, he kept it a secret.
“
Pizza is, like, the best food in the world!" Adam said to Chris as he chewed through pepperoni, cheese and bread.
Chris nodded. "You think this is good? You haven't tried Romero's Pizza. It's even better." He ate a fourth piece—his last.
"Really? I'll have to try it then."
They were sitting on Adam's bed. An extra large pizza box, almost empty, sat in between them. Adam flipped through the channels, searching mindlessly for anything somewhat entertaining.
"Oh, turn it back," Chris said.
Adam did. The title for
The Real World
appeared on the television.
"Oh God, I can't believe you like this show," Adam grunted. "It's so dumb."
"No dumber than Full House."
Asshole!
"All the people on here are phony as hell. They're morons, they're cheap, they're sluts, and they’re drunks."
Right now, a muscular, golden-skinned man with spiked blond hair carried a big-breasted bimbo over his shoulder toward the pool. She screamed in fun and kicked her legs like two pistons.
"They're all drama queens—all of them," Adam said.
Chris said, taking his last bite: "That's why I like it. It's interesting to see just what they're going to do next."
Adam took the last slice of pizza out of the box and bit into it with full force.
Crunch!
"Oh, no, no, no, no,"
the girl on television shrieked.
"You're going in!" the beach boy exclaimed. He slammed her into the pool. Water splashed; a few droplets even landed on the camera lens.
"I fucking hate those kind of people," Adam made known.
"Why?" Chris said, annoyed.
"They're losers. Plain and simple. They're the kind of people who get through life with an easy ticket. They're all identical to one another. They come from wealthy parents, and—Jesus, they get mad and cry like pussies over the stupidest things. They don't know shit about what a hard life is."
"True. I think you're just jealous."
"Jealous?" Adam said, heart sinking. "Of what? Jealous of being a complete idiot? Na, I'm not."
"Care if I get on the Internet?" Chris asked.
"Go ahead," Adam sighed. He quickly turned the channel. On A&E, there was video footage of teenagers scurrying out of a high school with their hands on top their heads. A wicked smile bloomed across Adam's lips. Warmth flooded through him. He upped the volume with the remote control.
"Next on Rampage Killers—" a news announcer said—"could violent video games, movies, or music be the cause behind the Columbine tragedy?"
"My heroes..." Adam said.
Chris did not hear him. He was busy cracking his fingers and signing online.
"They're like Gods, man. So brave, so just. They've set the record straight."
"Who?" Chris clicked the mouse.
"Eric and Dylan. The Columbine High killers. You know it's true that they were teased and tormented so bad—one time I read a statement online that some jocks filled a jar with shit and piss and threw it in their faces."
"Who? You mean the ones who got shot did that?"
"Yeah. They blame all these shootings on TV, games, movies, music, and don't learn the real source of the problems—themselves."
"I know," Chris said, "they think people playing Doom and listening to AC/DC makes kids kill. It's pretty lame."
"Let me ask you this, Chris: did Hitler do what he did because of AC/DC? Or Doom? Or Natural Born Killers? Did people bomb Pearl Harbor 'cause they watched the movie Psycho?"
"Yeah, those things have been going on for a long time."
"Exactly. Way before movies or music. They blame entertainment because they don't want to take the blame."
"That's when they sue."
Adam continued, "They used to hang black people from trees just because of their skin color. Did music tell them to do it?"
"Nope."
"As far as I'm concerned, I think shooting up a high school is a good thing. The world's overpopulated as it is. People aren't good. Teenagers, except for the few, like me, are bad in nature. It's not because they're young and confused, it's because they're evil. They don't care about anyone different than they are. What would you do if day in and day out, every fucking day, somebody literally teases and torments you and gets away with it every time? What would you do if, during Vietnam, the Vietnamese caught you, kept you prisoner, and whipped you with bamboos day and night? If you escaped, you would get even, wouldn't you? Wouldn't you want them to be punished for doing something so horrible to you?"
Chris typed.
Adam said louder, "Huh?"
Chris turned. "What's that?"
"Never mind." Adam turned back to the TV and watched more footage of the Columbine High Massacre. Watching all the kids fleeing away made him sick, but the killers made Adam proud.
"I would."
***
Night passed, morning came. Neither of the boys fell asleep until 4:00 A.M. Dawn was arriving with a brand new day. Adam savored the time as best he could, for he knew every weekend ended and hell began. There was no stopping time, but if given that chance, he would have played out Saturday until the end of the world.
Chris left at around noon for a dentist’s appointment. Adam sat alone at home, deathly bored and with no will to do much of anything.
"Email, email, email," he said, signing onto AOL. His fingers hit the keys with the speed of a master piano player. Those years of typing stories were paying off.
On screen, there was a picture of coach Mike Tomlin and the Pittsburgh Steelers football team holding the Superbowl trophy. Adam knew enough football players at Blake who didn't treat him right, let alone adults who got paid millions for doing it.
"Football sucks," he said, clicking onto YAHOO MAIL.
1 Message.
"Great, one person cares about me, and it's probably some Asian prostitute." He laughed at himself and clicked on the email. It was from Roseybabe1234. Adam didn't remember her right away; then, he did.