Chris Grabenstein - The Smoky Corridor

“Mr. Muggins? Mr. Crumpler needs you!”

Wade unclipped the portable radio from his belt. Tossed it over his shoulder. Heard it crack open on a rock.

“Later, Mrs. Pochinko,” he mumbled, and moved forward. “I’m showing some initiative down here. Making first contact with the unknown alien beings who have chosen to dig secret underground passages beneath our school buildings.”

He swung his light across the mine-shaft walls. Looked back at where he had been. Just above the opening to the slanted chute, he saw another alien inscription, carved into a wooden beam.

Cool. Must be how the Martians found their way out.

Wade turned back around and kept walking forward, venturing deeper into the darkness, sloshing through puddles of stagnant water. He figured since he hadn’t made any turns yet, he was basically walking out behind the old mansion, heading north toward the gym building. Maybe this was why there was always a strip of grass cutting across the snow behind the building in the winter. The heat captured in the tunnel kept the ground above it warm. He’d have to ask one of the science teachers.

No. Wait. A science teacher would want to blab to everybody about the space creatures Wade was about to befriend, and Wade did not want to share his superstardom with any egghead science geek!

After hiking for at least as long as it takes to finger the most awesome Aerosmith guitar solo on Guitar Hero, Wade noticed that his flashlight started winking back at him. The beam was hitting dozens of tiny mirrors hanging on a wall.

He moved closer.

“Far out!”

They weren’t mirrors; they were watches.

Wade counted thirty-nine antique pocket watches tacked to the wall. They seemed to be clustered in random groupings. Two watches. Three. Two.

Six rows.

Each row had a different number of pocket watches bunched together in groups. None of them had been wound lately; all the hands were frozen in place.

“Weird place to display a watch collection,” Wade thought out loud.

He figured the pocket watches must’ve belonged to Horace P. Pettimore, the dude in the braided jacket who used to live in the old mansion before it became a school. The watches sure looked old enough to be leftovers from the Civil War. A couple had cases engraved with antique crap, like steam engines and eagles.

When Wade was a kid, his granddaddy had told him “the truth” about the whacked-out Civil War captain who had decided to build his mansion in the woods near North Chester.

“He may have been a Union soldier but he built that house with slaves. Dozens of them. He told everybody they were former soldiers but my grandpappy saw those men. Said they looked like the walking dead. Empty eyes. Glazed expressions on their faces. Took them only three years to build that house when it should’ve taken at least five. Then there was a big fire in the work camp and nobody saw any of those soldier boys ever again! They all died in their tents.”

So , Wade thought, if they were such speedy workers, maybe Captain Pettimore’s men built this tunnel down here, too!

But that was crazy.

Why would a Civil War captain build a coal mine under his house?

Unless all those stories he’d heard were true: Horace P. Pettimore had stolen a ton of Confederate gold. Maybe this was where he’d hid it!

Boo-yeah!

Forget the stupid Martians!

Wade was only twenty-nine but he was about to become the world’s first billionaire janitor! He was going to find Captain Pettimore’s gold! This was so totally awesome! He could hire Carl D. Crumpler to be his personal custodian and Mrs. Pochinko to be his maid! He could afford guitar lessons! Heck, he could afford to hire somebody good to play the guitar for him while he just strutted around the stage banging his cowbell and shaking his hair!

On each side of the wall of watches was a steep staircase leading down to … whatever. It was too dark to see.

The steps on both sides were made out of planks of wood that had once been painted red. A string of kerosene lanterns with red and green glass globes hung from the ceiling over each set of stairs.

But none of the lights were lit.

“I repeat: A little light down here would have been helpful, man!” Wade said to the darkness swallowing up his flashlight’s dusty beam.

The gold might be down the stairs to the right, or down the stairs to the left.

Wade chose right.

Later he’d realize right had been wrong.

Very, very wrong.

25

The bellrang.

So far, Zack had survived homeroom, math, and science.

And so far, Malik Sherman had been in every one of his classes.

The girl with the black-black hair had been in Zack’s second-period science class and asked a bunch of questions about death and dying and wondered if maybe the class could take a field trip to a morgue sometime to see what happens to bodies after they’re dead. She seemed like a ton of fun!

Next up was history with Ms. DuBois.

“Do you like history, Zack?” Malik asked as they wormed their way through the corridors.

Zack shrugged. “Sort of. I guess. Depends.”

“Well said, my friend. I, myself, wish we’d spend more time learning about the ancient history of Africa. Did you know that the Nubians, from the region we now call the Sudan, are believed to have been the first human race and that most of their customs and traditions were adopted by the ancient Egyptians?”

“No, I—”

Suddenly, Kurt Snertz, accompanied by his three buddies, was standing in front of them, blocking their path. Other kids scurried away.

“Well, if it isn’t wacky Zacky and his little nerd friend Lick-Me.”

“His name is Malik,” said Zack. “Leave him alone.”

It was barely eleven in the morning on the first day of school but Zack was already sick and tired of being pushed around by another kid named Snertz.

Kurt Snertz grabbed Zack’s shirt. “What’d you just say?”

“You heard me.”

“If you said what I think you said, you’re dead.”

Zack narrowed his eyes. “I told you to leave Malik alone.”

“What? You’re acting all brave because you think some teacher’s gonna come along and save you?”

“No. I think you should leave Malik alone.”

Snertz leaned in. “Why’s that?”

“He had nothing to do with what happened between me and your little brother.”

“So? Doesn’t mean I can’t beat him up anyway.”

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Does too.”

“Says who?”

“Me.”

“What?”

“No, I’m a ‘who.’”

“Huh?”

Poor kid. Snertz wasn’t used to using his brain that much at school.

Kurt tightened his grip on Zack’s shirt and twisted the fabric to make the neck hole tighten up like a noose.

Choking, Zack thought about all the hours he had spent alone in his bedroom when his real mother had been alive and screaming at him from the other room. When she started yelling, Zack would slip on his headphones and watch old movies or play video games. He remembered all the action heroes he’d ever pretended to be. G.I. Joe. Indiana Jones. RoboCop.

A line from an old Clint Eastwood movie popped into his head.

“Go ahead, Snertz. Make my day.”

Furious, Snertz hoisted Zack off the ground with one hand, then flung him down hard on the floor.

“Zack?” Malik said anxiously.

Zack stood up. Dusted off his pants.

“Is that it?” he asked, switching to the movie The Incredible Hulk . “Is that all you got?”