by Peter Vegas
“Elio?” Sam said.
“I think perhaps yes,” he replied. “But first I would need to get out of this cage.”
Sam nodded slowly. The boy was right. One problem at a time. The first was getting out of the cage. He examined the padlock on the door—twenty seconds. He knew he could have it open in twenty seconds, maybe less.
Picking locks was a skill his uncle had taught him in Cairo. On a rainy afternoon at his apartment, Uncle Jasper had produced a padlock almost identical to the one Sam now faced. Jasper had said lock picking was a handy skill to have, and he had been right.
Chocolate and other banned food confiscated from the boys in Sam’s dormitory at St. Albans was locked in a cupboard. On more than one occasion, Sam’s roommates had persuaded him to put the skills his uncle had taught him to use. For a decent cut of the proceeds.
“Sam, what’s wrong?” Elio asked, the concern obvious in his tone.
“Nothing,” Sam said. “I’m just thinking, Elio. You’re next to the table. Can you reach my bag?” As he spoke, he looked down the room. He could just make out the table and the outline of his bag, but it was too dark to see the boy in the cage beside it.
“Yes, I think I can,” came the reply.
“I want you to get my pocketknife out of my bag. It will be at the bottom.”
The pocketknife was the key to Sam’s plan. It had been a present from Uncle Jasper—To mark your graduation as an official lock picker, he had said cheerfully at the time. Jasper then pointed out the attachment on the knife he had personally modified to turn it into a lock-picking tool.
Sam held his breath and listened for signs of Elio’s progress. He heard a grunt and imagined the boy leaning through the bars, straining to reach the bag. If it was too far away, the whole plan would fail before it began. There was a scraping sound. A bag buckle on wood? The sound faded, and Sam couldn’t hold his breath any longer. He let out a lungful of old air and gulped another.
“Elio. Have you got it?” he called out.
There was no answer.
He tried again. “Elio?”
Finally the boy replied, “Yes, Sam. I have the knife. Now what?”
Sam leaned back against the bars again; they were warmer now, thanks to the heat from his body. They didn’t seem as uncomfortable. Or was it because his mind had no time to be bothered with minor discomforts?
“Sam?” Elio said again. It was his turn to be impatient.
“Hang on,” Sam snapped, then, feeling bad about his tone, he added, “I just need a second to think.”
The knife was the key, but he had to get it. Could Elio skid it along the floor to him? It was a long way, and if he got it wrong, or Sam missed it, the knife would race off into the dark. Sam studied the space around him. Through the bars of the cage above, he saw something solid.
He stuck his fingers through and prodded the dark shape. It was soft and fleshy. His prodding dislodged the object, and it fell into his lap. Sam flung the rotting meat away in disgust. It hit the bars on the far side of his cage, but he forgot it instantly as a low growl rolled out of the dark.
Sam had been so focused on Elio and the table, he hadn’t realized there was an occupant locked up on the other side of him. Like the cage between him and the table, he’d thought it was also empty, but now he heard claws scraping on concrete, and as he watched, a crocodile slithered out of the dark corner.
Compared to the other specimens Sam had seen that day, real and fake, this one was a baby, no more than five feet long. Sam’s neighbor pressed its snout against the bars between them and locked its small black eyes on the meat sitting a few inches away.
As the surprise wore off, curiosity took over. Sam retrieved the hunk of steak, ripped a small piece off, and tossed it through the bars into the crocodile’s cage. It swung away with surprising speed, and Sam heard jaws snap as it grabbed the rotting snack. Then it was back, in the same spot, its eyes locked greedily on the rest of the meat. Sam couldn’t help laughing. The crocodile had performed like a hungry dog, and as quickly as that thought came, it was replaced by the germ of an idea.
“Elio,” he called out.
The boy replied instantly, “Yes, Sam.”
“Is there any meat in your cage?”
There was a pause, then he said, “Sam, don’t eat the meat. It is rotten. It will make you sick.”
Sam smiled. “No, Elio, it’s not for me. It’s for a crocodile. I have an idea to get us out.”
“I see,” Elio replied. “Let me check.” Almost immediately, he spoke again. “Yes. There is a large piece in the cage next to me. I can get it, but how will I pass it to you?”
“You don’t need to,” Sam replied as he took off his pants. “Just give me a few minutes to get ready.”
One of the things St. Albans boarding school prided itself on was preparing their boys for life and career. Life preparation covered everything from gardening and cooking to sewing. To make a sewing class more acceptable for boys, it was called Soft Materials Technology, or Soft Tech for short. But the fancy name didn’t disguise the fact it was lessons on how to use a sewing machine and needle and thread. Skills that Sam and his friends agreed they would never use again.
Despite his misgivings, Sam enjoyed Soft Tech. In his first year, he had made a bean bag and a pencil case. His least favorite project had been the one on mending, but now, as he took off his pants, he’d changed his mind.
The boys were required to bring an item of clothing to repair. Sam had picked his canvas cargo pants, the pair he wore on archaeological digs with his uncle. During his escape from the ship buried in the desert, they had developed a big rip in the seat. Sam’s mending solution was a large canvas square, hand-stitched over the rip. The job had earned him a C from the teacher, who had noted the loose stitching and the use of thick, waterproof thread. Sam had disputed the low mark. He felt the teacher had failed to understand that he was going for the Hobo look. But sitting there in the cage, Sam was surprised by how easily the thread came out—surprised but also grateful. Thanks to his poor work in Soft Tech, he soon had a couple of feet of the thick thread wound around his hand.
The crocodile had ignored Sam and his pants, keeping its eyes locked on the meat as if it was hoping it would fly across the floor and into its mouth. Sam picked up the rotten steak, ripped off another piece, and tossed it behind the baby croc. The moment it turned, Sam shoved his fingers out through the front of his cage and grabbed the latch of the crocodile’s cage. Luckily, only the humans warranted locks on their cages. Sam lifted the latch and flicked the door open just as his hungry neighbor returned to his spot against the side of the cage.
The crocodile was more interested in the prospect of another snack than taking advantage of the open door, and Sam had been counting on this. He made a loop in one end of the thread, then ripped off another piece of meat, but he tossed this chunk outside the front of his cage. The crocodile spotted the morsel, turned, and moved cautiously out through the open door. As the creature slunk along the front of Sam’s cage, he hung the looped thread out between the bars. At the moment the crocodile snapped up the piece of meat, Sam dropped the loop onto its tail and gently tightened it.
Sam released the lungful of air he’d been holding, but there was no time to lose. He needed to keep the hungry crocodile outside. He ripped the last of his meat in half and hid one piece behind him. He put the other out between the bars above the crocodile and tossed it down the room toward Elio’s cage.
The beast shot off like a little green dragster.
“What’s happening, Sam?” a nervous Elio called out.
“There’s a crocodile coming to you,” Sam said, almost laughing at the crazy statement. “Listen, Elio. You need to throw some of your meat onto the floor in front of your cage, so the crocodile comes all the way to you. Do you understand?”
“Not really,” he replied.
Sam heard the boy moving about, then there was silence. He was about to call out to him when
a squeal came from his cage.
“Sam! It’s here.”
“That’s good,” Sam said. “Can you see its tail? I tied some string to it.”
“Yes,” Elio replied. “I can see it.”
“All right. Now, I want you to put some more meat out on the floor. But listen,” Sam said. “This is important. Don’t put the meat in front of your cage. Throw it to the left. Not too far. Just enough for the crocodile to bring its tail to you. Do you understand?”
“Not really,” he said again.
“The crocodile will go past your cage to get the meat. When it does, you need to grab the string and tie the pocketknife on.”
In the silence that followed, Sam replayed the crazy instructions he’d just given out. Of course it was never going to work. What had he been thinking? He felt the familiar pangs of panic surfacing as his mind raced away.
“Okay,” came the boy’s voice out of the darkness.
“You’ll give it a go?” Sam asked.
“I’ve done it.”
“What?” Sam didn’t try to hide his amazement.
“I did exactly what you said. I tied the knife on and put it on the floor outside the bars. The crocodile is right in front of my cage, watching me.”
“Nice work,” Sam called out as he retrieved the last of his meat. He dangled it between the bars and swung it backward and forward. The stench of the rotting meat filled his nostrils. “Is the crocodile coming?” he asked.
“No.”
Sam pinched a small piece off and flicked it down toward Elio’s cage. He peered into the darkness, willing the beast back to him. Suddenly, Elio squealed.
“He’s coming,” the boy hissed.
Sam heard the scratching of claws on concrete, and something else—a scraping sound.
The beast came at full speed; Sam only just had time to drop the meat and pull his hands inside before a blur of white teeth snapped together in the place where his fingers had been just seconds ago. But the crocodile didn’t stop. Spotting the open door of its cage, it made a beeline for home. The tail slid past, towing a thin white line behind it. The thread seemed to go on forever, but suddenly the small block of red plastic popped into view.
As the knife skidded and bumped across the floor in front of Sam’s cage, he thrust an open hand through the bars and grabbed the moving thread. He felt it slipping under his skin and then the knife was pulled into his hand. His fingers locked around it tightly, and he pulled it back to him. The thread was supposed to snap, but the thick, waterproof cotton was tougher than Sam realized. As he pulled the knife to him, the line went tight, and suddenly an angry, snapping crocodile came racing back to the cage, intent on attacking the threat that had struck from behind.
Sam shied away from the bars as the crocodile’s snout smashed into them. He put the knife to his mouth and worked furiously at the thread with his teeth. The line went tight again as the crocodile whipped its tail away from the cage. The thread ripped across Sam’s face, went taut, and finally snapped with a loud ping. The angry croc scuttled off into its cage, and Sam slid to the back of his, one hand on the stinging cut across his face, the other clutching his precious knife.
“Sam, are you okay?” Elio asked.
It took Sam a few moments to calm down enough to answer. “I got it,” he finally said.
Sam retrieved the last piece of meat from the back of his cage and tossed it between the bars. The crocodile slithered out of the darkness and back into its home. It snapped up the last bit of meat and turned to lock its black eyes on Sam again.
It took over a minute to pick the lock. Sam put the extra time down to his lack of practice and shaking hands. It took even longer to open the door of his cage. Conscious of being watched by his food-obsessed neighbor, Sam edged the door open a few millimeters at a time. When he had it fully open, he got into a crouch and edged out onto the floor. He waited near the opening, collecting his thoughts and running through what he was about to do. When he was ready, he sprang to his feet, took three steps forward, grabbed the door to the crocodile’s cage, and slammed it shut. As he slid the latch into place, the crocodile still hadn’t moved. Sam wasn’t sure if it had been surprised by his speed or was too full to care.
The stench of meat, the fact he had been caught and locked up in a cage, none of that mattered as Sam strode down to Elio. The boy peered up with a smile so big his white teeth took up most of his face.
“Hi, Sam,” he said, as if they were meeting up in the school yard.
“Hi,” Sam said with equal cheer.
He knelt down and grabbed the lock, and his smile faded.
“What’s wrong?” Elio asked. “You still have your knife, yes?”
Sam nodded then looked at the boy. “I’m sorry, Elio. I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t understand,” the boy said.
Sam held the heavy silver lock in his hand. In the center, five small wheels were lined up side by side with numbers around them. “This is a combination lock,” Sam explained. “The lock on my cage was an old brass key lock. I can’t pick this, Elio. I don’t know how to. I’m sorry.”
13
SUIT UP
“YOUR BAG IS SINGING.”
Sam, pacing backward and forward outside Elio’s cage, didn’t hear him.
“Your bag,” the boy said again. He pointed to the table, and Sam heard the muffled opera coming from inside his backpack.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. He knew it had to be Mary. She could wait.
“Sam, listen to me,” Elio said. “I heard Mr. Ramos talk about your parents. He thinks you are after his gold. You need to get out of here. Don’t worry about me.”
“No. I can’t leave you,” Sam insisted. He knelt down by Elio’s cage again and inspected the hefty combination lock. “If I can find a crowbar, or something solid, I might be able to break it.”
He got up and raced to the end of the room, looking for anything that would help him break Elio out. All he saw were more cages. Most were empty, but some had crocodiles similar in size to the one he’d been locked next to.
“Sam,” Elio called out. “On the wall is a suit. Bring it here.”
Sam wondered why the boy was worried about dressing up, and then he saw the dark lump of clothing hanging on a hook. It was rubber, cold and wet.
“You mean this wet suit?” Sam replied.
“Yes. Please.”
Sam lifted the suit off the wall, surprised by its weight.
“Hurry,” Elio urged. “Morning can only be a few hours away.”
Sam dumped the wet suit on the floor, surprised by Elio’s cheerful look. “How will this help get you out?”
The boy’s face became serious. “Listen, Sam. If you get away, you can send help for me, yes?”
Sam nodded slowly.
“Good.” Elio beamed. “It is agreed, then. Do you have pen and paper?”
Sam took his notebook and pen out of his backpack and gave them to Elio. Then he checked his phone. It had been Mary calling. He wondered what time it was in Switzerland. He could see from the clock on his cell phone that it was three a.m. in Orange Walk. It had been a long night, and it wasn’t over yet.
“What are you doing, Elio?” Sam asked.
The boy kept drawing as he replied. “I know every part of Xibalba. I have worked here since it opened. I am drawing you a map. And a place to go if you need somewhere safe. Put on the wet suit.”
Sam looked at the pile of rubber on the floor, and Elio spoke again as if he had read his mind. “It will go over your clothes.”
“Oh, good,” Sam replied with a touch of sarcasm. He had worn a wet suit a couple of times on school rafting trips, but this one was different. The rubber felt twice as thick, and on the chest was a strange plastic box.
It took a few minutes to get into the suit. It felt cold and clammy and far too big. As Sam stumbled around trying to adjust to the extra weight, he saw Elio watching him.
“THIS IS THE BEST I can do
, Sam,” the boy said as he pushed the notebook out through the bars.
“We are under the small pool,” Elio said. “This and Mr. Ramos’s office and the staff quarters are all under the seats of the main arena.”
Sam studied the rough map. “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to the two sets of dotted lines leading away from their pool.
“Those are tunnels. This is how the crocodiles swim into the main pool and the river.”
“Swim?”
“Yes,” Elio said. “The tunnels are filled with water. You need to swim out to the main pool.”
Sam pointed at the other dotted lines. “Why not this one out to the river?”
Elio shook his head. “No. That tunnel has a door to the river that closes on a timer. Every night at midnight, Mr. Ramos sends his crocodiles out, and the door stays shut till six a.m.”
“So they come back in like pets,” Sam said.
“Yes, that’s right. Mr. Ramos has trained them.”
“And not just to come and go,” Sam said. “I saw the show.”
Elio let out a small laugh. “All is not as it seems here, Sam.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have learned much since I have been locked down here. That suit you have on is one of the secrets to the show,” Elio said. “It is how the Sun God’s sacrifices avoid death.”
“This rubber thing protects them from the crocodiles’ teeth?” Sam asked, prodding the suit.
“It is called pressure-expanding Kevlar,” Elio said, as if he was reading it from a manual. “The more pressure put on it, the stronger it becomes, so it can withstand even the bite of the crocodile.”
Sam ran his fingers across the rubbery fabric. “But even if they weren’t bitten,” he said, “I saw them dragged under the water. Why didn’t they drown?”
“There is also a built-in breathing device.”
“So that’s what this is,” Sam said, prodding the plastic box on his chest. “How does it work?”
“A button on the left arm,” Elio replied. “Try it.”
Sam found the button and pushed it. There was a click as a small mouthpiece popped up out of the plastic box. He leaned forward and wrapped his lips around it. As Sam sucked in, he felt the tangy taste of oxygen. He pushed the button again, and the mouthpiece retracted back into its compartment. “Nifty,” he said. “But where does the air come from? There are no tanks.”