Griff Carver, Hallway Patrol

by Jim Krieg

  “Can’t. This’ll be the only open door. They don’t want parents roaming around free.”

  “Wood shop’s on the other side of the auditorium,” Tommy pointed out needlessly. “There’s no way to get past them unseen. We’ll just have to blow off the stakeout for tonight.”

  “Yeah, only problem with that is,” I reminded him, “the trap is set for tonight.”

  “Right.” Tommy nodded. I could tell he was itching to say something else, but something was stopping him. Turned out that something was embarrassment. “What trap?” he finally croaked out.

  “The article?” I led. “The story about the school closing down Industrial Arts tomorrow?” I added. “What did you think that was?”

  “You said it was a tip,” he answered, “for Verity.”

  “Yeah, that what I said, all right. But it wasn’t true. The story, I just made it up. Get it?”

  Tommy nodded and I leaned to the corner to see if the coast was clear. No! Almost caught by a silent group of moms. This bunch was sweaty and wearing sneakers. They must’ve come straight from boot camp. I motioned Tommy to stop.

  “So . . .” Tommy realized, “you wanted Volger to think he couldn’t use the wood shop after tonight.”

  It was my turn to nod. “Couldn’t just stake out the wood shop every night hoping they’d turn up. We had to force their hand.”

  “If they think this is the last night they can use the wood shop,” said Tommy, piecing it together, “they’ll try to crank out one last batch of counterfeits.” Nice to see the detective part of his mind starting to work.

  “Or at least clear out any evidence,” I added. “Unfortunately, when no remodel starts tomorrow, they’ll smell a trap.”

  “And evaporate,” concluded Tommy. Now that he knew the sitch, he wanted to punch something. He made a fist and eyed a locker, but lockers are made of metal and would (a) be noisy and (b) hurt. So he settled for punching the palm of his other hand, turning on his heels, and storming farther back into the darkness. Suddenly, I heard a crash.

  Followed by a yell. My eyes adjust pretty quickly, and as I made my way toward Tommy’s groan, I could just make out a long inverted V beyond the moving lump on the floor I assumed was Tommy.

  “What was that?” he asked, standing and rubbing his head.

  I told him it was the custodian’s ladder.

  “Of all the times to leave his stuff out . . .” Tommy murmured.

  “Does he do that a lot?” I asked, a weird feeling coming over me. “Solomon, does he leave his equipment out?”

  “What? How should I know?” Then, pulling himself together, Tommy amended his answer. “I’ve never seen so much as a rag left out. I guess that’s his way of ‘taking the high road.’ Always put away your mops, right?”

  My mind was racing as I tipped the ladder back up. “The high road . . . high road. That’s what he said, isn’t it?” Tommy nodded. “Turn on your penlight.”

  I didn’t have to ask if he had one. Of course he did. Are you kidding me? “Shine it along the top of the wall, along the ceiling!” He did until I said, “Stop! Right there!” I pushed the ladder across the linoleum. It squeaked. Louder than I liked, but not enough to draw attention. I clambered up the steps to the second rung from the top, you know, the one with the sticker that warns you not to stand on it? There I examined the air vent in Tommy’s shaky beam. It was exactly what I was looking for. I pulled at the grid hard, coating my fingers with thirty years of vent dust. No go. It was screwed on tight, like I thought, but it was worth a try.

  “Now, give me your Swiss Army knife.”

  “What makes you think I—”

  “Scouts are always prepared,” I told him.

  “Not this time,” admitted Tommy. “I automatically leave the SWAK on the mitten bureau at home when I’m leaving for school.”

  No knife meant no screwdriver. My mind raced. There must be another way to—then I knew. “The dime!” I whisper-yelled. “Give me the dime!”

  “Why would I have change on me?” Tommy asked. “I’ve got a lunch card. Why would I have a dime?”

  “You found one on the asphalt in No-Man’s-Land,” I reminded him. “And you’re wearing the same pants.”

  Tommy shook his head and reached into his camouflage change pocket. He smiled and pulled out the dime. “You’re something, Griff,” he observed, tossing the dime to me. Tommy is a decent throw, which was good, seeing as I had to catch a dime in the dark standing on top of a ladder. I felt it snap into my palm and turned my attention to the grid without a word. Thank-yous are not required etiquette for two guys on a mission.

  I really had to work to jam the dime into the screw’s groove. It must’ve been painted over a hundred times. It was anyone’s guess as to whether this would even work.

  “What’s the plan, Griff?” Tommy’s voice asked from down in the darkness.

  “Don’t you watch television, Rodriguez?” I asked. It was a rhetorical question, which means I already knew the answer. Everybody watches TV. “We can’t get past the PTA, so we’re going above them. In the air vents.”

  I felt the first screw turn under the dime.

  “Are you loco, man?” Tommy wondered, also rhetorically. He already knew that answer. “That’s only in the movies. They don’t make air ducts big enough for people to crawl through in real life. My dad always says that when we’re watching cable.”

  “Your old man’s half right,” I said as the fourth screw dropped to the floor with a ping. “You’d have to be nuts to install a heating and cooling system big enough for a grown man to crawl through.” With a little effort, the last screw gave.

  “But,” I pointed out, “we’re not grown men, are we? A school this size and this old typically has a ventilation system large enough for kids our size.” I gave a yank on the vent. It still didn’t budge, the old paint holding it fast like Krazy Glue. But I wasn’t about to give up. Not again. Not this time. Not ever.

  I threw all my weight back despite being on top of the ladder. I heard the ancient paint crack and felt the vent break free. I would’ve fallen butt first off the rungs if I hadn’t managed to catch the edge of that little paint can shelf with the slats of the old grid. “Here,” I said, passing the vent down to Tommy. “Now give me a leg up.”

  There was silence down below. I waited, pretty sure I knew what was coming. I was right. “I don’t know,” whined Tommy. “Running in the halls to chase a perp is one thing, but this . . .”

  “Look, Tommy, I know right where you’re coming from,” I told him sympathetically, “but let me ask you this: You know the Rampart Middle rule book backwards and forwards, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Sure you do,” I stated with certainty. “Now, in that entire book, is there any rule that specifically states that students are not allowed to access the Industrial Arts wing via the air ducts?”

  Tommy was quiet. Then I felt the ladder wobble. A moment later, I felt a tight grip on my ankles. “On three,” he announced. “Ready?”

  “Sure,” I answered. “Why not?” That was another rhetorical question.

  “One . . . two . . . three!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  HELEN NUTTING GUIDANCE COUNSELOR RAMPART MIDDLE SCHOOL

  Continuation of the RECORDED INTERVIEW with seventh grader Griffin Carver.

  GRIFF: It was a small, small space.

  And dark. Really dark. But that was probably for the best, seeing as these air ducts were installed during the Great Depression and probably hadn’t been cleaned since.

  My brain told me that the ducts were nearly always metal, but it felt like I was crawling through a tunnel made of hair and lint.

  “Gross,” Tommy mumbled somewhere behind me. His penlight cast weird shadows in the tube ahead of me. Thanks. Like it wasn’t creepy enough already. I kept moving, inching forward on my elbows and knees, trying not to think about the walls around me. They felt like they were getting closer. And closer. Maybe
they weren’t, but it sure felt that way.

  A few minutes (or was it hours?) later, I could hear voices. Even though I couldn’t make out the words at first, I was already bored. I knew it must be Sprangue. Ten more feet of cramped aluminum piping and I could see him through the grid as I looked down into the auditorium. “. . . The donations from community leaders and local businesses are helpful to be sure, but the rest of our budget has to be made up by concerned parents such as yourselves! You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t care. And you know your children’s future is the best investment you can make. . . .” Man, and I thought Father Donavan knew how to put the touch on a crowd of parents. Turns out he was strictly an amateur compared to Sprangue.

  But at that moment, the PTA wasn’t the only one getting squeezed. The air duct felt like it was getting smaller and smaller. Tommy must’ve been able to hear my breathing getting heavier.

  “Cramped quarters, huh, Griff?” pointed out Tommy.

  “Quiet!” I snapped. “Just keep moving.”

  Why did he have to talk all the time anyway? What’s wrong with just focusing on the task at hand? Nobody was asking him to talk! Why couldn’t he just be cool for once!

  “Griff?” I heard him ask. “You okay?”

  “Just peachy,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “It’s just . . .” He hesitated to say it. “You’re breathing funny. I think you’re hyperventilating.”

  Hyperventilating in the ventilation system. Felt like there was joke in there, ready to be used in a sharp come-back, but I couldn’t keep my head straight to come up with it.

  “I’m fine.” I finally got some words out. “I’m just not crazy about cramped spaces, that’s all.”

  “You must be claustrophobic,” I heard Tommy say, kind of. It was hard to make out the words with my heart pounding in my ears.

  That’s right about when I felt my head slam into something. I probably shouted something the Old Lady wouldn’t have liked. “It’s a dead end!” I fumed. “This is a complete waste of time! Back up!”

  “Griff, try to relax. Take deep breaths. Think happy thoughts. You’re probably just at a junction. Here, take my light.” I felt Tommy’s penlight tap against my knee. I guess I took it. I don’t really remember too clearly. Anyway, Tommy was right. The duct split off into two opposite directions. The little flashlight was just bright enough for me to see that the cobwebs of dust and lint dripping from joints where the duct sections joined together. That explained why I kept feeling weird tingling sensations on my head. I liked it better when I thought it was just my imagination.

  “It’s a maze, Tommy,” I told him in a wave of despair. “We’ll never find our way there. It was a bad plan.”

  “Take the right passage,” Tommy said with an irritating confidence. “Then left when you reach the next junction. If we just keep bearing north, we should find Industrial Arts.”

  “How would you know?!” I cried.

  “Orienteering is orienteering,” he said calmly. “Besides, I have some familiarity with HVAC systems.”

  “What?” I said. I started crawling again despite myself.

  “That’s heating, ventilating, and air conditioning,” he explained. “Or climate control, as the old-timers say.”

  Somehow, I kept on crawling. Just to get away from Tommy’s voice, maybe. Who knew there was a thermodynamics merit badge? Who cared? It felt like we crawled through that metal tunnel for days. I know we didn’t—my watch has a phosphor glow dial. But it sure felt like it. On and on, through open dampers, up and down jury-rigged detours over sheer walls—it felt like miles. I blew out the knees of my new black jeans. I was going to hear about that from the Old Lady, but that was the least of my problems.

  I knew every step (or whatever you call them when you’re on your hands and knees) that we made took us farther from the entry point. That much farther from air and freedom.

  And light. I noticed that the flashlight, which was never that bright to begin with, was fading. Dimmer and dimmer. Now there was just a weak orange glow coming from the tiny bulb.

  “Tommy!” I growled through gritted teeth. “Scouts are supposed to be prepared! Your stupid battery’s dying!”

  “There is no battery—” Tommy was saying. He went on and on, like usual, but I didn’t hear him. Because that’s when I saw them. They were just hanging there in the darkness before me.

  Eyes.

  They were small and red. And angry. I wasn’t 100 percent sure they were eyes at first. Then they blinked.

  “Rats.”

  “What is it? Why did you stop?”

  “I just told you: rats,” I said through my teeth. “One rat, anyway,” I said. I was pretty close to the edge by this point.

  “Shake it,” I half heard.

  “The rat?! You shake it!”

  “No, the flashlight,” Tommy said. “I told you, it’s self-powered. You charge it by shaking it up. Do it! The rat’ll run.”

  He didn’t have to say it twice. I shook that baby like it was a diet soda can I was going to blast into my brother’s face . . . er . . . someone’s face. With every pump the LED got brighter until I could see the beast. I’ve heard that in stressful conditions, your imagination can play tricks on you. It can make horrific situations seem twice as bad they actually are.

  Even keeping that in mind, if I pretended the beast was half as big as it looked to me, it was still huge and terrifying. Tommy could kiss goodbye his future as an expert on the Vermin Channel. The beast didn’t run. It couldn’t. It was cornered, backed up against a damper with its louvers closed. It bared it hideous little fangs as the hissing and shrieking echoed through the pipes. By this time, it’s possible that some of the shrieking came out of me. Sorry to say.

  Then, suddenly, it leaped toward me! I felt it scurry past me, its little claws scratching at the tunnel’s metallic walls. As I may have mentioned, the air duct was a tight fit already, so Mr. Rat had to squeeze by me. I could feel it writhing its way down my side. Finally, I sensed its tail worm across my ankle. But now I was trapped with the damper in front of me and a coyote-size rat behind me!

  “Tommy!” I warned. “I think I’m losing it!”

  “Don’t freak, Griff!” Tommy cried in as reassuring a tone as possible. “I’m on it.”

  On it?! How was he “on it”? There was a rabid monster rat trapped between us and we were stuck in a tunnel whose walls were closing in on us! At least it felt that way. Suddenly, I smelled something. Something good. Something from my previous life, before I was buried alive in the school’s climate control system. I couldn’t quite place it. . . . Peanut butter! Definitely, peanut butter!

  “Here, ratty!” Tommy sang. “Here, ratty-rat-rat! I’ve got a delicious extra-crunchy PB&J morsel for you!” I could hear the beast’s little claws tip-tapping agitatedly against the duct. It wanted whatever Tommy was selling.

  “Come and get it!” Tommy cried. Then I heard a grunt followed by something echo down the tube. I also heard Tommy say, “Ewww, gross!” at the same time that the beast gleefully scratched and shrieked its way past Tommy and down the tunnel chasing the piece of sandwich. For that’s what it was: a chunk of Tommy’s Emergency Snack.

  “Good thing I’m hypoglycemic, huh?” Tommy asked. I’m sure he was smiling.

  He was talking very evenly. Trying to calm me down. Didn’t matter. It was too late. I could feel pounding against my ribs and the aluminum of the air duct pushing from the other side. “We gotta get out of here!” I don’t know if I screamed it or just thought it or both.

  “Griff, it’s okay!” Tommy said, clearly lying. It wasn’t okay! We were trapped with a growing rodent in a shrinking tunnel! How was that okay!? I started to scramble backwards, I think. My feet were hitting something. Now that I think of it, it was probably Tommy’s head.

  “Griff!” he cried. “Focus! Think! You’ve come so far. We’re almost there. Keep it together! Remember why you’re here. Your name, your reputation, your—�
�

  “My badge.”

  “That’s right, man,” agreed Tommy, “your badge. Don’t throw it all away now. You can do this! You can totally—”

  “Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” I shushed him loudly.

  “You can! You—”

  “Quiet!” I whispered. Loud enough so he knew I was serious. “Listen.”

  As the noise of our voices faded, we could hear something. But it wasn’t a fan or any other part of the HVAC system. It was too high pitched. And it started and stopped.

  “What is it?” Tommy asked.

  “A lathe,” I told him.

  “What’s a lathe?” he wondered.

  “It’s a machine,” I started, my breath coming back under control, “that spins a chunk of wood around so you can shape it.” I could hear that my voice was starting to sound like me again.

  “You’d know all about the lathe,” I continued, “if you took wood shop.” I pushed myself as far as I could to the side of the duct in hopes of giving Tommy a glimpse of what I knew I could see ahead.

  There, not twenty feet ahead of me, light was pouring in from a slatted, rectangular vent. The high-pitched whir of the lathe was coming from there as well.

  We’d made it.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  HELEN NUTTING GUIDANCE COUNSELOR RAMPART MIDDLE SCHOOL

  Continuation of the RECORDED INTERVIEW with seventh grader Griffin Carver.

  GRIFF: Eighth graders.

  According to seventh grade legend, eighth graders are given some kind of secret pituitary gland treatment, possibly hormone injections or radiation, which causes them to rapidly double in size. This is not only clearly false, but also probably junk science. I’ll have to ask the Omicron League. It is truly said, however, that some eighth graders immediately shoot up to their adult height. It also increases their aggression and capacity for cruelty.

  This is not true of all eighth graders, of course. Only the ones who mattered to us. For they were dangerous.

  And the wood shop was crawling with them. We could see them through the slats of the vent as we looked down into the chamber. The air duct had widened a bit beyond the grill to accommodate an additional blower for the room. It was just big enough to allow me to turn around. Now both Tommy and I stared down at the busy, lumbering counterfeiters.