The Impossible Fortress

by Jason Rekulak

  Rene finished cutting the last hinge, then switched off the torch and removed his safety glasses. He called Tyler over, and they spoke to each other in low whispers. Then Tyler called for all of us to stand around the doors.

  “Everyone take a corner,” he said. “We’re going to lift the doors straight up. These fuckers probably weigh a hundred pounds, so watch your fingers.”

  We moved into position around the hatch, Tyler and Rene across from Alf and Clark. There was no corner for me to lift, so I squeezed between my two friends. Tyler told me to step back. “As soon as we lift, the alarm’s going to trip. You’ll have forty-five seconds to get downstairs and enter the passcode. Can you do that without fucking up?”

  “Yes,” I said, speaking with confidence for the first time all night. I knew I could find my way around the store, even in the dark. I could turn off the alarm and take five copies of the magazine. I could bring them to the roof, and we’d all go home, and there was no need for anyone else to get involved. “You guys can sit tight,” I told them. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  “Good,” Tyler said. “Because if anything goes wrong, we’re dropping the doors and leaving you here.”

  They all squatted down, prying their fingers beneath the doors. Then on Tyler’s count of three they all lifted, but it was immediately obvious that we’d overlooked something, because the doors didn’t budge. The guys strained and groaned and heaved, but nothing happened. Something in the construction—maybe some mechanism in the lock—was holding them back.

  Tyler stopped to crack his knuckles and adjust his grip. “Let’s try this again,” he said. “Count of three.”

  On three they lifted again, to no avail. Even with one hand Clark was trying as hard as the others, straining so much his face turned purple. I foolishly allowed myself a moment of hope; maybe the doors would never open, maybe we would go home empty-handed, no harm done except a few damaged hinges.

  “I don’t know, guys,” I said. “Maybe—”

  I was interrupted by a horrible, shrieking squeal—the sound of nails being wrested from wood—and Rene’s corner sprang away from the roof. A dirty white wire dangled from the door, its copper strands splayed, the connection severed.

  “That’s the alarm wire,” I said.

  No one seemed to grasp the importance of my discovery. They were all busy pulling up on their corners, not wanting to be outdone by Rene.

  “You tripped the alarm,” I said.

  “Almost there,” Tyler grunted, veins popping on his sweaty neck.

  “It’s too heavy,” I said. “There’s no time—”

  Precious seconds were slipping away from us: One Mississippi, Two Mississippi, Three Mississippi . . .

  “We can do this,” Tyler said. “Everybody lift!”

  Clark adjusted his grip and then cried out, dropping his corner and stepping backward. He held up four fingers gouged by a thin red line; blood was welling up to the surface of his good hand and dripping down his palm. Four Mississippi, Five Mississippi, Six Mississippi. Rene shoved Clark aside and took over his corner. Some distant part of my consciousness recognized that Rene was the only one of us who had taken the precaution of wearing gloves.

  Tyler glared at me. “Help, dipshit!”

  I squeezed between Alf and Tyler but couldn’t get any leverage. We might as well have been lifting a car. Alf’s face was beaded with sweat; we were straining so hard that somebody farted. There was another screech of rusty nails, and Rene popped a second corner off the roof. He grinned in triumph, but we were too late, we were already way too late, I was counting off the seconds in my head.

  “We have to leave!” I hissed.

  No one answered me. Now that two corners were up, Rene and Tyler had some serious leverage. They leaned on the doors together, bending them back at a forty-five-degree angle and revealing three wooden steps leading down into darkness.

  “Go!” Tyler grunted.

  “It’s too late,” I said.

  Rene grabbed my arm and shoved me into the hole. I spilled down the stairs, landed on my belly, and smashed my face into a metal file cabinet. My flashlight rolled away from me. Somewhere in the store I could hear the steady chirping of the alarm system, counting down the remaining seconds until all hell broke loose. I touched my hand to my forehead, and it came away wet.

  Twenty-three Mississippi, Twenty-four Mississippi . . .

  I crawled across the floor until I reached my flashlight and stood up. I was back in the labyrinth of shelves and cardboard boxes—but in the dark of night, none of it looked familiar. I wound through the passages, searching for the stairs, but all I saw were boxes and more boxes. My head was throbbing and I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t concentrate. I circled the labyrinth, counting off the seconds out loud: “Thirty-three Mississippi, Thirty-four Mississippi . . .”

  Something was wrong. Where were the stairs? I traveled in a complete loop and found myself returning to the hatch. The guys looked down at me in astonishment.

  “What are you doing?” Alf asked.

  “Get the alarm!” Clark said.

  “Or I will throw you off this goddamn roof,” Tyler said.

  I was already too scared to think straight—scared of the alarm, scared of getting caught, scared of crossing the bridge again—but my fear of Tyler Bell trumped everything else. I tried again. My focus sharpened. I realized the passage was blocked by a tower of cardboard cartons. Zelinsky must have carried up a stack of deliveries and left them to deal with later.

  I shoved them forward and the boxes tumbled back downstairs, falling end over end with a terrible clatter, and I half fell, half ran after them. The first floor was pitch-dark, but I had my flashlight, and I knew my way around. I ran past the desk where Mary and I programmed The Impossible Fortress, past the cash register where Zelinsky offered me a job. If the count in my head (Forty-three Mississippi, Forty-four Mississippi) was accurate, the alarm was about to go apeshit.

  I ran to the front of the store and hit OFF on the control panel. The display flashed ENTER ACCESS CODE, and I copied the movements I’d seen Mary use—top-left, bottom-middle, bottom-middle, top-middle—but nothing happened.

  In that moment I realized I was doomed, that I’d somehow gotten the passcode wrong.

  Then there was a loud BEEEEEEEE-DOOP.

  And just like that, the chirping stopped.

  I was in.

  2300 REM *** ALARM SOUND ***

  2310 FOR I=0 TO 22:POKE L1+I,0

  2320 NEXT I:POKE L1+24,15

  2330 POKE L1+5,80:POKE L1+6,243

  2340 POKE L1+3,4:POKE L1+4,65

  2350 FOR I=20 TO 140 STEP5

  2360 POKE L1+1,I:NEXT I

  2370 POKE L1+4,64

  2380 FOR I=1 TO 50:NEXT

  2390 RETURN

  THE STORE SMELLED LIKE wood and ink and tobacco and Zelinsky himself, as if he were puttering nearby, smoking his pipe and restocking shelves. I turned in a circle, aiming my flashlight into corners, making sure I was truly alone.

  Then I got down to business. Zelinsky’s workbench swung open on a hinge, creating a narrow gap that allowed me to squeeze behind the counter. The space was off-limits to everyone except Zelinsky himself, and I felt a little like I was climbing into his bed. Here were the cigarettes and the cigars, the glass case of antique lighters and the rolls of scratch-off lotto tickets, and a rack with the holy trinity of dirty magazines: Playboy, Penthouse, and Oui.

  I grabbed five copies of the Vanna White issue, then pushed my mother’s twenty-dollar bill through the slot in the cash drawer. My elbow bumped a small tray labeled “Need a penny, take a penny” and I carefully nudged it back into place, leaving the tray exactly as I’d found it. I didn’t dare touch anything else.

  I was walking back through the showroom when the rest of the guys came trampling down the stairs.

  “Got ’em,” I said, holding up the magazines. “One for each of us.”

  Rene pushed past me, heading to th
e front of the store.

  “We can go now,” I told him.

  “Take it easy,” Tyler said. He was following his cousin, and Alf and Clark were trailing behind them.

  With the steel shutters pulled over the windows, the store was pitch-dark, but the glow of our flashlights was enough to guide the way. Or almost enough—Alf stumbled into a display of ballpoint pens and several boxes clattered to the floor. He exploded with nervous laughter.

  “Be careful,” I told him. “Pick those up.”

  Earlier in the week, I had watched Zelinsky build the display, carefully sorting the pens by color: blacks and blues and reds. Alf ignored me, so I knelt down and gathered the pens myself, rebuilding the display exactly as we’d found it.

  At the front of the store, Tyler and Rene were studying the alarm panel. It was studded with lights and LEDs, but only one was glowing—a tiny green bulb labeled READY.

  Tyler saw me and smirked. “You still think she changed the code?”

  “It could be a silent alarm,” I said. “It could be calling the police right now.”

  “It could be,” Tyler said. “But I don’t think so.”

  Rene unzipped his canvas bag and produced a second canvas bag—nearly identical in size and color. He gave it a shake, snapping it open. Then he raised the workbench and carried both bags behind the counter.

  “The cash register’s empty,” I said. Rene was ignoring me, so I turned to Tyler. “You worked here. You know Zelinsky empties it every night. He walks to the cash to the night deposit box at the Savings and Loan.”

  Tyler grabbed a Snickers from the candy rack, bit through the wrapper, and spit the shred of paper to the floor. “Relax.”

  Alf tugged on my arm. “Let’s go,” he whispered. “We got what we came for.”

  “Seriously,” Clark said. His good hand was wrapped in the bottom of his T-shirt, but this hadn’t stopped the bleeding. Tiny red dots were spotting the floor around his sneakers. “I’m pretty messed up. I need a bandage or something. You do, too, Billy. Your forehead’s all bloody.”

  I gave two of the magazines to Alf. “You can go if you want. But I’m staying. If anything happens, it’s going to be our fault.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen,” Alf said.

  Rene swung his crowbar at the case of antique lighters. The glass door splintered but didn’t break. It took three more whacks before it shattered. Then Rene set down the crowbar and began plucking lighters out of the case, transferring them one by one to the empty duffel bag. At last I understood why he’d come: the lighters were easy to carry, easy to unload at pawn shops or flea markets, and worth a combined $7,500 or more.

  “Stop,” I told him. “You can’t take those.”

  Rene ignored me. I was just a gnat in his ear. I turned to Tyler. He picked up the crowbar and was feeling its heft. It was maybe twenty-four or thirty inches long, the sort of wrecking bar used by EMTs to pry the doors off a smashed vehicle. I stepped in front of Tyler and said, “I didn’t come here to steal.”

  “Me neither,” Tyler said.

  He finished the last of the Snickers and dropped the wrapper. I knelt down to pick it up. Zelinsky was always on me and Mary to keep the showroom neat, to pick up our garbage and recycle our soda cans and get rid of our scrap paper. Tyler watched me reach for the wrapper and grinned. “Don’t bother.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not finished.”

  He hooked the crowbar on the candy rack, tipping it forward and spilling all the shelves—an avalanche of gums and mints and chocolate falling over my sneakers. Alf and Clark backed away, but Rene didn’t even flinch. He kept plucking lighters from the case like he was picking apples.

  “That’s enough,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  But Tyler was just getting warmed up. He twirled the crowbar like a baton and walked toward the aisle with all of the typewriters.

  “Six months I worked here,” he said. “I swept the floors. I stocked the shelves. I fixed the whole goddamn inventory. That room on the second floor? It was a mess when I got here. I designed that room. I built those shelves.”

  With the curved end of the crowbar, he hooked the mouth of a Brother portable typewriter and yanked it off the shelf. It landed with a crash and Tyler stepped over it, moving onto the next machine, an old-fashioned black Olivetti. “I showed up on time, I did my work, and the asshole fired me anyway.”

  “You stole from him,” I said.

  “Bullshit,” Tyler said. “I never stole a thing from this place. But I’ll tell you what happened, if you really want to know.”

  The Olivetti hit the floor and split open like a melon, cracking down the middle and revealing its oily black innards. Tyler looked crazed, and I wondered if he was high on drugs, because what he said next was ridiculous: “First of all, Mary Zelinsky is the horniest bitch I’ve ever met. From the day I started working here, she couldn’t keep her hands off me. Every time Daddy turned his back, she’d start rubbing up against me. Pushing her tits in my face. I’d leave the store and she’d come racing after me on Market Street, hanging on my elbow like I was her boyfriend.”

  He toppled three more typewriters, knocking them to the floor, then turned to a shelf of Elmer’s Glue—twelve white bottles with orange tips, arranged in rows like toy soldiers. With one swing of the crowbar they went scattering across the store. And through it all Tyler kept talking: “For weeks, I put up with her crap. I figure she’ll get over it, she’ll lose interest. But she doesn’t lose interest, she just gets worse! She’s sending me letters and song lyrics. So one day I lay it out for her: I say, ‘Sorry, but you are never going to be my girlfriend. It’s not happening, ever.’ And that’s when she runs to Daddy. Tells him I tried to steal a lighter. And the asshole fires me on the spot.”

  By this point Tyler had stopped smashing stuff. He was concentrating on telling his story, holding my eye contact to make sure I was paying attention. I nodded in all the right places but I knew it was bullshit, just like his stories about Señora Fernandez and banging girls on the roof of the train station.

  “Now, if that’s not bad enough,” Tyler continued, “Zelinsky spreads the word in town so no one will hire me. And pretty soon I can’t pay the insurance on my bike. And the day after it lapses, I swear to God, Tack pulls me over and there goes my license. Now I’ve got no job and no way to get around. All because of Mary and her dad. So this is my little way of saying thanks, understand?”

  Maybe if I’d answered “Yes,” the night would have ended right there. We would have taken the magazines and the lighters to the roof; we would have crossed the bridge and gone home.

  Instead I said, “You’re full of shit.”

  Tyler stared back at me, astonished. But I couldn’t help myself. Someone had to say it: he was full of shit. He knew it, I knew it, anyone who knew Mary knew it.

  “Me? I’m full of shit?”

  “Mary would never go for you,” I said. “She’s too good for you.”

  Tyler snorted. “You don’t know that girl at all.”

  “I know who I believe,” I said.

  And this really set him off. Tyler took aim at the nearest shelf, swinging the crowbar like a baseball bat, toppling jars of ink and paste and rubber cement. He swung again and again, laying waste to everything in sight, smashing calculators and adding machines, flinging merchandise to the floor and stomping it with his shit-kicker boots. And all the while he was working his way toward me. I had my back against the Aiwa stereo that powered the store’s music; I pushed the Eject button on the tape deck, pocketed the cassette labeled “All Your Favorite ’80s Love Songs,” and got the hell out of the way. A moment later the stereo was on the floor; Tyler stomped it with the heel of his boot, smashing it into tiny pieces of plastic, like he was beating the life out of it. I kept telling myself that everything could be righted in the morning—everything could be reshelved—but Tyler was relentless, and my confidence was fading fast. He toppled the spinner rack
full of batteries. He smashed dozens of reading glasses. He gouged the walls and shattered the light fixtures and pulled down the hand-lettered signs. If Rene hadn’t intervened, I’m not sure he would have stopped. His cousin had both duffel bags slung over his shoulders—they were so full of antique lighters and cigarette cartons, he couldn’t zipper them shut—and he stilled Tyler with a single touch on the shoulder. Rene didn’t have to say a word. We all understood what he meant: enough was enough. The store was trashed. It was time to go.

  Tyler paused to catch his breath. All of the destruction had left him winded. “We’ll hit the computers on the way out,” he said, turning to the showroom. “She loves those fucking things.”

  I stepped in front of him. “No.”

  Tyler pulled back the crowbar, raising it over his head, allowing me a moment to change my mind. “Move.”

  I lunged for the crowbar but didn’t have a chance. Tyler tripped me with his left knee, knocking me to the floor. I fell on the rack of reading glasses, and Tyler brought down the crowbar. It caught me in the side, and everything went white, like I was staring at the sun. The pain was so sharp and sudden, I nearly threw up.

  I rolled off the reading glasses and twisted onto my belly. If I could have found the breath to speak, I would have begged Tyler not to hit me again.

  He stepped over me and walked toward the showroom.

  Alf and Clark grabbed my arms and helped me up. “Let’s get out of here,” Alf whispered. “The guy’s psycho. We can’t stop him.”

  I shook my head. There was still one way to end this.

  “Go to the roof,” I said. “Run as fast as you can.”

  “What about you?” Clark asked.

  “Go home. Get out of here.”

  Then I limped to the front of the store and aimed my flashlight at the Ademco keypad. Most of the buttons were too cryptic to understand, especially in the dark, but there was a single red button labeled PANIC that left no doubt to its function. The alarm was instantaneous—loud and piercing, like an ambulance siren at close range. I clapped my hands over my ears, slipped on a roll of Life Savers, and fell face-first on the floor.