Fire in the Wall

by S G Dunster

  “I don’t think,” he said slowly, “that what happened, whatever it was, was something you meant to happen. If you were involved in Lil’s disappearance, I’d pin it completely on your . . . on the condition. But I need to look through your things, Logan. Just in case.”

  “Right,” I replied shakily. “Go ahead.”

  “And I also need to talk to any of your friends who might have noticed these changes, when they’ve been happening. And any teachers, any church leaders.”

  “Now hold on,” Mom said, suddenly coming alive again, striding out from behind the kitchen counter with her arms folded tight to her chest. “If you do that, everyone’s going to . . . Logan’s condition is a private matter, and people won’t understand. They’ll see him as crazy, dangerous. Rumors will fly. You know how this town is.”

  “It can’t be helped. Lil’s got to be the priority here.” He gave me a long, level look. “Don’t leave town. But it might be best if you stayed away from school. Stayed inside.”

  “Are you putting Logan on house arrest? What right do you have to keep him here?”

  “No arrests. Consider it advice, from one friend to another. You said it—in a town like this, rumors scatter like dust from a Cessna.” Sherriff Winters nodded at Mom, nodded at me, and made his way through the kitchen to the door.

  After he left, Mom and I stood silently for several minutes.

  “I guess,” Mom said slowly, “That’s really all we can do anyway. Stay here. Take you to the doctor. Try to . . . I don’t know. I have to call Adrian again. She never returned my call.” She shook her head. “What do I tell her, Logan?”

  It wasn’t a question that wanted an answer.

  I stared at the door that lead down to the studio, at the door that opened into the hallway. I didn’t want to go through either one, but either was better than staying in the kitchen, our problems casting terrible shadows over both of us.

  “I guess I’ll go read.”

  My room was cold. I picked up a copy of Lord of the Rings, then decided it probably wouldn’t be very conducive to staying in reality. Instead I selected a book from my “reject” shelf, mostly presents given to me by others, things I had absolutely no interest in but couldn’t bring myself to throw away. I climbed under my covers and opened to the title page, a treatise on business and habits and practical people. All very ordinary and mundane. Nothing that could make a forest bloom around me.

  I didn’t get very far before the words began to fade and my heartbeats and breathing slowed. I set the book aside and pulled the covers over my head just as a rumble of thunder discharged in the distance. A thought entered my sleep-bleary brain: Thunder in the middle of an Idaho winter? Strange.

  But it didn’t keep me from drifting off.

  Chapter 4

  When I woke, the walls were shaking.

  I sat up, my heart running a sprint. The thunder exploded again, rattling the windows and bringing with it a flash of light so bright my eyes ached. Another boom came only seconds later, and another flash. It didn’t stop. Boom after boom after boom until the air roared.

  I sat there for a few minutes, body shaking, telling myself it was just a storm. I was alright inside my hundred-year-old walls, under my thirty-year-old roof. That I was past the stage of hiding under the covers or calling for Mom.

  The world split again in a gigantic explosion of noise, leaving my ears ringing.

  I leapt out of bed. I headed for the kitchen and a warm cup of cocoa. Thunderstorms were a summer thing, not a winter thing. I couldn’t remember a thunderstorm in the wintertime, ever; particularly not during the cold, dry, late-February period of a St. Anthony winter. It was strange. Extra unsettling.

  But the kitchen was warm, and the windows a little bit sturdier than my own single-paned slider, so I forced myself to calm down, taking calm, deep breaths as I poured water into the blue ogre mug, stuck it in the microwave, and looked out the window.

  And froze, confused, because snow was drifting down in moth-sized flakes; not furious, but purposeful. Determined to bury the world in white as quickly as possible. They weren’t even flying slightly sideways. No wind.

  Another boom of thunder and discharge of light flashed through the kitchen. I went to the window, squinting against the drift of flakes.

  It didn’t make sense. There were rosy haloes around the streetlamps. The street was silent. Nobody out and about, no other lights on.

  Where was the thunder and lightning coming from?

  I shivered, retrieved my water, and added several heaping spoonfuls of the mint truffle cocoa powder, which Mom buys in industrial-size canisters during the winter. I settled myself in the chair and watched.

  Peaceful. Drifting. All quiet, except for the air exploding with ozone and rogue forks of raw electricity that could take down an entire city block. It was surreal. I almost wondered if maybe somewhere a loudspeaker was playing a sound effects track for our entire city. The light didn’t even seem to come from the sky. Not out there; it was almost like it was . . .

  No, I told myself. Shut your mind to it. If it’s not real, it’s not real.

  I took a deep breath and sipped the warm chocolate. I like it medium-warm and actually drinkable, unlike Mom and Lil.

  Lil.

  The ugliness descended on me. I set the chocolate aside and rested my cheek on the icy glass of the window for a moment.

  Lil. My fault.

  I saw her leave. I saw something happen. But I can’t make my brain understand what it actually was.

  The flash came again, searing and bright.

  From the studio.

  Not from the window. From the studio.

  Or, from the direction of the studio, but I knew, in my deepest, darkest innards, that it wasn’t from the studio. It was the basement.

  The crack. It was coming through the crack, wasn’t it?

  The foundations shook. How could Mom still be asleep? Did she not feel it?

  It really is in my mind, isn’t it?

  But so was Lil, disappearing through the crack.

  Maybe, if I were to go see now, while my brain is tripping, maybe I can figure something out.

  Without making a conscious decision, I was on my feet again and running down the stairs. I didn’t bother to see if the studio was a forest or not. I kept my focus on that battered wooden door leading down to the basement.

  I could feel it—the change. The feeling that I’d find something down there. I knew I would. I knew it would be back.

  I stopped short in the middle of the room.

  There was a crack, alright. But not full of fire and brimstone as it was before; it was an actual crack in the wall, running down to the floor and eking its way along the ceiling—a shattering and splitting of brick and mortar big enough for two of me to enter. An actual crack, which showed a dark, dim, cobwebby tunnel beyond.

  One of the famous St. Anthony tunnels. Used during prohibition to get to and from underground speakeasies, and as hideouts for outlaws. As quick escapes during those times when our town was the local watering-hole for colorful characters. Turn of the century.

  My imagination caught fire. I leaned through and caught a noseful of damp, musty air. There was no light, so I couldn’t see in. The thunder boomed again, echoing down the hollow of stone and old timber, rattling my eardrums.

  I stepped back as the lightning seared through, sending forks and a flash that whited out the entire basement.

  I was on the floor, panting. My ears were ringing.

  Lil. She’d left through a crack, only my mind had made it into something strange and fantastical. Maybe she left through this real crack? I knew the lightning wasn’t real, but the Saint Anthony tunnels were documented.

  Why hadn’t my mom and I seen it earlier, when we came down to look?

  Maybe the ground shifted. Maybe it closed, then opened again? Shifting foundation?

  Well, it was open now. And Lil. She had to be somewhere in these tunnels.

 
; I stepped through the ragged, broken-brick edges of the crack.

  If I could find her, it would solve everything.

  Another boom had me curling in a ball on the floor, then running for a small recess, waiting out the bolt of blue-white fire that poured along the tunnel.

  Shaking a little, I waited . . . and waited.

  The thunder was dying down. Less frequent. The forks of lightning flashed in the tunnel, blinding, bright. The gaps between flashes lengthened until I’d waited a while since the last one.

  Finally, I walked into the utter darkness of the tunnel.

  The ground under my bare feet was dry, powdery. I forced myself to put one foot in front of the other, walking into the darkness, holding my hand out so I’d know before I collided with something.

  A loud, percussive discharge of thunder shook the ground. There was another searing flood of light. I had nowhere to fling myself this time so I gritted my teeth. It seemed to pass around me, leaving me unhurt. Just blinding me. As it passed, it flashed off the old timbers in the ceiling above me, flashed against the rough brick.

  I shouted her name. Lil. My voice echoed back to me, sounding hollow and, somehow, dead.

  I began to walk.

  It was a great, arcing, dusty space. Hard to see except during the occasional lightning.

  As I kept going, I wondered. Should the tunnel be this long? Didn’t they just go between the main buildings on Bridge Street? Maybe I’d hit an extra-long, weird one that went under the river and across to where the rest of town used to be, before they put in the freeway?

  I have never had a good sense of direction. For all I knew, I could be headed out toward the east side of town or north toward Ashton.

  My feet were getting sore, with little bits of rock and debris grinding into them. I was wearing only my pajamas. Wherever the tunnel emerged, if it wasn’t inside, I’d have to find warm clothing or shelter fast. Or stay in the tunnel which, strangely, wasn’t cold. It had lost even the damp chill I’d noticed when I first stepped through. Or maybe I’d gotten used to it.

  There was another rumble of thunder, quieter this time, and more sustained. The light that followed was dimmer but more diffuse, flooding the tunnel and highlighting the way ahead, which divided in two directions: forks to the left and right, a ridge of rock in between.

  I stopped and glanced back over my shoulder. Had there been other forks? Ways I’d missed in the complete dark? I hadn’t even thought about that possibility, that I might still go the wrong way to Lil. Stepping through the crack in the basement wall, my mind had made a linear assumption, and like most linear assumptions, it had been a dangerous one.

  I’m lost.

  Even if I go back the way I came, how would I know I’d be going the same way? I could just be getting myself even more hopelessly turned around.

  I took a deep breath and shoved aside the panic that wanted to rise in my chest and take over my mind. They’ll be looking when Mom sees I’m not where I’m supposed to be tomorrow morning.

  They’ll see the crack and draw the obvious conclusion: I went after Lil. Police dogs could find us.

  If the crack is still there, of course.

  If I didn’t imagine it.

  I shoved the dark thought aside. “Lil,” I called out again.

  My town was only a square mile across, maybe two miles long. There couldn’t be much more to this tunnel. I decided to run. I randomly chose a direction. I veered slightly to the right, so I wouldn’t run into that wicked ridge of rock I’d seen. I continued to call her name, raising my voice until I shouted. I kept shouting and running until I came into full and painful bodily contact with a rough, unyielding wall, and stumbled, head throbbing, nose bleeding, to the ground.

  “Dang it, Lil,” I moaned. “Where are you? I know you’ve got to be around here somewhere, you and that stupid Satan-lizard.” I brought up my sleeve to staunch the flow of blood, and held it there for a while, feeling my pulse throb in my temples.

  Emergency preparedness lessons and those Yellowstone Park tutorials and my scout training came to mind. When you’re lost, stay in one place. Find a shelter and stay still.

  Someone who is looking will be more likely to find you if you stay in one place. Two moving points are much less likely to meet than a moving point and a stationary object. What percentage more likely? Would it be fifty percent more likely because you’re halving the variability of movement?

  Another boom—this time a distinct, percussive boom, like a bass drum sounding down the tunnel—interrupted my useless calculations, and again, the tunnel flooded with light. Something was moving toward me, scampering toward me.

  I stood, shivering, and focused on the sinuous curve of the little dragon-body, misshapen tail lashing behind.

  It looked up at me and blinked, stopping there a few feet away from me. All went dark again, except for two lights with dragon-eye slit pupils.

  Its eyes glow. That’s useful.

  But if the gecko’s alive, that means I’m seeing things again.

  I’m hallucinating. So I can’t trust anything.

  My dad’s lined, grizzled face, staring into nothingness. His unkempt beard and too-long fingernails, clutching his crocheted blanket in an emergency grip. He couldn’t let go.

  He’d become what the doctor called “catatonic,” frozen forever in whatever delusion he was experiencing. Mom hardly ever went to see him anymore. There’s no point in trying to find someone who’s not there, or trying to keep company with someone who is in a different world.

  I stood and took a deep breath. “All right, Satie,” I said to the glowing, evil little orbs at my feet. “Lead the way, brain. To Lil, I mean. Take me to where she is, please. So I can take her home and get some real help. Okay? Fast, please.”

  I counted breaths, watching the little creature. If hallucinations could talk back, could they also obey? Was I stuck here? Was there some way to navigate this, to find Lil, to at least bring her back, however hurt she might be?

  I let out a deep breath as I heard the shuffle of the gecko’s soft, two-toed feet on the dusty ground. I followed, trotting to keep abreast, so I could see the eyes. They didn’t provide any illumination, only a knowledge of the path it traveled, small lights in the dark.

  It was all I could do, really. Follow. Try to work this through. I was seeing something different, but I was somewhere real. Maybe my mind could take me to her.

  Lil.

  If I did something to her . . . if I’d . . .

  My brain would know it, right? It would have stored that information. Maybe my brain would take me to her. I had to try.

  The tunnels grew taller, moist, and there was a smell of fish and damp sand.

  My legs ached. My back grew stiff. My throat was stuck on itself. We’d been walking a long time. I could be walking anywhere. Maybe not even in a tunnel. Maybe somewhere else.

  And it was winter. If I was outdoors . . .

  No. I had to keep going. I had to find Lil. I didn’t deserve to try to save myself. Not if I’d done something to Lil. I trudged along, more and more stiffly, legs shaking as we took an uphill stretch.

  What might have been hours later, or minutes later, or days later, I began to feel the tunnel was changing, more humidity, more moisture in the air, as bad as the steam in a bathroom after a hot shower. As we continued, it began falling on me. Rain. Lots of rain. A thunderstorm, clouds overhead, purple and black, like wood-smoke. As I looked up, another rumble discharged, and the rain suddenly poured down on me. Where was I? Not in a tunnel anymore. It must have opened, I thought.

  “Lil!” I called out. I couldn’t see very far, but I walked faster, then ran.

  The rain ended as abruptly as it had started, like a curtain of water had parted behind me, bringing me into . . .

  Nothing.

  In front of me, around me: nothing. Literally, nothing. Whiteness. A sort of mist. Rain behind, mist ahead.

  Okay. My brain’s officially crapping out on
me. I’m toast.

  Might as well keep going. If I’m going to be stuck in a hallucination, I’d rather it weren’t a dark tunnel.

  Slowly, more cautiously, I kept walking. The mist provided a weird kind of light. A whiteness in the dark. It didn’t make me any more able to see where I was going, but it was comforting after all the darkness.

  It got thicker and thicker. I was walking through water vapor. Except it wasn’t wet, and actually, it wasn’t cold, either. The temperature of the air felt . . . neutral.

  Exactly that. All of it, neutral. Like being smothered in nothingness. Like particles of nothingness, hugging me in a blinding fog.

  I couldn’t see the glowing eyes anymore.

  “Satie?”

  My voice was muffled, as if dissipated by the mist. The panic came back in full force. I knelt down on . . . not a ground. Not anything. Nothingness.

  Was I dead? In spite of Sunday School lessons, I’d retained some doubts about the idea of an afterlife. Is this what a sentient creature experiences when they’re thrust into non-existence?

  A memory made its way into my mind of a time a lot like this: a scout trip, a snow-campout. We’d all ridden in on snowmobiles, and I’d been sent off with two other boys to look for a good place to make our latrine. They ditched me quickly, as always, and it was snowing enough to make it hard to see more than a few feet in front of my face. I tried to get back to the campsite, but I just kept walking and walking. Finally, I decided to sit in the shelter of a tree, take out my flashlight, and switch it on, hoping people were out looking for me, hoping it would attract the attention of one of the leaders.

  There was the fluff of snow around my snow boots.

  My twelve-year-old-sized snow boots. Faux sheepskin tucked around my ankles. I could feel them, the rubber toes snug against my toe-tips.

  I opened my eyes. There they were: rubber and tan leather, laced up my shin. Black snow pants, soggy with the snow. Mittens and hat, the wool itching against my scalp.

  In my hand was a flashlight. I was gripping it so tightly my wrist ached.