The Impossible Fortress

by Jason Rekulak

  “I’m with Alf on this one,” Clark said. “I think Tyler deserves his own magazine as a courtesy. We wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t given us the idea.”

  “Then we’ll get him a magazine,” I said. “I don’t want him coming with us. I don’t trust him.”

  “I said we’d wait,” Alf said.

  “I’m not waiting. We go now or I quit.”

  “Then quit,” Alf said with a shrug. “I’ll get you a magazine and you can pay me back.”

  This is when I understood my participation in the plan was no longer essential. All they needed from me was the code, and I’d already turned it over.

  Clark rested the Claw on my shoulder. “Relax, Billy. Everything’s going to be fine. We’ll do the plan exactly like we prepared. No changes. We’ll just have an extra helper.”

  But I knew it wasn’t that simple. Something about Tyler’s story didn’t add up. “The guy’s eighteen years old. A senior. If he wants a Playboy, he can just walk into a store and buy one.”

  “Stop being a tightass,” Alf said. “We finally have a senior on our side—a cool person trying to help us—and you’re being a dick.”

  “Because he’s lying,” I said. “He was fired from Zelinsky’s for stealing.”

  “So what?” Alf asked.

  “So he’s dishonest!”

  “Of course he’s dishonest! We’re breaking into a store! To steal Playboy! You want to bring a Boy Scout?”

  We argued back and forth in whispers, then stopped at the sound of approaching footsteps. Someone was coming. Clark was closest to the end, so he peeked out.

  “It’s them,” he whispered.

  “Them?” I asked.

  Clark shrugged. “I guess Tyler brought a friend?”

  I nudged him aside to see for myself. Tyler and his friend were walking right in the middle of the access road, right where anyone could see them. Tyler recognized me and pointed.

  “What’s up, pussy?” he called. “Why you hiding?”

  Tyler grinned, but his friend had a flat, neutral expression. The friend was a man, a full-grown man, thirty or forty or fifty years old. He had a brown beard and long brown hair braided into a ponytail. He looked like a cross between Willie Nelson and Sasquatch.

  “Where’s your girlfriends?” Tyler asked.

  Alf and Clark stood up, gesturing for Tyler to keep his voice down. “Tack is doing patrols,” Clark whispered. “He starts on Liberty Place and walks west on Market Street, then cuts through the alley—”

  Tyler waved a hand, cutting him off. “Tack’s not catching nobody. That shitbird couldn’t catch AIDS at a faggot convention.”

  “He’ll be here any minute,” Clark said.

  “Then let’s get started,” Tyler said.

  Alf nodded at the stranger. “Who’s this?”

  “My cousin,” Tyler said. “This is Rene.”

  Rene looked at us with dead eyes. He wore a green army jacket and faded jeans, and there was a large canvas bag slung over his shoulder. There was no further explanation. Suddenly this psycho Hells Angels lunatic was part of our gang, and I knew I had to get away.

  “There’s a problem,” I said.

  “A problem?” Tyler asked.

  I have always been a terrible liar. Alf could spin bullshit all day long and even Clark could stretch the truth now and then, but I was a terrible fibber. “I think Mary changed the code. After I saw her use it. Just to be safe.”

  Tyler turned on Alf, grabbing his fatigues and pushing him up against the wall. “You told me he had the code. You said it was one-zero-zero-two.”

  “That’s what he told me!” Alf sputtered. He turned to glare at me. “Tell him the truth, Billy!”

  “Maybe that’s the code, maybe it’s not,” I said. “That’s the problem, I don’t know. There’s a chance we get in the store and the alarm goes off anyway.”

  Rene never moved or changed his expression. I was starting to wonder if he even understood English.

  “So why are you here?” Tyler asked. “Did you come here to warn us?”

  I nodded. “I don’t want anyone to get busted.”

  “That’s very thoughtful,” Tyler said. “You put on your ninja costume and sneak out here at twelve thirty just to warn us? That’s really considerate, Billy.”

  His right hand swung out, and I braced myself for a punch. Instead he reached around to my back pocket and yanked out the crowbar. “So why’d you bring this?” He shoved me against the Dumpster and pushed the tip of the crowbar into my throat, like he was getting ready to pry off my head. “Why are you lying?”

  It was hard to speak with twelve inches of steel pressed into my trachea. “I’m trying to help you,” I said, but the words came out like croaks.

  “Easy, easy,” Alf said, trying hard to keep the peace. “We all want the same thing, guys. We’re all here to see Vanna White’s hoo-ha, am I right? Let’s keep our eyes on the prize. That’s the important thing.”

  Wrong, I thought. Tyler and Rene weren’t going through all this trouble just to see Vanna White’s hoo-ha. They were clearly after something bigger.

  Tyler’s eyes were inches from mine. He was searching my face for signs of duplicity. Finally he released me, and I slunk to the ground, clutching my throat, surprised to find that I wasn’t actually bleeding, just scratched.

  “Get the crates,” Tyler said.

  “Now you’re talking,” Alf said. “Let’s do this!”

  Earlier in the evening, Clark had stolen some milk crates from the loading dock of the Food World and stored them in the Dumpster behind General Tso’s. Now Alf was climbing into the Dumpster and passing the crates to Clark, who stacked them under the fire ladder in a pyramid. If I was going to bolt, this was my last chance. I couldn’t beat Tyler in a footrace—but if I made it to the backyards along High Street, I’d have a decent chance of escaping him. I knew all the hidden gaps in the fences; there were plenty of trees and gardens and toolsheds that would conceal me.

  But what then? If I managed to escape, they’d just go into Zelinsky’s without me. And I couldn’t let that happen. Anything that went wrong at the store would be my fault. If I was going to keep it safe, I’d have to help Tyler and Rene break into it.

  Up in the second-floor window, Arnold Schwarzenegger rose to his feet, turned around in a circle, and sat down again.

  “You guys go to the roof,” Alf said. “I’ll ring the doorbell.”

  Tyler pointed me toward the ladder. “Ladies first.”

  I wiped my palms on my jeans—it wasn’t particularly warm, but I was sweating like crazy—and walked up the crates. When I stood on top, I was just tall enough to grab the bottom rung of the ladder, but I didn’t have the strength to pull myself up. My arms were shaking too much.

  Clark grabbed my legs and gave me a boost. “Plant your feet against the bricks,” he said. “Walk yourself up, all right?”

  I was surprised by the calm in his voice. From the way he spoke, you’d think we broke into stores every weekend. With Clark pushing from below, I was able to reach for the second rung, then a third, until I was finally standing upright on the ladder.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Tyler said, marveling at our incompetence. “I can’t tell which one of you is more crippled.”

  I climbed one rusty rung at a time. The ladder shook and rattled like it was breaking away from the wall, but the drone of the air conditioner masked the noise. I was halfway up when I heard the high-pitched chime of the doorbell and the even higher-pitched yapping of the dog. Now the meter was running. We had three minutes to get on the roof and cross over to the bike shop.

  Some ten feet below me, Clark grabbed the bottom rung and pulled himself up. Even with the Claw, he was stronger and faster than me, climbing right on my heels and urging me higher and higher. Little bits of concrete and rusty ladder were falling all around me; I climbed as fast as I could and threw myself onto the roof, wriggling onto the surface like a worm. There wasn’t much to see—ju
st a flat asphalt surface and a few PVC vents. I walked up to the east edge of the roof—to the alley separating General Tso’s from the bike shop next door—and my stomach flip-flopped.

  At ground level, the alley looked small, a narrow gap you could easily hop across. But here on the roof it was a vast chasm. You’d need a running start to clear it—but there was a knee-high wall surrounding the roof, designed to keep debris from spilling off the sides. We would have to stand on top of the wall and leap across.

  Clark walked up behind me. “Five feet, two inches.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I measured it. When we built the model.”

  “I’m not sure I can make it.”

  “You don’t have to make it,” he said. “We brought a bridge, remember?”

  Clark disappeared into the shadows and returned carrying a long wooden plank. He walked to the east edge of the roof and then carefully laid the plank across the alley until the far end rested on the roof of the bike shop. I clicked on my flashlight and realized it was just an old two-by-four—and like most two-by-fours, it only measured three and a half inches wide.

  This was a bridge?

  Schwarzenegger’s bark echoed up through the alley, and I could hear General Tso shouting across Market Street, daring whoever rang his bell to “show your faces like men!” We had a minute, ninety seconds tops, before he returned to his apartment. Everything was happening much faster than I anticipated.

  Tyler was next to ascend the ladder. “What are you waiting for?” He stepped onto the plank, took five confident footsteps across the alley, then arrived on the roof of the bike shop. “Let’s go. Hurry up.”

  Clark held out his arms like an acrobat and stepped forward onto the beam. The wood bowed when he crossed the middle, then sprang back like a rubber band when he reached the other side.

  Meanwhile, Alf was coming up the ladder.

  “Where did you find this board?” I asked.

  “Getty Swamp, behind the Ford plant,” he said. “Perfectly good lumber just sitting out in the mud, can you believe it?”

  Alf was waiting for me to cross but I gestured for him to go first. I wasn’t ready yet. He looked down at the chasm and hesitated. “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Come on,” Tyler called. “Move it.”

  By this point Rene was climbing up the ladder, and I suspect Alf crossed the chasm just to get away from him. Halfway across the beam, he lost his balance and leapt toward the bike shop. The plank bounced hard, flipping upside down and nearly clattering off the side. Alf hadn’t come close to falling, but Clark pulled him to safety anyway. “I’m all right,” he said, breathing deeply. “I’m cool.” He looked over at me. “It’s okay if you don’t look down. Just look straight ahead.”

  Rene went next, stepping past me like I wasn’t even there. He tossed his canvas bag across the alley, and it landed on the roof of the bike shop with a terrible clatter. Then he used the toe of his boot to straighten the plank. On his second step, the two-by-four released a loud crack. It sounded like something in the wood had been fatally damaged—its back broken, its spine snapped. Rene took a third step forward—he was easily two hundred pounds, the biggest of our group, and the plank bowed like it was straight out of Looney Tunes, stretching in ways that defied the laws of physics. Two steps later, he was safe on the roof of the bike shop. He grabbed his bag and kept walking.

  “Come on,” Tyler called.

  Alf and Clark stared helplessly across the chasm. I realized I was embarrassing them. But still I didn’t move.

  Tyler knelt down and grabbed the plank. “You come right now or I’m pulling it in,” he said. “I’m going to count to three.”

  Walking out on the bridge was a spectacularly stupid idea. I knew that Rene’s weight had pushed the wood beyond its limits. I was trusting my life to a plank that had soaked all year in a fetid swamp. But I couldn’t stay behind. I had to keep an eye on them, keep things from slipping out of control. I stepped forward onto the plank.

  The first step was easy. But the second step, the step where I fully removed myself from the roof—that was the commitment. The wood trembled beneath my weight, quivering like the edge of a diving board. I made the mistake of looking down, but there was nothing to see—no alley, just a vast black gulf, a bottomless sinkhole.

  A third step was impossible. I couldn’t step forward or backward, not without something to hold on to. The beam was too wobbly. I was stuck. On the far side of the chasm, Alf and Clark were coaching me with tips and strategies, but it was all noise. They didn’t understand my predicament. Nobody understood my predicament. I was balanced, but I needed all of my concentration to stay balanced. If I shifted my weight even an inch, the board would respond, and I’d have no way to steady myself.

  I wanted to explain all of this to Alf and Clark, but even talking seemed too dangerous. My muscles were locked and starting to tremble. Sweat was dripping down my sides. Through the clutter of my thoughts I heard Tyler yelling at everyone, saying, “Shut up, shut the fuck up!”

  Suddenly the chasm beneath me transformed into a regular alley with concrete walls and a finite depth. A light was bouncing off the sides, bringing size and dimension to the void, illuminating the route for Tackleberry as he arrived for his patrol.

  It was a miracle. We could end this all right now. Tack would help me off the plank, and chase Tyler and Rene from the store, and I would explain everything. Yes, there would be consequences, but none of the consequences were going to kill me. Not like the bridge. I tried to open my mouth, but my jaw was clenched. I couldn’t unhinge it.

  Tack was whistling a song I couldn’t quite place—one of those songs you know all the words to, even though you don’t particularly enjoy it. He swept his flashlight back and forth, and I suppose the only thing that prevented him from seeing me was the wide brim of his hat. He passed beneath me and darkness followed in his wake, erasing the alley’s dimensions, replacing them with more nothing. I didn’t dare turn my head to look after him. I focused on his footsteps and his whistling until I couldn’t hear them anymore. And then I was alone again.

  “Billy,” Alf said.

  I blinked. He was standing on the edge of the bike shop, reaching for me.

  “Can you reach out your hand?”

  I shook my head. Not a chance.

  “Put out your hand,” Tyler said, “or I’ll throw this crowbar at your goddamn skull.”

  I put out my hand. Even with Alf leaning off the side of the building, there was still a large gap between our fingers. “Can you step a little closer? Just a half step closer?”

  No way. Not happening. Tyler could throw a crowbar at my skull, but I wasn’t budging.

  Alf stepped onto the far end of the plank, then crept closer, one inch at a time, testing the strength of the wood. The board groaned and shuddered, but Alf kept pressing his luck, advancing while reaching toward me. It was by far the riskiest, most dangerous, and dumbest thing he’d ever done—and I am talking about a guy who once ate a strip of staples on a dare.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m going to help you, Billy. I’m going to get you out of here.”

  By the time his fingers touched my hand, we were standing in the center of a giant V. He kept whispering encouragement, coaxing me along, and with his hand on my wrist I found the confidence to shuffle forward. Clark watched us from the roof of the bike shop. I realized he was gripping Alf’s other wrist, holding him steady while he stepped out to retrieve me. If anything happened to the plank, all three of us would have toppled into the void.

  Instead they pulled me to safety. I reached the roof of the bike shop and immediately sank to my knees. Tyler pulled in the plank, then looked down at me with disdain. “Are you finished fucking around?”

  “He’s fine,” Alf said, clapping me on the back. “You’re okay, ain’tcha, Billy?”

  “Sure he is,” Clark said. “It’s smooth sailing from here.”

>   I was thinking just the opposite—it was not smooth sailing, because I had to cross the bridge again to get home. But that was a problem for later. The guys helped me stand, and we followed Tyler across the roof.

  To anyone down on the street, the bike shop, travel agency, and Zelinsky’s all appeared to be three distinct buildings with their own unique architecture, but this was just an illusion. In truth, they were three identically sized units within a single large building. The roof was a wide, flat expanse—there was no way to tell where the bike shop ended and the travel agency began—but each unit had its own roof access hatch and each hatch was stenciled with the name of the corresponding business.

  Rene had already unpacked his duffel bag and arranged its contents beside the hatch labeled ZELINSKY’S. He had brought a carbon steel crowbar, a cordless power drill with multiple fittings, WD-40, wire cutters, a socket wrench, and (most inexplicably) a knife shaped like a meat cleaver. He wore plastic safety glasses and held a small torch to one of the hinges; it emitted a bright blue flame, and the air smelled like a gas station.

  “Almost done?” Tyler asked.

  Rene nodded. Rather than carefully removing each bolt so we could reaffix the hatch later, he was slicing the hinges in half, destroying them. When he was finished, we would essentially rip the doors right off the roof.

  I pulled Alf aside. “We have to fix everything when we’re done. We have to be like ghosts, remember?”

  “They know what they’re doing.”

  “This wasn’t our plan.”

  “They’re just hinges, Billy. They cost less than the magazines.”

  “We’re paying for the magazines.”

  “What do you want me to do? We can’t stop them now.”

  Clark joined our huddle. “It’s safer this way,” he assured me. “I don’t want to get caught.”

  Then he pulled the T-shirt up over his nose, choking on the acrid fumes of melted metal. The rooftop was thick with smoke, and I wondered if it was visible from street level. If Tack had finished his loop without interruption, he’d be back at the train station by now. He would see Zelinsky’s building in its entirety. He’d likely notice a plume of gray smoke rising above the roofline.