Tim left the old road and walked along the fence line to the damaged portion. A closer inspection revealed accessing the old mine would be even easier than he had thought. An unknown adventurer who did own a pair of bolt cutters and who had remembered to bring them along had very thoughtfully snipped right through four feet of links immediately adjacent to the support pole on the left side of the damaged fence. Tim inspected the links and concluded the adventurer, whoever it was, had done his exploring a long time ago, because the slices in the metal were as rusted as the rest of the fence.
Tim didn’t care. He had hoped for access to the mine and now he had it. He dropped to his knees and forced the fence away from the metal support pole. The links were stiff and hard to move and when he touched them, rust flaked off in Tim’s hands. He placed his backpack on the ground and pushed it through the opening, then belly-crawled behind it.
And just like that he was in. He stood and brushed the dirt off his clothes and turned toward an ancient wood-frame building positioned roughly in the middle of the clearing. It was obvious that at one time this had been the mining company’s office. Decades of Pennsylvania weather had scoured the paint right off the siding and it now stood gray and forlorn, beaten-looking. The front of the building faced what had at one time probably been some kind of rudimentary parking lot and Tim wondered whether cars had even been invented nearly a hundred years ago, or if horses had stood tethered to poles outside the office like in the old black and white Western movies his dad used to like to watch before he pulled up stakes and moved on.
The most interesting part of the building, though, was the front door, because it hung awkwardly off its frame, inviting Tim to walk right through and explore the inside. He approached and examined the door as closely as possible without actually touching it, fearing the whole thing might just drop off its rusty hinges and fall on him. Jeez, stop being such a wuss, he told himself. You came all this way, and now you’re afraid to check the place out?
He took a deep breath and squeezed through the small opening, trying not to disturb the rotting wood, holding his breath until he had slipped safely past the entrance.
Inside the decrepit building was . . . nothing.
Tim wasn’t sure what he had expected to find—decomposed human bodies or caches of weapons or maybe a chest filled with priceless treasures—but whatever it was, this wasn’t it. Decades worth of dust and grime littered the floor of the open space, which had been cleared of everything but one lonely table in the far corner. It was as if there had been no room on the last moving truck to leave the doomed mining compound, so the owners just said the heck with it and left it where it stood. The office windows were so dirty a twilight-like gloom permeated the interior despite the fact it was barely past noon and outside the sun was beating down on central Pennsylvania through cloudless skies.
Well, this is a letdown, Tim thought, and hurried through the empty office toward a back door, which, against all odds, still seemed to fit snugly in its frame. It was unlocked. He turned the grubby handle and pushed and the door popped open after a moment’s hesitation, as if it had been closed for so long it couldn’t quite remember exactly what it was supposed to do.
Tim squinted and shielded his eyes against the blazing sun, which seemed even brighter now than it had been before after the murky dimness of the old office, despite the fact he had spent no more than two or three minutes inside. Finally he spotted what he had come for.
Across a small empty space Tim could see a gradual rise in the earth into which had been carved the entrance to the mining operation. It seemed somehow small and insignificant given the amount of attention it had received so many years ago. A semi-circular tunnel had been dug, barely higher than Tim’s five feet, four inches, and reinforced with a frame constructed of thick timbers.
Tim’s heart hammered excitedly in his chest. This was it! Unless there were other mine shaft entrances scattered throughout the area, this had to be what he was looking for. There was a problem, though. When they shut down the old mine almost ninety years ago, the authorities had sealed the shaft entrance with a thick slab of concrete. It was enormous, big enough to close off the entire entryway, and had been secured in place with heavy iron bolts, rendering it impassable.
But as was the case with the exterior of the office building and the fence encircling the compound, the passage of time and nearly a century of Pennsylvania weather had taken its toll on the patch job. A network of cracks criss-crossed the concrete slab, some of them close to half an inch thick, Tim guessed. The iron bolts had suffered from the passage of time, as well. They had been heavily corroded by rust, and Tim knew there was no way they would ever turn as they once had.
He had come prepared, though, knowing that if he was lucky enough to find the old mine, he would likely not be able just to walk right into a shaft. He unzipped his backpack excitedly, pulling out the tools he would need. They had weighed down the pack, making the hike here much more tiring than he had expected it to be, but now he congratulated himself on his foresight.
He placed the tools side by side on the ground, lining them up neatly: A hammer with a heavy iron head. A wedge Matt used to split wood in the back yard. A long screwdriver with a thick metal shaft. He had thought long and hard about what to bring on this hike, and it appeared his planning had been perfect.
He picked up the wedge, inserting the thin, sharp end into the small gap between the concrete slab and the thick wooden beam, lining it up with where he figured the rusting iron bolt should be. Then he grabbed the hammer and prepared to smash the wedge. His plan was to slice through the bolt.
Tim knew he would probably destroy the wedge in the process, and the feeling of guilt that had been eating away at him since deceiving his mom this morning intensified. First he had lied and now he was about to destroy someone else’s property.
He shook his head, embarrassed at being such a baby. The wedge was just a hunk of forged iron. It would probably be months before it was even missed, and when it was, Tim could own up to losing it and pay Matt out of his paper route earnings for a new one. No big deal. Tim vowed not to lose his nerve over something so stupid.
He took a deep breath and prepared to swing the hammer. It felt unbalanced in his hand, the iron head much heavier than he had expected. He braced the wedge against the concrete and then reared back and swung the hammer hard. And missed the wedge. The hammer’s iron head whistled past his hand and smashed into the wooden beam with a squishy THUMP.
Oh, man. That was close. Tim tried to imagine hiking two hours back to his house from the middle of nowhere with a broken hand and grimaced. Be more careful, dummy.
He steadied himself and swung again—this time with a little less backswing, to hopefully provide a little more control—and connected solidly with the wedge. A metallic TINK sang out and the wedge vibrated and Tim wondered if he had done any damage to the bolt. He swung again and connected again, then swung a third time and was rewarded. The wedge sank out of sight, disappearing between the concrete slab and the wooden beam.
He knew he had snapped the bolt and smiled. He felt like Indiana Jones or something. His plan was working!
Tim picked up the screw driver and slid the end into the gap between the slab and the beam. What had started out as a sliver, just barely enough room to slide the thin end of the wedge into, was now at least an inch thick, forced apart by the base of the wedge.
The screw driver was massive, at least two feet long, with a thick steel head. It was no ordinary screw driver; it was more like a pry bar, so big Matt used it as a poker in the fire pit behind his house. Tim hoped it would be strong enough to do what he was about to ask of it.
He stood up and leaned against the handle with all his weight, pushing and shoving, trying to use the screw driver as a lever to force the slab away from the wooden beam and break another of the iron bolts. And it worked. Sort of.
The nearly one hundred year old slab of concrete broke apart. The top half shattered
, breaking along one of the thicker cracks in its surface. Tim lost his balance and fell to the ground next to the slab as concrete pieces, some as big as his head and others looking like tiny grains of sand, showered the ground in front of the mine shaft.
Tim scrambled to his feet and surveyed the damage, wide-eyed. This wasn’t exactly what he had planned—less than half of the gigantic slab had been removed—but the opening looked big enough to wriggle through. It probably wouldn’t accommodate a full-grown adult, maybe not even a normal-sized kid, but for once in his life, Tim was thankful for the fact that he was small for his age.
He grabbed a flashlight out of his pack—another unwitting contribution from Matt—and swung a leg over the top of the broken and crumbling slab. The inside of the ancient mine was pitch-black and terrifying and Tim knew he would have to move fast or else he would lose his nerve. He eased into a sitting position on the slab and ducked his head and prepared to slide into the tunnel.
And his cell phone rang.
He dropped the flashlight and fumbled around in the front pocket of his cargo shorts. School hadn’t gotten out yet, so it couldn’t be any of his friends calling. In fact, there was only one person it could be. He lifted his phone to his face. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, Timmy, you sound much better! How are you feeling?”
He mentally kicked himself for forgetting he was supposed to be sick, then lowered his voice and tried to sound ill. “H-hi, Mom, yeah, I guess I’m a little better.”
“Is everything all right? You sound preoccupied.”
“Uh, no. Yeah, I mean. Everything’s okay, you just caught me in the middle of a nap, that’s all.” He mentally kicked himself for not anticipating that his mom would call; of course she would, he was supposed to be home sick, after all.
“Oh. Well, I’ll let you get back to sleep, then. I just wanted to check in on you and let you know I might be able to get out of work early and come home to take care of you.”
“NO!”
“What?”
“I mean, you don’t need to do that, Mom, I’ll probably just sleep the rest of the day, anyway. I’m pretty sleepy.” He tried to yawn and realized he had no idea how to do it convincingly when he wasn’t really tired.
“Are you sure nothing’s wrong, Timothy?”
“I’m sure, yeah.”
“Okay, I’ll see you when I get home, then.”
“Bye, Mom.” Tim ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket. He was suddenly miserable. He hated lying to his mom. The rest of the adventure was cool, challenging and fun, although also kind of stressful. But he had always been close to his mom and almost never lied to her.
He picked up the flashlight again, his enthusiasm suddenly dampened. If his mom came home early and discovered he had faked an illness just so he could play hooky, it would be months before he could earn her trust back, maybe longer. Heck, maybe he never would. What had seemed like a harmless lark when he planned it now felt less like something fun and more like a really bad idea.
He sat on the crumbling slab thinking, his right leg dangling into the black pit. Did he really want to do this?
His plan had been to take a few pics from inside the mine with his cell phone camera to prove to his friends back at school—the babies who liked to pretend they were tough but hadn’t had the guts to join him—that he had really done what they were all too chicken to do.
But what if Mom really got out of work early like she said she was going to? He would be in huge trouble, then, and for what? To prove he was more of a man than his friends?
If he left now and really moved, he might still be able to get home before Mom, even if she did leave work early. She hadn’t said she was getting out right now, so she probably meant she was going to take a couple of hours off at the end of her shift. Normally she got home around 5:30, so if he was right, today she might be back by 3:30. Tim thought he might be able to get home and back in bed by then.
Plus, he could still take a couple of pictures to prove he had accomplished what no one else was tough enough to do. He could get one of himself standing in front of the broken concrete seal over the mine shaft, and maybe a couple more inside the dilapidated office building. He didn’t really have to actually enter the mine shaft or anything.
He made up his mind. That was what he would do. He stretched his left hand out as far as he could, camera turned toward his body, hoping he could get a wide enough angle so the picture would show that half his body was inside the mine shaft everyone was so afraid of.
Then he froze.
Something was wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on what it might be, but something was definitely not right.
Then Tim realized what it was: Total silence had fallen over the old mine. The site was one hundred percent quiet. Tim knew there was always ambient noise, even in the middle of nowhere: Birds chirping, rodents rustling the grass, animals moving through the woods.
But now there was nothing. Even the light breeze had abruptly died down. The phrase deathly silence flashed into Tim’s head and he suddenly understood its meaning. The formerly bright sunshine now seemed muted and dim and the only sound Tim could hear was the blood rushing through his ears, loud as a waterfall, and all at once he recognized exactly how alone he was out here, miles from anywhere, and that he had told no one of his plans.
No one knew he was out here.
No one knew where he was.
And something touched his ankle.
Tim screamed even though no one could hear him and he instinctively jerked his leg toward his body, away from whatever awful thing had touched him. He pulled his leg up and tried to propel himself away from the broken concrete slab and out of the mine shaft, but his left foot was barely touching the ground and it slipped on the weed-strewn dirt.
And then he felt it again, except this time the thing—it was thin and ropy and felt slithery and throbbing and somehow alive, all at the same time—wrapped itself around his ankle in an instant. Tightly.
Tim screamed again and tried to regain his footing, but the thing began pulling him, and it was powerful, it was unbelievably powerful, and it pulled on his ankle and Tim felt himself being dragged steadily over the slab. Into the tunnel.
He scraped his shoulder on the top of the wooden beam which until just a few minutes ago had held the concrete seal over the mineshaft. He didn’t notice.
He scraped his head against the beam as the thing continued pulling, reeling him in like a fish on a line, and he didn’t notice that, either.
He felt blood trickle down his neck from the scrape on his head and didn’t care.
Then he disappeared into the mine, the blackness so complete it was like floating into outer space, still screaming for all he was worth.
But it didn’t matter. Because he was all alone.
3
Julie McKenna stood in her son’s bedroom doorway, puzzled. Tim’s bed covers had been thrown back haphazardly, as if he had gotten up in a hurry, and Tim was nowhere to be found. She had come immediately to his room to check on him upon her arrival home from work, and after discovering he wasn’t there, she had searched the entire house—it was easy, being just a five room ranch—ending up right back here in a matter of minutes.
An ill-defined feeling of unease took root in the pit of her stomach. Tim was not the type of kid to take off without asking permission, even when he wasn’t sick with the flu, and this morning he had been burning up. His fever had been so high, in fact, that Julie had momentarily considered taking her son straight to the emergency room. He had been that sick.
Or had he?
She thought back to her son’s strange behavior, how he had seemed nervous and jumpy, completely unlike his usual cheerful self. She had chalked it up to the illness, but now she was not so sure.
The disappearing thermometer.
The sudden onset of illness after seeming completely normal all day yesterday.
His extreme reaction to her suggestion on the phone t
hat perhaps she would come home from work early. She had expected him to be excited and happy and he had practically bitten her head off.
Tim wouldn’t be the first kid to skip a day of school by faking illness—Julie had done it herself a few times, now that she thought about it—but it would be so out of character for her son, who was always so conscientious, she was having a hard time believing that might be what he had done. He was growing up, though, and he had changed since the move here to Tonopah last year. It hadn’t been an easy transition for him, first losing his dad and then moving away from the only home he had ever known, in Harrisburg. Maybe the sudden “illness” was actually Timmy’s way of acting out.
Julie turned away from her son’s bedroom door and padded down the short hallway to the phone in the kitchen. She would call around to his friends’ homes—it wouldn’t take long, he only had a couple—and read him the riot act when she finally found him.
The uneasy feeling in her stomach grew a little. She knew she should be angry, but there didn’t seem to be any room for anger in her body. The fear was taking up too much space.
***
Julie couldn’t stop pacing. Back and forth, one end of the tiny kitchen to the other: Circle to the left in front of the kitchen table then back across the well-worn vinyl tiles to the oven, circle to the left again and start over.
Timmy was missing. He had now been gone nearly twenty-four hours. None of his friends would cop to knowing where he was, and all of them had had their feet held to the fire by their parents when they heard the panic in Julie’s voice. They claimed they didn’t know his whereabouts and she believed them. One thing she did know was that he hadn’t gotten dressed and gone to school after she left for work yesterday, not that she really believed he would have. None of his friends had seen him all day.
“Honey, you need to relax,” Matt said, and she ignored him.
He tried again. “Tim’s probably off smoking cigarettes or something, trying to be a rebel. He’s a kid, remember?”
The Becoming - a novella Page 4
