by Steven Bohls
My grandfather.
The image had lost most of its detail and was small enough to fit in a wallet, but the man sparked a memory in Jed’s mind—his only memory of his grandfather. A brittle voice. Wrinkled hands buckling blue car-seat straps around Jed. And then Jed was flying.
If this was a test, it wasn’t like any before. Words played in his mind: kidnapped, imprisoned, killed.
No. They can’t be in trouble. It doesn’t make sense. They don’t get in trouble. They can handle anything—any test.
The wristwatch had four hands too many, and none moved. He rapped it against the trunk as if to jostle the battery. Two black hands pointed to two fifteen. Two copper hands pointed to an e and a VII. Two silver hands pointed to symbols Jed didn’t recognize.
Why are they doing this?
There was nothing wrong with solving an obscure puzzle, outrunning a tornado, or swimming across a lake of poisonous leeches on an ordinary day, but Jed couldn’t remember a birthday when they hadn’t been rock climbing in the Himalayas, sailing in the South Pacific, or hang gliding down the Grand Canyon.
We’re supposed to be together on birthdays.
He wiped the top of the chest. A layer of dust puffed into the air. Jed had helped set the table the night before, and the key hadn’t been there.
A tunnel through the dishwasher? What did that mean? It was crazy. He yanked the key free. It’s ridiculous, he thought, marching to the kitchen.
He opened the dishwasher, but a cookie sheet blocked his view. He pulled out both racks and piled the dishes in the sink. When he looked inside again, there it was: a keyhole. The words echoed in his mind: kidnapped…imprisoned…killed.
He tapped the key against his chin, then crawled inside the dishwasher and slid the key into the hole. As it turned, he heard a click. The back of the dishwasher swung open.
A tunnel descended into darkness.
Jed backed away from the tunnel. His face was numb and his hands were slick with sweat. No matter how long he stared into the blackness, it didn’t get any less black.
He returned to the closet. The emergency bag was a hiking pack stuffed so full the seams were nearly splitting at the zipper.
Why would his parents possibly think he’d need such a pack, when they thought dental floss and a bag of apples were enough to cross the Sumatran freshwater swamps?
He tugged at the zipper. Water bottles and batteries poured out and across the floor. He searched the pack, and found only one other thing: a can opener in a side pocket.
Jed shut his eyes. Fatigue ached behind his lids. None of this made sense. Bottles and batteries? Tunnels inside dishwashers? It was like a blurry dream. The sort of dream where wallpaper turned into nests of spiders, or the sky swirled like a kaleidoscope.
Sleep.
I just need to sleep…
Things would make more sense in the morning. When he wasn’t exhausted.
Wouldn’t they?
• • •
In the morning, Jed sat at the kitchen table and stared into the dishwasher once again. The words from the letter played in his mind: kidnapped, imprisoned, and killed. This darkness wasn’t like the tight caves, cold mines, or thick forests he had been in before—it was something else.
He grabbed a flashlight from the utility closet and waited by the dishwasher. The letter said twelve noon, but how long was the tunnel? At ten o’clock, he couldn’t wait any longer. Jed put the picture of his grandfather into his pocket, then shoved the pack into the tight space. Holding the flashlight with his teeth, he knelt and began to crawl.
His knee bumped the dishwasher, and something dropped from the counter onto the floor.
A lemon.
Bright and happy. Like his mother’s smile. She would pick lemons fresh from their tree, then scratch the rind and breathe the scent. Jed picked up the lemon and brought it to his nose.
“Just be okay…please?”
He tucked the fruit into his pocket and continued to crawl.
Inside, the tunnel widened until he was able to stand. He slung the pack around his shoulders. The iron key, tucked into his shoe, pressed uncomfortably against the side of his foot.
No dripping water broke the silence. No scampering mice. No distant creaking. There was only the sound of his footfalls echoing against the walls.
He walked for what felt like an hour when, finally, a pinprick of light glowed in the distance. Jed clicked off the flashlight and slowed. His breath felt tight. The closer he got, the more light illuminated the tunnel.
Sunlight.
He reached the end of the tunnel, but a fat tan barrel blocked his exit. A label on the side read:
MANUFACTURER AFFIRMS THAT THIS WATER HEATER COMPLIES WITH ASHRAE/IES 90.9221
A water heater.
He pressed against it, but it didn’t budge. A wedge of space underneath looked wide enough to crawl through. He shoved the emergency pack through the gap, then wormed his way past the heater into a tight pocket of space, surrounded by clutter: an old mattress to his left, a bookshelf to his right, and a broken ladder ahead.
Sunlight trickled into the narrow space. A warm breeze drifted over him. The clutter formed a vertical tunnel ending in a circle of blue sky. He gripped the broken ladder with one hand and the pack with the other. Step by step he pulled himself upward.
Soap dispensers, garden tools, telephones, and bowling pins wrapped him in a narrow tube of junk. Jed expected smells of garbage, but this stuff wasn’t exactly trash. True, most items were dented, cracked, or completely broken. But some were brand-new. A white sneaker poked out from the heap. Its toe was stuffed with a cardboard insert. It hadn’t yet been laced, and it had that leathery, plasticky new-shoe smell.
When the ladder ended, Jed stepped on a plastic bin and grabbed a curtain rod above his head. He wedged his right foot between a tire and a cinder block, then pushed up. As he did, the emergency pack snagged on a broken fish tank.
Ripping sounds cut through the air.
His breath caught, and he froze.
“Steady…” he said to the pack. “Don’t you tear open on me.”
He wiggled the pack back and forth until it pulled free.
“Good job, pack. We’ve got to stick together, you and me. I need you.”
As Jed stepped on the arm of a recliner, the junk around him creaked and moaned. A grandfather clock shifted and fell into a coatrack. The coatrack crashed into a table. The table slipped onto a chair.
It’s collapsing.
He scrambled faster. Junk rattled and fell. Something cracked, and the tunnel shook. Faster and faster he climbed, dodging pool balls and shards of glass that cascaded down the tunnel, until he breached the surface—just as the junk crushed in on itself, sealing the tunnel.
Jed stood atop a mountain made entirely from junk. Hundreds of miles of junk covered every inch of the world, as far as he could see.
In front of him, the junk sloped downward to a cliff edge.
Behind him, the junk piled so high into the clouds that Jed couldn’t see its peak. The mountain spread endlessly to the left and just as far to the right.
Sunlight reflecting off hunks of metal made the world sparkle. A chill trickled through him. For the first time in a long time, Jed was scared. His feet wobbled on the unsteady surface. Afraid to take a single step, he leaped over a desk, landed on the soft arm of a crooked couch, and slumped into a cushion.
Before his breathing had time to steady, the grinding rattle of an overworked engine roared to life behind him.
A flying tugboat born of junk drifted closer. Its hull was a patchwork of copper and galvanized steel; sunlight glinted off the polished sheets with a blinding glare. Rubber tires cinched the boat’s belly like a belt. Rusty handrails rimmed the deck, and iron grates acted as windows. A plump smokestack, poking up from the top deck, coughed swollen puffs of gray soot.
Three propellers—each like a fifty-foot machete—spun in a ghostly blur at the stern. The engine churned a
nd clanked and rattled and whined.
The ship slowed until it was nearly on top of Jed.
A door opened from the main bridge, and a man in a rust-colored trench coat stepped from the cabin. Angry slashes crisscrossed the coat’s thick leather. The man clomped across the deck, scanning the junk. His heavy coat rocked back and forth as his boots thudded against the deck with purpose. Then he turned, and his eyes locked onto Jed’s.
The man’s face had more scars than his coat. Some were thin and white, others rough and bumpy, like frayed bits of twine. One scar, as thick as a braid of rope, snarled from above his left ear to below the right side of his jaw.
He moved toward the railing, eyes still on Jed.
“’Hoy there, boy!” he called. “Shout us your name and metal.”
“My what?” Jed asked.
“Name and metal. And be quick about it.”
“My metal? I don’t know what that means.”
“Your fleet, boy! Are you dumb? What fleet metal do you hail under?”
“I don’t have a fleet. I don’t know where I am. I was told to meet Captain Holiday at noon.” He looked at the wristwatch, even though its hands still weren’t moving. “Is this the right time?”
“I’m Captain Murdock Bog,” said the man. “We’re filling in for Captain Holiday at the moment—seeing as he’s dead.”
Another crew member marched next to the captain. He wore a fitted white shirt with sleeves that reached his fingertips. The shirt’s buttons and cuff links were a dull silver. He stood stiff and tall and moved like a toy soldier. His face was smooth and pale, ghostly and emotionless, with eyes the color of concrete.
The captain continued. “Kizer here says we’re to pick up a short, scrawny boy carrying a backpack. I don’t see any backpack. But you are short and scrawny—”
“I do have a backpack!” Jed reached down and lifted the pack. The rip in the pack’s belly opened another inch, and a water bottle slipped out.
“What do you have there?” the man asked as Jed picked up the bottle.
“Just water bottles and batteries.”
The two men shared a glance.
“Where does a boy like you find a pack full of water and batteries, huh? You steal it from some tinker?”
“I didn’t steal anything!”
“Riiiight…” Captain Bog muttered. The scars on his face tightened.
“My parents left it for me.”
“Sure they did. So where are they? Your parents.”
“They’re missing.”
“And they just ‘left you’ that pack right before they up and went ‘missing’?”
Captain Bog leaned over the ship’s railing and stared at him the way Jed’s mother would when she knew he was lying. “If you keep spitting out lies, I’ll turn right around and leave you where you stand.”
“I’m not lying!”
“Did you steal the pack or not?”
“He looks like a thief,” Kizer said.
Heat rushed to Jed’s cheeks. “I’m not a thief!”
Captain Bog nodded. “Skinny boy like that…probably a stowaway. I’d bet a sack of batteries he filched trades from a tinker and jumped ship. Got himself stranded.”
Kizer nodded back. “Why else would he be sitting out by the fringe with nothing but batteries and water?”
Jed’s skin boiled. Sure, he was a lot of unrespectable things. Reckless? Yup. Impulsive? Definitely. But a thief and a liar? The hot anger prickled his throat. “Either you’re here to pick me up or you’re not,” he said. “But I’m not going to stand around while some guy whose face looks like the bottom of a shoe calls me a thief and a liar!”
Kizer’s jaw slackened. His gaze jerked toward the captain.
Captain Bog studied Jed. “The bottom of a shoe?” he said, scratching a thick scar on his chin.
Probably not the best choice of words. This wasn’t exactly the sort of place where he could hitch a ride home from a park ranger.
Before Jed could recover with an apology, Captain Bog spoke. “That’s maybe the funniest thing I’ve heard in a week.”
Jed waited for him to smile.
But he didn’t smile.
And he didn’t glare.
In fact, he didn’t show any expression at all. No red-cheeked insecurity. No playful grin. No I’m going to grind your skinny body to bits scowl.
After an uncomfortable silence, the captain turned to Kizer. “Wasn’t that funny, Ki?”
“Eh,” Kizer mumbled.
“Oh, lighten up, Ki. It was funny.” His face was still emotionless as a block of wood. He pointed to his cheek. “You can’t get much uglier than the bottom of a shoe, can you?” He rested his elbows on the railing. “You’re a funny kid. Now stop lazing about and climb aboard.”
He waved his arm, and someone tossed a coiled rope ladder over the edge. It unrolled and snapped into place near Jed.
“Oh,” Captain Bog added, “and if you ever say something like that again, I’ll strap you to the propellers and run the ship full throttle. Got it?”
Jed touched the rope in front of him. This Murdock Bog had said that Captain Holiday was dead.
What if I’m not supposed to get on this ship?
“Are you coming or not?” Captain Bog called. “Makes no difference to me, so decide. And be quick about it.”
The ladder swayed back and forth. He glanced back, searching for the collapsed hole from where he’d crawled.
“So be it,” the captain said. “Sprocket, take us about.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” a woman called from the deck. Her voice was sharp and high and sarcastic all at once.
The engine groaned, and the scent of burning oil filled the air. The hull creaked and began to turn, pulling the rope ladder along with it.
“Wait!” Jed shouted.
Captain Bog shook his head. “I’ve got a rendezvous to make, and a dig site to reach. I’m not in a waiting mood. You want on? Get on.”
Jed waited for the ship to pause so he could do just that, but it didn’t.
“All ahead full!” Captain Bog shouted.
“All ahead full!” Sprocket repeated.
“No!” Jed snatched up the backpack and leaped from the couch. He swiped for the ladder, but his fingers only knocked it away. “Stop!”
He leaped and reached again, but the ladder was even farther away. Jed bounded forward, barely watching the junk underfoot as he barreled toward the ship—toward the sharp cliff edge in front of him.
Jed swung the pack’s strap onto one shoulder and bolted. His feet battled with spongy pillows, wobbly dresser drawers, and a pile of scattered golf clubs. He swiped the air again, but the ladder was too high.
“I can’t reach it!”
“Probably because you’re short and scrawny,” Captain Bog called back. “I bet right now you’d rather have a face like mine and a few more inches on your legs than pretty cheeks and those twin twigs.”
The ladder dangled tauntingly. The tunnel to home was gone. This was his only hope.
Jed searched the piles, then scooped up an iron. He looped the power cord around his wrist. With a burst of speed he sprang onto an upright refrigerator, then chucked the iron at the rope ladder.
The iron tumbled in the air and flew between two of the rungs. The ship jerked his body from the refrigerator, and something popped in his wrist.
He gripped the cord and flailed in the air.
“Stop!” he yelled, midswing.
A face poked over the railing. “How many times do I have to tell you? We’re not going to laze around waiting for you. You want up? Start climbing.”
Jed had climbed more mountains than he could name, but the slick, plastic power cord strangled his wrist, and the backpack full of water weighed him down. He flexed, but his body barely raised an inch. He tried again, but the pack was too heavy and his wrist was too weak.
Something above snapped, and his body dropped an inch. The rubber sheath around the iron’s cord stre
tched. The sudden jerk opened the rip in the pack another few inches, and bottles tumbled to the junk below.
“I need help!” he shouted. “Please! I’m going to fall! I’ll be cut to pieces!”
“Well, then I won’t be the only one with a face that looks like the bottom of a shoe, now, will I?”
The cord was like a noose around his wrist. His knuckles deepened into a bloated purple. A second snap sounded, and the cord pulled another inch from the iron. The weight was too much. It was only a matter of time before the cord broke altogether.
Jed searched the junk below, but they’d flown so high that even the luckiest clump of pillows wouldn’t save his life.
His arms shook.
He lifted the pack’s strap to his shoulder, then reached back and yanked a flap of fabric in the tear to relieve some weight. The backpack split open. Bottles and batteries tumbled free.
Now get on that ship! he told himself.
But it was too late. The cord creaked again, and Jed knew it was about to snap. Then the ladder began to rise.
“Heave, men,” Captain Bog grunted. “Heave.”
Jed rose higher and higher.
“That’s it, men. Let’s pull him in.”
A swarm of arms gripped Jed’s face, legs, and shirt. They lifted him over the railing and dumped him on the deck. His face hit hard, and he rolled onto his side.
He massaged his wrist, and the color in his hand returned to normal. The deck was a metal collage of steel and copper planks all riveted together.
Kizer loomed over him, amusement tugging at his lips. “‘Help, help, pull me in! I can’t climb a ladder! I’m going to be cut to bits!’ Can you stand up by yourself, or do you need help with that, too?”
Jed shot him a barbed look.
“All right, Kizer,” Captain Bog said. “Leave the boy alone. Poor thing can’t even climb a ladder.”
Jed stumbled to his feet. “I can climb a stupid ladder. I climbed Mount McKinley in the middle of January.”
Kizer snorted. “Is that supposed to mean something? I’ve never even heard of a junk hill called McKinley.”
Jed straightened his shirt. “Did I say it was a junk hill? No. I said it was a mountain.”
“Settle down there, little tyke,” Captain Bog interjected. “No need to get worked up. I’m sure you’re a world-class climber.”
