A World Below

by Wesley King

  For Juliana, who gives me a reason to come back to the real world (and never complains when I wander off again)

  Edgewood Middle School | 05/06/17

  Mr. Baker’s Class | Carlsbad Caverns Field Trip

  Parent Supervisor: Ms. Johnson

  Greg Alvarez

  Joanne Bennett

  Eric Johnson

  Derek Jones

  Naj Kahn

  Ashley Lewski

  Brian Little

  Tom Pike

  Mary Robinson

  Marta Robinson

  Silvia Rodrigues

  Leonard Tam

  Shannon Woods

  Jordan Zanowitz

  Consider everyone on this list as missing or deceased. Notify parents immediately. Pictures for identification of bodies may be required.

  —Officer Daniel Brown

  Twenty Minutes Before

  * * *

  THE BOY SAT ON A throne made of mushroom stalks and branches, slung together in an arching, triangular shape and lashed tight with vines. Thorns and brambles had been missed in the soldiers’ haste, and now they dug into his legs and back, pinching and twisting and sharp.

  But the boy did not flinch. He was as motionless as the throne he sat upon.

  The boy had dark hair that spilled down his face in dry, knotted clumps, reaching his shoulders. He was thin but muscular, with the narrow jaw of a thirteen-year-old protruding below pale, thin lips and black eyes. He was still considered a boy, even there in the unforgiving dark. But this boy was the King, and there was a judgment to be made.

  His soldiers brought the offender before him, dragging the frantic child by two skinny arms. The edge of the Ghost Woods stood behind the King, the towering white and crimson fungi and gnarled barbar trees watched the scene impassively. The chamber was deathly still.

  The offender was even younger than the King—as pale as the mushrooms and stained with dirt and fresh blood from a cut above his right eyebrow. His hair was long and unruly as well, hanging down past his shoulders and tangled with snake vines—it looked as if they might have grown from his skull. He was ten or eleven years old, but his eyes were hard and seething with hatred. The sight of them made the King stir.

  “The Worm,” Captain Salez said solemnly, taking up his post beside the King.

  “What is his crime?” the King murmured.

  The King clasped his trembling hands in his lap to still them.

  The haphazard throne had been built on the border of the woods just an hour earlier by his men. They had been hunting for a Night Rat when the cries had gone up: A Worm had been found hunting on the King’s Land. The King knew the crime. He also knew the punishment.

  But there were formalities to follow. All offenders were to be tried by the King.

  Captain Salez straightened. “This Worm was discovered skinning a freshly dead Night Rat on your land, my King. The boy’s spear was still lodged in its torso when discovered. The Worm then tried to flee and harmed one of your soldiers in the process.”

  The King nodded slowly. He wished his father were here, but he was long dead now. Sometimes he imagined that his father was sitting beside him, hard as stone, passing judgment. The boy knew what his words would be: The Law is paramount. It must be death.

  “Do you have anything to say in your defense, Worm?” the boy King asked.

  The young Worm looked up at him, his lip twisting. “I have committed no crime.”

  He was thin, but wiry and strong for his age. He would have been a good soldier.

  “You have heard the charges,” the King said, frowning at the boy’s impertinence.

  “I heard them,” he spat. “But Jana says your land is ours too. So . . . I did nothing wrong.”

  The King’s attending soldiers—twenty strong and armed with sword and spear and jagged knife—stiffened at the comment. The boy shouldn’t have mentioned Jana. There was no name more hated in the entire Midnight Realm than hers—the one who had plunged them into war and who now called herself the Shadow Queen, a blatant challenge to the King.

  The boy would suffer now, if his soldiers had their way.

  The King studied the Worm thoughtfully. The boys’ ribs were visible above a roughly sewn loincloth of rat hide and yew leaves. His gaunt cheeks seemed sickly and alien, buried beneath grime, and yet he looked much the same as the King and his soldiers. Of course he did.

  “What is your name?” the King asked.

  “Nennez,” he replied proudly.

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes,” he replied, looking offended. “I need no help to hunt.”

  “Do you know the sentence for trespassing on the King’s Land?” the King asked.

  The boy finally turned his proud eyes down. His knees were shaking now. “Yes.”

  The King sat back in his throne, feeling the jagged thorns poking into his flesh. It was an easy decision, in truth, but it didn’t feel like one. Nennez looked like the younger brother he had never had—they might have grown up together in the Hall, stalking roaches. He had done nothing wrong but try to feed himself. Did he truly deserve death?

  “The Law is clear,” Captain Salez said, as if sensing the King’s doubts.

  The King just stared at Nennez. “If you were spared, what would you do?”

  The soldiers all looked at their King, uncomprehending.

  Nennez seemed equally stunned. “I . . . I would go back to my people.”

  “Will you stay off my land?” the King asked softly.

  The boy’s bottom lip was moving now, quivering like a fish on the line. “Yes.”

  The King paused. It was unfathomable to let a Worm go for trespassing. But he was already tired of passing death on Worms. Two had gone to death on his orders.

  “Go. Tell Jana to keep your people away. And try to be—”

  He didn’t get a chance to finish. Suddenly the Earth shook like a writhing animal in a net, casting the King from his throne. The cave came alive with screams and panic as the sound of cracking, splintering stone filled the air. Nennez took off in a flash, using the panic to his advantage, and the King felt Captain Salez’s strong hands heaving him to his feet.

  “Get back to the village!” Captain Salez shouted, waving at the other soldiers.

  Captain Salez dragged the King toward the tunnels, shielding the boy’s head from the falling rocks. The last thing the King saw was Nennez vanish into the darkness, and he wondered if the Mother had decided to punish them all for his mercy.

  He could almost see his father walking behind him now, a cold expression on his face. Weakness will be punished, he said sharply. There can be no weak Midnight King.

  Captain Salez pulled the King back into the tunnel, and his father disappeared.

  I am sorry, Father. I will be strong. I will not break the Law again.

  One Month Before

  * * *

  ERIC WAS JUST DOZING OFF when Mr. Baker skipped into the class. He barely managed to open his eyes, and felt a little saliva pooling on his bottom lip. Eric wiped it, hoping no one had noticed.

  Eric usually didn’t reach full consciousness until at least noon—and that was on a good day. Every morning he dragged himself out of bed like a marionette with half the strings cut, ate a bowl of Cocoa Puffs because it at least gave him a little sugar rush, and then shuffled onto the crowded town bus, his sleep-fogged eyes fixed on one foot after the other and nothing else. Just that morning he had walked into a light pole outside his house—he had the bruise to prove it. Though, in fairness, it was tough to get up when there was no one to yell at you.

  His mother worked early at a local café as a server, so the house was always empty in the morning. Apart from Patterson Pawmaster, of course, but a twenty-year-old Border Collie p
robably didn’t count. He didn’t even bark anymore. He was like a geriatric Lassie. Still, Patterson at least waited for an ear scratch from his familiar perch atop the living room couch. He was probably the only one who would notice if Eric just stayed in bed.

  Eric didn’t have any friends, or any close ones, at least. He occasionally talked to Dan Piller at recess, an equally reclusive kid in his class who loved exchanging sarcastic banter, but that was about it. Eric kind of liked it—being alone. It was safer that way.

  Eric glanced up at Mr. Baker just as he pivoted sharply in front of the Smart Board. Mr. Baker nodded his head in greeting, his eyes pausing for just a moment on the disheveled Eric.

  “Morning, class,” Mr. Baker said cheerily, clapping two fleshy pink hands together.

  Mr. Baker was always cheery. He often dressed in checkered cardigans—red and blue, usually—wore oversize, almost cartoonish bow ties, and had a pair of thick-framed black glasses that sat perched atop his very large nose. He was constantly touching and adjusting them as he looked around, as if they were a set of binoculars that he used to zoom in on his students.

  “Morning, Mr. Baker,” a few students replied.

  The Keeners, as Eric called them. They sat at the front of the class and seemed to genuinely love school, which was annoying first thing in the morning. They were all supposed to love school, technically, seeing how this was the advanced class, but the Keeners took that to heart more than the rest of them. Joanne, Shannon, the twins—Marta and Mary, who basically never separated—Naj, and Brian were the main ones. Eric could have joined the Keeners, maybe. His grades were right at the top of the class, and he did sort of like school, other than the early start time. But Eric wasn’t one for answering questions or participating. He liked his isolated corner near the back, tucked beside a bookshelf stacked with dusty old math textbooks. Everyone ignored that corner, and Eric along with it.

  “I have some news,” Mr. Baker said, still smiling.

  The Keeners looked attentive. No one else did. Tom Pike was talking in the corner.

  “About the graduation trip,” Mr. Baker continued meaningfully.

  That got their attention. Eric saw Silvia Rodrigues perk up at the far side of the class, brushing her hair aside and focusing on Mr. Baker for the first time since he had walked into the class. Silvia was . . . well . . . Eric’s favorite person. She was a great writer and the best in the class at biology, particularly botany and zoology, and she was also a star long-distance runner. Not to mention she had the biggest green eyes he had ever seen. Eric spent at least half his day stealing glances at her when she wasn’t looking.

  Mr. Baker hurried over to his computer, letting the silence hang.

  “Go on . . . ,” Tom Pike said, eliciting a few laughs.

  That was Tom. He was the hockey team captain and looked the part: always wearing his brown leather team jacket, and with matching hair cropped short like a soldier’s. But they didn’t have stereotypical jocks in the advanced class—everyone here had to excel in academics, after all. Tom was particularly good at drama and music and almost always got the lead roles. Eric was usually a stagehand. Tom was apparently a gifted mathlete as well, though Eric never went to watch the competitions. Math was his least favorite subject by far, and he refused, on principle, to ever call anyone a mathlete.

  Two of Tom’s teammates, both in hockey and mathletes, were in the class too—Derek and Leonard—and they both followed him around everywhere, snickering and telling idiotic jokes. It was kind of sickening, really. Except their jokes switched between hockey and mathematical references, like, “Dude, that guy skates slower than you solve for x.” Even the cool kids in advanced classes were kind of weird.

  Mr. Baker emphatically clicked something on his laptop and then stood up again, grinning from ear to ear as an image appeared on the Smart Board. He turned to it, beaming.

  Eric frowned. It was a picture of a cave—some stalactites and a bat.

  “What is that?” Silvia asked, sounding concerned.

  “That is Carlsbad Caverns,” Mr. Baker said proudly. “One of the most intricate and amazing cave systems on Earth. And I, your Mr. Baker, have just gotten permission to take you all there.”

  A few people exchanged looks. Eric just sighed and put his head in his hands.

  “Yes, Silvia?” Mr. Baker asked.

  “Last year they got to spend two nights in Albuquerque. They got to go see a play and eat at La Friche and then they got to stay in a nice hotel with a pool and stuff.”

  Eric glanced up to see Mr. Baker adjust his glasses, as if to zoom in a bit more.

  “So?” Mr. Baker asked, frowning.

  Silvia looked flustered. “So . . . I thought that was what we were going to do.”

  Mr. Baker laughed and turned to the Smart Board. “We’re going to Carlsbad Caverns, Silvia! The home of the Big Room . . . the largest chamber in North America! Do you even understand how big that cave is going to be? You’re going to love it. Trust me, Albuquerque has nothing on this. I’ll have permission forms at the end of the day. Twenty bucks for the bus! That’s it. Last year they had to pay two hundred. Ha! Crazy. In honor of this exciting news, we’re going to start today with a little geology. Who can tell me about limestone? Anyone?”

  Eric looked up to see Silvia exchange a horrified look with her best friend, Ashley Lewski, and then he just smiled and put his head down again. They were going to a cave. Super.

  * * *

  One month later, Eric woke up to a face in the dark. It was the first time in at least three years.

  “Up we get,” his mother said, her curly hair already pulled back into a bun.

  Eric just stared up at her, confused. His stomach felt like an old loaf of bread.

  “What . . . time?” he croaked.

  “Five in the morning,” she replied cheerily. “We have to be at the school at five-thirty!”

  “This is too early to be alive.”

  She scoffed and threw the blanket off him. Cold rushed in greedily underneath.

  “Nonsense! This is a sleep-in! Now get your skinny butt out of bed.”

  With that she rushed out of the room, and Eric just lay there covered in goose bumps and wondering why he had ever told his mother about this field trip. He had never expected her to actually volunteer as chaperone. It was basically his worst nightmare. Finally, he swung his legs out of bed, shivering. His room was littered with books—they lined the shelves and covered his desk and were strewn haphazardly about the floor. He kept his favorites on his nightstand in case he ever wanted to read something familiar before bed, number one being My Side of the Mountain by Jean Craighead George. He had read that book a hundred times at least; it was about a boy named Sam Gribley who left his family’s apartment in New York City and set off to live by himself in the woods. Eric had thought about running away plenty of times, and he knew just about every trick for surviving in the wild. But when he told his mom about his big plans, she said she would track him down and he would be very, very sorry. As a result, he hadn’t quite mustered the courage to go. Yet.

  Yawning, Eric made his way to the bathroom, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

  “Do you want breakfast?” his mom called upstairs.

  “Nothing could sound less appetizing,” he replied miserably.

  He stared at himself in the mirror. He was skinny—enough that his ribs and collarbone were clearly visible. He had his mother’s thick black hair and full lips, but his dad’s pointed nose and blue eyes. His skin was a light brown as a result of both parents—they called him biracial at his mom’s work once, and just mixed at school when he was younger. Both sounded kind of weird. He didn’t feel mixed. He just felt like himself.

  He brushed his teeth and tried to tame his always tousled hair—a losing battle—and then went to throw on some clothes. Mr. Baker said it was cool in the caves, so he put on some jeans and a T-shirt. He went to grab a windbreaker, along with a flashlight and a few other supplies that M
r. Baker had listed, but his mom had grabbed all that and already had it packed up by the front door. She seemed oddly excited to go on the field trip. He told her that made one of them.

  Ten minutes later they were on their way to the school.

  “So, I look forward to meeting some of your classmates,” she said. “Especially Silvia.”

  Eric sighed. “Please don’t look, speak, or even gesture at her today. Then it’s going to be obvious that I mentioned her to you, which, by the way, I regret.”

  “You are too dramatic.”

  “I am pleasantly invisible at school,” he reminded her. “I don’t want that to change.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there are worse things than autonomy,” he said.

  She snorted. “Sometimes you talk like a forty-year-old. Where did you get that from?”

  “Dr. Who, probably,” he said. “But I’m serious. No referring to her . . . ever. Please.”

  “Fine,” she said. “But you are twelve now. Sometimes feelings of infatuation can start—”

  “Please no.”

  She laughed, and then glanced at him. “There is something else I wanted to mention.”

  “Is it about the birds and the bees? Because I’m going to tuck and roll if so.”

  “Well . . . technically. I was asked out on a date last night. I would like to go.”

  Eric turned to her, frowning. “First of all . . . gross. Second of all . . . by who? When? How?”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” she muttered. “A patron at the café. His name is Frank. He is very nice. And I said I would think about it, but I took his number. It’s time, Eric.”

  His dad had left three years ago now. He had a new family in Phoenix, apparently, including Eric’s half sister. He had only talked to his dad one time since then, on his tenth birthday. He had called for, like, two minutes to say happy birthday and Eric had said a few mean things that he kind of but not really regretted later. That had been the end of their relationship.

  “Well . . . as long as I never have to hear anything about it,” Eric said slowly. “Ever.”