Tunnel

by Josh Anderson

  Kyle looked around, trying to gauge their options. He could see enough of the skyline to know undeniably where they were. “You’re gonna be alright, Och,” he said.

  He picked up the silk blot from the beam and was relieved to feel that it didn’t weigh much at all. It felt as light as it had in Kyle’s cell before he and Ochoa went inside of it.

  Kyle knew it wouldn’t take be before one of the construction guys down below noticed the two boys in khaki prison scrubs hanging out on their half-finished building. There were ladders going down to ground level, but they’d have to cross several beams to get there. “Let’s go, Och.”

  Kyle led the way, but made sure to keep far enough away from Ochoa, who still looked shaky, so that he wouldn’t reflexively grab him if he lost his balance. When Kyle reached the ladder, he turned to watch Ochoa. He could see his friend making very slow progress, the combination of fear and exhaustion weighing heavily on him. “Maybe try not to look down, Och,” Kyle said.

  Ironically, it was when Ochoa took his eyes off of his feet that he had a problem. He made a messy step and lost his balance. He was close enough to grab a vertical beam as he started to go down, but his legs were dangling off the building. Kyle watched in horror as Ochoa slid down the beam, legs flailing. He caught himself by grabbing onto the horizontal beam and clung to the intersection of the two beams like a baby koala. He panicked and closed his eyes. Most people wouldn’t have had the upper body strength to catch the beam like Ochoa had, much less hang suspended there.

  “Och!” Kyle screamed. “Look here. Look at me.”

  Ochoa opened his eyes into slits, and looked down.

  “Here! Not down,” Kyle snapped, holding on to a vertical beam. “Now, listen to me . . . You’re gonna be fine. You’ve just got to pull your leg up over the beam you’re holding onto . . . ”

  Ochoa shook his head fast. Kyle had never seen him look scared like this. “I can’t. If I try, I’m gonna fall . . . My hands are slipping.”

  Kyle carefully walked over to him and knelt down. “You’re not gonna fall.” He wrapped his left arm around the vertical beam, trying to secure himself. Now, he reached his right hand down to Ochoa.

  “It’s not gonna work,” Ochoa said. “I have no strength right now.”

  “Look at me,” Kyle said. “How many times have you saved my ass?”

  The panic on Ochoa’s face lowered by a degree or two. “A few times.”

  “Then just listen to me and let me help you,” Kyle said, “I got you, Och.”

  Ochoa grabbed Kyle’s hand. For a second, Kyle felt overburdened by Ochoa’s weight and felt himself sliding off the building. But, Kyle pulled hard against the vertical beam and was able to provide enough support for Ochoa to get himself up into a position straddling the horizontal beam. Still holding onto the vertical beam, Kyle gave Ochoa his hand again and helped him steady himself as he stood up. “Fuck, bro,” Ochoa said. “I almost died right there.”

  They made it the rest of the way down the side of the building without further incident. They hustled unnoticed through the groups of construction workers moving around at ground level and got out to the street.

  Ochoa followed closely behind Kyle. “Something doesn’t feel right, bro,” he said. “My eyes are all blurry and I have a crazy headache. And I feel all weird inside.”

  “We’ve had a really active day, Och. It’ll pass,” Kyle said, even though he had no idea if that was true. Kyle felt fine. Maybe even stronger than he had before they entered the silk blot. He wished his friend had listened and not followed him, but now that he had, getting Ochoa back to 2016 safely had become another critical goal for Kyle.

  When they reached the street corner, Kyle stopped for a second and put his hands against the chain-link fence surrounding the construction site. He looked up and confirmed what he was mostly sure of already. “West 28th Street and 11th Avenue,” Kyle said. “I wonder if all these construction guys are asking themselves why the hell they’re building a prison on some of the most expensive real estate in New York City.”

  “This is Stevenson right here . . . ?”

  “Yeah, it is, Och. Welcome to 1998,” Kyle said.

  “What the fuck?” Ochoa said. “1998? Like, the year?”

  Kyle smiled and put his hand on Ochoa’s shoulder. “These guys are building the prison we just broke out of.”

  Ochoa looked around. He looked down at his own hands, turning them as if he were trying to see if they were real. “But, it doesn’t make any sense . . . Nah, man. I don’t believe it. It’s not possible.”

  “I don’t understand it either, Och,” Kyle said. “But we are out here now, right? Instead of in there. So, uh, I say we go with it.”

  CHAPTER 8

  February 3, 1998

  * * *

  Later that day

  As they passed a newsstand, Kyle took a peek at the cover of The Daily News. “February 3, 1998,” he said to Ochoa. It looked like every magazine had Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky on the cover.

  “I’m pretty big for a three-month-old,” Ochoa said with a laugh, reminding Kyle that his friend was a few months older than he was. He remembered what Myrna told him about how it was dangerous to time travel within your own life. “Hold on a sec, I gotta take a break.”

  Ochoa bent over, his hands on his knees. He spoke very deliberately and quietly, gritting his teeth. “If it’s 1998, my mama’s around. I gotta see her. She’s probably up in Washington Heights right now.”

  “You okay, Och?” Kyle asked. Ochoa was still trying to catch his breath. Kyle saw that his clothes were bubbling off of him, completely drenched with sweat. It looked like he’d gone swimming in them.

  “I feel weird,” Ochoa said. “All fuzzy and shit. Almost like I’m underwater. And I got this heartbeat in my ears. Real loud.”

  “Listen, Och,” Kyle said. “We’ve gotta make sure we stick together here. We have to get on the bus up to Flemming in a few hours.” He didn’t want to say it, but Kyle was afraid he might never see Ochoa again if he let him out of his sight in this condition.

  “I gotta see my mom, bro,” Ochoa said. “If it’s 1998, she ain’t dead yet. Not for another five years. I really don’t feel good, man. She’ll know what to do.” Kyle heard the fear inside of every word.

  “You absolutely cannot go see your mother, Och,” Kyle said. “The lady who sent us here, she said you aren’t supposed to go back to a time during your own life. Said it was too dangerous.”

  Ochoa stopped and took a couple of steps toward the street. “You don’t have to come, but I gotta go, bro.”

  They’d never had a huge disagreement before. Ochoa was stubborn, but picked his battles. “It’s a really bad idea, Och. Listen to the words I am saying,” Kyle said, grabbing onto Ochoa’s shirt. “My guess is that if you are standing next to you as a baby, something really fucked up is going to happen. That’s how that lady made it sound.”

  “Why are you here, then?” Ochoa asked, brushing Kyle’s hand away.

  Kyle took a deep breath. “I’m here to find my father,” he said. “But it’s different. Kyle Cash isn’t alive in the world we are in right now. Listen, inside Stevenson you always had my back. You’ve got to trust me to have yours out here. I know you’re scared, but trust me!”

  “Nah, fuck that. I need my mom,” Ochoa said. “Something doesn’t feel right. I need to see my mom.”

  “She won’t know you,” Kyle said, trying to sound less frustrated than he was. “Don’t you get it? To her, the only Trevor Ochoa is the little baby in her stroller.”

  Ochoa walked into the middle of the street. He turned around to Kyle, pounded his chest and gave him a peace sign. “Mamas always know their children, bro. It’s scientifically proven.”

  “Ochoa,” Kyle yelled. “I told you. We gotta stick together.”

  “Then let’s go,” Ochoa said, as a car zipped by right in front of him.

  Kyle stepped into the street. “Go where?”


  “Uptown, bro,” Ochoa said. “We’ll be careful. I promise.”

  “You have to follow the rules,” Kyle said, chasing after him. “You can’t talk to anyone, or do anything that could change the future. Anything you do could really fuck things up.”

  “Yeah yeah, I got it,” Ochoa said. “The subway’s two blocks this way.”

  “I’m, like, crazy hungry,” Ochoa said as they exited the train at 181st Street and St. Nicholas Avenue in Washington Heights. Kyle couldn’t argue. They hadn’t eaten since breakfast, before their long journey through the tunnel.

  “We’re in Dominican country, bro,” Ochoa said. “But, there’s one Puerto Rican restaurant that’s off the hook.”

  “Was it around in 1998?” Kyle asked. He was hungry too, and thought that maybe it was good sign for his health that Ochoa wanted to eat.

  “Let’s go see,” Ochoa said. Kyle saw his friend move with excitement for the first time in a while. The half hour on an air conditioned train had been good for him. Ochoa still looked shaky, but Kyle could see that he felt energized from being home.

  They walked a few blocks and arrived at Salvado’s, which was mostly empty, save for a few customers here and there. The hostess sat on a stool, flipping through The National Enquirer, not even acknowledging them at first.

  “What’d you two do, break out of jail or somethin’?” she asked when she looked up and saw their outfits, with only a hint of a smile.

  “No, no, not at all,” Kyle said, firing the words out nervously. “We work together. At the hospital.”

  “Cool,” she said. “Which one?” She was a pretty Latina girl with a thick New York accent.

  “Crespi Memorial,” Kyle answered.

  She cocked her eyebrow. “All the way downtown?”

  “Best Puerto Rican food in the city,” Ochoa said, putting on a charming smile. Kyle had never seen Ochoa flirt with a girl before.

  “You think?” she asked. “Why have I never seen you in here, then?”

  “It’s been a while,” Ochoa answered. “I don’t live up here no more.”

  “Blanca,” she called to the back. “Table twelve.” The hostess brought them to a small table and dropped a couple of menus in front of them. “Blanca’s gonna love you,” the hostess said with a wink to Kyle as she walked away.

  “She was hot, bro,” Ochoa said. “I’m not even talkin’ about ‘I’ve-been-in-prison-hot.’ I’m talkin’, real, legit hotness. I’m already lovin’ time travel.”

  “Remember,” Kyle said. “We’ve got to talk to as few people as possible.”

  “What do you think I’m gonna do—tell her I’m from the future. Probably a good way to get laid, though,” Ochoa said with a laugh, standing up. “Be right back. Bathroom.”

  Kyle barely had a chance to glance at the menu before a tall, attractive blond walked up to the table. She wore an apron over her jean shorts. This must be ‘Blanca,’ he thought. She was his age—possibly a little younger.

  “I’m Allaire,” she said, smiling brightly. “I’ll be your waitress.”

  Before Kyle could respond, she sat down in the booth across from him. “Can I sit?” she asked.

  “Sure, no prob—” Kyle started to say, but stopped, since she had already sat. A few strands of hair fell into her face and she blew them away, sighing as she did it, and tucking the strands behind her ears. Kyle couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

  “I thought this would be an easy job. A good way to make some cash,” Allaire said. “But, there’s this dude, Fernando, in the back. He’s such an asshole. He thinks he can do whatever he wants to the girls. Little pervert slapped my ass twice. I told him if he does it again I’ll cut his fuckin’ hand off. Anyway, I’m just feeling like ‘screw it.’ Maybe I’ll just walk out right now.” She was barely taking a breath between sentences. “You’re probably hungry, though, right? Do you know what you want?”

  “Not really,” Kyle answered.

  “I’ll make it simple,” she said. “You like chicken or pork better? You’re cute, by the way.”

  “Uh . . . ”

  “Get the pork, bro,” Ochoa said as he walked back over to the table. “Always the pork.”

  “Alright I’ll bring you both the pork. You’re not Jewish, right? Cuz if you are, you should go for the chicken,” she said with a laugh. “I’m not hanging out back there in the kitch, though. That jerk can bring it out himself when it’s done.” She got up to walk away. “I hope that’s okay with you guys,” she said.

  “Uh . . . sure,” Kyle answered.

  She walked away from their table, while Kyle followed her with his eyes. She was stunning, and had a frantic energy that Kyle wasn’t used to. He wasn’t really used to any type of female energy these days. As much as he tried to ignore it, every ounce of his being wanted to follow her.

  “That waitress is wacky as shit, bro,” Ochoa said. “And what happened to talking to as few people as possible? Mr. I-wrote-the-time-travel rulebook is trying to fuck the waitress and shit before we even—”

  “I’m not trying to fuck the waitress,” Kyle said. “But, damn . . . ” Kyle took a deep breath when his mind shifted back to finding his father. He didn’t have a whole lot of time, and this side trip to Washington Heights wasn’t helping matters.

  “So, I was tryin’ to figure it out,” Ochoa said. “I think if we knock on the door of the apartment in an hour, my mom’ll be home.”

  “We definitely cannot go up to your apartment,” Kyle said. “Remember? You have to trust me. What if she answers the door and she is holding the baby? That’s you man!”

  “We’re at odds again, man, and that’s okay,” Ochoa said, taking a statement right out of Stevenson Correctional’s annual, mandatory conflict resolution class. “I’m great with babies—and my mom will know what to do. You need to trust me, bro.”

  Kyle was getting frustrated that Ochoa wasn’t getting the message. “You don’t think I want to see my mom again?” Kyle asked. “Tell her not to kill herself when I get sent up to prison? But I can’t. I have a job. Have one conversation with one person, and then we get back to 2016. You weren’t even supposed to be here, Och.”

  “Everything happens for a reason though, right?” Ochoa asked.

  “I don’t know if it does, Och,” Kyle answered. He hadn’t bought into that way of thinking since before the crash. What reason was there for twelve kids getting killed like they had? “What if we go see your mom, but you just look . . . from across the street, maybe? You just can’t talk to her.”

  “I want to know why I feel so weird,” Ochoa said, his voice cracking a bit. “I threw up two more times in the bathroom just now. The second time, there was some blood in it. And my legs feel mad weak.”

  “I’m honestly not sure what’s going on, Och,” Kyle said. “The sooner I go find my father, the faster we can get back to Stevenson and get you better . . . ”

  “Why would we go back?” Ochoa asked.

  Kyle wished Ochoa could’ve heard Myrna. Could’ve seen her telling Kyle the rules. “Because in forty-eight hours, the silk blot—the thing we went inside to get to the tunnel—it’s gonna stop working.”

  “Well then we’ve got some time before we have to decide,” Ochoa said.

  Kyle sighed. He didn’t have enough answers to debate Ochoa about this. “After we eat, let’s go see your mom. Then, I’ll take care of business and we’ll get back. But we have to keep our distance,” Kyle said. “Deal?”

  Ochoa nodded. Kyle hoped he could trust him. And, Kyle hoped he wasn’t making a huge mistake.

  CHAPTER 9

  February 3, 1998

  * * *

  Later that day

  The boys sat on the steps of a Washington Heights apartment building across the street from the one Ochoa grew up in. Ochoa was still having trouble on-and-off catching his breath, even though it had been hours since they’d left the tunnel. It was drizzling, and the moisture felt great to Kyle. Something was definitely
wrong with Ochoa, but Kyle couldn’t offer anything more than trying his best to get them back to 2016 quickly.

  “You see that swing right there? Second one from the left,” Ochoa asked, pointing at the playground inside the housing project complex. “That’s how I got this scar right here above my eye. I was five years old, running from the swings to those monkey bars, and WHAM! Maricela Maldonado’s swing completely blindsides me. Eight stitches. The amount of blood coming out of my head was crazy. Thought my mom was gonna have a heart attack, bro.”

  Kyle looked at Ochoa. “You know what else is crazy? That day at the playground hasn’t even happened yet. At least not in this version of time.”

  “That makes my head hurt, bro,” Ochoa said. “Hey, why you think you’re getting this chance, to go back and try to fix what happened?”

  Kyle breathed in deeply. He needed to toe the line and make sure he didn’t give Ochoa ammunition to go back on their deal about not approaching his mother. “I honestly don’t know. I think a lot of people were hurt when those kids died, and one of them figured out a way to try to fix things.”

  “Oh shit,” Ochoa said. “There’s my mom.”

  Kyle watched an attractive Puerto Rican woman pushing an umbrella stroller up the street toward the apartment building entrance. It was getting close to nine o’clock—four hours until the last bus of the night left for Flemming.

  Ochoa stood up. “There she is, bro. She’s alive!” Kyle saw tears welling up in his eyes. Ochoa took a few steps forward to the edge of the sidewalk.