Crazy House Page 17

  “Shit,” the Kid said, looking left and right. “She’s gone!”

  This was so totally un-Cassie-like that I froze for a second, thinking it through. Cassie was a girl who, even when she was at her most furious at me, would still care enough to shout at me to take the shortcut home so I wouldn’t get in trouble. There’s no way she would have left me. No way at all.

  I looked at the Kid, who seemed small and very young. He was relying on me. I nodded at him.

  “Let’s go.”

  As we ran almost silently down the hall, Strepp didn’t say a word.

  85

  CASSIE

  THE LAST TIME I’D BEEN to the infirmary—the only time—had been after Becca had wiped the floor with me in the ring. I wasn’t totally sure of the way there; I’d been unconscious going in, and then a mess coming back.

  The halls were empty. Everyone was in the auditorium. I thought about what was happening right now, some kid getting hooked up to a machine, and it sent a cold chill down my back.

  I turned into one hall and crept most of the way down before I saw it was a dead end. Swearing under my breath, I darted from doorway to doorway, listening for footsteps, the sounds of doors opening, anything that would force me to abandon my mission.

  After I’d retraced my path, I went down the second hall I found, and my heart leaped when I saw the broken, unlit sign: INFIRMARY. Keeping below the windows of these doors, I made my way along the hall, sticking my tongue out as I passed the HEALTHIER TOGETHER AT THE UNITED! sign. Just as I heard footsteps coming, I ducked through into the infirmary. Unfortunately, instead of turning, the footsteps grew louder: they were coming here!

  Scanning the room frantically, I saw a cupboard beneath a sink and sprang over to it. It held only a few bottles of cleaner, and I crammed myself inside as fast as I could. The infirmary door opened and voices became loud.

  “We’ll need to order more of the knockout drug,” someone was saying. “Warden Bell has upped the executions faster than we expected.”

  The other person laughed and said, “Put it on the list. We need more paper towels, too.”

  Inside the dark cupboard, folded up like an origami crane, my face burned. Ordering more of the drug to kill innocent kids was right up there with paper goods! These people were soulless monsters!

  Steps came very close to me, and right above my head someone turned on the sink. I scowled as a cold drip, drip of water started leaking from the pipe jammed against my neck. The icy water ran down inside my jumpsuit and puddled at the small of my back. This was the stupidest thing I’d ever done.

  After several long minutes, the water was turned off, the footsteps left, and the tiny crack of light at the cupboard door went dark. I waited a while longer, then cautiously opened the cupboard door, groaning at my stiff muscles from the cramped position.

  Slowly I unfurled myself, and then crept toward the back of the infirmary.

  There he was. Lying on the bare plastic of a hospital bed, one leg encased in a plaster cast from thigh to ankle, Nate was looking up at the ceiling. The muscles in his jaw were clenching and unclenching, and his face was bruised and battered. Black sutures held together the three-inch gash on his forehead.

  I came up silently, so silently that he jumped when he realized I was standing there. Then he winced, suppressing a groan at how his startled movement had made everything hurt all over again.

  “Hey,” I said softly. “Come with me now, or die.”

  86

  BECCA

  THE KID AND I STRUCK out, tunnel-wise, in our quadrant of the jail, and we moved to the next block. My mind was racing, worried sick about Cassie and wondering what the hell had happened to her. I hadn’t heard her get dragged off—she must have left me voluntarily. Which made no sense, just no sense.

  “Was your dad able to tell you anything at all about the tunnel?” I asked the Kid as we started down another hall. Time was running out—executions rarely took more than five minutes. Any moment now the alarm would sound and inmates would start filing back into their rooms, accompanied by guards. Lots of guards.

  The Kid thought for a moment. “He said… he said it was behind a wall. In a room, behind a wall.”

  I stopped and stared at him. “Why didn’t you tell me this before? I’ve been looking for a doorway, or something blocked off!”

  The Kid’s small face took on a familiar pinched look. “Why ain’t you aks me before now? This ain’t my fault!”

  “No, no, you’re right,” I said, shaking my head. “Come on, let’s try in here.” We were in the mess hall, and at the back of it was a storage room that had other doors opening off it. Shrugging my shoulders, I chose one randomly and unlocked it.

  Nothing could have prepared me for what waited behind that door.

  It was my sister, who jerked up her head in alarm when we opened the door. She was panting, her eyes wild, and she was holding a large can of sliced peaches in heavy syrup.

  At her feet lay a cafeteria worker, knocked out, with a can-shaped lump on the back of his head.

  Next to Cassie, Nate was clinging to a door frame, looking like he was about to be sick. Everything clicked into place.

  “You left me to go get Nate,” I said.

  Cassie nodded a bit sheepishly. “I couldn’t leave him.”

  “Uh-huh. Who’s Ridiculous now?” I said.

  87

  I’D HAD HOPES FOR THIS hallway, maybe just because it was a hallway I hadn’t known existed. After the Kid and I stepped over the unconscious cafeteria worker, I urgently began unlocking doors, using the keys on Strepp’s key ring. It took us way too long to figure out which keys opened which doors. And all we found was storeroom after storeroom, most of them full of crates marked FOOD stacked haphazardly on top of each other. Some crates were coated with a thick layer of dust, like they were left over from another time. It wouldn’t surprise me if that was the stuff we’d been eating.

  Door after door, we struck out. As we reached the end of the hallway, an alarm sounded: the execution was over. It was time for the prisoners to be locked up again.

  “People will be here any second,” Cassie said, her voice tight.

  “One more door,” I said, trying another of Strepp’s keys. Would it have killed her to label one of them “master”? We felt the vibrations of feet moving before we heard them, and a moment later heard the dim, indistinct voices of guards as they let the other cafeteria workers back into the mess hall.

  “They gonna open that door, see that schmuck lyin’ there,” the Kid said nervously.

  “Yeah,” I said, jamming in a key, trying to turn it, not succeeding.

  The voices grew louder. I was aware of Nate’s labored breathing; glanced back to see that his face was tinged with green and clammy sweat had broken out on his forehead.

  I pushed another key in. It didn’t turn. I had two keys left. Maybe Strepp didn’t have a master key after all? She was the deputy warden. Or maybe this room was never used. Maybe this was the end—for all of us.

  The voices were right outside this hallway. Even from down here, we heard the scrape of a key being fitted into its lock. My hands shaking, I quickly tried the second-to-last key, turning it hard—too hard.

  Snap!

  I stared in horror at the broken head of the key in my hand. “Cassie!”

  Her horror mirrored mine as she saw what had happened.

  The door at the end of the hallway opened. There was no light down here, but it would only take about ten seconds for them to see us in the shadows.

  “Check those storerooms!” someone ordered.

  “They gonna off us,” the Kid breathed almost silently.

  In desperation, Cassie reached out and savagely turned the doorknob, her arm muscles flexing with the effort.

  And… it turned! The door swung inward, leading into another lightless room. I grabbed the Kid and practically threw him in, then helped Cassie drag Nate and his clunky cast through the doorway. Of course
the sound alerted the guards that they had company, and one of them shouted.

  Boots pounded down the hallway as we slammed the door.

  “There’s no way to lock it!” Cassie cried.

  “Push some crates against it!” I ordered.

  We all leaned against a stack of crates and pushed against them, our bare feet sliding on the cold, dusty floor, Nate grunting with the effort of keeping his cast out of the way. We managed to shove them up against the door just as someone outside grabbed the doorknob.

  The door rattled but couldn’t move against the heavy crates.

  “Do some more!” I said, feeling my way around. With great effort we managed to shift another stack of crates against the first, but there were multiple voices outside and someone was slamming something heavy against the door. It had already opened a crack. We were two strong girls, one little kid, and one messed-up guy who wasn’t much help. Outside that door were a bunch of beefy grown-ups.

  A flame flickered into existence.

  “Wha?” I whispered in amazement, and then my gaze focused on the Kid, holding a small lighter.

  “How did you—” Cassie began, but I stopped her with a wave of my hand.

  “Ask him later!” I said. “Kid, let’s see what we have to work with in here!”

  The Kid lifted his lighter and moved around. We were in a room of crates, just like every other room on this hallway. The only way in or out was the door that the guards were about to break in. We could push more crates against the door, but at most we’d be buying ourselves a minute or two. In the end, they would come in, we would be captured, and then we would be put to death.

  88

  CASSIE

  BECCA AND I REACHED THE same conclusion at the same time: we were trapped, this was a dead end, and it was really, really the dead end, if you know what I’m saying.

  As the sounds of the guards trying to smash the door open surrounded us, we stared at each other, each thinking furiously. Then Nate’s quiet, pained voice said, “Well, we tried.”

  The Kid let his lighter flicker out, and we were again in almost complete darkness—the only faint light coming from the tiny crack around the door as the guards pushed it inward.

  Looking down, I realized I was somehow still holding the stupid can of peaches. Overcome with tiredness, rage, desperation, and frustration, I drew my arm back and hurled the can against the wall with every bit of strength that I had, almost howling with anguish.

  There was a dull, hollow thud and the sound of plaster chipping and falling to the ground.

  “What the hell was that?” Becca asked.

  “The can of peaches,” I said wearily.

  “Oh. Well, we could use it to club the first person in,” Becca said. “If nothing else.”

  She was right. From the pounding at the door, that would be soon.

  “When did you become the practical one?” I asked. “Kid? Light?”

  The small lighter clicked into existence and I peered at the floor, looking for the can. The light went out.

  “Kid, I can’t see in the dark,” I said crossly. “Can you keep it on?”

  “I ain’t flicked it off,” the Kid said, just as crossly. “It got blew out.”

  “I feel cold air,” Nate said. I heard him shuffling a bit. “Here. Maybe it’s a vent or something. You guys, at least, might be able to get through it.”

  The lighter clicked and again cast its small circle of light.

  There wasn’t a vent. What there was, was a tiny hole in the wall, where I’d thrown the peaches. I put my hand up to it and felt chilly air whistling through.

  Looking quickly, I found the dented, bloodstained can and grabbed it. Holding one end, I slammed it against the hole. More plaster crumbled away, making the hole big enough to put my fist through.

  “That would be awesome, if we were rats,” Becca said drily.

  In the dim glow of the lighter, I saw despair on her face. The Kid looked just as crushed. Nate was white-faced and leaning against the wall, his eyes closed. Outside, the guards had gotten organized, at least three of them pounding against the door.

  Then… the tiny light flickered on something. Something iridescent.

  “Oh, my God,” I breathed. The light was glittering on the wings of a dragonfly, fluttering into the room from the hole in the wall.

  We’d found the tunnel.

  89

  “OH, JESUS,” NATE SAID, AND hobbled toward it, his face contorted in pain. He reached out and grabbed a hunk of wall in his bare hands and pulled, breaking off another piece.

  “See?” the Kid said. “It’s behind a wall, in a room, like I said!”

  “We need to get through that hole. Start working!” Becca said.

  Then we were all scrabbling at the hole, pulling away chunks of plaster that broke into powdery shards.

  “Becca! Kid!” I said. “You guys pull some crates over here! We’ll get into the tunnel and then hide the hole!”

  They immediately did what I said, which might be the very first time in our lives that Becca hadn’t argued first. Nate leaned on his good leg, his arms moving like pistons as he pulled away chunk after chunk of plaster. Our hands were bleeding but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting out.

  With just the two of them it was harder for Becca and the Kid to move the crates, but we were all seized with a sort of superhuman fury that seemed to make us stronger than we’d ever been. Finally the hole was wide enough for Nate to slip through—he was the biggest of us—and we stood there panting as we tried to figure out how we would get his leg, stiff with a cast, through it.

  He shook his head grimly. We had to move fast—the guards had gotten the door open almost an inch and were shouting at us.

  “No way else,” Nate muttered, and before I knew what he was doing, he put his arms over his head as if about to dive into a pond… and he dove through the hole headfirst.

  His cast slammed against the side of the hole. He didn’t even try to swallow the shriek of pain from that or from his heavy landing on the other side. He’d had no way to break his fall, no way to temper the shock to his ruptured knee. I heard him start sobbing in the darkness, and I quickly scrambled through, trying not to land on him. Becca boosted the Kid through, and he knelt by Nate with his lighter casting a small flame as Becca crawled through herself.

  She and I put our arms through the hole, grabbed the brace of a crate, and yanked as hard as we could. It didn’t move. We heard the sound of the other crates scraping across the floor as the outer door pushed open, and we grabbed it again. My fingers locked onto the brace like claws, and with every ounce of strength I had, I pulled toward us.

  It moved. It moved a bit. Biting our lips, tears welling in our eyes, Becca and I grabbed and pulled again, moving it another inch closer. Again. And again. My fingers were slippery with blood, a long splinter had shot through my index finger, and Nate was trying to stifle his sobs in the background.

  “One more time, babe,” Becca muttered, sweat making her hair stick to her forehead in lank strands. I nodded and fastened onto the crate again.

  Somehow we pulled the crate another four inches until it was smack-dab up against the wall. Instantly the tunnel’s darkness deepened. We heard the roar of the guards as they finally managed to slip through the doorway, heard their feet as they swarmed into the room… and heard their cries of confusion as they looked around a completely empty room, with no visible means of escape.

  90

  BECCA

  WE HAD MAYBE A COUPLE minutes before the guards started moving crates around to find out where we’d gone. I hoped they would first open all the crates to see if we had magically sealed ourselves up inside.

  In the meantime, we had to put as much space as possible between us and them.

  All this time I’d been thinking of the tunnel like a sewer tunnel, with yucky water and rats and slime and whatever. Now I was like, I wish. This tunnel had been hand-dug by one crazy person a little at
a time. After the initial hole, we couldn’t stand up. We couldn’t even stoop. The four of us crawled, single file, on our hands and knees, and there were plenty of times when it was hard for me to get my shoulders through.

  And poor Nate. It’s possible to crawl with a full-length cast on your leg, but it isn’t easy, it isn’t fast, and it hurts like a son of a bitch, given the language that was floating up to me from his position in the rear.

  I was going first, with the Kid’s lighter. I flicked it on every so often to reveal the disheartening view of more seemingly endless, tiny tunnel. I thought uncomfortably about how we had only the Kid’s story to go on, that he thought it had caved in at one point, and how in the end, his dad had gotten captured anyway.

  But I kept crawling. Small rocks embedded in the dirt bruised my knees almost unbearably. Every so often there was a large boulder that the Kid’s dad had been forced to tunnel around. At the first one I flicked on the lighter and saw words scratched into the rock: “Gimli, son of Gloin, ha ha ha,” and a date from six years ago.

  The Kid was right behind me, and I shone the flame on it.

  “Was your dad’s name Gimli?” I asked.

  The Kid frowned. “No! You think my dad had some weird-ass name? His name was Ebenezer!”

  I shrugged and kept crawling. On another boulder, the Kid’s dad had carved, “Screw the United!” and we all cheered quietly. To save the lighter fuel, we mostly crawled in the utter, complete, intense blackness, using it only when we seemed to hit a dead end or a rock, and the first time I almost brained myself on a heavy tree root that had grown down into the tunnel.

  There was no sense of time. I couldn’t tell if we were burrowing deeper underground or going in circles or heading right back to the prison. After it felt like we’d been crawling for an hour, my nerves started fraying. Like, what if a truck rolled over us? We would be crushed. What if the tunnel just collapsed? The idea of dying down here buried under a ton of dirt was possibly more terrifying than the first time facing Tim in the ring.