The Merchant of Death (5 page)

Now, I'm going to stop my story here, Mark, because what happened next was far more important than those animals who were trying to get me. I know, hard to believe, but it was. Obviously the wild dogs, or the quigs or whatever they're called, didn't get me. If they had, I wouldn't be writing this.
Duh. I think what happened next was the single most important event of this whole nightmare. As scary and as strange as everything was that had happened up till then, there was no way I could have been prepared for what was waiting for me beyond that door.

While I was trying to keep the animals out, I looked at the space I'd just entered. What I saw was a long, dark tunnel. It wasn't big, maybe about six feet high. The walls were made of craggy, slate gray rock. It didn't look as if it were drilled out by a machine, either. It was crude, like somebody dug the tunnel with hand tools. I couldn't see how far the tunnel went back, because it dropped off into blackness. It could have gone on forever.

I didn't know what to do. If I tried to run down the tunnel, the instant I left the door the animals would burst in and be on me. Not a good move. I was stuck. But then I remembered what Uncle Press had told me. There was a word. He'd said to go inside and say this word. He'd said it would get us to where we were going. What was that word? Dennison? Dandelion? Dandruff? I couldn't really see how saying a hocus-pocus word could get me out of this predicament, but it was the only choice I had.

Then I remembered it. Denduron. It meant nothing to me, but if it was going to get me out of this, it would be my favorite word in the world. So I put my back to the door, planted my feet, looked into the dark tunnel, and shouted out:

“Denduron!”

Instantly the animals stopped beating against the door. It didn't sound like they ran away; they were just suddenly not there. I took a chance and stepped away from the door and . . . nothing happened. At least, nothing happened with the door. The tunnel was another thing altogether.

It started as a hum. It was low at first, but the frequency started to grow. I looked into the tunnel and watched in wonder as the walls started to twist and move. I was looking down the barrel of a huge, flexible, living pipeline. Then the walls started to change. They went from solid gray to clear! These craggy walls suddenly looked as if they were made of crystal, or diamonds. Light was everywhere, as if it were coming right from the walls themselves.

It was truly an amazing sight. So amazing that I didn't stop to wonder what it all meant. That's when I heard the music. It wasn't a recognizable tune or anything; it was just a bunch of soft, sweet notes that were all jumbled up. It was almost hypnotic. The mixed-up notes got louder and louder as if they were coming closer.

The thing that brought me back to myself was a strange sensation. I stood at the mouth of the tunnel and felt a tingling throughout my body. It wasn't horrible, just strange. The tingling grew stronger, and I felt an odd but unmistakable tug. I didn't realize it at first, but it soon dawned on me that I was being pulled into the tunnel! Some giant, invisible hand had gotten hold of me and was pulling me in! I tried to back away, but the force grew stronger. Now I started to panic. I turned and tried to find something, anything to grab on to. I fell down and dug my nails into the ground, but nothing worked. I was being sucked into this horrible tunnel, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

This is the point. This is where my life changed. What happened next turned everything I had ever known, everything I had ever believed in, everything I had ever thought to be real, totally inside out.

I got sucked into the rabbit hole, Mark. And I was headed for Wonderland.

SECOND EARTH

Mark had to get out of this bathroom.
The little stall was closing in on him. He tried to jump up off the seat, but a loop on his pack was caught on the flusher handle and all he managed to do was fall back and flush the stupid toilet. He pulled his pack free, jammed the parchment papers into it, then fumbled for the lock to spring himself from the stall. He was so flustered he couldn't even work the simple latch. Finally, mercifully, he slammed it back and threw the door open to see . . .

Standing there was Andy Mitchell. He was leaning casually against the wall, smoking a cigarette. “Jeez, you been in there a long time, Dimond. Everything come out all right?” Mitchell gave a stupid grin like this was a truly clever line.

Mark froze for a second, feeling as if he had been caught doing something wrong.

“I'm f-f-fine.” When Mark got nervous, he had a little stutter. It wasn't a horrible thing, just something that came out under stress.

Mitchell expertly flipped his cigarette across the room and it
landed in one of the urinals. Bull's-eye. Ordinarily Mark would have been grossed out by that, but his mind was on other things right now.

“It's cool,” said Mitchell. “What you do in the privacy of the can is your business. What's in the pack?”

Mark clutched the pack to his chest as if it contained precious papers. Which in fact, it did. His mind raced. What was the one thing he could say that Mitchell would accept and not ask more questions? The answer was clear.

“P-Playboys”.

Mitchell gave a lascivious grin. “You dog. Lemme see.” He reached for the pack but Mark yanked it away and backed toward the door.

“S-Sorry. I'm late.” Before Mitchell could say another word, Mark turned and ran from the room. He didn't know where he was going, but he ran anyway. The words from the pages kept running through his head. Could this story be true? This was the kind of stuff you saw in the movies or read in graphic novels. People made this stuff up for entertainment. It wasn't real.

He probably would have dismissed the whole thing as a work of fiction, except for the strange visitor he had the night before and the ring on his finger that made these pages appear on the bathroom floor. They were both real as can be. There was no logical explanation for what happened, so therefore all the normal rules of reality had to be tossed out the window. He needed to talk to Bobby. But if this story were true, Bobby was indisposed at the moment and not available for questioning.

It was nine thirty in the morning. Mark and Bobby should have been in geometry class. Of course, Mark wasn't there because he was too busy running frantically through the empty halls of Stony Brook Junior High like a nutburger. Somehow geometry didn't seem all that important right now. But he swung by the classroom anyway, praying
that he'd find Bobby sitting at his desk.

Mark approached the door warily. He took a breath and looked in to see that Bobby's desk was empty. Not good. Mark didn't know where to turn. He had to talk to somebody, but who? He wanted to share what was going on, but more important, he needed confirmation that he wasn't totally out of his mind. That's when the answer came to him. There was one person who could verify part of the story. Courtney Chetwynde.

The gym classes at Stony Brook were normally segregated, boys from girls. The only time the classes were coed was for gymnastics when they had to share the apparatus. The rest of the time there was a huge, collapsible wall drawn between the boys' gym and the girls' gym. However, there was one other exception to the rule.

That was Courtney Chetwynde. When it came to team sports, Courtney didn't play with the girls. She was tall and strong, and the advantage she had over most girls was unfair. So even though it went against every rule of the school system and the county and the state, Courtney was allowed to play with the guys. No one complained, either. The girls were just as happy not to have to deal with her whupping up on them all the time. And after she proved herself to the guys, which took all of thirty seconds, they welcomed her. And they didn't cut her any slack either. In fact, most of the guys feared her. When Courtney played, it was full speed all the way around.

And her game was volleyball.

Wham!
Courtney leaped high over the net and spiked the ball off the head of her poor opponent. The guy was stunned silly and Courtney landed gracefully before the ball hit the ground.

“Point break,” she said with a smile. Courtney never showed mercy. It was her serve now and the ball was bounced to her.

“C'mon, C. C.”

“Let's go!”

“Game point!”

Courtney had a killer serve and everyone expected this to be the final nail in the coffin. But as she walked to the service line, something caught her eye. It was Mark Dimond. The little guy was waving at her frantically from outside the gym door. As soon as he got her attention, he started motioning for her to come over. Courtney raised a finger as if to say, “Wait one second,” but that made Mark wave even harder. He would not be denied.

Courtney frowned and tossed the ball to one of her teammates. “You serve,” she said and headed toward Mark.

“What?” the teammate yelled in shock. “It's game point!”

“I know. Don't blow it.”

The guys watched her in wonder for a moment, then turned back to the game with a shrug. Though none of them would admit it, the guys from the other team breathed a little sigh of relief.

Courtney headed straight for the door and threw it open to find Mark waiting in the empty hallway.

“This better be good,” she said impatiently.

Mark waffled back and forth nervously, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Courtney watched him for a second and then said, “You have to pee?”

“N-No. I . . . I . . . it's about Bobby.”

Courtney's gray eyes focused. “Where is he? Why didn't he play last night?”

Mark hesitated as if not wanting to ask the next question. But he did. “D-Did you guys make out at his house last night?”

Courtney stared at him, not exactly sure she heard what she thought she just heard. Then she blew a gasket. “That's what you got me over here for? He missed the biggest game of the year
and . . . wait a minute . . . did Bobby tell you about us? I'll kill him!”

“C-Courtney . . . wait . . . it's not like that.” Mark tried to stop her angry tirade, but Courtney was on a roll.

“I don't care who he is. He can't go around telling private stuff that—”

“Stop!” shouted Mark.

Courtney did, mostly because she was so surprised Mark had made such a bold move. That wasn't like him. They both looked at each other, not sure of where to go next.

Mark now had her attention and it was up to him to make the next move. When he spoke, it was slow and thoughtful. He didn't want to stutter and he didn't want to make a mistake. So he pushed his glasses back up on his nose and said, “I think something strange happened to Bobby. What went on between you two last night was a part of it. I . . . I'm sorry if it upsets you, but I've got to know. Did you two make out at his house last night?”

Courtney tried to read Mark. He was a shy guy and the fact that he'd ask a personal question like this was hugely out of character. Clearly there was more going on here than guys bragging to each other about getting to first base with a girl. She could see it in his eyes. Mark was scared.

“Yeah,” she said. “We did. Where is he?”

“I . . . I don't know,” he said, downcast. “I hope he's at his house. Will you come with me and talk to him?”

The two held eye contact for a long time. Courtney was trying to read Mark's thoughts, and Mark was praying that Courtney would come with him so he could share some of the burden of what he knew. Maybe she could even help him figure things out.

Courtney walked past Mark and gave him a simple, quick, “Let's go.”

Courtney was now on a mission. She wanted to talk to
Bobby. If she had to go to his house to find him, so be it. Mark was relieved that he now had an ally, but he had no idea how to tell Courtney what he knew, or if she'd believe him. For now though, he was happy just to have someone to talk to.

The Pendragons lived on a quiet cul-de-sac not far from school. It was lunchtime, so Courtney and Mark figured they could reach Bobby's house, get to the bottom of what was going on, and be back at school before anyone missed them. As they hurried up the sidewalk, Mark had to walk quickly to keep up with Courtney's long, purposeful strides. He wanted to tell her about the visitor he had had the night before, and the ring, and the parchment with Bobby's story, but he was afraid she'd dismiss him as a mental case. He had to choose his words carefully.