Your Worst Nightmare (8 page)

But Olivia knew one thing for sure: Moths love the light. If she looked closely at the bright tunnel, she thought—she was almost certain—that she could see the flickering shadows of fluttering wings. There could be hundreds, thousands,
millions
of moths congregating in that bright room. That made the decision so much easier. Maybe it wasn't a smart choice, but it was her choice to make.

And Olivia chose the dark.

Tim didn't check the time on his cell phone. What was the point? It would only slow him down. Besides, it was so quiet in his tunnel. It wasn't like the corn maze, where the rustle of papery cornstalks was ever present, a quiet rattle underneath the shrieks and laughter of other kids. But deep within the Ravensburg Caverns, there was no way for Tim to know if his friends had already made it through the maze. The only thing Tim would gain from checking the time would be a little extra motivation to move faster—and he had plenty of motivation already. Tim wasn't sure why it was always so important to him to be first. It just was.

Besides, he had enough to focus on just getting
through the tunnel. The wide pathway for the guided tour had been worn smooth by thousands of feet traipsing over it for decades. This narrow corridor, however, was completely different. Jagged rocks jutted up from the floor; sometimes Tim had to jump or even climb over them, being careful not to scrape his hands on the rough walls of the tunnel. But Tim was sure-footed and swift as he sped through the maze; all those afternoons jumping hurdles and sprinting along the track were paying off. He felt good, confident. Of course he'd be the first one to get through the maze.

Then again, Tim had never expected to fall. How could he have guessed that one of those large, pointed rocks was precariously balanced on the ones below it? It looked like all the others, permanently embedded in the path. But when Tim tried to climb over it, the rock wobbled—then tipped—then toppled over, dumping him in a heap on the cold stone floor. It caused a small rock slide around him too—insignificant pebbles, sharp little stones, and a cloud of dust that got into his mouth and made him cough.

Only after the dust cleared did Tim realize that his ankle was throbbing. He must've twisted it, wrenched
it in the socket as he stumbled off the cascading rocks. Tim winced ruefully as he rubbed his ankle, which was already starting to swell.
Not so smart, big guy,
he thought.
You'll be sitting out next week's track meet for sure.

But Tim had bigger things to worry about now . . . like getting out of this maze on a busted-up foot. Well, so much for being the first one through the maze. At least it wouldn't matter if he came in last—not like in track.

Tim started rubbing his ankle more vigorously, hoping to increase the blood circulating through it. He thought he remembered Coach saying something about getting the blood flowing, back when Jason Morris messed up his foot during the first track meet of the season. Tim was about to get up and test his weight on his sore ankle when he thought he saw something move out of the corner of his eye.

More curious than afraid, Tim turned his head to get a better look. He thought those troglobites were pretty cool and, to be honest, he wouldn't mind seeing another one. Like some creepy blind lizard or something. But he soon realized that the thing that moved wasn't an animal. It wasn't even alive. It was just the
last rock tumbling down from the pile.

But not a rock; at least, not like the others. Because this one glittered—glowed, almost—a deep crimson red. Red like fire. Red like blood. Tim didn't know much about precious gems, but he suspected it might be a ruby . . . a ruby the size of a quarter. Even Tim knew that it had to be worth a lot of money. His fingers clenched, imagining the cool weight of the ruby in his hand. It would be so easy to slip it into his pocket. It had obviously been buried for a long time. Maybe for
all
time. The ruby didn't do anyone any good stuck here underground. Surely no one would miss it, whereas Tim could get a lot for it. He could take it to that pawn shop a few blocks from school. And then—oh, the stuff he would buy! Those fancy new running shoes that claimed to boost your performance by 15 percent. A laptop for his big sister, so she wouldn't have to practically live at the library just to get her homework done. Something cool for his little brother, Jamie. And maybe he would shove a big stack of cash into an envelope and leave it in the mailbox for his mom. Maybe then she could quit her second job, the waitressing one that made her so tired all the time. When Tim saw her sprawled on the couch
in her orange uniform that always smelled like salad dressing, asleep before she could even take her shoes off, it made him so
mad.
It didn't matter how many lawns he mowed or how many cars he washed; he could never earn enough money to really help her out. But maybe with a ruby that big, he could.

Tim remembered what Mrs. Hallett had said: Touch nothing, take nothing from the caves. And he knew, in his heart, that the ruby didn't belong to him. Maybe it didn't belong to
anyone
, but it definitely didn't belong to him. So after one last look of longing, Tim turned away and pushed himself up. He took a tentative step on his twisted ankle. It hurt, but not too bad. Tim limped a little as he walked a few yards. So far, so good.

Then Tim noticed another ruby, just a few inches in front of him. And a couple feet beyond it lay another one. He walked as fast as he could, somehow minding the pain in his ankle less when he realized that the floor was littered with rubies for as far as he could see.

He frowned as he tried to remember the history of the Ravensburg Caverns. Had any part of it been excavated as a mine?
Too bad Bobby's not here,
Tim thought.
I could ask him.
Mrs. Hallett had said something about early
settlers searching for gold—but nothing that Tim could remember about rubies.
Then again, that makes sense,
he rationalized.
If there was a real ruby mine in here, they wouldn't want to tell people. Otherwise everybody who came in here would be trying to find a ruby to take home. Maybe that's why this path had been guarded off. They didn't want anyone accidentally coming across a fortune of rubies.
Tim remembered, suddenly, the lousy geodes in the gift shop—and the locked case of glittering red stones. His heart started pounding a little faster. That was it. That made perfect sense. There
had
to be a ruby mine deep within the caverns—and it looked like Tim had stumbled right into it. Literally.

There were so many rubies scattered on the ground around him, rubies in all shades of the sunrise—deep crimson and scarlet, rusty orange, fiery pomegranate. All sizes, too; some were as small as a pencil eraser. Others were as big as his fist.

Why
shouldn't
he take one?

Just one,
Tim promised himself.
Not even one of the big ones. Just a medium-size one. For Mom.

Tim knelt down and plucked one of the rubies off the floor. It was the size of a large gumball, it was perfectly round, and it was gorgeous. He smiled at the ruby and
saw his own reflection smiling back at him.

Something strange happened then: His reflection in the ruby started to blur. It was almost like his smile was melting. Before Tim could look closer there was something suddenly wrong with his hand—a searing pain that was so intense that Tim couldn't cry out. It burned in the palm of his hand and in his gut, a pain so horrible that Tim couldn't even breathe. His instincts kicked in then and he dropped the ruby, just as flames burst from it.

The burning ruby rolled a few feet away and lay on the cave floor, spitting sparks and crackling angrily. Tim had to pry his fingers apart to look at his throbbing palm. There were black char marks still smoking in his tender flesh, but they were streaky and uneven. It almost looked like a laughing skull emblazoned in Tim's palm.

Tim blew on his burned palm, but it didn't do any good. He wished that he could plunge his hand into the Crystal Lake. It didn't matter what kind of troglobites swam through its murky waters; all Tim could think of was getting relief for his seared hand.

Flames were still leaping from the ruby—if that's
even what it was—and a single black plume of smoke curled up toward the cavern roof. Through the blistering pain in his palm and the throbbing ache of his ankle, Tim had a distant thought that he should probably try to stomp on the ruby. He shouldn't leave it smoldering in the caverns. But Tim knew that he could never find the courage to do that. He hated fire,
all
fire, even campfires and flickering candles on birthday cakes. It hadn't always been that way; Tim could still remember a time
before
, when he'd go camping with his dad and they'd roast hot dogs or marshmallows under the moon. But since that night—that brutal, heartbreaking night—Tim couldn't stand the stuff.

It was Christmas Eve. Tim was five years old. He tossed and turned in his bed, even long after Jamie was snoring peacefully on the top bunk. Tim wanted to stay awake all night—he was sure he could do it. He was determined to hear reindeer on the roof and Santa's footsteps in the living room. Of course he fell asleep though. He woke up suddenly, hours later, his heart already racing, wondering what presents were waiting under the tree. But something was wrong. Something was wrong in the air; it was heavy, too thick, too hard to breathe. The door creaked open and a big man crashed into the room. But there was no velvety red suit,
no chiming silver bells. The big, shapeless man in his mask and his black jacket and his helmet swooped toward the bed, pulling Jamie out of the top bunk. Tim tried to scream, but smoke filled his throat and he choked, and by the time he could breathe again, Jamie was gone.

Then another big, shapeless man was in the room, hovering over Tim's bed, yanking him from the tangle of blankets and sheets. Tim was still holding on to Pup, the stuffed dog he'd slept with since he was a little baby. Tim clung to Pup as the man ran through the too-hot, too-bright house, where flames licked up the walls. It was happening so fast. The Christmas tree, the presents, the stockings—the worst bonfire Tim could ever imagine.

He never really understood how it happened—perhaps it was the shock or the fear or the jostling, uneven run—but just outside the living room, Pup fell from his arms.

“No!” Tim screamed. “No! No! No! No!” He had to go back for Pup. He tried to wrench himself free, but the big, shapeless man was too strong, and too determined to get Tim outside. Maybe he didn't hear Tim, or maybe he didn't understand him, or maybe he just didn't care. There was nothing that Tim could do but watch as the red-hot flames raced across the floor to Pup, devouring his brown-and-white fur, melting his brown marble eyes. Poor Pup.

Then Tim was outside under the cold, starry sky, outside with
Mom and Dad and Jess and Jamie, all of them wrapped in stiff blankets, a plastic oxygen mask strapped to Jamie's little face. So lucky, everyone kept murmuring to them. So lucky that they all made it out alive. They held tight to one another as they watched their whole house burn down. Everything was gone. Mom couldn't stop crying, and neither could Tim.

Since then, life had never been the same. And that's why Tim already knew that he would never be able to stomp out the burning ruby's flames. What he had to do was get out of the tunnel, get back to the group.

Then came a series of sharp
pop
s that sounded like fireworks, and Tim thought, at first, that the rocky walls around him were cracking, about to crumble. It wasn't those rocks though. It was the rubies. They had all burst into flames: the big ones, the little ones, the in-between ones. All of them burning. And then, to Tim's horror, they started rolling, all on their own. All of them rolling toward
him.

A wave of heat poured over Tim, rising from the floor in iridescent shimmers. Suddenly Tim understood exactly what was happening. Hadn't he always known? Hadn't he always, in some dark and unpleasant corner of his heart, expected this? The fire had come for him once
before, and he had cheated it. Now it was back.

No,
Tim thought wildly.
No, no, no, no, no
.

There was no big, shapeless man to save him this time. Tim would have to save himself. And he would—he
would
escape. It didn't matter how much pain he felt in his ankle; it didn't matter how hard it was to breathe; it didn't matter that the fear alone made it hard for Tim to remember what to do. That one driving impulse—
escape
,
escape
,
escape
—was enough to push him forward. He started to run. If there was one thing Tim did really, really well, it was run, even in circumstances like these. Sweat poured down his forehead, streaming into his eyes. He leaped over rocks as the fireballs pursued him. They seemed—Tim knew this didn't make a bit of sense—but they seemed to be aiming at him, as if they were trying to punish Tim for daring to run, for wanting to escape. Then the little fireballs rolled together into larger ones, feeding off one another's flames until a solid wall of fire pursued Tim.