The Corridor – An excerpt

October 23, 2016

--

The Tunnels were their own private underground railroad. Running footsteps would crash and echo, occasionally splashing - this usually accompanied by a cry of 'Fuck' for a soaker. There would be laughter; stretched, weighted, hollowed. But today the woods on either side were silent of such pilgrimage and hilarity, The Tunnels a still and soulless way.

The highway cut through the ravine. The boys ran under the highway. The Tunnels channelled the river. From above, it was eight lanes of twisted road that wound its way over the lush valley. From down here, it was a wall that stopped your progress through the jungle. Standing here, you contemplated the twin shafts bored into it's base; pitch black and squirming with the uncomfortable possibilities of burial, claustrophobia, and childhood nightmare. You had to go forward, and you most always would, but you rarely did so without pause.

Max St. Martin stands on the bank of the low river in apprehensive reverie. Were it October, with it's autumn leaves in knee deep oceans and windblown pyramids, or March with it's suicide slick footing and muffled thin ice mystery, there'd be kids everywhere - It would be time for school. Hell, you'd have to make your way through The Tunnels in line, and heaven help you if you were behind a slow poke. But this was August, what his Dad called 'the Dog Days', and Max had the whole valley to himself.

Under bright sunshine, pure blue sky, and the green umbrella of the wild trees, he steps from the dirt path that descended on a 50 degree angle from above and onto the chain linked rocks that banked the river. The rocks in their cage were put there for erosion, he'd learned. He jumps from there onto the concrete floor where the river would be in faster, deeper times, but was bone dry for now, not even a puddle to be navigated. The river rolled down the centre of the causeway, widening and deepening as it reached the entrance to The Tunnels.

Birdsong and squirrel dashes shoot from the trees, maybe even a fox rustle, who knew? The rumble of the passing cars and trucks above, so constant it just rode in the background, became as natural sounding as the woods and the birds and the burble of the river rolling along its course. Humanity above, but unseeing, unknowing.

This was the way to school in those far away times. It was also the way to Cherrywoods Variety, and all the magic within. He was going to get a Coke, a bag of chips, a red licorice Cigar-O, and a new comic. He was hoping for a new X-Men, but there was always something that would do; Batman, Spider-Man, Fantastic Four, Iron Fist, even a Green Lantern if it came to that. There were other stores, and closer, but Cherrywoods was the best, with the most stuff. And he liked the journey. In his neighbourhood there was always someone around to do stuff with, but Max liked to be alone sometimes, on his own adventure in his head; just digging the day for himself. There were a million places to wander, and time's only relevance was when to be home for dinner.

Max steps onto a rock that sat in the river, just flat enough for balance, and then onto the next. Drawing towards The Tunnels, he thinks Right or left? Each were about five feet around, the river taking up the bottom quarter or so. They were separated by a big concrete 'nose', and one eye was as good as the other. They were pits of utter blackness. They cut straight under the eight lanes of highway, so you couldn't see the other side unless you stooped and looked directly in, and then you just saw the smallest circle of light. As you got close, there was a sudden temperature drop; a ghost chill as your body came in line with the dank cool air that shot through. It was a different world, another dimension just like that. Coming from the thick heat of the day the cold was nice, and a bit creepy.

Hand on the bridge of the 'nose', he puts one foot on one side of the right tunnel, keeping it above the waterline. He crouches down. The faint small light circle was far ahead, the real world again. He brings his other foot from the rock in the river to the other side of the tunnel, dry. There he stood, legs three feet apart, breathing the cold air, feeling the slight rumble from above, and listening for animals and killers. Slow pokes and wimps just edged along like that, shuffling one foot and sliding the other, all the way through. That took forever, and was no fun. Max started running.

SLAP-WHAP-SLAP, SLAP-WHAP-SLAP. This was how you ran The Tunnels. Three steps on one side, and as your balance started to dip towards the centre of the circular shaft you would leap forward and take three steps along the opposite side, and so on. Back and forth and forward he ran, at speed and making progress. And yet the circle seemingly got no closer. He'd been through here hundreds of times, and Max knew that this was an illusion that persisted for the first bit of the trip. Eventually the circle would get larger as you pelted hell hounds on your trail for the light, and escape for another day.

In the pitch, the depths of cool nothingness, the mind would turn on how alone you were; how far away from the world you sat; that this was a hidden pocket of unreality where anything could happen. Until you were mere steps from freedom, when relief washed over you in palpable, glorious waves, you were vulnerable; breath hitching with effort and some fear.

Max makes another jump and looks up towards the exit. The quality of light on the far end had changed. Was the sun clouded over? The light in the circle – was it bigger now? - was red.

From behind him came what sounded like nails on concrete; high thin echoes scratch, flat and distant, from outside of the tunnel. Then a splash and slow deep water drag as something big entered and stood in the mouth of the underworld. Terror seized him and he booted ass for light. The circle grew, but painfully slow; running down a dream. A dog growl; serpentine, hideous, slid towards him. It built in low, mean intensity, hollow deep and ominous in intent. He runs like mad SLAP-WHAP-SLAP, SLAP-WHAP-SLAP, and slips, plunging down into the black waters, PLOOSH. Cold shocked, soaked to the waist, head panic blasted, he tries to regain his balance, and flailing, slips again on hidden algae slime. He goes down hard, sitting stupidly in the river with the dog on his heels, woofing viciously and hellbent for leather, flesh, and soul.

--

The Corridor is available for pre-order on Amazon, download Oct. 29

--

Dave Mercel