Force Out
Authors: Tim Green
For Barbara Lalicki, my editor and friend
1
When it came to his best friend, Joey would do just about anything. He listened quietly to the sound of his parents getting ready for bed and waited impatiently for his father to turn off the late news on their bedroom television. Noise drained from the house like used bathwater, leaving nothing but the tick of Joey's small, battery-operated alarm clock. Even Martin, his little brother, lay still in the nursery.
It was time.
If Mr. Kratz had been holding Joey's own summer hostage, he would never have crept from his bed, dressed, paused in the bathroom for a secret ingredient, and then slipped down the stairs through the empty rooms. But he wasn't doing this for himself. He was doing it for Zach. He and Zach shared the same dream. It was a baseball dream, and one they planned on realizing together.
It wasn't fair, that was for sure. Mr. Kratz was the toughest teacher in sixth grade. It wasn't just his dark, hairy knuckles and the way he snuffled and snorted at the beginnings and ends of his sentences. Stories of Mr. Kratz's mind-bending tests, backbreaking homework, and failing final grades crept all the way down into the elementary school, rivaling Snow White's evil witch, Jack's giant, and Cinderella's stepmother. Joey escaped most of Mr. Kratz's thick-browed scowls by working harder than almost anyone in science class, but Zach wasn't put together that way. Either things came easily to Zach, or he seemed to have little use for them.
Throughout the year, Zach fell short, and throughout the year, Mr. Kratz gathered his bulk by adjusting the big leather belt he wore as a boundary between his massive upper and lower body and warned Zackâalong with a surprising portion of the rest of the classâthat failure meant summer school. No exceptions.
Everyone knew about Mr. Kratz's field lab on the last Saturday before the end of school. That famous trip by the morning train to the Beaver River Biological Field Station often tilted the balance between passing and failing the class because of the extra credit you got for going. When Mr. Kratz heard the news about the Little League championship game being held on the same day as his field trip, he snorted, rumbled, and asked, “What's that got to do with me?”
Mr. Kratz loved Beaver River. The floppy felt hat he wore every day came from the field station's gift shop, purchased more than thirty years ago when Mr. Kratz was a college student with dreams of scientific fame. Maybe that's why Mr. Kratz possessed such a heavy scowlâbecause long ago his dreams of Nobel prizes or being on the cover of
Science
magazine had been sent to bed without any supper.
In the back corner of the fridge, Joey found a ziplock bag. He fiddled around, doctoring up its contents, then crammed the bag into the pocket of his jeans before slipping into the garage. Joey's garage smelled like concrete. The sound of his feet scuffing across the floor filled the darkness. He located a second baggie on his father's workbench and tucked that into his back pocket along with a flat-head screwdriver.
He then lifted his bike over the threshold of the side door before walking it down the driveway. He avoided the bright cone of light from the streetlight that marked the line between his yard and the Guthries' next door. With a final glance back at his quiet house, Joey mounted the bike and took off into the night. The thrill of the darkness, the quiet, and breaking the rules fueled his pumping legs. The clank of gears only increased his speed. Like a rocket, he shot past the low stone walls marking the entrance to his development.
It wasn't often people turned left out of Windward because Windward was the last major home development before the roads turned rural and the homes were a hodgepodge of run-down saltboxes, trailers, and old farmhouses, bent and staggering under the weight of time. After Windward, things quickly turned country.
County Road 347 went due south, and if you kept on it for several miles, you'd run smack-dab into the Bickford State Forest Preserve. If you followed 347 and its eastward jog around the forest, you'd see a red mailbox marking the long dirt road that led to a cabin tucked away in the woods like a hidden kingdom for wood elves, fairies, or goblins. Joey knew where Mr. Kratz lived because Joey's mother had been a customer for years, buying lots of the great man's wild blackberry jam and a case of his honey at the end of each summer.
Joey pumped his legs in the dark, keeping to the shoulder of the road and shivering at the inky blackness between the trees on either side of the road. Above, the light of a full moon struggled through a thick mist like a flashlight behind a bedsheet. Droplets almost too small to matter had begun to drift down, and they tickled Joey's face if he held up his chin. At the corner where Route 347 met Cherry Valley Road stood an abandoned church with a steeple stripped of its paint by time and whitened by the sun. The empty socket where a bell once hung stared down at Joey, and the doorless entrance gaped wide like an ogre's mouth. Joey slowed and got down off his bike, walking it into the weedy lot where churchgoers long ago probably parked their wagons.
“Zach?” Joey's voice died quickly in the mist. He cleared his throat and barked louder. “Zach, are you here?”
No reply, and that annoyed him because Zach was always late. He peered down Cherry Valley Road in the direction of Zach's house, straining his eyes and huffing impatiently. Then he froze. From inside the pit of that empty doorway came the sound of groaning, creaking floorboards.
The hair on Joey's neck jumped to attention. Goose bumps riddled his arms. He opened his mouth to scold Zach, but if it was Zach inside the church, his bike should be somewhere, standing in the weeds. There was no bike in the moonlight.
Joey's mind spun like a top. Had their secret plan been discovered? Had Zach spilled the beans? If so, who was in the church?
“Hey!”
The voice coming from the belly of the church was low and gruff. Fear grabbed Joey by the throat because he could think of only one person who it might be: Kratz, the giant ogre.
The footsteps kept coming, stomping now.
A figure stirred in the deep shadows of the doorway. Joey's brain screamed to run, but his legs stood frozen in the damp weeds.
A shadowy figure leaped from the doorway and bolted down the steps straight for Joey. “Boo!”
Joey shrieked and his legs found their way. He dropped his bike and bolted for the road. His feet hit the pavement, heading for home, when the mad cackling from the church steps became a howl of delight.
Joey spun and screamed. “Zach! Are you nuts? Are you kidding? I'm out here in the middle of the night to try to save your butt and you're goofing around?”
Zach staggered toward him, wiping the tears from his eyes and snaking an arm around Joey's neck, hugging him close and shaking with delight.
Finally Zach's laughter subsided enough for him to speak. “Did you . . . did you pee your pants, bro?”
“Stop laughing. It's not that funny.”
“You had to hear your voice. Bro, you were killing me.” Zach caught his breath and let out a ragged and satisfied sigh. Black hair spiked the top of his head, as always, and his small dark eyes gathered enough of the hidden moon to light up. “Awesome.”
“Where's your bike, anyway?”
Zach walked over to the corner of the small wooden building, reached into the damp weeds, and righted his machine. “It's soaked, bro.”
“Good, so's mine.” Joey raised his own bike, his voice dripping with disgust. “Now let's go.”
Joey pumped his pedals and burned off the annoyance he felt at Zach's foolery. The mist built up on his face so that he had to lick his lips and wipe his eyes. The road stayed dark and except for the quiet click of their bike sprockets and hiss of their tires on the wet pavement, they might have been in a silent dream. They pedaled without speaking for a couple of miles, winding through the trees, up and down hills, until they came to a dirt cut in the road and the red mailbox.
Joey got off his bike and Zach copied him.
“Man, is that creepy.” Zach stared at the hole in the trees where the dirt road quickly melted away. Spanish moss hung in limp strands, and evil little nooks and crannies infected the trunks and limbs of the twisted old trees leaning out and over the dirt driveway.
“I don't think he even has electricity.” Joey spoke in a whisper. Even though it felt like he and Zach were the only two people on the planet, he knew Mr. Kratz layâhopefully asleepâin the heart of this darkness, tucked into a snug corner of his cabin like an overgrown weevil.
Zach shook his head. “Guy is such a freak.”
Joey hid his bike in the wild hedge on the other side of the road.
“You don't want to ride?” Zach asked, even though he followed Joey's lead.
Joey crossed the road and started down the path. “This driveway is too bumpy. We're better off walking.”
Zach stayed close, and quickly the moonlight was gone. Joey took the cell phone from his pocket, opened it, and used its meager light to avoid the biggest ruts and stones. It seemed like forever, but finally a fuzzy patch of light appeared and Mr. Kratz's cabin materialized. Joey pocketed the phone and stopped at the edge of the small clearing. The barn loomed even bigger than Joey remembered it, dwarfing the log cabin. Between the two buildings, Mr. Kratz's rusty red compact pickup slept like a guard dog in a dirt patch.