Between The Doors. Wes Peters

you’ll pardon my language sir—it’s just that—”

      “Don’t call me that!” Andrew exclaimed and hurried over to help his friend. Fortunately Nick hadn’t gotten any of the excrement on him.

      “Well no sir, I wasn’t callin’ you a shithole, you see—we’re in the sewer.”

      Andrew laughed. “No, not that. Quit calling me sir.” He laid his hand on Nick’s shoulder, as Nick’s eyes widened to the size of dinner-plates. “I’m not a day older than you, Nick.”

      Nick looked away. “But, sir, it’s just common respect. Beggin’ your pardon of course… if you want though, I can stop. Sir.”

      Andrew lost interest in the boy’s dawdling. He walked forward and wrinkled his nose. “So this is Sunsetville, huh?”

      Nick hurried over to him. “Yessir, I’d recognize that golden light anywhere. Even the smell of shit can’t ruin that crisp, golden, springtime air. Sorry about the language, of course.” He continued. “I know this sewer pretty well, yep. I work down ‘ere.”

      “Do you?” Andrew asked. “But you’re just a kid!”

      “Yes well, I’ve got to do somethin’ during the day. My aunt and uncle are usually workin’. They want me to keep out of trouble and all,” Nick looked around. “I knew this sewer pretty well, workin’ with the maintenance men. Too often I’m knee-deep in…” he looked at the puddles of waste and murky water around him. He couldn’t find a polite word for it. He continued.

      “Of course, it’s been knee deep since I’ve got here, three moons ago. Especially since it hasn’t rained in over a year, that is.”

      Andrew turned sharply. “There’s a drought in Sunsetville?”

      Nick considered it for a moment. “If that’s what you call it, then yes. The whole world’s got a bad case of it.” His cautious answer brought a grin to Andrew’s face. “I never heard that word, though, but if druh-out” he sounded it in two syllables, “yeah, if this dry-out means the weather’s hot and sticky all the time without rain, then that’s what it is. Sir.”

      Andrew didn’t say anything, thinking of his home. He’d thought he could escape the drought through a door to another world, but apparently that wasn’t the case.

      “And truth be told, the rain’s stopped ever since he came,” said Nick, talking more to himself than Andrew, who explored ahead. Andrew asked who he was, and received a few seconds of silence from Nick. When Nick spoke, it wasn’t an answer to Andrew’s questions.

      “Look here, sir—it’s a manhole. That’s what we use to get in and out of the sewer, you know.”

      Andrew turned around, spotting the manhole on the ceiling. He flashed his friend a smile.

      “Let’s get out of this shithole, bud,” he said, tucking the gun into the waistband of his shorts.

      II

      Andrew followed Nick, who leaped and grabbed the iron rungs of a ladder that dropped from the manhole. Before he had jumped Nick commented:

      “I may not have a load of ‘smarts’ as my dad says, but I’ve got a compass in my head.” He tapped his finger on his temple. “Fills up the room where my brain is s’posed to be, my dad also says. I know my way around, and if I’m right we’re below the center of town. Well,” he paused, thinking. “we’re under it. Yeah, that’s better. Once we climb up, then we’ll be in the center of town.”

      Now Nick popped off the manhole, and pulled himself into the street. He turned to help Andrew up after. Andrew climbed up with the help of his new friend, and saw Sunsetville for the first time.

      Before his eyes could adjust to the light, he took in a gulp of fresh, crisp air that Nick had described earlier. It was a relief compared to the sewer. It was also a relief compared to the air in New Jersey. There the air was filled with ‘global warming’, something his mother talked about despairingly at the dinner table. Here, the boy figured, there could be no cars in this world. If it had no guns, how could there be cars?

      The center of Sunsetville took Andrew’ breath away. Behind him he heard Nick say:

      “Right? Makes my jaw drop everytime.”

      The buildings were one or two stories high, built of wood that shimmered homely in the twilight. Amidst the markets that congregated around the cobblestone town square towered an incredible structure: a clock tower, built of stone. Instantly, Andrew thought of Big Ben, the clock tower he’d seen in the picture books his mother had once read him. At last, a pang of homesickness rattled his bones. He managed to dismiss it in wonder, however, as only as a child can do, gazing in awe at the city around him. And the city had begun to light up.

      The only way he could describe it was how Disneyworld looked at night, with the illuminated towers and magic that hung in the air. There were no electric lights to illuminate the buildings here, but the sunset (which was not halfway finished) cast a beautiful radiance on the tower and the buildings below. Torches lit some of the houses and streets. Staring at the gigantic face of the clock Andrew saw strange markings that looked like graffiti radiating. They were symbols and designs and obscure markings of purple and pink and magnificent fuchsia that illuminated the clock face. Andrew had only been to Disney when he was four, and though he loved the atmosphere, he resented the crying children, many of whom were older than he. Also, he resented that he couldn’t ride the rides because of his height.

      Here, though, was a new world, a world without crying children and height restrictions. The boy gazed at Sunsetville, his face illuminated by the falling sun. Here he didn’t have to be Andrew Tollson; here he didn’t have to be small. Here he was a man of the gun; he could be big as he wanted to be.

      III

      One watched the two climb into the dusty street. Tom Treeson sat astride a young horse, caramel in color with a rich mane. He recognized Nick, but not the other. The other wore strange clothing, shorts and a t-shirt with a collar, and a mess of dirty blonde hair on his head. In the light of the sunset the boy’s eyes burned. He had an unsightly bulge beneath his shirt at the belt, and had Tom known what lay under the boy’s shirt his jaw would have dropped to the dusty street.

      Tom Treeson rode up to the two slowly. He was an older boy, dressed similarly to Nick, except for the brown top hat he wore. Nick heard him coming and turned to meet him.

      “Hey Nick,” Tom said, tipping his hat.

      “Hullo Tom,” Nick said.

      “You missed work today, my friend.”

      After a moment’s pause, Nick said “Yeah,” and said no more.

      Tom Treeson looked up at the clock tower and was silent for a moment. “You missed one hell of a day, Nick. John’s laid up in the infirmary.”

      Nick started. “Johnny? What’s happened? Is he all right?”

      Tom shook his head. “Crawlies got him. Down below. He was fixing a leak, broke off from the group, and got lost a bit. The next thing we heard was his screams.”

      Tom shuddered visibly, remembering that morning. The men had followed John’s screams through the sewers, heading northeast through the stone tunnels. You always had to remember which direction you were headed down there or you could end up in a lot of shit.

      They had John face down in the muck, spiders crawling over his limp body. Fortunately some of the workers had matches, and they struck a light to scare the beasts away. Tom had never seen spiders like this in his life. They had been bigger than his fist, and fast too. When they saw the light of the match they quit crawling on Johnny and turned to face the intruders. Tom had seen their red eyes, and that’s when he’d lost it. He screamed and sprinted at them, waving his match and swinging the wrench he’d brought with him. The other boys tried to stop him, but he was too far gone. He hit one crawlie with his wrench. It flew and splattered against the wall. Splattered wasn’t the right word;