The Impossible Fortress(49)

They all squatted down, prying their fingers beneath the doors. Then on Tyler’s count of three they all lifted, but it was immediately obvious that we’d overlooked something, because the doors didn’t budge. The guys strained and groaned and heaved, but nothing happened. Something in the construction—maybe some mechanism in the lock—was holding them back.

Tyler stopped to crack his knuckles and adjust his grip. “Let’s try this again,” he said. “Count of three.”

On three they lifted again, to no avail. Even with one hand Clark was trying as hard as the others, straining so much his face turned purple. I foolishly allowed myself a moment of hope; maybe the doors would never open, maybe we would go home empty-handed, no harm done except a few damaged hinges.

“I don’t know, guys,” I said. “Maybe—”

I was interrupted by a horrible, shrieking squeal—the sound of nails being wrested from wood—and Rene’s corner sprang away from the roof. A dirty white wire dangled from the door, its copper strands splayed, the connection severed.

“That’s the alarm wire,” I said.

No one seemed to grasp the importance of my discovery. They were all busy pulling up on their corners, not wanting to be outdone by Rene.

“You tripped the alarm,” I said.

“Almost there,” Tyler grunted, veins popping on his sweaty neck.

“It’s too heavy,” I said. “There’s no time—”

Precious seconds were slipping away from us: One Mississippi, Two Mississippi, Three Mississippi . . .

“We can do this,” Tyler said. “Everybody lift!”

Clark adjusted his grip and then cried out, dropping his corner and stepping backward. He held up four fingers gouged by a thin red line; blood was welling up to the surface of his good hand and dripping down his palm. Four Mississippi, Five Mississippi, Six Mississippi. Rene shoved Clark aside and took over his corner. Some distant part of my consciousness recognized that Rene was the only one of us who had taken the precaution of wearing gloves.

Tyler glared at me. “Help, dipshit!”

I squeezed between Alf and Tyler but couldn’t get any leverage. We might as well have been lifting a car. Alf’s face was beaded with sweat; we were straining so hard that somebody farted. There was another screech of rusty nails, and Rene popped a second corner off the roof. He grinned in triumph, but we were too late, we were already way too late, I was counting off the seconds in my head.

“We have to leave!” I hissed.

No one answered me. Now that two corners were up, Rene and Tyler had some serious leverage. They leaned on the doors together, bending them back at a forty-five-degree angle and revealing three wooden steps leading down into darkness.

“Go!” Tyler grunted.

“It’s too late,” I said.

Rene grabbed my arm and shoved me into the hole. I spilled down the stairs, landed on my belly, and smashed my face into a metal file cabinet. My flashlight rolled away from me. Somewhere in the store I could hear the steady chirping of the alarm system, counting down the remaining seconds until all hell broke loose. I touched my hand to my forehead, and it came away wet.

Twenty-three Mississippi, Twenty-four Mississippi . . .

I crawled across the floor until I reached my flashlight and stood up. I was back in the labyrinth of shelves and cardboard boxes—but in the dark of night, none of it looked familiar. I wound through the passages, searching for the stairs, but all I saw were boxes and more boxes. My head was throbbing and I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t concentrate. I circled the labyrinth, counting off the seconds out loud: “Thirty-three Mississippi, Thirty-four Mississippi . . .”

Something was wrong. Where were the stairs? I traveled in a complete loop and found myself returning to the hatch. The guys looked down at me in astonishment.

“What are you doing?” Alf asked.

“Get the alarm!” Clark said.

“Or I will throw you off this goddamn roof,” Tyler said.

I was already too scared to think straight—scared of the alarm, scared of getting caught, scared of crossing the bridge again—but my fear of Tyler Bell trumped everything else. I tried again. My focus sharpened. I realized the passage was blocked by a tower of cardboard cartons. Zelinsky must have carried up a stack of deliveries and left them to deal with later.

I shoved them forward and the boxes tumbled back downstairs, falling end over end with a terrible clatter, and I half fell, half ran after them. The first floor was pitch-dark, but I had my flashlight, and I knew my way around. I ran past the desk where Mary and I programmed The Impossible Fortress, past the cash register where Zelinsky offered me a job. If the count in my head (Forty-three Mississippi, Forty-four Mississippi) was accurate, the alarm was about to go apeshit.

I ran to the front of the store and hit OFF on the control panel. The display flashed ENTER ACCESS CODE, and I copied the movements I’d seen Mary use—top-left, bottom-middle, bottom-middle, top-middle—but nothing happened.

In that moment I realized I was doomed, that I’d somehow gotten the passcode wrong.

Then there was a loud BEEEEEEEE-DOOP.

And just like that, the chirping stopped.

I was in.





2300 REM *** ALARM SOUND ***

2310 FOR I=0 TO 22:POKE L1+I,0

2320 NEXT I:POKE L1+24,15