Force Out (2 page)

Zach shivered. “Oh, man.”

Even a whisper sounded too loud, so Joey barely spoke.

“You should have studied for the last test like I told you.” Joey bit down on his lower lip, scared and angry that he was even here doing this.

“I
tried
. Not everybody's as smart as you,” Zach hissed quietly in Joey's ear. “Is this gonna work?”

“You got a better idea?” Joey asked in a hushed voice.

Zach shook his head, and Joey crept forward toward the pickup truck and into the pale light of the moon. Joey studied the setting carefully, looking for any kind of movement and listening for any sound. The homestead was still and lifeless. From his back pocket, he removed the screwdriver and the baggie from his father's workbench. He knelt down in front of the truck, took one final look around, then lay on his back in the dirt and squirmed underneath the engine.

Zach squirmed in beside him and without speaking Joey opened his phone and handed it to Zach, pointing at the fuel pump, where he wanted the light. Joey fumbled with the clamp he'd taken from his father's workbench, fished it around the fuel line, then inserted the loose end into the little collar and began to cinch it down with the screwdriver. Zach's breathing grew heavy and excited. Joey wanted to tell him to be quiet; he was afraid of making too much noise. Being wedged in under Mr. Kratz's truck in the darkness with his legs sticking out was the scariest thing he'd ever experienced or imagined.

That was until he heard the low, guttural snarl at his feet, a wet snort, and the killer snap of big sharp teeth.

A pathetic whine escaped Zach's throat and his eyes bulged. “Joey, is that a dog?”

Not only was it a dog, it was one of the biggest, nastiest dogs Joey had ever seen. Kept on a thick chain fastened to an old mill wheel during the summer, the dog Mr. Kratz called Daisy snarled and slobbered and howled at Mr. Kratz's customers until he emerged from the workshop in his barn and uttered one inaudible word. Daisy then wilted like the flower he was named after.

Joey knew about the dog but had no idea what Mr. Kratz did with it at night. That's why he'd carefully surveyed the homestead before trapping himself and his best friend under the front end of the pickup. From what he'd seen and heard, he had concluded the dog must be put inside at night.

Now he knew different.

“Joey. Oh my God.” Zach was practically crying, and he grabbed Joey's wrist so that Joey had to twist it before he could yank it free.

“Let
go
of me, you bonehead.”

Joey's hand snaked into his other pocket. His fingers groped for the cold baggie, yanking it free and tearing it open with his other hand. With a low whistle, he tossed a ball of ground meat out into the dirt.

“Good boy,” Joey whispered. “Here, boy. Here, Daisy.”

He tossed another scrap. Daisy snarled louder and sniffed the air, then padded around behind the front tire to gobble up the meat.

“That's a good boy.” Joey emptied the entire baggy to the tune of snapping teeth, snorting, and slobbering.

“How much of that stuff do you have?”

“I'm out.”

“Now what?” Zach asked, still paralyzed with panic.

“Relax.”

Daisy paced back and forth, sniffing at their feet before he came around by the tire, gave one final snort, then lay down in the dirt so they could see his wet muzzle and the glow of front teeth. He put his head on his front paws, then rolled over on his side, twitched a bit, then began to snore.

“You killed it?” Zach asked in an excited whisper.

“No. Don't you hear it snoring?”

“Okay, let's go.”

“I'm not finished.”

Zach stayed rigid. The cell phone trembled in his hand, but its light was steady enough for Joey to complete the job. He cinched the clamp down tight enough to strangle the fuel line when Mr. Kratz drove to the train station in the morning.

“Okay, let's go.”

They wiggled their way out from under the truck. Daisy's barrel chest heaved up and down peacefully. They tiptoed slowly and quietly for the first few steps, but the farther they got, the more panic overtook them and soon they were both sprinting as fast as their legs would carry them down the dirt driveway, heading for the road, each holding his phone in the air to light the way. Joey went down once, tripping on a tree root, but hit the ground, bounced, rolled, and came up running.

When they reached the road, they yanked their bikes from the hedge, mounted them on the run, and pedaled away like mad.

At the crossroads they dismounted in the church's weedy lot and slapped high fives. Zach arched his back and tilted his head to the hidden moon, letting out a howl to scare a wolf. They both laughed and Zach hugged Joey until Joey had no choice but to hug him back.

“My best friend is the greatest!” Zach yelled at the moon. “The best ever!”

Joey's face grew warm. “Let's hope it works.”

“Of course it will work. How could it not work? You choked off his fuel line. You're a genius.”

Joey could think of about ten things off the top of his head, most of all if the truck didn't get far enough from the cabin, or if it got too close to civilization, or if it conked out in some small pocket where there was cell service so that Mr. Kratz could somehow get another ride and make what was the last train in the morning on time. But instead of going through the list, he shrugged and said, “I guess you're right. It should work.”

“It
will
work.
V
for victory.” Zach held up his first two fingers and spread them wide in a
V
.

“Well, we better get going.” Joey kicked up the stand on his bike.

Zach did the same. “Yup, we got trophies waiting for us tomorrow. You're the man.”

“Make sure you're at the train station,” Joey said. “If it doesn't work, you sure don't want to be in summer school. You can't play for Center State select if that happens.”

“Stop worrying. We're both gonna make the all-star team, even if we don't win the championship.”

“But if we win it, it's a lock. The champion team gets two automatic spots on the all-stars, and if you miss the championship game? It might hurt your chances with the voting.”

“I'm sure you could win it without me. Even if you don't, we're both gonna make the all-stars. How could we not?”

“You're sure? How could we not?” Joey stared at him for a second in the darkness. “Cut it out, will you? You think I'd be out here doing this if it was a sure thing? The only sure thing is that there's no sure thing. Who always says that?”

Joey didn't wait for the answer. “Your dad, that's who.”

“Okay by me.” Zach shrugged. “Trust me, I'm dying to play in the championship and get one of those monster trophies. We got so robbed last year. Remember Jake Tennison walking seven kids in the bottom of the sixth?
Seven
. Now we get to bring home the iron, thanks to my bro.”

Joey climbed up on his bike. He and Zach called each other bro because they felt like brothers. “Okay, enough talk. See you in the morning, bro.”

“I'll be there.”

They slapped another high five and rode off their separate ways.

By the time Joey got back, the mist had turned to a thick fog and he was nice and wet. He snuck inside and upstairs, changing into a dry T-shirt and boxers before climbing into bed. Instead of falling right to sleep, Joey stared at the ceiling. Little pale green dinosaur shapes glowed down on him, plastic decorations from a time years ago when he couldn't get enough of dinosaurs. He usually didn't even see them, but how often did he lie awake in bed? Zach wouldn't be lying awake, that was certain.

Almost nothing bothered Zach, and in this case, his friend's happy-go-lucky attitude made Joey even more uptight. All the possibilities that would enable Mr. Kratz to show up—frazzled but on time at the train station tomorrow morning at seven thirty, just in time for the field trip—played over and over in Joey's mind. Finally, he got up and walked down the hall for a drink in the bathroom his family shared.

The streetlight bled through the fog and the lacy white curtains enough for him to fill the glass without flipping the switch. He looked at himself in the mirrored medicine cabinet door, just a glance, then looked again, not at himself but at the door. It was ajar. Behind it were his parents' things. Joey opened it and looked at the bottles of pills, razors, creams, pads, and tubes of makeup. He reached up and turned a pill bottle to the left ever so slightly, then closed the door tight.

He stepped back and looked at the mirror. Now he couldn't remember if the door had been slightly open before or shut tight. He opened it slightly again, bothered that he had to be so precise but knowing that, with his mother, he did. He left it as it was and turned to go.

Martin's bedroom door—his mom called the big old closet a nursery—was open and Joey peeked in. His little brother lay sprawled out on top of the covers with his head tilted back and his mouth wide-open, snoring softly. Joey crept to the end of the hall and peeked in on his parents, two silent mountains under their covers. He stood there, even when his mom stirred and sat up, blinking.

“Joey? What's wrong?”

Joey shifted his feet. The urge to tell her what he'd done swelled inside him. It wasn't that he was exactly scared of his mom, but there was something about her presence. She was a sheriff's deputy, tall, thick boned, and blond—people said he looked just like her—but her authority didn't come from the badge; it came from the burning light in her eyes. The consequences of spilling the beans danced around in his head. He shut his mouth and regrouped.

“Can't sleep.”

“Well, you've got a big game tomorrow, so you better try.” She lay back down and pulled the covers over her head with a snap.

“Okay.” Joey turned and went to bed.

Sometime much later, he nodded off.

There was nothing he loved more than baseball
.

The smooth wood of the bat handle was made for his hands. He felt, gripping it tight, that it connected him to the rest of the universe like an astronaut's tether in space. He swung the bat to loosen his limbs and felt the power stored up there, the charge of a storm cloud ready to burst down upon the earth with the noise and the vibration of a great thunderclap trailed by the burning smell of ozone from the heavens
.

Coach Barrett stood on the other side of the plate. Instead of his cap and Blue Jays uniform, he wore a suit and tie. “You have to score, Joey. You have to score for us to win. You have to score. Whatever you do, don't get an out.”

“
V
for victory, Coach.” Joey held up his first two fingers and spread them wide like his smile
.

When he stepped to the plate, the pitcher and the other players stood like helpless pieces on a chessboard, immobile and small by comparison to his quick-limbed swing and towering size. Joey laughed—meaning it as a private celebration but unable to contain his confidence. The umpire and the catcher gazed up at him respectfully. Then came the pitch, rotating on its axis, big and slow like a planet. Joey had time to feel the itch of anticipation and to rear back with all his might and strike it solidly in the center, blasting it into center field
.

That's when everything changed
.

He dropped the bat and started to run, but his legs felt like tubes of sand, heavy and unresponsive. He was nearly paralyzed. Because the ball was hit so far and so well, he somehow made it to first base even with his unresponsive legs. The crowd went absolutely wild and Joey waved up to them, even the tiny frantic figures in the upper decks. It seemed the whole world was watching and waiting for him to score the winning run
.

The next batter stepped up to the plate. It was Zach. Oh, Zach! With his quick swing and nimble, athletic form, he was made for baseball. Zach pointed his bat toward the left field fence and the crowd cheered him as well. Zach then pointed a finger at Joey. Joey gave him a
V
for victory, and they had a private moment between them. The first baseman said something Joey couldn't understand, and before he knew it, the pitch was thrown. Zach hit the ball, but it dribbled up the middle of the diamond and the second baseman scooped it from the dirt
.

Joey ran, or he tried
.

His legs hung heavy and dead from his hips, worse than before
.

Every ounce of effort and energy he had, he poured into his legs and his arms, pumping for his very life because he had to get to second. He had to score. They had to win. In slow motion, he moved, one step, two. He began to sweat. The second baseman had the ball. He raised his foot to stomp on the bag. The stomp would end everything for Joey, not just this inning or this game. It would end his life, he knew that. It was the end of everything he knew. He had to score. He had to win, but there stood the second baseman. Joey looked back at first base. Maybe he could go back? No, Zach came running. Joey had to go forward. He had to advance. It was a force-out
.

Force. Out
.

Everything. Over
.

The horror of it made Joey fight forward, screaming as the second baseman's foot came down with a stomp to cave the entire universe in on itself
.

Nothing he could do
.

“Ahhhhh!” Joey tore the covers off and sat upright in the tangle of damp sheets.

He took short, hard breaths, gulping air into his lungs, needing more oxygen to pump the dream from his system. It was awful. It was his dream, his baseball dream. It happened to him on a regular basis. He didn't tell anyone about it, but from what he could gather on the internet about these kinds of things, it was born out of anxiety, the distress he stored up inside his mind about the need to succeed on the baseball diamond.