Tunnels 01, Tunnels

back into place and secured and the floor swept.
    This night he had an additional task: As he saturated the axle of the noisy wheel with oil, he wondered how much farther it was to the end of the tunnel and, not for the first time, whether there would be anything there. He was concerned that they were running out of supplies; without his father's help with materials, he had been forced to salvage as much timber as he could from the Forty Pits, so as the tunnel beneath the house progressed, the other one became more and more precarious.
    Later, as he sat hunched over the kitchen table, eating yet another dinner that had gone stone-cold, Rebecca appeared in the doorway as if from nowhere. It made Will start, and he swallowed noisily.
    "Just look at the state of you! Your uniform is filthy -- do you expect me to wash everything again? " she said, folding her arms aggressively.
    "No, not really," he replied, avoiding her eyes.
    "Will, what exactly are you up to?" she demanded.
    "I don't know what you mean," he said, ramming in another mouthful.
    "You've been sneaking off somewhere after school, haven't you?"
    Will shrugged, pretending to examine a dry slice of beef curling on the tip of his fork.
    "I know you're up to something, all right, because I've seen that big ox sneaking around in the back yard."
    "Who?"
    "Oh, come on, you and Chester have been tunneling somewhere, haven't you?"
    "You're right," Will admitted. He finished his mouthful and, taking a breath, tried to lie as convincingly as he could. "Over by the town dump," he said.
    "I knew it!" Rebecca announced triumphantly. "How can you even think of digging another of your useless holes at a time like this?"
    "I miss Dad, too, you know," he said as he took a bite out of a cold roasted potato, "but it's not going to help any of us if we just mope around the house, feeling sorry for ourselves... like Mum."
    Rebecca stared at him distrustfully, her eyes shining with anger, then turned on her heel and walked out of the room.
    Will finished the congealed meal, staring into space as he slowly chewed each mouthful, ruminating on the events of the past month.
    Afterward, up in his bedroom, he took out a geological map of Highfield, first marking the spot where he thought the house stood, and then the direction he calculated his father's tunnel in the cellar was taking, and, while he was at it, the locations of
    Martineau Square
    and Mrs. Tantrumi's house. Will looked long and hard at the map, as if it were a puzzle he could solve, before he finally put it aside and climbed into bed. Within minutes he'd slipped into an uneasy and fitful slumber, in which he dreamed of the sinister people his father had described in his journal.

    * * * * *

    In the dream he was dressed in his school uniform, but it was covered in mud and tattered and torn at the elbows and knees. He'd lost his socks and shoes and was walking barefoot down a long, deserted terraced street, which felt familiar though he couldn't quite place where he knew it from. As he glanced up at the low sky, which was yellowy gray and formless, he fidgeted anxiously with the ragged material of his sleeves. He didn't know if he was late for school or for supper, but he was certain he was supposed to be somewhere or doing something -- something very important.
    He kept to the center of the street, wary of the houses on both sides. They stood ominous and dark; no light shone from behind their dusty windows, nor did any smoke rise from their precariously tall and twisted black chimney stacks.
    He was feeling so very lost and alone when, far off in the distance, he spotted someone crossing the street. He knew instantly that it was his father, and his heart leaped with joy. He began to wave, but then stopped as he sensed that the buildings were watching him. There was a brooding malevolence to them, as if they harbored an evil force, like a tightly coiled spring, holding its breath and lying in wait for him.
    Will's fear grew to an unbearable pitch, and he broke into a trot toward his father. He tried to call to him, but his voice was thin and ineffectual, as though the air itself were swallowing his words the instant they left his lips.
    He was running at full tilt now, and with every stride the street was becoming narrower, so that the houses on either side were closing in on him. He could now clearly see that there were shadowy figures lurking threateningly in their dark doorways, and that they were beginning to spill