The Boy in the Tunnel

Fall 1997, Chapter 27: Chet

"What are the dead?"

The five of them spoke as one. "The dead are invisible and silent!"

"And the dead shall be?"

"The dead shall be remembered and honored!" Their voices mingled in frustrated harmony, creating an authority to which they simultaneously submitted. But one voice was missing. Chet glanced at Taylor, to his left. He was just mouthing the words.

"Why do we choose to be dead?"

"Because to live is not a choice!"

Avery motioned to Taylor and Owen Bean. They removed the painting of Dean Yarrow from the wall behind Avery, revealing the spraypainted King Milo it concealed. Alex passed around shot glasses and filled them with Wild Turkey. He placed one glass on the floor under the Milo graffito.

Avery raised his glass to Milo. "Rex Mortem."

"Rex Mortem!" They all drank. Then they took their seats, under the unseeing eyes of King Milo, and the first meeting of the 30th Quorum of the Nine Dead Men came to order.

Only Avery remained standing, under the portrait of Milo, as was customary for the Secretary of the Exterior. He was their conduit to Milo, and, in Milo's absence, assumed the privileges and responsibilities of leadership. On a temporary basis, of course, until Milo returned to resume command himself.

"There is only one item on the agenda tonight," Avery said. His deep, coarse-sandpaper voice, the product of both abnormally thick vocal cords and a smoking habit that started at age eleven, echoed in the airless room. Avery's authority didn't derive solely from his rank. Though just 21, he maintained the weathered, no-nonsense demeanor of a much older man. It helped that he was so big: 230 pounds but not fat, just square and solid. Literally big-boned. His hair had started to go grey in high school, and now he kept it short, a thin layer of silver wire. He wore a suit at all times, even to class, and what had at first seemed a pretentious affectation now seemed an essential part of his being, the suit rumpled but not dirty or ill-fitting. It was very much like his skin, like maybe he slept in it every night and showered in it every morning. "Abduction is in ten weeks. At our next meeting, be prepared to make your case for your chosen candidate."

Dave raised his hand. "The Sergeant-at-Arms is recognized," said Avery.

"Do I have to find a candidate? The only freshmen who'll talk to me are total douchebags."

"No one forces you to write that shitty column, Taddlington," said Taylor. He was somehow lounging in the ancient straight-backed chair. His body looked like a demand curve plotted on a graph. "Hey, what about those chicks that were yelling at you the other night? They seemed feisty."

"Shut the fuck up, Taylor."

"Gentlemen." Avery stared them both down. Every Dead Man had gone on the record at least once with their hatred of Taylor, who had been forced upon them thanks to his family name. All except Avery, who as Secretary maintained an air of pained neutrality whenever the subject was broached. "He's right, Dave. Find a candidate." Avery turned to Chet. "Quartermaster."

Chet stood up. "Yes, Secretary."

"What can you tell us about Andrew Boyd?"

"Who?"

Avery pulled a small notebook out of his inner jacket pocket and consulted it. "Andrew Duncan Boyd. One of the new residents of Wintertree room 79A."

The name felt familiar, but just out of reach. It was the first time Chet had heard the name, but he thought he might have seen it. It shone bright gold in his mind's eye. The cover of a Handbook maybe. But he had no idea whose name it was. "Are you sure that's the right name?"