Sewer Rats Read Free Page A

was that I always knew exactly where I was.
    Lisa stuck her tongue out at Micky and that seemed to make things better among us.
    We walked in silence for the last five minutes. We reached the drainage ditch. There were trees on both sides. It was dry.We walked along the bottom of the drainage ditch toward the big hill.
    We had to step over things that got left behind when the floodwater dropped. There were dolls without heads, old shoes and plastic pop bottles. There was plenty of garbage. All of it had washed from the streets and floated out through the tunnels.
    At the tunnel entrance there was a door made of iron bars welded together in squares of about two feet. Dried grass and weeds were wrapped around the bars on the bottom half of the door. They got stuck on the bars as the water flowed through.
    The door was attached to the top of the tunnel on large hinges. It was supposed to be locked, but the lock was old and had been loose for as long as we could remember. To get into the tunnel, all you had to do was jiggle the lock until it popped. Then you just lifted the door and slipped inside.
    Micky moved to the door. He slapped the lock a few times until it opened. He tested the door by pulling it back. It creaked on rusty hinges.
    â€œWhere are they?” Lisa demanded. “You don’t think they chickened out, do you?”
    Before any of us could answer, there was movement in the bushes above us.
    â€œChicken? I don’t think so,” a voice called out.
    The Medford school warriors stepped into sight. They had flashlights attached to their belts, their paintball guns ready and their helmets hanging from their hands.
    Six of them. Big kids. None of them smiled as they looked down on us.

chapter five
    It didn’t bother me that the Medford warriors were big. Tunnel war was the only place I wasn’t scared of big kids. Size worked against them. Skinny, small and fast was much better. And, like I always said, a paintball bullet brought big guys down the same way it brought down anyone else.
    â€œHey,” Micky said. “Come on.”
    They waited until the guy in front nodded. He had a crew cut and the beginning of amustache. He looked like the kind of guy who had an army recruiting poster in his bedroom.
    Mr. Army marched the rest of the kids toward us. They followed him in single file. When Mr. Army stopped, they stopped. They stayed straight and unmoving with their feet close together and arms at their sides. “At ease, men,” he said.
    All at the same time, they relaxed and moved their feet shoulder-width apart.
    At ease? What kind of freaks were these guys?
    Micky stepped over and shook Mr. Army’s hand.
    Micky always surprised me when he did things like that. Around adults, Micky had attitude. With anyone our age, though, you’d think he was running for student council.
    â€œYou know the rules,” Micky said.
    â€œLet’s go over them again so everyone here knows,” Mr. Army said. It sounded like he was clipping his words off with scissors.
    â€œJim,” Micky said to me. “The trophy.”
    I opened my duffel bag. Beside my paintball gun was our small flag. It was attached to a short wooden pole. I lifted it out and waved it.
    â€œOur flag,” Micky said. “If you capture it, it’s yours. It will make you kings of the tunnel. No other school has taken our flag since we began the game last year.”
    Mr. Army spun and pointed to one of his guys. The guy saluted. I mean, actually saluted. Then he reached inside his jacket and took out their team flag.
    â€œGood,” Micky said. “We both put our flags somewhere in sight. The war is over when one team takes the other’s flag and makes it back here. If we take your flag, we add it to our collection. You can try to get it back next time. But there’s a lineup to take us on. Might be a couple months of Saturdays before you get a chance.”
    â€œWhatever,” Mr. Army