Free February by Gabrielle Lord Page B

best stow the drawings. I was thinking that maybe I should secure the folder on the outside of the backpack with octopus straps, when I heard voices echoing through the drain.
    I grabbed my torch, jumped down from my alcove—my backpack and the drawings in one hand, torch in the other.
    Now the voices were loud—there was a roughness and a nasty edge that I knew meant trouble. One guy in particular had a very ugly laugh. I hesitated, wondering for a moment whether I should try to leave by the main drain,running straight into them, or avoid them by going down one of the smaller tunnels.
    It was too late. Three guys appeared, emerging from the main drain into the small clearing before the other two channels branched off. They looked surprised to see me. Their surprise quickly turned to aggression.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ asked the leader, a tall guy with his black hair slicked back, a scar running through his left eyebrow, and what looked like a permanent sneer on his narrow lips.
    ‘Yeah, we rule the drains. Who do you think you are?’ The other two echoed from each side of their slick leader. Generally rats ruled the drains, but I thought it wouldn’t be a good idea to say that.
    The other two guys were smaller than the first. The shorter, stout kid, was dressed in military-style gear, while the other guy had a shaved head and was squeezed into tight black jeans and a striped singlet, like some sort of urban pirate. They stood there, snarling at me while my mind raced for a way to deal with this.
    I knew this scenario too well. I’d faced it plenty of times in the schoolyard. A gang of guys looking for a fight. A fight that they can’t lose—three against one.
    ‘What’s in that bag?’ demanded the sneerer, making a lunge for my backpack. I jumped back quickly, out of his reach.
    ‘And what’s in the folder? Give us a look!’
    I knew this game, too. If I didn’t give them what they wanted, they’d jump me and grab it anyway. If I did give them what they wanted, they’d jump me just the same. You can’t always talk sense to bullies, Dad once told me.
    ‘Give me that!’ barked Scarface.
    ‘No way,’ I said, taking a step back, putting more distance between me and them, so I’d have more room to move.
    ‘You’d better,’ said the guy with the shaved head, taking a step towards me.
    ‘Why don’t you come here and get it!’ I said, playing for time, my mind working furiously for a strategy. I needed to deal with the leader first. If I could get him down fast, the other two wouldn’t be too hard to sort out. I heard Dad’s voice in my head: ‘Watch their hands, and you’ll see the punch coming before it lands.’
    ‘Come on,’ I taunted, ‘if you want it so bad, come and get it!’
    I glared hard at Scarface, keeping his hands in my peripheral vision. I wasn’t feeling any where near as tough as I sounded, but there was no way I was giving my backpack to these losers.
    The threesome looked surprised at my attitude, and Scarface’s neck and face flushed red, his hands moving fast into furious fists. I braced myself, muscles surging with adrenaline.
    He swung at me and before he knew what hit him I’d doubled over and charged my head into his gut like a battering ram. I heard him grunt as he went flying backwards, hitting the deck hard.
    I kept going, avoiding his flailing arms and legs as he scrambled to recover his balance and his wind. But I was already gone, leaving them all behind me, racing away towards the Y-intersection.
    I threw myself into the left-hand branch.
    Scarface’s swearing and the shouted threats of the others thundered down the drains.
    This drain was smaller and more sloped than the main one. As my feet pounded along, the enraged footsteps of the three in pursuit pounded even louder.
    ‘C’mon! Dogs! Freddy! Get the little scumbag!’ Scarface yelled to the other two.
    I had no idea where I was heading. They were gaining but I could hear something else—a sound I