by David Brian
“It’ll be okay, kid,” I promised.
I doubt the boy believed me. I’m not sure I believed myself. A stench of musty unpleasantness lingered in the air. Peter’s arm strengthened around my neck, almost to the point of strangulation. I gripped the handrail and edged us down the steps, into inky blackness that hinted only of pain and ancient death.
It felt like it took forever to reach the foot of the staircase. We had been some way into the descent before I began counting steps, and yet I still managed to reach a count of seventy-two. It wasn’t lost on me, to all intent and purposes; we might willfully be descending into the deepest bowels of Hell itself. Fear tightened my throat. I barely drew a breath, lest I alert whatever may be waiting in the coal-black darkness of these depths.
I came to a stop only once we reached the base of the steps, allowing time for my eyes to focus in the low light. The thought struck me that I lacked foresight by failing to bring a torch. Though how could I have known I would find myself in such blackness, especially considering I was in pursuit of beings that existed as dazzling globes of energy.
I quickly realized a slight cooling of the air, and surmised, correctly as it turned out, that we were standing in an area wider than the corridors through which we had previously traveled. I lowered Peter to the floor. I could tell from the feel of the brickwork beneath my fingers as I fumbled to locate a source of lighting, the walls at this depth were unlike those passages we previously traversed.
Down here the walls were rougher stone, seeming as sharp to the touch as the caverns at Wookey Hole. Roz and I had visited those caves during that last month before I commenced National Service. I promised myself that should we survive this Cornish nightmare, I was finished with anything resembling a cavern. Briefly, though, a ray of sunlight beamed through my memories, and a smile creased my features as I recalled the cranky old tour bus, and the even crankier old driver – with his fat face, and a belly so bloated it wouldn’t have been amiss on a toad – who, after several wrong turns, finally succeeded in delivering us to those caves in Somerset. Three hours later than planned, but still with time to enjoy that sunny June day – and all of this back in a time when, apart from our looming enforced separation, all seemed well in our world…
It was Peter who succeeded in finding the switch necessary to reveal our situation, his small fingers instigating a dazzling brilliance that forced us to shield our eyes against a flood of white-light, as row-upon-row of fluorescent ceiling lamps illuminated the gymnasium-sized cavern. The area resembled a scene from some bizarre nightmare. Portions of the cave walls were painted oxide-red, although much of this long-dried decor had begun crumbling away; forming layers of dust which stained the edges of what was a sizeable natural cavern. I dropped to one knee and placed a wet finger into the fine debris. My stomach churning as I realized the horrific truth of the situation.
At first glance – and not just because of the overbearing white-light painting sails across carmine walls – the place was as grim as it was cold. Of far more importance than either the décor or climate, row-upon-row of pre-cast doors were situated along the walls, cut into uneven frames on either side of the rocky arena. The steel portals were constructed in a way I have only seen once before. Six months into my National Service, an off-duty altercation, between some mouthy navy boys and members of my regiment, resulted in my one and only experience of confinement. Fourteen hours in a cell was enough to convince me it was a lifestyle for which I had no desire.
I counted eighteen cells in total. Nine spaced evenly along two opposing walls. At the far end of the opposite row was an archway, leading on to another stairwell.
“Is this it?” I asked, as Peter placed his hand in mine.
He gestured toward the stairwell. “That’s where we got out before.”
“Good. Hopefully we can use the same route. Once we find your mom.” Even from where we now stood, I could see those steps at the far wall rising into darkness, but I had no time to dwell upon whatever might be waiting for us during the climb away from this nightmare.
When Peter had first hit the lights, hushed murmurings echoed through the arena. Those initial inquisitive voices quickly raised, their numbers multiplying to form a chorus of pitiful pleas, the silence of the darkness having been dispelled into a thousand sharp edged fragments of humanity pleading for mercy. It was probably imagination on my part, but it seemed in that moment as though Peter clung to me with a nervous anticipation unlike anything previously demonstrated.
The boy realized where we were.
I too understood, and blood began pounding between my ears, my heart thrumming with the trepidation of anticipated loss. I knew what this place was. Holding cells for those who had been taken; for those unfortunates still held in the will of the fiends who ruled this place.
Turning on the lights alerted the prisoners to our presence, and without doubt those initial murmurings confirmed their fears. They suspected we were monsters returned, likely to select new victims for dismemberment. Those chorus of cries quickly quieted, their voices quelled by the realization that not one of them wished to be among the chosen. Remaining still and silent in the shadows was their best hope of surviving the next pick.
As we moved quickly to the nearest door, I realized my first impression had been wrong. These weren’t regular cells – there were no key locks on any of the doors, instead each cell was secured via three heavy-duty, twelve-inch bolts.
I slid open the observation hatch and peered into the darkness, calling my wife’s name as I did so. No answer returned, though I was conscious of movement within the somber depths of the room. I tried again, this time choosing softer tones, urging responses from numerous shapes which I could barely make out in the pitch of the cell. Attempting to encourage those who cowered in silence, assuring them I was a friend here to help.
Not a foe to be feared.
A woman appeared at the hatch with a suddenness that caused me to stumble and I almost lost my footing.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” I blurted. “You scared the shit out of me, lady!” I glanced at Peter: “Sorry, kid.”
For the first time since we met the boy managed a genuine smile. He seemed impressed by my vulgarity.
The woman herself didn’t respond to my outburst, other than to reach a bony hand through the opening and claw wildly at the air with talon-like fingers. I surmised this futile plea for clemency was something oft repeated. I guessed the woman to be in her late fifties, although it was difficult to be sure. Strands of hair hung in ragged tangles across her face, saliva dribbling from one corner of her mouth. Even through the gloom of the cell I could detect the madness behind her eyes.
I knew it was likely in vain, but still I attempted questioning her. Had she seen anyone fitting Rosalind’s description? How many people were being held here? Nothing of any worth came back; a stream of incomprehensible babble. I was at the point of closing the hatch and moving on to the next cell, when someone placed a huge hand on the woman’s shoulder.
“It’s okay, Margaret. Come and take a seat next to Mrs. Kelper. Let me talk to this gentleman, eh?”
The distraught woman nodded compliance, and someone else touched her other shoulder. With whispered reassurance, it is a female hand which directs her from the hatch, turning and guiding the broken woman into the dark interior of her prison.
A different face appeared at the slot, this one expressing a smile of relieved desperation which turned the corners of his mouth. It was a face I recognized.
“Bloody hell, lad. I can’t believe you’re here. Even more shocking is that anyone managed to elude those things.” Joseph Carmichael spoke with a level of fear straining his voice, but he was clearly as pleased to see me as I was relieved to find him, alive and – for the most part – unharmed.
“I’ve got someone here who’s been looking for you,” I said, hoisting Peter up into my arms. The boy’s face flared with the relief of reunion.
“Petey? Thank God! I’
ve been so worried! Where’s Mom, and Nana?”
Joseph’s question wrenched Peter’s suppressed emotions beyond the floodgates he had been holding in check and tears streamed forth.
“I’m looking for Rosalind,” I interrupted, realizing I was wrong to impose on the grief about to be unloaded on this man. But I required answers. “Is she in there with you?” I tried to peer through the blackness beyond.
Joseph shook his head. “No lad. There are fifteen of us in here, but not your wife. Now, Peter, talk to me. Where are Mommy and Nana?”
Peter’s attempted response to his grandfather’s question ended in a mire of tears and snot, his words failing to a stuttering whimper.
“It’s alright, Pete,” I said, attempting – and I am sure failing – to soothe his angst, “I’ve got this.”
“You’ve got what?” there was a rising menace in Joseph’s tone.
“We think Peter’s mom is down here, somewhere.”
“And my wife?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry.”
“Jesus.”
“We need to get you out of here. All of you.”
“Did she suffer?”
“I don’t think so. I think it was quick.” Tears wet his eyes, and I hoped my lies had provided some small measure of mercy.
“Climb down a moment, Pete,” I said. “Let’s get your Pappy out of there. And then I need to find Roz.”
“It’s okay, Frank. Like I said, Rosalind is not in here. But I think she’s safe, at least for now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I managed to hide from those things for a while. I found Rosalind wandering one of the corridors on the first floor. She and I were captured together, along with a number of other decidedly strange individuals. I had hoped Beth, Cath, and Peter got away; hoped they’d managed to find some way out of this nightmare and gone to fetch help. Did you see Cathy?”
“Your daughter?”
“Yes. Did you see them?”
I felt terrible, but having already decided against telling him the nature of Beth’s demise, there was no good news I could offer the man. “No. Peter was the last one to see his mother, and this was some time ago. I haven’t seen her. I’m sorry.”
He paused, his mind considering the options. “Good. Hopefully she got out then.”
“Do you think Mommy got away?” This was the second glimmer of hope the child had expressed in just a short time, and I prayed it was warranted.
“I don’t know, kid. But hopefully so.”
“Listen to me, Frank,” Joseph urged, “It’s possible your wife is still somewhere down here. They brought us in together, along with several others they rounded up. I don’t understand their reasoning, but they chose to split the group up, putting everyone in different cells. I think Roz could be over there.” A thick arm stretched through the open hatch, pointing at the cells along the opposite wall.
I turned to move away, but Carmichael grabbed my bicep.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Don’t go. You have to get us out of here.”
I gave an apologetic nod. “Of course. Sorry. I’m going to slide back the bolts. But talk to those in your cell. Tell them to keep the noise to a minimum until everyone is free. But also to be ready, because once everyone is loose, we’re going to find a way out of here. Now, stand back.”
Carmichael stepped away, melting in the dark.
The bolts proved heavier than I would ever have imagined, and it took a good few minutes of struggle before I was able to slide back all three. When, finally, I pushed open the door, a stampede of bodies piled from the cell, men, women, and children, their rushed exit accompanied by an excitable babble of uncertain relief.
“Quiet!” I barked, and as one they fell silent. I turned and faced Carmichael, who had scooped Peter up in his arms and was busily inspecting the boy, ruffling his hair and planting kisses on reddened, wet cheeks. I felt obliged to cut short their celebrated reunion. “Joseph, we need to hurry with getting the rest of these doors open. We have to find Roz, hopefully Cathy too, and then get the hell out of here. And for God’s sake,” I urged as the volume began to creep, “tell these people to keep their bloody noise down. Otherwise none of us are getting out of here.”
Carmichael assured me he had this, even as I turned and ran toward the far wall of the cavern.
“Rosalind? Are you there, honey?” I asked the question with something between a hiss and a whisper, repeating it several times at each door, hardly daring draw breath lest I miss my wife’s reply.
Hushed murmurs again emanated through the cellblock as those held on this side of the arena realized I wasn’t some returning demon. Realization fanned a growing flame of hope among those imprisoned.
I didn’t intend wasting time struggling with loosing bolts on these doors – I was filled with a single all-consuming desire; I was here to rescue my soul mate. Noise levels were rising to such a degree as to surely draw attention, but I wasn’t unsympathetic to those being held. It wasn’t lost on me that two of the men whom I’d previously released were following close at my heels. They worked tirelessly, releasing the heavy bolts across each door. I was at the fifth door and in the process of sliding back the hatch, when I recognized a muffled shout. Rising above the babble, a call of desperate relief emanated from the confines of the next cell along. I smiled as I heard my wife’s voice.
Chapter 32
I moved at a stumble to where the cry originated. My legs turned to jelly by the prospect of imminent reunion. As I opened the hatch my stomach tumbled with anticipation.
A light flashed across my shoulder, its beam settling upon the square opening. Someone behind me was using a flashlight to light my search. I gestured my gratitude to the skeletal-faced teenager with the torch, he reciprocated my nod, and as he did so I noticed the excessive length of his wavy brown hair. His hairstyle seemed odd, though no more so than the look of rigid terror transfixed on the boy’s features.
“Are you alright, kid?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Not really. I’m looking for my father.”
“Is he in one of these cells?”
“I honestly hope not. We were fishing along the bank of Dutchman’s Creek, and then everything went crazy. I’m hoping he got away.”
I nodded. “Finger’s crossed, eh, kid?”
“I’m not a kid. Name’s Kurt.”
“Good to meet you, Kurt. And best of luck finding your dad. I’m Frank.”
“We should hurry with getting these folks out of here.”
I was impressed by Kurt. The kid had his own worries, but still found fortitude enough to aid others. The beam of his torchlight revealed a plethora of faces beyond the dark square, each pleading for release; old men with ridiculously long beards, oriental women in colored headdresses, a man and a woman, devoid of hair; but both wearing crowns of glorious feathers; a girl with a shaved head and rings through her nose; a multitude of innocent victims, each and every one condemned for reasons they could never comprehend. But there was only one face shining like a beacon from within the gloom of that cell. Seeing her behind the confines of this door, tears wetting her face; it broke my heart. It also served to reinforce a love I never once doubted. I set to work releasing Rosalind and her fellow prisoners.
The heavy door swung open to an accompanying stampede. It was an exit that forced me to step aside, though my eyes continued searching the throng, seeking out the object of my affection. I was still watching the crowd when Roz appeared by my side. She looked disheveled and pallid – as did so many of those we freed – but still greeted me with an embrace of arms and lips. I reciprocated, my hands encircling her waist, my mouth finding hers with a kiss which had seemed an eternity in coming. For this wonderful, though all too short moment, I was able to forget our predicament. In this instant, I felt as though I had recovered a part of myself. Running fingers through her hair, kissing her forehead, eyes, nose, cheeks, and lips, I told myself I would never lose her
again.
“Hi, Hub,” she whispered, her breath warm on my face.
“Hey, Tub. I thought I’d lost you.” I thumbed a tear from her quivering cheek.
“I’ve been so afraid.”
“I know, honey pie. I’ve been scared, too. But it’s going to be alright. We’re going to get out of here. All of us.”
“How?” she asked, a chord of disbelief straining the question as she stared past my shoulder toward the figures massing at my back.
I turned and followed her gaze, and it was only then the magnitude of the task was revealed. The numbers of those released from the cells was greater than I would ever have imagined; a throng of maybe two-hundred people now gathered in the center of the cavern, each and every one of them revealed by the unkemptness of their manner and the fear on their faces.
Ours was a truly eclectic mix of individuals.
These were people of every race and generation, and perhaps more disconcertingly, there were some barely passable as human. The couple who sported crowns of feathers, I realized then their bodies too were feathered. In much the same way as our bodies are covered in fine hairs, this pair was…something altogether different. There was a woman, her neck stretched giraffe-like, giving her a line of sight two feet higher than anyone else in this arena. There were other oddities, such as a boy covered by tattoos, his hair shaped into solid blue spikes, and the girl with the shaved head and numerous facial piercings. It only then dawned on me, could it be true these victims had all been seized from different realities, maybe even different worlds? The absurdity of their garments, even the styling of their hair and bodies, it all suggested such a solution. Even with the passing of so many years since, I still find this a difficult explanation to accept.
If there was one constant among those amassed in that place, it was that their eyes betrayed them. Fear was legion among this group. And they now turned to me, lost, scared, confused souls desperate for leadership and direction, relying on this skinny white guy from the middle of England to secure their escape, as though I were Moses set to lead them out of Egypt.
