Darts. He had been shot with tranquillisers and woken down here. They hadn't even had the decency to let him die. How long he had sat there he couldn't tell. Stiffness had started to creep up his spine from sitting against the cold stone and his stomach was being tormented by cramps. The tunnel looked endless from where he had collapsed on the ground after being dumped off the last rusting rung of the steel ladder. He could see a sickly grey light pulsing in the distance; it crept along the scummy concrete walls, picking out the cracks in their surface with its alien glow and playing with the shadows on the arched ceiling above his head. In the unnatural gloom nothing moved and the only sound was the lonely far off echo of dripping water as it plunked hollowly on the stone floor. He could never have done anything more than imagine what it would be like down here but nothing, not the stories nor the constant speculation, could have prepared him for this brooding quiet.
What if you're the only one down here? Maybe the stories where all horribly wrong. Maybe everybody is dead.
The voice in his head took on a familiar persona and fresh grief swelled up inside of him, threatening to consume him completely. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes to try and stem the tears that where threatening, feeling the hot beat of the pulse behind his lids. If he allowed himself to cry the last of his frail and over stretched strength would probably flow right out of him.
"Hannah." he whispered into dark.
It seemed a lifetime since he had last saw her and he discovered with cold panic that he could no longer picture her clearly, the images his mind summoned never seemed quite right no matter how hard he tried to rearrange them. It was probably best not to think of Hannah just now anyway.
He had been stupid, so very stupid.
He got shakily to his feet. His legs were numb and he leant against the wall, stamping his feet to try and get the feeling back in his cold limbs. There was only one way he could go. High above him, at the top of the shaft from which the steel rungs descended, the four foot thick circular iron lid was sealed better than the lock on any safe and beyond it was a second sealed room with walls so thick nothing could penetrate them. Behind him was a simple dead end. His only option was the yawning tunnel that fell ahead of him, slanting down on a gradual decline into the hillside. So he picked up his pack and began to walk.
It wasn't easy. He walked with his head down and his mind kept trying to return to his final goodbye to Hannah. It kept trying to remind him of all the things he had lost all the things he would never see again. He found himself counting footsteps out loud simply to try and block the images from his mind but they battered against his concentration like raging water behind a weak dam. They trickled slowly into his consciousness through the cracks their weight had caused.
"...Thirty-four...Thirty-five...Thirty-six..."
Hannah sleeping peacefully in his arms, a small smile on the corners of her pink lips.
"Thirty-seven...Thirty-eight...Thirty-nine..."
The twisted old birch tree outside of the cabin where they had spent their first holiday together, its leaves red and rustling in the Autumn breeze.
"Forty...Forty-one..."
A knife blade's silver flash, threatening in the dark.
"Forty-two...Forty-three..."
Hannah's frightened cry, his own arm snatching the knife, Hannah trying to pull him back.
"Forty-four..."
Blood. Blood. Blood.
He felt something rupture as he was caught in the rising tidal wave of memories that flooded his brain and for a time complete madness, anger, frustration, guilt and sorrow took control of his body. Like a man possessed by demons he ran at the wall to his left and flung himself against the concrete, heedless of the pain that rocketed down his left side. He rebounded and charged at the opposite wall trying desperately to ecscorsize the storm of agonising emotions by battering them relentlessly into submission. After a while he stopped, it seemed the assault on his frail thoughts was subsiding. He stood in the middle of the passage, panting hard, a thin line of blood sliding from one nostril, almost stupefied by his own irrational behaviour. He began to fear what he would find on his journey. He had not been down here long and already it seemed the seeds of madness that this whole experience had planted in his psyche were starting to take root. How could anybody hold onto their sanity under these conditions? He began to walk again.
He travelled on for a long time, in a dazed state of numbness, not really seeing the tunnel his feet carrying him automatically as if he were sleep walking. It seemed like no time at all before the tunnel opened out and he was startled from his stupor by the change in surroundings. He found himself in a large square chamber, about the size of sports hall and about 10 feet high. It was brighter in here; the source of the grey light he had been following was in the far corner. There was a small grate set into the concrete roof. His heart flipped and his stomach lurched excitedly at the sight of it and he covered the length of the chamber at a run, footfalls slapping like gunshots all around him. Cold air fell on his face from above; it smelled clean and fresh compared the dank air of the tunnel. He looked up through the vent, seeing a long narrow shaft that stretched way up above him to, the most amazing sight ever, a second steel grid through which he could glimpse a grey sky and it did cross his mind that Hannah might be up there but he stamped on that thought before it had a chance to develop.
His next thought went to the walls of the chamber. They were rough and uneven, scuffed in places, not impossible to climb. Heedless to the scrapes the concrete gave to his palms he began to scramble like a spider up the short distance to the vent. He curled his fingers around the bars, trying to get as close to the outside as he could.
"Don't you think we've all tried that one?"
The voice startled him and he lost his grip and went slithering back down the wall to land on his knees on the ground. There was a man standing over him, a thin man who seemed to be in very bad health. His sunken face was scarred and dirty, his eyes where strangely rattish peering from their hollow sockets, his skin looked yellow. He was like some sort of undernourished, bedraggled scarecrow from a nightmare's landscape. Yet despite the appearance of his new acquaintance Gabriel was glad to see another human being.
"I didn't expect to escapee, I was just dreaming, you know..." he trailed off, he had just caught the savage glint in the man's eyes.
"I'm hungry," his voice was nasal and thick, "There isn't always enough food. You know food is the one thing they don't allow you to pack before they send you down here."
Gabe stood up just in time to see the man pull a pocket knife from his jacket. Familiar feelings overwhelmed him. He wouldn't make the same mistake this time. The man looked half starved and ready to collapse at any moment so Gabe pushed him hard, knocking him to the ground before taking flight. He flew across the chamber and back into the tunnel where it continued on the wall to the right of the doorway he had entered through. He ran on and on through the dim passage and it was a long time before he eventually stopped, overcome by exhaustion, and realised he was not being followed.
He sunk to the floor once again, realising it would be impossible to travel any further without resting. Despite his fears that the scrawny man would come crawling up the passage and knife him in his sleep he was deeply tired and he curled up on his side and slowly began to drift away. The last thing he thought of before he fell asleep was Hannah. It was a comforting thought.
He slept fitfully on the cold stone ground gripped in a sleep that was plagued with weird dreams and images that became so confused he could barely make sense of which ones were real and which ones were all part of his imagination. At one point he thought he had woken to see a small boy strangely dressed in a dinner jacket and a bow tie standing in the tunnel. His head appeared too big for his thin body and he was clutching a small black cane with a silver handle. He had looked at Gabe and said it is God's will! Before his mind had slipped again and taken him down other roads. Of course there could be no children down here, they would never have allowed breeding to take place, but the image of the odd little boy seemed particularly real.
The bed seemed hard, the room cold. He supposed Hannah could have left the window open. He mumbled, only half awake, and reached out for Hannah. She wasn't there. He sat up quickly and felt the pains and stiffness shooting through his muscles. It was dark and the air was thick and clotted. What was going on? As he came around the terrible reality of his situation came seeping back and he remembered he would never wake in a warm bed in a sunlit room ever again. He was in the Underworld now.
The Underworld was the more commonly used name for the 'new criminal institute' that had been set up 15 years ago during extensive reforms in the justice system. There had been a growing trend in street crime, a steady increase in serious assault, gang murders, drug related crimes and rape that had escalated until most cities were not safe to walk in for the decent citizens. Children were being born into gangs, neglected and mistreated they grew to live lives that consisted of unemployment, drug and alcohol abuse and violence. It slowly became apparent that correctional behaviour programs set in place in prisons were not working. Offenders were released and simply returned to the only way of living they knew, re-offending over and over, proving time and time again that they could never be taught to be of value to society. It was finally acknowledged that throwing money into pointless schemes that never worked was not worth it and so the whole prison system was shaken up and The Underworld was built. Little was known to outsiders of what the vast cavernous world buried many feet below them was like. People could only speculate and listen to rumours because nobody who was sent to live underground ever came out. With this system in place there was no time off for good behaviour, no early release, all serious offenders were given the same sentence; life. It was a fitting punishment, In The Underworld there were no rules or regulations, residents of that strange concrete vault of a world could do whatever they pleased, kill, fight rape, the only thing they couldn't do was leave. Offences that warranted a life sentence in The Underworld were all classified under one heading: Crimes against man. Crimes against Man were the more serious offences; murder, rape, assault, armed robbery, anything were anybody was seriously hurt. Crimes such as fraud and shoplifting when no one was actually physically hurt where not considered important enough to be given an Underworld sentence. Then there was the two-year probation act. This had come into effect two years after the first people had been sent underground. Some considered this law harsh and unfair. The majority agreed it was practised with outstanding results. It worked like this. Any child born was considered the responsibility of its parents until it reached the age of 16. It was at this age a person's two-year probation started. If, during this two years, the individual was convicted of any two major youth offences (drug dealing, assault), or five or more minor youth offences (drug taking, minor assault, vandalism) they would not be granted citizenship and would be condemned to The Underworld. These two years in everyone's lives were monitored to give each person a chance to prove they could be a civilised and valuable individual, it was a safeguard set up to spot those likely to progress on to be dangerous or menacing and stop them before they could do any real harm. Nobody could deny that living had become a lot safer for everybody above ground since the creation of this Underworld. Yet sometimes the justice system wasn't entirely just.
Gabriel sat up. His stomach was knotted with hunger and his mouth dry with thirst. If he wanted to find some kind of nourishment he had no choice but to keep walking. He was close to the heart of The Underworld now, he could almost feel its pulse calling him. It took a long time before the feeling began to come back to his numb muscles and by time it had he had rounded a bend and found himself in a wide corridor. He was surprised to see a few electric lights burning on the ceiling. The walls on either side of the corridor were a wonder in themselves. They were covered in names, dates, messages and crimes all left behind by those condemned who had walked this way before him. Some were carved into the concrete with viscously straight lines like the runes left by pagans on sacred stones while others were scrawled in magic marker and some had been painted in decorative coloured spray. There was something slightly primitive about it, like the images left in caves by Stone Age men. As his eyes travelled over the walls the many signatures chilled him, they seemed to speak like endless voices, the voices of the dammed. Travis Kerr, murder, be what you are. Eric Gallagher, guilty as hell and proud. Finch, attempted suicide. Suicide????? I'll only do it again below. They went on and on like some giant visitors book. He paused, debating weather to leave his own name and eventually pulling out a blue biro he still had in his jeans pocket. The officials weren't too bothered about removing personal possessions before sending a man down. He found a blank space on the wall and scrawled his name in block capitals. He hesitated before adding GUILTY ONLY IN THE EYES OF A FUCKED UP SYSTEM. He put the pen back in his pocket and continued.
The passage was not very long, the graffiti grew older the further on he went and soon he came to a steel door. It was slightly rusted around the hinges but it looked very stable and heavy. There was a small handle at one side, he was disturbed to see the skulls of several small animals, most likely rats, strung from it. Across the front of the door, in glaring red paint that had ran like blood someone had scrawled WELCOME TO HELL CRACK HEADS.
His heart had picked up its pace now, it was like caged bird fluttering inside his ribcage. He had temporarily forgotten his hunger and thirst because here he was, about to enter The Underworld. His journey so far had just been like the final walk to of a condemned man to the electric chair, a kind of last mile, only what lay beyond this door was probably worse than death. All his life, since his Father had first told him about what happened to bad people when he was a small boy, he had wondered what The Underworld was like. He had watched various films, read books all of which presented their creators own imaginings on the subject and listened with a mixture of horror and fascination to the speculation. The only outside people who had any knowledge at all of what it was really like were those employed by the police responsible for bringing supplies to the prisoners and they were sworn to secrecy. 19 years of wondering were coming to an end. He was about to witness something only few had seen.
He pulled the handle, ignoring the rattle of the rodent skulls and the papery, fragile touch they inflicted on his skin. The door was heavy and pushed inwards. Once he had stepped through it swung noisily shut behind him, it banged loudly and he heard the latch click back into place. He turned around to confirm what he already suspected. There were no handles on this side of the door. It was smooth and plain. It would be impossible to open from this side. What he was in now was a space the size of a small cupboard. There was a vent much like the first one he had seen through which a little faint light filtered. Opposite him was a second door. It had a handle but he knew that when he passed through it, into The Underworld, like the one he had just come through it would be blank on the other side. Quite clever really. Not entirely fool proof though, someone could easily exit as another entered, but then again what would be the point, there was nothing out there and no way of escaping. He supposed it might be there as a safeguard for the armed officers when bringing in supplies, he really didn't know, nor did he care, best just to go through the next door, it would do no good standing here in this claustrophobic cupboard. With a deep breath, he took the handle and pushed it open.
It was a strange sight that greeted him on the other side. Another corridor, small doors cut out at intervals along either side, walls of white washed concrete and an arched ceiling of about 7ft at its tallest point. This stretch was not electrically lit, what appeared to candles burned lowly here and there inside glass bottles on the ground. Shadows danced endlessly, flitting and courting across the walls and hiding in the frames of the doorways. Again he was struck by how quiet it was. There was more graffiti here. Most of it had clearly been done by brainless wasters. It was the type of thoughtless, meaningless etchings you usually saw on bus shelters and in subway tunnels. Stupid nicknames and crude and vulgar statements that would have taken very little brain power to come up with. But one message caught his gaze and held it.
Down here you have no name
Run!
Run from the faceless one!
Lest you fall at his feet in shame,
And beg for the mercy of shadows.
He stared at these words, transfixed. There was something cold and harsh about them. They seemed to dominate the wall, pushing all the nicknames and swear words into insignificance. This verse seemed calculated, the product of an intelligent yet twisted mind. Probably a mind that belonged to an articulate serial killer. He had expected to be down here with the worlds scum, uneducated lowlifes, thugs but it had only just occurred to him that there would be other types living here too. Men whose acts had not been driven by gang conflict, drugs or sheer spur of the moment anger, men who premeditated murder, men who were well brought up, knowledgeable and so clever that they were insane. Below it was a painting of a man's head with wild grey hair and a tangled beard, there were no eyes in the sockets but the empty black holes seemed to watch him anyway. He felt like he had just walked head on into a new danger. He looked away from the writing and headed towards the nearest doorway. Beyond the hewn rectangular entrance lay a small square room. It was lit only by the glow of the few candles out in the corridor. Dark and foreboding it waited for him to enter like the open mouth of a sleeping beast. He stepped in cautiously, the darkness seeped in to greet him from all directions and he pulled away. When he returned he was armed with a candle. The shadows cowered back from the light of the flame, scurrying away into the corners. There was a blanket on the floor in the corner but no bed. On the back wall a square alcove had been cut into the concrete and in it a few items had been placed. An unlit candle in a bottle, wax dripping thickly like rolling tears down the glass neck, a stainless steel mug, a small wooden box and two silver tins that looked like they might contain food but were without labels. The rest of the room was empty apart from a tap on the left hand wall. Gabe knew that what he was looking at was The Underworld's equivalent of a jail cell.
A jail cell with no door, a jail cell you're free to walk out of whenever you dam well please, a jail cell where anyone can walk in whenever they feel like it, yes neighbours, even psycho killers like our new friend The Faceless One.
He walked over to the alcove. He picked up one of the tins and looked at it closely, there was no doubting that it contained food of some kind, it had a ring pull on the top. Keeping a hold of it he picked up the mug as well. It had been standing on top of a small square of glossy paper. Gabe picked it up and turned it over. It was a Polaroid shot of a woman sitting on a chair in a living room. He dropped it and pushed his fist into his mouth, biting down hard on his knuckles to try and stop himself from crying. When he felt the surge dying down again he went to the tap and sat down on the floor. He turned the handle and the tap spluttered a few times before a stream of water fell from it. He filled the cup first and drank thirstily before pulling the top off the can. Inside were slices of peach in syrup. Probably out of date left overs from a supermarket clearance but even rotten meat would have looked like a grand feast to him. He ate slowly with his fingers and as he did he couldn't help thinking of Hannah. What had she been eating since he left? Sitting down alone at their kitchen table in a quiet empty flat. They would never share a meal together again. He hoped she had the sense to forget he even existed and find someone else to be with. He realised he was crying again, even harder than he had when he had first came down here. Tears rolled endlessly down his face and he sniffed and choked, still pushing slices of fruit into his mouth, tasting their slimy sweetness mixed with mucus and salty tears. He sat there crying, not bothering to wipe the juice away that trickled down his chin and dried in a sticky film over his skin.
"Hey man, what are you doing in here?" he looked up at the sound of the voice, ready to run, but the door was blocked by the silhouette of another man.
He didn't answer, he simply watched as the figure stepped away from the door and into the light. It was a young man, probably still in his teens, tall and skinny. He was dressed in faded black jeans, a black T-shirt with holes in it which was so tight that his stark, starved ribs showed through the fabric, a scuffed leather coat and heavy looking boots. His face was grey and pasty from lack of exposure to natural light and fresh air and he had long dark hair that was now dishevelled and tangled. He was carrying a worn, dirty backpack over his shoulders.
"I asked what you're doing in here, eating my food?" said the youth.
"I...I'm..." he didn't know what to say. He realised how ridiculous he must look, cowering here in the corner, sniffing and snivelling like a cowardly child, "I'm new." he said lamely.
"Well anyone can see that." the youth laughed, some of the hostility had gone from his grey eyes.
He dropped the bag onto the floor in the corner then came to sit on the ground next to Gabe.
"My name's Zack."
"Gabriel." he said weakly.
"You know, I usually operate alone, far safer that way, but I'm not totally without heart, I have been known to lend assistance to the right people until they find their feet. Give them a few hints, answer some of their questions on how to survive down here. But only to the right people, you know?" Zack grinned, the smile wasn't entirely sane and it showed a row of yellowing teeth sticking like uneven pegs from pink gums. Gabe was reminded of some kind of goulish grinning clown.
"So am I the right kind?" he asked, dragging his palms across his eyes and face.
"You might want to clean up a bit brother." Zack laughed wildly then quickly swallowed the sound, cutting it off abruptly and looking around as if unsure of where the laugh had come from, "Sorry bout that. I don't know if you're the right type do I? I just met you, don't know anything about you other than a name. How can tell from that? I'm not a psychic, hell no!"
Zack fell quiet. He was looking down at his hands, his hair hanging over his face. Gabe waited for him to continue but he didn't, he simply sat, swaying slightly, twisting his hands in his lap.
"So, what are you down here for?"
Zack sprang to his feet so suddenly it made Gabe jump. The action was surprisingly agile for someone who looked to be in poor health.
"I think I'll do the asking don't you? My place after all. Ok?"
Gabe nodded.
"Good," he sat down again, his legs seeming to fold beneath him, "Now why don't you tell me why you're down here?"
"Murder."
"And you're innocent right? Sure, so is everyone, course you are."
"Not entirely. I did kill a man, stabbed him with his own knife, I was defending someone."
"Ooohh, nice, very nice. I like a man who can admit to his crimes. Mostly its all I'm a victim, the drugs did it, I was drunk, I was framed, so now tell me exactly how it happened." Zack leaned forward eagerly, his eyes were hungry, he was grinning again, that stretched, toothy grin.
"I'd rather not talk about that."
"Aww man, come on, stories are my bread and butter."
"No."
He was half expecting Zack to leap up again, to start shouting that he wasn't the right kind of person and then to chase him away down the corridor, but he didn't, he just looked disappointed.
"Ok, ok, all in good time. You look pretty much wrecked as it is."
"There's one thing I'd really like to know though."
"What's that?"
"I was expecting this place to be crowded. You're only the second person I've seen."
"You're right, it's pretty full. The reason why it's quiet here is that most people are sleeping. Even though we have no way of telling if its night or day it seems everybody's body falls into some kind of rhythm. There's that and, well, you're in the dead zone as we call it. Most people avoid it," he laughed softly, "You know my friend, I think I may like you."