Degenerated: Tunnels, #2

Death

A Shadow entered the room and the children went quiet. Its mechanical breathing filled the air, the grille on its face whirring with each breath. The boy held his breath and tucked his arms by his side. Visits from the Shadows were never good.

It evaluated the room with long, twisted ears. The small room felt smaller, the concrete walls pressing in around them, offering no escape. Dread rushed into the boy’s gut. Beads of sweat dripped down his face, soaking into the thin rags that clothed him. Today could be the day that he died.

The Shadow withdrew a blade and approached a small girl. The boy knew her but she had no name. None of them ever did. The Shadow grabbed her by the throat and lifted her off the ground. She screamed and kicked out her legs, causing her body to rock and twist. The Shadow stood still for a moment, ears locked on her movements, then sank a blade into her stomach and out the other side. The twisting stopped and her legs hung limp.

Blood splattered to the ground as it withdrew the blade. Some of the other children panicked, others drained white and stood bolt still. The boy was one of the latter. He held his arms close to his sides, ducked his head, tried to blend into the walls.

The room filled with screams and the sound of scuffling feet. An older boy made a run for the door. He was far enough from the Shadow to make it untouched. He wrestled with the door handle but the door was locked. As was his fate; he would be next.

The act of murder was repeated. The sound in the room grew and waned, the air filled with the smell of blood and sweat. First the fear overwhelmed, and then resignation grew stronger. The Shadow was slow and precise, one at a time. It killed the boy with three sets of hands and the girl without eyelids. It killed children the boy had never spoken to before.

The boy cocked his head and listened to the girl across the room. Like him, she was a statue. She stood still, hands by her sides, taking slow breaths, trying to be calm. Others stood beside her, as though they had known this was coming.

The Shadow moved to the boy and grabbed him by the throat. He didn’t feel fear, but anger. Rage burned in his chest, tightened his muscles. His saliva tasted harsh and metallic.

The Shadow lifted him off the ground, cutting off his air. His vision pulsed green and the room wobbled around him, twisting and shimmering, suddenly fluid. The world became swirls of green and black, coils of smoke, until that was all there was. His chest burned and his head throbbed, like it was going to burst. He drifted out of consciousness.

When he returned he was sitting on the floor, curled into a ball, his face slick with sweat and his whole body trembling. The girl stood in front of him and placed a hand on his cheek. Her skin was pale and her head was shaved. She smiled and the boy was calm again.

The Shadow lay on the ground. Blood ran from its eyes and ears and pooled on the floor. Its metal grille glistened. It was dead.

The boy had killed him; the boy would survive.

About them, there was a massacre. Children bled from stomachs and eyes. There was a small cluster of children standing by the wall, strangely untouched. The girl pointed to a grate on the wall and the boy understood.

This was their chance to escape.

Tallies

Five Years Later

Can you believe this shit? Rudy said.

Their boots crunched on the gravel as they walked. Each time they traveled to the depths of the tunnel a little more gravel had worked its way free from the asphalt. Soon the road would be nothing but loose stone.

Doesn’t bother me, replied Flynn.

Rudy shook his head. It was pitch-black in the tunnel, but Flynn could see the movement. Not through his eyes, but by the feel of the air, the electrical impulses, the sound, the warmth. He’d been raised without light and his body had adapted to it. It happened to all of them.

Nothing bothers you, though, said Rudy. You’re an expressionless son-of-a-bitch. If you even had a mother I could call a bitch, that is.

Flynn shrugged and kept walking.

You see what I mean? Rudy said. You’re not even going to bite. This is going to be one shit-boring trip.

Boring would be good, thought Flynn. Boring would mean a trip without drama, a trip without mishaps. He’d take that any day. He tightened his belt and picked up the pace.

Around him the tunnel was waking up. People were emerging from behind tarpaulins, wiping the sleep from their eyes. When he walked by them he said hello, blew a waft of air in greeting, but most didn’t want to talk. They grunted or mumbled sullenly. They knew where he was going, what he was doing.

At least talk to me, said Rudy. We still have six kilometres to go. If you don’t talk I’m going to go mad after three. I didn’t mean to wind you up, mate. I’m just playing.

Flynn sighed. For some, every journey was a social event, a chance to chat with a new partner, to talk yourself up, to escape from your real life. For Flynn it was a job. He hated the job as much as the next person, but that was for a different reason.

Sorry, said Flynn. I’m not feeling well.

It was a lie but in a way it was true. Flynn felt the same aching sadness deep in his body. It was a part of himself he’d learned to accept.

Rudy complained for a while but eventually gave up. They always did, in the end. Rudy was more persistent than most. His breathing was huffy, like an unhappy child, but he walked on behind Flynn. The gravel crunched beneath their boots and the sounds of the tunnel began to heighten. People were changing, feeding, washing. They were heading to jobs, heads down and stomachs still rumbling.

The two men walked onwards. The road dropped down on a gentle incline. Each step took them closer to its deepest point, well below the city’s river. The deeper they got, the shadier the activities around them became. Food production and water treatment were near to the surface, as were the nurseries. Down here were the less glorious activities: cleaning, waste treatment, and government.

Flynn shuddered. They were getting close.

Well, well, well, sounded a voice from the dark, they finally paired together the two ugliest fuckers in the strip.

A man climbed down from a door to a crossway. He was short and his body was fat, making the action less than graceful. He had to finish speaking before he did, to allow space for the huffs and puffs of a man labouring to climb. His small feet landed on the gravel, supporting his great weight, and he smiled.

Like you can talk, mate, Rudy said. I thought you were a bloated corpse for a second, risen from the dead to goddamn kill us.

The man continued to smile. He’d heard much worse. In fact, he welcomed it. He stretched out his arms, pale flesh shaking, and gave both men a hug. He smelled like fish and oil. Flynn held his breath and waited for him to finish.

Good to see you, Gill, Flynn said. What have you got for us?

Gill pointed towards two wheelie-bins. The air was dead and so were the bin’s contents—making them difficult to sense in the dark. He approached them with outstretched hands, and touched them. The hinged lids were bursting open, unable to completely contain their contents. He touched a hand with three fingers, some hair, and something else. He didn’t need to know any more. He took a deep breath and calmed himself.

You’ve packed them in tight, Flynn said, keeping his voice dull. What the hell’s been happening down here?

Gill shook his head and released a long sigh.

Not your business, quiet-man, he replied. The Lord’s orders are to keep this quiet. There’s already enough talk up the tube. They need to know enough that they’re scared, but not enough that they start questioning it. Okay?

Flynn shrugged. Sure.

A bin lid banged loudly as Rudy swung it open, inspecting the contents, an array of bodies and parts.

How the fuck can we keep this quiet when these bins are bursting from the seams? You’ve got more irradiated crammed in here than most people have heard in their lives, Rudy said.

Gill moved towards Rudy with a surprising quickness. He grabbed Rudy’s shirt and pulled him away from the bin, pushing him up against the wall of the tunnel, knocking the wind from his lungs. There was a dull clunk when the back of his head struck the curving wall. Flynn stood still and kept quiet. Rudy needed this.

"I know you’re new here, but this is how this fucking works—I tell you something, and you fucking listen. If the Lord wants this kept quiet, you keep it fucking quiet. If anybody asks, you tell them you’re hauling the dead, same as any other day. If I hear you so much as mentioned the word irradiated, I will slice your stomach open and make rope from your entrails. Understand?"

Flynn could feel Rudy’s body shaking. His face grew hot, and his palms cold. Yes, he thought, I think the boy understands.

They ascended the tunnel, one after the other, with the wheelie-bins out in front of them. The bin handle shook in Flynn’s hands, the wheels rattling across the rough gravel. It was noisy and brought them attention. Flynn could feel heads cock in their direction, listening intently. They had duct-taped down the lids to keep them from flying open, and to force down each bin’s contents. Still, people knew what was inside. They knew better than to talk. Flynn smiled at each listener and blew a burst of air in greeting.

Halfway through their journey, Flynn stopped and put the bin at rest. Rudy had kept pushing behind him, and the base of the bin caught Flynn in the heel. It stung sharply and Flynn uttered a curse.

What the fuck did you stop for? Rudy asked.

Flynn clenched his jaw and rubbed his heel with the opposite foot. I have to see someone, he said.

Rudy pulled back his bin and rocked it forward onto its base. The stone crunched under its weight.

Oh, no you fucking don’t, Rudy replied. You heard that goddamn psycho. He don’t want no shit. I’m not appearing before the Lord because of some stunt you want to pull.

Keep quiet, hissed Flynn.

He turned into a side branch of the tunnel. It had once been an exit leading into the outside world, but the end of the tunnel had long been sealed shut. Now there were only two exits from the tunnel, one at either end. Branches like this had become redundant, vestigial—like an appendix. Groups within the tunnel coveted them. They were dangerous places to be.

Rudy started to protest further but was grabbed from behind. His outcry was muffled by a calloused hand, cupping his face like the grille of a Shadow. He went dead quiet, fear radiating from his body. Someone took his bin and walked with Flynn. They went deeper into the branch, near to its end.

You’ve brought a lot, said a man, his voice deep and husky.

It was Diego, the leader of a group that some called the Cannibals. Deep burns scarred his face, running from his eye-socket down to his bare chest. There were rumours they were acid burns, a punishment from the old leader to quiet him, a woman they once called the Queen. No one spoke about it in Diego’s presence.

Dump them out, Diego said.

His men obliged. They tipped forward the bins and bodies spilled out. They arranged the corpses, heads in a line. Flynn counted them in his mind.

Diego smiled as the men separated the heads from the bodies and scooped out their brains with twisted fingers, slopping them into a metal bucket like scoops of stew.

Flynn’s stomach curled and his vision pulsed green. The people around him became not only sounds and feelings, but visions as well. He could see their outlines traced in a quivering green, could see their twisted faces, their corrupt grins. He bit his tongue and tried to calm himself. Not now, not now. He took a deep breath and the aberration subsided, leaving behind an afterglow around the edges of his vision.

You okay, tripper? asked Diego.

Flynn nodded and finished counting the dead. Twelve more irradiated had been slain. He added them to the tally.

Anniversaries

Pearl woke to the sound of children playing. It wasn’t a sound she ever thought she’d wake to, but now it happened almost daily. It replaced the sounds from her dreams: the arguing, the fighting, and the pleading. She dressed, combed her fingers through her fine blonde hair, pulled on her hat, and left the wooden abode.

The camp had woken well before her. Three children were playing a game of tag, skirting around huts and people with a carelessness that only the young can possess. The adults were more subdued, shaking dust from clothes or tending to repairs, but even in them there was a cautious optimism. Today was a different sort of day.

Emilia saw Pearl and came over to greet her. Her matted hair was long and oily. It fell around her shoulders in great tassels, the strands combining to form locks.

Good morning, Emilia said.

Pearl looked her in the eye and pulled down on the brim of her white straw hat.

Not such a good morning, she replied.

Emilia looked at her with crinkled eyes, looked back at the children and sighed. She waved a hand around the camp and smiled earnestly. Mike says it’s been five years, to the day. He’s been counting, watching the sun. And look at us now. C’mon, Pearl, take a moment to enjoy this. This wouldn’t have happened without you.

That much was true. They had started out as a small group of survivors—four of them and a dog—but their numbers had built and their camp had grown. Pearl could see the dreams of others like her, other irradiated, and slowly had begun to develop that power; to sort the good from the bad and learn how to draw them here. Soon they were a group, and after a year they were a camp, a community.

I know, said Pearl. I’m proud of this place, I am. It’s just… She wiped sweat from her upper lip with the back of her hand. She could smell it, and the grit in the air. The sun beat down on her, warming every inch of her body. She pulled her hat down further still, guarding her eyes from its fury. It’s just that it’s five years since I lost my sister, too.

Emilia’s smile dropped and her eyes opened up. Oh darling, I’m sorry, she said.

It’s okay, replied Pearl.

Emilia placed a hand on Pearl’s shoulder and gave it a rub, looked in her eyes, smiling warmly. She was far more maternal than her age should allow. She was only a few years older than Pearl and had no children of her own. She had tried and failed, time and again. Her house remained quiet, with only her and Tyrone.

You’ve got to see it this way, said Emilia, we’ve all lost people. That is as much the point as any other one. We lost friends and family and rivals too, a camp distilled down to the last few survivors, the lucky ones.

The sunlight fell heavily on Emilia’s copper colored face. Her skin matched the hue of the earth after the rain, a rich red soil, deep and full. The creases around her mouth showed as she spoke; she smiled too much and so they scarred her.

Don’t think of it as five years since they died, said Emilia, think of it as five years since we were reborn, since we started to rebuild. It’s a good day, okay? Enjoy it with us.

Pearl stretched out her shoulders and they popped and cracked. She ran a hand down her opposite arm, running over her suction cups and pink skin.

I suppose, she said. Well, I hope you enjoy it.

She reached out and touched Emilia’s face, letting her suction cups hold for a second. They popped gently when she peeled her hand off. Pearl stepped aside and picked up a bottle of water. She pulled on her boots and walked towards the sun. If anybody wants me, I’m fixing the settling tank, she called over her shoulder.

Emilia watched her walk away, eyes crossed and brow furrowed.

Today was a special day.

Remembrance

Rudy was much quieter for the rest of the journey. Flynn listened to his shallow breathing, felt his skin stay cold, and smelled the air fill with his