In the Veins
(originally published in Panic, Sam’s Dot Publishing, Aug. 2005)
(reprinted in Terrible Thrills)
Published by C. Dennis Moore
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011, Charles Moore
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And he was gone. Our guide had done his job this Halloween night; he'd led the lot of us down into the Catacombs beneath the city, through the black corridors and tunnels, winding this way and that, back and forth with no obvious rhyme or reason to his twists and turns, Rebecca holding tight to my arm, until we reach a stretch of tunnel, black as pitch.
Now, halfway down this corridor, he slips away, unnoticed and unheard until the band of us emerge at the other end into a hallway that's lit by what seem to be a two-watt bulb.
We knew he'd slip away sometime during the trip, that's what we paid for, but we hadn't known when it would happen, and coming out the other end of that black hole to find ourselves guideless gives us all a quick shock. Then we get our nerves under control and begin the second half of our journey: to find our way out.
I imagine this part to be like the knights in the legend, searching for the Holy Grail, except our grail is rectangular, with a door that opens to fresh air.
The first, and most obvious solution, is to backtrack. Maybe our guide pressed himself against the opposite wall and let us slip past him, then sneaked out the way we came in. If so, and if we're fast enough, maybe we can catch up to him and try to quietly follow him out.
Halfway back through the tunnel we realize that won't happen; sliding back along the wall we had just traveled down, we discover a locked door. None of us had noticed it coming down the first time because, before the tunnel, our guide had moved to the right of the hall, told us all to hold onto the wall to avoid falling in the dark, and led the way. By way of his example, we'd all kept touch to the right of the tunnel, the pores of the concrete tickling our fingertips. We also find the tunnel has a curve to it, which had kept us from using the light at the other end of the tunnel to see him disappear. He's probably outside now, preparing the next group of thrill-seekers, breathing the crisp autumn air instead of this stale, recycled stuff.
In a darkness as absolute as the one surrounding us tonight, the world has no boundaries. No concrete edges, no space or distance. Tonight, in this darkness, I realize light has sound. No amount of silence is ever truly silent. But in the middle of this void, the silence can be heard for unknown distances; in the breathing of people you can't see; in the ringing you realize is always in your ear but is usually drowned out by the sound of sight; in the chorus of sounds your stomach makes while the burrito you had for lunch digests.
And the darkness has mass you can feel in the unaccountable sense that there's something just beyond your perimeter sneaking up, its fingers outstretched, almost touching you with one razor-like claw before drawing back and sparing you.
Lost in these thoughts and revelations, I flinch when I hear a voice.
"We'd have a better chance of getting out," someone in the group suggests, "if we did it, not as one large group, but as a couple of smaller groups."
"But how many groups?" someone else asks.
"How many of us are there?"
"Everyone touch the person in front of you. Whoever's in front, count 'one,' then back."
There were ten of us.
"Okay, ten," says the first person. "Let's say, five groups of two. That'll keep anyone from being alone down here."
My group consists of myself and my girlfriend, the reason I'm even here in the first place: Rebecca.
With the countless number of tunnels, we doubt any two groups will run into each other.
"How about," suggests a third voice, "we send four people back the way we came, in case the exit is that way. The other six can look for it ahead. That ought to, at the very least, give us more room to maneuver."
Rebecca and I are part of the forward six.
We venture ahead, slowly, uncertainly, holding the wall when we come to a patch of black tunnel, shuffling our feet through the pitch blackness, taking uncounted rights, uncountable lefts, winding through a maze that I pictured as like a series of concrete veins beneath the city, enjoying to the fullest the few times we come upon a dim light nestled in the wall, quiet in the passageways, aware of every noise, every breath, noticing the smallest changes in the air. We stay in single-file formation, moving down the halls and tunnels, keeping all our senses focused on one goal: Find the exit--that Holy Grail.
We come to a split in the corridor, each side leading to a different unlit tunnel.
"Let's split again," a voice, the night's first speaker, says. "We have to cover all the ground we can."
We split again, one group of two, another of four. Again, Rebecca and I are part of the larger group. The four of us take the left passage, stepping into another unknown. Unfortunately, this unknown smells of piss.
A few seconds into this tunnel, and a curve in the hall cuts off the light.
"Hang on a second," says one of the bodiless voices. The sound bounces off the walls and sounds five times louder in the tunnels, echoing back to us. "I wonder if there's--" the voice begins. "Yeah. I thought so. There's another door over here. But this one's locked, too."
"So we just find another way," Rebecca says, her voice ringing from the acoustics.
"I wonder how many doors are hidden in these tunnels," Voice One says. "I mean, if each of these doors leads to the exit, they must weave between the halls of the Catacombs. Can you imagine how many tunnels must be down here? I mean, it may take hours to get out of here, to find the way, just by going through all these tunnels. without a map, or at least knowing how many tunnels there are, the chances of getting out any time soon can't be good."
"But they have these tours ever Halloween," Voice One's partner says. "I think I heard that if anyone's down here more than ninety minutes, they send people to find them."
"But how can they find anyone with only a couple of people? There must be hundreds of different routes someone could take."
And I finally understand the situation I'm in. Only one way out, possibly hundreds of ways to get lost, and nearly no light. Trapped in the dark, in a life-sized maze. Trapped in the veins beneath the city. God only knows where I am.
"What if we get lost and they can't find us?" Rebecca asks.
"I remember hearing about something like that before," Voice One says.
"Hey," I say, "that story was bullshit. Someone started that just to freak everyone out, like the tombstone that supposedly belonged to a witch and glows at night."
"But I read it in the paper," Rebecca says.
"Right next to an Elvis sighting," I suggest.
"He's right," Speaker Two says. "None of us were here, so none of us really know. Let's just get out of here."
"Okay," Voice One agrees, "but if your feet bump anything, or you smell a Godawful odor . . . I tried to tell you."
I want to get out of here, I want an exit. But standing around won't get me there. I have to pick 'em up and lay 'em down. Easy as that. But still, my scary bone tingles at the thought of stumbling upon a dusty heap of thrill-seeker-past.
Leaving the door, we make a few more lefts, one or two rights, and then there's another fork. Perhaps leading deeper into the heart of the Catacombs.
"We'll take the right one," Voice One says.
"The lovers can have the left," Speaker Two agrees.
So they leave us alone, disappearing into the right corridor. We look at each other, shrug at the circumstances, and step in.
We find another door in this tunnel, also locked.
"Christ," I say, "how long can it possible take to get out of here?"
"Probably about a hundred minutes at most," Rebecca says. "Too long down here and they send the search party, but I'm betting it takes a while to find everybody."
"Well, I don't feel like waiting that long. Why did you want to come here, anyway?"
"Because this is the last year. After tonight, that's it, no more Catacombs, they're closing it down. Don't you want to be a part of history?"
"No. I always hated history. I like science better."
"But this'll be something you can tell your children about, or your grandchildren."
"We have to get out of here before we can have children."
"What's this 'we'?"
I hate when she talks like that. She almost constantly tries to test me, teasing me, hinting that we may not be together very long. I know it's possible, but she only does it for spite. And in the Catacombs, I'm in no mood for her badgering.
"Don't start that shit, all right? I just want to find the way out. I don't feel like arguing about that crap again. Not now."
"What's up your ass?" she asks, defensive, as if I'm the one trying to start the fight.
"Nothing," I say, trying to remain calm as we make our way through the blackness. "Let's just get out of here."
"Fine." She huffs, and I hear her fold her arms the way she always does when I'm "being mean to her."
Coming out of the tunnel we're arguing through, we step out into a small, lighted "room," for lack of a better word. It's a small area, square, with hallways branching off from every side. My eyes are used to the dark and this yellowing bulb seems blinding.
"So," she says, her anger gone, almost instantly like always, "which way?"
"You pick."
"Right."
We turn right and walk down the hall, running a hand along the wall. We walk down this corridor, come to the end, and turn left. We go down this other hall and come to another turn. Stepping around the corner, we hit a dead end. We wasted over five minutes of walking, three hallways, and all we have to show for it is a fucking dead end.
"Motherfucker!" I yell at the walls. My voice bounces back at me and continues down the hall. I look at Rebecca, my eyes accusing her, if not my words.
"You left it up to me," she says, as if it's my fault we found a dead end.
"Forget it," I say. We head back to the crossroads.
We walk on, going left here, right there, right again, left once more, straight ahead.
What if someone were to get lost down here? Better yet, what if a claustrophobic got lost down here? Then I think of the supposed "lost one"--had he been a claustrophobic? Everyone knows the story is a hoax, but still . . . just the thought of it. And what if, just what if, it's true? What if there were the rotted, skeletal remains of a thrill-seeker who'd come here for a god time, got lost, and died in the Catacombs? And what if, were he found, no one bothered to bury him, because he'd died already in the coffin of the Catacombs? Would they find him with his bony remains facing the wall, his hands, fingers open, clawing away at the concrete? And would they find dried blood on the walls where he'd clawed so hard, so desperately, that he scraped away the flesh of his fingertips?
Shut up, I scream at myself, gritting my teeth. There is no "lost thrill-seeker." There is no one besides the ten of us that came down here. And who knows how many, if any, of them have already found the way out?
But how can I keep going knowing there's a dead body down here?
I realize my hair brushes the top of the tunnel. I can almost touch both sides of the tunnel at the same time.
I decide that if I keep moving and don't think about claustrophobia, it won't bother me. We make lefts here, rights there, go straight in other places.
But the longer I spend underground, the more frightened I become. My shirt feels sticky against my back and tight around the throat. I have trouble breathing, and my head pounds. Something places a clamp over my chest and tightens. The fear seems to flow through my veins, as if it has attained mass.
Don't think about it, my mind says. Think about what? About how low the ceiling really is? Where the hell is that exit? Don't think. Go left, left, right, left, right. Don't think. Left, go straight, right. Pick 'em up and lay 'em down.
I'm almost hyperventilating. The clamp tightens over my ribcage.
Don't think. Walk. Keep moving. Go. Left, right, right, straight, left, right, left, left. Turn here, go straight up there.
I stop.
"What?" Rebecca asks. "Did you find another door? Is it unlocked?"
"No," I manage to croak.
"What's wrong?"
I can't answer. I don't have an answer. I just can't move. Finally I manage, "No door."
"Then why did we stop?"
"Can't breathe." And I can't. It's like someone has filled my lungs with syrup. Each inhalation takes twice as much effort as it should and the breath slips out all too quickly. My mouth tastes like battery acid and the air smell like sweat.
I lean against the wall and slide down to a squat.
"Oh, God," Rebecca says. "Don't freak out on my. I don't know how to get out of here."
I want to tell her if I knew the way out, we would have been there by now. But my lungs are clogged, the clamp still round my chest. I begin to wheeze.
"You okay? Can you make it?" she asks.
I don't answer. I wheeze another breath. Maybe if I just sit for a second.
She panics and says, "I'll try to find someone." And she's gone, running and shouting down the hall, and I'm left alone in the dark. Wheezing. Am I going to die? I can't believe she abandoned me here.
The thought comes again of the Catacombs as a huge networks of veins, and fear is the blood flowing through them, running endlessly through the arteries in a huge loop of infinity.
I hold my breath for as long as I can, then, on the exhale, as the air rushes out, I use the force to scream.
"REBECCA!"
Naturally I get no answer. Then, faintly, I think I hear her calling me. She's far away. Or maybe she's only as far as the other side of the wall behind me. Who knows? At least I know she's still here.
This makes me feel a little more comfortable. Not a lot, but a fraction. A small fraction.
I can't believe I agreed to come down here. What's more, I can't believe I've freaked out like this. I was fine, a little edgy, but I could breathe and walk, until I started thinking about that stupid lost one shit.
I hear Rebecca calling me again. Her tone sounds worried. I think she's lost. I wish she were here with me. Why did she just up and go like that? What the hell was she thinking?
Rebecca shouldn't have left like she did. That was stupid. Did she think she could find the way out and send someone to help me? It's a nice thought, but she's also the one who led us into a dead end. I hear her call again. She sounds terrified now. If I thought I could find her, I'd do it. But I know it would be pointless. Best just to wait until the search party comes.
Will they find me alive? Or will I have scraped my fingers raw from trying to scratch my way through the walls? Will anyone, years from now, man down here with his girlfriend, freak out like I did thinking about some dead "lost one" who might happen to be me? When I'm dead, will the story of my trip to the Catacombs become legend, too? No. I remember now, they close the Catacombs after tonight.
Oh, Rebecca, when we get out of here, provided we're still alive, I'm going to kill you. Why did you leave?
Anthropic Principle says that, in another universe, there is no lost one, and maybe in that universe I didn't freak out, or maybe Rebecca and I found the way out earlier and we're back at my place by now getting the sheets wet with sweat. What I wouldn't give now to live in one of those universes. Maybe in one of those other universes no Catacombs exist. Or maybe Rebecca and I didn't come to them, or maybe I'm not going out with Rebecca, or maybe there isn't even a Rebecca at all. There are any number of possible variants to have kept me out of the Catacombs and out of this situation of being lost in them. But this, obviously, is my destiny, the way things were supposed to be.
Rebecca calls out to me again. Or maybe it's the Catacombs calling me home. I've heard stories of dying people thinking they hear dead relatives calling to them. The clamp on my chest releases and falls clanking to the concrete floor. I stand, slowly. My knees pop. They ache. I put my hand against the wall and feel my way down the corridor. I turn a corner. Another corner. Another. I'm not worried anymore about being lost; I've been there already.
I hear a voice up ahead, then I realize I'm hallucinating. I know this because what I hear is Sir Percival telling King Arthur that the king and the land are one, from the movie Excalibur.
I wonder if Rebecca got out yet. Sweet Rebecca. Sweet, stupid Rebecca. I hope you forgive me for the bad things I've thought about you.
I think I'll wander for a while. I'm not afraid anymore, not of the Catacombs. They can't hurt me. I've known them too long,
(You and the land are one)
been a part of them too long. The Catacombs are in my blood, coursing through my veins, as I course through them. I see them with new eyes, or maybe older eyes--the original lost one's, perhaps. The grey cement walls show scenes of beauty in their trowel strokes and the dampness in the air is welcoming.
The dark surrounds me, and the chill of the air tickles my arms. Maybe I'll try to find the lost one. Maybe I'll lay him to rest so I can properly take his place.
I think I hear the footsteps of the search party going through the tunnels, perhaps looking for me. But they won't find me. I'm King Arthur, and the Catacombs are my land.
I'm the lost one, and I've always been here.
END
3222 words
C. Dennis Moore is the author of over 60 published short stories and novellas in the speculative fiction genre. Most recent appearances were in the Absent Willow Review’s Best of 2009 anthology, as well as the Vile Things anthology, the first issue of Death Rattle Magazine, Fiction365.com, Dark Highlands 2 and in What Fears Become. Future work will be appearing in Our Haunted World. His historical science fiction romance fairy tale novella “Epoch Winter” is scheduled to appear from The Drollerie Press. His other smashwords titles include Icons to Ashes, Obsessive Compulsive Dismemberment, Short Stuff: 5 Stories, Picking Scabs: The LongRidge Stories, Camdigan, Pink Jellybug Mink, Blood Bitch and his short story collections Terrible Thrills and Dancing on a Razorblade.
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