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“Listen to the night wind as it whispers your name,
It is calling.
Watch as leaves dance like tongues of flame,
It is calling.
Feel a chill rattle through your frame,
It is almost here.”

Anonymous, Frightbytes.com

                I’m in hell.

                I sit on the metal grating that is the floor of the cement tube, my hands in my lap. My eyes are closed and my flashlight off. I don’t need my eyes right now.

                Sitting in the middle of that tube, I feel the wind slowly course its way around me. The gentle breeze drags its patient knuckles along the metal floor, its attention coasting up to me, but not quite coming near. I hear it blow into my ear, tickling my imagination as my mind concocts less gruesome ways to die than I know are down here.

                I listen.

                I feel.

                I smell.

                I fear.

                Nothing

                In the darkness, every sound is a footstep closing in on you.

                In the darkness, every breath of air is your last.

                In the darkness, every echo is the last thing you hear.

                I listen.

                Nothing

                I reach out with my hand, picking up my flashlight exactly where I left it. As I click the thing on and send out a powerful beam of light into the darkness, I wonder how it is I’ve gotten so accustomed to working in the darkness. I skate the beam around to the space behind me. I can see the other beam of light which is Slate’s flashlight. She’s still busy.

                I turn back around and turn off my flashlight. In an instant, I’m embraced by the darkness. It hugs in close, whispering deadly things into my ear. Its fingers dance over my skin while its honey tongue coasts bloody images to the thought of my death.

                I never was good at meditating.

Maybe it really is all those years of playing too many video games as my mother accuses me of constantly, but even with all the martial arts classes I’ve taken, I never really ‘got’ meditating. I never got pushing my thoughts from my mind.

                So I direct my thoughts.

                I open my eyes to the almost-darkness in front of me. The reflection of Slate’s flashlight gets weak fast, but in the absolute darkness of this world, it goes far. But I don’t focus on anything. I just stare out at nothing, letting my mind wonder and grow distant. I let it move to the top of my thoughts, rising above my worries and concerns like a plane climbing above the clouds.

                “Are you there?” I ask, my voice a whisper.

                Barely audible above the wind that blows through the tubes, I let my mind wonder. I let my thoughts scatter and dissipate. And I listen.

                Nothing

                Nothing

                Nothing

                Nothing

                “Sam Helms.”

                I can feel my breath shaking.

                Even in the hot, smoky air of the space beneath the world, even as sweat drips from my chin like a running faucet, I get cold. I feel the icy fingers of death run her nails up my spine. And I can almost hear the hour glass of my life slowly dripping away sand to the end of my life.

                “Who are you?” I ask, my voice still a whisper.

                And I listen.

                But I hear something different.

                Movement.

                In a flash, I’m up.

I push myself against the wall, my machete in one hand, my flashlight held in the other. I look in the direction of Slate’s light, but I see it moving. Is she responding or . . .

                Slate turns the corner of the tube, holding her stomach. She looks at me with a sick face and comes towards me. “You okay?” I ask as I lower my machete.

                “It was those banana chips.” She groans, sitting down in front of me on the opposite side of the tub. “I don’t get it. I used to eat bananas like crazy when I was little. But those chips tore me up.”

                “How do you know it was the chips?” I ask.

                Slate winces, rubbing her face as she tries to get some equilibrium. “Please don’t make me answer that, Sam.” She says with a disgusted voice.

                “Right.” I say, suddenly uncomfortable.

                “Let me ask you,” She says as she pops the top on her canteen. “Why’d you start taking martial arts? You said it was with your demo team. Do you do it illegally and need self-defense?”

                I sigh a bit and start to slide down the wall. “No, it’s for reflexes. And a little bit of badassness, I must admit. But between Wing Chun and Arnis, you’ll never learn how to move your hands faster. And besides, if you’re going to ride a motorcycle, you’ve got to have at least a few shades of badass under your belt.”

                Slate takes a breath and gives me a demeaning look. “And you’re a few shades of badass?”

                “Well, you know,” I shrug it off. “Give me a motorcycle, a dirt bike, a four-wheeler; I’ll make it do things you never thought possible.” I look around at the darkness, kept barely at bay by our flashlights. “And, well, I think I’ve handled this little emergency so far. All things considered.”

                Slate just laughs, shaking her head. “Come on.” She says, getting up. “I’ve held us up too long. We need to get moving.”

                “Amen.” I mutter.

                “Three seventy-eight.”

                “Three seventy-nine.”

                “Three eighty.”

                “Three eighty-one.”

                “Three eighty-two.”

                Slate stops her count and I feel her hand smoothing over something different from a ladder wrung. I hear Slate pull herself up onto a platform and move away from the ladder. I keep on and find the platform waiting for myself as well. “You clear?” Comes her voice in the hard darkness.

                “Almost.” I say, pulling myself up onto the platform. I move away from the edge and feel around for the nearest wall. I put my back against it. “Yeah.” I finally say. “Clear.” But as I hear her get her flashlight ready, I listen. “Wait.” I say with a low voice.

                “What is it?”

                “Do you hear that?” I ask, sitting down on the metal floor of the landing. I put my hands against the cold surface. “Feel the ground. It’s vibrating.”

                “Yeah, I hear rumbling.” Slate confirms. “Watch your eyes.” She says. I close my eyes and simultaneously hear and feel the light switch on. When I open my eyes, she’s casting the light against the manhole-sized access hatch.

                It’s still sealed.

                “That’s encouraging.” Slate sighs. She feels the metal around it, then looks at me. “The only thing I can think of is maybe there’s a street near it.” She says, looking up at the almost horizontal hatch up the small ladder. She hands me the baton flashlight and starts to climb.

                I sweep the beam around the tiny pentagon of a platform that’s half enclosed like an incomplete igloo by the shape of the ground above us. I glance back at the ladder, tempted to go look down. But I know how dumb of an idea that is.

                I hear the rush of air as Slate pops the access hatch. I hear her push against the heavy thing. And then I hear something else.

                An explosion.

                Like a punch to the back of the head, I’m shoved down to the ground, skidding across the floor to the edge of the platform, sliding up against the ladder. The flashlight goes flying over the side and plummets down to the very bottom.

                I grab up my own flashlight and click it on, turning back at the ladder. Slate’s on the ground, panting hard. “What was that?” I yell.

                She turns back at me with wide, fearful eyes. “A tank.” She says.

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