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“Men stumble over truth from time to time, but most pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing happened.”

Winston Churchill

                Patrick takes point. With his pistol held in his right hand, he lays his right forearm across his left forearm, while the flashlight is held in his left fist, the beam pointing out ahead of us. He walks with careful steps, almost like he’s walking sideways. He never crosses his feet and his balance never seems to be anywhere but right underneath him.

                I’m in the middle. Since I don’t have a weapon, it seemed logical. Slate’s behind me, the machine gun held ready, even though we all know its bullets are running thin.

                The air is as hot and oppressive as ever. I’m rethinking my hatred for the desert that was above us. Yeah, it was sunny, but at least it wasn’t this humid. Here, the air feels like its gone bad. The rotten air feels heavy in your lungs, almost like you’re breathing water. Everywhere, condensation reminds you of what your blood may look like when it’s splattered up on the circular pipe-like walls.

                The beam is pretty straight too. A single point of light radiating out ahead of us, it seems to do less to light up the world as it does to spread the shadows everywhere. Even in the lightless domain, the flashlight gives off just enough ambient light to not show you what’s around the bend, but to let you know that there’s a bend ahead. With every step, I feel like we’re drawing closer and closer to doom.

                “Stop.” I hear.

                My momentum ceases almost instantly and I turn back to Slate. She’s standing at the edge of the ambient light from Patrick, her harsh gaze focused into the darkness. “Patrick.” She says. With a swirl of shadow, Patrick turns around and the beam is now shining in the opposite direction. Almost immediately, I’m disorientated. The large circular walls on either side are identical. If I hadn’t seen the move of the light, I probably couldn’t tell you which way we had come from and which way we were going.

                The light disappears pretty quickly into the darkness. But there’s no movement. I close my eyes and listen.

                Nothing

                I look down at the metal grating that gives us a stable flooring rather than the bottom of the circle. I can’t make out much beneath the criss-crossed pattern, but I’m pretty sure I don’t see anything alive and ready to eat us.

                “What did you hear?” Patrick asks.

                “Nothing.” Slate says. “I, I just felt something.”

                “Like a breeze or something?” He asks.

                Wow, is he new to this. “You’ll learn to trust your instincts.” I say to him.

                He gives me a sarcastic look across his arm. “Instincts are evolutionary throwbacks, when we weren’t the dominate life form. Our instincts are fear-based, not skill-based.”

                “Sam’s right.” Slate says, still watching the darkness. “If something feels wrong to me, I have yet to find a time when it wasn’t.” She looks up, then back at Patrick. “I need to see the ceiling.”

                Patrick aims the flashlight up just enough for the ambient light against the ceiling to get stronger. Slate stares at it for just a second, then looks at me. “We need to make for a turn.” I nod. “Alright.” She says, pointing back the way we were coming. “Press on.”

                It doesn’t take us long to come to a T-intersection. Before Patrick can even say something, Slate moves off to the right, immediately studying the ceiling. She makes sure nothing’s moving down either direction, then looks at me. “Patrick.” She says, cupping her hands. “Cover us.”

                I look at her hands, at the roof, then roll my eyes. Not this again.

                I step up into her grasp and she thrusts me up at the steel-plated roof of the circular tunnels. I immediately start to feel around as she holds me up. I find screws. I look down at her. “Got a . . .” I feel the screws. “Phillips head?”

                She drops me (without warning me) and turns to Patrick. He holsters his gun and pulls out a multi-tool. He tosses it to Slate who hands it to me. I dig around, finding the screwdrivers by feel, then I jump back into Slate’s waiting arms. She lifts me up and I start unscrewing.

                When I’m done with the second screw, I feel vibrations. I glance down at her. “I feel something.” I say.

                “Movement?” She asks.

                “Maybe.”

                “Get moving.” She says harshly. I start unscrewing.

                With the third screw, I can hear it. I don’t know how far sound travels down here, but I bet it’s not far enough. I feel around for the fourth screw.

                It sounds like a pipe banging against metal. But it’s getting steadily louder.

                “Do you guys . . .” Patrick asks.

                “Yes.” We both say as I place the screwdriver. It falls out. “The screw’s stripped.” I say.

                “Then tear it off.” Slate bites.

                I try to place the screwdriver again. If I hold the teeth in, I can turn it. I start to twist the boxy handle, turning the screw. It fights me, the metal unyielding in its hold on the hole.

                The metal-on-metal has turned into definite footfalls. They’re getting closer. I turn the screw again. It’s about halfway out.

                “Sam.” Patrick says impatiently, turning the flashlight in either direction. “I don’t mean to rush you, but could you hurry the hell up?”

                “I’m trying.” I say.

                “Not fast enough.” Slate barks before dropping me.

                I’m lucky to land on my hands and feet. I look up, about to bitch her out, but she steps up onto my back and grabs the metal plate I was trying to unscrew. She pulls on it, but when it doesn’t yank off, she twists her body up, hanging upside down and planting her feet onto the roof. Her muscles flex in the darkness and she grunts just before the steel gives way.

                Slate falls down to the floor. I try to catch her but we both fall down. She lands and before she’s even up on her feet, she grabs me. “Move!” She shouts.

                They’re close.

                I jump up at the hole, barely catching it with my fingertips. The sharp edges of the metal frame bite into my skin, but I push away the pain and pull up. With a fast thrust, I throw myself in through the tiny hole and wiggle onto the top. The metal groans from the weight, but before I’m even completely out of the way, Slate jumps up and grabs onto the sides as well. She lifts herself up and pulls her body out of the way. She lies down on her stomach and swivels around just as Patrick tosses the flashlight up. She catches the flashlight and shines it back down.

                And I hear them turn the corner.

                Down through the grating, I see four of them. Ragged and falling apart, three of them slam into the sides of the wall, unable to stop their running. But the fourth, a balding man who looks like he’s in his late forties makes the turn successfully.

                Patrick leaps up, tossing the gun as he does. I grab it out of the air as he grabs onto the sides of the hole. The zombies are up, the bald man leading the charge. Patrick screams as he forces himself up through the hole, the shoelaces of his boots barely escaping the snarling grasp of the zombie.

                The beast skids past as us as the other four come running up. One of them jumps up at us, but they can’t reach the edges of the hole.

                Patrick is lying down on the metal grating above the tubes, panting desperately. I’m near him, not much better. I look across at Slate but she’s got the machine gun cocked and ready, her sights aimed on the four.

                But when it’s clear that they’re not following, she slings the gun back around. She looks at me, an exhausted stare in her eyes. She turns from us and starts to crawl in the waist-high space, moving away from the hole.

                I look at Patrick, but he’s still spooked. He pants for a moment more, then spits out. “Jesus Christ.”

                “Come on.” I say, moving after Slate. “It’s best to walk off the fear.”

                I don’t look back at him. I know he’s not following just yet. But I know he will in a few moments. “Jesus Christ.” He repeats. But then I feel the vibration as he starts to follow me, as I follow Slate.

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