Young Writers Society

The room was massive and dark. Huge, windowless, concrete walls rose up endlessly and uninterrupted and the few lights that were dotted around the room seemed to only to intensify the darkness. The weak light from the halogen bulbs failed to infiltrate further then a few metres into its gloomy recesses hiding the furthest walls, which echoed the sounds of our footsteps and the low humdrum of hushed talking.

There must have been more then a few hundred people in the room but the size of the space meant that they all stood in isolated groups, shrunken by their own looming shadows, which raced menacingly up the walls behind them. I looked at Gail. Her pretty face looked shallow and tight in the angled light. I shivered. It was fucking freezing in here.

“Lets leave,’ I said.

Gail waved me away impatiently. She rotated slowly, drinking in the environment.

‘Do you think he’s here now?’ she asked.

‘Who?’

‘You know who… Silva.’She closed her eyes and let out a shuddery breath at the sound of his name. I started dragging our bags towards an empty stretch of wall.

‘How should I know if he’s here or not?’ Gail opened her eyes and smiled. She chased after me and grabbed me around the waste, planting a loud smacking kiss on the back of my neck. I tried to shrug her off, but she hung on giggling until my strop had subsided and I turned and kissed her back.

‘I think we’ll be ok here, don’t you?’ she asked.

‘Maybe,’ I replied, but I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure if there was anywhere left where we would be ok, not anymore. I sat against the wall and pulled a thick, woollen blanket from my bag. Gail crawled under, squeezing her head into the tight crook between my arm and stomach.

‘Do you want to eat?’ I asked.

‘What have we got?’

‘Umm, apples I think. And maybe some sandwiches left.’ I rooted around in the duffle bag and found a couple of apples. They were beaten and bruised from the journey; their green skin had turned a mouldy kind of brown.

‘We haven’t got any sandwiches,’ Gail giggled up at me.

‘How do you know?’ I asked

‘Because I at them already’ She laughed.

‘You greedy pig!’ I cried. ‘You ate the last of our grub without a thought for me. What if I starve, How will you live yourself?’

Gail bit my stomach teasingly.

‘I think you’ll be alright for another few days.’

‘I suppose so,’ I grumbled.

I looked down and Gail’s eyes were closed. She was asleep, or pretending to be. I found another blanket and laid it over her.

If you listened you could hear the sounds of the fighting outside, noises thickened by the deep concrete walls of the room. The Ratatatat of chaser rounds or the low Hrumph of exploding bombs. Like a smell or a picture the sounds had little power other then to invoke memories, memories, I had learnt to disfigure as easily as reflections in a puddle. How could I lie here otherwise? When the sound becomes a bullet, becomes a man, then you’ve greased the filters that let you see without fear or insanity. Distorted the lines between what can be known and what is true.

People were walking in through the big garage doors at the end of the room, away from those disembodied sounds. More and more were coming all the time, men and women walking silhouetted against the light, dragging bags and equipment. They were probably refugees and pilgrims in equal measure. All come to this place, this fortress supposedly built and maintained by one man. Gail began to snore gently; a thin whistle that might have driven me mad coming from anyone I didn’t love completely. I stared up at the ceiling and tried to sleep; I watched the floating luminescence swim in the darkness until it carried me into thoughtlessness.