The Tunnel

Impenetrable shifting clouds blotted out the sunlight, letting only a shimmer of steel grey illuminate the land below. Crags of rock jutted up into the sky, ominous silhouettes guarding the horizon.

A cold wind swept across them, raising ancient litter up in a whirlwind of flamboyant colour and letting it drift down again. And yet, while charred earth and scarred sky enclosed this savage world, there was beauty also.

A birch tree squirmed up through cracked paves, its leaves fluttering yellow and gold.  Ivy thrust through concrete walls, showering the skies with its brief blossom. Birds sung out over the empty expanses of land, every gust sending them fluttering. Deer wandered through grassy streets, peeping into derelict buildings where shattered glass sparkled on unswept floors.

For this beauty was unobserved. No figures walked through the streets. There were no voices, not the sound of a car, and but for the birds, there was silence.

Deep below, in hollowed caverns and branching tunnels was the buzz and call of a city. Lights glared, computers hummed and whined. Huge Casinos, Cinemas, and Restaurants were lit up by countless lights, bordered by flaming neon. And all the while people came and went, rarely stopping or turning aside to talk.

And even as they left, boarding a long seamless train floating on a cushion of electromagnets, the silence was almost unbroken. As the train glided smoothly away, no eyes were raised, but fixed at the screens in front of them. The same was true for me. I browsed the list of games, idly picking one that someone might have recommended, stifling my disappointment at it, but continuing anyway. I had not even looked up to survey the people whose compartment I was sharing; to me they could not even have existed. Time went by quickly, and I probably would have continued until we arrived the next morning

But my internet connection suddenly disappeared. As I frustratedly checked and rechecked I was interrupted by a pleasant automated voice:

“Unfortunately internet connection is unavailable. To compensate, a variety of films and single-player games are available in the service cupboards. We apologise for the inconvenience.”

 Putting my device of choice aside (a flexible wafer-thin iscroll, that could be rolled up and easily stored), I took a chance to survey the group around me. Most noticeable was a woman who was staring out the window, her hands oddly motionless. She looked in her late twenties, a redhead with large brown eyes and little make-up. To her right was a tall and handsome man who I recognised immediately. It was Melvin Franks, possibly one of the most famous film directors alive. He was watching on a holographic projector what I vaguely recognised as one of his own films. To his right was a skinny middle-aged man playing a furiously paced FPS (First Person Shooter), with a young girl sitting on his lap, playing on a tiny pink console.

As I made my way to the service cupboard, I asked if any of them needed anything. The red-headed woman smiled and said, “No, thank you”, but introduced herself as Sam.

Melvin, glancing up at me, smiled and said that he was fine.

Quite how we got into conversation eludes me, but I clearly remember Melvin talking about his films, the strength of his belief and passion for them powering his words, and creativity in particular. He was saying how fantastic it was that our nation was so intelligent and creative, and how he felt that he was contributing something through his films. This seemed very paradoxical to me, since Melvin’s films have always been popular but also meaningless: all he did was confirm people’s preconceptions, rather than giving them the truth, no matter how unsettling it might be.  Everything was what people think, for instance, war is like, rather than what it is really like. And I was thinking about this when I flat out interrupted his stream of words.

“But you don’t know anything about suffering, do you?” It just came out. I had just insulted a celebrity.

The compartment was silent after that; it gave me time to consider how this man had become successful. The answer came immediately. By giving people what they want. How would a person sheltered by technology and society want anything else? They wouldn’t understand bravery, or resolve, or revenge; I knew this for sure, because I did not understand these things myself. But, I would very soon.

Day drifted to night, and eventually I fell asleep, with no ceremony, no movement of position.

*

Jarring, jolting. Lurching. I was falling, tossed violently, spinning. And over all of it the screeching. Light flashing, glaring. I was stuck, strapped down. My eyes open now. The world was turning in a whirl of fire. A smash of breaking glass struck me, as fragments of glass spun in front of my eyes. Suddenly it caught up with me, and convulsing, I retched out a wave of spiralling sick. I can remember no more.

*

Something hit my face. And there was a voice. I could hardly hear, perhaps I could, but could not make sense of it. There were more voices, mumbling, humming. I noticed that my face, my whole body was wet with...sweat...sick. And then I remembered. Was that a nightmare?

I opened my eyes.

All around me was darkness, devoid of light or life. My back was cold, pressed against the hard surface below me. A flashlight flickered, illuminating an anxious face peering down at me. Behind the face were heaps, intertwined wires, and figures.

I dimly heard shouting, and looked up to see a man pointing at me, hair uncharacteristically ruffled, and eyes wide and wild. It was Melvin.

The flashlight moved away from him, hovering like a spotlight over a little girl clinging to a hunched figure, who was bending over something, as if caring for it. As he raised it gently, I perceived a flash of glowing blue. That told me all I needed to know.

*

“You have to get up.”

The finality of these words forced me to open my eyes. I had blacked out again.

“Wha – what’s going on?” I mumbled. That face hovered over me again. A strand of red hair loosed itself and escaped from her hat. It was Sam.

“The train crashed,” she said calmly. “The electromagnets must have gone hay-wire, sending the train spinning into the roof of the tunnel. Luckily our apartment broke off quickly. The rest of the train was crushed against the ceiling. I’m not quite sure how we’re alive. But you won’t be for much longer if you don’t get up.”

Emitting a pitiful groan, I hauled myself up into a sitting position. Taking Sam’s hand I slowly stood up. She handed me a bag.

“We salvaged all we could from the compartment. There isn’t much but you should take some.”

Half thankful for the gift, half reluctant to carry it, I hauled it up onto my shoulder.

Sam got us all to walk, and we kept up the pace for about half an hour until the oppressive darkness got too much for the little girl and she burst into tears. Immediately Sam picked her up and cradled her gently in her arms, while her father, whose name was Darian, looked on frustratedly. From time to time he would check his device, a large, flat and very light touch-screen console, and turn it off again, holding it protectively in both hands. Seeing this, Sam looked after his daughter.

Soon, Sam urged us to get back on our feet, and somehow her order was unquestionable.

“Where are we going?” I asked, wondering why we were undisputedly following her.

“Back,” she replied, “away from whatever happened to our train. We may never get out, but if we do, this will be the way.”

As we kept on walking, Melvin, after sobbing wretchedly, muttered complaints to himself, while Darian carried his device, routinely checking for internet, occasionally letting out a curse. Sam led the way, quiet and resolute, carrying the child on her shoulders.

And I, well, I wasn’t dealing with it very well at all. The perfectly straight tunnel seemed to stretch on forever, forever the same. Besides that, the darkness was getting to me; twice I had sworn that I saw something, or somebody, crouching in the black mist, hiding in the shadows. And the electromagnets, too, glinted ominously in the pitiful light of the flashlights, their very presence spelling out my doom. For slowly I realised that we weren’t really in this together at all, we were in separate tunnels, alone.

*

We were all dehydrated, our supplies had run out now, and slowly we were dying. The tunnel provided no water; it was utterly featureless and dry. The inhospitableness of our surroundings showed their effects. As we were sleeping, at a time that we knew we had to stop, for without daylight we had no idea what time it was, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for myself.

Melvin, too, showed the same signs. He complained, and blamed Sam for misleading us, blamed the child for slowing us down, blamed Darian for reasons that he can’t even have believed himself. And of course he projected all of his fate and fear at me. It was understandable; we were like children in this uncaring world.

The only moments when I found any peace, any confidence, was with Sam. She cared for the little girl, Sophie, like she would her own child, and yet she told me she was not a mother. And Sophie loved her back, in that short time forming more bonds than she ever had with her father.

In the monotony of the tunnel, we were forced to do something to keep sane. If I stared into it for too long, hoping to see the end, or an opening into the light, I would start imagining those things, only to have them disappear as I approached, leaving me bitter and exhausted. In fact, my imagination was more powerful than it had ever been, whenever it was time to sleep, if I kept my eyes open, that hunched figure would circle me threateningly, if I closed them, its image would haunt me, impossible to dispel.

And through all this, I kept coming up with ideas, ideas for games, none of which would have left the player happily ignorant at the end, but ideas that would at first confuse them and later would become painfully clear.

It was strange, since my lack of ideas; imagination was what led me to take that train. I was a games designer, frustrated by the fact that my characters were almost bordering on Melvin’s. I was taking that train to meet one of the world’s finest psychoanalysts. But taking that train had led me here, and that given me more than I asked for.

*

It had been a while.

Slowly even Sam was losing hope.                                                                                                                          

The fact remained: we were lost. For the first time, the tunnel had branched out, ways to right and left, and at one point Melvin persuaded Sam, who was so exhausted she could not refuse, to let him lead. He took a left, and the tunnels branched out again. Soon, we were totally lost.

I could hardly speak, my throat cracked, and my body weak. The little girl, Sophie, had had more water than the rest of us, but even she was very close to dying.

It was then, when we were all practically dead, that hope returned. Darian shouted in relief, exhausted but satisfied:

“Internet! We have internet.” With that, he lay down on the cold floor and closed his eyes. Melvin sat down next to him, opening his device, which he too had carried all this way.

Sam sat down next to them.

“We need to talk.” Darian opened one eye.

“We can contact the police, the safety services, they can get us out,” he said.

“I doubt it,” said Sam, shaking her head. “You’ve seen how many tunnels are interlinked in here, we don’t even have a clue where we are.

“Why didn’t we stay by the crash site?” asked Melvin accusingly, “we knew where we were then.”

“Firstly, we never would have got internet,” I replied angrily, “and secondly, you were the one that got us lost!” Sam quickly stopped me from continuing: “Darian, there is very little chance that they will attempt to find you, let alone actually do it. You know that, right?”

Melvin cut through: “They would come if I told them I was here.”

Darian stood up and, kissing his daughter, whispered something to Sam. She grimaced, but agreed.

“Are you coming with me?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said hesitantly, “I am.”

The three of set off, leaving Melvin and Darian behind. Darian had entrusted Sam with his daughter. It was now her duty to deliver her home safely.

And then, I saw it, we had walked right past it. It was there in front of me: a stairway, and a hatch. With what little strength I had, I hauled my way up the stairway, and wrenched open the hatch with a deafening clang. The searing, blinding daylight after so much shadow made me flinch.

It was the surface, we had done it. I almost flung the hatch aside and ran out, but then I remembered the others and forced myself to look away. Slamming it shut, I shouted for Sam, and quickly contacted Darian.

He... He and Melvin remained unchanged. I suppose he couldn’t face traversing the surface, with good reason: storms could rip you apart, and the pollution could kill you. I guess he was fine dying in virtual contact with his friends and family, trapped in an endless maze of tunnels. Melvin: I suppose he thought that help would come....

*

Sam took my hand, while Sophie held hers, her hand wet with tears. Slowly, ceremoniously, we ascended the metal stairway. All three of us wrenched open the hatch.

Impenetrable shifting clouds blotted out the sunlight, letting only a shimmer of steel grey illuminate the land below. Crags of rock jutted up into the sky, ominous silhouettes guarding the horizon.