Work Text:
Day 17.
We have been here for over two weeks now, yet hunger and thirst do not seem to exist. It's as if our needs are on pause so we don't get distracted from exploring the space around us. I curse the day my signature appeared on the document, and we entered these mines. Initially, they seemed to go down only a couple of dozen, at most a hundred meters—nothing too expansive to explore. However, the reconnaissance team was thrilled with these tunnels, claiming it was a breakthrough in our work. And now we find ourselves stuck here, with flashlights, dark bare walls made of some sort of dark brick or stone. All you feel here is fatigue, which means we have to take breaks more often. This journal wouldn't even exist, and I wouldn't have written a line in it, if it weren't for the endless boredom.
Everything before us is a network of endless tunnels, as mentioned earlier. We keep going further and further, driven by either the thirst for new discoveries or curiosity. Most likely the latter, after all, this feeling is inherent in any representative of Homo Sapiens. The well-known saying about the cat and the legend of the Tower of Babel keep coming to mind. In the latter case, people were going upward, while we have been descending deeper and deeper for three weeks.
Day 18.
At the bottom of the bag was a golden marker. In the flashlight's light, it shines beautifully and has a silver or platinum hue on the skin. Not on mine, of course, but on the Elder's. He’s to blame for sleeping soundly, but it seems he even likes how the patterns, or should I say veins, look on his hands. I joked about Greek gods and ichor. Everyone laughed, which is remarkable. We still have the strength for that. That's good.
I think this is how cliché horror films begin. If I make it back, I’ll sell my research journal and these notes, unless they force me to sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement. Let them film it. I can already imagine the title: "Lost in the Shadows." Or even better, "Ten Little Indians Decided to Descend into the Tunnels." And the tagline: "One stumbled, and there were nine lefts." I hope the Elder doesn’t start slicing us up, as he definitely has a knife in that bag; he never parts with it.
Day 19.
Out of boredom, I’m marking the walls with a marker. The Third one says that in case of anything, they will become our Thread of Ariadne. Another ancient Greek reference; I hope the Minotaur doesn’t come with it. Although the thread would still be useless: the tunnels go straight, without any turns. Surprisingly clean, one might even say sterile. There’s an uncomfortable feeling lingering beneath my shoulder blade ever since the Sixth told me about it. We took a long break today, nearly an hour; fatigue and the lack of proper light are taking their toll. I can only marvel at how we haven’t lost our minds yet, waving cheerfully at the thought. Apparently, a large group helps prevent that from happening.
The Elder suggested that we might be walking in circles. We need more data, as it’s too early to say for sure.
Day 20.
I managed to barter with the Third for his book, as a couple of mine are already read, and I don't want to touch the last one just yet. I’ll save it for dessert. I had to give him the marker. Now he’s sitting here drawing on my forearm, grumbling about my hand twitching while I write. It’s his own fault for doing this while I’m jotting down my thoughts in the journal. Although there’s really nothing to write about.
The Elder is pacing around our camp. He walks, touches the walls, thoughtfully twirls his beard between his fingers, and writes something in his journal. Looking at him, the Fourth's thought of turning back doesn’t seem so strange anymore. I want to go home. Out into the sunshine. On vacation. Yes, definitely a vacation. Somewhere by the sea, to have a fling with someone as hot as Costa Rica. But instead, I’m stuck here in these tunnels, in utter darkness, and the Elder is starting to annoy me with his fidgeting.
Day 21 (?).
The clock has stopped working. The hand twitches but doesn't move any further. Breathing has become a bit more difficult, indicating that we've descended lower. The Elder still insists that we're walking in circles, but I haven’t noticed any of our own markers, nor those of the Third, who picked up this quirky habit from me. We've decided to keep going without taking a break until we collapse from exhaustion. My internal clock is adamantly telling me it's late, even though it feels like we haven't been walking for long at all. My drawings on the Elder's arms have faded, but they haven't disappeared. It feels as if these "golden veins" have embedded themselves in his skin like tattoos. It’s a strange thing.
We’ve stopped to take a break. The Fourth is grumbling and wants to go outside too. Maybe I should suggest he come with us? We have enough supplies, even though it seems we last ate about five days ago.
Day 22 (?).
The decision to count the days based on when I go to sleep is illogical, but what else can I do if the clock isn't working? The Elder looks like his «attic» isn’t trying to escape just yet, but he’s starting to leak information: he talked in his sleep, murmuring "night" and tossing restlessly, his eyes darting wildly beneath his eyelids. Well, at least I’ll know who will be the first to start killing us if it comes to that. Let the horror movie begin.
The corridors have branched out. To the right and to the left. Absolutely identical, dark as pitch, sterile and cold. The Third left a marker right at the entrance. We debated for a long time whether we should split up, and ultimately, we decided to take a break and sleep on that thought.
Day 23 (?).
I can’t sleep. I’ll start writing under a new day to avoid cluttering the previous page. The camp is asleep, and thoughts keep creeping into my head that the way they behave in the realm of Morpheus reveals what kind of people they are. The Elder is tossing and mumbling something: restless, nervous, unable to relax properly. The Third sleeps like a soldier, arms crossed over his chest, tightly clutching my marker in his hands: a resilient and strong character, clearly used to springing into action at the first command, yet attached to little things. The Sixth has curled up like a cat, resting her head on a bent arm, while the Second covers her head: closed off, she doesn’t like being watched. And then there’s the Eighth: sprawled out across the perimeter, arms and legs in different directions. Even a fool would understand that an open-hearted person sleeps before him. Or someone with a damn big bed who isn’t used to sleeping with anyone.
We’ve decided to split up after all. The even numbers will go one way, and the odd numbers will go the other. I feel sorry for the Third and leave him my marker, even though he insisted on shoving it into my hands. I show him the second one, a white one, and say that at least we’ll be able to tell whose markings are whose. We agreed that if one of us makes a mark, the other will put theirs next to it. The Elder appointed himself as the Leader of my group. Hello, responsibility, you disgusting bastard, it’s been a while since we last met.
Day 24 (?).
I'm starting to lose track of how long we've been here. My internal clock has completely stopped working, and my senses are misleading me; sometimes we march in a lively formation for hours and get exhausted, while at other times we walk at a leisurely pace for just a couple of minutes, and that’s enough—my legs are waving their hands, signaling that it’s time to stop. We passed a couple more branches but decided to keep going as straight as possible until we hit a wall. It feels safer that way. At least we’ll be able to find our way back. I mark each turn from the entrance. So far, we’ve counted four to the right and five to the left. The joke about Ariadne’s Thread is starting to lose its humor for me.
We reached the end of the corridor and took a break. The Sixth opened a new bottle of water and took a sip, only to start spitting it out almost immediately. Strange. We opened our old bottles, and the water was fine. When we opened the new ones, they were salty, as if taken straight from the sea. The Fourth is frowning and grumbling again. We jot this down in the research diary and lie down to sleep, deciding that after we wake up, we will head back.
Day 25 (?).
We counted five to the right and four to the left. We keep moving. The corridor just doesn't end, and the place we came from still hasn't shown itself. I'm starting to notice golden marks on my right. It's strange that the Odd group decided to follow us instead of waiting for us. We keep going, and I place my marks next to the Third's marks. I wonder how he's doing?
A dead end. We’ve come to a damn dead end. The fork where we started never appeared; we would have noticed the huge, damn circle with rays that the Third and I drew at our last shared break before we split up. The Tenth is frowning. He starts feeling the walls. We recall our entire path. Everything adds up except for the dead end in front of us: five to the right and four to the left. We turn back. We walk without taking breaks. We almost reached the other end of the corridor at supersonic speed.
One on the right. Ten on the left.
And each of them has marks. Alternating in front of each passage—golden-white-golden. And one golden mark.
Day 26 (?).
No one wanted to sleep now. The Second group couldn't just walk past us. The tunnels couldn't have rearranged themselves. We checked the air for the presence of gases: nothing. The water was fine too. The questions were outnumbering the answers. We put it to a vote to go into the tunnels. There are ten of them. There are also ten of us. We return to them and retrace our steps back, the Fourth even quietly mumbling a prayer under his breath, hoping the number of corridors would revert to its original count. It didn’t. But the number of marks changed. Now, a golden cross was gleaming cheerfully at the third passage. Well, at least as we counted the third one. There was no single passage on the way back.
The Sixth stands at "her" passage. She inspects it. She’s deep in thought. I ask her what she's thinking about. "It's as if this place is toying with us. No one noticed that the passage behind us has disappeared; now the way is only forward, either all of us together through one of the tunnels in front of us or each one into their own," her words echoed through the underground. After that, illuminating her path with a flashlight, she disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel. I shake my head and write beside it: "Sixth. Mariam Lynn."
Day 27 (?).
I marked all the corridors where my group disappeared. I marked the Third's tunnel. I went into my own; the silence is oppressive, and I’m starting to understand why people go crazy in mines. It was irresponsible to split up, but there’s nothing to be done. I move on without taking breaks; my eyes are getting heavy. I want to lie down and not wake up.
Day 28 (???).
I come to my senses in the middle of the corridor. The flashlight is lying somewhere ahead; apparently, I had lost my strength, and here I am, hello. We’re already sleeping on the floor. But my body feels rested and invigorated for the first time in so long. I pick up the flashlight and keep going. The tunnel doesn’t change, and I’m starting to understand the Elder’s words that we’re walking in circles. We weren’t. If you look closely, the floor is slightly slanted downwards at a very slight angle. We weren't walking in a circle.
We were walking in a spiral.
Day 29 (?).
The tunnel widened and opened up to a spacious area, if you could call it that. Columns reach up into the darkness, where even the flashlight at its highest power can’t reach. I move on. On one of the columns, something is gleaming—a small white cross. Strange, I haven’t made any markings here yet. I check the marker. It’s gold. I continue along the markings, wandering among the columns until I stumble upon something. A backpack, heavy, with a tag. I read the name of the Fourth and frown. The Fourth is not here.
Day 30 (?).
I stay near the backpack. I wait. I can’t tell how much time passes: minutes stretch into hours, and hours shrink into seconds. Occasionally, I drift off to sleep, completely losing track of time. I transfer the remaining items from the Fourth’s backpack into mine and open a new bottle of water—ordinary. Not salty. I leave the backpack behind and move on.
Day ???.
The area led me to some steps. I have no idea how far I’ve come; the feeling of fatigue has also faded. I drink water more out of habit than necessity. I decide to keep going.
Day ???.
My legs thrum from the climb. The staircase seems endless. At least it’s comforting to know that I’m going up and not descending further down. There are no markings. I’m worried about the Third. He wouldn’t have forgotten his promise. After all, our survival now seems to depend on it.
Day ???
I have no strength left to write. There's nothing to say. I keep climbing.
Day ???.
I haven’t slept since I started the ascent. It’s cold. I had to pull out the Fourth’s jacket. It’s much too big for me; I wrap myself in it like a cloak. I continue onward.
Da ??
The staircase ends at a large passage. I see a familiar mark on the right wall. A golden cross. I check the marker. Again, it’s white. I place my mark next to it and move on, hoping to find the Third. At least someone.
Day ?
My fingers are going numb. Could this be limbo, and are we all long dead? Forced to wander here like restless souls? What have we unearthed? Why did we even come down here? I struggle to remember what the surface looked like; it’s as if the images in my mind have been overexposed. Like film left out in the sun too long. I think I wanted to go on vacation. But where? Somewhere warm, perhaps. I wonder, is the sand pleasant underfoot? I can’t recall. I run my hands along the wall. It’s dry, coated in dust. A fine powder. It doesn’t match the perfectly clean floor. It seems like it had been written before that it was sterile. Sounds nice. I like that.
day
The tunnel narrows. There’s something lying ahead. I don’t want to know what it is. I don’t want to know who it is. It’s disgusting. There’s a pain under my shoulder blade. I keep moving forward.
ay
A body. It was a body. I can’t tell whose. Desiccated, old. Like relics. There’s no backpack nearby. The clothes look like they’ll disintegrate at a touch; I won't take the risk of turning it over.
Day ?
Sleeping next to a body was strange. The fear that this someone would rise up disturbed me in the middle of the night. I decide to keep going.
Day ?
It was the Elder. On his arms, like tattoos, a golden pattern shimmered, mirroring his veins. As if it had just been painted.
Day
The radio gurgled, then hissed. Someone was trying to reach me. It's strange; the clock has stopped, but the radio still works. I say something into it, though I can't even remember what. I wait for a response until I drift off to sleep.
Day ?
I wake up to a voice. Someone is shaking me by the shoulders. It's the Sixth, with tangled hair, terrified and crazed. There's not a shred of sanity in her eyes. She's babbling about the Third, about the backpack, about the marks. I notice the Elder’s knife in her pocket. She keeps leaning over me, pressing down on my shoulders. Her pupils have nearly consumed her irises, even though my flashlight casts enough light to prevent that. She warns me not to drink the water. She says not to trust the marks. Not to follow them. She begs me to turn back and come home with her. Her hands reach toward my throat. It would be easy to pull the knife from her pocket. But stabbing it into her throat while she chokes me, pinning me to the floor with her weight—now, that’s the harder part. I grab the backpack and move on, wiping blood from my face. My throat stings and aches.
I never thought blood could feel so heavy.
Day ?
The bright light pierced my eyes. The Sixth's blood stained my collar, congealing and scratching at my skin. Even in death, she was harming me. It was disgusting. I wanted to wash it all off. I looked at the Third, sitting in the center of the room. Where was all this light coming from? I didn’t understand.
I sat down next to him, extending my gilded hand with the marker. Finally, I felt a sense of tranquility.
Day ???
We continue on together. It's impossible to sleep in such bright light. The path leads us further, and we don’t speak. I notice that the floor is tilted slightly again and gradually curves to the right. We decide to take a break.
Day ?
The Third sleeps on my lap. I draw white flowers on his collarbone; he grimaces amusingly in his sleep. I don’t want to move on. I take out his book and continue reading. It's about plants, and I remember that the Third is actually a botanist, though it’s unclear what he’s doing here.
Day??
Even while we walk, I can't tear myself away from the book. I reach an interesting section. I can’t make sense of half the words because they’re crossed out or smudged with something. This wasn't how it was. I remember. We flipped through the book together with the Third a long time ago. But when was that? I can’t recall. I’ll figure it out later.
Day.
The Third sleeps on my shoulder. He's cold, trying to warm himself up like this. I flip through the book and open to that section. Over the crossed-out text, I read the inscriptions in gold and examine the drawings. To my right, the Third stirs awake, rubs his eyes, and then smiles as he points to one of the pictures. "Dionaea muscipula," he says. "It attracts prey with a sweet scent, snaps shut, and digests, then opens again," he almost tenderly states before closing his eyes once more and falling back asleep.
I know that name. The Venus flytrap. And we are the flies lured in by its scent.
Day.
We shouldn't have come here. These tunnels are like roots—take a wrong turn and you'll get lost in the depths. We struggle, the trap around us closing tighter and tighter.
The Third has remarkably perked up. He walks ahead of me. We emerge into another square, or perhaps the same one as before? We cross it at record speed. It seems to have taken me two or three stops to do so. And we didn’t pass the staircase. It’s as if he knows where to go. I grip the handle of the knife in my pocket and pray, if there is a God, that the Third is still the one I entered here with, and not just another flower of the Venus flytrap.
Day ???
We walk through the same corridors again. How does he know where to go? Which passage did we enter? Mine, or his? Or the one the Sixth wandered into? My head spins. I understand nothing. We no longer even take breaks; our legs are numb from either exhaustion or cold.
We step out. To my left, a wall; to my right, a tunnel.
On the wall, the sun gleams playfully. Ten rays, and our names are inscribed across them. Nine are smeared with something brown. I don’t want to know what it is, just as I don’t want to know why my name has been smudged out like the Third’s. But the Sixth’s name—hers is untouched.
Day 50 (?)
Together, we counted how many days I had marked in the notebook. The Third draws on me in white and gold. For the first time since we've been here, I realize that I’m hungry. My stomach is concave, yet still tense. The Third begins to unnerve me as he gently, almost lovingly, rubs my icy hands. He writes inscriptions on my shoulders. He draws something that vaguely resembles an eye on my forehead while he thinks I'm sleeping. The gold and white seem to pierce my skin, burning beneath, as if marking me. I drift off, simply to escape the sensation.
Day 51 (?)
The Third has vanished. I realize with surprise that I don't need a flashlight to move forward. I can see everything without it. Faded drawings peek through the layer of dust on the walls, and I walk along them.
Day 52 (?)
They were drawn by the Third. There is no doubt. The drawings of plants from his book, the structure of a leaf, something that vaguely resembles bacteria—it's all on the walls. I don’t turn on the flashlight. I’m afraid for my eyes. I continue onward.
Day 53 (?)
According to my calculations, the surface should have been nearby, but instead, I emerge into a small hall. Light strikes my eyes. It hurts. It’s terrifying. I want to go back. I’m hungry. I stumble blindly forward, hearing something squelching beneath my feet. I want to believe it’s water. I trip over something and fall to my knees, opening my eyes. My hands are wrist-deep in blood, palms pressed against this cursed sterile floor. I look ahead as the Tenth’s hands lift me, while the Fourth wipes my face with a cloth, but I brush him away. They lead me somewhere. They cover my eyes with some cloth. They lay me on something.
I want to go back. I don’t want to see them. I want to move forward.
I want to see the roots.
Day ???
They returned my diary to me. They asked me to decipher what is written. Nonsense. I write normally; I don’t understand what they’re talking about. People come and go. The Fourth came in. He asked about the Sixth. I responded by asking about the Third. He frowned and left.
They don’t open my eyes. They’ve bound them to avoid the trauma of wandering in the dark for so long. They feed me some kind of mush. But I see them. They all walk around with contemplative faces, smelling of dust and quartz. They smell of metal and the surface. They smell of endless questions, but I need answers.
I need the Third. I need to see the roots.
Day ???
They ask questions. Not the right ones. Not the ones that matter. Wrong ones. All of their speech is wrong. They ask about the Elder. About the Sixth. About the others. Where is the Third? Where is he? Where did you put him? He was ahead. Where is the Third? Where? Where? Where? Where? Where? WHERE? WHERE? WHERE? WHERE? WHERE DID HE GO? WHY DID HE LEAVE ME? WHY DID HE LEAVE? HE WENT TO THE ROOTS. WHY WITHOUT ME? WHERE IS HE? WHERE IS HE? WHERE IS HE? WHERE IS HE? WHERE IS HE? WHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHEWHEREISHE?
day
I don't know anything. I don't see anything. I don't hear evil, I don't think of evil, I don't commit evil. The Third hasn't returned, yet he gave me more than anyone else could give. He gave me the right to see. And I see. And I follow his trail. And this time, I will willingly flutter in the trap of Dionaea muscipula. Because I need answers, and I know where to get them.