U N D E R G R O U N D

He was minutes from his stop when the circuit remade itself, allowing power to flow once more.  Even as the wave of insanity tore through the network of tunnels riddling London’s foundations, Walter Flowers had no inkling that he was - to an extent - responsible for the catastrophe that was to follow.

But as madness overwhelmed the rush-hour commuters that thronged the platform of the station his train had just departed, Flowers’ thoughts were split between the contents of the large, oblong, metallic case clamped between his knees and the blond across the aisle.  Made up by the prospect of accolades, the certainty of funding, he’d just about worked up the courage to lean forward when the wave overtook the train.

A shudder passed through him, and he paused.  In the trailing carriage shrill voices rose, causing him to turn his head - but standing passengers blocked his view of the mindless frenzy that was breaking out beyond the safety door.  Up ahead, the driver stiffened in his cramped compartment, muscles locking as though a hundred thousand volts had fussed them shut.  His hand froze on the master switch.  A trickle of drool spilled over his bottom lip, and, eyes wide, his ruined mind was no longer concerned with the red light that raced past.  Less than ten seconds later the tube train slammed into the side of a maintenance train that was in the process of changing tracks to get out of the way.

Walter Flowers flew down the aisle, his long metal case ploughing the way.  Mercifully the lights had gone out and he did not see the devastation that its hard edges wrought upon the passengers that it came into contact with.  The darkness was filled with a single long scream that ended as the case glanced against something solid.  The impact jarred his arm painfully, but he was able to keep a grip on it as he hit the floor and bounced. 

“This ain’t Roman,” Walter Flowers had assured himself, gazing up at the looming stonework that seemed to grow up out of the very bedrock itself.

Workers excavating a tunnel extension had broken through what they thought was solid rock, only to discover this cavern.  It was at once obvious that what they found was not part of some long-forgotten Victorian construct.  The ancient stone spoke of centuries, millennia even, buried underground, and none had had the courage to approach, fearful of what things might luck within the ruin, fattening on loneliness.

The call had come in and Porter, his head of department, had sent him down to verify the work crew’s claim and make a cursory investigation before the museum’s funds were committed to an excavation.

When he arrived, workmen sat around reading newspapers in the arc light, steaming mugs of tea at their feet.  They were blithe about the delay to their schedule: they’d be paid regardless.  However, their mood was one of tangible disquiet.  The foreman pointed down the tunnel, but refused to escort Flowers to the breach.  So, armed with torch and digi-cam, the archaeologist went on by himself.  He skirted the giant tunnelling machine and stacks of curved concrete slabs that would line the tunnel when it was finished.  There were as yet no tracks or sleepers and his trainers crunched over rock pulverised to gravel.  Raw stone arched overhead.  It was cool down here, and the air laced with dust made him cough intermittently.  There was the smell of diesel, tinted with the acrid flavour of burnt metal.

The tunnel had broken into the cavern at about three feet above the uneven floor.  He played the torch around the ragged lip of the wound before lancing the beam out into the darkness.  The far wall must have been at least three hundred feet away and at that distance it was hard to make out any detail.  At first he saw only the folded drapery of natural rock curving towards the high ceiling.  Then as he panned to the right, the circle of illumination lit upon structure and form that stood apart from the bedrock.  Walter Flowers squinted, leaning out into the chamber, as if those few feet would make a difference.  He teetered on the tunnels edge, and almost pitched forward.

Then the ground started to shake.

It was not sudden, but grew from nothing until he could see falls of dust passing through the beam.  Momentarily panicked, he cast around wildly, only to realize in the next instant that it was nothing more than the vibrations of a train passing by somewhere in another tunnel that must run close to where he stood.

Still breathing hard, he paused to let the feeling of intense foolishness drain out of him and was glad that he had come down here without an escort.

A ramp of rubble brought him to the chamber floor.  He picked his way forward, mindful of his footing.  Larger boulders seemed to form a wide pathway that swung gently around to the right until suddenly he found himself before the massive archway.  It stood isolated in the chamber’s approximate centre, lifted up at least ten feet by a rough-hewn plinth of rock.  A rude flight of steps rose from the floor.  Stone groinings curved upwards in baffling profusion to form the arch itself.  From where he stood looking up, the keystone seemed only feet from the ceiling, making the whole thing much taller than it was wide.  Nevertheless, Flowers estimated, one could have driven two buses through side by side without scraping paintwork.

He climbed the steps, moving slowly and carefully taking in what he was looking at.  Somewhere in the distance the rumble of another train impinged upon his ear with a peculiar clarity.  A thought snagged at him that the vibrations might bring the structure down; but there was an obstinate solidity to the ancient masonry that quickly dispelled that fear.  Besides, after standing here for god-knows-how-long, it was unlikely that it would choose this particular moment to collapse.

“Just my luck,” he chuckled humourlessly.

As his head rose above the level of the plinth he caught sight of the skeleton.  At first he thought the shape was nothing more than a boulder, a standing stone, placed beneath the arch.  But as he rounded upon it his torch picked out the details of its curious pose.  It was bent over; both hands held fast to what looked like a lever. The shaft was about four feet long and rose from a half-disk coming out of the stone.  It looked as though the skeleton had just pulled upon it.  Armour, which, to his consternation, Flowers could not place in any era, hung loosely about the bones.

“‘Ello, ‘ello, ‘ello,” said the archaeologist, frowning as he moved closer.  “What’s all this then?”  An age of rock dust crusted the figure giving it the quality of a roughly carved, yet intricate, statue.  Keeping the torch on it, he made to reach into his jacket pocket for a blusher brush he’d thought to bring with him, only to realize he still held the camcorder forgotten in that hand.

To film or to brush: the choice froze him in his tracks.  But a third option forced itself upon him.  He had to get Porter down here as quickly as possible.  Tinged with reluctance, he hastily retreated from the chamber.  He paused only to tell the foreman of the work crew that on no account where any of his people to go anywhere near the site.  Then he made his way to the surface in order to get a signal for his phone.

Dr Glen Porter was at first skeptical.  “Take some picture and I’ll bring the department together,” he said in a tone designed to calm the frantic babbling of his protegee.  “We’ll evaluate the viability based on what you’ve got to show us.”

Flowers would have none of it.  “We have to move on this now,” he insisted, his rounded tenor loosing something of its eloquence as it dropped to a rustic baritone.  “The workmen are ready to carry on digging and if they get the go-ahead there’s no telling what damage they could do.”  That was, of course, a blatant lie.  It would probably take another week for LFT to get thing moving again.

But Porter was having none of it.  Flowers spent another hour below taking movie footage and stills, and could not stop his fingers fidgeting as he rode the tube up town.  Back in his office, the department head screwed up his eyes trying to focus over the rim of his glasses at the camcorder’s tiny screen, while Flowers paced.  “The lighting’s terrible, I can hardly make anything out.” He complained.

“That’s ‘cause I’m not a bloody cameraman,” Flowers whipped back; finally succumbing to the pressure of his own impatience, “give it here.”  He snatched the device away and, amid a string of curses, wired it up to his boss’ computer.

Confronted with the clarity afforded by the bigger picture, Porter’s resistance dissolved.  He was reaching for the phone as he watched.  That very afternoon they began hauling equipment into the chamber.

Consciousness pounded its way into his skull.  Flowers groaned as pain seeped through every muscle and bone.  His eyelids slowly drew back to reveal darkness seeded with tiny stars that seemed to swell then burst, each flash driving a sliver of agony into his brain.  He closed them again but that didn’t make any difference.

He was lying on his side; the surface beneath him hard and in places sharply digging at his body and left thigh.  He tried to move that leg, and found that he was able to.  But when he brought it up, he realised with sudden panic that there was nothing below the knee.  Every inch of him protested as he reached down to discover why, and fully expected to find a soggy stump truncating his shine.

“Oh, Jesus,” he hissed, wincing, “Oh, thank God.”  There was a complete leg down there.  It was just numb where his right leg had lain across it.  The tingle of pins-and-needles came quickly bring with it fresh, but welcome, pain.

Further examination told him that nothing was broken.  There were cuts and bruises, scrapes and grazes, and a dull throb deep inside the elbow of his right arm.  The reason he was lying so uncomfortably was because the metal case he’d been carrying was now under him, its edges and corners digging in.

“Aw,” said Flowers, addressing the darkness.

All around him other passengers were beginning to wake up.  He could feel movement against him; there were groans and murmurs.  Then someone started to sob.  But there were no screams.  He kept a pen-torch in his inside pocket.   Its small but powerful beam was sufficient to illuminate his surroundings.

The carriage had been full, but not packed.  Now passengers lay about him, mangled metal crowded in on them.  As he passed the beam around faces lit up; all damaged to some degree, from minor abrasions to a man lying unmoving, his cranium hideously misshapen.  They were all lying on the floor, which had been buckled and tilted up towards a gap through which his light found the curving roof of the tunnel.  It was a way out that he intended to take; but first, he told himself, he really should take time to see to the others.

Apart from the man with his head caved in, there were two more dead: another man who appeared completely uninjured but refused to respond to any kind of stimulus; and an attractive woman, crushed where the metal wall had folded down on her, sealing off the far end of the carriage.  She lay on her back staring with sightless and expertly made-up eyes, her expression remarkably peaceful.  There were several broken limbs amongst the survivors, and some serious wounds that would need attention very soon.  But Walter Flowers had no medical skills whatsoever and quickly realised any administering he attempted would likely prove useless or serve to make things worse.

“Are there no doctors here?” he asked.  “Nurses…?  Does any one at least know first aid?”

“I do,” a middle-aged woman answered.  “But I think my leg’s broken.”

“Great,” Flowers said, trying to keep the frustration from his voice, with little success.  “Look, I’m going to take a look out there and see if theirs a way out.  If there is I’ll go get help.  It can’t be more than half a mile back to the station.”

“I’ll go with you,” said a youth who’d been doing the same as Flowers, checking on the injured and giving comfort where possible.

But Flowers didn’t think it was a good idea.  “It’s pitch black out there, and I’ve only got one torch.  You better stay here until they can bring down some lights or something.”

“What about emergency lighting,” the young man protested.  He sounded East Indian, the archaeologist thought, but there was so much grime plastered to his face that it was impossible make out the colour of his skin.

“I don’t think its working.  Look, sit tight.  I’m sure it won’t be long before help gets here.”

He picked his way back up towards the hole, feet crunching on broken glass.  Before exiting he hesitated and went back to fetch his case.  The Asian boy intercepted him at the hole.

“You can’t leave us here in the dark.”

Flowers didn’t have the will to argue.  “Alright, come on then,” he sighed.  “But watch your step - there’s probably sharp bits of metal all over the place.”

The hole opened onto the roof of an adjacent carriage.  They had to crawl out on their hands and knees because there was barely four feet of clearance.  Flowers struggled with the case, but adamantly refused when the youth suggested he leave it behind.

“What’s in there?” he wanted to know.

“Wait till we get outside and I’ll show you.”  He shone the torch in the direction he intended to go and the full extent of the damage was laid before them.  “Shit!” he breathed.  The carriage they now squatted on had been pressed against the tunnel wall; and the one in which he had ridded wedged itself in next to it, rearing up against the curved wall, driven home and bent in the middle like a badly hammered nail.  The one behind that had ploughed in crushing it at the bend - and in so doing had killed the young woman.  Further back more carriages crammed together.

“Looks like we can climb over them all the way back,” the youth pointed out.

“Hmm,” Flowers agreed.  “Watch yourself though.”

They made their way back, and at the first gape they came to, the archaeologist came up with the idea of using the case as a bridge.  The going was relatively good and it wasn’t long before they’d made it to the last carriage.  The Asian youth - Amit, he said his name was -  had reached the far end, the torch in his hand, when he came to a halt.

“What’s the problem?” said Flowers coming along side.  “Why you stopped?”

Sweat glistened on the young man’s face.  “Look,” he said, indicating with a nod.  He was gazing down over the edge.  The beam lit up heads and shoulders of passengers as they stepped down onto the tracks and proceeded to shuffle in single file away into the darkness.  “Hey!” Amit called down, but was totally ignored.

“They’re probably in shock,” Flowers pointed out.

“What, all of them?”

The Archaeologist shrugged.  “Come on, down you get.  I’ll hold the torch.”

The young man regarded him quizzically.

“What?”

“Didn’t you notices?”

Flowers huffed impatiently.  “Notice what?”

“No one’s talking; not a word.”

“Like I said: they’re in shock.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t heard a single thing from any of the carriages.  No screams, no shouts, no crying, nothing.  We’ve all just been in a train crash.  You’d have thought some one might have something to say - you know, like ‘get me out of her’ or ‘help’ perhaps.”

Flowers looked at him as he thought about this.  Below, the last of the passengers had disappeared beyond the torch’s limit.  As the footfalls faded the tunnel made an eerie silence, and Flowers felt the first stirrings of unease creep over him.  “Come on, let’s get out of here,” he urged his companion.  “Give me the torch while you climb down.”

Rungs welded to the rear of the carriage made the descent easy.  When he was down, Amit reached up to take the torch.

“Just a minute,” said Flowers.  He turned and crawled back to retrieve the case.  It was awkward manoeuvring the bulky thing around so that he could push it ahead of him.  When he got to the edge he put the torch between his teeth and lifted the case, intending to hand it down.

But there was no one to take it from him.

He raised his head in time to see an indistinct figure vanish into the tunnel’s darkness, but his attempt to call out was hampered by the torch.  By the time he’d spat it out into his free hand, Amit was gone.  “Hey, come back here!” Flowers yelled, his exasperation sounding hollow in the oppressive confines.  He called out several times more, adding a few choice expletives.  “Absolute git!” he, at last, wailed.  “Unbe-fucking-lievable.  Hope you get lost in the dark.”

To minimise damage to the case he leaned over the edge as far as he dared and dropped it onto the tracks.  The crawl across the carriage roofs had already scuffed the metal quite badly, but it was a resilient container and the marks were only superficial.  His clothes were also looking rather worse for wear.  There were holes in both knees of his cargo pants; the suit jacket had snagged a pocket on some obstruction and now hung flapping; and a liberal coating of grime coloured him a uniform grey with dark patches where the sweat had soaked through.  But what the hell: he had, after all, been in a train crash.

Before moving on, he shone the torch into the carriage.  The interior looked undamaged, and utterly deserted.  No one had been badly hurt in here, he concluded, and was about to turn go when he noticed the briefcase lying on the floor.  Strange, he wondered, that the owner had not thought to take it with them.  Then he began to make out other items scattered about: handbags, jackets, spilled bags of shopping, a couple of mobiles… and other personal items lying around seemingly discarded.

“Like I said, shock,” he muttered, and turned away.

It took Walter Flowers half an hour to reach the station.  His only souse of light was the torch.  He was inclined to believe that the power feeding the live rail had been turned off.  But short of touching it, there was no way he could think of to test that theory - and he wasn’t inclined to try his luck.

Like the tunnel, the station was in absolute darkness… and totally deserted.  He called out the young Indian lad’s name, still mildly annoyed at being left behind.  “Anyone?” he added hopefully.  But there was no response.  Surely the emergency services had been informed about the crash?  His torch beam flicked along the platform; once again, a selection of personal items lay scattered along its length.  Perplexed, he shook his head and climbed up.  He checked his watch.  Last time he’d looked it was five-oh-five.  That had been just before the crash.  Now it said seven minutes past.  The second hand wasn’t moving.  The clock at this end of the platform had also stopped at five-oh-seven.  Flowers stood a moment, furrows creeping across his brow, and gazed at the scene around him.  From somewhere, a cool breeze was a feather touch across his face.  The limitless blackness pressed in on him.  There was nothing but silence down here, still as a grave waiting to be filled.

Further down a sign pointed to the dark mouth of a passage.  ‘Way out’ it said encouragingly.

“Sounds like a plan,” he acknowledged, aware that he was talking to himself; something he was prone to do when nervous or confused.  Right now he felt both in equal proportions.

The passage took him to a t-junction, and another exit sign pointing left.  He turned and narrowly avoided tripping over a suitcase.  “Bloody stupid place to leave it standing,” he growled, and went on.  Glossy white tiles threw back the light making his little torch somewhat more effective, and now he was able to make out the discarded bits and pieces without illuminating them directly.  But he ignored them, impelled by the urge to get up top and into the open.  Only once was he brought up short when something glinted at his feet.  It was an open guitar case with at least twenty quid’s worth of change strewn across the velvet interior.  There was a squashed pillow against the wall, and he realised that the object he’d just stepped over was the guitar itself.  For an instant Flowers considered taking the money.  Instead he stooped, flipped the lid shut and closed the catch.

The station was a maze, but it wasn’t long before he stood at the foot of a tall and stationary escalator.  Playing the light up the steep metal steps, he suspected that the discarded objects would make the assent treacherous.  The assessment turned out to be somewhat prophetic, because half way up he lost his footing and stumbled.  He reached out to steady himself and lost his grip on his case.  It fell and began to slide.

“Bugger!”

Turning, he watched it pick up speed.  “Come back here,” he commanded and started down again, taking care not to hurry - a fall could brake his neck.  The case was getting away from him.  Its momentum would take it all the way to the bottom.  Rattling of a few choice insults, he followed.

What began as nausea and dizziness suddenly reverberated through him, nearly slamming him down.  He gritted his teeth and leaned against the side of the escalator.  Someone… something… was calling him - not by name, but with an irresistible tug at his being that could not be denied.  Harsh blue light exploded in his vision, blasting all thought out of his mind.  Flowers’ face relaxed and his eyes glazed over.  The torch fell from slack fingers, bounced a few steps before coming to rest, but stayed on shinning out into the darkness.  Arms hanging at his side, he continued down the escalator, one slow step after another, going past the torch without bothering to retrieve it.  His case had come to rest at the bottom, but he was no longer concerned about that.  In fact, reduced to an automaton, nothing concerned him any more, nothing but the motor functions that answered that unending call.

About ten feet from the bottom of the escalator, Walter Flowers’ mind began to reassert itself.  The headache that it brought with it instantly restored his self-awareness.  He nearly pitched forward but caught himself against the side.  Eyes streaming, he doubled over and vomited.  The movement sent a fresh surge of agony through his skull and he clamped a hand to his forehead as if to squeeze the pain into submission.  The effort made him throw up again.

For long minutes he was unable to move, and remained where he was, struggling for breath.  The feeling of drunkenness was quickly dispelled and the headache subsided to a dull throb.  It was like the tail end of a hangover, when the pain’s receded and your left feeling fragile and unclean.

“Jesus,” he moaned sucking at the air and blowing it out in great gusts.  What the hell was that?  As far as he was aware, he was not prone to attacks of anxiety.   Was he ill?  He felt drained, as though he had the flu, but without the soaring temperature.  He wiped a hand across his face.  His skin was clammy.

But already the sensation was fading and he was almost back to normal.

The torch lay on the steps a little way up.  He pushed himself upright and went to fetch it.  But after only a couple of steps he felt his mind beginning to shut down again.  The blue light scythed through his retina, and, only semiconscious, he was dragged back down.  More retching followed and his head seemed to crack as the headache chiselled its way through his temples.

After a pause to gather his strength he tried to go up the escalator again.   But at each attempt his mind was assaulted until he could take the agony or recovering no more.  Now very frightened, he could not think what to do.  The way out was up, so was the only source of light in this abandoned place.  How could it be that going in one direction would cause such a reaction?

Maybe there was some kind of gas leak, he speculated.  In which case he better get out of here fast before it drifted down and overwhelmed him completely… or, even worse, ignited itself on the torch and blew him away.  The thought spurred him into motion.  He descended intent on retracing his steps.  There was bound to be another way out.  But how the hell was he going to find it in the dark?  Well, he’d just have to be careful.  Better to grope around for a while than end up poisoning himself.  His case forgotten, he went to the nearest wall and started to feel his way along.

Blue light flashed in his head, and its manifestation alone was enough to knock him backwards.  Crying out, he staggered, hands pressed to his eyes in a vain attempt to blot out the vision.  Shrouded in vales of pain, Walter fell to his knees sobbing, unable to fathom what was happening to him.  The possibility that he was going to die was very real to him, and the worst part of it was that he could not understand why - or even how.  Without rising, he crawled over to the wall and slumped against it.

He didn’t know how long he lay there, and when he heard the noise he mistook if for his own imagination playing a cruel game on his distraught mind.  But pulling himself together somewhat, he quickly realised that it was real… coming from one of the many passages that lead into this one.  It sounded like footfalls, heavy, but slapping, as if someone big was walking bare foot.

“Hey!” he shouted, “I’m over here.”  He couldn’t bring himself to get up.  But if he kept calling, his would-be rescuer would certainly hear and come for him.  “Hey, this way!”

The voice that answered was deep - a guttural rasp.  There were no words, just a series of animal grunts.  And suddenly it seemed very close.  Struck dumb, Walter’s breath froze in his chest.  He let it go slowly as he tried to relate what he’d just heard to any kind of human sound.  In his minds eyes he saw something like a grizzly bear padding about in the station, but when it step out of the nearest adjacent passage his first thought was that he was looking at a gorilla.

  It stepped into the beam of the torch and absolute terror froze the archaeologist’s soul.  Lying where he was, it had its back to him, and when it turned to look at the light an arm as thick as Walter’s thigh came up to shield its eyes.  In that moment he saw for a split second the two fiery pin points and thin lips pulled back over slaver-swimming ivory knives.  Growling, it advanced towards the escalator, so intent on the light that had offended it that it went right past where he lay paralysed in the shadows.  He caught a whiff of the unnatural odour that fumed around it, but was unable even to gag.

It was huge, hunched over like a Neanderthal, at least nine feet tall and half that wide.  Tufts of coarse hair, the red-brown colour of rotting strawberries, covered rough, grey skin, under which powerful muscles rolled with every movement.  From behind, its head was little more than a shallow dome amid the foothills of its shoulders.

Before reaching the steps it seemed to hesitate… and Walter almost soiled himself at the thought that it might have just realised it wasn’t alone.  But instead of turning round, it bent down and with a taloned hand - which could have gone round his waist and touched fingers around the back - it picked up the discarded metal case.

He wasn’t sure what happened next because the huge body obscured what the creature was doing.  There was sound like screaming metal, and a white flash threw the escalator into sudden and stark relief.  Something clattered to the floor as the monster reared backwards stumbling, gouts of acrid smoke billowed around it.  And then it was gone, its howls and heavy footsteps receding down one of the passages.

For a long time thereafter Walter Flowers could not dare himself the slightest movement.  The stench of charred meat and hair clawed his nostrils, but he hardly noticed.  Then slowly, each breath rattling through his shaking frame, he pulled himself with quivering limbs into a crouch.  “What the fuck…?” he whispered inaudibly - and could not stop repeating the question.

It seemed like hours - but was probably only minutes - before he could pull himself together sufficiently to go over to the ruined case.  It had been torn open, one side peeled back like a can of sardines.  In places the jagged edges were melted and blackened, and the wadding inside almost burned away completely, revealing the artefact that he had removed from the excavation site.  And as Flowers stood transfixed by slow understanding, the pieces of an impossible puzzle started to fall mercilessly into place.

Arc lights had been distributed around the cavern to give the excavation team sufficient illumination to work by.  A current of sound, monotonous and low, filled the vaulting space as generators laboured, feeding power to electrical equipment.

Once more armed with his blusher brush, Flowers had managed to dislodge most of the rock dust from what he’d at the time still suspected might be some kind of lever.  But he was beginning to reassess that assumption.  Every stroke revealed a little more of the intricate designs inlayed along the four-foot handle.  It was fashioned from metal that had not corroded - in fact it retained a sheen that was akin to darkened steel.  And at the end was a grip that could have been moulded resin.  It looked like the haft of a strange futuristic battleaxe; and the archaeologist was beginning to wonder if this wasn’t all some kind of hoax.

The skeleton had already been removed with meticulous care and was on its way to the lab.  A makeshift support kept the lever in place.  Flowers leaned back on his haunches and scanned the chamber walls.  He’d already circled the perimeter looking for another opening but had found none, and Porter, who knew about these things, assured him that before the work crew broke through, this chamber had been sealed for a very long time.

He returned his attention back to the lever.  “So, what’s your game then?” he murmured through pursed lips.  It was attached to the half-disk by a fork arrangement, like a bicycle wheel.  He brushed at the upper edge, dislodging a hand-sized sheet of dust, which disintegrated as it fell.  Light glinted of hairs amid the grains.  Examining his brush, he noted that a segment of the bristles had been cut away.  Now that’s sharp!

Proceeding with renewed caution he continued to word until all the rock dust lay in tiny piles around the base of the disk.  It was about the size of an old twelve-inch-record, half buried in the ground.  Inspired by the thought he cleared away the dust - taking care to keep his fingers away from the edge - until the ground was visible.  He continued to brush away the dust all the way along until he’d reached the bottom of one of the arch’s pillars.  Then he did the same on the other side.

When he was done he stood regarding his handiwork, eyes hooded with the thoughtful weight of what they saw.  An opalescent metal strip, nearly six inches wide (he’d used thumb and forefinger to make a rough measurement), spanned the gap beneath the arch.  It was inlayed in the rock and flush.  The disk bisected the strip near the centre, and now it was plain to Flowers that the disk and lever was some kind of weapon or tool that the owner of the skeleton had used to cleave the metal in two.  Also, he could not shake the notion that the act of vandalism had killed the perpetrator.

From that instant he had been captured.  This project could make his name.  He had to find out what it was, where it came from.  He would carry the artefact back to the lab personally and solve its mystery, even if he had to search every text contained in the archives to do so.  Nothing like this had been seen before, but somewhere there had to be a clue.

With assistance from a colleague, it didn’t take long to extract it - the thing was still sturdy, and felt robust, yet remarkably light, as he hefted it experimentally.  He found a case to contain it and packed it out with wadding to stop the artefact moving about in transit.  One of the workmen escorted him back along the tunnel and brought him via damp and mouldering passages to the nearest tube station, from where he caught a train uptown.

Back at the site no one noticed the severed ends of the metal strip liquefy and slowly fuse back together, thus completing a circuit.  However everyone’s attention was on the arch when the tall, cloaked figure stepped silently over the threshold, onto the plinth.  

“What have I done?”

Walter Flowers, career minded and most ambitious archaeologist, removed the artefact from the ruined case and held it before him, hands shaking under their burden despite its negligible weight.

There was no real evidence to support his conclusion, yet he was unable to rid himself of the overwhelming conviction that taking this thing from the excavation site had in some way brought about the situation in which he now found himself.  It was just the nature of his predicament that eluded him.  But what ever was going on was bad - really, really bad!

His gaze fell upon the sundry items chaotically distributed about the place - as if their owners had simply discarded whatever they were carrying and wandered off.  Wandered off... just like Amit had.

So, why was he the only one left?  What made Walter Flowers so special?  He looked at the artefact again and remembered how it had seared the Neanderthal creature.  Then he thought of the harrowing effects his mind had suffered - when he had moved away from the case.

Still holding the artefact out in front of him, he approached the escalator and carefully began climbing the steps.  With each one he winced, expecting to be overwhelmed, but nothing happened.  He quickened his progress, retrieving his torch along the way, and was soon running.  He had to get help, somehow explain to the authorities what was going on down here.  They could get someone to take it back, and then everything would be all right again.  He didn’t have to tell them that it was his fault… did he?  No, of course not.  He was an archaeologist: he’d just been doing his job.  Besides, it was Dr Glen Porter who was head of department.  Porter was in charge.  It was his responsibility.

Flowers reached the top and found the station proper deserted.  Metal gates had been drawn across all the exits, baring his way.  After a moment’s indecision he lifted the artefact and swung at the bars.  The disk seemed to glide through the metal struts with only minimal resistance, slicing like sunlight through shadow.  In seconds he had made a hole big enough to step through.

A flight of steps brought him to street level.  The mild autumn night licked at the sweat on his face and cooled his brow.  Pedestrians passed by the dishevelled and dirt-smeared man holding the strange weapon, without sparing him a look.  Those that did glance in his direction seemed to stare right through him.  Somewhere distant sirens wailed across the city.  He cast around, searching for a policeman, and when he didn’t find one, thought of his mobile.  It was out of charge - lifeless.  Frustration building, he stuffed it back in his pocket and marched of down the street.

Turning a corner he saw the patrol car coming down the road.  He stepped of the curb into its path, arms flailing and calling out for it to stop.  It wasn’t travelling that fast, but the driver can’t have seen him, because the car didn’t slowing.  Ready to throw himself across the bonnet, he braced for the impact… and almost sprawled onto the tarmac as the vehicle drifted through him like he was smoke.  It pulled up to the junction, indicated and turned right.  Before the patrol car disappeared, two more vehicles did the same.  He watched the bus’ interior sail by, his legs buried in the floor up to his shins as he drifted down the aisle.  That was more than he could take.  Screaming, he took of down the middle of the road.

By the time sanity had, to a point, returned, it was late and the nightlife was thinning.  He had run utterly unnoticed through the streets, wildly swinging the artefact at whoever came within reach.  But not a single drop of blood was spilt.

At last, exhaustion hung about him like an old, rain-soaked trench coat, Flowers stood swaying slightly at the head of a flight of steps that descended into another tube station.  “So its down to me, is it?” he yelled at the darkness.  A hand went to his pocket and fetched out the torch.  It flickered when he turned it on.  The beam was noticeably dimmer.  “Right.  Lets go!”

He made short work of the gates at the bottom and entered the station.  The artefact had become a key against which no door could stand sealed.  After a bit of searching he found what must have been some sort of maintenance room.  His torch could muster little more than an amber spot, but it was just about enough to make out the hardhat, with a light affixed to the front, sitting on one of the shelves.  He located a kiosk and, realising how villainously his insides ached with hunger, set about demolishing sandwiches, chocolate bars and cans of drink.  Then he filled his pockets with the revitalising provender before moving on.   

At the top of a long wooden escalator he paused, wondering if this was what if felt like to be a miner.  Far below, the labyrinth silently awaited him.

Flowers heard them before he saw the faint bluish glow at the end of the passage.  Guttural rasps against the background of a low rumble.  He now knew the source of those grunts - he would never forget first seeing that thing in the other station; its animal voice, that rank stink.

Turning off his headlamp, he stole forward, knuckles white on the artefact’s grip.  Ahead, the passage turned sharply right onto the platform.  There was a tall, enamelled sign bolted to the tiles that stated he was about to step onto the westbound platform.  It showed the stations that the trains - had there been any - would take him to.  He recognised the one near the excavation site: five stops - how much was that in miles?

The blue glow was coming from the platform.  He pressed his back against the wall, working up the courage to peek around the corner.  The strange rumble had grown clearer in the echoing confines of the passage.  It sounded… like marching feet… hundreds of them.  Intermittently a growl rose over the continuous hubbub, and, at the sound of it, Flowers had to force himself to breath shallowly in order to prevent it coming in gasps.  Sliding his back along the tiles an inch at a time, he risked an eye past the edge.

The blue light originated from somewhere out of his line of sight.  It spilled vaporously along the platform, seeming to mask detail rather than highlight it.  But he had no trouble defining the ponderously shapes that hulked near the edge.  They stood intent, their attention on the trench beneath them in which a continual stream of movement passed along from left to right.  The motion did not yet distract him; his entire focus arrested by the frightening spectacle of two Neanderthal creatures.  Maybe he could have snuck up on one and hit it with his strange weapon… but now realising that there could be numerous monsters about had the affect of footing the whole affair much more firmly in reality.  He was an archaeologist, for Christ’s sake, a voice of reason remonstrated him from somewhere at the limit of his consciousness, not the principle character in some computer game.

So what, then, could he do?

Sometime ago the idea had asserted itself upon him that he had to get the artefact back to the site at all costs.  Where that notion originated from was as much a perplexing concept as the events that had taken place since the crash.  Nevertheless it was a certainty apparently calculated to expostulation all other courses of action from his mind.

Walter Flowers, moved by vivid apprehensions of terrifying, but still unfathomable possibilities, was staring one-eyed into the palely luminous, hollow murk, when, of a sudden, one of the abominations stooped and swung down an arm into the mists of movement beneath it.  It seemed to pluck something out and hurl the loose, ragged shape onto the ground between their feet.  But as they both crouched and set about it, Flowers realize that the limp thing was a person.  Arms and legs were torn off and hurriedly consumed.  When only a torso was left, a scuffle broke out over the remains, which resulted in a messy deluge of innards.  Mercifully the chaos of the fight drowned out the noise of heaving as the archaeologist retreated back down the passage staggering and expelling the contents of stomach as he went.  Even the clatter of the artefact against the floor as he fell on all fours did not carry to the platform.

Understanding of what it was that moved along the tracks and where all the people had gone now bit at him with horrifying clarity.  Hypnotised by some power, they were being herded, drawn mindlessly, like zombies, towards some goal that he suspected was the arch at the excavation site.  Gimleted by this realisation, he clamped a hand over his sick-smeared lips but could not hold back more retching.  Bilious fluid squirted through the gaps in his fingers as his mouth filled with vomit.  Quaking with silent sobs, he was able to go further down the passage before the horror overwhelmed him and he collapsed against the wall and slid down into a ball of quivering shock.

All those people!  How could this be happening?  He had not meant for this to happen.  How could he have predicted the catastrophic effect that taking the artefact would bring about?  Such thing belonged in the realms of some macabre horror movie.  Running away with reason, he tried to outpace his own responsibility but always found himself charging headlong into the undeniable truth that this was all down to him.  And regardless of how many times he tried to reassure himself that he had acted without realising the consequences of what he was doing - how could he have known - it seemed a pale excuse when set against the enormity of what was going on.

In the silence Flowers stared into space and for a long time did not notice that the sounds of footsteps had diminished to nothing.  The omnipresent blue light still shone at the end of the passage, but all was hushed.  He wiped a sleeve across his face and mustered himself to rise.  On reaching the turning he peeked out onto the platform.  The creatures were no longer there; and the trench in which the tracks were layer, was empty; just a dark recess beyond the platform’s lip.  He might have been able to convince himself that the gruesome spectacle he had witnessed was nothing more that a hallucination conjured from exhaustion, but the tattered remains were unmistakable, lying amid glistening stains of wetness.

With the artefact held ready in both hands he sidled towards the platform, keeping to the right-hand wall.  It was the direction the people had been going, and he reasoned that when they had all passed by, those creatures had gone on with them.  At the corner he blinked away sweat and tears, and leaned out enough to look down the length of the platform.

At first he saw nothing but the distant, dark recess of the tunnel.  Then something moved.  He pulled back, sucking in his fright… listening… working his fingers around the grip of the artefact.  Its disk shimmered keenly in the light, seeming to solidify his resolve, and he wondered if he actually had a chance at slaying one of those monsters.

He held his breath and waited for the sound of heavy footfalls.

But none came.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit…” he realised he was mouthing, letting out a portion of air with each utterance.  His lips had gone dry as old leather.  He licked them.  Should he look again?

He did… and saw that no monster lumbered towards him.  The platform was deserted.

Flowers kept his gaze averted from the mess on the floor as he stepped out into the open and, on trembling legs, advanced towards the tunnel entrance.  Unnameable evil freighted the air and he did not want to turn on his headlight just in case there was something down there that might see and decide to come and investigate.  Besides this blue light - that did not seem to have a source - was just about bright enough to see by.  He advanced on, one sure step after another… and was out in the open, in full view of anyone - or thing - that cared to look, when the shadows up ahead moved.

The tall, cloaked figure had been standing unseen in the recess of a passage adjacent to the tunnel.  Flowers, suddenly harrowed by absolute terror, felt his body turn to ice.  No thought found its way into his mind, and even the urge to turn and flee could not form itself into action.  For seemingly unending seconds he felt himself regarded by the shape that looked like smudged charcoal against the lustreless blueness.  A void seemed to swell inside him.  Then, silently the figure turned to the side, and descended into the trench.

Flowers watched its awful silhouette fade into the tunnel, but for a considerable time thereafter could not force himself into motion.  So then, now they knew that one straggler had escaped their dreadful net.  And they did not appear to be overly concerned.  Laughter rose in his throat and blew from him like a cold breeze across a moonless lake.  They thought him insignificant, not worth worrying about.  The idea forged a stubborn rod through his being.  Going at a slow but deliberate pace he went to the edge of the platform and climbed down.  The tunnel yawned in front of him, filled with the ambiguous haze by which he could just about see.  He renewed his grip on his weapon and struck out into the gloom.

Nothing challenged him; nothing leapt from the shadows to render him limb from limb or rip him open to eat his guts.  And he saw nothing but the unending tunnel stretching ahead.  His careful step became a march, sometimes picking up the pace with a trot, until shortness of breath reduced it to a brisk walk again.  He was a fit man, in remarkably good shape for his forty-two years, but as the miles fell behind him and his feet grew raw in his trainers, he was forced occasionally to rest.  During those breaks he would find an alcove or tunnel entrance to secrete himself and eat from his provision.  But after only a few stops they had run out and at the next station he detoured to the surface in search of another kiosk.  Overwhelmed by fatigue he took that opportunity to sleep.  After a plague of nightmares he commenced his journey, restocked and reinvigorated.  And at last he found himself at the entrance to the short tunnel that lead to the excavation site.

The deathly silence that had accompanied him on his journey through the underground was prevalent here as well.  Taking care not to make too much noise on the shingle covering the floor he went forward, the weapon held ready.

The cavern was deserted.  The equipment that had been brought down now lay scattered and broken, but some of the arc lights around the walls still stood, lifeless in the absence of power.  But it was to the arch that Flowers’ attention was inextricably drawn.  The great columns reached for the ceiling, looping over to join and thus create a frame for the scene beyond.  Through that doorway a landscape receded sweeping back for what he estimated must have been tens of miles to a distant horizon where great promontories of rock shouldered upwards, shoving giant ridges into a sky that seemed to be made of limitless night.  Not a single star could be glimpsed, no slither of moonlight.  Yet in isolated quarters strange, dull-coloured light sprang from unseen sources to dust the land with faint aspects.  Closer the ground rolled with stony grey planes, tufted with scars shrubbery and random outcrops of rock.

Drawing nearer to the arch Flowers was able to discern a rough track cut into the dark landscape, its surface wide and pitted by what seemed like aeons of neglect.  From this desolate realm the Neanderthal creatures had come, directed by the silent, cloaked figures, to harvest the people, snatch them from this world for some diabolical purpose that he could not - dare not - guess at.

He took the rough flight of steps carefully, ever vigilant for the slightest movement, until he made the top of the plinth.  A gentle, chill-fingered wind beckoned to him through the arch, blowing trails of dust across the threshold.  Marvelling bleakly at that nocturnal vista, he came tentatively forward to within striking distance of the metal strip that spanned the gap.

Despite the cold, sweat pasted his clothes to his body.  He took firm hold of the strange weapon and lifted it over his head, poised to strike.  With this stroke he would break the circuit, thus sealing the gate, and so put right the wrong he had done.  For the first time since his encounter with the silent one, fear gripped him like a spectre.  His lips were a thin straight line between the corners of his mouth.  Walter Flowers was the kind of man who walked through a crowd without touching anyone, but stopping occasionally to watch their interaction.  But now, in one thoughtless gesture he had stabbed through the heart of this city, and caused so many people to bleed through the wound.

They were out there, somewhere beyond the margin of that world and helpless in the thrall of the silent ones.  He had delivered them unto their fate and with this blow he would, along with the gate, seal their doom.  Yet another thoughtless gesture: an easy fix, a useless solution when measured against the monolithic consequences of his previous folly.

The weapon came down slowly to hang limp at his side.  He hesitated, frozen by the impasse of his own indecision.  But with each passing moment doubt fell away from him like dust and feeble lint from the loom of time.  Then all that was left was his resolve, cleaving a path for him that stretched forth into oblivion.  Taking up the weapon in a sure grip, Walter Flowers stepped across the threshold into the Night Land.