Brought Down

7. The Pit

Julian

The earth is covered with slick, sticky dirt—that is the first surprise. It's also darker outside than I expected, despite it being around midday. Still, the local fauna is known to come out only after it's completely dark. There's enough dispersed light coming through the occasional holes in the layers of dirty clouds. I'm used to seeing those clouds from above, where they can even look nice on certain days, with sun coloring them into all kinds of pretty shades. From down here, they just look like pure menace.

Finding a shelter for the night is my first priority. The moment I make my way out of the underground passage into this cold and windy dusk, I know where that would have to be. Remains of an old city tower in the distance, biting the sky with sharp teeth of partly crumbled skyscrapers. I look at it for a few seconds, then at the mountains behind me, and can't help but smile, making the connection.

I've only seen this area from above, but I do recognize is. This would be my first card to play once I get back home. I could lead them to the rebel's hideaway, and not just some tiny settlement, a serious thing, with a hangar full of fighter jets—and we thought they had maybe one or two left! That's another piece of information to sell. Perhaps not to my father, but to those less inclined to get rid of me. My brothers could do, for starters. Each of them would surely—if reluctantly—offer me his protection in exchange for the information that would allow them to smash rebels to smithereens and come out as heroes.

Nothing like the information to keep you alive.

If only you live long enough to use it.

The city still seems far away even after I have spent what feels like hours of marching through the deserted ravine. The sticky dirt slows me down. A couple of times I encounter treacherous areas where the crust gives in, and my feet sink into a cold, thick, almost liquid dirt up to my knees. Such places seem to be marked by a darker color of the surface, and trying to avoid them slows me even further. The radiation levels are nothing like what they used to be after the war, but still, dipping into dirt pools is highly undesirable.

The first buildings are more distinguishable now, but the light keeps fading away at too fast a pace. Time is short. I not only have to make it to the city, but to find a place to hide that is not already occupied by anyone—anything—else. It would also have to be good enough to fool my pursuers, if they come. They will surely look for me in the city, and it would be no good to just sit and wait for them in the very first building.

How on earth and I going to manage all that before it's completely dark?

One of the buildings looks promising. It's on the outskirts of the city, and its shape and its large, glassless windows indicate that it was probably some kind of a factory, which could make it an interesting hiding spot. It probably has large rooms, different planning on each floor, more than one exit from each space, and perhaps even the leftovers of whatever equipment had been in use there. It would allow enough flexibility to –

Lost in thought, I fail to notice the dark area under my feet, until it gives in with a crack. Before I know it, I find myself up to my waist in sticky dirt and can barely suppress an angry cry. Damn this place and this dirt and this whole stupid situation! I feel around for hard surface, but it has broken in a large circle, and my hands fail to find a firm base to pull myself out.

I try to move inside the dirt, to get closer to the edges of the hole I've created. Although I do advance slowly, I can't help but notice that I'm also getting deeper with each step. By the time I reach the area that looks firm enough, I've already sunken up to my chest. Carefully, I place both hands on the surface to spread my weight evenly, and then try to crawl out of the pit.

With a crack, the surface breaks into several pieces, and I sink back, this time up to my shoulders.

For a few seconds, I just stand there, processing the new danger. This dirt is not just an inconvenience and a health hazard.

I could actually drown in it.

I look around to see if there's anything I can grab to pull myself out, but there's nothing in sight. It's also hard to see in the almost complete darkness, to judge to which side of the pit the surface is more brightly colored and therefore more reliable. I may have perhaps one more attempt to get out, but if it fails...

It won't.

I pick the area to my left, close enough to get to without sinking too deep. I make it there in two steps and place my hands on the ground. Careful now. Breath. Push.

I push with both hands, slowly, and the dirt lets go. First my shoulders, then my chest emerge out of it. The crust still holds firm. I place my elbows on it. I just need to crawl out now, carefully...

But before I can do that, something wraps around my ankle.

My heart stops for a moment, then starts hammering like crazy.

A momentary hope that I've had my leg entangled in some piece of junk disappears as I feel being pulled purposefully down. I grasp at the crust and try to kick with my free foot at what feels like a slick, thick rope wrapped around my other ankle. The thick substance trapping my lower body obstructs my movements, so I can't land a strong blow, only a slow-motion kick. There's a pause, as if whatever is holding me is about to let go, but the next moment, it jerks me down.

There's nothing slow-motion about it. One moment, I'm outside, my hands on the firm surface—the next, I'm back in the dirt, with only my head above it. I gasp, and then another jerk pulls me all the way in.

The liquid substance is suddenly everywhere—in my nose, my mouth, my eyes that I shut instinctively. I hold my breath, and wriggle, trying to get free, but the grip around my ankle only strengthens.

I'm going to die here.

No! Not like this!

Keep calm. The gun.

It won't work here!

I can't breath, this is it, this is the end.

Calm the fuck down.

I feel for the gun, and it's still there, stuck under the rubber band of my inmate pants. In an intolerable slow motion, I pull it out and aim it down. I may be aiming at my own leg right now, but it doesn't matter. I pull the trigger, but nothing happens. I pull it again, and again, as the panic consumes me, as the air begins to escape my lungs.

Then, I feel a slight blow-back from the gun and hear what sounds like a soft "pop" through all the dirt. The thing holding my foot jerks and unwraps itself. I kick with both legs, trying to move up, away from it, back to the surfaces.

Despite all my efforts, the dirt is still all around me, and my lungs are empty. The instinct to inhale is overbearing. I lose the gun, and keep kicking desperately with both hands and feet, but it's no use. I could be meters under the surface, and only getting deeper with each movement. By now, I'm not even sure which direction is up and which is down. My chest hurts so badly I can't take it anymore.

My mouth opens in an instinctive scream, and the dirt pours in.

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