The Fall of Man

Part III chapter 11

Chapter 11

Eve presses her cheek closer to the thin, dark gap between door and frame. A gush of hot moist air washes over her face from the other side of the doorway. Its warmth radiates from the gaps between her worn fingers. With one squinting eye, she surveys the space beyond.

The rectangular room is choked with steam. Through the swirling fug, a row of small wall-mounted lamps cast cones of yellowish light onto a tiled floor of wet, dimpled terracotta. The same fiery glaze lines the walls and the ceiling, lending the small, hot space an oppressive glow. Clouds of steam continue to billow in through sturdy metal grilles that are cut into the walls at knee height, and eddy around the clammy primordial chamber.

Inside the sweaty oven, Eve’s visibility is limited. She runs her hands over the tiled walls as she walks its perimeter, charting her progress by the grouted joint that separates each tile from the next. The clicking sounds made by her shoes reverberate all around her. Tile follows tile under her fingertips, and then she is back to the doorway she came in by. She walks the room again, slower this time. Condensation runs along her outstretched fingers, over the palms of her hands and down the underside of her forearms to drip from her elbows. The same liquid runs in thick rivulets down the walls and collect in a half-round gulley set into the perimeter of the hard floor.

Then she sees the drain – a steel grille set in the middle of the floor, perhaps eighteen inches across and hinged down one edge. Planting a foot to either side of it, she squats and worms her fingers into the gap between the heavy metal cover and the sides of the chamber below. She heaves at the grille and then curses as the rough rim bites into the soft, swollen skin of her hands. Blood wells up in crimson pools across her knuckles and runs freely down her wet fingers. She strains again, ignoring the stinging rub of concrete on raw flesh. Slowly, the grille rises and then flops over on its long edge -landing on its back with a loud clatter. The shaft below is steeped in shadow and thick with cloud. A slender ladder hangs flimsily against one side of the chamber, whose every surface runs with water.

As Eve descends inside the drain, the air gets hotter and hotter. She feels sweat running between her skin and the plastic of the raincoat again. The rungs of the ladder are slick with moisture. Blood flows from her torn knuckles to mingle with perspiration and the liquids sloshing down the insides of the chamber. The scalding air burns her lungs and leaves her short of breath, and the light around her fades with each step downwards. Then the ladder ends. Tentatively, she lowers herself hand over hand for the last few rungs. Hanging from the bottom of the ladder, her legs swing freely in the darkness around her, but find no walls.

Seconds pass as she dangles in the void, and the muscles of her shoulders begin to ache. Her fingertips stretch against the lowest rung but still there is nothing below her feet. All that remains is the distant square of orange that hovers way overhead. In desperation, she strains against the solitary rung to lift herself back up the ladder, but her over-tired arms refuse to cooperate and the burning in her shoulders intensifies. Beads of moisture trail down her arms, around the damp hair at her neck, over her collarbone where her defeated chin slumps, and she curses her own stupidity.

A tiny plop reverberates around the steamy funnel. Vaguely at first, she is able to discern refracted ripples of orange on a glass-like surface somewhere below her feet. Another droplet of sweat runs down her back and disappears into her waistband. With a surge of relief, Eve shakes her legs to dislodge it. A few heartbeats pass and then a second plop rings out. Circles radiate just inches from her dangling shoes.

The drop seems to last forever. She lands off balance in a shallow pool of liquid with a splash, and topples onto one knee. Immediately a stabbing pain flares up in her right ankle. A more potent version of the cloying rooftop stench washes over her; she clamps a hand over her mouth and nose and swallows the urge to retch. Standing gingerly in the mire, she looks around. A phosphorescence is exuded by the curved tunnel walls that run to her left and right. In the dull green glow, they are indistinguishable from one another. Above her now is only black. Her feet have stirred up a thick grey sediment that had settled beneath the surface of the oily water, muddled with more scraps of garbage – fragments of jars, bottlenecks, rusted tin cans. She shifts her weight and winces; the thin mulch clouds over and the rotten smell rises in palpable waves.

Sloshing lamely through the murk, Eve thinks back for the first time on the rollercoaster of events that has abandoned her in a foetid tunnel hundreds of feet below the surface of a dead city. Maybe, if the river hadn’t been so cruel, her father would be here with her. Perhaps, if they had arrived at the city together, he could have guided her safely from place to place. If she had only been able to hang onto a precious few possessions - a torch and a compass for example – she would stand a chance of navigating her way through this dank dungeon. But above all else, if she hadn’t spent the last five years crying, pleading and demanding that they make this journey - that she have her chance to explore the remains of an ugly, departed civilisation - she would still be cocooned in the safety of their little house in the valleys. And her father would still be by her side.

In the green-tinged gloom, something brushes against her arm and she screams a shrill note in spite of herself, and splashes a few painful steps backwards. With her body pressed to the curved tunnel wall, she squints into the darkness before her. Her fingers clutch at the wet concrete, and her skin comes alive; every fibre pleading to be out of the murky prison. Then she sees them. Two pale orbs staring back at her, blinking with a steady rhythm. The shadow reaches out again and she muffles a second shriek, shrinking further back into the concave void. The figure holds two hands up in front of her, its grey skin caked with dirt. The nails are hooked and encrusted. The orbs blink once more. Pushing herself past the groping arms, she stumbles blindly on the uneven floor and away down the tunnel.

A maze of twists and turns later, Eve pauses to catch her ragged breath. Looking backwards, there is no sign of pursuit. There are people here. She has found people. The thought rebounds over and over inside her head. But what have they become?

Hobbling around a final bend, a flicker of yellow undulates across the watery floor of the tunnel. With her spirits buoyed, Eve sloshes on towards the source of light. Another few steps and the confined roof gives way to a lofty ceiling. She is stood in a gulley of sorts. Its concrete sides rise up to Eve’s shoulders, leaving her head at the floor level of the rough-hewn space beyond. From this vantage point, a vast cave-like chamber extends overhead. Crude doorways appear to lead off in every direction, and a cacophony of sounds bounce about the tall walls. Naked flames dance from torches mounted on their rough surfaces, and throw out a smoky, juddering light.

She feels a tugging at her coat and yelps. Spinning around, she catches sight of the grimy apparition in the shadows behind her. It clutches at the lapels of her jacket. Yanking herself free, she scrabbles at the rough concrete haunching above, her fingertips desperately hunting for a grip. Finally, her left foot finds purchase and she heaves herself up the steep incline and onto the floor above, lashing out with her right. The sole of her shoe makes contact with something solid, and she feels the grip on her coat loosen. She drags her leg over the summit and rolls onto a hard surface of paving slabs, before looking back over her shoulder. For a split second, the lithe figure is exposed in yellow light; a sinewy grey boy whose gaunt face is topped by a shock of close-cropped hair, black with grime. He withdraws spider-like back into the shadows, all arms and legs. She closes her eyes and exhales, her face pressed to the dust-dry floor. His plaintive look is imprinted on her eyelids. Rather than aggressive, he appeared agitated – frightened perhaps? The concrete feels cool on her cheek and the pounding in her chest subsides.

“What have we got here, then?” A rounded baritone voice, thick with accent, wakes her. The flustered panic of a moment earlier is replaced with a still, cold dread. She opens her eyes and stares into the shins of eight or ten legs. All are clad in khaki green fatigues and high top boots, encrusted in the ubiquitous grey-brown slime. Above, their shaved heads and hard faces are unkempt. The largest of the group stands at the front, leaning on a metal golf club. He smiles a crooked smile when her gaze meets his, revealing an incomplete row of blackened teeth.

“It’s a princess, boys!” The men surge forwards in a pack, jostling against one another to be first in line. Their calloused hands are thrust towards her.

“A pleasure to meet you, my lady. Welcome to our humble abode.”