Chapter 6 Chapter 6: Section One
In the stark concrete corridor, my meagre belongings were sprawled across a wooden bench like evidence from a crime scene. Still clutching the torn remnants of my shirt to preserve what little dignity I had left, I used my one good arm to sweep everything into my rucksack, then hugged the worn canvas to my chest like a shield. It was all I had left in the world.
I never did get that glass of water. No food. My body was a single, screaming nerve, a tapestry of pain woven from Charles’s “persuasion.” I could barely put one foot in front of the other; the guard ended up half-dragging me down the endless, echoing hallway. Every breath was a sharp, burning ache in my ribs.
But when the guard shoved the final reinforced door open and the night air hit my lungs, the world didn’t just appear, it exploded into my senses.
The noise: a roaring cacophony of shouted barter, raucous laughter, the sputtering growl of generators.
The stench: a thick, visceral cocktail of unwashed bodies, frying grease, ozone, and the underlying reek of sewage.
The light: blinding, chaotic neon, ‘CHEMS’ and ‘FRESH MEAT’ competing with the sickly flicker of fluorescent tubes that cast jumping, frantic shadows.
It all crashed into me at once, a sensory overload so violent it jolted me awake, shocking my system with a desperate, electric energy I didn’t know I still possessed.
My bunk in Section 1 wasn’t far, but even at this hour the narrow, makeshift streets teemed with frantic, dangerous life. Market stalls hawked dubious wares under tarps, dim bars spilled their drunken patrons into the mud, and brothels with garish, flickering signs promised cheap oblivion. There were more armed, hard-eyed people in this one cramped artery than I’d ever seen in one place. The ground was a viscous swamp of mud, waste, and rotting debris. Feral-looking Street kids and hollow-eyed vagrants darted through the crowd like rats, scavenging through the filth.
And everyone, everyone carried a weapon. Knives, pistols, homemade shivs. Everyone looked like they’d kill you for half a glance or the contents of your pockets.
We stopped before a wall of rusted metal doors stacked three high. Mine was a one-meter-square hatch at ground level, the number 327 scrawled across it in peeling white paint.
“Well, this is you, Tilly. Max will be by at first bell. Sleep well,” the guard said, already turning to leave.
I stood there, staring dumbly at the featureless metal. “How do I get in?” My voice was a dry croak. “And…I need water.”
He turned back with a patronizing smirk. “Oh, right. Forgot you’re a newbie. Just slot your tag in the reader there, it’ll open like a key. And here.” He fished a plastic bottle of shockingly clear water from a pouch on his belt and tossed it to me.
I fumbled but caught it, unscrewed the cap with trembling fingers, and downed it so fast I nearly choked, gulping the blessed liquid until the bottle was empty, each swallow a minor miracle. Once it was gone, I slotted the metal tag into a recessed reader. A magnetic lock disengaged with a heavy clunk. I pulled the door open.
The space within was a metal coffin. Barely a meter and a half tall, not enough to stand and only two by two meters in length and width. Inside: a bare metal bedframe with a thin, stained mattress; a dented metal footlocker; a single bare bulb clinging to the far wall, casting a cold, unforgiving glow; and one lonely, promising plug socket beneath it.
I crawled inside on my hands and knees, the floor cold against my skin, and pulled the door shut behind me. It locked automatically with a decisive thunk. A spike of claustrophobic fear pricked at me, the thought of being trapped in this box. I swiped my tag again. The lock clicked open. Not a prisoner, then. Just a tenant. I closed it once more, the sound final.
Stripping down to my underwear, I examined my battered body in the dim light. I was a canvas of abuse. Mottled yellows, blues, purples, and greens painted my skin in ugly blooms. Huge, angry burn marks stood out livid on my ribs and back. I moved stiffly, unpacking my rucksack with ritual care, laying each item out on the floor before me, taking stock of my entire existence.
Meds first:
5 Rad-blockers. Better take one now. The air in here tasted of ozone and rust. That left four days’ worth. I dry-swallowed one, its chalky bitterness a familiar comfort.
1 painkiller. I swallowed it immediately, praying the searing pain in my limbs would dull to a manageable throb.
1 Angel-Kiss and 2 Stims. God, I needed one right now. The urge to feel that artificial sharpness, to escape the crushing fatigue, was a physical ache. But I forced myself to save them. Worse days were coming. They always were.
Weapons:
My own trusted knives. Sheathed and still wickedly sharp. Their familiar hilts felt like old friends.
My Guardian pistol. I ejected the magazine: seven rounds left, plus one in the chamber; three empty mags. (Clean and oil later. First thing.)
Three second-rate revolvers and a pouch with twenty loose slugs.
A chipped axe and two rusted blades, scrap value, mostly.
A small bottle of gun oil and a ragged cleaning kit.
Medical kit:
Needle and black thread. My hands still shook with pain and adrenaline as I tried threading the needle. I failed four times, breath hitching in frustration, before succeeding on the fifth. I began the slow, meticulous work of stitching the worst tear in my T-shirt, eyes scanning the rest of my gear.
Clothing:
A single change of underwear.
Two precious pairs of socks.
A threadbare dress I’d once thought pretty.
A handful of fabric scraps saved for repairs just like this.
Miscellaneous:
A toothbrush, bristles splayed.
A sliver of soap in a sealed plastic bag, worth more than gold.
A broken mirror, its cracks dividing my reflection into fractured pieces.
Three long, sturdy shoelaces. Always useful.
Two thick wool blankets. I tossed them onto the bedframe, arranging one as a thin mattress, the other as a pillow. A pathetic luxury.
Tools:
A torch with one working battery. I checked it; the beam was strong, for now.
A foldable shovel, its handle worn smooth.
Shit.
A cold dread washed over me. Where was my book? I threw the half-sewn shirt aside and upended my rucksack, frantically patting down every fold, every pocket.
Gone.
The Holy Book of the Sisters of Mercy. The Book of the Eighth Day. Inside were my hand-drawn notes in the margins, my maps, my personal codes, worthless to anyone but me. But the book itself? It could get me killed if anyone in Charles’s team or anyone in this town, could read Russian. My stomach tightened into a cold knot.
“A problem for another day,” I whispered to the empty room, forcing the panic down. Fix what you can now, deal with the rest later. The mantra of my old mentor echoed in my head. Once the T-shirt was patched into something wearable, I turned to my Guardian, stripping it down on the blanket. I cleaned each part with methodical, reverent care, the scent of gun oil a calming incense.
Then the light died.
The single bulb flickered once and went out, plunging the coffin into absolute blackness. No idea what time it was, only that it had to be late. No switch to fiddle, no way to bring it back. The thought of wasting my precious torch battery made me grit my teeth, but the thought of sitting in the dark with a disassembled weapon was worse. Working by feel and the faint glow of the beam, I pieced the gun back together, my fingers finding their way through the familiar ritual.
Job done, I flicked the torch off and popped the battery; no accidental drain and sat there in my bunk, swallowed by perfect, absolute dark.
I am a creature of the night. I prefer to travel under its cover, away from prying eyes, where shadows cloak me like a second skin. Yet even then, there is faint light, the gleam of a star, the glow of a distant fire, the sickly hue of a rad- storm. It betrays the world, teasing shapes from the void, giving form to silhouettes I can almost name.
But this? This was different. This was true darkness. An absence so complete it swallowed everything, no edges, no distractions, no horizon. It left only the echoing chamber of my own wretched mind. And in that emptiness, the ghosts of my shattered life always slithered in. Broken promises. The grip of hands that took what wasn’t theirs. The eyes of lives I’ve ended, frozen wide in surprise. They coiled around my hollow soul, whispering all the things I fought so hard to forget during the day.
In the church dorms, I always kept a candle burning. Its tiny, defiant flicker painted shifting shapes on the ceiling, a dancing horse, a drifting cloud, a face, something, anything, to anchor my restless thoughts against the tide of memory.
But here, there is nothing. No light. No illusion. Just the dark, and me within it, until we are indistinguishable.