No Going Back

James and Francis made their way down the ladder into the darkness. As the hole of light above them grew smaller, they relied solely on their flashlights to see.

The ladder's descent felt like an eternity—step after step, rung after rung. Both men felt their muscles burn in protest. James especially; his knees ached, and he wished he had brought some aspirin. Or anything to ease his aging joints.

I think I'll retire after this, James thought. I'm too old for all this crap. His mind drifted in the monotony of the descent. Maybe I'll go back to that beach—the one Catherine loved. In the dim light, he could almost hear the ocean, the endless movement of water.

His thoughts cleared abruptly. "I can hear it," he murmured in amazement.

"What's that?" Francis asked from above.

"Uh, nothing. Do you hear that?" James countered.

Francis paused for a second to take in the noise. "Sounds almost like a river," he replied before continuing down.

James took another step, and his foot finally found solid ground. "Oh, thank God," he sighed in relief, stepping aside to rub his aching knees.

A moment later, Francis joined him. "That sure was something. What could possibly be this deep under the city?"

Both detectives swept their flashlights around. They stood in a domed walkway made of brick and stone, about thirty feet wide, James guessed. A ten-foot-wide stream of water cut through the center of the path.

"An underground river?" Francis asked, his voice laced with awe.

"Sure seems that way," James muttered, scanning the walls. "This... this can't be real."

A loud bang echoed from the hole above.

"Oh, come on," Francis panicked, rushing to the ladder. He looked up. "The light's gone."

"Wind probably closed it," James said calmly, still taking in their surroundings.

"What if it wasn't the wind? What if someone trapped us down here?" Francis looked visibly shaken.

James studied him. "Claustrophobic?"

Francis didn't respond, but his worried expression said enough.

"I'll take that as a yes," James said, taking a deep breath. "If people are coming down here, there has to be airflow." He stepped toward Francis and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "We'll be okay."

Francis felt the panic dissipate. This was a side of James he wasn't used to—reassuring, sympathetic. Not the cold grouch he always played. His face relaxed.

"Besides," James continued, "if there's a ladder here, there has to be a path leading somewhere. Why else would it be here?"

"You have a point," Francis admitted, taking a deep breath. "Alright, let's figure this out."

James nodded and resumed sweeping his light over the area. The arched passage was a decent size, and the walkway on either side of the water made him think.

"If I had to guess, whoever built this place did so around the river," James said. "Which means either there's a way back to the surface, or this leads to a larger body of water underground."

Francis processed his words. "But if this was built beneath the city, it must be older than the city, right?"

"I'd think so." James scratched his chin. "Lots of questions here. I doubt we'll get all the answers."

Francis pulled out his phone. "No service," he muttered. "Guess that was expected."

James turned, noticing for the first time that one path past the ladder was blocked. He shined his flashlight on metal bars down the way.

"Well, we're not going that way," he remarked.

Francis walked to the edge of the flowing water. "The current leads toward the blocked passage." Worry flickered across his face again. He turned to James. "Do you think all that rain could flood this place?"

James shrugged. "Hell if I know."

Francis was not comforted. "We should probably get moving, then."

James nodded and started walking down the path. Rounding a slight curve to the left, both men stopped. Up ahead, the path ended in a T-intersection. Water flowed from beneath a stone wall, and small lanterns hung from the walls, casting flickering light.

James clicked off his flashlight. A knot formed in his stomach. "I guess we're not following the water anymore."

Francis turned his light off as well, staring ahead. He strained to listen, but the rushing water drowned out any other sounds.

James crept forward. A small stone bridge connected the two pathways on either side of the water. He glanced at Francis. "Left or right?"

Francis shrugged. He didn't care, as long as it led to fresh air.

James grunted and moved toward the left passageway, pressing himself against the curved wall. Inch by inch, he edged closer to the turn.

At the corner, he stopped. Francis mirrored his movements. James shot him a glance, then back toward the unknown. In one quick motion, he peeked out just enough to scan the corridor, then pulled his head back. He looked at Francis and pressed a finger to his lips. Francis understood.

James held up one finger, then mimed two fingers walking. Francis nodded, drawing his firearm. James followed suit.

Peeking out again, James checked the opposite direction. Nothing. That's good. One person, one direction. He liked those odds. He glanced back down the left corridor—his target was still there. But now, they were moving toward him.

James signaled to Francis that the person was approaching. He held up three fingers. Francis nodded.

James retracted one finger.

Then another.

The final one.

Both men rounded the corner, guns raised.

"Stop right there, buddy!" James barked, his revolver gleaming in the soft lantern light.

The person halted.

Both detectives exchanged a puzzled glance.

The figure before them was dressed in a pristine suit and tie—far too clean for someone lurking down here. And covering their face was a mask, like something from a masquerade ball.

James and Francis stared, the weight of the mystery deepening.

"Tell us who you are and what you're doing down here!" Francis yelled.

The masked individual stood still, as if trying to decide what to do. Slowly, they began to move one hand into their suit jacket.

"Don't! That's a bad idea!" James yelled, sweat beading on his brow. He never liked firefights. He'd been in a few, and they were never a good time.

The individual reached deep into the jacket and slowly began to pull something out.

"Stop!" Francis commanded, to no avail.

The mysterious person pulled out something black and cylindrical, holding it at their side.

"What the hell is that?" James muttered under his breath.

The suited person raised the item in the air and, with a sharp motion, swung it downward. The cylindrical object extended like a police baton, the end popping open into a fork. They raised it in front of them.

"You have to be kidding me," James said. "Are they going to try to beat us with a stick?"

Francis almost chuckled. "This has to be a joke, right?"

The person pressed down on the handle. Blue arcs of electricity began coursing along the forked end of the baton.

"Oh no, not beat us-electrocute us," Francis said, trying desperately not to laugh.

"Look, pal, if you come at us with that thing..." James paused, trying to wrap his mind around the situation. "We're, uh, just going to have to shoot you."

Francis glanced at James. "We can't shoot them."

James shot him a look.

"It's not fair. We need to talk them down," Francis continued. He holstered his gun and raised his hands to show he meant no harm. "Look! We just want to talk."

James lowered his weapon slightly but kept a tight grip on it. "I've got a bad feeling about this," he muttered.

In a mad dash, the person ran at the detectives, baton held high.

"Shi-" Before the word could escape James's lips, the assailant was on them.

They swung the baton down hard toward Francis. With his hands already raised, Francis caught their wrist, stopping the attack.

He held on as tight as he could, but the assailant was too strong. Francis fell to his knees, still desperately trying to keep the baton at bay.

James rolled his eyes and, with a strong swing, brought the metal of his gun crashing into the back of the assailant's head.

The person's head rocked forward, and they stumbled backward away from Francis. Slowly, they turned their head to glare at James.

James's expression shifted from confident to fearful in half a second. "Oh crap."

The attacker raised the baton again. James braced himself, but before the strike could come, Francis twisted sharply from his knees, extending his leg and sweeping it under the assailant's feet.

They fell hard to the ground, catching themselves on their hands. They looked up just in time to see the heel of Francis's polished shoe strike them squarely in the forehead.

Their body went limp. The baton clattered beside them.

The detectives exchanged glances.

"Is that how you talk people down?" James smirked.

"Only sometimes," Francis replied, catching his breath.

James bent over the unconscious figure, holstering his weapon, and pulled the mask away. The man underneath was young, clean-shaven. But on his forehead was a strange symbol. James ran a finger over it.

"He's branded," he muttered

Branded?" Francis examined the symbol. "What on earth is going on down here?"

James ignored the question. He reached for the baton and examined it. The forked end had stopped sparking, so he touched it. The two ends folded together and slid back into the body of the baton. Looking at the handle, he found a small button. Pressing it made the electric current crackle back to life.

James released the button, pinched the forked end together, and slid the extensions back inside.

"This is definitely not police issue," he joked, tucking the baton into his pocket.

Francis searched the unconscious man's clothes. His fingers brushed against something hard in the man's pants pocket. He pulled out a single key.

"I hope all their locks are the same," he said, holding it up for James to see.

The young man began to stir. Both detectives stood over him, waiting. His eyes fluttered open, darting around before fixing on them.

"Now, if you'd be so kind, we have some questions for you," James said smugly.

The young man suddenly yelled in a language neither detective recognized. His voice was urgent, desperate. His lips kept moving even after the sound stopped.

James frowned. "Wait, wait-no!" He dropped to the man, grabbing his jaw just as the man swallowed hard.

The man started yelling again, but then he began to gurgle. White foam frothed at his lips, spilling onto the stone floor.

"Well... crap." James let go of the man's head. It smacked against the cold ground, more foam seeping from his mouth.

"What just happened?" Francis asked, stunned.

"Poison. Probably a false tooth or something," James said, shaking his head.

"P-poison? False tooth?" Francis was wide-eyed. "That... that only happens in movies. I've never actually seen someone do that."

"I guess they thought it was a good idea to copy," James muttered, clearly frustrated. "Die before you talk. This is some messed-up stuff." He began pacing.

"James, what do we do? We can't call anyone down here. We need to go back and try the ladder. We need to get help," Francis pleaded.

"No, what we need are answers!" James shot back.

Francis exhaled sharply, slipping the key into his pocket. "This is getting bad. That man charged us, and when he lost, he killed himself."

James kept pacing. "Symbols. Underground. Sacrifice..." His head throbbed again. "Damn it." He pressed a hand to his temple.

"What? James?" Francis asked, worry creeping into his voice.

"This damn headache. It won't leave." James reached into his coat for his flask. Another swig. The burn traveled through his insides again-a small comfort. He tucked the flask back into his coat.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Francis asked, concern etched across his face.

"I'm fine," James grumbled. "Let's... let's just keep moving."

"But we need to go back," Francis insisted.

James stomped toward him. "Then go back," he snapped, anger in his voice. "I'm here to do my job, and that's to find out what's going on! If you want to leave, then leave. I'm not stopping you."

Francis stood frozen. The smell of whiskey lingered on James's breath. "You've had too much to drink, James."

"Oh no, I haven't had enough. Not for this. And certainly not for having to lug you around," James retorted. He turned and marched deeper into the corridor.

Francis hesitated. He looked in the direction of the ladder -the way back to fresh air and freedom. Then he looked at James, who was already making his way further into this madness.

If something happens to him down here, Francis thought, I couldn't live with myself, not knowing if I could have helped.

His shoulders sagged. He sighed and hurried to catch up.

"I'm not leaving you down here alone," he said firmly.

"Then stop whining about everything," James replied coldly. "We have to figure this place out."