The Tunnels

Francis followed James down the corridor, lagging a step behind as he kept eyeing the older man's back. He couldn't help but wonder about him. Was he really okay? Was he even all there anymore? Why is he being so reckless? Francis was concerned but wasn't sure what to do about it. He knew he needed to stay by James's side, at the very least.

The two men walked the domed path ahead. Lanterns hung frequently enough to keep the underground darkness from fully enveloping them.

Up ahead, James saw another turn—this time to the right. Pressing against the curved wall, he paused, gathering himself. His thoughts raced—What is this place? What's going on down here? What else are we going to find?

James steadied his breath and took a quick peek around the corner.

Nothing.

He sighed with relief and rounded the bend. Another long tunnel stretched before him, identical to the one they had just followed.

Francis stepped around the corner, joining James. "How many tunnels do you think there are?" he asked, knowing James couldn't possibly have an answer.

James sighed. "I don't know." He started walking again.

Francis followed.

The pair continued down the brick-and-stone pathway. James took to counting the lanterns hanging along the way.

One.

Two.

Three.

It was the only thing he had to keep track of, building a mental map of lanterns in his head.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Each one hung about twenty steps apart, their dim glow just enough to illuminate the surrounding walls.

Thirteen.

Fourteen.

James stopped. Up ahead, he saw a hole carved into the left wall.

Francis stopped beside him. "What is..." He trailed off, eyeing the hole. "A side passage?"

James didn't answer. He walked cautiously toward the opening. It was as tall as he was. Peering around the edge, he found a metal door inside, its top rounded to match the carved hole. He looked at Francis.

"I suppose we have to try the creepy metal door?" Francis asked, his voice quivering.

"We need to know," James said, reaching for the handle.

He gave the door a quick tug. A loud, echoing bang rang through the tunnel. It was locked.

"Try that key you found," James ordered.

With a nervous hand, Francis produced the key from his pocket. "Okay." He slid it into the lock and twisted in both directions. Nothing. "It doesn't work."

"Damn." James sounded annoyed. He looked further down the tunnel. "I guess we keep going then." He started walking again.

Francis stuck the key back in his pocket and followed.

A loud clank. The sound of shifting metal behind them.

Both men froze.

A screech of metal on metal. Then a thud.

They turned.

The door stood wide open.

Footsteps.

The detectives watched as three suited figures emerged from the doorway. Shoulder to shoulder, they faced the detectives, masks covering their faces—identical to the one from earlier.

"You've got to be kidding me," James grumbled.

"I don't think they are," Francis remarked.

At the same time, all three figures reached into their suit jackets and pulled out rods, similar to the young man from before. With synchronized movements, they raised their arms and swung down, extending their batons.

"Their choreography is immaculate," James remarked as he drew his revolver.

Francis readied himself, holding his open hands in front of him. "I don't suppose these ones will want to talk?"

"Probably not," James replied. "I think I'll let Betty do the talking this time."

Both men felt the surge of adrenaline. Ready for what they expected.

The suited figure in the middle, shorter than the other two, raised their baton and pointed it at the detectives. The two taller figures took the cue and charged forward, blue arcs of electricity crackling at the ends of their batons.

James was done playing their game. He raised his revolver at the one charging him. "Enough of this crap!" he yelled and pulled the trigger.

The gunshot rang out, the sound bouncing off the stone walls.

The suited figure in front of James collapsed backward, hitting the ground hard. Blood pooled around the body—James had struck them square in the chest.

Everyone else stopped, covering their ears and bending forward in pain from the deafening shot.

Francis, holding his head, looked up at the figure who had halted in front of him. He saw his opening. Spinning, he delivered a roundhouse kick, knocking the baton from the figure's grip. The weapon clattered to the ground.

The figure shook off the shock and glanced at their fallen baton—they looked back just in time to see Francis's fist collide with their chin. Their head snapped to the side. Francis followed up with another kick, this time to the head, sending the figure crumpling to the ground, unmoving.

James regained his composure and turned to Francis, who stood above his downed opponent. Both men then looked to the shorter figure still standing ahead.

The masked person shouted something in the same foreign language as before. Then, they turned and ran.

"Oh no, you don't," James said, raising his gun.

Before he could pull the trigger, Francis grabbed the barrel and pushed it down. "Don't, James," he warned, glaring. "We should try to not kill as many as we can."

"But they could be responsible for all of this!" James shouted. "They could be killing innocent people!"

"Could be, yes. But we don't know for sure." Francis stood resolute.

James exhaled sharply, lowering the gun to his side. He watched as the figure disappeared down the tunnel. "This had better not bite us in the ass," he muttered, glaring at Francis.

The unconscious figure groaned. In an instant, Francis was on him, pinning his arms down with his feet. He reached down and yanked off the mask.

Another clean-shaven young man.

Francis straightened and looked at James. "This man looks exactly like the one from before."

James walked over, holstering his weapon. "This just gets stranger and stranger," he muttered, peering at the man's face.

The young man suddenly began screaming in the foreign language.

James sighed and stuck his fingers into the man's mouth. "Not this time." Holding the man's jaw open with one hand, he used the other to probe around inside. Finally, he pulled something free and held it up to the lantern light.

"Like I thought," James said. In his palm sat a false tooth, crudely held in place by a thin piece of wire. He pinched it tightly and watched as it crumbled to dust, revealing a small pill inside.

"It was poison," Francis said, a look of surprise crossing his face.

"Or something made to look like it," James countered. He turned his gaze back to the young man. "He looks exactly like the one from earlier. What if he is the same guy?"

Francis frowned. "Then how did he get around us?"

James pondered the question. "There could be more tunnels we don't know about."

Francis started to protest, but before he could, the man beneath him let out a guttural roar.

With shocking strength, he lifted his arms off the floor, sending Francis tumbling backward. Francis barely managed to catch himself before falling completely, but it was too late.

The young man reached down to his shoe, withdrawing a small knife. He stood and swung wildly.

Both detectives jumped back, avoiding the slashes. The man let out another furious yell—then, without hesitation, plunged the blade deep into his own neck.

James's jaw dropped. He raised a hand as if to stop him. "Wha—"

"My God," Francis whispered in shock.

The detectives stood frozen as the man collapsed to his knees, blood pouring from the wound. He ripped the knife free before falling flat on his face. He stopped moving.

Francis's breath came in sharp, shallow gasps. He turned to James. "Well, what now?" His voice was raw, panicked.

James didn't respond immediately. The shock was evident on his face. "I... I don't know," he admitted. He brought a hand to his mouth, staring at the lifeless body before them.

Francis turned away, taking a few shaky steps. "I've worked a few cult cases before," he muttered. "But nothing like this."

James shook his head. "I haven't seen anything like this either." His hand instinctively reached into his coat, pulling out his flask. He unscrewed the lid and took a long swig—longer than usual. This time, it wasn't for the headache. It was for the confusion. He capped the flask and tucked it away, still staring at the body, trying to piece it all together.

Finally, James took a deep breath, his composure returning. "We can't stop here," he said firmly. "If we do, we'll have accomplished nothing." He stepped closer to the body, kneeling beside it and patting down the pockets.

Nothing.

"Damn it." James swore under his breath. "These lunatics carry nothing on them." His eyes drifted to the knife lying beside the body. It was plain—no ornate carvings, just a simple black handle and a steel blade.

James stood and approached the man he had shot earlier. The figure lay on its back in a pool of blood. James leaned in, reaching out a hand, and pulled the mask away, revealing yet another clean-shaven young man. He looked identical to the other man. James furrowed his brow.

As James pulled the mask free, the young man's eyes shot open. With one hand and a powerful grip, he grabbed James's wrist, yanking himself toward James's face. In a hoarse whisper, he spoke:

"In iluitl iuimikistli axitialistin."

Then, as suddenly as he had moved, the man released his grip and dropped back to the ground.

James exhaled sharply, only then realizing he'd been holding his breath. Quickly, he checked the man's pulse. Nothing.

He sighed. "What was that?" he muttered to himself.

James checked the rest of the man's body. Carefully, he reached into his mouth and pulled free another false tooth. Do they all have one? he wondered.

He looked at the man's shoes. Turning and reaching down, he felt around in his right shoe. Just as he expected, he pulled free a simple blade tucked away inside.

He examined the knife—nothing special. He let it drop, the blade clattering against the ground. There was nothing else of use on the now-deceased man.

Rubbing his forehead, James stood. "Let's check that door they opened." He turned, already walking. He didn't wait for Francis's response.

Francis hesitated a moment longer, eyes shut tight, willing this to be some kind of nightmare. He had seen gruesome scenes before, but never had he witnessed them happen right in front of him. Was his stomach strong enough for this?

He swallowed the dry lump in his throat and opened his eyes. The dim lantern light still flickered against the tunnel walls. He exhaled sharply, forcing himself back, past the body, following James toward the open door.

James hadn't waited. The metal door led to a small room with a single lantern hanging from the ceiling. Against the right wall sat a wooden table, surrounded by five mismatched chairs. Half-empty water bottles rested beside three of them.

James turned his head to examine the rest of the room. His stomach dropped.

In the back left corner lay a pile of bones.

Near the entrance, a skeleton slumped against the wall, its arm shackled to the floor.

Francis appeared in the doorway behind James. His silence betrayed the fake confidence on his face. "What is it?" he asked, his tone flat.

James shook his head, still staring. "I can't wrap my mind around this place." He took a cautious step toward the pile of bones. "How long have these people been down here?"

Francis studied the remains. "It takes a long time for bones to look like that." His voice was eerily void of emotion. "Unless..." He hesitated.

James turned sharply. "Unless what?" His tone cut through the stagnant air.

Francis exhaled. "Unless someone stripped the flesh away."

A tense silence filled the room.

James closed his eyes and rubbed them. He stood still, processing. Finally, he spoke. "Something sinister is going on down here." When he opened his eyes, he looked at Francis—and immediately noticed the shift in his stance. The younger detective looked... defeated.

James took a step toward him and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Look, I know this is rough. Frankly, this is fucked up. But if we don't figure out how to stop this, who knows how many more people will end up in that pile?"

Francis met James's gaze. There it was again—that brief flicker of sympathy. That same man from earlier, the one who had reassured him, was still in there.

Francis swallowed. "You're right. But we could have gotten help. Maybe things wouldn't have gone this way if—"

James cut him off. "If what? If we had more men with guns? You've seen what these people do. It wouldn't have changed anything."

Francis stared at him, his expression unreadable.

James exhaled and looked at the ground. His voice softened. "Look... if you want to go back and get help, go. But I'm staying. If there's anyone alive down here against their will, it's our job to save them." He took a step back, lowering his arm, waiting.

Francis stood still, his mind racing. He hadn't even considered the possibility of prisoners.

"...You're right," he admitted. His gaze dropped to the floor. "I should have thought of that."

James nodded. "We need to do our job." He gave Francis's shoulder a reassuring pat. "We stick together, and we'll be alright."

Francis inhaled slowly, centering himself. Remembering his purpose. "Okay. Let's go."

The detectives stepped out of the small room, walking past the body in the tunnel.

Francis gave it one last glance before turning his back to it for good, following James deeper into the nightmare.