Page 125 of Degradation
They’re as bought into the lie as the fuckers locked inside, and that ultimately, is their downfall.
I slide down the last few feet of the narrow tunnel, my heart pounding in my chest.
The darkness envelops me like a thick fog, and I can barely see a foot in front of me.
I feel invisible. Invincible.
I’ve only been in these old tunnels a couple of times, technically trespassing, and navigating them now feels more like a test of will than skill. The scent of damp earth fills the air, mixing with a bitter undertone of something long forgotten.
Oblivion is just ahead, a labyrinth that, at least for tonight, I intend to conquer.
As I scramble up another tunnel that feels carved out of the very rocks, I can feel as it turns from jagged edges to something a little smoother.
I don’t know who built this. I don’t know when they did it. But it’s a secret I will take to the grave. Neither of my brother’s will ever find out about this. Even if we do somehow make it up. This here, is an insurance policy. A safety net I will never let go of.
My footsteps are silent as I make my way. It’s dark here but my eyes have adjusted to the light and besides, I know the exact amount of strides it takes to get from one room to the next. I know where the raised bits of floor are, I know where the steps appear as if rising from the pits of hell. I know it all.
When I reach a larger room, my eyes land on something. It’s right in the centre. Hunched over, as if in eternal prayer, though I know the person was never a religious man.
I recognize the frayed jacket and the tattered remnants of clothes.
It’s him. Jefferson.
My old friend, my only friend, a man more of a father than Magnus was. All the hours we spent here, all the days he let me hide away, let me exist.
I kneel beside the remains, my fingers trembling as I trace the contours of his skull. There are still tiny bits of flesh attached to it, tiny bits of decomposition.
How cruel it is that he’s lying here, alone and decayed, trapped by the very system he sought to evade.
My throat tightens. Sorry, old friend; sorry we eventually lost each other to the shadows.
But as I stare into the hollow eye sockets, a pang of relief washes over me too. No more suffering. The prison’s grasp has finally released its hold on him.
And what better place to be, what better tomb to claim. His bones can lay here, can be at peace here. He won’t be turned into a trophy. His skull won’t be encased in gold, won’t be turned into a treasure, and stashed away to disappear alongside all the thousands of others.
No, this is a fine death.
A good death.
The sort of death bastards like me can only dream of.
I rise back to my feet, the chill of the chamber settling deeper than I’d imagined possible.
There’s no time to wallow; only darkness waits for slack souls.
I edge past the skeleton and keep my movements slow and deliberate. The space narrows into a dim corridor, where the air is still and thick with dust.
I swallow and focus on the distant sounds of footsteps echoing through the concrete walls. I’ve learned their rhythms, the way security patrols fluctuate. This place operates like clockwork. All the shifts, all the timings, all of it is the same as it was when my father was in charge, when his was before that.
The dimly lit corridors of Oblivion stretch out before me, a maze designed to disorient and detain. But I know these halls, every turn, every blind spot. They were once my playground. They were once my sanctuary. My escape.
I move like a shadow, my knowledge of the prison’s inner workings guiding me through the maze that’s designed to disorientate, that’s designed to keep all the prisoners trapped.
I approach a concealed service entrance at the far end of the tunnel, hidden behind a shroud of vines and debris. My pulse quickens with each silent step, my breaths shallow and controlled.
I almost want someone to find me. I almost want this be more of a challenge. My fingers flex with the urge to crush something, that beast inside me screams that all too familiar demand for blood.
Soon. Very soon.
