Chapter one: Roscoe
Inside Hacton, there were supplies, food, tools and water filtration systems, a geothermal heating station, and order. Hacton had running water, medics, schools, and a lot of soldiers from the Guild. Hacton was a busy hub, full of people from all around the Tunnels. On the Great Marketplace, prices were high. Moven had little money and no intention of buying. Instead, on the balcony of the Marketplace, he watched.
People, traders selling, scavengers, bureaucrats, families, miners and soldiers.
Hacton was always safe to be in. People didn’t try to rob you, rape you or worse. The light from the ceiling of the cavern was bathing the market in a calming and soothing afternoon light.
The night was coming, and Hacton soldiers were moving; only authorised people were allowed inside during the nighttime. Trying to stay will be death. He left Hacton before the dark. The sirens were blasting:.
“Hacton is closing its gates, please leave the Station. Any signs of complications will be punishable by death.”.
After passing the Eastern gates. Moven was moving toward a narrow, dark, damp tunnel. Keeping to the walls, he had to find a place to sleep tonight. He heard voices ahead, low but clear. Sounds of struggles, pleas and screams. Moven’s blood was pulsing in his parietal regions, his heart was drumming, and on his forehead, pearls of sweat were appearing. He moved carefully, peeked. Moven identified three men, armed, talking loudly now. On the ground bodies, old, young and some covered with blood. On their chest, reflecting slightly, a small metal plate, rustic but obvious: the Blue Hands Group.
Moven cursed. They were known bandits, violent scavengers, shameless and mostly organised in small groups. They carried knives, one handgun and a rifle on the ground close to their camp. Moven swithered between ambushing them and running for his life.
He had his knife, and they didn’t notice him yet. He waited for a long time. He had nothing to lose. One of the men, ginger, bearded and short, left to piss. He rounded the corner, untied his pants and pissed. Moven struck in one movement. The knife’s blade slid into his neck. Moven tilted the blade and sliced his oesophagus clean. Blood gushed out, the man’s eye wide open. Moven hold him slightly, laying the body on the ground, avoiding the pouring blood on his jacket. The second wore a dark green knitted headwear; he noticed suspiciously and approached his handgun, raised.
Moven froze first, blood pulsing into his head. He stepped back, holding his breath. Around the concrete pillar, he entered a crack large enough to secrete him. Moven held. The second one, his eyes lit up at the scene of his comrade on the ground, soaked in his own blood. He closed the distance to Moven’s hideout.
Pressed into the cold fissure of the column, Moven held his breath; the tunnel’s murmurs fell away, replaced by the slow, deliberate scrape of a boot on stone. He didn’t dare tilt his head; only his eyes moved.
Then it appeared.
Just the muzzle of the handgun, sliding into view. He grabbed the dark cylinder, twisted and used his weight to drag the man with him, and his arm swung. Throwing the man off balance, Moven stabbed his left eye, the skull cracked, and the blade was already lodged in the middle of the man’s eye, a sliver of steel freezing him in place. For a second, the world held still.
Moven in a single, decisive, and direct tap. The tap seated the blade, anchoring it in the skull. The head jerked back, the body going slack under the force of the blow. The last one tried to run toward the rifle; he looked young and inexperienced, still a kid. Moven aimed, not a single fibre of his being hesitated. He shot multiple times: leg, lower back, throat. The boy lay face-first, wheezing.
Moven’s heart was calming down, his chest, face and hands were hot. He bent down, foot on the head of the man, and he extracted his knife with a bit of resistance. He grabbed the man’s knitted headwear.
Moven, alone. He moved the bodies together. He slid down the wall until the ground caught him, grabbed a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled. Blood streaked his forearms. In the hush of the passage among the cadavers, the glow crackled, tiny, crisp. Each breath pulled a soft crackling from the tip.
Moven exhaled a thin ribbon of smoke, holding most inside. The ribbon drifted in the stale air, hanging above them all.
Later, he lowered his hand and dropped the butt to the ground. He started searching the bodies. Every practical, easy-to-carry supply, tool, and finding was good to get. One rifle, one handgun and three knives, extra ammunition. He packed everyone’s clothes in a cylinder bag to sell them later; nothing went to waste here. He kept the clothes suitable for him: a switched jacket, new socks, solid boots slightly too big, and the knitted ski mask. The smell was intense, but being warm meant more. He drank, ate and smoked more and listened to the tunnels. Before leaving, we resumed: twelve cans of food, dried rations of meat, and three canteens of water.
The ginger man had a small bag with him: pills, medicine, painkillers, stimulants and crystals. Two bottles of alcohol. Four packs of Pre-War cigarettes sealed. Twenty Cenis in gold coins, enough to make trading effective in Hacton. He packed the rest, placed the heavy bag on his shoulders. Left, time to walk back toward Hacton.
Moven reached Hacton early in the morning when the western gates opened; the light of Hacton under the transparent ceiling was a good omen. His knitted hat on, bag on his back, the rifle on his side and a smile on his face flushed red from the cold. The guards at the station entrance observed him but did not stop him. He appeared like any traveller or scavenger. As always, Hacton was crowded; some sought safety for one more day, others didn’t make it back alive from the Tunnel night. Traders, Porters, Scavengers and the Guild’s soldiers with their red scarves. The guards moved through the market with steady eyes, scanning every stall and every passerby. Down the market’s central spine, the elite traders glided past atop their Slongis Goat, magnificent animals draped in dyed leathers, their spiral horns catching the cavern light like twisted silver. Moven slid through the crowd, heading towards the central office. He had enough money now.
In a small room guarded by a greasy, arrogant, old man. Moven sought the Guild authorisation. In Hacton, every transaction, trade or contract where under the umbrella of the Guild. If you trade without the aval, death will be the end one way or another.
The clerk with brown skin, curly hair, and black, round glasses. He was polished, calm and dressed in a long, thin, dark blue coat with a red scarf with two silver stripes.
“Name”, he asked.
“Moven Roscoe, Sir”, he answered.
“What is the purpose of your visit?”.
“I wish to purchase a trader licence, Sir”.
“What is your current occupation?” he asked.
“I am a scavenger so far, honestly, everything that can help, Sir”, he returned.
“How many weapons are you carrying?” he asked, amused.
“Four knives, one handgun, an automatic rifle”, he listed.
“The licence is fifteenCenis in gold coins, you can trade anything at the exception for slaves, and the trade of human flesh is prohibited, do you understand?” he interrogated.
“Yes, Sir”, Moven replied.
The Clerk asked him to look to his right, a flash. The Clark fingers grabbed the coins and moved into the back door. Moven waited half an hour in the small room, the old, greasy guard whistling and farting. When the Clerk walked back into the room, the guard regained instantly his position and rigidity.
“Moven Roscoe, here, your Licence Card of Trader. Welcome to Hacton, the Guild wishes you great success”, he slithered, half amused.
“Thank you, Sir”, he responded calmly.
Moven left the Central office. He settled into a low, battered sofa tucked against the far wall of the bar; his focus was pinned to the mission board across the room. He nursed a pint of root-soda; the drink’s intense earthy bite and bitterness cut through the stagnant air. The Bar Jolie hummed with traders, mercenaries, and wanderers arguing over contracts, looking for room, some from Hacton surroundings, others from Grenier or the Western Caverns. Moven was hunting for a job that might buy him a thicker slice of safety in this Station.
His eyes caught the agitation of a man, moving from one table to another, harassing each member. His look was rougher than anyone, even scavengers. His age was hard to decipher, and a thick eastern accent, certainly from Grenier, pounded each sentence.
Moven listened.
“Far, up north, there is an old station, from the time of Tunnelers”, he swore.
They laughed, the Tunnelers treasures were all found, said one man in the corner.
“I have a map, a key, meaning the location wasn’t discovered”, he reassured confidently.
Around his neck, a square key, engraved with a faded silver capital T.
“I am leading an expedition, and everyone who joins me will have a part in the treasures we will find”, he shouted with a jolly grin.
Many left their chairs, eager.
“The Tunnelers’ last hideout is around the Breaking Point in the North”, he muttered.
Some sat down, some turned their back, and a woman with a strong constitution spoke.
“People who scavenge in the unknown, like you and I, face danger, death, and time to time they find something. It is a dangerous work we all undertake. I am telling you, past the breaking point, nothing will await you. Only death, unnamed torture and your flesh will be torn apart by forgotten gods and lurking spirits.”, she concluded, her face stoned and crystallised into an indescribable emotion.
They left him alone, standing in the middle of the room.
“What’s wrong with these people? Shackled by their own fears”, he murmured to himself loud enough for Moven to catch it.
“Tell me more”, asked Moven.
They sat together, Rilo Villein, ordered a glass of lichen spirit.
“Here”, said a waiter while placing the glass close to Rilo.
Rilo waited for the server to leave. He sipped, his face flushed red, tears forming in his eyes. He swallowed. Coughed.
In the north, after a place called the Breaking Point, there is an abandoned station.
The Tunnelers, miners and pioneers after the age of war spent half a century mapping and forming small communities along the tunnels. During the Tunnelers’ time, they used hideouts for their long journey into the unknown dark. Hacton was founded by Tunnelers and maintained, but many of their station fell due to disease, conflicts or otherwise. These hideouts were kept secret due to often containing enough resources for entire groups: food, tools, and drugs. Medicines, books, gears, and old weapons. Most of these hideouts were sealed using their technologies.
Their keys are indispensable to accessing these hideouts. After a long conversation, Moven extracted this information. They planned to leave the next morning. The north was known as a hollowed-out part of the tunnels. A place where life could be torn from you in an instant. In the late hours of the morning, they met around the northern gates.
A tunnel scavenger’s equipment was basic, some great long boots to face the constant erosion, mud and uneven ground conditions, thick pants, the thicker the better. Long socks in slongis’wool, a warm braies, a thick and easy-to-move-in jumper. The heart of the scavenger outfit: His Coat, always waterproof, coated with oil for the rookies or in petroleum, leather for the wealthier and notorious scavengers. The coat was a symbol in scavenger communities, often past generation to generation. Vilern Lebroc, the legendary Tunnelers ′ founder of Hacton, had six generations behind his coat. He died and was buried in it.
The staple of a good scavenger or explorer of the unknown was a solid bag, furnished with numerous pockets. A headpiece. A knife. Handguns were extra. the Graal, a rifle, the ammunition was hard to get, expensive, and always made by the Hacton Trueman factories, but a rifle held most in respect.
Moven had every item of a good scavenger of the unknown. He had more than enough. He had the value of 10 slaves in cigarettes; he had hope and possibly a better life in front of him. Time was up, they left towards the North, beyond the Breaking Point. Moven was driven by many burning fires, but the one that truly ruled him was the hunger for a better life; he refused to die with nothing.
Rilo walked in front. He had memorised his map, and he walked with an attitude that Moven found hard to understand. Rilo was an optimist. How can someone living in the tunnels, scrapping for food, not being allowed to stay in Hacton at night, how can someone keep such an attitude in front of life?
“I grew up in Grenier far in the eastern veins”, he started, in the cavernous grassland, and you”, he concluded.
Moven, hesitant:.
“I was born in Hacton, but my family was banished outside with the Gaters”, he reluctantly answered while peering into the dark with his eyes.
“The Gaters?” confused.
“People unauthorised in Hacton after the sirens”, he explained, still probing the way to avoid sinkholes and hidden pits.
The centuries had equipped most of the Tunnelers with effective nocturnal eyesight, still the tunnels’ ground had seen centuries of change and feet. They marched for hours in absolute silence. Rilo was relaxed, calmed. Moven always carefully listened to the tunnels, smelling the air and feeling the walls. He had spent all his life in the tunnels and had survived. He knew the tunnels around Hacton better than most of the Gaters.
After a long time, walking in the absolute dark. Moven followed Rilo up the slight rise in the tunnel’s floor. As their boots scraped over the elevated ground, rocks and mud, he asked, “Where have you been staying since you arrived in Hacton?”.
Rilo went on a long speech on how he left Grenier six weeks ago. He didn’t want to become a farmer in the grassland like his family. He stayed in the Miner’s Respite in the western part of Hacton. Moven was shocked that an outsider was able to stay in Hacton so easily. Rilo explained that Grenier is the biggest grain, food and oil producer on this side of the tunnels, only rivalled by Shire in the West. So, Grenier’s people all have the right to stay in Hacton due to the commercial relationships between the two states. Most of the time, Grenier’s people never really left Grenier; life was good, and their State was abundant in products of the ground, water and peace, and nobody was foolish enough to attack them. Some tried 20 years ago, he explained, but Otton, King of Grenier, defeated and hunted them until the last one, since nobody really tried.
Later in the day, they reached the Breaking Point. They entered the section of the tunnel scorched to glass by the age of war ordnance and later carved by the first Tunnelers as a northbound artery. It was a dangerous corridor and a staggering place beyond. Bandits, flesh hunters, and feral things hunted in these fractures and crystal-like veins. Moven and Rilo crested the high point of the tunnel. Beyond it lay a small, cavernous hollow, carved into the rock and concrete. Remnants of the age of the Tunnelers, engravings, half-collapsed sculptured concrete beams, and crumbling walls jutted through the moss and pale grasses that had claimed the ruins.
From the shadowed corners, two flesh hunters, easily recognisable, emerged, or rather, waited. Feral men, their bodies smeared in black mud, shielded under mossy thatch cover, eyes glinting with hunger, crouched among the wreckage. Around them, clusters of fireflies floated like drifting sparks, each exhaling a faint, burning liquid that hissed when it touched the ground.
Moven lay on the ground, placed his rifle in position. He located the former flesh hunter, aimed, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly; some frost smoke. The bullet detonated, glided out of the barrel, flew, and embraced the skull, leaving only a scarlet peephole behind.
The latter looked up, around. Rilo raised his pistol, fired three times, but missed.
Moven slid down the slope into the cave below, drew his knife and ran with all his might towards the muddy flesh hunter. Panicking, the hunter lifted a rustic kanabo. His ventral part felt under Moven’s sharp talon. He dropped to the ground and circumvented the fatal blow. Perforated his belly, piercing through the deep layer of mud until blood gushed out, the blade skying in and on the cracked mud. The cannibal fell on the ground, howling. Fear welled in his eyes, shimmering on the watery surface. The hunter had become the hunted.
Moven paused an instant, his eyes on his opponent’s weapon. He grabbed it and split his head open. Nothing new in the tunnels for him. Rilo doubled over and retched.
They paused for the night in the ruins. They ate dried giant rat meat, both contemplating the fireflies feasting and festering on the flesh of hunters’ cadavers. Moven went to sleep, leaving Rilo in charge of guarding them.
“I wasn’t expecting the trip to be like that”, said Rilo while ripping a piece of dried meat. “My dad’s friends told me that the tunnels outside of Grenier were tough, dangerous and morally broken, but...”, he peeked at the hunters. “You’re good at scavenging”.
“I learned the way of these tunnels with my father, a tough man, raised but a third-generation old Tunnelers; he knew everything about Tunnelers’ life”, confessed Moven.
“Where’s your father and family’s Moven? asked Rilo innocently.
He held still for a long moment, silence stretching around him. “They died”, he finally answered, “even the best sometimes falter,” he added, “keep an eye out”.
He turned, rolled into his woolly coat. Rilo was left sitting on a protruding concrete slab, his mind quiet and full of obscure thoughts about their world and the shift from his hometown, his dad hoeing the soil, his mother baking. Conflicted and wrestling between his hunger for adventures and his desire to go back to Grenier. He let out a long, exhausted breath. He thought while peering into the unknown that Leline would be spellbound when he recounted his adventures in the North. He will conceal the part where he missed the shots and his vomiting.
Tomorrow will be the day they finally reach their destination. He looked at his key, caressed the Silver T code on the bow of this old, angular key, believing that circumstances would turn in their favor, so far fortune had yet to abandon them.
