Flux

skidded down the road, teeth following a few feet behind, were the dulcet tones of Jim Morrison singing about riders on the storm. The music faded as he slipped into oblivion to the accompaniment of the Hammond organ.

    The driver of the bus sat pale and shaking behind his cracked windscreen while a smartly dressed woman standing on the pavement screamed, jumping back as a puddle of blood spread out across the tarmac. The crowd gathered within seconds and although many clutched their mobile phones tightly, nobody called for an ambulance. If badly taken photographs and pixelated video could heal the wounded then Iain’s story may have turned out quite differently.
    Fortunately, it was not many minutes before the local constabulary arrived on the scene and did summon assistance. It came shortly afterwards in a blaze of sirens and flashing lights. A few quick words were shared between paramedics before Iain was heaved onto a spinal board and loaded up.
    They were moving again almost before the rear doors slammed shut. Sirens blaring, they tore through the streets at break-neck speed, dodging traffic. The hospital was expecting them and the ambulance was met by a team of doctors and nurses who took control; doors slamming open as the trolley shunted through them.

    Iain’s body may have been lying on a gurney while the good people of the hospital battled to save his life, but he was oblivious to the fact. With no knowledge whatsoever of what had happened to him on the street, Iain stopped breathing. A few moments later his heart stopped.

    The music in his head had fallen silent, replaced by other sounds, the faraway background noise of heavy machinery, screams that drifted in and out of his perception, unidentifiable grating and groaning; a chorus of pure misery. The cry of a baby cut through it all, shrill, piercing and yet quiet enough to be half imagined.
    Iain tried to open his eyes, before realising they already were. A panic washed over him in the black; a black darker than night and he spun around wildly. In the distance shone a dim red glow, too uninviting to be called a beacon. Relieved not to be blind, Iain nervously started to walk towards where the light appeared brightest, his sense of fear strong, hackles raised, skin prickling all over. Not wanting to go in the direction of the glow, he could see no alternative; he couldn’t just sit in the dark to await his fate. As if in a dream he didn’t question his surroundings, accepting the moment, all that had gone before forgotten, irrelevant and insignificant.

Chapter Two
    The Abyss

    Acrid fumes filled the thick, stifling air; burning the delicate skin inside his nose and causing him to choke. It smelled of things which Iain didn’t want to imagine: sulphur, decay and shit. A bead of sweat ran down Iain’s brow, trickling into his eye. It stung.
    Underfoot, the ground was dusty and littered with rocks, his feet occasionally caught on other detritus, too light and yielding to be stone. Plumes of dust were kicked up in front of him as he walked, hanging still in the air and filling his already raw nostrils, binding to the moisture that now ran freely from his forehead.
    The light was further away than he’d first imagined but the surroundings gradually started to brighten as he moved onwards. The landscape, now dimly illuminated dull red, appeared as he imagined an alien world to look; reminding Iain of pictures beamed back from the surface of Mars, only darker and less inviting.
    Iain thought to himself that he must be in some huge cavern; so vast that no walls or ceiling could be seen and despite his lack of vision, he knew instinctively that it was no ordinary cave. Breathing through his nose hurt, but trying to use his mouth he found to be much, much worse. Dust clogged his throat, causing him to gag. Covering the lower part of his face by pulling up his collar and holding it there, so making progress ever so slightly more bearable, Iain continued through the dark and towards the faint glow. The noises were increasing in volume with each step forward, sounds of heavy industry intermingled with grief. Through it all, the wailing child was starting to drive Iain mad.
    He continued to walk towards the light without knowing why; something deep within his gut told him it was bad. Untold horrors waited there and yet, as surely as the moon draws the ocean, its pull was irresistible.
    Shadows flitted in and out of the dark at the edge of his perception but