Flux

in volume as he moved onwards and agonised screams came from somewhere close by and up-ahead. Approaching another cell, low groans could be heard coming from within.
    Iain peeped through the flaking bars. Inside and firmly attached to shackles on the wall was a man. The figure presented a pitiful sight; half hanging, half sitting with hair and beard reaching down to his waist. Emaciated ribs showed through stretched, grey skin. Red welts and sores covered his body. Iain experienced a wave of revulsion at the sight of rats gnawing on a gangrenous leg. The figure looked over, pleading with his eyes. Iain could see the poor soul was asking to be put out his misery.
    Having seen enough, Iain moved swiftly on, swearing to himself that he’d come back and help the man. Hopefully he could find a way.
    Passing the first torch Iain felt horribly exposed, almost leaping to the next set of shadows as his heart caught in his chest. But he hadn’t spotted another living being yet, apart from the unfortunate soul in the cell and Iain doubted he’d say anything.
    Before travelling too far Iain reached a junction in the passages and paused for a moment, contemplating. Ahead, all was quiet; the screams were coming from the off-shoot. Whether Iain thought he might find answers, or simply because of nihilistic tendencies, he headed towards the noise. He came to another fork, and then another. What is this place? He thought to himself.
    The screaming got louder as he advanced, telling him that up ahead were definite signs of life. The child cried on, remote and somewhere else altogether in the maze.
    Other doors in the corridor revealed souls in similar states of torment as the man with the rat gnawed leg. Some were shackled but not all and after encountering a few, Iain stopped looking altogether. The sight of such suffering weighed heavily on his soul, although he knew it wasn’t his fault. A loud bang and shouting caused him to spring over to the other side of the passageway. One of the filthy and wretched inmates had rushed to the bars, banging them with something which looked like a thigh bone. She screamed at him, “Let me die. Kill me, kill me now.”
    Iain put his fingers up to his lips to shush her but she kept on yelling, begging for her pain to end. He hesitated briefly before quickening his pace, afraid she’d attract unwanted attention from any guards.
    High pitched screams came from a short way down the corridor along with a sound which sent shivers right through Iain’s body. Someone was whistling: A jolly tune, whistle while you work! Pressing himself flat against the wall, and against his better judgement, Iain edged towards the cell door. It stood fully open, the hinges on the opposite side of the opening from where Iain was creeping.
    Peering around the corner, the first thing Iain saw was Bert with his back facing the doorway. It was him who was whistling, while standing over what could only be described as a rack, the medieval instrument of torture. Tied to the rack was another prisoner. Iain thought it to be a man, arms stretched out above his head and legs below, ribs sticking out prominently enough for Iain to count them if he’d so wished. It appeared there had already been a few turns too many of the large, spoked wheel.
    As if the rack itself were insufficient in its capability to cause pain, Bert wielded a pair of pliers. Unable to tear his gaze away, Iain looked on as the old man reached into the victim’s mouth and clamped down with the pliers. He pulled, using his foot against the man’s chest for extra leverage. The tooth came out with a gout of blood and an extra loud wail.
    Almost screaming himself, Iain’s trance was broken and with all thoughts of stealth forgotten he fled, throwing up loose dirt and pebbles from beneath his feet.
    Bert turned around and shrugged, smiling before resuming his whistling and his torture.
    Iain pelted down one dead end after another trying to find the way back to his own cell. Fortunately he hadn’t travelled too far into the labyrinth and through trial and error he eventually found his way back. He dropped onto the straw bed, exhausted and afraid.
    Having regained his breath and some composure, Iain sat thinking while chewing his fingernails down to the quick. He had to find a means to escape. It was either that or be tortured, that was plain and simple fact.
    He needed a plan. Biting off a hang nail at the edge of his thumb he drew blood, before