Tunnels 01, Tunnels

someone is randomly scanning the airwaves on a damaged radio.
    The scene shifts into close-up. Dr. Burrows is using a magnifying glass to examine a thin stalk with a bulbous tip that rises a foot and a half or so out of the solid rock. Will sees his father's lips moving, but can only understand brief snatches of what he is saying.
    "... a plant... literally digests rock... silicon-based... reacts to stim-- ... observe..."
    The image cuts to extreme close-up. Between two fingers, Dr. Burrows plucks the gray stalk from the rock. Will feels uneasy as he sees it writhe in his father's hand and shoot out two needlelike leaves that entwine around his fingers.
    "...gripping me like iron... feisty little...," Dr. Burrows says, frowning.
    There are no more words, they are replaced by laughter, but his father seems to be screaming as he tries to shake the thing off, its leaves piercing his hand and threading straight through the flesh of his pam and wrist and carrying on up his forearm, the skin bruising, bruising and bursting open and becoming smeared with blood as they twist, interweaving in a snakelike waltz. They cut tighter and tighter into his forearm, like two possessed wires. Will tries to reach out to his father, to help him as he battles hopelessly against this horrific attack, as he fights his own arm.
    "No, no... Dad... Dad!"

    * * * * *

    "It's all right, Will, it's all right," came his brother's voice from a long way away.
    The lava flow was gone. In its place was a shaded lamp, and he could feel the soothing coolness of the washcloth Cal was pressing against his forehead. He sat up with a start.
    "It's Dad! What happened to Dad?" he cried, and looked around wildly, unsure of where he was.
    "You're all right," Cal said. "You were dreaming."
    Will slumped back against the pillows, realizing he was lying in bed in a narrow room.
    "I saw him. It was all so clear and real," Will said, his voice breaking. He couldn't stem the flood of tears that suddenly filled his eyes. "It was Dad. He was in trouble."
    "It was just a nightmare." Cal spoke softly, averting his eyes from his brother, who was now sobbing silently.
    "We're at Auntie Jean's, aren't we?" Will said, pulling himself together as he saw the floral wallpaper.
    "Yes, we've been here for nearly three days."
    "Huh?" Will tried to sit up again, but it was too much for him; he rested his head back against the pillow once more. "I feel so weak."
    "Don't worry, everything's fine. Your aunt's been great. Taken quite a shine to Bart, too."

    * * * * *

    Over the ensuing days, Cal nursed Will back to health with bowls of soup or baked beans on toast and seemingly endless cups of oversugared tea. Auntie Jean's sole contribution to his convalescence was to perch at the foot of his bed and burble on incessantly about the "old days", though Will was so exhausted he fell asleep before she could bore him senseless.
    When Will finally felt strong enough to stand, he tested his legs by trying to walk up and down the length of the small bedroom. As he hobbled around with some difficulty, he noticed something lying discarded behind a box of old magazines.
    He stooped down and picked up two objects. Shards of broken glass dropped to the floor. He recognized the pair of buckled silver frames right away. They were the ones Rebecca had kept on her bedside table. Looking at the photograph of his parents, and then the one of himself, he slumped back onto the bed, breathing heavily. He was distraught. He felt as though someone had stuck a knife into him and was very slowly twisting it. But what did he expect from her? Rebecca wasn't his sister, and never had been. He remained on the bed for some time, staring blankly at the wall.
    A little later he got to his feet again and staggered down the hall into the kitchen. Dirty plates sat in the sink, and the garbage bin was overflowing with empty cans and torn microwave-ready food boxes. It was a scene of such carnage that he barely registered the plastic tops of the faucet, melted and brown, and the flame-blackened tiles behind them. He grimaced and turned back into the hall, where he heard Auntie Jean's gruff voice. Its tones were vaguely comforting, reminding him of the holidays when she would come to visit, chatting to his mother for hours on end.
    He stood outside the door and listened as Auntie Jean's knitting needles rattled away furiously while she spoke.
    "Dr. bloomin' Burrows... soon as I laid eyes on 'im, I warned my sister... I