Tunnels 01, Tunnels

from one of the cups and began to dab at the blood on Chester's face with it.
    "Leave me alone!" Chester objected weakly, trying to push him away.
    "That's an improvement. Here, eat something," Will said, handing a bowl to Chester, who immediately pushed it away.
    "I'm not hungry. I feel terrible."
    "At least drink some of this. I think it's some sort of herbal tea." Will handed the drink to Chester, who cupped his hands around the warm mug. "What did they ask you?" Will mumbled through a mouth full of gray mush.
    "Everything. Name... address... your name... all that stuff. I can't remember most of it. I think I fainted... I really thought I was going to die," Chester said in a flat voice, staring into the middle distance.
    Will began to chuckle quietly. Strange as it might seem, his own suffering seemed to be relieved somewhat by hearing his friends complaints.
    "What's so funny?" Chester asked, outrage in his voice. "It's not funny at all."
    "No." Will laughed. "I know. Sorry. Here, try some of this. It's actually pretty good."
    Chester shuddered with disgust at the gray slurry in the bowl. Nevertheless, he picked up the spoon and poked at it, somewhat suspiciously at first. Then he sniffed it.
    "Doesn't smell too bad," he said, trying to convince himself.
    "Just eat it, would you?" Will said, filling his mouth again. He felt his strength begin to return with each mouthful. "I keep thinking I said something about Mum and Rebecca to them, but I'm not sure if I didn't dream it." He swallowed, then was silent for several seconds, biting the inside of his mouth as something began to trouble him. "I just hope I haven't gotten them in trouble, too." He took another mouthful and, still chewing, continued speaking as another recollection came back to him. "And Dad's journal -- I keep seeing it in my mind, clear as anything -- as if I'm there, watching, as their long white fingers open it and turn the pages, one by one. But that can't have happened, can it? It's all mixed up. What about you?"
    Chester shifted a little. "I don't know. I might have mentioned the cellar in your house... and your family... your mum... and Rebecca... yes... I could have told them something about her... but... oh, God, I don't know... it's all a jumble. It like I can't remember if it's what I said or what I thought ." He put down his mug and cradled his head in his hands while Will leaned back, peering up at the dark ceiling.
    "Wonder what time it is...," he sighed, "...up there."

    * * * * *

    Over what must have been the next week, there followed more interrogations with the Styx, the Dark Light leaving both of them with the same awful side effects as before: exhaustion, a befuddled uncertainty about just what it was that they had told their tormentors, and the appalling bouts of sickness that ensued.
    Then came a day when the boys were left alone. Although they couldn't be certain, they both felt that surely the Styx must have gotten all they wanted for now, and hoped against hope that the sessions were finally over.
    And so the hours passed, and the two boys slept fitfully, mealtimes came and went, and the divided their time between pacing the floor, when they felt strong enough, and resting on the ledge, even occasionally shouting at the door, but to no avail. And in the constant, unchanging light, they lost all sense of time and of day or night.
    Beyond the walls of their cell, serpentine processes were in play: Investigations, meetings, and chatterings, all in the scratchy secret language of the Styx, were deciding their fate.
    Ignorant of this, the boys worked hard to keep up their spirits. In hushed tones, they talked at length about how they might escape, and whether Rebecca would eventually piece it all together and lead the authorities to the tunnel in the cellar. How they kicked themselves for not leaving a note! Or maybe Will's father was the answer to their problems -- would he somehow get them out of there? And what day of the week was it? And more important, not having washed for some time now, their clothes must have taken on a decidedly funky aroma, and that being the case, why did they not smell any worse to each other?
    It was during one particularly lively debate, about who these people were and where they had come from, that the inspection hatch shot back and the Second Officer leered in. They both immediately fell silent as the door was unlocked and the grim, familiar figure all but blotted out the light from the corridor.