Tunnels 02, Deeper

a short, disappointed laugh.
    This was ridiculous.
    What did he think he was doing?
    Nevertheless he gave his pockets a last check, just in case he'd missed anything. They were inevitably empty, except for some dust and grit. He hissed with disappointment, then girded himself for the final part of the ritual. He picked up the flashlight, cradling it in both hands.
    Please, please, please!
    He slid the switch.
    Absolutely nothing. Not even a suggestion, not even a glimmer of light.
    No!
    It had failed him again. He wanted to hurt it, to make it suffer just as he was suffering. He wanted it to feel pain.
    With a rush of anger, he drew his arm back to throw the useless object, then sighed and stopped himself. He couldn't bring himself to do it. He growled with frustration and stuffed the light back into his pocket. Then he bundled the remaining items together in his handkerchief and replaced them as well.
    Why, oh why, didn't I just take one of the light orbs? I could have so easily.
    It would have been such a small thing to have done, and yet it would have made a world of difference to him right now. He began to think about his jacket. If only he'd had the sense to keep it on. He pictured where he'd left it, draped over the top of his rucksack. His lantern had been clipped to it, and in its pockets had been another flashlight and a box of matches, not to mention several orbs.
    If only... if only...
    Those simple objects would have been so vitally important to him now.
    "YOU STUPID FOOL!" he began to yell, urging himself on in a rasping croak and cursing the blackness all around him, calling it every name under the sun. Then he fell silent, imagining he could see something creeping slowly across his field of vision. Was that a light, a flicker of light to his right?
    What? No, there, yes, in the distance, a glow, yes, a light, a way out? Yes!
    His heart racing, he moved toward it, only to trip on the uneven surface and fall once again. Standing up quickly, he searched for it, peering frantically into the velvety blackness.
    It's gone. Where was it?
    The light, if there ever had been one, was no longer there.
    How long can I go on like this? How long before I ... He felt his legs tremble as his breath deserted him.
    "I'm too young to die," he said aloud, realizing for the first time in his life what those words really meant. He felt as if he'd been winded. He began to sob. He had to rest, and dropped to his knees. Then he bent forward, feeling the grit beneath his palms. This isn't right. I don't deserve this.
    He tried to swallow, but his throat was so dry and swollen that he couldn't. He bent even farther forward until his forehead rested against the sharp grit. Were his eyes open or closed? There was no difference; small spots of colored light, swirling reticulations, massed together into smears, dancing before him, confusing him. But he knew it wasn't real.
    He stayed in that position, panting, his head against the ground, and for some reason a vision of his Topsoil mother reared up before him. It was so crystal clear that, for an instant, he felt as if he'd been transported somewhere else. Mrs. Burrows was reclining in front of a television in a sun-filled room. The vision wavered and was replaced by the image of his father in a very different place, somewhere deep in the earth, wandering carelessly along and whistling through his teeth in that high-pitched way he always did.
    Next he saw Rebecca, as he'd seen her a thousand times before. She was in the kitchen, preparing dinner for the whole family -- a task she'd do every night -- a sort of constant in his life that seemed to be present in even his earliest memories.
    As if a film had jumped its sprockets, he saw her smiling evilly while she paraded herself in the black-and-white uniform of the Styx.
    Witch! Treacherous, lying witch! She had betrayed him, betrayed his family. This was all her fault.
    Witch. Witch. Witch. Witch. Witch
    In his eyes she was the very worst type of traitor, something twisted and dark and evil, a cuckoo sent from the underworld to wreak havoc on the nest, a quisling.
    Get up! The pure hatred he felt for Rebecca galvanized him. He drew in a painful breath and pushed himself up so he was on his knees again. He shouted at himself, urging himself to get to his feet. Get up, Will! Don't let her win! Then, standing on his shaky limbs, his arms threshed out in the emptiness around him, in the endless, soul-sucking night land.
    "Get going! Get