Tunnels 04, Closer

specifically, because they've been dead for too long. But, yes, fresh specimens carry many different viruses, and the Scientists harvest them for the deadlier strains. Once they've isolated these viruses, they're modified into more effective infectious agents in the Laboratories."
    Drake nodded. "Neatly packaged and ready to unleash on us Topsoilers... I can only guess?"
    "That's correct," Eddie confirmed. "The Scientists convert them into weapon-grade pathogens."
    Drake was studying the specimen bottle in his hand with evident excitement. "So these little blighters... these Plague Snails... are to blame." His eyes lit up as he had an idea. "And if we were to wipe them out, every last one of these snails, the Styx would lose their source of pathogens."
    Eddie nodded skeptically. "but the EternalCity is a pretty big place. It would be an impossible task to eradicate all of them."
    "Not impossible, no," Drake replied. "Not is you happen to know a top-notch biochemist with a thing for pesticides."

    * * * * *

    Making pitiful groans, Chester tensed against the cords around his wrists, stretching his fingers in an attempt to get the blood flowing in his hands. And his legs were cramping up yet again because his ankles were bound so tightly together. He was silent for a while, unsure whether he wanted to cry or to resume his tirade at Martha. He chose the latter -- at least it made him feel marginally better.
    "YOU STUPID MAD STUPID OLD COW!" he screamed at full volume. "YOU'VE KEPT ME IN HERE FOR BLOODY WEEKS! LET ME OUT!"'
    In the confined space, his shout made his ears ring.
    He waited to see if there was a response, but there was only silence.
    "Oh, God," he whimpered, looking at the light seeping in from cracks around the door of the otherwise completely dark and narrow under-stairs cupboard in which Martha had locked him. "Harry Potter, I know just what you went through," he said.
    The memory of how his life had been not so long ago... spending time with his mother and father... immersing himself in his favorite books... enjoying his wonderful home... playing games on his PlayStation... all without fear and nice and predictable -- it all flooded back to him.
    In the last year he'd traveled such a long way, completing a journey of many hundreds, if not thousands, of kilometers into the deepest recesses of the Earth, only to return to the surface for this to happen. He thought back to when he and Martha had set off in the launch from the fallout shelter. Despite his misgivings about her, he'd been filled with such hope and optimism.
    Why had it all gone so horribly wrong?
    He longed to wake up from this nightmare.
    Why? Why? Why?
    But it was no nightmare.
    What did I do to deserve this?
    It was real.
    Won't someone save me?
    He wailed with frustration.
    The moment that Dr. Burrows, Will and Elliott had leapt down Smoking Jean, he should have foreseen how it was going to turn out. There was a marked change in Martha's behavior. Almost straight away, she'd begun to act very strangely, following him around like some bloated balloon, and fussing over him and nagging at him to eat the food she prepared in her less-than-hygienic fashion. And worst of all, she was constantly trying to touch him in a sort of monstrously overdone maternal way.
    "Warped psycho granny," Chester muttered to himself, shivering as he thought about it now. He heard a vague shuffling sound from the other side of the door, knowing only too well she was lurking there.
    After she'd caught him trying to use the phone and knocked him out cold, he'd regained consciousness in the under-stairs cupboard. And that's where she'd imprisoned him, for how many weeks he didn't know, only allowing him out for a short time each day to get some exercise. Even then it was at knifepoint, with his hands still bound.
    To begin with he'd tried to reason with Martha, pleading with her to untie him. She merely shook her head in response. "It's for your own good," was all she'd say, over and over again. The nervous twitch in her left eye had also grown progressively worse, as if she was forever winking at him over some private joke. Only there was nothing remotely funny about the situation he found himself in. Quite frankly, he was petrified by the woman, believing she was eminently capable of sticking the knife into him, no doubt 'for his own good', too.
    Now as he lay in the cramped cupboard, he was listening to every little noise. He heard another movement on the other