The Sum of All Our Fears

We found ourselves utterly consumed by the immediacy of the present, a forceful tide that swept away all else. The path to our freedom lay unobstructed, compelling us to seize the moment and advance. But just as we began our calculated departure, we detected unsettling sounds emanating from above us. Quick, purposeful footsteps, or perhaps even running, sonic nuances I hadn’t perceived during my initial exploration of this labyrinthine place. As we navigated through the narrow passageway festooned with sinks and forlorn vests discarded on the ground, it became glaringly obvious that Duval’s accomplice remained, waiting in a state of arrested anticipation. The air, already thick with tension, seemed to have acquired an even denser quality. Was this a byproduct of the life I had just brought to an end? Either way, my colleague had now shifted her gait, treading on her tiptoes as if trying to glide above the very floor. Realising her intent to move with stealth so as not to alert potential threats, I willingly conceded the vanguard position to her.

She proceeded with the rapidity and decisiveness of a seasoned professional. The instant she flung open the heavy wooden door, her voice resonated through the sterile environment. Get your arse over here, you sparkling bastard! she bellowed. Almost instantaneously, the deafening reverberations of a gunshot echoed through the corridor, promptly followed by another. Good night, poor bastard, she exclaimed, her words suffused with a note of grim satisfaction. Concurrently, my eyes swept over Duval’s bloodied corpse one final time, contemplating the inexorable biological stages of decay that awaited him. I envisioned his body passing through the sequentially morbid phases of pallor mortis, algor mortis, rigor mortis, and livor mortis, eventually becoming skeletal remains, which would further disintegrate into mere ash. All of it served as sustenance for the detritivores beneath the soil, a fate my sister was likely undergoing as I pondered this.

Meanwhile, my reflections were abruptly disrupted as I caught sight of my ashen countenance in a wall-mounted mirror. Compared to the plastic curtains that delineated the path to our freedom, I appeared alarmingly pallid. I was so white, almost mimicking the colour Duval’s lifeless flesh would adopt once the inexorable pull of gravity claimed his remaining blood. I felt like I was viewing a spectral version of myself as if confronting a doppelgänger imbued with the fatigue and despair I was internalising. My skin was a canvas of exhaustion, painted with dark circles under bloodshot eyes. My garments, made of my white shirt, and my jeans, were all stained with splatters of someone else’s blood, and even my hair hadn’t been spared. Overwhelmed by the magnitude of my physical and emotional exhaustion, I found my fingers aimlessly navigating through my pockets until they met the familiar shape of my mobile phone, a surreal, incongruous object given the unreality of our situation. Just then, Vasara broke my introspective reverie, likely having completed her lethal task in the corridor:

“Charlotte, shall we remain here?”

“No. Let’s fuck off of this place.”

“Very well, move closer. It’s about time we made our exit.”

“Agreed. Let’s fuck off.”

As I ambled down that foreboding corridor, advancing through this veritable chasm of mortality towards the main door that Vasara was courteously holding open, a disquieting auditory element emerged: the distant rat-tat-tat of gunfire. From what I could discern, the sound originated from the upper levels and bore a striking resemblance to the shot Vasara had fired earlier.

“Did you hear that? What on earth is that mayhem?”

“Yes, likely reinforcements. It’s important to notice that the gunfire commenced shortly after I dispatched that lieutenant behind the door. Be cautious of where you step.”

I complied, glancing downward as I stepped into the corridor’s main passage. The sight that greeted me was disturbingly real: another of Duval’s henchmen lay supine, a gaping wound marring his forehead, his balaclava still in place. The corridor was eerily devoid of life, plunging us into an unsettling silence. Casting my gaze ahead, I noticed all the doors were shut, their contents unknown. However, at the end of this corridor, every door was wide open. The objective now was clear: locate a staircase. Vasara posed an immediate question:

“Should we attempt to liberate any other captives or prioritise our escape and return for them later?”

This conundrum was fraught with implications. The ongoing gunfight above could signify a variety of scenarios: a massacre of other unknown captives, or perhaps intervention from law enforcement, be it Taskforce 12 or another agency. If it were a slaughter, one would expect a series of single shots, not a cacophony of gunfire. What we heard indicated an active skirmish. Given the structure’s limited size, it seemed improbable that many were being held captive. Furthermore, engaging in a confrontation with the enemy, even if we outnumbered them, would only provoke a violent response, jeopardising more lives.

“No, let us focus on our immediate escape. Once we’re certain that the law enforcement is genuinely involved upstairs...”

“I did hear shouts of police!”

“That may well be a ruse. I’ve grown increasingly sceptical. Given their proven capabilities for manipulation, the ongoing chaos upstairs could be anything.”

“Indeed. I think you’re right.”

We dashed through the labyrinthine complex, spurred on by the urgency of escape. With the doors flung open, the building seemed to expand, its hidden recesses now laid bare. I had suspected there might be an additional level, given that our captors had to emerge from somewhere, but the noises above confirmed it. What surprised me was the poor sound insulation between floors. I had no inkling as to our ultimate destination, but intuition suggested that more revelations awaited us. Now was a moment for heightened vigilance and efficiency. As we entered the corridor through which I had previously come, its emptiness struck me. It was profoundly silent, apart from the muffled sounds of combat emanating from above. The corridor stretched before us; its length punctuated by the sterile glow of those old-fashioned neon tubes.

“So, darling, what’s our next move?”

I scrutinised the corridor’s layout with an urgent gaze, my eyes flitting rapidly from left to right. Behind us, the door to our cell stood ajar, almost as though mocking our prior confinement. The spacious corridor had revealed its full expanse; every large door partitioning the various sections was now wide open as if to say, here is the path you once took, and here is the unknown that lies before you. The left was where our captors had always materialised, emerging mysteriously as if from the ether; the true path to freedom, then, must be directly ahead. As my outstretched finger punctuated that directional verdict, Romeka’s hand enveloped mine with an alacrity born of necessity, and we burst into a run, almost as though our bodies were guided by a survival instinct neither of us could articulate.

Is it the storm crushing the power plant now?

Rushing past landmarks that were now laden with new meaning, we overtook the computer terminal where I’d hastily sent that life-altering message to Heather. Further on was the small, dim recess where I had once found a young girl in a slumber so deep, it seemed almost enviable. Curiously, the recess now glowed with an ambient light; the presence or absence of the child was a mystery, one that we couldn’t afford the luxury of solving. After covering about thirty metres in a desperate dash, we arrived at a juncture that signalled the end of the corridor but the beginning of something else: a recess to our right, revealing a stairway. The significance hit me like a ton of bricks: these stairs led upwards and upwards only. That confirmed what I always suspected: we had been underground, entombed in a subterranean chamber of human malevolence.

The staircase that presented itself was a relic, a shadow of antiquated designs, matching this place's decoration, untouched by modern convenience. It was swathed in an almost impenetrable darkness, each step being an indistinct shade of black against an even darker backdrop. The decrepit paint on the walls had long given in to the persistent tug of humidity and was now curling and peeling away in sorrowful strips. The staircase’s breadth suggested it was designed for the movement of more than just a few individuals; it was a passage intended for throngs, now hauntingly empty. Peering upwards, my eyes struggled to adjust from the harsh artificial light of the corridor to this new, more foreboding darkness. As they did, it became evident that the stairs likely made a U-turn at some unseen point, leading to the building’s unknown upper echelons. Now, with eyes wide open and hearts beating to the drum of survival, we saw this place for what it truly was: a subterranean labyrinth of despair, yearning for the touch of sunlight. Strengthened by this newfound clarity and an unbreakable resolve, we surged up the stairs, resolute in our mutual aim to end this ordeal once and for all.

One detail swiftly grabbed my attention as we ascended the first set of stairs: the conspicuous absence of an elevator. This omission spoke for itself, not just about the building’s age but potentially also about its size and labyrinthine complexity. In France, it’s mandated that any building with four or more floors must have a lift, so the lack of one was a significant clue. Continuing our climb, I noticed that the cacophony of gunshots that had punctuated our earlier movements had ceased, giving way to an eerie silence. The only auditory companions we had were the indistinct gurgling of pipes, their contents as mysterious as the building itself. We were inhabiting a different realm now, a silence so palpable that it verged on the oppressive. Yet, despite our less-than-subtle footfalls, the faint rustle of movement emanated from somewhere above us.

As we neared the bend in the stairwell, a sudden, inexplicable heat engulfed me. My breaths grew shorter, and my body began to betray signs of exhaustion. Whether this was due to an adrenaline crash or some other elusive factor, I couldn’t say. What I did know was that as we reached the stairwell’s first landing, ready to take the turning, I felt disconcertingly off-kilter.

As we pivoted on the landing to ascend further, it became clear that the upstairs layout diverged from what we’d seen below. There were no immediate doors off the staircase, only a corridor stretching into the unknown. Every door along this passage was closed, except for one that stood ajar midway down the hall. The aesthetic, however, was consistent with the downstairs design, a disturbing continuity in this building of enigmas. Undeterred and hand-in-hand, we pressed on, sprinting with a sort of reckless abandon, even as we entered uncharted terrain.

But then, a chilling tableau presented itself as we burst onto the upper floor. Just a metre or so ahead of us lay the prone body of what appeared to be one of our abductors, sprawled in a growing pool of blood. His position, face-down on the cold, hard floor, suggested a head wound, and the blood spreading outwards was an ominous sign that whatever had happened here was recent. Someone must be deep-cleaning the place, I suppose. Further darkening the scene were the lights: some had been shattered, their fragments dangling from the ceiling by frayed white wires, as if this person had attempted to plunge the corridor into darkness through gunfire. Bullet holes marred the walls at irregular intervals. All signs indicated that a violent struggle had recently unfolded here, and its aftermath was a grim harbinger of what might still await us.

“That’s what we heard, it appears someone has been clearing the way,” Vasara observed as we ventured into the corridor.

“Yes, and I bet this person is likely an ally,” I speculated.

“Yeah, but this person is highly skilled. Given the gunshots and lack of hiding spots, they must have advanced of us, rather than coming up the stairs we used. And, importantly, no blood spatter on the opposite wall. It’s probably our colleagues.”

“I sincerely hope you’re right.”

“Let’s press on, then, but stay behind.”

The ambience was uncanny, bordering on nightmarish. It felt as though we were aboard a doomed vessel, navigating semi-lit hallways. Every door we passed was scrutinised, and every shadow was considered a potential threat. The spectre of death pervaded the air. The corridor ended abruptly, making the open door ahead of us the most logical route. Supporting this theory were the bullet marks, all of which seemed to target the stairwell, with none on the opposite wall.

Vasara took the lead, crossing the threshold first. Be cautious as you step in, Charlotte, she advised. When I reached the doorway, the reason for her caution became gruesomely clear. Two more of our kidnappers lay dead on the floor, presenting an eerie tableau. Both were face-down in similar pools of blood, but a crucial difference distinguished this scene. One kidnapper was female, and her feet had left smudged prints on the wall, perhaps from a desperate struggle to brace herself. More unsettlingly, next to her lay a black assault rifle. The sight of it sent a shiver down my spine, compelling me to question Romeka’s assurance about the presence of our colleagues.

“Why would they kill everyone and then simply vanish? Are you certain these are our colleagues?”

“Looks like a mutiny, Kominsky,” Vasara sounded confident. “They would have neutralised all immediate threats quickly, according to what I’ve gathered from the sounds of gunshots. I suspect they are falling back, possibly to regroup or secure additional support. The assault rifle alone makes a compelling case. If I were in command, I’d keep the kidnappers at bay until reinforcements arrived for a comprehensive search.”

“Yeah, that’s a reasonable assumption,” I conceded. “I hadn’t considered that angle.”

At this precise juncture, our vigilance was not just heightened; it was palpable, like a tangible mist that followed us as we tiptoed closer to what we presumed would be the climax of this convoluted situation. The corridor, dimly lit and atmospheric, was conspicuously structured, and prison cells were meticulously aligned along the left wall, while the right wall stood hauntingly empty. It wasn’t a stretch of great length, yet the quietude was broken by the almost imperceptible sound of human breathing, breathing tinged with an undercurrent of palpable anxiety. These were undoubtedly cells holding captives. Their spatial distribution across different floors perplexed me. Was it due to a lack of available space? Or perhaps some deeper strategy? The corridors themselves were eerily identical, each one being a piece in a disorienting puzzle that seemed designed to make one lose all sense of direction. At that moment, I felt akin to a ship adrift at sea: unanchored, and directionless.

Any signposting was conspicuously absent, save for the macabre marker of fallen guards that littered our path. Prompted by this, I mentally tallied the casualties. Duval and his bodyguard, plus the three other corpses we’d encountered, made five. Was this a full accounting of their force? Were we finally reaching the culmination of this sinister labyrinth?

Our footsteps seemed to echo more loudly than before, each being a reverberation of tension that sent ripples through the surrounding darkness. This part of the corridor bore the scars of intense conflict. The walls were not just marked but pockmarked with bullet impacts, some even chipped away to reveal the concrete beneath. Light fixtures had been shot out, not merely turned off, and a mist, almost ethereal in quality, obscured the far end of this already dim space. Romeka then did something quite important: she switched her standard-issue handgun for the more powerful assault rifle that had belonged to one of our fallen adversaries. Her dexterity with the weapon was startling; she pulled back the charging handle, counted the remaining bullets, and adjusted the shoulder strap with practised ease. My education had certainly never included firearms training, making her proficiency, perhaps rooted in her cultural upbringing, even starker in contrast.

As she clicked the rifle’s chamber back into place, her countenance subtly shifted. It wasn’t a broad grin but rather a small, knowing smile, as if silently communicating, We’re almost there, we’re almost safe. By this point, I could feel my physiology responding. My body temperature was climbing, and my heart began to pick up its rhythm, drumming a beat of both anticipation and dread. The quality of darkness had changed, too; my eyes, now accustomed, allowed me to scrutinise even minute details. That’s when I noticed something peculiar about the bullet impacts on a destroyed lamp. I was no expert like her, but the pattern suggested a calculated move by our kidnappers, not the police, to darken the corridor. Tactical sophistication was clearly at play here, fitting for trained paramilitary. Having completed this rapid but detailed analysis, my eyes finally met hers, and, staring at her freshly acquired firearm, I felt compelled to voice my thoughts:

“What the heck are you doing with that?” My voice wavered as I beheld her brandishing the assault rifle.

“Enhancing our odds of survival, darling. Enhancing the likelihood that you’ll find solace in your girlfriend’s arms tomorrow, and equally, that I’ll find comfort in my bed!” Her retort was steeped in biting sarcasm.

“Given my current level of fatigue, it’s rather probable that I’ll be in her arms, enveloped by the comforts of a bed. And you? Alone in your bed, cracking into the Kremlin’s most secure databases? No one’s arms awaiting you?”

“Kominska, before you delve into the tragicomedy that is my love life, perhaps remember that I’m armed with a piece of military hardware,” she quipped, the suggestion of a smile tracing her lips.

Ah, so there’s the sass I’ve been sensing. A grin spread across my face as I pondered how much she had evolved since we first met. The trials and tribulations she’s faced here have had an impact. Ah, they grow up so fast, don’t they? I can already see her becoming just as sardonically sharp-tongued as I am.

“Achievement unlocked!” I mused to myself, “Life’s been too grim for you; it’s time to joke a little.”

“Apologies. I’m genuinely puzzled, though, as to why you’re single. You’re rather attractive, it’s quite odd.”

“Time-wasting isn’t on my to-do list, Charlotte. Can we perhaps postpone the discussion of my love life calamities until we’re no longer in immediate danger?”

“Ah, of course. Once we’ve extricated ourselves from this, I could always play matchmaker, if you’d like. It’s the least I can do for you, you know, as a gesture of thanks for what you’re doing!”

“The idea of you, the master manipulator, orchestrating my romantic life? No offence, darling, but I think I’ll pass,” she shot back, her voice tinged with a hint of amusement.

At least she was smiling, a glimmer of optimism in her eyes that couldn’t be ignored. Time to refocus. The corridor ahead stretched long and foreboding, punctuated by doors set an equidistant five to seven metres apart. The walls were a drab grey, absorbing what little light there was, and contributing to the disorienting atmosphere. An undercurrent of stale air hinted at the corridor’s lack of use. As we moved forward, the end of this lengthy hallway became visible, a seeming dead end. However, a metallic ladder, bolted firmly to the wall and ending in a circular, steel hatch, interrupted the corridor’s monotony. The ladder’s rungs appeared well-worn but sturdy, with each step looking like a portal to the unknown above. The hatch itself seemed heavy, an intimidating barrier between us and whatever awaited on the other side. About five metres from this metallic escape route, a door stood wide open, enveloped in a darkness so absolute it seemed to swallow all light that dared approach.

This was hardly a moment for speculation or second-guessing. There was no time to contemplate the structural integrity of the ladder or to hypothesise about potential traps. Romeka and I paused, our eyes meeting in a look that conveyed a wealth of unspoken understanding: This must be our way out. A palpable relief suffused the air between us; it appeared we had found an escape. But questions still dangled, gnawing at our nerves. Aside from the subtle sounds of distant breathing and footsteps from above, we had no clues to identify these mysterious others. Given that Vasara was armed, a case of mistaken identity could easily escalate into a life-threatening situation.

We allowed ourselves a brief moment to exhale, our eyes lingering on the looming hatch that suggested liberation. It seemed logical; after all, we’d descended a staircase to reach this level, and the hatch’s diameter was large enough to promise a passage, not a barricade. However, as we considered the prospect, a shared thought caused us both to pause: Yes, the people above might be law enforcement, but without irrefutable evidence, we were still caught in a dangerous ambiguity, we can’t be too sure.

As we stood there, the cacophony of footsteps and indistinct noises from above seemed to grow in intensity. Romeka’s eyes flicked to the menacingly open door beside us, then back to me as she spoke:

“Okay, before climbing, let me find something to open that hatch!”

“Hold your po… I mean, stay here.”

“Hold your position, I get what it means. I also played Call of Duty, you know!”

As I expressed my thoughts, she shot me a knowing smile, the kind that instantly evoked her history in law enforcement. One never truly sheds the habits of the beat. She took her steps into the room cautiously, a reverberating tension in her posture. While it seemed likely that all adversaries had been dispatched, we could never be too certain about the possibility of hidden reinforcements. Nevertheless, my heightened sense of hearing detected no movement from her direction.

“Show yourself, you bastard!” Her voice sliced through the room’s silence, the aggressive call a calculated gambit to potentially draw out any hidden foes.

But as far as my keen ears could tell, there was no one else there.

After she had crossed into the room and seemed safe, I allowed myself a quick survey of our surroundings. The hatch at the corridor’s end remained unmoved, an impassive gateway that would stay shut until we decided otherwise. Assured, I moved to join her, my back coming to rest against the doorframe. The room unveiled itself as I leaned in, confirming what I’d already suspected: we had stumbled upon the living quarters of our captors. The layout was utilitarian but effective, segmented into distinct areas of function. Nearest to us was a kitchenette, anchored by a large table surrounded by an assortment of appliances and cabinets. Just beside this, a sleeping area unfolded. Four beds, fashioned as two sets of bunk beds, occupied the space along with a large wardrobe teeming with assorted clothing.

It struck me then how domestic this all seemed. These people didn’t just operate here; they lived here. Four bodies in the corridor, four beds in the room, perhaps we’d eradicated the entire population of this hidden dwelling. Two things arrested my attention as I further examined the room. First, a rota pinned near a gas cooker outlined kitchen duties. The names listed (Alex, Marc, Erwann, and Laurie) cycled through the week, except for Sundays, which featured a note reading, Jean-Marie’s takeaway!!! Yummy! Han, Duval’s treat. Yikes. Secondly, four plates of pasta, from which tendrils of steam still lazily rose, sat on the table. It was a poignant, unsettling detail, further emphasised by the time displayed on a digital clock above the washing machine that marked the divide between the kitchen and sleeping quarters: 21:43. Okay we’re on the evening, fair enough, but of what day?

A late dinner, indeed.

However intriguing the room’s domesticity might have been, it offered little of immediate relevance. My eyes scanned for a date, some anchor to the flow of time, but found nothing. Meanwhile, Romeka’s attention had shifted to locating an implement, perhaps a broomstick or similar, with which to unlatch the hatch. Yet as my heart pounded in my chest, our eyes met and a mutual understanding passed between us: the effort was futile. Given the considerable ceiling height, which I estimated at over three metres, finding a sufficiently long object seemed unlikely. Besides, she had an assault rifle. Utilising its barrel to pry open the hatch would afford her the safety of distance. I surmised her search in the room served dual objectives. Firstly, to procure any additional weapons or supplies; and secondly, to confirm the absence of survivors among our captors. Both aims had been met; the room was emptied of life and offered no further resources.

Being in their living quarters, however, provided an unsettling insight. They’d been dwelling here, ensconced in their routines, completely indifferent to our plight. Their actions had indicated meticulous training, from the cells, psychological manipulation, and the disciplined concealment of their identities. These were not merely obedient henchmen; they were highly skilled operatives. But skill alone wasn’t enough to mask the cracks in their operation. At the heart of it, they were instruments of a sociopath’s deranged calendar. And yet, they were not mere cogs in a machine; they knew the moral weight of their actions. Thinking back, Duval’s failure was not only moral but strategic. He’d erred gravely in opting for captivity over elimination. He chose to toy with us instead of making the cold, calculated decision that would have likely ensured his operation’s ongoing security. That lapse in judgment was not just regrettable, it was fatal.

“Right, this is it,” Vasara declared, her eyes sweeping the room one final time as if to etch its details into memory. “Are you prepared? Truly prepared?”

“Yes, of course,” I replied, although my downturned gaze belied my words. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Are you sure you’re gonna make it, Kominska? You’re pale, you look like shit, and you’re trembling,” she observed with increasing concern.

“Don’t divert your attention to me. The mission is paramount,” I insisted, doing my best to sound assured.

“Understood,” she said, regaining her focus. “Now, listen closely. I’ll go out first. Once I’m clear, climb the ladder. If they’re law enforcement, they won’t open fire when I identify myself, or so I sincerely hope.”

“Very well, let’s fuck off once and for all.”

“Indeed, let’s proceed.”

And so, we arrived at the fulcrum of fate itself.

Unexpectedly, a vertiginous sensation overcame me, as if I were floating rather than rooted to the ground. My heart drummed a frantic rhythm, an orchestra of anxiety that showed no signs of slowing. It was as if an excess of energy was coursing through my veins, overwhelming both my brain and my muscles. Leaning against the doorframe, I felt as if I were wilting, despite the rush of adrenaline that had moments ago promised to fuel me through multiple marathons. My limbs quivered, each fibre of muscle seeming to protest the strange mixture of excessive energy and debilitating weakness. As my breathing grew shallow and rapid, the realisation that we needed to rush became apparent. My condition had deteriorated far beyond mere nervousness. I was teetering on the precipice of a genuine medical emergency. Was my heart pulsing on the verge of failure? The notion was terrifying, yet grimly plausible.

And Vasara saw it, the rapid rise and fall of my chest, the slightly ashen colour that had seeped into my complexion. A palpable sense of urgency filled the room. You look unwell; are you sure you can go on? she asked, her eyes meeting mine with a mix of professional focus and genuine concern. Any medical situation would have to wait; the mission demanded our immediate and undivided attention. Yet, a growing tightness in my chest served as a disquieting reminder that was hard to dismiss. It was as if an invisible punch had started to clench around my heart, mild at first but gaining in intensity. Each second ticking away seemed to bring me closer to a point of no return, a precarious balance between completing the mission and collapsing altogether.

And so, with my pulse as my metronome and my breaths coming in shallow gasps, we readied ourselves for whatever lay beyond that hatch.

“Charlotte, sit down immediately, I need to get medical assistance,” Vasara urgently commanded, her eyes widening with palpable alarm.

“I’ve got roughly two minutes. Just get us out. The cavalry is upstairs, they can provide the help we need!” I snapped, my voice tinged with both desperation and ironclad conviction.

“How can you possibly be sure that you have only two minutes?” Her expression transformed into a complex mix of concern and disbelief.

“The same way I accurately speculated there were only four of them who abducted us. Now, hurry! Open that hatch and call our colleagues!” My words were like bullets, rapid and aimed for immediate impact.

She nodded, taking my urgency to heart. She moved with swiftness towards the ladder, inspecting the hatch above. Meanwhile, my legs and arms began to tremble uncontrollably, each quiver amplifying my weakening state. I sought support against a wall, but it only exacerbated my deteriorating condition. My eyelids grew heavy, almost as if they were being forced shut by some unseen hand, while a tidal wave of blood surged through my arteries, sapping me of my remaining strength. Amidst my internal chaos, I heard Vasara, her voice distorted as if coming from some other plane, murmuring something about the ladder’s integrity and asking after my well-being. But responding was an impossibility; the accelerated pounding in my chest heralded impending heart failure. Recognising my inability to answer, Vasara called out, Hold on, Charlotte! I’m coming back!

At this point, my vision was eclipsed by darkness. My respiratory rate escalated to a frantic pace as I slumped onto the cold floor, my strength utterly spent. Each heartbeat felt like a frenzied drumroll, accelerating in a race towards some catastrophic finale. My muscles felt both overcharged and impotent, a confusing blend that heralded my collapse. My thoughts grew hazy, as though shrouded in a dense fog. It was as if my very consciousness was fragmenting, my body succumbing to an unbearable weight compressing my chest, obstructing each desperate breath. Searing pain radiated from my core, and though I strained to lift the darkness veiling my eyes, I was immobilised, ensnared in a chilling paralysis that tightened its grip with every passing second. It was as if I were adrift in an infinite cosmos, amidst a cacophony of exploding stars, each mirroring the explosive sensations wracking my weakening body.

Amidst my cerebral disarray, I heard the grating sound of Vasara applying all her might to the stubborn hatch. The memory of Claire’s radiant smile flickered across my collapsing mind. Our moments of reconnection in that recent bath flashed like fleeting stars, lending me a fragment of willpower to combat my impending doom. I was battling, oh, how I was battling, to remain conscious. It felt as if my very soul was trapped, isolated from the disintegrating vessel that was my body.

Then, the atmosphere shifted; the hatch was thrust open with a clang. And then, a voice reverberated down to me. A familiar timbre that cut through the fog. It was unmistakably Heather. She was bellowing POLICE! POLICE! The realisation hit me like a bolt of lightning. She had decoded my message, she had found me. As this thought imprinted itself onto my dwindling consciousness, Vasara halted on the ladder, as if time itself had frozen in this apocalyptic moment.

“POLICE! Identify yourselves right now, lay down any firearms, and raise your hands!” Heather’s command, laden with an urgency that brooked no argument, reverberated through the enclosed space, each word laced with the stern authority that could only come from years of hardened experience.

“It’s me, boss, it’s Romeka! And Charlotte’s here with me; she’s teetering on the brink of collapse!” Vasara’s voice shot back, tinged with a desperation that resonated in the very walls.

“Romeka? Kominsky?” The disbelief in Heather’s voice was palpable, tempered by a profound, ineffable relief that made the tension in the air almost palpable.

“Yes, your abducted colleague! For fuck’s sake, Heather, hurry and come to help us!”

“Okay, but please, open that hatch and surrender your weapon at once!”

“Alright, but for God’s sake, do not open fire!”

Amidst this tense exchange unfolding high above, my consciousness continued to totter dangerously on the precipice of oblivion. Like a lone particle adrift in the vast, indifferent cosmos, I felt a terrifying detachment, a sense of unmooring that sent my soul floating aimlessly. Every heartbeat felt like an isolated drumbeat in a dying march towards an inevitable, unfathomable abyss; each inhalation became an onerous task as if I were drawing breath through a constricting funnel.

My perception of space-time distorted grotesquely, rendering me trapped in an illusory ocean where the very air seemed to dissolve before reaching my lungs. I tried to force a cough, a mere whisper of an action, in a vain attempt to reboot my faltering physiology. But it was as if an invisible, unyielding force pressed down upon me, obliterating any fleeting semblance of control I had left. I was enveloped in an indefinable sensation, neither hot nor cold, yet dominated by an overpowering, gnawing panic. As I felt my strength ebbed away, drained from each fibre of my being, a soul-crushing realisation became crystal clear: the woman I loved, whom I had yearned to marry, might never again see the woman she loved in the land of the living. I was close, my heartbeats began to falter, growing irregular, and my brain seemed to enter a stage of final surrender, a bio-chemical meltdown in which neurotransmitters, once awash with meaning and life, degraded into mere chemical echoes. Claire’s face filled my disintegrating thoughts, her spectral presence a last, frayed tether to a life force that felt like it was gasping its final breath.

Suddenly, piercing through this encroaching void, I discerned two voices, one distinctly feminine, the other undeniably masculine.

“It’s nothing short of miraculous; you found us!”

“Yes!” The masculine voice cut through, a clarion call of triumph amidst despair.

“I never thought I’d say this, but seeing you, Heather is a respite in this sea of calamities.”

“Where is Kominsky?”

“She’s down here, and she needs urgent help!”

Visualise, if you might, a machine on the edge of apocalypse, a fine-tuned system of pulleys, springs, levers, and electrical circuits, now perilously close to the cataclysmic edge of its operational lifespan. Each component strained beyond tolerable limits, pushing the red line into a zone of incalculable risk. The machine’s electrical grid sparked and hummed with an ominous cadence, resembling the forewarning growls of a predatory beast cornered and desperate. The circuits, once orderly conduits of precision and purpose, now flirted with chaos. Electricity, the lifeblood of this mechanical being, surged erratically through frayed wires as if mimicking my erratic heartbeats, wild and untamed.

Now, picture that machine suddenly experiencing a catastrophic failure, a final breakdown. The whirling gears grind to a halt, the meticulously calibrated springs snap, and the once harmonious levers jam in grotesque angles. This wasn’t mere malfunction; this was annihilation. The fuses, overwhelmed, burst in a final act of defiant pyrotechnics. It was akin to the cosmic event of a star reaching the end of its stellar journey, collapsing inward with incomprehensible force, and then exploding in a supernova of blinding light and cataclysmic energy. Such was the state of my body, my being, in that harrowing moment. It felt as if every cell, every fibre, every molecule within me cried out in a cacophony of dissonance, a disarray of function spiralling into formlessness. My nerve endings, those microscopic gatekeepers of sensation, fired frenzied messages like tiny flares in a sky obscured by the gathering dark. My synapses, the minute junctures of neural communication, erupted in frenetic sparks, as though setting off a cascade of miniature fireworks in a futile celebration of their impending demise. As my consciousness began to wane, eddying away like mist before the morning sun, an unparalleled stillness descended upon me. It was a stillness that defied description, so profoundly quiet and final that it seemed as though the universe itself had suspended its celestial mechanics to observe my existential crossroads. As if perched on the edge of an abyss so deep it could consume all light and sound, I felt the gravitational pull of an inescapable void. Taking that last, resigned step into the eternal silence, the ever-flowing river of my thoughts and memories suddenly dried up, the vibrant picture of my inner world tearing asunder as the screen of my mind went dark.