he had been convinced that there would be precisely zero chance of him being able to sustain himself.
And then there’d been the doubts about whether or not the tube would hold.
But it had.
Mitts could still recall his distant surprise as he had brought himself up level with the opening of the air vent. And he bet that it was that same surprise which had given him the kick he needed to keep on tugging himself on into the vent.
And so, here he was now.
After about five metres, there had been a junction in the air vent.
He could’ve chosen left, or right.
When he had shone the torch off down either route, he had observed the gentle bend of the vent to the left, seen that it was headed back toward the Restricted Area.
That wouldn’t be any good.
No good at all.
At the back of his mind, he wished it’d been raining hard. Like it had been several nights ago.
When he had smelled that strong scent of disinfectant before.
So he would know which way led to the surface.
But, as it turned out, Mitts had had to make a snap judgement.
To turn right.
And so, here he was now.
He was heading up a gentle incline.
When he’d first come up against the slope, he had worried that it might become so acute as to prove impossible to navigate.
That, as he climbed up—further and further—he would lose his grip and slide back down.
Then all this would’ve been in vain.
But Mitts kept on going.
And the slope held steady.
Mitts supposed that he’d been crawling for about fifteen minutes when he first felt the change in air temperature.
Hot.
So hot.
Almost instantly, it caused him to sweat.
His palms, as they crawled their way along the air vent, slipped out from beneath him.
Unable to grip any longer.
But he pressed himself forward, hoping the temperature would fluctuate.
That the gentle air conditioning which he was so accustomed to might return.
But, if anything, the temperature rose.
Mitts, though, had no intention of giving up.
He hauled himself along, feeling every single kilo of his body.
Only when he thought to turn his torch off did he realise that he wasn’t in darkness.
That there was light entering the air vent.
Daylight .
Mitts glanced about him, seeing the different vents, branching off into different rooms within the Compound. Above and beyond the Restricted Area.
He peered through a few of them, saw the deserted offices.
The cleared desks.
The unoccupied furniture.
For some strange reason, it made him feel sad.
This ebbing, rippling sadness which seemed to hollow him out from within.
Turn his guts to a cool, revolting goo.
There would never be people in these offices.
Never again.
His parents might think that Mitts was nothing but a dumb kid.
But he had caught onto more than they might’ve imagined.
He carried on his way, telling himself where he needed to go.
There was only one acceptable destination.
He wanted to see where the rain came from.
After five minutes more of crawling, he got there.
To a much larger ventilation hatch.
One with several more screws keeping it held in place.
Mitts hadn’t brought the screwdriver along with him. In any case, he doubted his ability—even with his renewed strength—to loosen all those screws before his father got up out of bed.
Let alone pry the hatch itself off.
But Mitts could see out through the fins, the ones which angled downward, to the ground. He pushed his face up against the hatch. He peered through. Trying to see something.
Anything .
Some remainder of the world.
Of the real world.
All Mitts could see, though, was grey.
Beaten-up asphalt.
Abandoned parking bays marked out in white paint.
Puddles of grey rainwater.
Undisturbed.
Mitts listened hard.
Tried to hear something .
He wished to hear birds chirping.
Perhaps a peal of thunder, announcing a coming storm.
Something to remind him that he inhabited a living, breathing— bleeding —world.
But there was nothing at all.
Not a sound.
Just the eerie,
And then there’d been the doubts about whether or not the tube would hold.
But it had.
Mitts could still recall his distant surprise as he had brought himself up level with the opening of the air vent. And he bet that it was that same surprise which had given him the kick he needed to keep on tugging himself on into the vent.
And so, here he was now.
After about five metres, there had been a junction in the air vent.
He could’ve chosen left, or right.
When he had shone the torch off down either route, he had observed the gentle bend of the vent to the left, seen that it was headed back toward the Restricted Area.
That wouldn’t be any good.
No good at all.
At the back of his mind, he wished it’d been raining hard. Like it had been several nights ago.
When he had smelled that strong scent of disinfectant before.
So he would know which way led to the surface.
But, as it turned out, Mitts had had to make a snap judgement.
To turn right.
And so, here he was now.
He was heading up a gentle incline.
When he’d first come up against the slope, he had worried that it might become so acute as to prove impossible to navigate.
That, as he climbed up—further and further—he would lose his grip and slide back down.
Then all this would’ve been in vain.
But Mitts kept on going.
And the slope held steady.
Mitts supposed that he’d been crawling for about fifteen minutes when he first felt the change in air temperature.
Hot.
So hot.
Almost instantly, it caused him to sweat.
His palms, as they crawled their way along the air vent, slipped out from beneath him.
Unable to grip any longer.
But he pressed himself forward, hoping the temperature would fluctuate.
That the gentle air conditioning which he was so accustomed to might return.
But, if anything, the temperature rose.
Mitts, though, had no intention of giving up.
He hauled himself along, feeling every single kilo of his body.
Only when he thought to turn his torch off did he realise that he wasn’t in darkness.
That there was light entering the air vent.
Daylight .
Mitts glanced about him, seeing the different vents, branching off into different rooms within the Compound. Above and beyond the Restricted Area.
He peered through a few of them, saw the deserted offices.
The cleared desks.
The unoccupied furniture.
For some strange reason, it made him feel sad.
This ebbing, rippling sadness which seemed to hollow him out from within.
Turn his guts to a cool, revolting goo.
There would never be people in these offices.
Never again.
His parents might think that Mitts was nothing but a dumb kid.
But he had caught onto more than they might’ve imagined.
He carried on his way, telling himself where he needed to go.
There was only one acceptable destination.
He wanted to see where the rain came from.
After five minutes more of crawling, he got there.
To a much larger ventilation hatch.
One with several more screws keeping it held in place.
Mitts hadn’t brought the screwdriver along with him. In any case, he doubted his ability—even with his renewed strength—to loosen all those screws before his father got up out of bed.
Let alone pry the hatch itself off.
But Mitts could see out through the fins, the ones which angled downward, to the ground. He pushed his face up against the hatch. He peered through. Trying to see something.
Anything .
Some remainder of the world.
Of the real world.
All Mitts could see, though, was grey.
Beaten-up asphalt.
Abandoned parking bays marked out in white paint.
Puddles of grey rainwater.
Undisturbed.
Mitts listened hard.
Tried to hear something .
He wished to hear birds chirping.
Perhaps a peal of thunder, announcing a coming storm.
Something to remind him that he inhabited a living, breathing— bleeding —world.
But there was nothing at all.
Not a sound.
Just the eerie,
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