Passing through the narrow cave into the depths of the mountain, the daylight fades away, and with it, my last hope for salvation. Until this moment, a part of me had still believed that there was a way out. That somehow Vlad, or maybe Kristoff, would figure out how to beat this. That they would find a way to escape. But it seems that they were taken just as off guard as I was, and that no plan had been put into place should we be captured. This was the risk, after all, wasn't it? We all knew we might fail. We all knew we might be destined for the Confine. But after all our meticulous planning, our rigorous training, and Vlad's constant pep talks, the possibility seemed so slight.
Beyond the narrow cave lies a space which could loosely be called a room. It's bigger than the one with the thrones, much bigger, and carved into the heart of the mountain in a circular shape. Fading torches offer the only light, casting a dim glow on the rows of bodies clustered together on the bare floor. It's exactly like the Thailand confine, but on a much larger scale. As we walk the narrow path through the prisoners, I try not to look at them. I try not to see their unblinking eyes staring up at the ceiling, their naked bodies covered with grime, their expressions blank and lifeless. Our guards lead us on through a low tunnel to another room where more prisoners lie, an endless sea of deadened faces, through another tunnel, and another and another. There are thousands of prisoners, more than I care to count, all lying motionless on the ground.
As we pass through yet another tunnel, I shut my eyes, unable to witness even one more starved Immortal lying before me. But the sound of a voice snaps them open again and I listen hard as one voice is joined by another, and then another. A chorus of voices shouting – no, shrieking – somewhere at the end of the tunnel. This room is different; square shaped instead of circular, and lined with small cells made of iron bars, each around five feet squared. There are hundreds of them packed next to one another, mostly empty. But the prisoners occupying a scattering of cells aren't lying in a state of starvation on the floor, they're standing upright, their faces pressed against the bars. Each occupied cell is surrounded by no less than five guards, walling their chosen prisoner in on every side so that even if they did break through – which I know they could – there would be no escape. Some of them have climbed the walls of their cell and are rattling the bars, some are banging their heads against the floor, some are sitting in the corner, rocking slowly back and forth. Most of them are screaming obscenities at the guards – who don't even flinch – and as we pass through them, I can't help but think I actually preferred the lifeless bodies.
In the centre of the room, I watch one prisoner – a woman – wrench two bars aside and squeeze herself through, trying to make a break for the door. She doesn't even manage to take a step before five guards slam against her, crashing her to the ground. They pin her down, gritting their teeth as she thrashes around, screaming incoherently. All I can think as I watch is this must be an exhausting job for the guards.
Sickened by my own trail of thought, I turn away from the woman, but another prisoner catches my eye, her usually immaculate red curls scraggly and matted, her freckled skin covered in a thin layer of grime. Unfortunately for me, she's still recognisable by her bright blue eyes, blinking rapidly in the dim light. 'Meredith!' The whisper leaves my lips before I've really had time to think, and I'm rewarded for my stupidity with a sharp clip around my ear.
'No talking to the prisoners!' My guard barks, tightening his hold on me. My exclamation was pointless anyway; Meredith doesn't even glance at me as I pass, she's too busy tapping on the iron bars with her fingernails. Tap, tap, tap. It's rhythmic and she seems to be intensely focussed on the sound. She's deranged, like the others. She's been here long enough for hunger to overpower her, but not long enough for it to paralyse her. As I'm wrenched away, a voice in my head – unwelcome and strangled – reminds me that soon, I will be like her. I'll be like all of them.
My guard comes to an abrupt halt beside one of the empty cells. He opens it and the metal bars screech on their hinges before he shoves me inside, slamming the door behind me. Beside me, on my left, is Anne, the old Rebel who didn't like flying in the aeroplane. She glances at me from where she sits on the hard floor, but there's no emotion in her eyes, just a vague emptiness. Asil is shoved roughly into the cell on my right, and he immediately thrusts his hand through the bars towards me. I grip it tightly, clinging onto him for dear life, though I know I have no need to fear death. It's starvation I need to fear. It's ending up like those prisoners.
More guards enter and position themselves around our cells, five to each. After the chaos of the day, we now have nothing left to do but listen to the anguished screams of our fellow prisoners. This is the end of the Rebellion. This is the end of our lives as we know them. The end of hope. The end of any notion of salvation.
This is the beginning of a Rebel's hell.
To be continued...
The Gray Institute_Rebels' Hell Page 40