Gestalt.

Their footfalls make no sound, non-that they can discern in the massive space, surly their presence must be having some impact on this environment, but Gestalt sees no evidence to that effect.

The white halo of light slowly diminishes as they continue to clamber down the massive stairs, the fading light caused by the eyes becoming accustomed to it rather than the intensity being dialled down.

A curved and polished dome roof, not unlike a train stations, hangs above them, the surface made of gleaming porcelain tiles, ivory white, each one like piano keys been set into the ceiling. At the base of the stairs more white tiles lead off into a warehouse-sized space packed with boxes, machines, large wheeled vehicles, bags and crates of bottled food and rations, transparent containers of liquid, presumably water line every avenue while cactus like guns and swords fill the remaining space.

Along the right hand wall several hundred men stand at the ready, their backs loaded with green duffels and assorted weapons that protrude like spines on porcupine backs. Each one wears army issue boots and green outer clothes. Each one shares the steady stone cold gaze of a conscripted man.

As Gestalt raises his eyes to take in the space he watches as several vehicles turn and start the slow drive towards the opposite end, each one falling into single file, the low diesel rumble clearly audible. Atop the back of each car stands boxes, each one laced down under heavy tarps, green and brown, the edges taught like drums.

At the distant end of their path the road starts to look as though a jungle’s taken root, and as Gestalt watches the automobiles trudge along he sees that is exactly what’s occurred. The glowing white light filters through an opening that seems to magnify and blast the cavern and appears to have brought with it a multitude of growing things. Enormous tree ferns peak from the canopy, while twisted, writhing figs and oaks hang here and there. Around the base of these monsters a vast spray of ferns, vines, creepers and stag-horns cling to every surface. Even the walls of the chamber, despite being smooth and less than porous, have succumbed to mosses and fungi.

The droning hum of machines makes way for the clatter and rust driven buzz of petrol motivated saws, several trees start to topple as the way is cleared before the column of cars. The sounds of other machines fill the remaining silence as the enormous trees are hauled away from the path, while the column of cars continue to edge forwards, towards the light.

“The base of operations is at the bottom of these stairs sir, if you’ll follow me.” A fellow in a tight green outfit says, gesturing towards a large wooden hanger built to the side of the assembly area.

“Very well lad, lead the way.” Änderson answers while looking towards Gestalt’s gasping face.

The two men follow the young man who leads them through a maze of boxes and parcels, each marked with stencilled paint: Cured meat, bottled vegetables, vitamins, water stock, pistols, ammunition, etc.

Ahead of them a wooden aircraft hanger, that would be large in the outside world, sits dwarfed by the scale of the cavern, a small door set into larger barn doors is opened as the men enter.

Some two hundred-office desks fill the space; at each one a woman sits with headphones cupping their ears like hair buns. At their fingertips a variety of instruments rest: typewriter, telegraph machine, pencil and paper, directory box, and several other items that Gestalt can’t identify.

To the left of the desks a large map adorns the wall and several men stand at the base of it, each with large broom like poles, several of them seem to be placing magnetic pieces onto the map.

“Ah Mr Änderson you’ve made it, and you’ve brought a friend.” An odd metallic voice utters from the direction of the map.

As Gestalt watched a tall fellow stands and starts to advance towards him, the mans face, although shaded from the light by a large brimmed hat, looks to be horribly scared, as if affected by an intense heat, while his skin takes on the hue of a corpse.

“Welcome, welcome.” The man says directly to Gestalt, “So you have come to help us on our mission?”

Looking somewhat wary Gestalt raises an eyebrow towards the man, “I’ve got little concept as to what mission you speak sir, but I can tell from my limited perspective that I want nothing to do with it.”

Laughing loudly the man grasps Gestalt by the shoulder, “I’m afraid, despite your unwillingness, you’ve become a principal player in this game.”

Looking at the hand Gestalt remains silent.

“You see as a native of the cave you will be our spokes person.”

“I will do no such thing, you’d be better of killing me or releasing me!” he spits at the man.

“Very well, lets do that!”

With a swift motion, that Gestalt would miss if it weren’t for the sudden pain, the man drives a sharpened point into his belly and draws it upwards.

At first Gestalt feels a burning pain as the blade slices through skin, muscle and organ; then he feels the welling of blood as it spills down his belly over his trousers and into his boots. The wet slap that his feet make as they stagger in an effort to remain standing drift up to his failing ears. The sharp pain of steel bites into his hands as he grasps the blade, and the warm stickiness of blood grips his palms. And finally the eventual blackness that consumes his minds eye as he falls dead on the cold tile floor.

⚅⚀thoughts