Emergent

LOST

Andre Duplantier pressed the muzzle of his rifle firmly under his chin. The weapon was too long for a comfortable suicide and he had to take his boot off to manipulate the trigger with his big toe. Even now he had to stretch his leg while standing uncomfortably hunched over and leaning against the side of the tunnel. His breathing shuddered and he pressed his eyes closed tightly. But no amount of force put on his eyelids would banish the sensory input he sought to rid himself of — the incessant sound of an organ.

The tunnel he chose as his grave was like all the others; with densely packed earthen walls and timber struts and beams every couple of yards. His torch threw a narrow beam which extended only ten yards or so. The light was red, harder to detect from a distance and only enough to read a map and avoid falling into the lavatory at night — a distinct possibility if your toilet was a big hole in the ground shared by a thousand men. 

The sound was distant here but still audible. A constant blow of a few low notes, which Andre was almost certain were produced by a church organ. From time to time the sound got louder, or it changed its notes slightly. That's when it became dangerous. That's when the screams came along with the mist.

He tried to calm his breathing. The stocky air, thick with dust and moisture along with almost no sleep had taken a toll on him. When he first found himself here, with three comrades, they panicked and hastened through the tunnels, taking intersection after intersection in search of an exit. That must have been days ago now, or so the scraggly beard growing on Adre's cheeks indicated. He had no way of telling since their only watch was broken in the artillery barrage.

Now he could manage barely five minutes before needing to take a rest. Or, what felt like five minutes. Maybe they were two, or ten. He couldn't even tell that much anymore. He also didn't remember when the idea of ending it himself came. Between thoughts of home, his grandparents and his fiance his mind kept coming back to the idea of death. The question occupying his mind had to do with the when and not the how or why. When would he end it? What preconditions would, when met, justify taking his own life immediately? Where would he draw the final line?

The torch started to flicker and Andre could see it through his eyelids. He opened his eyes, pushed the muzzle away from his chin and started panting. He gave the torch a few firm smacks with the palm of his hand and the light remained on. The battery wouldn't last for very long. He had one more spare after this one ran out. Then there would be only darkness. He decided that's when.

He picked up his rifle and started moving, but not before he etched a mark into the timber strut with his bayonet. It was a cross sign, the fifth one placed by him in a row on this particular beam, next to dozens of similar markings left by others who came before him and some who came after him.

If only he hadn't chased after Pierre when the mist came the first time around and they would at least still be together. But he didn't know back then what he knew now — hadn't seen yet what he has seen now.

An intersection; the nearest timber on his right had four of his cross marks, this time with little arrows. He sighed and placed another, with an arrow pointing right since the one above it pointed left. He took a right and by sheer will managed to go through three more intersections before he stopped to pause again.

The hardtack was blander than usual but it was the only thing he had left to eat. The dry crumbs coated the insides of his mouth and it felt like swallowing sandpaper. He washed it down with two small sips of water, careful not to waste any of it by licking up the remaining moisture around the mouth of his canteen. Luckily he hadn't filled it with wine on the day of the attack. He pressed the cork back on the canteen.

The sound — the pipe organ — subsided.

Adre looked up, his eyes filled with fear.

The sound shifted notes to a three-tone which pulsated, stopped and then the organ blasted all pipes and it was as if Adre were standing right next to it.

He covered his ears against the audible onslaught and he knew that he didn't have very long. Already, the fog seeped in through the ceiling and walls — billowing, drifting and permeating every little corner of the tunnel.

Andre shuddered, grabbed his rifle and started running. It wouldn't be long now before they would appear. They always did, and always knew where you were.

"Adre?" It was a voice coming through the mist, soft-spoken, a nigh-whisper but it carried with unaltered volume to his ears.

He gritted his teeth and stopped briefly at an intersection. The tunnels went left, right and diagonally ahead. Already his heart was pounding and he had difficulty concentrating on the markings.

All the struts around him were covered in carved crosses, arrows, squares, triangles, and crude letters and numbers. "ENFER," one of the words read, another "Fegefeuer."

Adre vaguely remembered the German carving. He had been here a while ago, though it might have been a couple of days. The word in French was new and he hadn't put it there. He had no time to admire the impromptu woodwork, either way; the pipe organ started switching between two different notes regularly and the fog had rendered visibility to a mere ten feet.

"Adre—," the whispering voice carried by the mist spoke again, moving past him and disappearing into all three tunnels in front of him.

"Merde!" he hissed through his teeth at the realisation that there weren't any markings he could go by. When he last saw this intersection, he hadn't yet started marking them.

"Come, Andre. Come into the water," the voice — a girl — said.

He turned around and aimed the light of his torch into the tunnel he came from.

The mist has enveloped everything now, but ahead in the tunnel, a thicker mass had developed. It took the slim shape of a girl, fleeting and ever-changing and before Adre could quite tell what he was seeing, the mist had dispersed.

He shuddered and ran to the left. Ignoring the pain in his legs and the stinging protest coming from deep inside his right lung, he sped through the new tunnel. This one was better dressed, with side-panelling covering most of the earthen walls and with straight floorboards.

He went past the entrance to a larger room, stopped and turned hastily into the new room. The mist in front of him changed its shape into the wan outline of a girl with a smiling face — a soft giggle escaped her lips.

He should have looked ahead, but the sound he heard or thought he heard, along with the nigh-imperceptible movement of the fog made him glance behind as he stepped into the next room.

Three men stood in front of him, Germans and immediately they started barking in German with their weapons raised and aimed at him. He realised he left his rifle behind somewhere during his flight. Andre put his hands up while making himself very small. "I surrender! I surrender! Please don't shoot," he whimpered.

One of the Germans stepped forward and put a gun to his head.