The Tunnel

They grew. Their bodies lurched upward like giants. No, the tunnel shrank. They had to sidle flat, pressed between the walls, sometimes so thin against their flexing bellies, they were unsure if they could force through. At one point, Sparky pulled the portly Pedro free. When the tunnel lowered, they crawled. The tunnel became increasingly smaller, the two had to crawl on their bellies. Elbows and knees skinned and scrapped as their chests constricted, making breathing a chore. They slugged along, compressed and squashed; slithering as best they could when the unimaginable happened. 

The lantern flittered and went out.    

...Three, four, five seconds of utter denial. It was so still. It was so silent. Not even the sounds of their breathing.

And it was so god-awful dark. It was a perfect blackness. It was the same blackness lurking at the bottom of the ocean. So deep that the sun's ray could not reach, no matter how bright and warm it shone. It was the same abyss in the closet or under the bed that haunted children, the place where the boogieman lived.

This was the place from which darkness came.

They hallucinated. Images formed in the darkness. The images black on black, wrestling with each other, a void of color swirling. Delirious minds produced phantom monsters. Creeping demons took new and different forms, threatening to snatch them and drag them back to the killer, The Mad Artist. No solace allowed inside the frantic, depraved brain.

So dark and forever, they were buried alive, encased in a stone tomb. The pressure above weighed down upon them. Thousands of pounds of stone piled atop. Trapped and abandoned, they could not wait for someone to come and find them. They would never be found. They were alone.

Pedro's flashlight, it was in his saddlebag. His saddlebag was on his motorcycle. His motorcycle was so very, very far away. His limbs tried to flail and his knees and elbows and head banged and scraped against the stone. Reality hit like a demon in his head. His mind was nothing, just madness.

No, no, no god, please. This can't be.

Yes, yes, yes, this is it, this is reality. This is what's happening now.

The world had been planning this his whole life. Pedro screamed.

The scream sounded so final, so void of hope, so full of fear, it haunted Sparky for the rest of his life. He thought Pedro would have a heart attack right then and there. He thought the scream would rip through Pedro's flesh and explode outward sending chunky remains, painting the black crawl space a deep color red that would never be seen.

The air thinned. Each breath constricted. Each pant brought less and less oxygen. Their chests heaved in erratic panicked keels, like trying to catch breath on a cold day after a long run. The way asthma sufferers must feel when they need their inhalers. The muscles over their lungs contracted, tightening, making it even more difficult.

Pedro continued his wail.

"AAAIIIEEE!"

The scream amplified and echoed, chilling to the core, the sound of perfect madness. Sparky respected the sound.

That a boy, Pedro, that's how you scream. That's how a man screams.

Sparky's fear rose too. His lungs faltered. He frenzied, not able to breathe well. He did not have enough air to speak, form words. He could not tell his friend to be quiet, to shut up.