Deluge

CHRISTIAN LED MARMIE and Adrienne down long corridors, past the cells, down flights of steps into a low-ceilinged ill-lit plascrete bunker whose narrow hallways branched and rebranched until Marmie was sure they had walked at least the same distance through this underground area as they had walked through the prison above.

“Is this the dungeon?” Adrienne asked in a whisper.

“It’s a multipurpose area. There are cells down here and some interrogation rooms.”

“No doubt,” Marmie murmured. From the tunnel-like passageways to the left and right issued the scents of mold, decay, whiffs of human excrement and urine, and something worse. She tried very hard to recall her association with Christian and his mother, hoping it had been entirely positive and that he had no reason to seek retribution against her. If she had given offense, she certainly didn’t see how, but then she seldom did. She was not herself a petty person and did not understand the petty grudges some individuals seemed to collect as if they were objects of beauty.

“Also hard copy files and storage,” he added after they had turned into a new aisle. He stopped outside the third door and turned an old-fashioned key in an old-fashioned lock.

They entered what looked like another long cell block, but behind the bars were shelves of moldering cardboard boxes.

“This is the oldest part of the prison,” Christian told them. “Anyone who has particularly displeased his or her superiors gets assigned to do a little filing down here. Starting back there.” He nodded to the point where the corridor and its cells disappeared despite the codelike flashing of the extremely unstable-looking overhead lights.

A desk with piles of printouts sat between the door and the first two cells in the place where a guard station would normally be situated.

He picked up a clipboard and tapped the paper. “Any files not mentioned here specifically are to be hauled forward, to be picked up for disposal in the incinerator. That is also on this level, adjacent to the interrogation rooms.”

“So we will pretend to be naughty soldiers and keep our faces in the files,” Marmie said, nodding and holding out her hand for the clipboard.

“Yes. There is only one surveillance camera in each cell, but many of them are covered with files or dust, and besides, the screens for these rooms are turned off most of the time. No audio surveillance that I know of. I will lock you in and come for you or send someone to fetch you as soon as possible.”

Opening one of the cells, he pulled down two boxes. Inside each was a guard uniform, a bottle of water, and a packet of nutrient bars. He gave Marmion a key. “Please, if something goes wrong and you are recaptured, don’t be caught with this on you. I have no idea how long I’ll be gone, and if I am much delayed, you will eventually want to try to escape on your own. I don’t advise it. This place is a maze, and in many ways the most brutal and dangerous part of the prison.”

“How long do you estimate?” Marmion asked.

He pointed to the dusty concrete wall where a large clock that was marked in twenty-four-hour Standard time hung. The face was almost obscured by dust and cobwebs, but the second hand was moving. “At least twenty-four hours.”