Speaker 1: I don't usually get sent to jobs with anybody which
suits me. People are all right, but I'm not built
for chat. I'm terrible at eye contact and i always
miss the punchlines. Apparently I've got the social instincts of
a damp traffic cone. Still I like what I like,
and that's all the boring wartime stuff no one under
sixty gives a toss about. But I've learned not to
bring that up unless someone's very bored, very polite, or
already halfway through a Scotch egg, so they can't tell
me to shut up anyway. The job was a disused
tunnel flagged under the South Cut Clearance Survey. No one
had set foot in there since nineteen forty four, and
when something's been sealed that long, you've no idea what
you're walking into. So they sent me with Dan. He
was in his early twines ties, one of those blokes
never without his air pods, a vape and a running
commentary on UFC fights. It's not my usual preference, but
I've survived worse, and once still weak on the Carlile
line with a bloke who thought Dunkirk was in Germany.
Our job was the log debris, test the clearances and
insure the place wouldn't shear a wagon in half, ready
to open up for public use in the summer. He looked,
promising they'd green light a proper team. If not, they'd
break it up and pretend it never happened. Our boots
hid the ballast. Just past five a m. Geared up
in our safety gear, filtered respirators, tool bags, and radios.
The tunnel entrance was locked up with heavy gage chain
length fencing two layers deep, backed by timber boards and
a padlock the size of a fist in luck, like
someone had gone at it with bolt cutters and it
had been clumsily patched up Above it, the original cast
iron arch loomed, rusted, and stamped with the wartime engineering mark.
You'd miss it unless you knew what you were looking for.
Once we'd cracked the vencing and slipped inside, we clicked
on our torches, both beams, cutting lines through the misty black.
The air hit us once we got far enough in,
Even with a respirator, it felt like licking the inside
of an old kettle. Every step stirred up dust. Dan
glanced around and muttered, bit grim in here, Yeah, can't
imagine coming in here without respirators. Have you ever heard
of the Cross Line, I asked? Dan shook his head.
Is that like a brand? Nah, that's the name of
the line this tunnel was part of. They used it
to move supplies between coastal depots and the RAF sites,
mostly crates, fuel, and the odd medic unit. March forty four,
they caught a loft offt air strike at the Southern
Mouth just as the supply train broke down. Inside. Dan's
voice came quiet over the crunch of our boots. Never
heard of that one, he said. The blast created a
vacuum effect, I continued, had touched too brightly for the subject.
Sucked a fireball straight down the tunnel while they were
fixing the train. WHOA were there any survivors, I gave
a dry shrug. Place would have been charred end to
end by the time the fire burnt out. With another
line still running and a war to fight that he
didn't bother with. The recovery crew just sealed it up
and moved on. Dan stayed quiet after that, boots crunching
beside mine. I didn't say anything else either. After a
few minutes he cleared his throat and muttered something about
a fair weight bout he'd watch last weekend, like he
couldn't bear the quiet any longer, said. The bloke came
in underweight and still managed to drop the other guy
in the second round with a spinning elbow. Absolute belter,
he called it. I nodded, grateful for the mood change,
even if I had no clue who was on about. It.
Wasn't long after that till we noticed signs that tunnel
had taken a knock or two. A few ceiling plates
were broken, with rusted bolts hanging loose, and there was
a shallow pile of crumbled brick near one of the
cable housings that looked more recent than the rest. Nothing structural,
but enough to keep your eyes pee. Then we started
spotting bits of cloth, mostly torn and oily ground into
the gravel. There was a piece twisting under a bolt.
He looked like canvas, only thinner. I gave it a
nudge with my boot. What do you think it is?
Dan asked? Could be a left over sleeve from the
poor swords they sealed up. He stared at me for
a beat. You're joking, right, of course, I am, I said,
half laughing. It's probably just a bit of coat from
some drafted trespasser poking around. Does look weird, though, should
handle this, he muttered. Stuff like this can trip someone
up if they don't see it proper hazard. If it's
sticking up like that. He crouched over it and gave
it a once over with his glove. Feels weird, bit tough.
Not what I was expecting, all right, I said, watching
him pull out a multitule from his bag. I'll log
the neck segment up ahead. The junction box should be
just past that bend. I tapped the radio clipped onto
my chest Channel four. Yeah, shout if you need anything,
or if the fabrics starts acting all haunted either or,
he snorted, if it does much of anything, I'm legging it,
fair play, I said, and carried on ahead. The tunnel
swallowed me up. Each step pulled the air thicker. It
was damp and stale, like the breath of something sleeping.
Every twenty or thirty yards, there was a refuge bay
built for workers that duck into when trains passed. I
made a habit of counting them to pass the time.
Just after the eighth bay, I spotted the glint of
twisted steel the husk of a freight wagon. My heart
actually gave a little thumb. It was a supply train
from the cross Line story I'd rambled to Dan about.
It was gutted, half melted across the rails. One axle
had folded in on itself, and most of the siding
was gone, peeled back like a tin of spam. What
remained was pitted with rust and speckled with the droppings
of whatever bats or birds had snuck in over the ears.
My torch played over the wreck, and I caught hints
of cinched fabric fused into the rivet, and melted bootsole
stuck beneath a wheel assembly. I felt giddy, then grim,
and then there was movement on the wreck. Something disturbed
the gravel. I froze torch fixed dead ahead. I thought
it was a bit of a breeze settling, But just
where my light couldn't reach, I noticed the shape, slow
and jerky, dragging itself from the far side of the carriage.
At first I thought some homeless guy had found a
way in and picked the place for shelter. Wouldn't have
blamed him in fairness. It was dry and quiet, you
can't be here, mate, I called, there's hazardous conditions you
need to clear off. I won't press you, just get out.
That was when he shifted into my light. The first
thing I noticed was it looked like he was wearing
someone else's skin, or trying to chunks. It clung to him.
It was as if he'd torn it free in a
frenzy and slapped it over himself without care. Bit of torso,
her forearm, part of a thigh. The rest of him
was raw, a blistered patchwork of wet red tissue and
veins like overstrung wires. I staggered back, hard boots, skidding
over the ballast, and landed like a sack of bricks.
My tord slipped from my grip, skittering across the gravel
and landing a few feet in front, its beam fixed
squarely on the thing. I didn't go for it, No,
I turned and bolted, heart hammering feet slipping over loose stone.
I threw myself into the nearest refuge bay and crouched
low in the dark, breath snagging in my throat. I
stayed silent, listening for footsteps, until I realized the texture
under my knee wasn't ballast. Whatever it was was tacky
and stuck to my trousers. I reached for my phone
and lit the lock screen. The glow spilled over the
torn flesh. Skin was missing in wet flaps. Chunks of
it peeled and cut off messily, exposing glistening muscle and
slashed tendon. It was clear the man or whatever it was,
had done it. My hands shook as I cut the
light and pressed back hard against the stone. Every inch
of me was wound tight with panic, but I didn't
dare move or breathe too loud. I strained to listen
for any sign that the thing out there had heard me,
but there was only a faint sound of metal clinking
and some sort of sloshing. So I shifted forward just
enough to risk a glance around the bay edge and
saw the creature was caught on a heavy still cabling
that had fused into his flesh. It carved deep, wet
gouges through the meat of his legs where it had
melted in. Every tug sent a fresh jerk through his frame.
He tried to move forward, but the cabling dragged him back.
As horrific as it was, I felt a twisted child
of relief because it meant he couldn't get to me.
So I crept forward on all fours as slowly as
I could manage, keeping my eyes fixed on him. He
was still jerking, still struggling against the cable's raw legs,
dragging in little burst, But I kept going. Unto my
fingers found the torch and closed around it. Just as
I was shimming away, my radio lit up South could
control this is red lead enemy overhead, repeat, enemy aircraft sighted,
brace for impact. It was tinny and staticky. The creature
jerked harder. Responding to the sound. He threw himself forward
with a raspy scream, his limbs stretched at sick angles,
cabling biting deeper as he tore through his own meat.
That sudden frenzy broke me. I turned and ran at
full sprint. Torch clutched tight and breath slicing in short
panic burst through the respirator. Then Dan's voice filtered in,
crackling through the static. Callum, callum mate. I heard him
breathing fast and shallow, like he was trying not to
be heard. Something's here. I don't, I can't. I fumbled
for the radio. Dan I'm on away. Just hold on,
don't move all right, whatever's down here, it's not right.
Just come back, come back. Another burst of static and
no reply. I ran, trying to keep my bearings while
every bone in my body begged me to look back.
I knew it hadn't gotten free, I hadn't heard it following,
but my body didn't care. I couldn't stop imagining it,
hunting me down. Every step felt too slow. I wanted
nothing more than to grab Dan and escape out of
the tunnel. When I reached where i'd left Dan, his
tool bag was still there, sitting just where he'd placed it.
There was no sign of him, though. My torch flicked
across the walls until it caught on a maintenance tunnel
branching off to the side, narrow and half choked with dust.
I stepped toward it, my heart hammering torch hill tight Dan, Dan,
I called, cursing myself out in my head for not
just bucking it out of there alone. Then I saw
him hunched over near the far wall of the maintenance tunnel,
breathing in shallow rasps, back turned, shoulders twitching like he
was about to throw up. Dan, I said again, lower
this time I saw something down by the wreck who
was wearing someone's skin or something. I don't know, but
we need to get out now. As I got closer,
I realized the skin along the spine looked torn and stretched.
His proportions were off. He was too broad in the
show and too long in the limbs. I realized then
that it was one of those skin creatures, and this
one had done a better job than the last. It shifted,
turning fluidly. Dan's face twitched as the thing twisted its neck.
It straightened up and lunged towards me. My boots skid
it as I tore back through the tunnel light, bouncing
off sutt and stone. I could hear its irregular foot force,
pounding and scraping against the gravel as it chased me.
The mouth of the tunnel appeared ahead, a thin slice
of morning light, calling like a lifeline. I charged full tilt,
shoulder checking the gate. As I hit it. The chain
link rattled, hinges, groaning as it gave way under my weight.
I burst into daylight and spun around, grabbing for the
edge of the gate, trying to haul it closed, but
I wasn't fast enough. The thing was right behind me.
The service train we had taken in sat a few
dozen yards down the track. I folded the step and
scrambled inside, boots thudding against the metal floor. I turned
to see if it had followed, and just in time
to watch it slammed to the gate, limbs flailing. The
second its bare back met daylight, it shrieked, The exposed
flesh sizzled, blistering and splitting down. Steam hissed from beneath
Dan's skin. It stumbled, jerking violently. What was left of
Dan's face sagged sideways, folding at the edges. Then it
reeled back, flailing as it crawled in reverse, dragging itself
back into the dark. I stood there, panting, hands braced
against the inside wall of the carriage. I shakely tore
the respirator off my face and sucked in the cold
morning air in deep and frantic gulps. My heart was
still in my throat, every muscle in my body twitching
with the tail end of the panic. When I was
sure it wasn't coming back, I climbed down from the train,
leakes jelly beneath me, and turned toward the entrance. Pardon me,
wanted to turn around and leave it swinging. But letting
it out wasn't an option, so I hauled the gate
shut and snapped the lock into place, stepping back fast
the second it clicked. After that, I sat on the
train floor for a while with my elbows on my knees,
and when I could bring myself to move again, I
started the train up and took it slow on the
way back, my hands white knuckled on the throttle. I
told the sight leads there was a collapse. Dan got
caught in it and I had barely made it out.
When they asked about recovering his body, I said it
was very deep on the debris, inaccessible without risking more lives,
anything to keep any one else from going back in
That night, I just lay there, flat on my back,
staring at the ceiling, and I couldn't stop thinking. My
heart kept throwing itself around in my chest like it
hadn't figured out the danger was over. So I got up.
I turned the telly on and started flicking through the channels,
looking for something loud enough to drown out my thoughts.
I landed on a fightery run, and it took a
second to realize it was the one Dan had been
on about a featherweight about I watched the bloke duck
a hawk and come back with a spinning elbow that
dropped the other guy flat, and he was right. It
was an absolute belter.