**
It was almost an hour before we started hearing the singing. It was an old voice, gravelly, worn. The voice was singing about sailors out at sea; about stopping in ports and taking advantage of whatever fair maidens that were available. The song was foreign and intriguing to the ears of a space station dweller, to a young man who had spent his entire existence in a very contained environment. The song spoke of adventure, of the wide open spaces and dangers of this wondrous and dangerous planet.
We crept carefully, not wanting to make too much noise, but as we got closer, the voice stopped for a second, listening. We stopped, only the sound of breathing, even Doug stopped his whispering.
“Who-who’s there?” the voice said.
We didn’t answer. We walked closer; my hand gripped my gun.
“Ju… just an old man, nobody else,” the voice said.
We shut all our flashlights. It took a few seconds for our eyes to adjust, but then I realized it was no longer pitch black. Off in the distance was faint light filtering into the tunnel, tainting the darkness. With every step we took down the tunnel, light was growing. Our flashlights were out and we could definitely see a haze of sunlight coming towards us.
"You see that," Martina whispered.
"I do," I said.
The tunnel was growing a bit wider; and now there was definitely light. Clear and circular, sunlight filtered down the shape of the tunnel--broken by something in the corner--it was the silhouette of a prone body lying on the ground. I shone my flashlight down on the silhouette. It was an old dishevelled man. His wrinkly eyes squinted uneasily into my flashlight and he said uneasily:
“Hey friend, who goes there?”
“Don’t worry, we mean you no harm,” I said.
“N-no, of course not,” he said, “I never thought that at all. I’m just an old man, minding my own business, looking for a quiet place to sleep—n-nothing to worry about here.” He kept mouthing platitudes to placate us; like we were security guards at some checkpoint.
“Like I said, don’t worry, we mean you no harm.”
“Are you gentleman holy warriors?” he asked as we tried to pass on.
“What do you mean holy warriors?” asked Andy.
“N-nothing. It’s just usually—I mean the soldiers heading down this tunnel—they’re usually the religious sort—on their quests—or crusades—or whatya call it.”
“No, we’re not holy warriors,” Martina said, “and not all gentlemen either. Come to think of it, none of us are really gentlemen.”
“Ha ha, good one Martina,” laughed Doug, then he mumbled to himself.
“What are you talking about old man?” started Andy, until I grabbed his arm.
“Forget about him. Let’s keep going. The entrance to the tunnel can’t be that dangerous if he wandered down for a nap.”
We walked towards the light. The tunnel twisted and suddenly the sunlight beamed into the tunnel. The tunnel widened into a room. The first thing I noticed was the damage. The sun shone brightly and we all squinted as we went up some stairs to a larger room. It was more like a ruin than any liveable space. Dust and rubble were everywhere. Clouds of dust billowed in the rays of sunlight, through the dirty, broken windows. On one wall, graffiti was etched in deep red paint, until somewhere near the end, when the paint colour changed to fluorescent green. It read:
Where are all the poets hiding
Have they no more pen and paper
Where is the righteous indignation
That would be so appropriate now
Who will wake the people
From their slumber of ignorance and fear
Has no one the courage
To light the path
Under the threat
Of the Neanderthal’s club?
Andy shrugged in disdain as we all read the words that hung like a bizarre greeting to this new world. Andy looked at me, shaking his head. “What kinda crap is that?”
We walked outside. The wide doorway had hinges barely hanging on to a door frame, but no door—just a wide-open view to the outside.
We were on the other side of the tunnel. I felt claustrophobic feelings drift from my lungs, from around my head. We were outside, but what was it like here? What kind of place was this? Above us was brilliant sky, the Earth atmosphere in its full glory, but the landscape bore the remnants of much violence and neglect. There were several people around us. They stared at us blankly, recognizing our difference, the fact that we were not one of them—or did they? One raggedly dressed man walked by me like a zombie. He had a deep scar which ravaged almost his entire face, from just below one eye to the bottom of his chin. I remember as he walked by, his eyes met mine. I stared at him intently. The thing that struck me was the lifelessness in his eyes. For a second, I figured he must've been blind; but he walked on, around me, clearly seeing the objects in his path. Yet he had no reaction, as if there was nothing left in life that could pull a reaction from him, nothing left that would incite emotion. It was as if too much had gone on; the results of a jaded life, only surviving; just barely alive in a harsh environment.
His blank stare spoke volumes.