Clyde panted, his breath fogging up the inside his suit’s helmet. He fumbled with his shoulder-mounted flashlight, clicking it on and off futilely. He knew it would not work, but he had to navigate these damned tunnels. He could only guess at how long he has been wandering these dark, narrow pathways, with only the smooth stone walls to guide him. He knew the rest of the expedition was somewhere down here, perhaps just as lost as he was.
 
He continued on, his footsteps and breathing the only noise in the dark. He walked for a long time, just focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, and ignoring the nagging feeling of hopelessness that threatened to panic him. He had a strange feeling, different from the dread he was feeling before and was unsure of what to make of it — and that uncertainty was terrifying. His heart rate quickened, and he moved faster, driven on now by his own looming fear of the unknown. He suddenly stumbled, tripping over something on the ground. He fell forward, landing hard on the cold stone floor, his helmet cracking as he came into contact with the ground face-first. His suit’s pressure seal failed with the helmet broken. His suit now nothing more than heavy clothing, he pulled off his helmet and laid it on the floor next to him. He felt angry, his thoughts turning to those of the injustice of his misfortune, before suddenly realizing he could hear all the sounds surrounding him he had been missing before. He heard the distant echoes of his own movements as he scrambled up to a sitting position, and the sound of a light breeze gently whistling through the highest arches of what he now knew was what had to be a grand cavern.
 
He sat for some time just listening, and a thought came to him in his newfound calm. Whatever he had tripped on had been much lighter and much less painful than a rock or outcropping. Curious, he reached back toward where he stumbled, feeling blind with his gloved hands and before long finding something long, and rectangular. He paused for a moment, filled with disbelief there could be anything of artificial origin down in these dark depths. He twisted his gloves to uncouple them from his suit and tugged them off, quickly fishing a small matchbox out of one of his breast pouches, sliding it open and feeling inside for a moment before pulling out a match, his last. He had tried to use them to navigate earlier after his flashlight failed, exhausting nearly his entire supply before understanding the futility of using match light and the regret of wasting such a valuable resource. He held it for a moment, considering the consequences of losing his last match. He decided that this was worth it, and with a brief hesitation struck it against the fabric of his suit, lighting it and the object before him.
 
In the dim, flickering light he could see it was a dust-covered wooden box, covered in fading and flaking paint, with the top inscribed with a language he didn’t recognize. He saw two clasps and undid them before flipping open the lid. His breath caught in his throat, the tiny light illuminating a bundle of long wooden rods with fabric wrapped around the ends — torches. He quickly pulled out one of the rods, knowing what he had but not believing. He touched his match to the end and yanked back his hand as the rod burst into flame with a roar and a brilliant flash of light. He marveled at his fortune sitting and gazing at the flame in disbelief. He felt his confidence surge, and with his new light source, he now saw the ancient encampment around him. It was a set of rocks piled to make seats arranged in a semi-circle around a makeshift fire-pit, with more inscribed boxes of varying shape and size piled off to the side. He sat and reveled in his sheer fortune, realizing that finding anything down here was a miracle — let alone an entire camp.
 
He stood and waved his torch around, pushing back the darkness to see if there was any more to this camp, but saw only smooth stone and scattered rocks and pebbles around him. He moved to the stacked boxes, and unclasped another identical to the one he had found, opening it and grinning. He felt his heart swell, there were more torches inside. He could see several more boxes that looked nearly identical, with the same inscription on the top for each of them. He wondered if there were more camps down here in similar caverns, awaiting discovery.
 
He set a course of action in his mind, of how to best use the torches and where to search while sitting on one of the stone benches, when he heard something that erased any happiness he had in an instant. It was a scuffing, dragging noise, irregular and decidedly terrifying. He immediately felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and even without knowing what the source of the sound might be, he knew well enough that he should run. He bolted in the opposite direction of the sound, running with the torch in hand, and looked back to see if he could see what the source of the sound was. In that instant, he felt his foot catch again on something that crunched under his boot. He fell in surprise, yelping and rolling to a stop on his back with his torch clattering to a stop beside him.
 
He raised himself into a sitting position, clutching his head and grimacing. He had hit his head on something during his tumble and he could feel his world dizzyingly swaying before him. He fought the feeling and forced his eyes to focus; the torchlight casting long shadows around him. He looked for what he had tripped on and felt his stomach flip as he realized what it was. Bones. He couldn’t tell what they were from and frankly didn’t care, he only scrambled to his torch and grabbed it with a white-knuckled grip. He held it close as he brought himself to stand with some difficulty, looking all around him in a panic. He no longer heard that awful noise, but he knew deep inside that he still wasn‘t safe. He swung the torch around, looking for somewhere to run or hide, his movements exaggerated and sluggish as he experienced what he already knew to be a concussion. He was about to run when he heard a different noise, something that made his veins run ice cold.
 
“Clyde?”, it called.
 
His breath stopped in his throat.
 
“Who are you?”, it asked.
 
He considered the impossibility that the expedition had found him, but his luck from earlier was still at the forefront of his mind. Hesitantly, he called back.

“Lynn? Is that you?”
 
He brought the torch toward the voice’s direction, squinting his eyes into the darkness. He called out again, thinking maybe she didn’t hear him.

“Lynn, where are the others? How did you find me?”

He heard the familiar scuffle once more, and a horrible mix of dread and hope filled him to the brim, and he not sure whether to trust his fortune or his fear. He moved toward where he thought he heard her, holding his torch at arm’s length. He saw a shape in the darkness and relaxed slightly as he thought he could make out the shape of Lynn’s pressure suit. He smiled and began walking towards her, raising the torch high.
 
“You scared me! I nearly killed myself running, how did you find me down here?”
 
Then, as he got close enough for the flickering light to illuminate her figure, he saw something and felt his heart leap straight into his throat. He stumbled backward; the torch falling out of his hand and rolling to a stop on the floor before him. The voice called out to him again, and he knew now it wasn’t Lynn. It wasn’t Lynn. The voice called to him, repeating in her voice over and over, rasping.
 
“Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?”

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Artist is  Tabirs.