Bryan pushed open the glass door and led the group inside the triangular-roofed building. The smell of food hit them immediately — this was apparently where the survivors took their meals. Long tables and benches lined both sides, and at the far end, a makeshift cafeteria window had been set up, cluttered with pots, pans, and cooking implements.
Bryan waved away the lingering aroma and pressed deeper in. Through a set of double doors on the right — exactly where Mike had described — a long corridor stretched before them, doors on either side. He tried one at random: beds, personal items. Living quarters.
At the corridor's end stood a heavy iron door that clearly hadn't been part of the original construction — retrofitted, bolted into place. Torches flanked it on both sides, lending the scene an almost medieval dungeon aesthetic.
Beyond the door, a spiral staircase plunged downward into darkness. Bryan pulled a torch from its wall bracket, shouldered the door open, and descended first.
When they reached the bottom, the firelight revealed the underground chamber in all its grim detail.
The spacious basement had been carved into a row of cells by iron bar partitions — cages running along both walls, with a massive fire pit blazing in the center that threw light into every corner. In each cell, a figure huddled against the wall, staring at the newcomers with hollow, terrified eyes.
Every one of them was filthy. Dust-caked clothes. Scars — some fresh, some old — marking faces and limbs.
At the far end stood a crude cross, and bound to it was a figure covered in open wounds. Blood had long since dried on his skin, suggesting he'd been there for some time. Hanging on the wall beside the cross was an assortment of torture implements. The flagstones in that area were stained a permanent brownish-white, scrubbed but never truly clean. No telling how many people had breathed their last in that spot.
"Caroline!"
The moment Corbin entered the basement and saw what lay before him, his composure shattered. He pushed through the group and rushed from cell to cell, screaming his wife's name.
Andrea and the others took in the scene with clenched fists and fury burning in their eyes.
"These people are something else," Bryan muttered, running his fingers along the welded bars. Underground prison cells, purpose-built. They'd really committed to the aesthetic.
"Ford!"
"Jesus — what did they do to you?!"
Corbin, having failed to find his wife in the cells, sprinted to the figure on the cross at the far end. He lifted the man's hanging head and recognized him instantly.
Andrea and the others snapped out of their rage and hurried over.
Corbin pressed his fingers to Ford's cheeks, then his neck, then beneath his nose. Nothing. Cold skin. No pulse. No breath.
He looked up at the others, anguish carved into every line of his face. "He's... gone."
"Hey — I'd suggest you focus on finding the rest of your people. Some of them might still have a chance." Bryan's voice cut through the grief from the stairwell. He'd stayed by the entrance, unwilling to let sentiment waste time that could save lives.
They scrambled into action, calling names as they rushed through the cells.
Bryan turned to Norman. "Find the keys to these cells. Should be somewhere down here."
Norman nodded, grabbed a brand from the fire pit, and headed to the far side of the basement.
"Caroline!"
"Theodore!"
"Matthew!"
The names echoed off the stone walls, amplified by the underground acoustics until Bryan's eardrums ached. He winced, plugged one ear, and drifted further from the noise.
"I'm... I'm here..."
A weak voice drifted from the cell beside him — so faint that if he'd been standing any further away, he'd have missed it entirely. Bryan turned to see a figure lying prone inside, too weak to stand, impossible to tell if they were male or female.
He glanced toward Andrea's group. "Hey — come check if this is one of yours."
They converged on the cell immediately, peering through the bars. Relief and horror warred on their faces as they called out in unison: "Theodore!"
Norman returned with the keys. Reading the grief on their faces, he quickly moved to unlock the cell door.
"Theodore, are you alright?!" Corbin yanked the door open and rushed inside, cradling the battered man. "Where are the others? Where did they take them?"
"You... you finally came."
Theodore's swollen eyes cracked open, barely able to make out the familiar faces hovering over him. Tears slid from the corners of his eyes. With a trembling hand, he pointed to the adjacent cell. "They're... next door."
They looked. Two more motionless figures lay in the neighboring cells. The sharp, coppery tang of blood hung unmistakably in the air.
Corbin shuddered, passed Theodore to Andrea, and rushed to the next cell.
Norman had already opened the lock and stepped aside.
"Open every cell. Get everyone out and bring them upstairs."
Bryan had seen enough. He patted Norman's shoulder, cast one last glance around the basement, and sighed quietly. "An eighty-person settlement keeping thirty-odd prisoners in cages. Unbelievable."
He turned and climbed the stairs without looking back. There was still a mountain of problems waiting for him above.
Stepping outside, a breeze swept across his face — a welcome coolness in the summer heat. Elton was already approaching from the perimeter, dragging two badly bruised captives.
After tossing them back into the kneeling crowd, Elton reported: "Squad Leader — four captured. Five tried to scale the walls. All five neutralized."
As the two battered captives crawled back to the group, they must have said something, because the previously docile crowd erupted.
Several older men and women shot to their feet. One middle-aged woman broke from the pack entirely, eyes wild with fury, and screamed at Bryan: "You monsters! You killed my son! You'll burn in hell for this! BURN IN HELL!"
Her outburst emboldened others. The shouting spread, voices overlapping in a cacophony of rage and grief.
BANG!
Bryan's brow creased. These people clearly had no concept of what it meant to be prisoners. He drew his pistol and fired once into the sky, then fixed the crowd with a frigid stare. "I suggest you shut your mouths. Now."
The gunshot killed the noise instantly. Most of the crowd registered the look in his eyes, realized their position, and dropped back into a crouch with almost comical speed.
A handful remained standing, glaring at Bryan with undisguised hatred, not an ounce of fear on their faces.
"Elton. Mike."
"Sir!"
Bryan studied the defiant ones. Given Elton's report about the five who'd been killed trying to escape, these were probably their relatives.
His eyes hardened. "Take them outside. All of them."
"With pleasure."
Elton's smile turned cold. Without hesitation, he leveled his weapon at the standing figures. "If you'd be so kind as to come with me."
Under the horrified gaze of the crowd, he slammed the butt of his rifle into the screaming woman's forehead, dropping her to the ground. Blood streamed from the gash as he grabbed her collar and began dragging her away.
"Move." Mike raised his own weapon, all trace of his usual easygoing demeanor gone. The remaining defiant survivors, staring down the barrel, abandoned their bravado and hurried to comply. They'd heard the young officer's words — just being "put outside." Not killed. It would be fine.
"You killed my son — I will NEVER forgive you! You'll rot in hell! IN HELL!"
The woman came to as she was being dragged, thrashing and screaming curses, her voice carrying even as she disappeared from sight.
Bryan watched them go, shaking his head with quiet contempt.
Once the seeds of hatred were sown, even the most insignificant person could become a threat if given the means. People who openly declared their enmity were best dealt with early — cut the problem off at the root, before it had a chance to grow.
...
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