When Silence Starts Breathing

The silence was unlike the silence of the Tube. There was no rhythmic drip of water, no rustling of rats, only a dense, crushing stillness that seemed to press down on everything still alive. He could barely see. Two figures stood over him while the rail vehicle moved slowly through the tunnel, its headlamp cutting into the darkness ahead and making the bricks shimmer faintly. The wheels made no sound at all. Nothing. Only the unsettling feeling that they were gliding through the tunnel rather than travelling.
He tried to move, but his body felt impossibly heavy. His head throbbed, his neck refused to respond, and the air smelled of rust, wet clothes and something else he could not name. He realised he was a prisoner, yet his mind could not piece together the last few hours. The nightmare was too quiet to be a dream and too real to deny.
Some places beneath London do not echo with footsteps. They remember them.
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