The Warren
a dystopian story by Rachel L. Tilley
“The Warren” reaches into the underside of what could be and what we, as a society, could become. In a world of income disparity, out-of-control inflation, reality TV, and TikTok stars, perhaps it’s not too far off.
But do not fear! You can always take a run through The Warren.
“This story peers into the desperation—and optimism—of the poverty found in the underside, within an imagined dystopian society.” — the author, Rachel L. Tilley
The Warren
Damien stared at the three copper coins in his hand. The more he was determined not to think about the fact these were his last three coins, the more the thought pervaded his mind. He pushed the doubt away once again. His decision was made.
Approaching the long wooden bench, he studied the item choices, ignoring the impatient look of the man waiting for him to make his selection. He suspected part of the game was to pressure entrants into a quick selection. Although perhaps the man genuinely was bored.
Damien had asked as many of his contacts for information as possible—desperate to know what they’d found useful when they’d been in his place—but they’d not been remotely forthcoming. Now that he was here, he could feel the magic thickly blanketed over the vicinity; he finally understood that it had been a memory block causing their hesitation rather than a reluctance to assist him.
Okay, come on Damien, concentrate. What might be helpful in there, and which of these do you actually know how to use? After handing over his coins, he made his first selection—a lockpick—then chose a torch for his second item. Before he could choose the water cannister as his final object, the attendant informed him that his third choice was limited to one of only six options, each of which looked like different-colored sweets. He rather impulsively chose the red one, purely because it reminded him of the time he had tried a strawberry; then panicked immediately afterwards, because he knew he had no idea what the colors signified. He’d assumed it was against the rules, but perhaps he’d been a fool, and the vendor would have told him… if he’d simply thought to ask.
As he examined the three items he now held, the man slid a panel behind the workbench to one side, thereby granting Damien access to the tunnel behind it. Approaching hesitantly, the near darkness meant he nearly fell down the unexpected stairwell. There was no handhold, and already caught out, he traversed the stone steps very carefully. The walls felt greasy against his hands, and he imagined how many people before him had also trailed their grimy fingers across them. His stomach sank at the thought. When had he last eaten?
All remained dark at the bottom, until he turned the corner to be greeted by an archway lit by neon lights. A crowd of people surrounded it.
“Join the queue please, join the queue,” one of them was calling, although most of the people seemed to be ignoring this. The “queue” itself consisted of one girl.
“Hey,” he whispered to her. “Have you been waiting long? I’m nervous enough as is. I wasn’t expecting to wait.”
“I’ve been here a couple of hours already. Apparently they’re really busy today—you can probably guess why.”
Damien suspected he could and was a tad annoyed with himself for not realizing earlier. Half the community were struggling to survive—he wasn’t alone by any means. The desperate attempt to save up three coppers in time to enter The Warren before the new rules came in tomorrow—when currency would be even more difficult to come by—wasn’t a struggle unique to himself.
He tapped his fingers nervously as he waited. He couldn’t check the time as he didn’t own a watch, but it seemed a good while since he’d observed the girl go in, so he felt sure it was going to be his turn soon.
Finally, someone came over to brief him. “Right, don’t take the pill until you’re in there. You’re allowed to leave with one item only. One in total. That means the items you selected up front need to stay in The Warren unless you don’t find anything you like better. I see you have a torch, here’s a bit of insight for you, lots of people choose to leave with the torch. So if you can now sign here please.”
Damien attempted a scribble.
“Great, that just means we have the right to use any of the recorded footage however we want. Remember you’re here to provide entertainment, and the better you do, the more likely you will be rewarded with something good.”
Damien was instantly reminded of the chasm between his neighborhood and the Uppers. The latter would never need to enter this pit. No, the Lowers were the ones who participated, the Uppers were the ones who could afford the televisions and electricity to watch them. It wasn’t something he usually thought about—after all, he’d never even met an Upper. Besides, that was what the producers were counting on. If he’d found one of them to ask, he might’ve known what he should expect!
With his form signed, and the doors at last open and ready for the next participant, he felt a shove on the back and found he’d been pushed through the entrance.
He had been expecting the huge maze he’d arrived in, but not the sudden assault on his senses. Everything was bright and loud. It was intense. These weren’t the colors of everyday gutter-life. He had thought that underground, everything would be dark and miserable, but this was delirium.
He scrunched up his eyes while they slowly acclimatized to the light. It was so disorienting. Pull yourself together Damien, you haven’t even reached the first divergence! Then he cursed as it dawned on him that the torch had been a decoy. At least one of his items was useless. He took a deep breath and walked forwards.
With each step, the color formations changed. He could barely walk in a straight-line. Each time he made to put his foot down, the floor would change beneath him, and throw him off course. He was swaying and zig-zagging all over the place. If he looked up, the walls were changing too, adding to the confusion.
He was far too afraid to feel in awe of the experience. Instead, his heart raced even faster, unsure and apprehensive about what to expect next. He’d really thought once he had passed the arch—once he’d seen what awaited him—he’d find himself focused, fearless even. He felt the adrenaline certainly, but it was doing almost nothing to combat his nerves.
Eventually, he took a step forward without the lights changing. Stopping, he looked from side to side to see if anything else had happened, before somewhat successfully attempting to shake off the vertigo. Despite anticipating they were going to surprise him, he was still startled when barrels of water began to pour from the ceiling. The ensuing torrent was enough to sweep him off his feet, and he did his best to move with it so as to avoid injury.
He took a moment to feel sorry for himself. It was unpleasantly cold, and the damp was seeping through his clothes into his skin. Tempting as it was, he decided against drinking any of the water. It wasn’t that he worried how clean it was or wasn’t, he was used to that sort of risk, but he couldn’t shake the thought they might have added something to it. A trick for unsuspecting participants. However unlikely it was, he didn’t want to be the fool who fell for it. There was a lot riding on this.
Shaking off what water he could as he rose, he suspected that he’d stayed standing in one place for too long. It sounded like the better you performed, the longer they let you continue. He needed to reach the inner depths of The Warren to come away with a worthwhile prize. It had to be something worth at least the three coins he’d invested. This was his only chance; entry was once in a lifetime.
The corridor emerged at a crossroad, meaning he was faced with three potential onwards paths, but only one direction was illuminated. For now, it seemed wisest to follow the route being suggested for him, but the thumping of the song playing made it impossible to think clearly. When had the music become even louder? The whole place seemed weirdly alive. Or, at least, sentient. He couldn’t see any speakers, but neither had he spied any cameras. It just served to make the place all the more creepy.
As soon as he stepped into the lit tunnel, the way behind him went dark, and the sound effects simultaneously ceased. This pathway contained platforms, which rose and fell in a haphazard sequence. Ideally, he needed the depths of the platforms to match to allow him to jump between them. He watched it for three full rotations before taking his first step.
As he leapt to the second platform, the first fell away, dropping to unknown depths below. That was more than enough incentive for him to hurry across. Water squelched out of his shoes and it took more effort than he even knew he could muster to avoid slipping.
By the time he reached the other side, twenty-six platforms later—which he knew because he’d counted them to ensure he got the sequence correct—he was out of breath. Normally this sort of activity wouldn’t tire him so much; the fear had clearly contributed.
He was met by a fork. Both the left and right routes were dark. Remembering his torch and realizing maybe his choice hadn’t been a complete dud after all, he shone it down both passages. They appeared to be identical grey stone tunnels. He shrugged, then went down the left.
A few steps in, he heard a fluttering sound. Increasing in volume, it sounded like wind hitting the walls. Just in time, he ducked. A cloud of bats flew over his head. Nevertheless, he felt some of them brush against him as they passed. The sensation itself wasn’t unpleasant, but the idea of it was.
Once again, he picked himself up. He thought it was unlikely he’d encounter any more bats, but he didn’t turn his torch back on, just in case. He walked in the darkness for several minutes, placing his trembling right hand against the wall to feel his way. The lack of visibility was oppressive, yet also a strangely welcome break from the over-stimulation he’d been subjected to in the other passageways.
If he’d had his torch on, he might have seen that the ceiling above him was sloping, gradually lowering to make the tunnel narrower. He might not have hit his forehead so hard that he drew blood. Damien experienced a brief moment of panic, worried that the officials might pull him out for the injury. It was instinctive to keep touching it, trying to determine how severe it was, but he didn’t want to give the impression it was a problem. He had to keep going.
When the lights came back on, it was instantaneous. He was momentarily blinded. They were accompanied by a beating drum that seemed to quicken with his heartbeat. He felt harassed but he’d bet anything that was the intention… if he had anything left to bet. They were putting pressure on him, pushing him to make haste. It was effective. Try as he might to ground himself, he couldn’t.
When his eyes recovered, he saw a choice of three routes presented to him, the rightmost of which was lit up. He chose the middle.
The overhead lights once again dimmed until they had faded entirely.
As he took his next step along the tunnel, an arrow on the ceiling lit up. A second forward step led to a second arrow. They chased away the darkness sufficiently to reveal that he was walking on a transparent glass floor. Below him were all manner of exotic aquatic creatures. An abundance of fish—fluorescent ones, translucent ones, piranhas. Manta rays, crabs, jellyfish. Likely other species too. Things he’d before only seen in pictures. Damien tried not to look at them, concentrating on the arrows instead. He wanted to stare; any other time he would have stared. The lure was great. Just another of the distractions meant to throw him off.
And then he tried to put his foot down, and found only air—thereby determining that there were gaps in the glass. He almost tripped, but through some stroke of luck, he managed to recover himself enough to land the other side of the hole. After that, he felt the only option was crawling on his hands and knees. It was uncomfortable, but predictably there were more gaps, and it enabled him to find them in time to circumvent them.
What is with this relentless place?
He’d tried asking anyone he could find to tell him what he should expect. Their descriptions had confused him, and further, they had all been so vague; factual in a way, but lacking substance. Certainly, no one had quite managed to capture the essence of the place. Now he was convinced his initial sentiment had been correct, and their memories had been partially removed… the emotions tempered… a residue of only faint outlines being all that remained. A fog sat over his own brain, and he understood. When had things begun to feel blurry for him? He had no idea how long he’d been down there. Minutes? Hours? Days?
No, it couldn’t have been days, not yet.
Damien’s next opponent was a rotating cylinder, and he was quickly pulled out of his contemplation. The speed at which it was circling meant it was impossible to walk through. He resorted to sliding down it instead.
The inside was patterned with spiraling lines of red and white, which made him so dizzy that he decided to risk closing his eyes. It was steep and gave him the uncomfortable sensation of free-falling. It probably only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like a long time. Towards the bottom, he felt sharp slices against his hands and thighs. Damien told himself that he likely wouldn’t have been able to avoid them even if he’d had his eyes open—maybe it would have been worse to see them coming and be unable to do anything. They were evidently meant to slow him down not incapacitate him because when he once again reached solid ground, he found his injuries were akin to annoying paper cuts—a dull sting but not excessively distracting. More demanding of his attention was his stomach, which was rather unsettled, and his head, which continued spinning disagreeably even once he had stopped moving.
Feeling actually quite awful, and figuring this was as good a time as any, he swallowed the red pill.
It contained some sort of hallucinogenic.
All of his senses became unnaturally heightened. His brain suddenly couldn’t keep up with what his eyes were seeing. The walls started changing around him. Perhaps they were actually moving. His energy levels peaked. He started to run between the shifting walls, which suddenly became mirrored, making it almost impossible to find the gaps between them. He passed it all in a blur.
When he came back around, he was sitting on a rock. His headache and nausea had passed, and he’d somehow made it through whatever that strange challenge was he’d been presented with.
He had intended to take his time choosing his next route, but hearing something large heading his way from his left, he quickly rolled into the path on the right. He hadn’t chosen to bring a dagger in with him, and his plan was to do what he could to avoid any kind of physical conflict. A gate crashed down behind where he stood, only narrowly missing him.
Padlocked wooden chests lined both sides of the long rectangular room, with a couple of paces distance between each one. On moving, it quickly became apparent this was a timed trial—the path was falling away behind him. On the basis the path was collapsing at a set speed rather than as he touched the floor, he decided the safest option would be running to the furthest away treasure chest. If he was lucky, it would buy him a bit of time to pick the lock before the path fell away. He knew it would be the smallest prize, but it also seemed his best chance of survival.
Reaching his destination chest, as he’d hoped, he had a few seconds to spare. His fingers fumbled with the lockpick. He dropped it and had to start again. He almost conceded. At the last second, the pin snapped. He reached in and grabbed his prize, then ran. He didn’t stop to look and determine what he was coveting, he just clutched his hand around it as tightly as possible.
He made it to the end of the chamber. He couldn’t believe it. He’d actually made it! He now dared to peek at what he held. It was a small book of food vouchers. He clutched it close to his chest and whimpered. He would never have dreamt he could find something like this.
“Let me go now?” He called out, “Please, I’m so grateful for this, but I’m done… I’m done.” There was no response.
The lights still flashed; the music continued to play.
Do you feel a little of that despair at the end like I felt? He knows people who got out of The Warren, so surely he will too, right? But who knows when the ordeal will be over, and how much he will remember, or how much he will be left with.
Feel free to tell us what you think of “The Warren” and please, share wide and far with your friends!
—Luke
Meet the author:
Rachel L. Tilley, who lives in the UK, writes short stories in the fantasy and horror genres—whenever she has spare time between looking after her two little ones, her day job as an accountant, and her addictive hobby of reading lots of books.