In 1862, a group of men digging London’s sewer tunnels becomes trapped after a collapse, left to face the rising darkness with no hope of rescue.
Trigger Warning:This story contains themes of bodily harm, strong language, death, and implied mercy killing, which some readers may find distressing. Reader discretion is advised.
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John had been working on the construction of Joseph Bazalgette’s London Sewage System for almost a year now. He had been applying for the opportunity since the digging had begun three years earlier. He had enjoyed it so far - the pay was better than his previous construction employment and the demands of the sewer system promised a long term of work - despite the heavy rainfall that morning in May on the day that he lost his job.
Inside the sewage system, that had been dug out so far, he passed the usual surveyors and architects, other diggers carting wheelbarrows of dirt out of the tunnel, and two tall pumping mills that were in stages of completion. As the natural light faded, lanterns, which, after careful gas leak tests, had been hung on the stone walls, lit his pathway. He reached the intersection tunnel his team had been assigned to and walked down to join them.
The work was slow and monotonous, hacking away at the stone and soil. A constant rhythm broken only by the men’s conversation and strained grunts as they swung their pickaxes. As John worked alongside them, he listened to their talk about wives and courtships, children, and the usual updates on each others lives. The man who wielded their heaviest pickaxe, George, told them about the holiday to Bristol he would be on leave for in two weeks time. He hoped it would be sunny as he was bored of their soggy, humid workplace and the athlete’s foot it had given him.
John echoed the complaint and wondered how long the construction of the sewers would take. He had heard it would last for another five to six years, but he wasn’t sure how Bazalgette’s team could predict the completion of such a large project. There had already been a number of accidents and disasters that had set back their progress by a couple of weeks each time. Peter, a member of the team who had lost two fingers during a small collapse the previous year in the main tunnel, asked the others, ‘Hey, do you think if I lost any more fingers, I’ll finally get paid some decent fucking compensation?’
George suggested that if Peter’s whole arm was injured beyond repair then their contractors might even give him a holiday. Rob, the youngest member of the team, laughed with them then returned to his work in a hurry. When John had asked him why he worked so hard, Rob had replied that he was saving his wages to prove he was a decent suitor for the girl he loved.
John hit the stone he’d been working at once more then positioned his pickaxe upside down so that the axe head rested on the floor. He leaned on the long wooden handle that now stood vertical from the ground and watched the lines of moisture run down the jagged walls. He wiped his sweat-coated forehead on his shirt and thought of the nice warm bath his wife would have ready for him when he returned home from his shift. As he stood there, beetles, bugs, and centipedes scuttered across his boots and crawled up his arms and legs. Above them, the rumbling of trains made dust and small rocks fall from the ceiling of the tunnel.
It was not an uncommon occurrence - in fact, the trains travelled over them every half an hour or so - but John had started to notice that the amount of debris that fell each time had begun to increase. He’d thought about notifying his contractor but he was unsure if they would listen, after all, he only had five years of experience as a labourer not an expensive education in the matter. As John brushed the dust and dirt out from his hair with his hand, George lifted his heavy-weighted pickaxe and stuck the rock in one of his high-arced swings. He pulled the axe head out and a deep rumbling in the rock face followed. George stepped back and looked at the wall.
All of the men listened to the creak and groan as a hairline crack, pushed further open by the blow from George’s pickaxe, spread up the wall and across a quarter of the ceiling’s horizontal length. All the men watched the gash in the rock and listened in silence. There was a noise like the trains that passed over them, only louder and more constant, then the rocks around the crack began to crumble away from the ceiling and walls. Stone and debris descended and the whole intersection tunnel began to shake around them.
‘Run.’ John shouted, his pickaxe falling to the floor. ‘Head for the main tunnel.’
His team followed his order without hesitation. He could hear their months of work collapse behind them, chasing them out of the tunnel, and the lanterns smashing as they were hit and crushed by rocks. He had no idea how close they were to the main tunnel now but he hoped they would reach it soon. The lanterns ahead of them began to fall too as the tremor resounding around the tunnel ruptured a weak spot a few metres down the tunnel. They would either become trapped between the two blockages or be crushed by the entirety of the cave-in. John couldn’t decide which would be worse.
The rocks obstructed their exit and they turned to face the oncoming blockade of falling debris. George whispered a quick prayer and John closed his eyes. Then, the crashing and roaring slowed to a stop and a gust of hot air blew into his face as the dust resettled. He tried to focus on what was happening. He smiled at the relief of still being alive but the joy he felt disappeared when he felt the rocks behind him. They were now trapped inside the intersection tunnel. He opened his eyes and, through a small light that came from the top of the eleven-and-a-half foot wall of debris behind them, saw that the larger collapse had stopped almost ten feet away. A loud groan came from somewhere ahead of him. In an attempt to gain control over his panic, John decided to do a roll call.
‘George, you there?’
‘I’m here, John, can’t see much at all. There must be a lantern around here … I’ll try to find one.’ George’s voice seemed close to John. Heavy footsteps moved towards the remaining stretch of tunnel wall.
‘Peter? What about you?’ John could hear the man whimpering.
The sound of glass clinking, and a match being struck, echoed around them bringing John’s attention back to George who was now holding a lit lantern by its handle.
‘Here, John. There’s something heavy on my leg … I don’t think I can move it.’
John walked towards Peter’s voice. ‘Are you okay?’
‘In a lot of pain, to tell you the truth, but I’ll be fine once my leg’s free.’
John called George over so he could use the light. They found the man four feet away from the far side of the blockade of debris. A couple of large rocks had fallen onto his upper left leg and knee. John pushed and pulled until Peter was free while George held the lantern above them.
‘Where’s Rob?’ He asked, looking around him.
John helped Peter to stand who then put his left foot on the floor. He didn’t flinch until he tried to walk then stumbled backwards into the sculpted wall. John made sure he was okay before signalling George to search with him for their last team member.
‘Rob?’ George called out.
John looked wherever the light allowed them to see, hoping he would find the boy curled up in shock. The light illuminated a section of the collapse beyond where they had found Peter and, in front of the wall of rubble, was Rob. He was laying flat on his stomach on the floor of the tunnel, covered in a layer of dust. John rushed over, with George close behind him, and dropped to his knees by the boy. Now that he was nearer to him, John could see that only Rob’s torso was inside their cave - the only word he could think to call it - the rest of the boy was underneath the collapsed rock. John had been so sure that all of his men were with him when they ran through the tunnel. He thought of the boy dying alone … would it have been quick? Painless? How would he tell Rob’s family and the girl he had wanted to marry?
John whispered an apology to the boy then stood back up and returned to where Peter was waiting for him. He walked over to the blockade that used to lead to the entrance of the intersection tunnel. As he listened to George say the words ‘Rob is dead’ to Peter, John kicked the solid debris in front of him. He hurt his foot but breathed through the pain as he reasoned with himself that he deserved it. George came over to his side and John, as the pain had subsided, used the lantern’s light to examine the wall. There had to be a way out, he thought, perhaps that light … his thoughts were interrupted as George placed his lantern down and, from the floor, took the pickaxe he hadn’t dropped until they had stopped running. He swung it against the wall before them, over and over, until John grabbed hold of George’s arm and told him to stop. The man threw the axe across their ‘cave’ and released a raw and angry cry. He banged on the wall with his fists then walked away back into the dark areas around them.
Peter slid down the tunnel’s side to sit on the floor.
‘Fuck.’ His leg looked wonky as he stretched it out straight. ‘Are we going to die here?’
John didn’t know how to comfort his men, wasn’t even sure he could, not without lying anyway. He had prided himself on being a fair and truthful team leader and he didn’t want to stop being that person now. What would happen if they did not or could not, accept the truth though, he thought, would they turn on him? Perhaps, lying was his best option. Instead, he remained silent and turned to the rubble before him. He placed his calloused fingers in the ridges of the jagged surface and began to climb, finding the right leverage points as he moved further up the wall.
When he reached the top, the ledges became a little wider until John found one he could rest on. He leaned against it and used his legs to anchor himself onto the surrounding rocks. A hole, the size of a shilling, was level with his hairline and he squinted at the sudden light that emanated from a lantern that hung on the other side. He tried to push his body up enough to peer through the opening but managed to hit his head on the ceiling of the tunnel instead. His grip slid on the ledge he was perched on, almost sending him off of it. He steadied himself and listened through the hole to a conversation he could only just about hear.
‘Do you think anyone might still be alive?’ The first voice sounded as though it belonged to one of their surveyors who helped advise on the construction of the main tunnel.
A train rumbled the ground above John’s head, so close he could feel the ceiling vibrate, as he tried to shout out to get the surveyor’s attention. The one time the train would have been helpful if it was late, he thought, then wondered if they would have even been able to hear him since the dust he had inhaled during the collapse had made his throat dry.
‘No. It looks too solid. Any point trying to rebuild the intersection here again?’ A second man asked.
‘With a collapse this big, it’s clear the ground here is too unstable. I think it’d be best to just fill this one back up. We can use the spare rubble we’ve collected from the other tunnels,’ was the reply before two sets of footsteps moved further away from the tunnel until the place was quiet again.
John cried as quiet as he could. How could he tell his men that they were to be buried? How could he keep it from them? He wished he could talk to his wife, she would know what to do, what to say to make him feel secure. He looked at the climb down and the lantern that still lit the bottom of the blockade wall. In the halo of light, the steel head of George’s pickaxe had a shadow like a stunted scythe. John imagined the fear and the anger, even hatred, towards him that his team would feel as their air was taken with every shovel load of dirt that would fill the tunnel. How could he face them when they realised his failure? He could take the pickaxe and save them the pain, he thought, let them die a quicker death, and hope God would forgive him. John wiped his eyes clear and began the descent to the floor of the tunnel and the pickaxe that lay just out of reach.
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