Page 8 of Skyn (After the End #3)

The Chins

So, here I am, in a skeevy bar alongside three men with identical faces. I seriously cannot tell them apart. They have all been modified into aggressive uniformity. For expediency’s sake, I’ll call them the Chins.

I am unceremoniously yanked out of the bar and shoved into what can only be described as a relic from a bygone era: an ancient rail-cart platform that looks like it’s one broken axle away from a total fucking death spiral.

These carts, once a proud part of the underground’s industrious network, have long since been retired, left to rust and rot in the forgotten corners of the mines.

But this particular beauty was dragged out of some scrapyard hell, its jagged, rusted edges just begging to introduce a new strain of tetanus to the world.

The wheels—caked with grime—wobble on the tracks like they’re playing a game of will they or won’t they with gravity. The answer to which I am not particularly keen on discovering.

“Listen, listen,” I begin, injecting a modicum of reason into the situation. “You all aren’t from here, so let me do you a solid. This cart? No business transporting anything—let alone people. So—”

But before I finish my little PSA, one of the chins shoves me inside without so much as a mind the gap.

I stumble, trying to find my footing on the uneven floor.

The cart jerks forward, and a screeching sound fills the air as the wheels scrape against rusted tracks.

I say a little prayer and hope the fifteenth-century monks who built this wobbly-ass cart knew what they were doing.

I take a breath, though shaky and laced with regret.

At that moment, the prospect of tucking and rolling is becoming increasingly appealing, but before I can act on that brilliant idea, a rough piece of fabric is unceremoniously thrown over my face.

Everything goes dark. I would be lying if I said I’m not at least a little relieved; after all, if I can’t see the death trap I’m hurtling through, maybe I can trick myself into believing it isn’t happening.

The fabric of the hood scratches against my skin.

The cold metal of the cart’s frame presses into my back as we pick up speed, and the hood tightens around my neck with each jolt, giving me the disturbing thought that if someone wanted to, they could just give it a good tug and—poof—end of story.

My stomach lurches as the cart descends, the downward pull making it abundantly clear that for the next six weeks of my life, I’m no longer in full control of the outcome.

“Look at her. I told you they were soft.” A cold metal hand rises up my leg, and another one reaches inside my shirt to pluck at a nipple. I kick out, connecting with something hard.

“This bitch.”

But I hear metal hit metal.

“Don’t touch her. We’ll be able to fuck her soon enough after Ben runs crying in the other direction. We can’t give him a reason to legitimately refuse.”

I’m someone’s unwanted burden. I don’t want to think about what my life will be like. I have to think of the steps to the end. The flowchart is cartoonishly simple: find information about the controlled burn—> flash the diamond—> get out—> ipso the fuck facto, I’m rich.

The cart levels out for a moment before tilting upward, and the pressure shifts, pushing me back into the seat as we began to climb. My ears pop, a series of uncomfortable clicks that somehow seem less alarming than the rest of what’s happening.

All I can do is hold on as this contraption drags me—whether I like it or not—toward the surface, toward the light, toward whatever lies above.

There’s a fleeting moment where the cart seems to hang in the air, weightless, and I find myself floating just above the seat.

It’s terrifying, and then, just as quickly, gravity returns with a vengeance, pinning me down as we continue our ascent.

The first thing I notice is the air. The metallic tang that permeated the underground has lifted, replaced by something fresher, cleaner—so unfamiliar that it almost feels like a memory from another life. My lungs instinctively pull in deeper breaths, trying to savor this strange new atmosphere.

The hood remains firmly over my head, but I can see a soft, muted light filtering through the coarse material as we rise.

It grows stronger and warmer—nothing like the harsh artificial glare of the underground lamps.

This is different, gentler. The mechanical clanks and grinding noises from the railcar fade, replaced by softer sounds: wind rustling the fabric against my face, and the distant call of an animal.

I can’t stop the creeping sense of wonder, even with terror gnawing at the edges of it.

The world around me is changing. And yet, in all this, I didn’t stop to consider the impossibility of what I’m doing.

What if I hate being aboveground? What if I can’t get the info?

What if I stay aboveground, getting fat and fucked while a controlled burn decimates my sector?

Am I a hero? Does my sector deserve a hero?

God, the way they treated me… They’re in a bad way if I am all they have.