In the chill, dank horror of a subterranean hell the undead gather, having departed from the living world outside. Some appear resigned, almost philosophical; others panic and, as ever, there is the familiar anger - the outrage as seconds tick by, as life itself is being numbered by expensive minutes. The longer the stay, the greater the toll. There is a distant sound of heavy footsteps - it gets closer, a laboured echo of desperate running, writes Eileen Battersby
Heavy breathing, rasping and wet. It reeks of mortality. A wheezing cough signals the arrival of another lost soul in this Hades. The cave is damp. So many sets of huge, empty dead eyes oversee the anguish. A lone wolf may be watching; rats lurk in the dark corners, poised to pounce on any detritus, a discarded bit of food, the inevitable stream of urine.
Fear and a shared sensation of dread dominates the foul atmosphere. A lurid shrine awaits, impassive and greedy, intent on offerings calculated by an invisible, extraordinarily petty intelligence. An official forfeit must be paid. Withhold these alms and a greater toll will be extracted. The cave offers only temporary shelter; there is no true protection, no greater responsibility. You enter at own risk - and the risk is communal, like experiencing a shipwreck. The search for the small white token begins.
Pause, think, remember.
At the impassive shrine, a small group is huddled: an ancient female - well, not really ancient - and her three young observe as their leader, a male of crazed demeanour and thinning hair, pats his body. Is it a ritual? Or is he having a fit? His tribe are anxious, too terrified to speak. He tears at his clothes, his face becomes dangerously red. Foam gathers at the corners of his mouth, his blackened teeth are clenched. He takes off his coat and shakes it, hurls it to the ground. Pathetic objects spill out - coins, keys, a tired comb, an animal bone - an animal bone? No, it is a writing implement which slides to the slimy ground.
The not-so-ancient female looks up and makes a keening sound. Loud is her lamentation, hot is his fury. Their young look on, restless. They begin to blame each other as the elders snarl and snip. It is a primeval spectacle.
A lean figure steps forward. Perhaps here is salvation. This man is composed, saintly, Homeric. He is ready for battle. He has the white token and confidently prepares to offer coins to the shrine. His alms are accepted.
But wait, he has saved only himself and so he strides off, oblivious of the suffering of the red-faced man and his tormented mate. A rotund female, exuding a heavy, musk-like odour, now takes her chance at the shrine. This Amazon is wrapped in the skin of a dead animal, her large face is smeared in war paint. Her bulk pivots on sharp metal points. She too is in luck; the shrine indicates appeasement. She is free to begin the next stage of her escape - the location of the chariot that, should she find it, will return her to the living world.
As she clatters away, the family continues its vigil. The man has moved on from primitive anger to a despair that is profound to behold. He confesses his crime of negligence to a small hole in the shrine. A metallic voice summons him. His females watch as he walks away to negotiate freedom at a greater price, the cost of carelessness.
More and more members of the undead amass, their faces wan and bloodless in the pulsing light. The shrine god eats their offerings. Some undead are free to move on, others in turn begin to tear at their clothes. It is demeaning to behold.
Yet there is a moment of grace. A girl, her wondrous face defying the cruel half-light cast by the shrine, reaches down and, with a teasing smile at her young swain, extracts the precious token from a pocket perched on the side of her leather boot. An odd but effective place for a pocket. He looks at her with love and/or relief. An uninhibited sexual surge flickers. The couple grapple briefly and then, they too, move off into the darkness, free to begin the next stage of the quest.
And that quest can be terrible. In the shadows distressed human shapes hover. It is obvious that they are lost, clearly bewildered. So many chariots, so many passages to wander in vain through this layered cave. Arguments begin. Shuffling sounds, screaming infants. Shouts. Thuds, clicks.
Some of the dead eyes are suddenly illuminated. Cruel searchlights expose the white faces of bewildered searchers who have not yet been lucky in their quests. The retreating chariots show no mercy.
A man is crawling on the slimy ground. Having paid his forfeit, he has suddenly realised he has somehow mislaid his vital white token. His exhausted female urges him to run back down to the shrine; she will continue hunting for their bark. He lumbers off and is gone.
More searchlights cruise by, accompanied by throbbing growls of contrasting timbres. Ugly clouds of smoke erupt from the newly awakened monsters as they snake past. Loud, primitive shrieks are heard. Human sacrifice - the price of losing one's white token - is a reality. Here and there in the eerie glow are the slumped figures of the fallen undead who can battle no further. They have abandoned their quest. For them, it is over.
Despite having defended their white tokens, and paid their tributes to the shrine god, they themselves are now lost. They can not find the chariots that could bring them to liberty. In the darkness, amid the squalid stench of burning rubber, oil and urine, among the strange creatures - that possible solitary wolf, the resident rats and, let us not forget, the spiders - they wait suspended in a twilight-zone existence.
A last hope remains. In the wake of departing evacuees, in the growing empty space, those who have been left behind may eventually recover their energy - and their cars.