That was not the only problem. Michael looked around the dark mines with its multiple winding paths that led to God knows where. He was trapped inside a mazy mineshaft with absolutely no clue about where he was or how to get out. He decided to go in the direction where the men had headed and hopefully, end up at the exit. Hopefully.
But what if those cowboys are waiting for me? He thought. Well, it's better than starving here in this mineshaft, I guess.
He walked and walked ahead with no notion about time. At first, he tried to mark pathways so that he would know if he wasn't walking the same path twice but there were so many nicks on the walls that it was hard to ascertain them in the darkness. Eventually, as time went by and his frustration grew, he gave up trying and instead, staggered ahead blindly, like a thirsting zombie. From the way his legs ached, and his stomach growled, he could tell it had been quite a while. He did not know how long he was there. It felt like ages. He craved for water and the dusty mine did not help his thirst at all. A few drops. Just a few drops. His vision was blurring which made the caverns look even more similar than they already were to him. He was instinctively choosing which path to take and had a foreboding feeling that he was walking in circles. Each dead end he faced felt like a death sentence to him.
Hours, even days, that's how long he felt he was in this hellhole of a mine. He had to take numerous resting breaks when it felt like his legs were about to give away. But he did not tarry for long because the dark only made him feel more uneasy. He wished now that his pursuers had found him. It would be better than the suffering he was going through.
At one point, a sarcastic morbid thought hit him. Maybe I should kill myself, he thought. I am immortal after all. He quickly dismissed the thought. There was no way he was going to do that.
In all his days since Elena had found him, he had never even thought about killing himself. Even after discovering he was immortal, he still did not think about it. He hated the feeling of dying, the feeling he had felt when he had been stabbed to death by Evans. The nothingness he had felt in those few moments had been frightening. He could never get used to the feeling. He could never welcome it. He did not even feel immortal. He was still a kid; a teenager who should not even be worrying about getting killed or starving to death in a mine.
What was that? He had heard a sound. A voice. A voice bellowing from the path in front of him. It sounded like a man. He was confused. Was he imagining it? Have they started searching here? The voice bellowed again and now Michael was sure it was someone.
Adrenaline shot through him and turned back to make a run for it. But then he realized it was someone calling for help.
"Help! Please, anyone. Help me!"
Michael followed the voice and ended up inside a small room in front of which lay a pile of broken planks that had initially covered the opening. He would never have noticed it if not for the voice. He entered inside and could see crates filled with empty, rusted canisters of gasoline that were stacked inside rusting mine carts. He could not find anyone inside thinking it was his mind that had been playing tricks on him all along. Ghosts? Do ghosts exist now too? Then he saw the man in the corner whose body was tied with thick ropes.
"Who.. who are yeou?" stammered the man. He had a gruff Texan accent which was hard for Michael to understand. "You're not one of em, are you?"
"One of who?" asked Michael crouching down beside him. He still couldn't make out his face.
"Oh, thank god," exclaimed the man in happiness. "I thought I was a goner. Those bastards tied me up here after raiding my caravan. They took everything, those pieces of filth. Months of hard work and trading all down the drain. I heard footsteps and thought they had come to finish me off. Thank god it was you. I bet it was Cole who set those men on me. He's going to pay!"
Michael had no idea what he was talking about but began to untie the ropes. He was having a difficult time in dealing with the complicated bonds. His waning strength did not help him either and he had to be guided by the man.
"You're not from around here, are you?" he asked. "You must be one of them city folk. Plenty of city folk come around here. Usually criminals runnin' away from the Nazis. But with all I hear about the respawner attack, people might be heading here. Is that hogwash actually true?"
Michael nodded. "Well, as if we didn't have enough trouble in the world," the man muttered to himself. "What are you doing inside here anyways?"
Michael hesitated for a while thinking of an answer. "I came here seeking shelter but then… I got lost…". Anything to make this guy not get suspicious of me.
"Ah, well, I could help you with that. Provided we get out of this place first."
The man was finally free and he slowly stretched his body after he got up with a groan. He began to rummage around looking for something.
"The name's Wilson," he said. "But you can call me Willy since I now consider you a friend."
Michael told him his name and he watched as Willy let out an exclamation of happiness. There was a match box in his hand.
"Those bastards must've forgotten these here. Getting out now is going to be a walk in the park."
The man grabbed a wooden plank that he found nearby the crates and then removed his shirt. He found a gasoline can which had a few drops left and carefully poured them onto the shirt. He lit it with the match and the torch lit the whole room up.
Michael held out a hand to shield his eyes from the light. He felt as if he was looking directly at the sun having been trapped inside her for so long. He could finally see the captor he had rescued. He was a middle-aged man with a light, semi-silvery stubble that matched the color of his short hair and prominent wrinkles on his tanned face. His lips were red and swollen
with marks at the edges. A limp rope hung around his neck which Michael realized had been around his mouth. His face looked quite beaten up with a black eye - along with bruises and cuts all over his face and neck.
"Oh, Michael, you look like you've been through hell," said Wilson observing him. He saw a teenage boy covered in dust and sweat. His arms and knees were scraped badly and were caked in dried blood. The eyes were full of fear, as if they had seen things that they shouldn't have. "Let's get out of here fast. It looks like you need help more than me."
They both made their way out of the room and Michael followed Willy, not sure how he thought they could escape from here.
"They've marked the path, here, see," explained Willy pointing at the walls and Michael noticed small fading arrows were chalked at the edges into the walls. They had been impossible to see in the dark. Michael felt hope flare within him as he followed Willy who moved ahead with confidence.
Willy was very talkative. He thanked Michael a lot for saving him between telling him a detailed account of how his caravan had been raided. He had gone for a business trip to many of the Freeland towns where he owned plenty of stores when he had been jumped. Michael happily listened to the story as it distracted him from his own predicament.
"So why did you make the journey all the way till here?" asked Willy. Michael gulped. What was he supposed to say?
Willy noticed his expression. "Criminal? Don't worry kid, people run away from there all the time. They've got so many stupid laws there that even a saint can be labelled a criminal there."
Michael nodded.