Matches snapped beneath Hawks as he fell like a cat with a lead weight on its back. Luckily the floor was also formed of dank earth which cushioned his fall. He got up, briefly wondered if the fall hadn’t rendered him blind, then grabbed the tails of his overcoat which were hanging in front of his face and flipped them back over his head. There was a faint, acrid smell in the air which he couldn’t identify, and an iron-y taste settled on his tongue. He stumbled about in the darkness, bashing his shin on something metal that bounced away. Cursing, he ceased his explorations and allowed his eyes to become acclimated to the darkness. He wished he had been more careful with the matches…

The Deadman’s Finger: Chapter Four