The moon was an ivory blade wrapped in the ebony black of the night. The construction site was eerie, with all the abandoned equipment barely visible by the light of the moon. The giant pile of dirt rose from the middle of the construction sight like a mountain on the plains. You wouldn't be able to find the entrance to the bunker under the pile unless you knew where to look.
A little child, in rough and ragged clothes, sprinted and stumbled toward the pile of dirt. He stutters to a stop in front of the pile. He looks about for a minute or two before climbing the pile a ways off the ground, then he starts to dig. He continues to paddle his arms through the dirt, creating little dirt slides down the rest of the pile. He finally uncovers a large round steel disk that looks like an oversized manhole cover. The little boy starts to unscrew the big manhole cover. He then lifts it and disappears into the depths of the hole.
When the boy enters the bunker, he is met with a hallway that looks to have no end. He slowly creeps along the wall, hoping to hide from whatever is hidden in the dark. He walks for several feet until he hits a wall. Or at least, what he thought was a wall, until he found a small door handle. He slowly turns the handle, and opens the large cement door. It's hinges scream a deathly cry as the boy drags the heavy door back. He looks around the side of the door and lets out a scream before hitting the ground, out like a light.
In the doorway is a skyscraper of a man. The light behind him hits his hair and gives it a silvery gray sheen. He saunters forward, towards the boy's body. He nudges the boy with his foot before bending down and feeling for a pulse. He then scoops the boy up and carries him through the doorway before dumping the boy, unceremoniously on the couch. He then turns and walks back to the door, pulling the door shut with ease. He struts out of the room.
The man comes back with a bucket of water and a glass of murky brown liquid the consistency of wet cement. He walks over to the couch, and sets the bucket on the ground. He then drags the boy's limp body from the couch. He sets the boy on the cement floor and grabs the boy's head. He tilts the boy's head back and tips the glass of murky liquid into the boy's mouth. The liquid slops into his mouth. The man removes the glass and slides his fingers along the child's neck. The young boy's throat moves and then the boy jerks and spasms, his body convulging. The man stands up, grabs the bucket, and pours the bucket across the boy's body.
The boy jerks awake, coughing and choking. He turns away from the man and retches all over the floor. "You awake boy?" the tall man says, with a heavy Swedish accent. "Yes'um" coughs the boy as he turns to face the man, wiping the water from his eyes and pushing his brown scruffy hair out of his eyes.
"Do ya have a name?" the man says as he reaches out his long spidery arm to help the boy stand.
"Charlie.... Charlie Chaplin." the little boy says as he takes the man's hand and looks at the man's face. The man has eyes that are a silvery blue, like the color the sun makes when it reflects across the ocean at dawn. The man's hair was an ashen gray, but not the kind you get from age. He couldn't have been very old since there was still a look of youth to his face.
"No, no you ain't, Charlie Chaplin died a long time ago," says the man as he steadies the boy on his feet.
"Fine, I don't know my last name.... I'm an orphan." the little boy dips his head, hiding the yellow cat eyes that stand out from his face.
"My name is Siefvert, Siefvert Wiklund," says the man reaching down and tipping the boys chin up, "I am a Olympic champion Swedish jump roper." The man drops Charlie's chin and lifts his own with pride, reminding Charlie of a rooster puffing up.
"Steph-kurt Ick-land?" Charlie stutters out, slaying Siefvert's name, "What kind of name is that?"
"Siefvert Wiklund, not Stephkurt Ickland you uncultured swine." Siefvert glares at Charlie with a look of hate one commonly has for small rodents when they find them in their pantry.
