“Hurry!” his blond friend urges him, and he loosens the belt restraining my wrists. I rub my irritated skin while he works on my feet. Then I hear metal paws carrying a one-ton body galloping our way.
Tarcyll turns around to face the metal beast who just entered the hideout with a hiss of steam. He pulls his gun out and opens fire before I can open my mouth and scream. Diaphonus throws something like a smoke bomb, and suddenly a thick haze enshrouds my surroundings.
Panicked, I pull on the tape to free my feet, cursing my savior, who spent too much time staring at me instead of releasing me. Thank God, the duct tape gives in.
I feel my way around to the door I used for my first escape, wincing at the sounds reverberating behind my back—scraping of metal against concrete, heavy thuds, gunshots, clanking of steel. I’m not sticking around to see who will win. I’m also not sure who to root for.
The underground tunnel wraps me in heavy, suffocating darkness, and a distant reek of sewage water stings my nose. My feet splash in invisible puddles, and tiny bodies brush around my ankles. I press a palm against my mouth to choke a scream. Rats! Most likely rabid. Still a better option than going back to that room. What expects me there? The crazy pack calling themselves “Hunters”? The aggressive metal monster the size of a small car?
There should be a way out, a tunnel leading to the surface. The noise of the clash and the gunshots fades behind my back. I can hear flowing water somewhere ahead. Short of options, I decide to follow the stream. It’s what survivors do in the wild; surely the same logic applies here?
Murky light filters through some openings in the walls high above my head. At least I can see where I’m going. The tunnel widens, trickles of water gathering in the middle of the floor, forming the lazy rivulet I follow. The bottom is slippery, and I shudder with disgust. The lukewarm sluggish water reaches up to my bare ankles. I don’t flinch anymore at the presence of the rats. They stare at me with beady glowing eyes but keep their distance.
Heaps of trash litter the floor. Random objects like plastic toy parts, glass bottles, cutlery, and paper tangle into surreal monstrosities that look alive in the scarce light. I tread carefully; cutting my bare feet here would bring me a nasty infection.
A place where people discard things, hoping never to be found again. I remember the words of Cyrell, and a chill crawls down my spine. Who knows what lurks in these depths? What kind of beasts—far more terrifying than rats—have established their domain here? A draft of cool air and an impossible stench hits me when the rivulet turns into a wide, slow creek, the dark waters stretching from wall to wall. I press my back against the sticky, humid masonry and suppress the urge to vomit as I move forward. The heavy waters are getting deeper, touching my mid-calf with unclean fingers. Just a few more feet to scout what lies ahead. If there is no safe path, I will retrace my steps and take another tunnel I passed earlier. The stench brings tears to my eyes, and I brave my way through the repulsively warm water, trying not to contemplate all the diseases flourishing in these unsanitary conditions. A cockroach of terrifying size scatters over my hand, and I scream.
My voice rushes down the hidden depths, gains momentum, and bounces back, multiplied by unseen tunnels and niches ahead. Then silence reigns in. Blood-curdling, unnatural silence, which makes me take a hesitant step back. As if something has heard me. And then my shin bumps into something. Startled, I look down, trying to determine if I am hurt.
It’s a stroller. A bulky baby stroller, like those used in the nineties, its bright colors are hidden under layers of dirt. The water ripples around it, each splash revealing rags and mud caught in its body. Some pale sphere draws my attention, and I take a step closer to take a look, in some morbid delirium. Is this a bowling ball?
Oh
My
God.
I stumble backward, my jaw dropping in a silent scream of terror. It’s a skull.
A female skull, judging by the long strands of hair floating around it, mummified hands still clutching the stroller.
A place where people discard things… Cyrell warned me.
What kind of secrets do these tunnels hold? What kind of tragedies have these walls witnessed?
A freezing draft makes the hairs on my arms stand up. This unnatural silence, as if I’m in a vacuum bubble, suffocates me. Reeking mist pools at my feet. It ripples and climbs, covering the dreadful remains.
Something is wrong. I can’t say how I know this, but it vibrates in every single cell of my body.
Run, a warning stirs my guts.
Save yourself, the draft beckons.
Yet I stand petrified, eyes wide in terror, watching a phantom rise from the murky water.
I have heard stories of vengeful spirits at sleepovers with friends, and I’ve seen my share of horror movies. I consider myself an expert in all things spooky. Yet this… this is something else.
And when a pale figure of a decaying, skinny woman rises just three feet away from me, her eyes black wells of unspeakable pain, dark blood oozing from the multiple stabs on her chest, I know I have to stay calm.
Yet primal fear grips me in its tarry tentacles, and I retreat.
“You cannot take my baby!” The jaw of the apparition opens, releasing a swarm of flies, and I retreat cautiously, the thick water deeper, swirling around my hips, the stream getting stronger, pulling me in.
“You cannot take her!” Her blood-curdling scream forces me to take a couple more steps into the deceiving water. I feel the bottom slipping underneath my bare feet, and the current pulls me into a black river, its raging waters thundering under the low ceiling.
“Give me back my babyyyy!” the howl borders on ultrasound, when I realize I must fight for my life. The current is dragging me into utter darkness. I struggle to keep my head over the thick, pungent water.
“Help!” I squeak, but the waves swallow it.
