“Didn’t you ever want to know?”
The corridor smells rotten. Grey mould stretches across the walls, while black water drips from the ceiling onto the cracked ceramic tiles below. Giant green spores float listlessly in the stale air.
Something scuttles in the darkness.
“Rat,” you say through clenched teeth.
We saunter on. You following a rusty copper pipe which runs across the ceiling. Me feeling my way on the greasy walls. Corridors branch out into the darkness. Black voids which threaten to turn you around and eat you alive.
Here be dragons. Dragons with eyes as wide as saucers.
We come to a room. An office, I think.
A thick layer of dust sits on the pile of antiquated computer monitors in the corner, while mould mushrooms out of an abandoned coffee cup on one of the desks. Sheets of paper – tinted yellow – carpet the floor.
Eyes as wide as saucers. The torch makes a mockery of our imaginations.
“Come on,” you say, jabbing the pale light towards another corridor.
Later, we find a room containing a pile of office chairs. It’s stacked so high that it nuzzles the celling.
It’s more like a mine now. Corridors become more rock than metal. Space becomes tight and I can feel your breath on my neck as we tentatively inch forward.
The torchlight doesn’t have the spirit to reach the other side of the cavern.
We squeeze in between the two hulking generators. They lie silent, their mechanical innards spread thin across the uneven floor. Screws crunch underfoot as the yellow haze bounces off the jagged metal surrounding us.
Later, we come across something else. You whistle. Impressed. Nerd.
A mass of thick cables pour from the ceiling, around the corridor and into the darkness; a sea of intertwined black wires easily taller than either of us. I swear I can hear it humming. The city. Talking to each other.
“Hello,” you say quietly under your breath.
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