The metal plate shifted against the concrete, closing the unseen depths with a final, heavy clang. His muscles burned from the mad escape, but the air was free of spores here. Relieved, he removed his mask and sank heavily to the floor. He tried to control his breathing despite the suffocating air — heavy with the scent of decay and damp stone. Beneath him, past the rusty bars of the ladder, the creature’s disgusting sounds had faded. But he didn’t trust the silence.
The dim light from his flashlight flickered; it cast shadows against the crumbled walls. His eyes strained to pierce the gloom as he searched for any sign of safety or an exit. But in escaping the tunnel, he had only found himself in another one. After a moment of stillness, he pushed himself up and continued through the shadows, one turn bleeding into the next. He kept his hand on the right wall, trying to map the space in his mind — focusing despite the fear that something could still be hunting him.
He wiped the sweat from his weary brow while he forced himself to assess the situation. For now, the creature was stuck in the tunnels below. His immediate concern was the light — he could not know how long he’d be trapped in these galleries, and his battery supply was limited. The weight of his isolation settled heavily in his chest, but he had faced worse odds before. At least he had a steady supply of food and water. Might hold a week. But the supplies would soon dwindle, and the tunnels seemed endless.
His grip tightened around his weapon — a sturdy curved Pulaski axe he kept sharp. Though the current threat had receded, he remained on edge. His instincts warned him that something else — perhaps worse — could still be lurking in the depths.
For now, though, he had to keep going. The only way out was forward.
Every breath tasted stale, thick like the air hadn’t moved in years. The network of galleries was more intricate than he had anticipated; it felt like they had been made without purpose. Or maybe their purpose was to prevent anyone from uncovering the secrets they hid. If so, they were succeeding. Keeping track of his progress became harder with each new crossing; the toll of darkness and fatigue crushed him. The tight, unending spaces reminded him of the past. A memory he rarely visited. Rows of people pushing and shoving in pursuit of promised salvation — filtering lanes meant to stop some from leaving the city — a futile effort to delay the inevitable.
A sound behind him sent his mind spiralling into survival mode. Instantly, he spun around, the beam slicing through the darkness. For a moment, he was sure the creature was there, lurking just beyond light’s reach. Focus. He had to find shelter or a way out before his mind unravelled completely. So he pressed on, moving faster, as if he could outrun the invisible threat. The stench of decay hung in the air. Sometimes, he thought he heard footsteps again echoing behind him, but when he turned, the darkness was always empty. Waiting.
He couldn’t keep track of time, only of his growing weariness — seconds stretched into minutes, minutes into hours. The obscurity played tricks on him. Shadows danced along the labyrinthine halls, each sound amplified in the lingering silence. He glanced at his watch as if, by some miracle, it would tell him the time — it had been broken for a while now. When he sought a mechanical watch, he had felt clever, thinking it would last as long as he did. One lousy fall had proved him wrong. Now, he kept it as a reminder — a relic of a time long gone.
The walls weren’t entirely bare. Faint streaks of paint clung to the stone like ghosts. Until now, nothing had been clear enough to understand. But as he turned a corner, the flashlight caught something — yellow paint smeared across the wall:
“PRAY FOR THE CHILDREN OF DOOM”
He shuddered.
#
Groans broke the eerie silence when he pushed the rusted gates open. After so long spent in the dark, his hope of finding a way out had never been higher. A cold draft slipped through the gap. Finding the doors had sparked a cruel flicker of possibility, but now his stomach twisted in knots — this was no exit. Instead, a giant hall welcomed him inside with its vast emptiness. A wave of despair washed over him. Yet, there was no time for pity. The only way out is forward. Scraping sounds echoed through the tunnels behind him as he shut the doors and sealed the tomb.
His flashlight started to flicker — the battery would soon need changing. The weak beam struggled to reach the ceiling, catching glimpses of industrial pipes disappearing into the gloom above. This place is filled with tunnels. A soft mist floated just above the ground, reacting to his movements. After so many years sealed, it seemed as though the hall had developed its own weather system. The echoes of his footsteps bounced off the walls; he shifted, unnerved — the fear of finding something alive still clung to him. It was hard to tell what this place had once been, maybe a bunker meant to house thousands or a control centre. Whatever it was, it had been abandoned long ago.
Broken machinery littered the floor, gears and metal fragments scattered like the remnants of a forgotten era. And desks. Rows and rows of desks. Even after society’s collapse, men crave their bureaucratic jobs. Some were toppled, others left standing, their broken computers and scattered papers frozen in time. Moving cautiously through the debris, he scanned the room. Part of him wanted to scream, shatter the silence, with a faint drip of water as his only answer. A rhythmic sound that filled the emptiness.
His boots crunched over shattered fragments. Bones poked through the haze — he was walking on a dusty graveyard. The scene spoke of a hasty abandonment, of people fleeing in panic. Chaos had seized the occupants as they fled, but the details of their fate remained elusive. A half-torn map, yellowed with age, held scribbled notes written in red. “Safe zones overrun” were the only intelligible words. He brushed his fingers against the dust-covered desk, finding remnants of lives left behind — a ripped-up bag and a broken mug handle. No one had been spared. Not even here.
The mist clung to his legs, thicker than before. A strange weight hung in the air, so he slowed his pace. Every instinct screamed at him; he knew this feeling. Danger. He could feel the cool breeze again, but this time, it carried something sharp, almost metallic — the unmistakable scent of blood.
He paused, searching for his next move. Papers scattered around him fluttered like dying birds in an eerie wind. Scanning the hall with his failing light he felt truly exposed now, vulnerable.
He stuffed the flashlight away, grabbed a handful of papers and torn fabric, and quickly tied them around a broken metal rod. Here, the air was less humid; it had to work. His movements were urgent; he grabbed the flint in his bag, striking it hard against the makeshift torch. After a moment, sparks flared, and as the flames erupted, shadows twisted grotesquely around him.
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He took a few steps forward, thrusting the torch ahead. The room seemed to stretch and distort in the firelight. Something was wrong — the way the darkness swallowed everything beyond fire’s reach. As flames danced, so did his heart.
The pieces fell into place. This hall wasn’t a tomb; it was a hunting ground.
The fog swirled in the darkness as shapes moved beneath its white veil. They were closing in. With his axe firm in his grip, he collected himself. The way they moved, circling and probing, they sought an opening. Their intent was clear — they were hunting. Three at 9, two at 3. If they pounced, he’d have to be quick. This time, he could afford no mistake.
Then it came — a sharp shrill piercing the silence. A signal.
Survive.
One lunged at him, bursting from the mist — a quadrupedal monster the size of a dog. With one fell swoop, the blade caught the creature as it leapt. The sharp edge cut through flesh with a sickening ease. A guttural shriek tore from the creature’s throat as it died. But he had to keep moving. More would follow.
He vaulted over a desk and spun around just in time to see one attack. His shoulder burned as the axe came down with all his strength. The creature’s momentum crumpled under the force, the blade sinking deep into its body, crushing it against the deck with a loud, bone-crunching thud. Blood sprayed across the dust like paint on a canvas.
His pulse quickened as adrenaline surged through him. Two at 11, one at 5. He adjusted his stance. He would not falter. Every step was measured, every strike precise. But the odds were against him.
With a grunt, he drove the axe upward, catching another one that had aimed at his head. Its body jerked as the blade tore through it.
Then, a sharp tug at his ankle — something had latched on, tearing through fabric and skin. Pain flared, but his reflexes kicked in. With a snarl, he slammed the torch, setting his attacker ablaze. It leapt out screaming, stumbling back into the fog with the stench of burning flesh.
Eyes gleamed in the torchlight, predatory and ravenous. All around him, and far too many of them. More than he had accounted for. Panic surged as he staggered back, breathing hard. He wouldn’t be able to keep this for too long. Kill or be killed.
He scrambled onto a desk, using the height to seek an escape. They were crawling under the white blanket, circling like sharks. Their numbers seemed to grow, creeping closer every second. But in the dark, he saw it — an opening.
Leaping from one desk to another, he swatted away their lunges using torch and axe. Every muscle ached, but he could see the way out now — within reach.
He dropped to the ground, his feet pounding against the concrete as he rushed forward.
A low growl rippled through the fog — deep, guttural, and menacing. It sent a shiver down his spine.
Something bigger was following.
He turned to face it. A hulking shadow emerged from the mist, and before he could react, a brutal blow struck and knocked him down. The world spun, and his ears rang as he hit the ground. The torch shimmered weakly next to him.
Pain shot through his skull, but the heavy footsteps echoed louder in his ears. He forced his eyes open. Come at me. It towered over him. Its monstrous form loomed, a blur of darkness and raw power. It had come for him.
#
He snapped back to awareness, and at first, he felt a pull — an unyielding tugging at his leg. He was being dragged. His clothes scraped against the rough ground, and his head spun as thoughts swam through a haze of confusion. The torch’s dying light faded and finally went out in the distance, leaving him swallowed by the darkness. He couldn’t understand how he was still alive. The dog-like creatures should have been gnawing at his guts by now. Instead, the monster seemed to want him somewhere. Alive.
That terrified him more.
Desperately, he clawed at the floor, trying to grab onto a wall, a desk, anything… A useless attempt. Terror drowned his every thought as the last semblance of control was stripped from him.
In complete and utter darkness, there was no way of knowing where he was going. The creature’s wet, ragged breaths and grip around his ankle were the sole sensory stimulations in the emptiness. He had only so long to figure out a plan before they’d arrive at whatever hellish place the creature wanted him to see.
The floor beneath him had changed. It was wet, squishing with every drag. Each creature’s step landed with a thud, splashing through puddles of rot. A foul stench filled the air. He felt bumps under him, like roots pulsing under the surface. The ground was cold and slimy, the creature yanking further into the abyss, each moment blurred into an endless agony.
The abductor slowed.
He seized the moment, fumbling for the flashlight in his bag. Then the monster yanked him hard, slamming him against a wall. With a grunt, his shoulder hit a layer that spread thick and spongy — like meat.
Now.
He clicked the flashlight on, and the beam flickered alive as it revealed the nightmare. The chamber around him pulsed with life; pinkish-white tendrils crawled over every surface, layered on each other — coiling over the walls, the floor, and even the ceiling. It was like being inside some grotesque living organism, tissues of muscles stretched over concrete bones. Small irregular holes gaped in the tendrils, each exhaling wisps of a white gas that crept along the floor, seeping out from the room.
The creature growled, momentarily distracted by the glare.
In a swift motion, he got back up and rushed towards the nearest opening. Holding the flashlight high, he ran with all the energy he had left. The creature roared behind him, but it had been slow to react.
His boots slipped on the slick floor and nearly sent him in a sprawl. But he caught himself, heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t dare look back. He couldn’t.
His life depended on it.
#
He was running — like a madman, a beast with nothing but instinct. His boots pounded against the stone in a rhythm of desperation; the walls around him blurred into twisted shadows. With each frantic step, the flashlight beam bounced wildly, and behind him, the faintest of sounds. The creature would not give up. For now, it spurned him to run faster.
The tunnel twisted and turned, endless. How long had he been running? His legs had gone numb; he was moving on pure instinct. For a brief moment, he wondered if this was all there was. Is there no end?
But then, just as the thought seized him, the ground changed ahead. Stairs. Crude and carved into the stone, it lead up. He took the steps two at a time as his heart lurched with the faintest hint of hope.
He rushed upwards with one hand on the rough stone wall to steady himself. He wondered where they would lead, but they were leading him away from the nightmare below. That was enough.
Then, he saw her.
A figure slumped against the wall at the top of the stairs. At first, he was sure it was a trick of his faltering mind. But climbing closer, the shape resolved — human. It was a woman curled in on herself, her face muddied, her clothes stained.
His breath caught in his throat. His flashlight swept over her as she stirred, barely conscious. Blood smeared across her body, a wound on her side. He finally realised she was alive — her chest rising and falling unsteadily.
Something unfamiliar surged within him, clouding his judgment and taking hold of his reflexes. He glimpsed letters embroidered on her bloodied shirt: “Victoria”.
Whoever she was, she needed help. And fast.
***