A single bulb flickered in the tunnel's ceiling. Its twitching, dirty light painted the walls yellow. Cold air wafted in from outside, lessening the bleached-out stink of altered genetics. Crossbow thrust before him, Roy stopped in the corridor. He turned to look over his shoulder.
"If anything's down there, leave it to me."
Chanda's eyes flashed. Her full lips twisted at the corners. Long, brown fingers tightened around the shotgun's walnut stock.
"I'm no scientist," she whispered, her voice hard.
"But even I know my gun packs more of a punch than your ode to William Tell."
Roy shook his head, allowed a smile to split his beard.
"You fire that down here, we'll be deaf for a couple of hours. I don't have a clue what that level of decibels will do to Grace's hearing."
Chanda grimaced. She gave him a nod. Swift hands broke the gun open. She deposited the shells in her belt.
"Just in case I get twitchy," she said, a coy smile on her lips.
"Also, wait here. If something gets past me, the kid stands a better chance of survival if both of you run it back to the van."
"Okay. Sure," Dave blurted, cradling Grace's head in his palm and stepping behind Chanda.
Chanda, weapon held in the crook of her arm, stepped forward. She raised a hand, jabbing a finger at Roy's chest.
"And if whatever ripped your door of is still down here? What happens if I'm not their to save your pasty butt again?"
"You take the van for a spin until the engine seizes. Hide 'til it's safe if you want. If you can make it back, everything you need will be easy to find. I'm an engineer. My work bench is a mess. My supplies and materials are arranged to near OCD levels."
Her lips parted for an argument she'd never make. Metal rattled deeper within the bunker, the crash of aluminium accentuated by a loud grunt.
"Stay here," Roy hissed, raising his bow.
"Keep that kid safe at all costs."
He moved through the passage in a half-crouch. Shoulder tight against the left-hand reinforced-concrete wall, he stopped at an intersection. His senses buzzed for any hint of the intruder. He scanned the flickering darkness of each corridor. Left was his bunk room, gym and hygiene station. To the right, kitchen and living quarters. Straight ahead, he'd built a workshop. An iron door separated it from stairwell leading to his stores and modest armoury. A manhole cover opened to an iron ladder, down to a subterranean river that powered his home.
Breathing in long, silent draws, he focused his hearing. Low, mournful growls rumbled through the enclosed area.Weight dragged against concrete flooring. The dull slap of a dropped body echoed. Falling metal clattered against hard ground. Smaller, softer thumps added a bass counterpoint. Dropping a hand to check his knife, Roy moved into the corridor with a heel-to-toe step. After twenty feet of emergency-lit tunnel, he came to the workshop door.
"Well damn," he whispered.
The two-inch thick steel door hung from a single hinge. Deep furrows had been gouged into the metal. Swarf littered the concrete floor, the tiny brass shaving gouged from the mortice lock when the door had been smashed open. Inside, Roy's tools lay scattered. Hundreds of pounds worth of wrenches, chisels and other equipment glittered like jewels. Lathe, band saw and other heavy tools had been flipped on their sides. His forge appeared untouched. Basketball sized dents marred the venting tube above.
He switched his gaze to the far right corner. Bottles and canisters of combustible gasses and liquids remained safely inside their reinforced metal cage. A pang of relief fluttered in his gut. It died when he looked to the supply room's entrance. The opening loomed in darkness. Wooden splinters of architrave jutted like teeth from the yawning mouth. The door, battered from snapped hinges, lay acros the threshold. The wooden slab mocked him like a wooden tongue.
Something moved down the long stairway. Weight rasping on concrete, rattling metal grabbed his attention. Crossbow in hand, he crossed to the wire cage. Its sturdy chain and combination lock had been untouched by the intruder. Thumbing a six-digit number, Roy eased the cage open. Slinging the crossbow's strap over his shoulder, he pulled a gallon jug from a shelf. Next, he grabbed a large plastic bottle. Unscrewing the hand pump, he tipped the contents of his first pick into the container. The stink of rotten eggs burned his throat. He worked the handle with frantic pumps, building pressure in the container. When the grip refused to drop any further, he slipped the carry cradle across his free arm. The device was a cumbersome, uncomfortable load next to his arbalest.
Heel-to-toe again, he stalked toward his storage vault. Sounds of movement and destruction filtered up from the darkness. The creature's stink roiled up from the depths, drowning the caustic stench from Roy's throat. Grabbing the safety rail, he moved around the fallen door. Though he had to brace his feet painfully against the concrete wall, he wanted the solid slab of wood to remain untouched and precariously balanced. Once past, he crept down the the pantry.
Bile rose to his throat. Tears stung a the corners of his eyes. The mutant lay sprawled in a mess of cans, dried food, water bottles and other supplies. Massive globes of white, sightless tissue bulged from a blunted, round head. Twisted arms bulged at right angles from a long rubbery body. Its back and shoulders tapered down to hips that would have been too narrow on an unaltered child. Inhumanly long legs trailed behind it. Flesh and bone had fuses together into a reptilian tail. Aiming the nozzle of his pump at the beast, Roy stepped toward the mutant.
"Hey," he barked, kicking a can of preserved food at the monstrosity.
Flabby arms braced against concrete. Levering its body from the floor, it lashed out with a clawed hand. Talons struck sparks aganst the concrete. Twisting around with a flick of its giant tail, the mutant sent cans, packets and shelving clattering against the far wall. Huge nostril slits opened in its blunted face. Viscous yellow mucous dripped from the orifices as it drank in air. Useless eyes drifted to Roy. Rubbery, car tyre lips parted, exposing a single bone-ridge tooth in each jaw. Ochre slime poured over its slips and down the blubbery expanse of its chest. It shrieked, the high-pitched, almost avian, note digging into Roy's brain.
"Come on then, slug," the hunter sneered.
-TBC-