DREAD

The shop smelled of dust and old metal, the air heavy with rust and forgotten trinkets. Will waited at the counter while Gus, a plump, round-faced boy, blinked sleepily, his chin still resting on his chest. He had been fast asleep moments ago and had jolted awake when Will approached. The place was empty—Uncle John's Odds and Ends unusually quiet, missing its usual hum of customers.

"I really have no idea where he is," Gus mumbled, shaking himself awake.

Will exhaled, rubbing his temples as frustration prickled beneath his skin. He was barely holding himself together, and Gus, perceptive despite his sleep-addled state, straightened in his chair, suddenly more alert.

"You okay, Will?" Gus asked, his round face creased in mild concern. "Something wrong?"

"It's nothing." Will forced the words out, his voice flat, betraying the lie. "Just… give me a heads-up when Damian shows up again."

"Will do." Gus nodded.

Will turned away from the counter, his heart thudding in his chest. A cold sweat clung to the back of his neck as he stepped out of the shop, his pulse pounding against his ribs. Strange shadows danced at the edge of his vision. He reached for the locket around his neck, trying to ground himself when a trembling hand landed on his shoulder, breaking the spiral.

Becca stood beside him, looking stricken, her grip on his shoulder meant as much to steady herself as to comfort him.

"Any luck?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Will shook his head. "Nothing."

"Maybe we should call him again," Becca suggested, and Will pulled out his slate, tapping the screen. The call rang once. Twice. Then silence.

No answer.

Will lowered the device, his fingers tightening around it. "We need to tell him. Tell someone." He swallowed, his gaze flicking around the metal walkway they stood on. People bustled around them, moving with purpose. The midday crowd was dense, workers and traders alike navigating the narrow corridors. Among them, he caught glimpses of guardsmen patrolling the streets, their eyes sharp and watchful.

Becca edged closer, lowering her voice. "How sure are you that it's in the Undercity?"

"It's the perfect place." Will started walking, his steps brisk as he led them down the walkway. "Unmonitored, lawless, chaotic. Half of it is controlled by different groups. You couldn't ask for a better place to hide something that dangerous."

The clang of metal echoed beneath their boots as they descended. The deeper they went, the less polished the infrastructure became, the air growing thicker with the scent of oil and decay.

"But it's the background signature that confirms it," Will continued. "That cheap, low-quality plascrete, the way the air is filtered. It can only be from here."

They turned a corner into a narrow alleyway, the walls tight and shadowed, before emerging at the mouth of a newly excavated tunnel.

The rumble of machinery vibrated through the floor. Deep within the tunnel, the grinding sound of a boring machine echoed, chewing through rock and soil. Cement trucks lined the edges of the opening, workers spraying plascrete foam against the walls to stabilize the fresh tunnel. The scent of industrial sealant was sharp and cloying.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Becca hesitated, eyeing the ongoing construction warily. "So what now? We comb through the entire Undercity? Bunker-37 is just a small part. We can't cover everything."

Will exhaled slowly. The Undercity was constantly expanding. New tunnels were carved every day, leading to an ever-growing labyrinth of passageways and makeshift settlements. The unregistered population was impossible to track—new arrivals flooded in, old ones vanished. If they were looking for something hidden, something deliberately buried in the chaos, then it was like looking for a needle in a haystack filled with other needles.

"You're right," Will admitted, running a hand through his hair. "We need Damian."

▼.▼.▼

Somewhere outside the Tower, a convoy of jeeps drove through the icy landscape, their tires crunching over ice and dirt. A flurry of snow buffeted them as they approached the mouth of a hidden base. The wind howled through the open doors as the vehicles rolled into the dimly lit interior, their arrival met with harsh Maltanese as words were exchanged. Men clad in heavy coats waved them in, rifles trained on the newcomers.

One by one, the jeeps came to a halt, and their occupants disembarked. The men moved quickly, lifting heavy crates from the backs of their vehicles. Silver glinted beneath their coveralls as they maneuvered the cargo—four men to a crate, their movements deliberate and precise.

Inside the base, the clang of metal echoed alongside clipped orders. Machinery pressed bullets with speed, the rhythmic clicks and whirs forming a deranged symphony. Weapons were assembled and stacked haphazardly, the workers more focused on speed than precision. Each firearm was checked and loaded before being passed down the line.

The men carrying the crates wove their way deeper into the facility, past rows of workers hunched over their stations. Some never looked up, their focus absolute. Others—those too slow, too weak—collapsed mid-task. No one spoke as their bodies were gathered, the telltale burns across their arms and faces marking their fate. Radiation had eaten away at them, their skin blistered and cracked, what little hair remained clinging to their skulls in brittle tufts. Their bodies were carried away in silence.

The crates, however, proceeded without pause, and the four men approached a section of the warehouse that had been cordoned off, thick metal doors sealing away whatever lay within. Guards stood at attention by the doors, their focus fixed on the new arrivals. The crates were passed through, deeper still, until they reached the central chamber.

There, at the heart of the facility, two massive oblong missiles loomed—four times the size of a man, relics from a bygone war lying dormant, waiting. A strange metallic tang filled the air, growing stronger the closer one got to the missiles, their deadly presence undiminished despite their age.

A man in a radiation suit hesitated before stepping forward. He inspected the contents of the crate, his gloved fingers shaking slightly as he took a reading. The Geiger counter in his hand chirped, its high-pitched chatter filling the silence.

The guard nearest to him gave a sharp nod. Satisfied, the men lifted the crate and carried it toward the warheads. With a nervous bob, the one in the suit glanced up to the observation deck.

A long shadow loomed above, a pair of orange eyes watching everything.

▼.▼.▼

Will blinked, his heart pounding, a flash of orange eyes jerking him awake.

"Will?" Becca's voice cut through the haze, laden with concern.

"It's nothing." Will rubbed his face, trying to shake off the ghostly image. "I saw another flash of… something."

The words trailed off as the disjointed vision dissolved into nothing, its memory already fading. Clearing his vision, Will looked around. They were back in the underground service tunnels, near the transport hub. The cavernous passage vibrated with the roar of massive eighteen-wheelers, their engines a constant, relentless drone as they rumbled by.

Will pulled out his slate, scanning his notifications. Nothing new. The clock ticked away on his home screen, and Will locked onto it, unable to look away.

Tick... tick... tick...

Every passing second was another step closer to that two-week deadline, and time was running out.

Becca shifted beside him, her gaze anxious. "Should we call him?"

For a long, tense moment, Will's hand hovered over the slate, but he stopped himself. "No. He said he'd be here, and he will be."

Becca paced anxiously, and a minute later, a screech of tires broke them out of their silent brooding.

A battered pickup truck skidded to a halt in front of them. Its grimy windows rolled down abruptly, revealing Damian—a stim-cig dangling from his lips, his eyes hard. With a curt nod, he jerked his head in their direction. "Get in," he barked.

Without hesitation, Will and Becca clambered into the truck. The doors closed with a resounding thud, and the truck raced off into the cavernous tunnel.

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