Tabitha said nothing, just standing in the doorway with the others, looking downward to drown all other perception, intent on catching the sound again when Carrion said, “help me.”
ELPEEEEE the voice bounded louder toward them. “Is it Chela?” asked Alfred.
“That didn’t sound like her,” said Tabitha. “Let’s go.”
Was Tabitha intent on identifying the source of the sound? Did she simply wanted to leave as badly as Alfred did? Either way, he was confident he wouldn’t be able to persuade her of doing anything she didn’t want to. He followed. Carrion stayed close behind.
They walked Chela’s path. Alfred continued to observe the line of corpses, serene in their seats on the ceiling, each more mangled than the last. He brought his hands up to his face, in no small part due to the shocking display of carnage and the iridescent smell rising, falling, hanging in the air like a ghost and gleaming between the light that shown through the boarded windows. Alfred felt his face and for one horrified moment wondered if his face was half as smashed in as these.
On their way down the stairs, they passed several outlets that opened into larger, longer wards, each similar to their own, each with no vacancy. Traversing lower seemed to mean delving into the older parts of this tomb as the air grew into a more full-bodied bloom of rot. The residents’ further desiccated appearance, their forms now mere shells, reflected just how long they’d been volunteered to science. The tunnels were disorienting. They seemed to twist onto themselves, their own structural integrity compromised. How long had this place been here? How long had they?