Mutant Screg
Totally not a mutant
I tied the coarse rope around myself and a nearby valve. I tugged. It would hold for a little while. Rappelling down the seemingly bottomless pit, I glanced up at the light radiating from the world outside the old factory as it receded further and further, until finally it faded completely. I heard something creak from above, and wondered if I would fall. I stopped descending for a moment and hung limply like a sandbag, patiently waiting for the rope to snap. It didn't, and I continued down, hand under hand as the darkness completely enshrouded my scrawny frame.
I clicked on my headlight, the switch squealing and echoing ever so faintly throughout the compound. I couldn't help but wonder how large it was, and what might be lurking within its darkest depths. Pausing for a moment, I reached down to my hip to feel the familiar, worn grip of an ancient revolver. Terribly old yet well-maintained, the firearm could still fire like new. Reassured, I continued down the taught cable, my breath catching momentarily at every sound.
Pausing once more, I reached around into my knapsack and withdrew a small screw from one of its many pouches. I dropped it, and heard a small plink as it hit the ground almost immediately. Decending the last few feet of rope, I felt the toe of my boot brush the floor, and tested the stability of the ground before letting go. My shoes were uncomfortably loud against the grated metal flooring, despite my efforts to be silent. A fetid wind blew throughout the chamber. The room felt large yet claustrophobic, the thick curtain of shadow threatening to withhold any number of terrible things.
A rhythmic knock sounded from some far off corner of the chamber, and reverberated off of the damp walls like distant war drums. I fumbled with the latch on the front pocket of my tactical vest, and withdrew a rotted box of matches. Dropping a few, my clumsy hands finally managed to grab hold of one. I struck it against the rough edge of the box, and by some stroke of luck it lit immediately. Holding it out before me like a cross, I surveyed the room, my eyes darting frantically to absorb everything at once. With what little light I had, I could make out very little. Some old, dilapidated boxes, cracked bottles, a few rotted notebooks, and what might have been bones.
The flame licked the tips of my fingers, and I winced, shaking the flame out immediately. Keeping my eyes locked ahead of me, I reached for the lantern hanging from the back of my knapsack and unstrung it surprisingly deftly under the circumstances. Striking another match, I ignited the small bit of half-congealed oil left in the lantern. Surprisingly, it caught, and the weak flame cast dancing shadows before me. I withdrew my gun from its leather holster and pulled back the hammer. The firm click reverberated throughout the room for what seemed like forever, before it finally drifted off into nothing. Not a thing moved, and not a thing uttered a sound.
I clicked on my headlight, the switch squealing and echoing ever so faintly throughout the compound. I couldn't help but wonder how large it was, and what might be lurking within its darkest depths. Pausing for a moment, I reached down to my hip to feel the familiar, worn grip of an ancient revolver. Terribly old yet well-maintained, the firearm could still fire like new. Reassured, I continued down the taught cable, my breath catching momentarily at every sound.
Pausing once more, I reached around into my knapsack and withdrew a small screw from one of its many pouches. I dropped it, and heard a small plink as it hit the ground almost immediately. Decending the last few feet of rope, I felt the toe of my boot brush the floor, and tested the stability of the ground before letting go. My shoes were uncomfortably loud against the grated metal flooring, despite my efforts to be silent. A fetid wind blew throughout the chamber. The room felt large yet claustrophobic, the thick curtain of shadow threatening to withhold any number of terrible things.
A rhythmic knock sounded from some far off corner of the chamber, and reverberated off of the damp walls like distant war drums. I fumbled with the latch on the front pocket of my tactical vest, and withdrew a rotted box of matches. Dropping a few, my clumsy hands finally managed to grab hold of one. I struck it against the rough edge of the box, and by some stroke of luck it lit immediately. Holding it out before me like a cross, I surveyed the room, my eyes darting frantically to absorb everything at once. With what little light I had, I could make out very little. Some old, dilapidated boxes, cracked bottles, a few rotted notebooks, and what might have been bones.
The flame licked the tips of my fingers, and I winced, shaking the flame out immediately. Keeping my eyes locked ahead of me, I reached for the lantern hanging from the back of my knapsack and unstrung it surprisingly deftly under the circumstances. Striking another match, I ignited the small bit of half-congealed oil left in the lantern. Surprisingly, it caught, and the weak flame cast dancing shadows before me. I withdrew my gun from its leather holster and pulled back the hammer. The firm click reverberated throughout the room for what seemed like forever, before it finally drifted off into nothing. Not a thing moved, and not a thing uttered a sound.