The tunnel walls pulsed slightly as if breathing—wet and slow.
Don kept to the rear, boots crunching through semi-coagulated slop, his breath tight behind the mask of the neck gaiter he had pulled up to cover half of his face.
The tunnel stank—meat and moss and old blood. His tactical gear was slick with it already, black fabric smeared with streaks of green rot.
Didn't matter. Ahead, Charles and Agent Hathaway pushed on, steps fast but controlled. The hallways were too narrow to maneuver well, but that was the point.
They'd been running for several minutes—twisting through descent after descent, split after split—Don guiding by feel more than sight. His senses didn't work right in here. Everything echoed. Everything squirmed.
He just followed the noise—and avoided it.
Where the snarling came from one direction, they took the other.
But the snarls had started catching up.
Too many.
Too close.
