I’m lost deep beneath the streets of shit city. In the sweaty press of flesh where each harried soul is terrified to meet the frightened eyes of another lest the horror of aquiscence consumes them from within. This is clearly not as uncommon an event as I had first assumed. The pools of blood congealing around knee high piles of barely recognisable body parts are the dead giveaway.
I’m startled from my internal monologue by the six foot blonde leaning over me, hunger and madness radiating in equal division from her dead eyes. She is shuffling ever closer with small zombie steps, eyeing my skull with her Gordon Ramsay gaze, eager to remove the delicate frontal lobe to form the centre piece of her man degustation. I only barely manage to escape by endlessly procrastinating until I have no choice but to write something second rate. It briefly catches her simple zombie attention, interrupting her frenzied gorging just long enough for me to dart through the almost closed doors to freedom.
Before me a slimy, moss covered staircase extends upwards through a crumbling hole in the roof. Vines coil menacingly down around the hand rails and tendrils of acrid mist drift too silently across the floor enveloping my cold ankles. It is with great fear that I contemplate the horrors awaiting me on the surface.
