Rusty's boots slammed against the packed dirt floor of the tunnel, her arm hooked under Olmo's shoulders, dragging him forward as if speed alone could keep the darkness behind them. Their father hobbled after them, his right leg stiff, wrapped in metal splints scavenged from an old ventilation shaft. Each step made a dull clank. The tunnel air was damp, heavy with the stale breath of the underground.
"Keep moving," Rusty hissed, her voice a strained whisper. "We've put enough distance—"
She stopped mid-sentence, bent over, and yanked her father up by his coat before he could fall.
"We're fine," she lied.
Behind them, far back in the stone womb of Shelter Blackpit, the crowd was gathering.
The ritual was older than anyone there could remember. An assembly in the central cavern, beneath rusted floodlights that flickered like a bad omen. People pressed together, some holding hands, some trembling, some muttering half-prayers to a god who never answered.
A voice boomed through the static of a makeshift loudspeaker.
"All names drawn tonight will serve the Mother Below," said Overseer Marek, a thick-set man with a voice like grinding gears. He held a faded metal drum—inside, strips of paper, each carrying a name.
"They say it's fair," someone muttered bitterly in the crowd.
"They say it's mercy," another replied, clutching a child to their chest.
From the back, a small knot of dissenters shouted, "It's murder!" Their voices were drowned out by the drum being spun.
Marek reached in and drew a slip.
"Gale, Torren. Gale, Rustina. Gale, Olmo."
A hush fell. The crowd's collective breath stalled.
The Gales. Everyone knew them. Torren Gale, the limping engineer who fixed air pumps with his bare hands. His children—Rusty, with her iron will and sharper fists, and quiet Olmo, who rarely spoke above a whisper.
"They're not here," someone murmured.
"They ran."
---
"Crossed off another one," Olmo muttered, the stub of his pencil trembling as he dragged a thick X over the latest red circle on the map. His hands shook from more than just exhaustion.
Rusty snatched the paper from him, eyes darting over the mess of ink scars. There were too many circles crossed out. Too many shelters burned through. Too many times they'd been the newcomers with nowhere else to go.
"This one's done," she said, her voice clipped and final. "We keep moving."
Torren limped up beside them, his bad leg dragging, sweat cutting muddy streaks through the grime in his beard. He rubbed at his thigh, wincing. "Next place… they call it Greyhook. Good folk there, if you know how to talk to them. They like traders, and we'll tell 'em we're out of Red Pit—collapsed last winter."
He looked between them both, his tone shifting to one of command. "We were hauling scrap when the Worm tunnels breached. Lost our caravan, barely made it out. Got it?"
Rusty nodded. "Red Pit. Worm tunnels. No other family."
Olmo repeated it, his voice flat. "Red Pit. Worm tunnels. Just us three."
Torren forced a smile, the kind you wear when you want to believe in something. "We keep it straight, and we might get more than a week this time."
Rusty's eyes swept the tunnel ahead. A sour, metallic tang hung in the air—too strong, too fresh. The hair along her neck prickled. "We'll push through to the next junction. Keep quiet."
The tunnel narrowed as they moved, the air heavy with grit. Olmo kept glancing back at the fading glow of the last lantern behind them. Torren muttered about the layout of Greyhook—how they built their gates low to keep the Worms from charging in, how their forges ran almost day and night. Rusty didn't answer. She was listening for footsteps that weren't theirs.
When they turned the last corner, her stomach dropped. The tunnel ended in a sheer wall of freshly collapsed rock.
Torren's face went pale. "No… this—this should lead to—"
"It doesn't," Rusty cut in, already scanning the stone for signs of a crawlspace. "We double back and take the—"
Shadows slid across the tunnel mouth behind them, stretching long in the dim light. Shapes filled the passage. Voices low, sure, and far too calm for strangers.
Six figures emerged from the dark, lamp-masks glowing dull orange. Their leader, Hollis, wore a patched respirator and a battered coat stitched with the emblem of Shelter Blackpit. He raised his hands, palms out.
"Torren Gale. Rustina. Olmo." His voice was calm, not cruel. "You know why we're here."
Rusty shifted in front of Olmo, her hands curling into fists. "You'll have to drag us."
Hollis sighed, nodding to his crew. "Then that's what we'll do."
The fight was brief but brutal. Rusty darted forward, her fists a blur, cracking two clean punches into the first man's jaw before she felt arms snake around her from behind, wrenching her elbows up until her shoulders burned. She snarled, kicking back blindly, but the grip only tightened.
Torren, limping but unyielding, swung his metal-splinted leg like a club. The first strike caved into a man's ribs with a hollow thunk, sending him staggering, but a white-hot pain shot from Torren's hip to his spine, making his vision lurch. They surged at him in a mass, grabbing at his coat, his arms, dragging him down.
Olmo let out a wordless yell, lashing out with booted kicks that caught shins and bellies, each impact a dull, jarring thud in the dirt. Fingers clawed at his jacket, forcing him sideways, knees buckling. His flailing grew desperate as weight pressed on his chest and hot, dust-choked air filled his lungs.
The scuffle collapsed into the sound of boots scuffing the ground, labored breaths, and the muffled curses of men struggling to pin their prey.
As they were bound, Hollis knelt beside Torren.
"Torren… every time you run, someone else takes your family's place. That's three families now. Do you think they forgive you?"
Torren spat at his boots. "I think I care about my own."
"That's the problem," Hollis said, almost sadly. "We all do."
When they dragged the Gales into the light of the assembly, the crowd fell silent. Not with hatred—just the grim, weathered quiet of people who had seen this too many times to pretend it was anything else.
No jeers. No cheering. Just eyes.
"They'll rust quick," someone muttered from the back. "Easier for the worms."
Overseer Marek stepped forward, face carved into a mask of stone. "The Mother Below is hungry tonight."
Beside him, Hollis, the shelter's guard captain, stood with his spear grounded at his feet, jaw clenched.
Torren lurched forward despite the ropes binding his wrists. "Hollis—please. Take me. Let the kids go. One life will feed your gods the same."
Hollis met his gaze, and for a moment there was something human in it. Then it was gone. "One life doesn't equal two, Torren. You know the count. You know the law."
The sacrifice gate began to groan open, gears grinding in their sockets. Beyond it, the darkness yawned like the throat of something vast.
Marek's hand flicked forward, and the guards moved.
The Gales were stripped of their rust-suits in silence, the hiss of released clasps sounding almost obscene in the quiet. The air that rushed against their bare skin was damp and metallic. On the other side of the gate, the tunnel shimmered faintly—not from light, but from the swirling haze of the worms' exhaled breath. R-Virus mist.
Rusty's shoulders bunched as the guards shoved her toward it. She planted her feet, shoving back hard enough to make one stumble. "Get your hands off me—"
A spearpoint jabbed her ribs, forcing her forward.
Olmo stumbled, almost falling, until Torren's big hand steadied him. "Stay close to your sister, boy," Torren said, his voice low, steady in a way that only made it more frightening.
"Father—" Rusty turned to him, voice cracking.
He shook his head. "Come. Let's walk. No point fighting wind."
Her jaw worked, but she swallowed it, the fight trembling in her limbs but going nowhere. The spears at their backs made sure of that.
They stepped into the tunnel. The breath hung thick here, warm and sour, sinking into their lungs. It was like breathing rust itself.
Torren's pace faltered first. His knees buckled, and only Rusty's arm around his waist kept him from going down. "Easy, easy," she muttered, voice sharp with panic.
Olmo darted to his other side, bracing under his father's weight. "It's the air—it's—"
"I know," Torren rasped, each word costing him. "Don't… waste your breath."
Rusty's jaw set. "We turn back. We can take them—"
"Rusty—" Olmo's voice was small, trembling. "They'll kill us before we reach the gate."
Torren squeezed her arm. "And if we did, they'd just send others. We can't damn more for our sakes." He coughed, a wet, ragged sound. "Stay close… and listen."
She didn't answer, eyes darting to the shadowed walls. The haze was thicker now. Her skin prickled, her throat burned, but her legs kept moving.
Somewhere deep ahead, a sound rolled through the earth. A low, resonant groan, too big to be anything human. The walls themselves seemed to breathe.
Another pulse—closer this time.
The worms were stirring.
And the tunnel was theirs now.