45

You’d rather deal with whatever is making the horrible sound than brave the glowing tunnel to your left and put even more rock between you and the sky.

“Let’s go that way,” you say, pointing toward the right-hand tunnel. You hope your voice sounds braver to Ashur and Tarquin than it does to you.

As you walk, you find yourself having to work to lift your feet, like the floor is sticky. Like the catacombs are trying to digest you. You shake your head to try to drive the thought away and stumble, throwing out a hand to catch the tunnel wall for support—but you recoil so fast that you end up nearly falling anyway.

“The tunnels are…”

Tarquin steps over to where you are and touches the wall. “Slimy,” he says with a grimace. “Slimy and horrible. I hate my life.”

“Don’t touch it,” Ashur suggests.

In response, Tarquin wipes his hand on Ashur’s coat sleeve.

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