We walked toward the bearded man waving the flashlight, who introduced himself as Kip
and handed us hard hats with lanterns and a flashlight.
“Follow the tunnel in for two hundred yards, then take your first left, and you’ll be in the gallery.”
The light from my helmet followed the creek downstream. In the distance, I could see the start of the tunnel,
a light-sucking square cut into a hillside.
There was an overturned shopping cart just outside the start of the culvert, trapped against a moss-covered boulder.
As we walked toward the tunnel’s entrance, I looked up at the black silhouettes of leafless maple trees splitting up the sky.
The creek ran along the left side of the Pogue’s Run tunnel; we walked on a slightly elevated concrete sidewalk to the right of the creek.
The smell enveloped us immediately—sewage and the sickly sweet smell of rot.
I thought my nose would get used to it, but it never did. A few steps in, we began to hear rodents scurrying along the creek bed.
We could hear voices, too—echoey, unintelligible conversations that seemed to be coming from all sides of us.
Our headlamps lit up the graffiti that lined the walls —spray-painted tags in bubble letters, but also stenciled images and messages.
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색