Daisy’s light lingered on one image featuring a portly rat drinking a bottle of wine with the caption, THE RAT KING KNOWS YOUR SECRETS.
Another message, scrawled in what looked like white house paint, read, IT’S NOT HOW YOU DIE. IT’S WHO YOU DIE.
“This is a little creepy,” Daisy whispered. “Why are you whispering?”
“Scared,” she whispered. “Has it been two hundred yards yet?” “Dunno,” I said. “But I hear people up there.”
I turned around and shone my light back toward the tunnel’s entrance, and a couple of middle-aged men behind us waved. “See, it’s fine.”
The creek wasn’t really a body of water anymore so much as a slow-moving puddle; I watched a rat scamper across it without ever getting its nose wet.
“That was a rat,” Daisy said, her voice clenched. “It lives here,” I said. “We’re the invaders.”
We kept walking. The only light in the world seemed to be the yellow beams of headlamps and flashlights—
it was almost like everyone down there had become beams of light, bouncing along the tunnel in little groups.
Ahead of us, I saw headlamps turning to the left, into a square side tunnel, about eight feet high.
We jumped over the trickling creek, past a sign that read, A PICKETT ENGINEERING PROJECT, and into the concrete side tunnel.
You could only see the artwork by the light of headlamps and flashlights,
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