Strip off that coat and go clear dirty plates in the banquet hall, Nia—you're staff tonight, not family, my mother-in-law Evelyn snapped, her voice echoing across the candlelit grand ballroom.
The MARTA tunnels were a maze of stale air and echoing silence, occasionally broken by the distant rumble of a train. I knew Evelyn’s people would be watching every station exit, every public entrance to the Obsidian Vault. There was no way to simply walk in.
I pulled out the map Deacon had given me. A faint, dotted line snaked beneath the main thoroughfares, marked “Old Bankhead Coal Transit.” It led directly to the Vault’s foundations.
My burner phone, miraculously still working, vibrated with Deacon’s number.
“You’re resourceful, child,” he said, a hint of admiration in his voice. “He didn’t get the box?”
“No,” I replied, my voice tight. “He tried to trap me. Fluker was there.”
“Expected,” Deacon sighed. “Now, you’re going to use the back door. Beneath Bankhead Avenue. There’s an old coal tunnel, disused for fifty years, but the structural integrity still holds. It leads to the Vault’s underground boiler room.”
He guided me step by step, his knowledge of the city’s forgotten underbelly astonishing. “Look for the old red brick archway, half-covered in kudzu. The entrance will be low, almost like a cave.”
I found it, just as he described, tucked away behind a crumbling warehouse. The air inside was cool and damp, heavy with the scent of earth and something metallic. My flashlight beam cut through the absolute darkness, revealing decaying brickwork and strange, faded symbols etched into the stone walls. Old syndicate line markers, Deacon had called them. Boundaries of power long forgotten.
I moved slowly, cautiously, each step sending echoes through the tunnel. The ground was uneven, littered with debris. Every creak, every drip of water, made me flinch. Evelyn’s reach might be wide, but this was a ghost highway.
After what felt like an hour, the tunnel began to slope upward. I saw a faint glow ahead, smelled the acrid tang of boiler exhaust. The Obsidian Vault’s foundations.
“You’re almost there,” Deacon’s voice crackled through the phone. “The boiler room will have a service stairwell leading to the main floor. Stay low. Tariq will know you’re coming.”
I pushed through a warped metal door, emerging into a vast, industrial space. Steam hissed from massive pipes, and the rhythmic thump of machinery reverberated through the concrete floor. The air was stifling hot, a stark contrast to the cold tunnel.
Just as I spotted the rusted spiral staircase Deacon had mentioned, a shadow detached itself from the gloom behind a towering boiler.
Heavy footsteps. Not mine. Not Deacon’s.
Someone was following me. Close behind.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours