The tunnel was narrow, made of rusted steel and cracked concrete, as if the earth itself had tried to swallow it. Their flashlights flickered across walls streaked with soot, smeared handprints, and symbols drawn in what looked like oil—or blood. The air was thick with humidity and a faint metallic tang that made breathing feel like swallowing dust.
Soufiane led the way, rifle raised, every sense strained. Behind him, Cynthia kept one hand on Younes's shoulder, guiding him gently through the dark. Amal walked close to the rear, her weapon steady despite the tremor in her hand. No one spoke. Even the sound of their footsteps seemed too loud.
A low rumble echoed through the tunnel. At first, they thought it was another group of infected. But as they stopped and listened, they realized it wasn't footsteps—it was something mechanical, deep and distant.
"Generator?" Mourad murmured.
Soufiane frowned. "Or a ventilation system still running. But after all these years?"
Juliane brushed her fingers over a set of cables running along the wall. They were warm. "No, someone's been here recently."
That realization rippled through the group like cold water. Amal moved closer to Soufiane, whispering, "Maybe the refinery isn't abandoned after all."
They kept moving, slower now. The tunnel began to slope downward, the air growing heavier with every step. Condensation dripped from the ceiling, and their flashlights caught tiny plumes of vapor rising from fissures in the floor.
Younes coughed softly, breaking the silence. Cynthia squeezed his shoulder. "Stay close, okay? Don't look around too much."
But it was too late. The boy's eyes had already locked on something painted on the wall—a huge symbol in red, circular, with jagged lines branching from it. It looked almost tribal, but wrong, like a corrupted emblem.
"What is that?" he asked.
Soufiane paused, studying it. The pattern was familiar somehow, like something he'd seen on the infected outside. "It's a mark," he said quietly. "A sign of control… or belonging."
They reached a junction ahead where the tunnel split into three directions. Amal crouched beside a broken sign, brushing away dust:
Sector A – Reactor Room
Sector B – Storage Vaults
Sector C – Lower Drainage
Before anyone could decide which way to go, a sound drifted from the left passage — faint singing.
A woman's voice.
It was soft and haunting, echoing off the metal walls. The words were indistinct, like a lullaby whispered underwater. Younes froze. Cynthia's grip on his shoulder tightened.
Mourad raised his weapon. "Tell me I'm not hearing that."
Soufiane motioned for silence. They crept closer, following the voice until it grew clearer. It wasn't a recording — it was real.
When they turned the corner, they saw her.
A woman sat on the ground beside a lantern, surrounded by small trinkets — rusted jewelry, broken toys, even bones arranged like a shrine. Her hair was long and matted, her clothes torn but once elegant. Her eyes were closed as she sang, rocking back and forth.
Then she stopped.
Without opening her eyes, she said, "You shouldn't have come here."
The group froze. Soufiane slowly stepped forward. "Who are you?"
Her eyes snapped open — glowing faintly in the dark, not with infection, but with something else. Awareness. "No one leaves the refinery," she whispered. "It's a womb now. The ones above—they're waiting for their father."
Cynthia's breath caught. "Their father?"
The woman smiled faintly, revealing blackened teeth. "The one who made the fire. He burned us to cleanse us. But we stayed. We kept his flame."
Soufiane exchanged a look with Amal. This wasn't just madness — it was belief. A cult born from the ashes of the refinery disaster.
Before he could question further, a tremor shook the floor. Dust fell from the ceiling. The lantern flickered.
The woman laughed softly. "He's waking again."
"Move!" Soufiane shouted.
The tunnel behind them erupted — a roar of collapsing metal and flame as something exploded in the distance. The group ran, choking on smoke and dust. Amal grabbed Younes, dragging him through a side passage as Cynthia coughed violently.
They burst into another corridor, this one filled with a thick, acrid mist. Sirens began to wail somewhere below, powered by a generator that shouldn't exist. Red emergency lights blinked to life, painting the tunnel in pulses of crimson.
Soufiane stopped just long enough to look back. Through the haze, he saw the woman still sitting there, smiling serenely amid the chaos.
Then the ceiling collapsed.
He turned and ran.
As they stumbled into a larger chamber, Amal shouted over the sirens, "Where do we go now?"
Soufiane pointed toward a stairwell leading up. "If that explosion spreads, this whole place will go up. We climb—now!"
They ascended quickly, the sounds of fire and screaming metal chasing them from below. The stairwell shook violently, but they pushed forward until they reached a heavy blast door marked Surface Exit – South Access.
Soufiane slammed his shoulder against it. It didn't budge. Amal joined him. Together, they forced it open just enough to squeeze through.
They emerged outside into cold night air — coughing, covered in soot. Behind them, the refinery belched fire into the sky.
Cynthia fell to her knees, trembling. Younes clung to her side, eyes wide in terror. "That woman," he whispered, "she said they were waiting for their father."
Soufiane stared at the burning facility, the glow reflected in his eyes. "Then maybe," he said grimly, "we just met his children."