“How we lookin, hotshot?” Frank’s voice squawked from his belt mic. Andy could imagine his buddy up top, standing a good fifty feet back from the edge in case the walls started to slide. He’d be fifty again in front of everyone else, keeping the police rescue, residents and general public well back until he, and others, had fully examined the site. The entire block would remain evacuated and sealed off until their work was done.

He touched down. “I’m okay; just hit bottom, pop.”

He heard Frank whistle. Andy unsnapped the harness hook and grabbed a secondary flashlight dangling from his belt; he flicked it on, adding the beam to his helmet lamp’s halogen, and looked around.

Andy’s number-one priority was to locate Bill and Margaret Anderson, and his hopes rose. The house was virtually intact, sitting in the center of several feet of green lawn, now littered with carcasses of dead birds.

“Bill Anderson! Bill and Margaret Anderson, can you hear me?” He waited as his words bounced around the huge pit. After a few minutes, there was still silence. Light from above gave the scene a nighttime atmosphere. He looked closer at the house: aside from some cracking in the external structure and the front door hanging off its frame, he might have expected to see Bill and Margaret sitting on the porch as if nothing was wrong.

“Structure’s pretty good; I’m going in.” As he approached he winced at the smell. Weird, he thought. Wonder if they’ve got a septic tank. He quickly checked the anemometer on his belt – the air quality was still good. Just leaking shit, he hoped.

Andy adjusted his helmet, sweat now streaming from his pores. As well as the smell, the heat was near unbearable, which was also weird, as he should be feeling lower temperatures at a few hundred feet. He knew there was no volcanic or geothermal activity in the area, and there hadn’t been for close to a million years.

“Bill Anderson?”

Andy leaned forward to wave his light across the doorway and windows. He guessed if they were in there, they’d be damned confused and frightened. And if Bill had a gun, Andy was liable to catch a gutful of double ought if he went barging in.

He approached carefully, his feet crunching on something. He looked down to see hundreds of roaches moving about. “Nice.” At the doorframe he rested his hand on the broken wood, and then snapped it back, revolted. Even though he wore gloves for the descent, he recoiled from the thick, viscous material that coated the rough leather. He shone his light on it – glistening, milky with darker streaks. He brought it close to his face.

“Aw, fuck.” He ripped it away. It had to be the source of the smell enveloping the area. It was like fish, sulfur and crushed snails all in a jellied paste. He shone his light around at the walls, wondering where it had come from. In his decade and a half in geology, he had never come across anything like it occurring naturally above or below the ground. He brought his light back to the frame.