Somehow the corridor had narrowed since her last visit, and the smell of rancid rot filled Amy’s head. Her flashlight swept the passage, lighting it from floor to ceiling, chasing the shadows away. The plaster on the crumbling walls was soaked and rotten like leprous skin, the gritty floor was soft and damaged. The ceiling glistened with stalactites of dirty water and slime.

Amy ran down the passage. Up ahead it turned right, disappearing into darkness. When she reached the corner, she hesitated and then stuck her flashlight around, followed by her head. The corridor lay quiet and expectant, waiting for her. After another thirty feet, the passage split into a T. Amy turned left, guided by instinct more than anything. She turned left, then right, then right, then left again, moving deeper and deeper into the Beehive.

The corridor narrowed even further until eventually her shoulders were brushing against the walls. She listened carefully for voices, hoping to hear Basil or Matt or Trinity. But all she heard was the gentle drip of water trickling down the walls and pooling at her feet. Claustrophobia was creeping in, and within her gut she felt the cold certainty that if she tried to retrace her steps, the corridors behind her would not be the same.

Scripted disorientation, she reminded herself. Keep moving.

Right, left, left, right.

A needle of cold water fell from the ceiling and slid down the back of her neck, jolting her like an electric shock. She reached to wipe it away. The liquid was swirled with yellow filth, like pus from a lanced boil. The weight of the walls pressed in around her, making the air heavy to breathe, giving her a headache.

Left, right, right, left.

Amy turned a corner and froze. She had arrived in a different sort of corridor, one without the weeping plaster walls. The passage was lined on both sides with tall iron grates like doors, two feet wide and crisscrossed with flaking bars. She wasn’t sure what to do. Cold water tapped her hair, urging her forward. There was no telling if the grates were unlocked, or if anything hid in the darkness behind them. But she felt certain she was getting closer. The store had tried to keep her from finding this place; it had tried to confuse her, but she’d found it anyway.

She took a step forward, then another.

“Basil?” she whispered. “Matt? Trinity?”

Up ahead on the left, a pale white worm squirmed out of a grate. Amy stepped closer and realized it was a finger. Human hands were creeping out of the grates, squeezing through the gaps and straining toward her, sensing her warmth. Filthy digits waved in the cold air like sea anemones, their fingerpads sniffing her out.