The darkness at the bottom of "Purgatory" was not merely the absence of light—it was a living entity, breathing, watching, waiting for the right moment to swallow you whole.
I was lying on my back atop a rusted metal grating, the viscous water coating it soaking into my heavy clothes.
A faint buzzing—like the dying hum of a giant insect—emanated from broken fluorescent lights dangling from an unseen ceiling, washing the long corridor in a sickly, pale, nightmarish green glow.
I raised my hand very slowly, my head throbbing from the impact of the shattered elevator cabin that had torn apart and thrown us down here. I touched my face.
My fingers met pale human skin—cold, soaked in blood and filth.
I hadn't worn my black plastic mask since I entered the FBI.
