Page 41 of Lost Echoes

A wave of dizziness hits me. For a second, I see myself small again, standing in a hallway like this, staring at vents that carried other children’s cries. The image vanishes as quickly as it comes, leaving me clutching the cold concrete wall.

I force myself upright. “Not now,” I whisper. “Stay here. Stay me.”

But the certainty has already taken root. The underground is real. And if I’m going to find the truth, I’ll have to get through that door. It’s too bad I don’t have access to the control key that Ryker had when he worked here. He may have been the smart one to find another job after everything, but I’m going to be the person who finds answers.

One way or another.

I force myself to turn away from the locked door, retracing my steps up the stairwell until I’m back in the basement where the laundry hums. The familiar smell of bleach and detergent wraps around me, almost comforting, almost enough to make me forget.

Almost.

I sort the loads by habit—sheets, gowns, towels—feeding the machines until their steady rumble fills the air. Then I check the timers, straighten the folded stacks… everything I’ve done a hundred times before.

But my mind won’t stop circling back. The worn paint on the doorframe, the stale breath of air that rose from the vents, and the survivors’ words. Observation 2. Sub-level B.

It’s all connected to this place.

I slam the washer lid, and the clang echoes through the tiled room. My heart lurches. What if someone heard? But no footsteps come.

The machines churn steadily, water sloshing, clothes twisting. Everyone assumes laundry runs itself once it’s started. Which means for the next forty minutes, no one will look for me.

I wipe my damp palms on my scrubs. The rational part of me whispers, You’ve done your job. Finish your shift. Leave the rest alone.

But the other part that drew the bear with one eye, that folded up my mother’s note then tucked it away, knows I can’t stop now.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I slip back into the stairwell. My footsteps echo louder this time, each one pushing me closer to that gray door.

When I reach it, I don’t hesitate. I press my badge to the scanner.

A red light blinks. Denied.

My pulse spikes.

I try again, slower this time, holding my breath as if that might change the outcome. Another red flash. Denied.

I glance up at the small camera dome above the door. Its glassy eye stares down, unreadable. Did it catch me? Is anyone watching now?

The hum of air behind the door seems louder, like the underground itself is breathing and waiting.

As my heart hammers, the red light burns into my nerves. Denied. Twice. My badge is worthless here.

I take a shaky step back, ready to retreat, when the stairwell door creaks open above me. Instinct flares, and I press flat against the wall.

Footsteps descend.

My stomach churns with acid, and I glance around for a place to hide.

There is none. I press myself against a wall and slide as far away as I can.

A man in maintenance coveralls, humming tunelessly, advances, a key ring jangling at his side. He doesn’t glance my way as he unlocks the gray door with a practiced swipe of a worn key card. The scanner blinks green, the lock clicks, then the heavy door groans open.

Cool, damp, and metallic air rushes past me. The smell of basements and bleach.

He wheels a cart through, stacked with cleaning supplies. The door swings shut behind him.

Before I can think, I slip forward and catch it. Just my fingertips, barely enough. My pulse pounds so hard I swear it echoes louder than the machines upstairs.

I wait, listening as his footsteps grow quieter until they disappear altogether.