Through the tunnels I track them, my hand detached from my arm detached from my torso detached from my head. I cradle a shotgun at the ready. They will not escape me.

Vent. Tables. A restaurant. Keep going. I come to the end. An opening; light. An arboretum? Stone walls, a tree. Sky through the open top. Blue sky, clouds. Peace. The rusty mining cart is covered by the tree’s roots.

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