The metal resisted for a moment, then snapped with a sharp report.

I kicked the broken lock aside.

I jammed the angled tip of the pry bar into the rusted seam of the door.

“Marcus, help me,” I said.

We both threw our weight onto the bar.

The metal groaned.

Flakes of orange rust erupted from the seal.

The iron lid was fused to the frame by years of moisture and neglect.

I strained against the steel bar, my muscles burning under my wet coat.

With a sharp crack, the hatch shifted upward an inch.

A gust of foul, chemical-smelling air rushed into my face.

It smelled of damp earth, copper, and cheap antiseptic.

We leveraged the bar again, straining until the heavy iron plate swung backward.

It hit the concrete floor with a deafening clang that echoed through the copper pipes.

I shone my flashlight down into the black square.

The beam cut through a thick haze of floating dust.

A wooden ladder, grey with rot, led down into a small, windowless concrete vault.

At the bottom, on a low cot covered in dirty wool blankets, a figure stirred.