The security door was slightly ajar, a thick yellow electrical cord wedged in the frame to keep it from locking.

Ethan approached the door cautiously, his hand on the metal handle.

He pulled the door open, revealing a long, dark tunnel with arched brick ceilings.

The cold air from the outside rushed through the tunnel, carrying the smell of exhaust fumes and wet coal.

“This leads to the old substation under the street,” Ethan whispered.

Suddenly, a faint, muffled sound echoed from deep within the tunnel.

It was a high-pitched, rhythmic clicking sound, followed by a soft, watery gasp.

My heart stopped.

“Leo,” I whispered, recognizing the sound of my son’s congested breathing.

“They’re in there,” Ethan said, his voice rising in panic.

He started to run down the brick tunnel, the beam of his penlight cutting through the damp darkness.

I followed him, my boots slipping slightly on the slick, wet bricks of the floor.

As we rounded a bend in the tunnel, the light from Ethan’s penlight hit a large metal crate sitting on a wooden pallet.

Beside the crate, a blue light was blinking in the darkness.