Chapter 1: The Cotton Candy Tunnels

Chapter 1: The Cotton Candy Tunnels

The air tasted of burnt sugar and rot.

Leo Kane ran, the beam of his flashlight cutting a frantic, bouncing path through the oppressive dark. The walls of the tunnel were not rock or dirt, but a pulsing, pinkish membrane, warm and damp to the touch like the inside of a throat. The sickly-sweet smell, reminiscent of cotton candy left to melt in the rain, clogged his nostrils and coated his tongue. It was a scent he’d come to associate with pure, unrelenting terror.

Behind him, a sound that defied nature echoed through the fleshy corridor. It was the wet, dragging slide of immense weight mixed with the frantic scrabbling of hundreds of tiny, desperate hands. It was the sound of the Wyrm.

His lungs burned, each breath a ragged gasp. For days—or was it weeks? Time had lost all meaning here—he had been running, fighting, and hiding in this labyrinth of flesh. His tactical gear, once the pinnacle of military-grade durability, was now shredded and caked in grime and a foul, unidentifiable slime. The man who had survived three tours in the most hellish corners of the world was being unmade in this place.

A low, guttural moan, layered with a dozen other weeping voices, vibrated through the floor. It was closer. Too close.

“Not today, you bastard,” Leo grunted, his voice a raw croak. He skidded to a halt, spinning on the slick floor. He planted his feet, gripping his Ka-Bar combat knife so tightly his knuckles were bone-white. This was it. No more running.

The Wyrm rounded the bend, a grotesque parody of life that filled the tunnel from wall to wall. Its colossal, segmented body of pale, sweating flesh surged forward, pulled by a carpet of mismatched human arms that clawed at the ground. Atop its fleshy stalk, the wizened, ancient face of a man stared with tormented, milky eyes, its toothless mouth drooling a thin, grey fluid. Along its flanks, other faces, twisted in eternal agony, writhed and moaned, their voices a symphony of despair.

Leo’s claustrophobia, a lifelong demon, clawed at his throat, threatening to choke him. The walls seemed to press in, the monster’s bulk stealing the last of the air. He suppressed the panic, channeling it into cold, sharp rage. His entire life, his entire quest, had led him here. He wouldn't die as food for a worm.

With a roar that tore from the depths of his soul, he charged. He dodged a flailing, childlike arm and leaped onto the creature's flank. The flesh gave way under his boots like rancid dough. He raised the knife, aiming for the primary head, the shrieking old man, and plunged the blade deep into the creature's body.

There was no scream of pain from the monster. Only a deafening, unified wail from the dozens of faces embedded in its flesh. The Wyrm convulsed violently, a muscular ripple that sent Leo flying. His head cracked against the fleshy wall, and the world spun in a dizzying smear of pink and black. His grip on the knife slackened for a fraction of a second.

It was enough.

The creature’s momentum tore the blade from his hand, swallowing it into its quivering mass. His only weapon was gone.

A wave of pure, cold dread washed over him, more chilling than the gore-slicked floor. He was unarmed. Helpless.

The Wyrm’s main head craned down, its ancient eyes fixing on him. The drooling mouth opened impossibly wide. Leo scrambled backward, pure instinct taking over. His eyes darted around, searching for an escape that wasn't there. Then he saw it: a dark fissure in the tunnel wall, a ragged tear in the membrane no wider than his shoulders.

He didn't hesitate. As the Wyrm lunged, he threw himself sideways, diving headfirst into the opening. The fleshy lips of the tear scraped against his back, and he felt a searing pain as something sharp—fingernails or teeth—raked across his pack. Then he was through, tumbling down a short, rough-hewn slide of rock and landing hard in a space so vast and open it felt like another universe.

He lay there for a moment, gasping for air that didn’t taste of decay. The sounds of the Wyrm were gone, replaced by an unnerving silence. He pushed himself up, his body screaming in protest, and swept his flashlight across the darkness.

He was in a cavern, immense and echoing. The floor was dusty concrete, and the air was stale, thick with the scent of old popcorn and rust. In the center of the cavern, bathed in the eerie, pale glow of phosphorescent moss clinging to the ceiling, was a playground.

But it was a playground built from a madman’s nightmares.

A slide was constructed from what looked chillingly like a giant's bleached spine. The swing set’s chains were braided sinew, the seats warped pieces of wood that resembled screaming faces. And everywhere, scattered amongst the decrepit equipment, were teddy bears. Dozens of them.

They were arranged in grotesque dioramas of violence.

His light fell on one scene: a circle of bears, their button eyes vacant, were gathered around a large, fluffy pink bear that had been torn open. Its cotton stuffing was strewn across the ground like intestines. One of the smaller bears was repeatedly stabbing it with a plastic spork.

Nearby, a tea party was in session. Three bears sat around a tiny, rusted table, but the plates held not cakes, but the severed plastic heads of dolls.

The sight slammed into Leo with the force of a physical blow. The stale popcorn smell, the twisted parody of childhood joy… it ripped a 30-year-old wound wide open.

1986. The Carousel of Smiles.

The memory was so vivid it stole his breath. He saw his mother's smile, her hand holding his. He felt his father's strong arms lifting his little sister, Sarah, onto a garishly painted horse. He remembered the calliope music, slightly off-key and unsettling, and the impossibly wide, predatory grin of the man in the top hat, Mister Fulcrum.

He remembered turning away for just a second to look at a prize stall, and when he turned back, they were gone. His mother, his father, his sister. Vanished. The music played on, the carousel spun, but his world had ended. In his pocket, his fingers brushed against the two things he’d had since that day: a smooth, cool stone his mother had given him, and the shriveled, mummified finger he’d found on the ground where they had stood.

His quest to find Fulcrum, to get answers, had cost him everything. It had led him from the military to the darkest corners of conspiracy, and finally, into this living hell. This place… it knew. It knew his pain.

A faint sound snapped him back to the present. A soft, dry rustle. Like old fabric shifting.

He froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. His flashlight beam, trembling in his hand, swung back to the tea party. He could have sworn the bear holding the little teapot was facing the doll's head on the plate. Now… it was facing him.

He held his breath, every muscle tensed. It was a trick of the light. A symptom of exhaustion and fear. It had to be.

Then, with a slow, deliberate creak of old fabric and packed stuffing, the teddy bear’s head swiveled on its neck. The stitched-on smile seemed to widen in the gloom. Its black button eyes, devoid of life yet filled with an ancient, watching intelligence, stared directly at him.

The nightmare was not a memory. It was alive. And it saw him.