Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - We Found an Abandoned Subway Station That Isn’t on Any Map

Episode Date: September 11, 2026

Listen to over 100 exclusive bonus stories with a 7-day FREE TRIAL of ⁠Dr. NoSleep Premium⁠⁠⁠ – Cancel anytime. No commitment. Five urban explorers break into an abandoned subway station, only to find a secret passage that defies reality. Huge thanks to our sponsors: BetterHelp: Sign up now and get 10% off at ⁠betterhelp.com/dns⁠. Shopify: You don’t need anyone’s approval to make a living. Build your own business with a free trial at shopify.com/dns Author: Jake Bible Check out all of Jake’s horror story collections at: https://jakebible.com/short-storiesnovellascollections/ * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #scarystories #horrorstories #drnosleep #doctornosleep #creepypasta #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

This episode is sponsored by Better Help. If I could magically be better at one thing tomorrow, I think I'd pick handling stress before it starts running the whole day. Life can pile on things fast, work, family, deadlines, messages, plans, and sometimes you don't realize how tense you've been until you finally get a quiet minute. I like the idea of getting better at recognizing that earlier, taking a second to reset,

and not carrying every little frustration from one part of the day into the next. You don't have to completely reinvent yourself. Sometimes better can be one small change that helps you feel a little more grounded. Better is a feeling defined by you. And for BetterHelp, it's a BetterHelp therapist who really gets you. It's a focus on global, emotional well-being, with thousands of therapists and millions of members in over 100 countries. It's progress.

And it's getting better at handling stress in healthier ways. Sign up and get 10% off at BetterHelp.com slash DNS. That's betterhelp.com slash DNS. In today's story, five urban explorers break into an abandoned subway system stretching 16 miles beneath the city. Their phones lose signal. Their compasses stop working. Then they reach a passageway that's not on the map. It slopes deeper underground.

The air grows hotter with every step. until they emerge onto an enormous subway platform that shouldn't be there. But before we get into it, if you enjoy scary stories like this, be sure to like and subscribe so you never miss any of our weekly uploads. My phone screen is like a blazing star in this pitch darkness. The group huddles around me as we stare at the blank map that had been fully illustrated just moments ago. Plum asks if we took a wrong turn.

Crenshaw says that we can't be deep enough, for the GPS to not work. Lovell, gnaws on her fingers, the nails, the cuticles, whatever she can rip off, as her attention is torn between my phone and Dever. And Dever, our fearless leader,

is pacing back and forth a couple of feet away from our little huddle. Plume and Crenshaw begin to bicker again. I don't even know what they're fighting about this time, and don't really care. Moving away from the group, I hold my phone up, hoping to get the signal back.

Forget it. Keep moving, Deaver says. The bickering stops. Lovell pauses her cuticle murder spree. I keep searching for a signal. Aston, I said to forget it. We're not giving up and we're not going back. It took too long to set this trip up.

Deaver is right. It did take us forever to plan this. Just the hacking of the city planners office so I could get the blueprints, digitize them, and include them in the custom map I built, took way longer than expected. 16 miles of unexplored tunnels, and as far as we know, they haven't been touched in decades, sealed off when the new subway system was put in back in the mid-20th century. While he may be right, Deaver is also wrong.

We should go back. Yes, I have the actual blueprints in PDF form on my phone, but they won't really do us much good if we get lost. Even the compass on my phone has stopped working. We're exploring blind down here, and one wrong turn, get us lost forever, and 16 miles has a lot of tunnels worth of accidents waiting to happen. Crenshaw asks what I think. Even without looking away from my phone, I know Deaver is glaring at me, daring me to counter him. I could, I should, but it's a coin flip in my mind. We could get ourselves

into a serious pickle if we screw up. We also put so much work into this that I hate to walk away now. The lesser part of me takes control, and I nod and say, Deaver is right, we keep going. Plume sighs, and I don't know if it's a relieved or worried sigh. Crenshaw shakes his head, definitely not happy. Lovell tears a strip of skin from her pinky and wences as she spits out the bit of flesh and sucks on her finger to stop the bleeding. Bringing up the blueprints, I study our root. We came from that way and need to go this way. I check. check, double check, and triple check the route. Then I put my phone in my pocket and adjust my headlamp.

This way, I set off, and the others follow. With Deaver coming up to walk abreast of me, he's our de facto leader, mostly because he has the money to fund these excursions. We walked the catacombs under Portland, Oregon last year. We hiked through the forbidden salt caves in West Virginia, and we even suited up and explored the underground nuclear test sites in New Mexico.

Mexico, which almost got us arrested by the NSA. That was a close one. Year after year, we find somewhere deep underground that is technically off limits. As Deaver says, If it's not off limits, then we're nothing more than tourists. None of us wants to be a tourist. We're explorers. We tread where people haven't trod in decades, centuries, millennia. We've braved arrest by the authorities, persecution by locals, and even death threats from drug cartels, when one trip took us way too close to the smuggling tunnels that crisscrossed the border. Doing what we're doing isn't new to any of us, and it's not the first time the GPS has shit the bed. But there is something different about this trip. There's a vibe, I guess you'd

call it, down here that doesn't sit right in my belly. And the way Deaver has been pushing and pushing for this trip, I have to wonder if I'm missing something. So, why let Deaver get his way if my instincts and doubts are telling me to turn our group around and head back to the surface? Dala Dala bills, y'all. What the others don't know is that Dever pays me to put all this together. And that payout is my primary source of income at the moment, now that I'm laid off for my tech job. So, if I want to keep paying my mortgage, car payment, and utilities, then Dever gets the fun excursion that Dever wants. Even with the shadows and the reflections of our headlamps off, moisture slick walls of the tunnel. I can tell that Deaver is smirking. He knows he owns me.

Maybe that's the sick feeling in my belly. The implicit understanding that Deaver has me by the balls. Except, as we walk farther and farther into this forgotten bit of city infrastructure, I know that's not it. There is something here, a feeling, that vibe again, that has the hair on the back of my neck standing up. And I know I'm not the only one who notices it. I've seen Lovell nervous before, but this is a whole new level. Could be that she and Deaver have finally had it out, and he's told her that they have no future. It's a letdown that's been coming for a while now. We could all see he was playing with her, toying with her emotions, using her when he needed her, tossing her aside when he didn't. Also, that picture of him with that model on Insta sure didn't

help. Money can buy you a lot of things, but tact and empathy are apparently too expensive for Deaver to look into. We come to the first turn, and I take us in the correct direction. The goal is to reach the Grand Atrium. It was a hub that would have connected all the many tunnels the steam engines would use. But modernity and politics, of course, shut it all down almost as soon as the space was completed. The Grand Atrium was never used. There is supposedly tile work and fixtures designed by seriously famous 20th century artists and craftspeople that the public never got to see. Dever wants picks so bad so that he can be credited with bringing the first glimpses of these long-lost artifacts to the world. Or that's what he keeps saying. At first, he talked about possibly

liberating a few items, as he calls it. He'd donate them to museums, but only after he toured the items around the country in a very special exhibit that Lovell helped design, of course. But Lovell couldn't come through, and the rest of us argued that liberating men stealing, and none of us wanted to go to prison. The risks of just being down here were enough. To his credit, Deaver didn't argue much, which satisfied the others. Me? I think he gave up too easily, too quickly. He's got an ace up his sleeve, because to Deaver, all of this isn't much more than a game. We get to the next intersection of tunnels, and I start to turn right, but something doesn't track. I take out my phone and check the blueprints. Lost already? Deaver whispers,

keeping his voice low so the others can't hear. No, I snap. We aren't lost because all we have to do is turn back around. But this turn, this tunnel, doesn't seem to be on the blueprints. I make the mistake of not closing my phone fast enough before Deaver can get a peek over my shoulder. I shove my phone into my pocket as Deaver smirks at me. We should check it out. I take a deep breath. I take a and sigh. Bloom and Crenshaw both ask if everything is okay. Lovell just keeps nipping at her fingers. I tell them all that we're on track, and everything is okay, nothing to worry about. When I turn to go the opposite way, Deaver clamps a hand on my shoulder, holding me in place. Not a word comes out of his mouth, but his eyes tell me everything. As much as he wants to get to

the grand atrium, an unexpected discovery is his Achilles heel. The man can't help himself if he thinks he's going to be the first at something. Plume watches us closely. Crenshaw takes a couple of steps back, as if he wants to just leave. Lovell spits out a fingernail. I try to shake Dever off, but he holds on like a bulldog. His grip tightens. It's almost painful, but not quite.

Just like our financial arrangement. And because of that financial arrangement, I relent. My body relaxes, I give in. We walk down the tunnel that's not on the blueprint. Plume and Crenshaw are no longer bickering, which is great, but Lovell is lagging. There has to be more going on than just Deaver being a dick to her, but she's barely spoken since we all gathered for this trip, so I have no idea what's in her head. After about 50 yards or so, the tunnel slopes downward.

I feel the question coming before Plum even asks it. You sure this is the right way? I am. Dever smirks harder. The tunnel is not only sloping down, but the temperature is rising. The moisture on the walls is turning into mist, which casually floats a couple of inches off the floor.

It's like we've walked into some old horror movie from the 60s. I almost expect to hear a smoke machine belching along when we reach the next intersection. I pause, and no one, not even Deaver, asks why we're stopping. I think a lot of people have a business idea. They'd genuinely like to try, But they never actually start because they think, I don't know how to build a website.

I don't know how to set up payments. I don't know how any of this works. And honestly, you don't have to know all of that before you start. That's the main reason we use Shopify for our No Sleep Coffee storefront. They've basically taken all of the complicated stuff and made it simple. We took advantage of their polished website templates and AI tools to help us create a professional-looking storefront in just a few hours. Another nice perk is when I'm busy making content and handling everything behind the scenes.

I no longer have to spend time figuring out the technical side of the store. So if you've had an idea sitting in the back of your mind, now is the best time to actually try it. Start your free trial today at Shopify.com slash DNS and get ready to hear your very first... Start your free trial at Shopify.com slash DNS. That's Shopify.com slash DNS. If you're into horror with a heavy dose of sci-fi, classified experiments, and things humanity was never meant to understand, check out my other podcast, The SCP Experience. Each episode pulls you into the hidden world of the SCP Foundation, where dangerous anomalies are studied, contained, and sometimes unleashed. These aren't just scary stories. They're classified nightmares.

Click here to listen now or search for the SCP experience wherever you get your podcasts. intersection is all wrong. According to the blueprints, which do not show where we currently are, all the intersections should be four-way or tease. This intersection is a Y, with the two directions both sloping at an even steeper angle than the one we are currently standing on. Heat wafts up from both directions, steamy, thick, hot, like a sauna is down there, waiting for us, no matter which way we go. Left is the devil's direction, Deaver says. He goes, he goes, right without another word. Plume and Crenshaw move up to me and insist I show them the blueprints. I do, and they both stare. They're confusion masking the fear that I think we're all feeling.

We've done a lot of these excursions, and we all know that when it feels off, we turn back. There is no question that this is off. Yet we don't turn back. It's like Plum and Crenshaw defer to me for whatever reason. Well, I hope one of them will step up and make the call to head the surface, which they don't do. Come on, Deaver calls out. Plum frowns at me. Crenshaw glances around. Lovell shoves us all out of the way and follows Deaver. I shake my head and jog after her. Two seconds later, I hear both Plum and Crenshaw behind me. The tunnel or ramp, considering the steepness of the grade, takes us deeper and deeper below the city. By the time the floor levels out, the heat is sickeningly oppressive, and we're all stripping off our jails.

jackets and long-sleeved shirts, tying everything around our waists, except for Lovell. She keeps herself buttoned up, despite the fact that her face is turning beat red, and she has sweat streaming off her forehead and dripping off her chin. Then we are here. A whole different hub than the one we'd been looking for. This is definitely some sort of second grand atrium. It has to be. The space goes up and up forever, my headlamp, barely able to make out the ceiling where a huge, ornate chandelier hangs, its crystals exploding with sparkles that dance across everything. I study the ceiling,

looking past the glittering chandelier and frown. Plum walks up to me and pats my arm, then points up, indicating he sees it too. The ceiling isn't made of tile. It's some sort of mud or clay, thick and crusty. The arches of the atrium art, concrete, or steel. They are smooth and cream-colored, like old ivory. and the smell is rank.

My guess is that a dozen rat kings have met their makers down here. At least a dozen. It's all rotten meat and curdled milk. Lovell gags and hurries away from us all. We can hear her retching off in the shadows. Was this place designed by Alistair Crowley? Dever asks with a laugh. He is so giddy with excitement at our find

that I'm surprised he isn't already taking a thousand pictures. But I think even he is a bit odd at where we are. Who? Crenshaw asks. Famous occultist in the early 20th century, I reply. Occultist? Like devils and demons and ghosts and crap? Pretty much, I say and shrug. Deaver looks like a kid in a candy store as he walks around the space, which has a strange layout.

Most atriums are hubs with tunnels as spokes, leading to the different train platforms. This one is a hub of a different sort. It looks like we are standing on one huge platform, with only one track on the left and one track on the right, no spokes at all. Deaver is pacing back and forth at the edge of the right track. I start to walk over to him, but Lovell comes back from being sick and hurries over to me. We need to leave.

I raise an eyebrow. She grabs my wrist and takes my hand. Seriously, we need to go now. What are you two conspiring about? Deaver asks. Plum and Crenshaw turn their heads, and suddenly all the attention is on us. Lovell shrinks back, but doesn't let my hand go. Deaver shakes his head.

No one is going anywhere. Lovell tries to pull me back the way we came, but as I glance over my shoulder in that direction, a gasp, plume and crinch off follow my gaze, and both cry out. The tunnel we walked down is sealed now. Wet, earthen bricks stained with mold and mildew are blocking our path.

Deaver laughs and snaps his fingers. Lovell lets my hand go and slowly, reluctantly walks over to him. Then I feel the rumble before I hear it. Plume asks the question we are all thinking. Is that a train? Deaver answers yes, and wraps Lovell in his arms when she reaches him. She just stands there, stiff as a board. I'm sweating even harder as the rumble becomes the sound of wheels on a track.

The steady kachunk, kachunk, kachunk, kachanka gets louder and louder, until a train's whistle calls out and a sickly yellow light illuminates the right track. A train bursts from the tunnel, moving, at an alarming speed as it whizzes past us. Plume shouts and points. Even at this speed, we can see inside the train. And it is not pretty. Scenes of horror and gore fill every car.

Blood drips down the old window panes. I don't know what I am looking at. The depraved acts happening inside those train cars almost short-circuit my brain. Then the smell of rotten meat and curdled milk gets worse. And I have to cover my nose with my hand until the last car has passed and the tracks are empty once again.

What the hell was that? Crenshaw calls out. Wrong train, Dever says. He shifts level to his side, keeping an arm wrapped around her shoulders. Then he walks her to the other track. After a few minutes of silence, a new rumbling starts up. In minutes, a different train appears on the opposite track, but this one is slowing down, getting ready to stop at the platform. The engine, ancient and rusty, passes us and is lost inside the tunnel.

But it finally stops and presents us with four passenger cars to choose from, all completely dark inside. Not that any of us are moving closer to the train, except for Deaver and Lovell, that is. Plum and Crenshaw get up next to me so that we're almost touching. Deaver stops in front of the second car from the front and leans in and whispers in Lovell's ear. I hear her whimper something in protest, but he pulls her in closer and whispers again. After a few seconds, Lovell's entire body relaxes, but not in a relieved way. It looks like she just gave up, but what for? I don't know. Then she slowly takes her coat off, followed by two layers of long-sleeved shirts.

We gasp at what's underneath. Lovell is pregnant, very pregnant. I'll admit, I noticed the weight gain when we all first arrived, but I wasn't going to say anything. You don't comment on stuff like that, especially. not to a woman. Personally, knowing her history with Deaver, I figured she'd been stress-eating, which she probably has, but for a different reason. Deaver whispers in her ear again, then leaves her by the passenger car, and walks over to the three of us. Plum, can I speak to you? Plum looks at us and frowns. He doesn't have a chance to answer before Deaver has his arm

over Plum's shoulder and is walking him over to the first track. Crenshaw begins to follow, But Dever snaps something about talking alone, and Crenshaw backs off. I look over at Lovell and her big belly. She's standing by the passenger car, shivering despite it being hot as a Russian bathhouse down here. I'm about to go over to her, but Plum's raised voice gets my attention. I turn back to him and Dever and see Dever holding his hands up like he's trying to placate Plum, but Plum is not having it. A rumble builds up again.

Another train is coming down that track, and it sounds fast. like the first one. I doubt this will stop either. Plume and Deaver continue their heated discussion until it becomes a full-blown argument. Plum's arms are gesticulating wildly, and I can hear his voice rising, even though I can't make out the words. The acoustics in this space seem to suck voices up toward the ceiling, yet don't bounce them around like an atrium structure should. Crenshaw is next to me babbling about how we need to find a way out of this place, how that first train was a nightmare, How if we don't leave, we are all going to die. I can't argue with any of his points, so I stay silent.

I think a lot of people have a business idea. They'd genuinely like to try, but they never actually start because they think, I don't know how to build a website, I don't know how to set up payments, I don't know how any of this works. And honestly, you don't have to know all of that before you start. That's the main reason we use Shopify for our No Sleep Coffee storefront.

They've basically taken all of the complicated stuff and made it simple. We took advantage of their polished website templates and AI tools to help us create a professional-looking storefront in just a few hours. Another nice perk is when I'm busy making content and handling everything behind the scenes. I no longer have to spend time figuring out the technical side of the store. So if you've had an idea sitting in the back of your mind, now is the best time to actually try it. Start your free trial today at Shopify.com slash DNS. and get ready to hear your very first. Start your free trial at Shopify.com slash DNS.

That's Shopify.com slash DNS. If you're into horror with a heavy dose of sci-fi, classified experiments, and things humanity was never meant to understand, check out my other podcast, the SCP experience. Each episode pulls you into the hidden world of the SCP Foundation, where dangerous anomalies are studied, contained, and sometimes unleashed. These aren't just scary stories.

They're classified nightmares. Click here to listen now or search for the SCP experience wherever you get your podcasts. The rumbling train's light appears at the end of the tracks. And before either Crenshaw or I can say or do anything, Dever pulls a night from somewhere and slashes Plum across the throat.

Crenshaw screams and falls to his knees. I can only stand here in complete shock and horror and watch as Plum tries to stop the bleeding with his hands. Just as the train reaches the platform, Deaver gives Plum a shove, and the man, our friend, falls in front of the train, lost from sight. Or most of them is. Blood sprays up in a bright red mist as the train roars past. The same scenes, yet even worse, are taking place inside the passenger cars,

and I'm too traumatized to look away. Finally, Crenshaw gets up, and he starts shouting and screaming at Deaver. He takes a few rage-fueled steps toward the track, but Deaver holds up his bloody knife and shakes it in a you-better-not sort of gesture. Crenshaw stops, looks at me, then runs to Lovell and starts asking her questions, pleading for her to tell him what is going on. With the knife still held up, Deaver walks towards me. He has just a little blood spray on his left cheek and wipes at it with the back of one hand, but only ends up smearing it and making it worse. I don't say a word as he approaches me. Do nothing, is all he says when he pats my shoulder with his free hand as he passes me by.

I follow his orders and do nothing, slowly turning to watch him move closer to Crenshaw and Lovell. Crenshaw has Lovell by both arms and is shaking her, desperate to get her to talk and explain what is happening. But Lovell only stands there, pregnant and looking like a dog that's been whipped for pissing on the carpet. She refuses to meet Crenshaw's eyes, no matter how much he tries to get his face in hers. Deaver shouts for Crenshaw to stop and leave Lovell alone, which the man does, instead, turning his rage and confusion in absolute terror on Deaver. The two men face off, but Crenshaw makes sure to keep himself out of knife-slashing range. I can hear the man shouting at Deaver, but just like with plume, I can't make out any of the words. It's like my ears have been filled

with cotton, and all that I hear is my own pulse throbbing, throbbing, throbbing with each beat of my panicked heart. Crenshaw's voice rises in pitch until it's almost inaudible. He is screeching to the point that only dogs will be able to hear him soon. I laugh at this. It's a funny thought. It's an inappropriate thought. But I am having a hard time grasping what is an appropriate thought at this point. I mean, Dever just killed Plum, right? And shoved the man in front of a speeding train, filled with awful scenes of violence and other horrific nightmares? That happened, yeah? Taking my eyes off Crenshaw and Dever. I look over my shoulder. Yep, right there on the edge of the platform is a pool of plume's blood,

and the far wall opposite the tracks has a dark spray of red, as if someone threw several water balloons at it, except the balloons were not filled with water. Crenshaw roars with rage, and my attention is back on him and Dever. I turn in time to see the two men grappling with each other. Crenshaw has both hands gripping Dever's wrist, the wrist with a knife, while Dever is punching Crenshaw over and over in the side of the head to get him to Let go. Level is standing there, head hung low, both of her hands on her belly. Should I intervene? Should I run at the men and break this up? I should. Yes, but I don't. I'm frozen with fear. And to be honest, I can't say for sure whose side I'm on. The train sits idle, dark,

waiting there on the tracks like a sleeping Leviathan. I focus on it instead of my friends. Another funny thought. Friends. Friends minus one. Plume. I had no. I had no. known since college. Crenshaw, I met through Plum not long after we graduated. Then Lovell came into our lives, and we were a forsome, all excited and addicted to urban exploration. Then in walked Deaver one night. He sat down at her table at the local brewery, as if he'd known us forever. Our conversation stopped, and we stared at him, at least until Lovell introduced us. Lovell hadn't exactly had a great track record with men, but when Deaver said he'd pick up the tab, plus take us all out for Chinese so he could explain an idea he had, well, he became our fifth, and it went great for

years, especially the Deaver picking up the tab on all of it part. He comes from old money, like generations of New England wealth. I don't think a single one of us had a moral qualm about taking Deaver's money for our excursions. I sure didn't. Which created the slippery slope I slid down, as my financial troubles worsened, and Deaver kept offering to bankroll me if I worked for him full time on our trips, especially this trip. The trip where I just watched my old friend get butchered and shoved in front of a train, my focus shifts from the idle train to the two fighting men as Crenshaw's shout is cut off mid-curse. I swallow hard as I watch the man stagger about the platform, his hands on his belly, just like Lovell. But instead of caressing a

bump, he's holding the hilt of the knife that Deaver just plunged into his guts. Deaver watches with casual indifference as Crenshaw stumbles across the platform, headed straight for me. Help me! He grunts when he's a foot away from me. Then he collapses into my arms, and I hold him there, my shoulder straining as his weight becomes deader, deader, then all the way dead. I let his body collapse onto the platform as Dever walks with such a swagger that I almost grab for the knife in Crenshaw's belly and attack the smug bastard with it.

Instead, I just stare as Dever reaches Crenshaw, grabs him by the leg, and drags his body over next to Lovell and the idle train. He squats, pulls the knife out, which makes a squelching noise that I'll never forget, and begins to cut Crenshaw's clothes away. Lovell is now crying, and Dever snaps at her to shut up. She sniffles and stops, but her body shakes with her internal sobs. When Dever has Crenshaw completely naked, he carves several symbols into the mansque. in, then hoists the body up over his shoulder and carries it to the train.

He gets to the second car from the front and knocks loudly on one of the doors. It opens up and Deaver tosses Crenshaw's body inside. Lights all up and down the idle train's cars come on, revealing nothing but faces upon faces upon faces. Old, young, scarred, flayed, bloated, gray faces. Each pressed to the glass, milky eye staring out blankly. With Crenshaw inside the car, Deaver moves to grab Lovell. But she yanks her arm away, shaking her head back and forth so fast that I fear she'll grow dizzy and collapse.

Deaver barks something harsh, and she stops shaking. Then she looks up and we lock eyes. All I see is hate in those eyes. I don't know if the hate is for me, for Deaver, or for herself, but her eyes smolder with it. Then she looks away as Deaver grips Lovell's elbows and steers her into the same car where he discarded Crenshaw. Dever lets go before he can cross the threshold of the train's door. Lovell gives me one last look over her shoulder that moves deeper into the car, shuffling down the aisle until she finds an open seat and a window beside it, one she presses her face against.

There's a loud whistle, and steam explodes throughout the atrium as the idle train stops being idle. The passenger car's door closes. Dever takes several steps back from the tracks, and the train lurches as it starts to move leave the platform. Lovell's eyes are wide with fear, and just as the car is about to be lost from sight, I see all the dead-eyed passengers turn their attention on her. Her mouth opens, but she is gone before I can see or hear her scream. Deaver moves up next to me, and we both watch the train chug along, picking up speed until it is finally lost from sight, and the track is

empty once again. "'Time to go,' Deaver says, clapping me on the shoulder. "'You can get us out of here, right?' I have to blink a few times to clear my head and understand what he's asking. What? No, it's blocked. Is it? My eyes fall in the tunnel we came in through. The brick wall is gone. We are free to leave.

Swallowing around the huge lump in my throat, I nod. Yeah, I can get us out of here. Good. He steers me toward the tunnel and the ramp up and out of this hell. I opened my mouth to ask all the questions that I couldn't voice before, but he stops me with a shake of his head. Don't. We never talk about this, understood. No, no, it's not understood. But I nod anyway. I've got bills to pay.

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