V. At the Edge of the World

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I wake before dawn, still curious about the bunker, but determined to make the most of the morning while my energy is high. The miles slip by beneath my feet, each step carrying me farther from New Hinton, deeper into the unknown. My watch says it’s almost noon and yet, the sky has a strange darkening to it as if I’m looking at the seam in the sky where day meets night. 

 

Behind me is the mid-day sun, and ahead of me is twilight. There are only a few thin clouds above, and they appear strangely static. There is no wind and nothing moves, except, strangely, the treetops. It’s unsettling, as if I were about to reach the edge of the world.

 

The humming I faintly experienced since I left New Hinton is now grown into a low, resonant thrum—a pulse like the heartbeat of something massive and unseen. I enter through a dense grove of tall eucalyptus trees which is so dark I need to use my flashlight. Their towering tree tops are swaying unnaturally in the still air. When I come out the other end, I discover a vast, barren clearing, where the humming is now loud enough, I can feel it in my chest. 

 

Scattered before me are dozens of uniform, self-operating, windowless buildings. Each is surrounded by its own chain-linked fence topped with razor-sharp barbed wire. No movement, no signs of human presence.

 

My flashlight lands on the nearest structure. A small, flickering light barely illuminates a fading identification number cracked and peeling with age:

 

“Pod 3 A1-623”

 

Just below it is a steel door, reinforced and seamless, as if designed to withstand more than just the elements. There is no door handle, just a vent near the bottom. A sign, rusted at the edges and bolted to the door’s surface, warns: 

 

“Keep out. Authorized personnel only.”

 

The random assortment of structures standing in eerie isolation gradually gives way to an awe-inspiring sight: an immense wall that rises like a giant, unmoving sentinel, its sheer scale dwarfing everything around it. The wall is a deep, inky shade—so dark that it merges with the sky, amplifying its looming presence. It’s so vast, so impossibly tall, that I can’t even gauge the height—at least 40 feet, maybe more. 

 

The smoothness of its surface is unbroken by windows, seams, or doors. Its function remains a mystery, and there are no visible points of entry—no doors, no windows, nothing. It feels as if it just exists, an unyielding boundary that has been here far longer than I can comprehend.

 

As my eyes trace the wall’s edges, I notice that it doesn’t just stand in place—it curves ever so slightly to the left and right, its edges obscured by the sheer distance. I’m left with a gut-churning suspicion that it encircles far more than what I can see—something vast, stretching beyond the limits of my perception. There is no telling where it might lead or what lies behind it, but there is an undeniable sense that this boundary marks the edge of something monumental.

 

The surface of the wall feels unfamiliar to the touch, cold and unnaturally smooth, like a polished stone or a synthetic alloy, and it doesn’t yield to my touch at all. I can’t help but marvel at how perfectly it’s been constructed—engineered to withstand time, weather, and the most destructive forces imaginable. 

 

Behind it, barely visible through a mist, are massive industrial towers, rising like jagged teeth against the darkened sky. These structures are impossibly tall, their metallic forms angular and foreboding. They are wrapped in thick layers of ventilation ducts, their surfaces covered in a strange, peeling grime, hinting at years of decay or disuse. From the tops of these towers, thick conduits snake across the skyline like twisted arteries, their black pipes crisscrossing one another, converging into an unseen network.

 

Despite the desolation, an unseen energy pulses through the structures. There’s a sense that these automated giants hold secrets beyond my understanding. Everything about this place screams survival—as if these towers and their tangled conduits were designed not just for function, but for endurance, to remain untouched by time. 

 

The air around me has changed in an unsettling way. It’s not the chill of nightfall or the briskness of wind—this cold is deeper, unnatural, almost as if the very atmosphere itself is being manipulated. It has a heaviness that clings to my skin and seeps into my very being. The smell is sharp—a sickly blend of dust, aged electronics, and rusting metal.

 

I try to focus, to make sense of the scattered buildings before me, searching for some clue—some trace of purpose. But the facades are monotonous, stripped of character, offering nothing but impersonal surfaces. 

 

The noise seems to come from everywhere at once—whirling, spiraling in a disorienting chorus of machine-driven breathing. Yet it’s not just the steady whirring of motors and machinery that unnerves me. There’s also the sharp hiss of pressure valves, constantly releasing and relieving some unseen tension in the air, continuously adjusting something far larger than I can comprehend. It’s enough to make me want to cover my ears, but there’s more. 

 

The ground beneath me is alive, trembling with an energy that is felt more than seen. There are vibrations beneath the surface, subtle at first, but growing stronger with each passing moment. As I step carefully, I notice the ground gives way in some places, revealing large, corroded pipes that were once buried deep but have been exposed by time’s relentless erosion. The pipes, along with strange vents that rise in places out of the landscape, add an almost biological feel to the atmosphere.

 

Taken together, the sound, the smell, the sight of steel and rusting metal, the fences that seem to trap all this in, creates an overwhelming sense of having entered into the belly of something vast and alive, a mechanical beast that has been slumbering here for ages. It’s as if this place was never meant to be seen, never meant to be found—its purpose hidden behind layers of noise, smell, and steel, meant to keep the secrets of its existence locked away. And yet here I stand, too close for comfort, on the edge of something that is too immense to understand.

 

Curious to learn more, I find what looks like an entrance to something underground. It’s a hatch with one of those large wheels for opening it that you’d expect to see in a submarine or bank vault. With some effort, the rusty wheel begins to turn as I try to move it counter-clockwise. At the exact same moment, a strange flying object wizzes by and briefly hovers over me. I can’t quite make it out due to the dim light, but it sounds like a giant dragonfly and maneuvers similarly. It’s the only creature I’ve encountered since I’ve been here.

 

As the hatch groans open, a rush of stale, metallic air escapes from below, carrying the scent of dampness and something else—something faintly electric, like the aftershock of a lightning strike. My pulse quickens. It’s as if I’ve disturbed something long forgotten.

 

I peer down into the shaft. The concrete tube descends further than I can see, swallowed by the dim glow of scattered, flickering lights embedded into the walls. A metal ladder, corroded in places, clings to the side like an afterthought. The air is thick, holding a weight of history, and I hesitate, my fingers tightening around the hatch’s cold rim.

 

Above, the strange flying creature returns, circling once again before vanishing into the darkness, its presence lingering in the back of my mind. The sheer stillness down below is almost oppressive, but something in me stirs, a deep pull urging me forward.

 

 I grip the first rung of the ladder and step inside. The metal creaks under my weight. The dim light shimmers faintly against the concrete, illuminating flecks of dust that drift lazily in the stale air. Every movement echoes, amplifying the isolation. 

 

The shaft comes down into what appears to be a transportation tunnel of some kind. I continue to descend until my feet touch down on a grated metal floor. Dim recessed lighting flickers along the curved walls, revealing the sheer scale of the space. The tunnel isn’t just a simple passage—it’s industrial, built for something bigger than just passenger transit.

 

In front of me stretches a single rail, its surface smooth and unbroken, humming faintly with residual power. A narrow walkway runs parallel, bordered by small, periodic maintenance stations, their access panels sealed shut. The infrastructure is intact, but there’s something unsettling about its sterility. No debris. No clutter. Just an absolute silence that makes my thoughts appear even louder.

 

I start walking, my footsteps muted against the metal path. Despite the tunnel’s apparent age, there’s no sign of decay, no rust, no organic overgrowth. If anything, it feels… maintained. That thought freaks me out. Who is keeping it intact? 

 

To fight off a sense of apprehension, I tell myself no matter what happens, I’m not going back, and I continue walking. After what feels like miles, a warm glow appears ahead, distinct from the cold blue tunnel lights. 

 

As I draw closer, the space opens up into a platform—but not the kind built for people. The platform is long and utilitarian, with reinforced staging areas and massive loading bays lining one side. There are no benches, no passenger schedules, no signs directing travelers. Instead, heavy-duty scaffolding, supply crates, and the remains of large docking clamps hint that the platform’s original purpose was some kind of a logistics hub.

 

Beyond the platform, I notice a row of glass-fronted offices, their interiors visible through the dust-covered panels. The rooms beyond are eerily preserved, as if abandoned mid-task. Desks remain cluttered with blueprints, screens frozen on engineering models, and half-empty coffee cups turned into brittle relics.

 

As I step inside, my sleeve brushes against a layer of dust—a detail that doesn’t quite fit. In contrast to the pristine tunnel and platform, here entropy has been allowed to settle. Next, I see what I can only describe as some kind of holographic display, like the one used in Star Wars. Sitting dormant on the main desk, its last projection is flickering faintly—technical schematics of an underground structure glitching before collapsing into a static image. Pinned to the wall, a progress timeline stops abruptly. The last logged entry reads:

 

“Finalization complete. Handoff initiated.”

 

“Handoff of what and to whom?” I wonder out loud. I look for a date that would reveal more, and incomprehensibly find it written:

 

“June 15, 2045” 

 

Have I somehow been ported to the future? Like my experience with the items found in the old bunker, none of this makes sense.

 

I glance around. The entire station—this whole system—feels like it should be in use, but the human presence has long gone. I check one of the old control panels, pressing a few buttons at random. Nothing. The system doesn’t appear to be offline, but doesn’t respond to my input. That’s when I notice, at the far end of the platform, a train stands motionless. It isn’t covered in dust. It doesn’t look abandoned. It looks… ready.

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Continue to Part VI: Eastborough

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