The alcove felt smaller with everyone in it.
Morning light didn't reach this deep, but the crew had their own dawn: the hiss of Don's camping stove, the low murmur of voices, the clatter of gear being checked one last time. The air carried the thick smell of reheated stew and hot metal. After last night's close call behind the panel, no one had slept much.
Marty Kowalski stood at the centre of it all, ladle in one hand, steaming pot in the other. His canvas jacket was already unbuttoned despite the chill, sleeves rolled high enough to show forearms thick from years of hauling rebar topside. The cassette Walkman clipped to his belt played something loud and triumphant—guitars wailing through one tinny earbud that dangled against his chest.
"Breakfast of champions," he announced, voice carrying easily over the chatter. "Get it while it's hot and before Mad sits on it."
Mad, wrestling with an oversized coil of rope, shot him a wounded look. "That was one time."
"One time too many for my backside," Marty grinned, handing a dented bowl to Kyle first. The kid took it with both hands, eyes still red from lack of sleep but brightening at the smell.
Valley leaned against a concrete pillar, arms folded, watching the ritual with quiet amusement. He caught Griffydd's eye and tilted his head toward Marty. Message clear: Let him do this. They need it.
Griffydd nodded once. He hadn't slept either. The "SAFE PATH" message still glowed behind his eyelids every time he blinked.
One by one the crew assembled.
Scarab arrived counting battery cells like coins, muttering about trade value. Andrea slipped in behind him, silent, already scanning faces for tells. Archie followed, hood up, wrist rig glowing faintly as he ran quiet diagnostics on the scanner Griff had asked him to tweak. Donald brought up the rear, medical satchel slung across his chest, grumbling about people who explored on empty stomachs.
Elin was last, coat still damp from a perimeter check. She accepted a bowl from Marty without comment, but her shoulders eased a fraction when he added an extra scoop.
Jake circled the group twice, accepting scratches and scraps with democratic generosity before settling at Marty's feet, head on his boots like a deputy guarding the cook.
Marty killed the music long enough to speak.
"All right," he said, voice dropping into the easy rhythm he used when things were serious. "We've got a glowing arrow telling us to follow the light, a wall that closed itself behind us, and enough new batteries to run a small city for a week. Question is: do we trust it?"
Silence fell. Even the stove seemed to hush.
Griffydd stepped forward. "We don't trust anything blindly. But we map it. Carefully. Together."
"Together," Marty echoed, nodding. "That's the part I like."
He started passing out tasks the way he passed out stew—naturally, no vote needed. Kyle and Elin on point. Archie and Scarab on tech and loot. Mad and himself on heavy lifting. Don on rear guard and patching whoever needed it. Valley and Griff coordinating.
No one argued. They never did when Marty was the one asking.
The unstable section they chose for today's run was three levels up and two sectors over—a half-collapsed maintenance spine everyone avoided because the ceiling groaned like an old man with bad knees. But it was rich: old power conduits, tool caches, maybe even intact cabling they could strip for lights.
Marty led the heavy team, pry bar slung across his back like a rifle. He hummed under his breath—something with a big chorus—keeping rhythm with his steps.
"Watch the overhead," he warned Mad as they ducked under a sagging beam. "She's held this long, but she's tired."
Mad grunted agreement, carefully shifting his weight.
Halfway through, they hit paydirt: a sealed engineering locker wedged behind fallen concrete. Scarab's eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas. Archie was already kneeling, wrist rig connected, coaxing the electronic lock with soft beeps.
Kyle called from ahead: "Clear path forward—looks like it links back toward yesterday's panel sector."
Elin's voice echoed back: "Mark it. We'll loop."
Marty wedged Excalibur under the locker door, muscles bunching. "On three. One…"
The groan came from above, not the locker.
Time fractured.
A hairline crack raced across the ceiling like lightning. Dust rained. Then the iron girder—thick, rusted, unforgiving—tore free with a shriek of metal.
It fell straight toward the group clustered below.
Marty moved first.
A roar—half shout, half grunt—as he launched himself sideways. His shoulder connected with someone, hurling them clear. Bodies scattered. Someone screamed Kyle's name. Someone else Mad's.
The girder hit with a concussion that knocked lamps from hands and breath from lungs. Concrete exploded into choking dust. The world went white, then black, then the red flicker of emergency lights.
When the dust began to settle, the girder lay like a fallen tree across the floor.
Marty was beneath it.
They dug in frenzy—hands, tools, curses. Names were shouted into the haze, but no one answered who had been standing where.
Jake's howl rose above it all—raw, piercing.
They found Marty pinned, one arm free. Blood at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes were open, searching faces through the settling grit.
He tried to speak. Managed a cracked grin.
"Hey… tell Pepita dinner's on me."
His gaze flicked across the circle—lingering half a second too long on Valley—then softened.
"Look after each other, yeah?"
The light left him before anyone could answer.
They carried him back in silence.
Don pronounced it officially, voice flat. Elin organised the cairn in a side alcove they all knew—a place with good airflow, where sound carried. They laid Excalibur across the stones. The Walkman went on top, still playing that same damn song on loop.
Jake lay beside the cairn and refused to leave. No amount of coaxing worked.
When the last stone was placed, Kyle reached out and turned the volume up just enough for the chorus to fill the space.
No one cried out loud. They didn't need to. The Hollow carried the sound for them.
Later—hours or minutes, time had gone strange—Archie's scanner pinged from the far wall of the cairn alcove.
A section of concrete had shifted during the quake. Behind it: cool air, a faint hum, and the clear outline of a much larger tunnel entrance. Wide enough for all of them. Smooth edges, deliberate construction.
The arrow they'd followed yesterday had been pointing here all along.
Valley stared at it for a long moment.
Elin broke the silence. "He'd have wanted us to keep going."
Griffydd looked at the cairn, then at the tunnel.
"We go deeper," he said quietly. "For Marty."
Jake finally stood, shook dust from his coat, and walked to the entrance. He sat at the threshold, tail thumping once against the floor.
Waiting.