That night, as was his habit, the first thing Detective Colonel Rigel Beta did when he returned home was turn on the TV. The news guy’s voice used to help him fight the silence in the living room and the chirping of crickets coming from outside.

Then, as always, he went to the kitchen and took off his uniform on the way, leaving a trail of clothes on the floor that started with his boots and his belt and ended with his jumpsuit at the foot of the fridge. He opened it, drank some water from the bottle, and took the chicken sandwich that had been left from the night before. But when he was about to give it a bite, he realized he had no appetite and tossed it out.

He went to the bathroom and took a long shower.

The water removed the dirt that the many dust clouds he’d pierced through at the South Tropical Canyon had poured over him, and the soap washed away the sweat—all dried up now—that heat and moisture had stuck to his skin.

But when he turned off the faucet, he had the strange impression he wasn’t yet completely clean, that there was still more to be cleaned up. It was an almost abstract feeling that no shower could ever make disappear. The same feeling that had surely ruined his desire to eat. The same feeling that weighed on his head since they had left the Canyon hours ago.

It wasn’t the crime scene of the archaeology students, but what he and his crew had discovered in that building hidden under the cave. What he’d seen there had been disturbing him as nothing had disturbed him for a long time.

And when he went to bed and closed his eyes, trying to relax, everything he’d lived in that place came back to him.

Chris Snow and other Criminal Division officers surrounded the open hole in the rock wall of the cave, while Rigel and Officer Bill Serrano, kneeling, watched through it the discovery found down there: A corridor built by the hand of man, with green tiles on the walls and black-and-white tiles on the floor.

“Is it safe?” Rigel asked, poking the darkness with his flashlight.

“It won’t collapse, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Snow said.

Their voices sounded muffled as they spoke with their antiseptic helmets on, helmets similar to welding ones, but crystal clear.

“The equipment says the structure is solid,” Snow continued. “Nor are there toxins in the environment that the helmet purifying cannot—”

Then Rigel, trusting that Snow was right, jumped through the hole and got into the corridor.

When his boots hit the floor, the carpet of dust melted into clouds.

With a hand, he pushed the ghostly mist away from his face. He activated the full power of his flashlight and pointed straight ahead. The light sliced ​​through the deep darkness. Motes of dust swam in the air.

The hallway turned out to be quite long; it was about a hundred, hundred and thirty feet long, and it had ten, maybe twelve, doors to its sides; all closed. Fortunately, the helmet was there to protect him from the musty stench that must be pervading every corner of that place.

“Do you think this could be the killer’s hideout, colonel?” Serrano asked from the cave. His voice rumbled and then faded with the hiss of the wind.

“Maybe,” Rigel said.

His voice recreated a chilling resonance, and when he took his first steps, it got worse. Thud… thud… thud… That muffled sound got lost in the darkness ahead… and in the darkness behind. He spun on his heels, and cutting the dust curtains with the light, he peered through what was behind.

“Be careful, colonel. The killer could have come back from the woods, and he could be right there now,” Serrano insisted.

“It’s been a while since someone walked here,” Rigel answered. “But there are other hallways, Bill. So…”

Yes; the killer might be hanging around there, but he didn’t think so.

“According to thermostatic and infrared detectors, there are no living things out there,” Snow clarified, and Rigel thanked him in silence; he couldn’t bear to hear Bill Serrano babbling otherwise about the killer who had killed the archeology students.

The flashlight revealed a wall ahead that marked the end of the corridor; however, there was a deep shadow to the right that swallowed all visibility: the hallway had a fork. There had to be a way to get out there, right? Maybe after that fork, there was an exit.

“Chris, George; you two, come with me,” Rigel ordered.

Officer Chris Snow switched on his flashlight and darted gladly into the hallway. George Froia, the other officer, followed him with a portable sonar in hand.

Bill Serrano stayed in the cave, watching them getting into the blackness of the unknown. It was better that way.

The three of them walked down the corridor, and the echoes of their footsteps filled the void that silence had carved there for who knows how long.

The beams of light moved from side to side like giant laser swords. They lit up the specks of dust dancing in the air and mist. They lit up the damp spots in the sectors of the walls not covered with tiles, and the black-and-white tiles on the floor that formed an endless checkerboard.

As they moved forward, the sonar recreated the mapping of the place. Officer Froia looked at the screen from time to time.

Rigel looked at the ceiling that was barely three feet above him, crammed with damp stains. The fluorescent tube was dead, encircled by a black stain; and not only the one he had over his head, but all fluorescents in that place were also burned out. He searched the walls for an electrical outlet; found two with burn marks around them. A switch; also burned.

Snow tried to light one. No response.

“If you ever wanted to know what a short-circuit is…” he said.

They kept going, this time aiming their lights at the doors. They looked at them with suspicion, as if they fear one door would open at any moment, letting a hideous creature escape.

Rigel tried to open some, but the rust hardened the doorknobs, so he didn’t force them. Later they would take care of seeing what was behind, now they had to check the corridor circuit.

“Since I’ve been in Crime I’ve seen creepy things, but this place takes the cake,” Froia said.

“It reminds me of those old hospitals from half a century ago,” Snow added, “those you’d find in old cities, y’know?”

Rigel asked for silence. They stopped, and when they hushed and the echoes faded, a sound reached their ears; one that marked a smooth beat. A leak. Somewhere in that place, there was fluid leaking out in a puddle.

“There’s a lot of grottos and groundwaters in these crags,” Snow said, almost whispering. “There must be leaks.”

Froia pointed his flashlight at the damp patches on the ceiling. “It must come from above, surely.”

Reaching the last stretch of the path, they dug into the darkness to their right.

“What will we find up there, George?”

George Froia looked at the sonar, but the screen flickered so hard that it was impossible to see anything. “Something’s wrong,” he said, “I’m losing signal.” He tried to fix it, but there was no use.

“An interference?” Snow approached.

Froia pointed to the burn marks around the fluorescent tubes.

“The residual energy after this may be the cause,” he said. “Or it could be the same electromagnetic field from the cannon. It’s weird. Anyway, I think there’s just a hallway ahead.”

Upon that, the flashlights lost a bit of power. It wasn’t much, but it was noticeable.

Snow gave Rigel a look. “Should we go back?”

Rigel didn’t answer; he kept going, and the other two followed him.