7. Underground (1)
Underground level 12.
Deep down here. Pitch black. The world we know is 36 meters above us, and even the subway's higher up.
We're the only ones at this depth.
No eerie chill unique to the depths. No thick, stifling air. No crushing humidity pressing down on our bodies. No suffocating pressure from the abyss below...
...None of that.
"More comfortable than I expected."
"Right? The facilities here are top-notch."
"Perks of a big corp."
The air was as fresh as outside—no, fresher. The lighting mimicked natural daylight, and a faint, sweet floral scent even wafted from somewhere.
Aside from the slight pressure in my ears, this place is better than up top...
I'd imagined something more sinister for an isolation cell.
Well, makes sense. Just because it's underground doesn't mean it has to feel like a horror flick.
I glanced at the partition walls as I thought that.
Doors lined the corridor, sealed tight. They looked like bank vaults straight out of a movie.
But way more secure in reality.
A chill ran through me imagining monsters—or something like them—locked behind each one.
But that passed quickly. We weren't here to tremble.
Work. Just work.
A moment later.
We arrived at isolation cell 12-E-37.
"This is it. Oh, go ahead with the procedure."
I nodded. I'd already memorized the decon procedure.
"Isn't Oh a newbie? You sure we can trust her with this?"
Song asked. Department Head Jo nodded.
"Gotta learn sometime. Can't handle this, might as well quit. Babying newbies leads to screw-ups in a heartbeat."
"Fair point. Go get 'em, Oh!"
......I ran the procedure.
First, I pulled out the radio and reported in.
> Isolation Three, this is One-Two E-Thirty-Seven. Request approval for E-105 standard procedure.
Isolation Three was the call sign for the Isolation Division team managing this cell. A response crackled back right away.
> ......Isolation Three here. One-Two E-Thirty-Seven, stand by.
I looked at the department head and Song. They both nodded approvingly.
> One-Two E-Thirty-Seven. Procedure approved. Proceed.
I pressed the temp permit to the cell's keypad. Then fingerprint scan, followed by iris recognition.
Next, the password.
I pulled out the loaner tablet. The home screen held only the OTP app.
Passwords rotated daily. No one got in until an authorized user generated the random code.
I entered it slowly, carefully. A robotic voice announced:
Isolation cell opening. Isolation cell opening. Isolation cell opening.
The locks disengaged automatically. The vault door spun with a grind of gears and cogs.
And—the door opened. Inside was a gaping void of darkness. I radioed again.
"Cell open. Commencing maintenance."
> ......Roger. Maintenance window: One-Two Zero. Request extension by Three-Zero.
Two hours for maintenance. Extensions by thirty minutes prior. I jotted it in my notebook.
"Roger. Radio out."
> Radio out.
I looked back at the two. Song gave a thumbs-up; Jo nodded again.
"Not bad. Thought you'd bow out once."
"Hey, is that a compliment? Should be more encouraging, y'know."
"......Song, don't you hear 'free spirit' a lot out there?"
"Huh? How'd you know? Mind reader?"
"Ah... seriously... sigh... ugh...."
"Aigoo, what's wrong all sudden? Stressed lately? Want some vitamins?"
"......"
Jo turned bomb-red again. I hustled into the cell before he blew.
The partition sealed behind us. Lights flickered on, revealing the interior.
No immediate face-off with the anomaly.
The cell separated into the isolation zone holding the anomaly and the management zone with equipment.
We were in management.
Jo stepped forward, muttering.
"Ugh—this shitty stink. Same every damn time."
"No swearing. Mom says words reflect the soul."
"...Does she ever tell you to shut up in public?"
"What's 'ja-dang'?"
Jo shot me a look like Are all MZ kids like this?
I wanted to say Song was the weird one. But not to her face.
Long sigh.
Jo muttered.
"...Whatever. Wait at the bulkhead. Gotta fiddle with this."
Jo stood at the control panel. Buttons pressed, lever pulled—system online.
> Welcome, Department Head Jo Gil-taek. Cell status nominal. No anomaly irregularities. Today's task: feeding. Proceed.
"Prep for entry. Stay sharp. Manuals memorized?"
I nodded tensely. Song chirped brightly.
"Yup! Let's go!"
"......Bulkhead release. Enter."
The door between management and isolation swung open.
Humid air brushed my cheek.
It was a barn. Cages lined the edges, livestock crammed inside for consumption.
Thick beast-stink like steam hung heavy.
Dim lights. Terrified animals whimpering.
And... the anomaly in the center.
Wrrrr—.
It was a machine.
Shape defied easy description—closest to a factory conveyor belt.
If you ignored the human teeth studded everywhere.
Just like the files.
1. Anomaly E-153 manifests as a conveyor belt with teeth.
> Recording ready. Case 1. Proceed with supervision and feeding.
Jo's instructions boomed from the speaker. Song piped up cheerfully.
"Whaddya wanna do? Supervise? Or feed?"
2. Feeding requires two personnel: one supervises, one feeds.
"Which do you prefer, Song?"
"Feeding for me! It's fun!"
"Then I'll supervise..."
"But Mom says share with others. So I'll yield this time!"
No need, really.
But I nodded. Song grabbed the binder and stepped to the wall.
Let's see... procedure... Skip 3, that's for supervisor...
4. Feeder uses provided capture gear to place livestock per schedule on belt edge.
Checked the feeding chart. Today's: rooster.
Grabbed the capture tool, headed to the outer cages.
Terrified beasts wailed.
Opened a coop, snatched a rooster. It squawked in the grip.
"Commencing feed."
> Approved.
5. Maintain 2m distance from anomaly unless unavoidable.
Rooster thrashed at the tool's end. Feathers flew; muffled cries sounded like sobs.
Didn't hit home. Two meters is farther than it seems.
Swallowed hard. Eyed the wriggling bird on the belt...
Released it.
E-153 sang.
Mirae— Mirae— Mirae Livestock Processing—!
Your trusted ethical partner in food—!
Girl's voice. Nursery-rhyme melody. But an eerie, damp undertone.
Beasts sobbed in the barn. Belt whirred to life.
Teeth gleamed. All under control.
Rooster flapped wildly. Its deep avian eyes fixed on me.
"Pleased to meet you! Where might this be? Quite the unpleasant smell!"
It spoke to me.
6. Once activated, stabilize feed on belt.
6-1. Words like 'safe,' 'normal procedure,' 'no issues' especially effective.
6-2. Feedstock has no intelligence.
"No worries. Normal procedure."
"Normal? I see. So I just sit on this moving path?"
"Yes. No issues."
The anomaly's song droned on.
Oooh— Mirae— Mirae— Mirae Livestock Processing—!
Always, anywhere—!
"What's at that end?"
Rooster tilted its head. I lied.
"Nothing special. Think of it as an X-ray."
"Oh! Health check! Got it."
Abutting rollers at the belt's intake. Teeth ground with horrific tears.
Your good friend, together with you—!
"This song... Feels off... Ominous..."
"It's fine. Just imagination."
Not imagination.
The rooster would die.
7. Post-processing byproduct designated E-153-1.
No—was being processed. Ground to mush.
It realized too late, at the rollers.
"Wh-what, no, this, no. Nooo."
Screams, flaps, machine song.
Let's all enjoy, Mirae Livestock Processing—!
No escape. Rollers had its feathers.
Rooster stared at me. Eyes thick with terror. Wings outstretched like arms begging rescue.
Too late.
"H-help. It's not okay. This isn't—!"
Forever—!
Kiiiiiiiiing—!
"Aaaagh—! Hurts—! Stop—! Please, save me—! Aaa—! Aaagh—!"
Blood reek filled the cell. Feathers scattered. Machine jolted, spewing red steam.
I pinched my nose, stepped back instinctively.
"Aaaaaaaaaaagh—!"
Its final words.
Ding—!
Crisp bell. Machine halted.
Girl's voice. Vacuum-sealed pack dangling from the rollers. Song approached with her binder.
"Fun, right? ...Whoa, you're pale! What's up?"
...For real?
A talking chicken getting butchered is 'fun'...
Taste way off the rails. Couldn't comprehend, didn't want to.
I stayed silent. Song cocked her head.
"Saw something off, though. Mind some advice?"
"......Sure."
"Talk sweeter to the chickies! They love that!"
"......"
Suddenly got Jo's pain.
"Quota left? Lemme demo!"
This woman belonged in a psych ward's lockdown, no diagnosis needed.
"Here, catch!"
She trotted over, grabbed the pack, handed it with the binder.
Warm. Damp.
Wait, this feels...
Writhing.
...No, it is!
It's moving!
Chill hit hard. I stumbled back.
> Don't drop it. Worth a fortune.
If Jo hadn't said that, I'd have chucked it.