>>THE FALL OF KAZAD-DUM<<

AN HOUR LATER IT WAS THEIR TIME TO GO DOWN, AND THEY SHUFFLED into a creaky old service lift. Slowly, uncertainly, they began their descent. Croon smiled bleakly: the lift looked like it should have been rationalised in the Thatcher years, and it seemed an awfully long way down. Thankfully, after only three light failures, the lift dragged to a halt, and the door slid open. Beyond stretched a narrow shelf lit by bare fluorescent bulbs. Croon wandered out, swearing, bemused. There was nobody to be seen, and no sign of a party. <<Hey, maybe we stopped on the wrong floor>> Dice said. He was a football hooligan.
Croon pointed to a line of small arrows running through the dust and gloom to, some 20 metres distant, a low-lit staircase. Steps spiralled down into the darkness.
<<This place reeks>> said Jasmin, who thought herself too old for motorway parties. <<I can hardly breathe from the dust.>>
Dice dropped a match down the passage - it twirled around for at least a minute before going out.
<<We've been duped.>>
<<Wait.>>
They all stopped talking and listened hard. Faint steps and laughter could be heard, echoing up the stairway. Beneath that, the four could discern the dull rumble of an Armageddon bassline.
That and an ominous, sometimes fading drum-beat: doom-doom, doom-doom.
<<Me first!>> Strife said, diving into the unknown.

CASSIUS CROON and other characters copyright Rob Sullivan 1996-2001.

Zine-X