I cut down a side street, leaving behind the steady rush of commuters, and find myself abruptly alone. One block from the highway, there are no signs of life at all besides the occasional seagull waddling on webbed feet across the cracked asphalt. I’ve never been here before, so I’m not sure exactly where I’m headed, but I walk steadily toward the water, knowing I’ll bump into the factory eventually.
Out of nowhere, I feel a chill go up my spine — a razor-edged awareness that makes all the hairs on the back of my neck stand erect as soldiers preparing for battle. There’s no sound, no movement, nothing to indicate I’m being followed… but I can’t help myself from turning around to check anyway. My breathing resumes when I see there’s nothing trailing me except my shadow, elongated in the afternoon light.
You’re being ridiculous, Zoe. Who would bother to follow you all the way out here?
I shake off the strange sensation and keep going. A few minutes later, when I pass a sleeping homeless man curled on a concrete bench, I reach silently into my bag, so as not to disturb him, pull out all the bills in my wallet and shove them into his cup. I don’t bother to count them. He needs groceries more than I do this week.
I know from experience.
I’m breathing a bit heavier by the time I reach the water, warm from my quick-paced walk and the unusual weather. Craning my neck, I take in the sight of the closed LC factory, sitting like an aging beauty queen on the edge of the sound, her paint chipping in the elements, her front walkway riddled with trash. Most of the windows are boarded up. The parking lot is empty. It looks like it’s been closed far longer than three weeks.
I turn in a circle, surveying the entire property. There’s just… nothing here. The only movement is a plastic bag blowing in the wind, the only sound the faint whisper of waves crashing against nearby rocks. It looks desolate. Almost post-apocalyptic.
If the zombie apocalypse breaks out tomorrow, this will be ground fucking zero.
I try the front door and find — surprise, surprise — it’s bolted firmly. And it’s solid metal; there’s no way I’m getting in. A quick walk around the perimeter leads me past the rocky water’s edge, where garbage floats next to dead birds in the polluted water. All the windows I pass by are either too high to climb through or so thoroughly boarded up, I’d need a crow-bar to gain access.
I’ve almost given up hope of getting inside when I reach the litter-filled alley that runs along the back of the factory. I step around a discarded air conditioning unit, squeeze by a dumpster, and finally find a small back entrance, probably an emergency exit of some kind. It’s still half-boarded over, but some of the plywood panels have been yanked off. Even from ten feet away, I can see the metal lock was wrenched open with brute force, probably by squatters or graffiti artists looking for a few blank walls to vandalize.
Before I can talk myself out of it — or pay attention to the small voice in the back of my mind whispering, “Um, maybe you should’ve forgiven Luca in time to bring him on this exploration, you idiot” — I steady my shoulders, push the groaning metal door wide enough to pass through, and slip inside the building.
It’s dark.
Not just dark — pitch black.
I blink my eyes for at least thirty seconds, hoping like hell they’ll adjust. They don’t. Frustrated, I finally just yank out my phone and turn on the flashlight app. The first thing the beam of light catches is a huge rat, scurrying across the floor about ten feet away. It takes all my self-control not to curse at the top of my voice, but I’m not stupid enough to draw that much attention to myself. Not when I don’t know what else is lurking in the dark.
I don’t scare easily. With a past like mine, I suppose that’s a given. But being in places with no visibility, no way of knowing who else is breathing your air, watching you move… that’s one of the most terrifying things imaginable.
You never know who you’ll meet inside buildings like this. I learned early, in my time on the streets, abandoned places don’t stay that way for long. All manner of people find their way in — and they aren’t always friendly.
Rubbing the goose bumps from my arms, I force myself to walk further into the factory. Honestly, I don’t even know what I’m looking for. The deeper I get into the space, the more empty rooms I pass through, the more I begin to feel like I’m running a fool’s errand.
They made jet engines, here. Perfected aircraft systems for military and private use. Most of the equipment is gone, of course, sold at auction to other companies or shipped to another of Lancaster’s workshops in some distant part of the country. All that remains is the faint scent of oil, hanging in the air like a mechanic’s perfume.
There’s a fine layer of dust along the concrete floors — if I shine my narrow beam of light behind me, I can see my footprints like tracks through snow. No one else has been here in a while.
The thought bolsters me enough to keep going.