My entire life has revolved around the infrastructure that lay beneath our feet.

My father and our generations before him all bore the same responsibility,

maintaining the city's arteries.

I know the labyrinthine storm drain system that sits below us better than my own home.

It had rained heavily over the last week,

so when my phone buzzed in the morning, I already knew what it was about.

The council called me in a panic about flooding in the industrial area,

admittedly less maintained than the residential systems, and begged me to check it out.

Their frantic tone was lost on me, because I was expecting this to happen.

Another day of the job.

I grabbed my gear, which was well maintained but worn out from years of use, and I slipped

a pack of lucky strikes into my pocket, a habit I'd never been able to kick and headed on my way.

Stepping out of my truck, I tightened my gloves, secured my boots, and started trudging down the old path toward

the northeastern entrance.

The opening to the train was a gaping hole in the earth, the city's very moor that seemed

prepared to swallow just about anything whole.

The first glaring thing I noticed was the high water levels in the tunnel, soaking my boots

as I waded in.

I expected water, but I didn't expect a small fire pit, still smouldering slightly near the entrance.

The thought of homeless people in the drains crossed my mind, and it wasn't a comforting

thought. I'd seen this before. The vagabonds that took refuge in drains in this area were

notoriously nasty. I grabbed my pack of lucky strikes and lit a cigarette to calm myself for a

...