Eric ran on until exhaustion set in and his breathing became ragged. He thought he had shaken the gang off, but a terrified scream from behind made his skin crawl.
"What the hell is out here?" he muttered. He stumbled against a narrow ventilation grille in the wall — a slit that let foul air rush out in thin ribbons. Gasping, Eric stared at it. Something might be chasing him through there. His instincts said the shaft was passable; his brain screamed that it was risky. Whatever followed him, though, might be worse.
He looked up at the ceiling: a tangle of pipes and rusted metal. He gauged the height and breadth of the vent; it was just wide enough for him to crawl through. The weak flashlight beam revealed a narrow iron ladder inside and a real flow of air — the smell was not just oily machine smoke from below but carried a hint of cleaner air, maybe from above.
(It was marginally better air — only marginally.)
Eric rummaged in his bag for cloth and tore it into two strips. He used one to bind tightly across his chest and waist to compress the new curves and make his shirt lie flatter, hoping it would stop bouncing and be less awkward while he climbed. The other strip he folded for grip.
Before crawling in, he set the flashlight to its dimmest setting. The faint glow was enough to show the ladder rungs and the shaft ahead, and to keep the batteries from dying. Dust brushed his face as he ducked in; mildew and flaking rust clung to the metal edges. The wind in the shaft sighed and pulsed — at once a warning and a small promise.
The air inside smelled heavily of metal and thick dust that seemed to cling in his throat. Eric stood, coughed lightly, and brushed the floating grit from his face. He lifted the flashlight; the weak bulb flickered as if it might go out at any moment.
"Maybe… oh God, this is so damn high…" he murmured to himself, tilting his head up to stare at the ladder shaft. The voice was still the woman's voice he hadn't grown used to; he frowned, irritated, but tried to ignore it. The ladder looked impossibly tall — but if it might lead him out of here, Eric was willing to take the risk.
He tightened his pack and scanned the area one more time. In a place like this, hesitation could mean death. He stowed the flashlight, gritted his teeth, and began to climb, rung by rung. In the dark the metal screamed and groaned with every shift of his weight, and his heart thudded so hard it felt like it would leap out of his chest.
Will this ladder hold? he wondered.
After climbing a few meters, the awkwardness of his new body returned again. His clothes — still a bit loose despite the bindings — hindered his movements, and every motion made the breasts he did not want to acknowledge bounce. He couldn't understand it; he'd never had to deal with this before.
"Damn it…" he muttered, forcing himself to ignore the strange sensations and keep climbing, hoping, with each rung, that it would lead him out.
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The cold iron bit into Eric's palms, rust biting his skin until it stung. He hauled himself up another rung; his arms trembled with exhaustion. The metal grated and screeched against his hands with every movement.
He wasn't sure whether he'd get tetanus from this, but he prayed he wouldn't.
The flashlight tied to his backpack sent a weak beam that picked out oil-streaked walls and turned the shaft into a nightmare landscape — narrow, dark, and seemingly endless.
Eric paused after what felt like hours of climbing. His breathing was shallow and labored. He pressed his forehead to the cold metal and tried to stifle his panting, but his heart kept hammering.
"This ladder is insane… how can it be this long?" he muttered; the voice was still the unfamiliar, higher register of a woman, sounding tired and thinner than how he felt inside. He clenched his teeth. The alien feeling of inhabiting this body clung to every motion: the loose clothing rubbing his skin, mixed with sweat and dust, made him unbearably uncomfortable.
A hood lay folded beneath his arm. His chest rose and fell with his breath; even the smallest movement made it bounce. He had wrapped cloth tight to compress it and reduce the swing while climbing, but it helped only so much — and it made him feel constricted.
He glanced down. Below him was an abyssal blackness, a void like a bottomless gulf. The steady drip of water — ting… ting… — was the only sound proving that time still passed. He dared not look downward for long; the thought of falling filled him with dread, and he couldn't bear to imagine what his body would look like if he slipped.
By his reckoning it had been nearly three full days — three days of climbing with nothing but the endless ladder: no landings, no rooms, no doors. Just height that never seemed to end.
He had thought of stopping, but each time he peered below the idea vanished. He'd already climbed too far. There was no turning back. Beneath awaited only death and rot; above — maybe, just maybe — a chance to survive.
Eric sat on a rung and let water from his hair drip onto his hand. His fingers shook as he tore off a piece of hard ration and bit into it, then tipped the metal bottle to his lips for a small sip.
He looked up again into uninterrupted darkness, like the throat of some enormous creature that had swallowed him whole.
"Is this a nightmare?" he whispered.
"A dream you can never wake from…"
He stayed clinging to the ladder for a long while, knowing he couldn't remain there forever or he'd fall. Gritting his teeth, he gripped the iron and forced himself to climb another rung. His hands trembled, but he pushed upward, one step at a time.
Even then he had no idea where the ladder led — whether it ended at all.
But it was long, unbearably long. He wanted to find the person who'd built this damn ladder and slap them — if they were still alive.
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Eric ran on, his breathing heavy and ragged from the fight. He thought he had lost the gang, but a terrified scream from behind made his skin crawl.
"What the hell is out here?" he muttered, and he stumbled against a narrow ventilation grate in the wall. A thin stream of stale air breathed out from the shaft. Eric, panting, studied it: something might be following him that way. His instincts said the shaft was passable; his brain screamed that it was dangerous. Whatever was behind him could be worse.
He looked up at the ceiling — a tangle of pipes and rusted iron — and measured the vent's height and width. It was just wide enough for him to squeeze through. The faint beam of his flashlight revealed a narrow ladder inside, and the airflow smelled different from the oily stench below: a hint of cleaner air, as if it came from a higher level.
(It was only marginally better. Barely.)
Eric tore a strip of cloth from his pack and ripped it in two. He bound one strip tight around his chest and waist, pulling the shirt in so the new curves would be flatter and less likely to bounce while he climbed. He folded the other strip to help him grip the ladder.
He set the flashlight to its dimmest mode and crawled into the shaft. Dust hit his face; mildew and flakes of rust clung to the metal edges. The wind in the shaft sighed and pulsed — at once a warning and a small relief.
The air smelled metallic and thick with dust that scratched at his throat. He coughed, brushed grime from his face, and ducked his head into the shaft. The weak bulb flickered as if it might go out at any moment.
He climbed until his arms trembled. The cold iron dug into his palms and the rust stung. He wasn't sure how long he'd been climbing — long enough that his supplies were nearly gone — and once, a rotten rung gave way beneath him and he almost fell.
POK!
"Ow!" Eric cried out as his head slammed into something. When he looked up he saw a metal plate or cover blocking the ladder. Finally — somehow — he had reached the top.
"Yes! Finally!" he shouted in relief. He shoved at the plate. It was stuck tight, or maybe he was just weak — this woman's body felt weak sometimes — but eventually he forced it open. The air above felt cleaner, somehow — still foul and stale, but unquestionably better than below.
"I'm not stuck in that dark tunnel anymore," he said to himself, elated.
He hauled himself over the edge. His whole body was cramped and numb; his shoulders ached from climbing; his palms were raw and scored with dried blood from gripping the ladder. Dirt ground under his fingernails. The heaviest burden, though, was the chest wrapped tight against his ribs. He tried to breathe deeply but felt a constant tightness from the binding.
He looked around and found himself in a narrow alley whose floor and walls were metal. Trash, rust and filth clung to the ground, and dust lay everywhere. Overhead a metal ceiling rose dozens of meters, scattered with a few weak lamps that offered only a dull, thin light. The place felt dangerous, but Eric didn't care — he was exhausted and desperately needed rest.
He closed the metal plate behind him to block the ladder; he didn't want anything from below to climb up. He also didn't want anyone else to fall down into that pit.
Shouldering his rifle, he eased further into the alley. His tired arms trembled with the weight of the gun. A few mutated cockroaches scuttled by, but they were easily dispatched by a quick burst from the rifle.
Turning into a deeper passage, he met a shabby man emerging from the shadows. The man was gaunt, dressed in rags, and looked at Eric with a predatory gaze that made him uneasy — even though Eric had nearly covered himself, leaving only his eyes and forehead exposed.
"Lost, little sister?" the man leered in a crude, menacing tone. The language was one Eric didn't fully understand — the same guttural slang from below rather than the chipped speech of the tech-priest — but the meaning was obvious. Being a woman here felt dangerous, and the thought made a hot flash of frustration and fear roll through him. Still, he had a gun.
"Don't come any closer!" Eric shouted, leveling his pistol. He clicked the safety off and curled his finger around the trigger, ready to fire. Fear was turning into anger; he just wanted to sleep. If this creep stopped him, he'd make sure the man slept for good.
The man only smiled with yellowed teeth and reached into his pocket as if for something. He took a step closer and started to laugh.
Bang.
Eric didn't hesitate. The shot struck the man, and he crumpled to the ground. The alley fell silent except for the smell of gunpowder and Eric's quick, ragged breaths.
He stripped the body for anything useful and found a few small round coins stamped with a two-headed eagle and a short knife. The area felt lawless and brutal — a far cry from the most dangerous neighborhoods he'd known back home.
When he made sure the passage was clear, Eric picked a dark corner with a jut of wall for a backrest and settled down. He took off his shoes to check his feet; blisters and raw spots burned from the constant climbing and the tight shoes. He massaged his feet briefly, tightened his laces, and lay down on his side despite the discomfort. He hugged his rifle to his chest and, for the first time in days, let himself try to sleep.
(Although Eric now inhabits a female body, his mind remains that of a man.)