Little Pink Starfish

“Shit!” Jin Sen yelled, “It’s right under me!”

He was right. The next moment, An Zhe felt the ground beneath his feet tremble dully. It felt close, real, like a sledgehammer pounding just beneath the floor.

At the same time, a huge crashing sound came from the end of the corridor, the iron doors rattling violently, accompanied by chaotic shouting from the prisoners on that side.

“There’s one over there too,” the Poet’s voice suddenly sped up, “Subterranean creature—is it rodent class? They’re social animals. That’s how Southeast Base was—”

Before he could finish, he corrected himself, “No, rodents don’t have that kind of strength. Underground…”

Chaotic footsteps suddenly rang out. A squad of black-uniformed soldiers rushed down the stairway, flashlight beams flaring in all directions. A megaphone blared in the corridor, deafening: “Do not panic. The City Defense facility has reinforced concrete and special steel plates. We’re investigating the cause. Do not panic.”

—If they weren’t shouting that while quickly opening cell doors to evacuate prisoners, those words might have been more convincing.

Meanwhile, a shrill siren blared outside, the evacuation signal rising and falling like waves.

“The evacuation signal’s going off!” Jin Sen pounded on the cell door. “Bro! Hurry and open up!”

Soldiers opened three cell doors further down, then quickly made their way over. Boss Xiao’s cell was on the outside. Once the soldier found the right key and jammed it into the lock, click, the iron door popped open. Boss Xiao practically lunged out. “Turn right and head upstairs to find the exit!” the soldier barked.

Boss Xiao staggered forward and ran right. Dust rained from the ceiling. The soldier wiped his face and moved to the Poet’s cell.

At that moment, Jin Sen shouted, “He’s in for life! He’s dangerous! Open mine first! I’m a law-abiding citizen!”

The soldier hesitated. The ground was shaking harder. He turned and unlocked Jin Sen’s door instead.

Jin Sen gripped the iron bars, voice trembling: “Bro, hurry, bro!”

An Zhe saw the soldier’s hands were shaking too. It took him several tries to get the key in.

Jin Sen: “You’re like my own blood brother—”

Suddenly, the voice cut off.

The floor creaked. Jin Sen was abruptly lifted into the air. A massive black object burst up through the cracked floor and dusty soil.

A dull squelch. Jin Sen’s body was caught between the creature and the ceiling. His eyes bulged outward. Something sharp punctured his abdomen, blood and organs spilling out. A scream pierced the air. An Zhe’s pupils dilated. He turned his head to see the soldier who had been unlocking the door now impaled by the warped iron bars—his thigh and right chest pierced. He writhed on the ground, coughing violently, blood foaming from his mouth. Probably a punctured lung.

Boom—the black object slammed back down, breaking through the floor. It vanished into the hollow beneath. Jin Sen’s corpse fell in after it, out of sight.

Further down the hallway, soldiers shouted, “Evacuate—!”

But a second later, another earth-shattering crash came from that direction. Iron doors clanged and fell. Ceiling panels shattered and dropped. Two terrified screams rang out—then silence.

—An Zhe heard chewing.

It began with squelching, then grinding, limbs being mashed together, and finally bones crunching and snapping.

The sound came from the corridor—and from the hole across from An Zhe.

The dying soldier’s flashlight rolled away, its pale beam shining into the pitch-black crack.

At the same time, a mycelium thread stretched through the gap in An Zhe’s cell door. More followed, gathering to hook onto the scattered keys on the ground, slowly dragging them toward the cell. The key scraped along the floor with a harsh sound.

The dying soldier’s terrified eyes flicked toward An Zhe—but there was nothing he could do. He was already dead.

An Zhe asked his neighbor, “Which cell am I?”

The Poet’s voice trembled, “Seventeen. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” An Zhe replied. He estimated that his door was level with the Poet’s, and that the Poet couldn’t see what he was doing.

He retracted the mycelium and quickly seized the keys, identifying #17 and removing it.

The chewing sounds quickened.

The mycelium held the key and reemerged through the door slit. Some threads brushed the lock, finding the keyhole. Others inserted the key. The threads were fragile and weak, but gathered in force, they finally turned the key. Click—the lock released.

An Zhe clutched the remaining keys tightly, pushed the door open, and ran to the next cell. His hands trembled. In the flashlight’s faint glow, he found #18 and jammed it into the lock, twisting hard.

The chewing stopped completely.

“Oh my god…” A young man burst out of the open cell, staggering. Before An Zhe could even see his face clearly, he yanked him forward, stepping over the soldier’s body, and they sprinted down the only safe hallway. The floor still shook. There was more than one thing underground.

Then the emergency lights ahead flickered—and went out completely.

An Zhe heard the Poet’s ragged breathing beside him: “Don’t look back.”

But he couldn’t resist.

A worm.

Black, as wide as half the corridor.

It slithered out of the hole, its body segmented like a snake. It raised its head—though “head” was the wrong word. It had no eyes, no facial features. Its front end was a circular mouth lined with rows of teeth.

Behind it, a second identical worm crawled up. Two rows of densely packed teeth faced them, making crackling sounds. They were coming—and fast. Only ten meters separated them now. An Zhe could smell their stench.

The Poet gritted his teeth: “Go!”

But the ground bucked again. An Zhe slammed into the wall. Pain lanced through his left arm—he’d hit a warped iron door. He propped himself up. The Poet grabbed his arm.

In the pitch dark, they ran again—toward the stairwell they remembered. Anything could happen in the dark. A third worm could erupt in front of them. Or they might crash into a wall.

—He did crash into something.

His head banged into a metal surface. Pain flared. He stumbled—then an arm circled his waist, holding him upright.

This wall had hands.

“Anyone else still alive back there?” came Lu Feng’s voice, faster than usual.

An Zhe’s heart nearly stopped. “No,” he said.
—Everyone was dead.

“Uranium round. Max yield,” Lu Feng ordered. A brilliant white light flared and sped down the corridor.

Before An Zhe could react, Lu Feng slammed him to the ground, rolled over, and covered him.

A dull explosion rocked the earth. Flashing white light seared An Zhe’s retinas. Lu Feng’s silhouette burned into his vision.

He squeezed his eyes shut, right hand clutching Lu Feng’s sleeve, gasping for breath—he’d run too hard just now.

The floor still quaked. Three seconds later, Lu Feng hauled him up again. Other people were with them. Lights came on, illuminating the area.

“Go,” Lu Feng ordered.

An Zhe followed them up the stairs. He had no strength left. Miraculously, Lu Feng’s hand supported him with just the right force, pulling him whenever he faltered.

He didn’t know how long they ran, but finally, cold air rushed into his lungs. He was almost leaning entirely on Lu Feng, panting.

Lu Feng said calmly, “It’s over.”

“Disciple! Disciple!” A figure ran over and grabbed his arm—Boss Xiao, who pulled him from Lu Feng’s grip.

An Zhe felt a little better. His vision cleared. “Poet…”

“I’m here,” a voice replied. An Zhe turned to see a young, handsome man leaning against a wall, arms crossed, gasping for air. When he caught his breath, he said, “You crash into people real well.”

An Zhe: “…”

Before he could respond, Lu Feng’s voice cut in.

“Director Howard,” he said coldly. “You’re late.”

An Zhe looked ahead. A row of soldiers stood. In front was a tall man in City Defense uniform, with iron-gray hair and a hooked nose. His shoulder insignia showed the same rank as Lu Feng—colonel. He looked like the head of City Defense.

Howard’s voice matched his appearance—steady and cold: “We were ready to carpet-bomb the area. Your unauthorized entry made things difficult.”

“My prisoner was still inside,” Lu Feng replied coldly. “With the ultrasonic disperser in there, you dare bomb indiscriminately?”

“City Defense equipment doesn’t concern the Tribunal,” Howard said. “Check for infection among the survivors.”

“The Tribunal’s work doesn’t concern you,” Lu Feng shot back.

Howard’s gaze landed on An Zhe, lingering on his left arm—it was bleeding.

Lu Feng gripped An Zhe’s shoulder: “I’ll take him for monitoring during the incubation period.”

Howard: “As you wish.”

Then he turned to his men: “Prepare the bombardment.”

—And An Zhe was led away by Lu Feng, under Boss Xiao’s pleading gaze.

Lu Feng’s office in the City Defense compound was in a side building—a room with no decorations. As soon as An Zhe entered, Lu Feng locked the door.

An Zhe figured it was a precaution. If he’d been infected, better to be sealed in.

Lu Feng walked to his gray desk, opened a drawer, and tossed something at him.

An Zhe instinctively caught it. A roll of gauze.
So the Judge wanted him to bandage himself.

He sat by the window, unrolling the gauze. For all Lu Feng’s harsh judgments, maybe he wasn’t a bad person.

His wound was on his left arm—just a cut from the metal. Not too painful, but bleeding. He tore off half a meter of gauze and tried wrapping it with his right hand—no luck.

He managed to wrap it loosely, but couldn’t tie a knot. Human fingers weren’t as nimble as mycelium—especially with only one hand. Besides, he wasn’t that used to a human body yet.

But he thought, as someone pretending to be human, it’d be embarrassing to fail at this. He frowned and kept trying.

He felt a gaze on him. Lu Feng was watching.

—He kept tying. But with the Judge watching, his coordination got worse. After three minutes, not only did he fail, the whole wrap unraveled. In that moment, An Zhe was so frustrated he nearly let the mycelium out.

A short laugh came from the other side.

Not quite a laugh—just a breath. Very brief.

But An Zhe recognized it.

A scoff.

The Judge was mocking him.