The laughter that had bubbled up in his chest died in his throat, choked off by the stark, immediate reality of his new predicament. He was an island, stranded in a sea of darkness, and the shore he needed to reach was a world away. He stood on the tar-papered roof of the tailor's shop, the precious water containers and the red toolbox at his feet, and surveyed his new cage. It was smaller, lower, but no less a prison than the one he had just so miraculously escaped.
He looked back across the fifteen-foot chasm to his own building. It loomed over him now, a dark, silent monolith. He could see the open hatch on its roof, a black square against a blacker sky, a door he could never re-enter. From this angle, he could not see his own window. He could not know if his aunt was watching, waiting. The thought was a sharp, physical pain. He was so close, yet he had never been further away.
The brief, intoxicating thrill of his impossible jump faded, replaced by the cold, hard calculus of survival. He had to get down. The street level. It was the only way.
He began a methodical exploration of his new domain. The roof was roughly square, its surface sticky with tar and littered with loose gravel that crunched under his feet. A few rusted ventilation pipes sprouted from the surface like metallic mushrooms. He peered down each of the four sides. All of them presented a sheer, two-story drop to the concrete below. There were no fire escapes, no sturdy drainpipes, no convenient trees with low-hanging branches. The builders of this place, in the old world, had not planned for a desperate boy trying to break out of it from the top down.
His search brought him to the center of the roof. And there, he found it. A small, square wooden hatch, its surface warped and splintered by years of sun and rain. It was much smaller and less formidable than the iron hatch on his own building, secured only by a simple, rusted hasp and a cheap brass padlock that was green with age. It was the roof access for the tailor's shop below. It was his only way forward.
He didn't hesitate. The moral calculus of breaking and entering had become laughably obsolete in a world where survival was the only law. He picked up the tyre iron from the toolbox. He wedged the tip into the loop of the padlock and twisted. The old, soft brass offered little resistance, snapping with a dull, unsatisfying pop. He pried the hasp from the splintered wood. The way was open.
He lifted the hatch, the damp wood heavy and swollen. A wave of stale, musty air washed over him, the scent of dust, of old cloth, and of a profound, undisturbed stillness. He peered down into a shaft of absolute blackness. This was a leap of faith of a different kind. He had no idea what was down there. The shop could be occupied by other survivors, human or otherwise. The floor could have collapsed. But the rooftop was a dead end. The darkness below was, at least, a path.
Getting their supplies down was his first priority. He used the electrical cable again, tying it to the handle of the toolbox and lowering it carefully into the darkness until he felt it touch a solid surface. He did the same with the two water containers. The sounds of them landing echoed faintly from below.
Now it was his turn. He sat on the edge of the opening, his legs dangling in the void. He took a deep breath, steeling himself against the unknown, and lowered himself into the darkness. His feet found the top rung of a wooden ladder that was bolted to the inside of the shaft. It felt old, the wood slick with a fine layer of grime, but it was sturdy.
He descended, rung by rung, the darkness closing in around him, the square of jaundiced sky above shrinking with every step. The air grew thicker, heavier. He was climbing down into a forgotten place, a pocket of the world that had been sealed off since the Fall.
His feet touched the floor. He was standing in a small attic or crawlspace, the ceiling so low he had to crouch. He fumbled for his crank flashlight, the whirring sound loud and intrusive in the dead quiet. The beam cut through the dark, revealing a space cluttered with old, forgotten things: cardboard boxes filled with ancient paper patterns, dusty bolts of cloth covered in cobwebs, and a child's rocking horse, its paint faded and peeling, its single remaining eye staring at him with a creepy, vacant intelligence.
He found a trapdoor in the floor and pulled it open, revealing another ladder. He descended again, his supplies in hand, and emerged into the shop proper.
The beam of his flashlight swept across a scene of silent, arrested industry. He was in a tailor's workshop. Three old, black sewing machines sat on a long wooden workbench, their needles poised above unfinished garments, as if their operators had simply vanished mid-stitch. Spools of thread of every colour imaginable lined one wall. Bolts of vibrant ankara and guinea brocade were stacked against another, their bright patterns a shocking splash of life in the dead, grey world. Mannequins stood like silent, headless sentinels in the corners, draped in half-finished agbadas and dresses. It was a place of creation, a place of craft, but the creators were gone, and the silence here felt deeper, more sorrowful, than anywhere else he had been. It was the silence of a story that had been stopped in the middle of a sentence.
He moved through the workshop, his feet silent on the dusty floor. He passed through an archway and into the front of the shop, the part that had been the showroom. More mannequins stood here, dressed in the height of last month's fashion. He ran his hand along a bolt of deep indigo lace, the texture intricate and real beneath his fingers. He thought of his aunt, of the beautiful clothes she used to make, of the pride she took in her appearance. The grief was a sudden, sharp ambush, and he had to lean against a counter, his breath catching in his throat.
He forced it down. He could mourn later. Now, he had to move.
The front of the shop was protected by a simple, crisscrossing security gate, the kind that could be pulled aside. It was locked with a heavy chain and a padlock. He looked at it. A month ago, it would have been an impassable barrier. Now, it was a minor inconvenience. He took the tyre iron from his belt. Two sharp, brutal blows, and the rusty chain link snapped. He pulled the chain free and slid the gate aside with a loud, grating screech.
He was at the final door. A simple wooden door with a glass panel that led directly out onto the street—a different street, but one that connected to his own. He peered through the glass. The street was empty, washed clean by the rain, glistening under the sickly yellow sky.
He had made it. From his own roof, across an impossible gap, through a forgotten workshop, and now, to the ground. But the journey was not over. The most dangerous part was still ahead. He had to cross the open streets, exposed and vulnerable, and somehow re-enter his own building, right under the noses of Jago's gang.
He stood by the door, the cool glass pressing against his forehead, the two heavy water containers and the red toolbox at his feet. He took a deep, steadying breath, the stale air of the tailor's shop filling his lungs for the last time. He thought of Funke, waiting, her life measured in sips of water. He thought of Ben, whose pragmatic lessons had guided him this far. And he thought of the monster inside him, the terrifying, alien strength that had made all of this possible. He was a boy, a mechanic, a hero, a monster. He was all of these things now. And he was a survivor.
He put his hand on the doorknob, the metal cold and real. He turned it, opened the door, and stepped out into the dead, quiet world, ready for the final, desperate sprint home.