Deep beneath the surface of the earth, hidden from the prying eyes of the world above, is the labyrinthine expanse of a sprawling metropolis that exists in the shadows of society. Inspired by the legendary Walled City, this below-ground realm is a testament to human ingenuity and resilience, where life thrives amidst the dark, forgotten corners of the earth.

Visitors are greeted – and inspected – at a ramshackle facility where the earthen tunnel begins its way down the cliff and to the massive underground pond. Descending into the depths of the underground city, the air grows thick with the scent of earth and dampness. In the distance, a jagged spire of wood and metal and salvaged materials from the cities that once existed above glows as it reaches for the top of the subterranean void.

A raft traverses the lake several times per day, bringing in new residents and supplies, and taking out craftsmen to gather materials from the ruins of Pasco or Kennewick or Richland. Power is limited, especially in the southern depths of the cave, so the raft is propelled manually. At the edge of the water, people tow their equipment to the outskirts of the towering village by sled.

The sound of voices and footsteps echo off the walls of the narrow passageways that wind their way through the maze of buildings. Dimly lit homes cast flickering shadows upon the rough-hewn stone walls, their feeble glow illuminating the faces of the inhabitants. A diverse tapestry of individuals who have found refuge in this hidden sanctuary.

A patchwork of makeshift dwellings and bustling thoroughfares, a living, breathing organism that pulsates with the energy of its inhabitants. Rickety wooden shacks and corrugated metal structures cling to each other like barnacles on a ship, their haphazard construction a testament to the resourcefulness of those who reside within.

Despite the cramped quarters and the perpetual isolation from the world above, life flourishes in the underground city. Tiny shops line the streets and alleyways on the ground floor, their voices mingling with the cacophony of sounds that fill the air. Children play in the narrow alleys, free from the danger of automobile drivers.

Each tiny shop, which doubles as a living space, offers specialty items. Workshops tucked away in the corners of the store where each vendor doubles as an artisan. There’s a store for noodles, where Jesse Settle folds and cuts the dough for each customer on demand. Next door, Smiley Baxter weaves fibers through polished branches to create brushes for teeth and hair. Continuing down a given path, one would find textile workers, produce vendors, cobblers, cheese makers, handymen repairing this item and that. Each citizen pursues their craft, offering what they can to the community and, likewise, each takes what they need.

Amidst the hustle and bustle, there is a sense of order that belies the chaos of the underground city. Community leaders and elders oversee operations and mediate disputes, ensuring peace and good-will, even in the most lawless of worlds. The laws are few, but justice is swift for those who would seek to disrupt the fragile balance of life beneath the earth.

Around a courtyard in the center of the city, a wooden spiral reaches for the cave’s only natural light source. Planter boxes thick with new growth are bordered by narrow walkways, and those walkways are edged with a series of mirrors. The mirrors reflect sunlight across the cavernous expanse, setting the ceiling aglow. Stalactites and volcanic rocks twinkle like the night sky that many of these people have forgotten.

Set back from the Tower of Life, one-room dwellings are stacked like shoeboxes atop the workshops. Each of those has a planter box on its outer wall. A species or two selected by and maintained by the owner. This created an irregular pattern on the wall, as some residents chose not to grow, as was their right. As the city grew, these plant-less apartments become fewer, those who don’t have the time or desire to garden moving to the buildings facing away from the reflected sunlight.

The population doesn’t need to do all of this. They can survive on nutrition paste that was left behind when the populations of the camps in the Pacific Northwest were liquidated and the soldiers had moved on. Survive for decades, claimed the leaders, even as more refugees came into the underground city. But decades of fish goop or goat-flavored calories could drive the people insane even if they weren’t exiled to a cave. The produce and, likewise, the ranch were there to lend some variety and excitement to their lives. To allow the endeavors of farmers and gardeners.

In the furthest reaches of the cave to the Southwest, a wastewater and garbage treatment facility is operated where the river exits the cavern. Trash from the city is transported on a treadmill-powered conveyor belt. When the residents want a little cardio workout, they can assist with the exportation. The treadmills are elevated with short sections of PVC pipe – one of many building materials that can be found in abundance in abandoned cities – fitted to the sewer main. As the weight of the joggers shifts during their workout, a pneumatic burst drives the waste toward the facility, where it will be composted with paper garbage.

Since this facility operates in perpetual darkness, it is supervised and operated by several of the blind occupants of the city. Those who escaped the First North American Holocaust.

Building an accessible city in the confines of this underground space was no easy task. Of course, not everywhere is accessible by everybody. But the first floor, with the artisans and services, was easily navigated. The residents had a natural flow of traffic and general courtesy and awareness. As the buildings rose up, the residents who were most able to ascend the many flights of stairs every night volunteered to take those apartments. There was no real-estate value in this society. The value was in how the residents fit together to survive an apocalypse and plan their return to the surface.

On the opposite side of the underground hollow, where the afternoon light reaches, is an open plain where various animals roam and dogs play. The few that had been recovered nearby. Chickens, goats, and a few cows. Wildlife fared better above ground, but these, having been the pets of some of the residents, were offered a space in this new community. Animal repopulation is strictly controlled, not unlike the self-enforced restriction on repopulation the inhabitants had created.

At the inlet of the river, fresh water is collected and supplied to the city and the ranch. Beyond that, a liberated hydro-electric generator offers residents a meager amount of power. Enough for refrigeration and artificial lighting.

Powered by this same source, a radio room is hidden in one of the highest structures. Cell phones and major networks don’t work down below any better than they do on the surface. Most public satellite networks had fallen apart as the scientists and engineers were killed off or forced to labor on government projects. This control room is where the citizens listened for nearby surface activity and how they communicated with the various infrastructure points in the cave.

Rutabaga Cassidy settled into the worn seat by the console, the cold metal biting through her thin jacket. The faint hum of the ancient machinery filled the cramped room, a constant reminder of the fragile world they’d inherited. She pressed the play button on the recorder, the screen flickering before settling into static. The voice came through, brittle and crackling.

“Minor’s name is Lily Cassidy, sixteen, female. Last seen near JCHS. Wearing brown pants, red—”

The transmission sputtered and died; the rest lost to interference.

“Shit!” Rudy snapped, her eyes flashing with desperation as she spun to face Steven and Sonny, who had struggled to keep pace with her as she raced up the narrow metal stairs.

“We’ve gotta get to Oregon. Like, now.”

Sonny’s hand went instinctively to the door handle. “I’ll go.”

Steven sank into a battered chair, rubbing his temple. “I’ll hold down the fort here, see if I can clean up the audio.”

Rudy’s heart hammered in her chest as she pulled Sonny aside, the cold metal stairwell muffling their voices.

“That girl. It has to be my sister.”

Sonny’s eyes widened, and for once, the usually unflappable soldier looked uncertain.

“Your sister?”

Rudy nodded. “I haven’t heard from her in months. Since the Regime took full control. I thought…I thought she was gone.”

Sonny’s voice softened. “We’ll find her. We have to.”

Rudy’s mind drifted for a moment, caught in a memory she’d buried deep. The house she grew up in – a modest home on the outskirts of a town that now lay mostly in ruins. Her family, staunch conservatives since before the collapse, had remained insulated by privilege and loyalty to the Regime. But she was different, always had been. The odd one out, with her love of books, art, and wild ideas about freedom. That difference made her a target. When the Regime seized power, she fled, leaving everything behind, carrying only her defiance and the weight of the family she’d lost.

Her father’s voice haunted her sometimes, bitter and unyielding. “You’re a traitor to the family, Rutabaga. A traitor to this country.”

But her mother, quiet and weary, had looked at her with eyes full of sorrow, tears she never let fall. They had never understood her escape, her need to resist, to fight.

Now, that fight was personal.

Back in their tiny shared quarters, Rudy and Sonny hurriedly packed their bags. The flickering light bulb overhead cast shifting shadows on the peeling walls. They moved with practiced efficiency, but there was an edge of urgency in every motion.

Outside, the narrow alley was choked with the familiar scent of damp earth and stale air. They filled bottles at the community tap, one of the few sources of clean water piped from the underground aquifer. Rudy’s fingers trembled as she twisted the cap tight.

“We can’t carry enough for the whole trip. We’ll have to find water and food along the way. Maybe scavenge or trade if we’re lucky.”

Sonny nodded. “We’ll make it work.”

The city’s outer edge loomed ahead. Beyond lay the wild, lawless stretch that separated them from Oregon – a land claimed by outlaws, survivors, and the desperate.