Twenty-ThreeThe old monorail station was a vast, empty space now, broken and deserted, its past glories ghostly shadows. Breaking through a side door, I followed the path of an ancient service tunnel until I reached the far end, barred to me by a flimsy, rotting door, as thin as rice paper. One push from my palm and it fell open and I stepped out into the huge, cavernous void.
Craning my neck. I gasped as I peered upwards towards the great ceiling, an enormous dome, glass panels clouded with grime, some broken, shards crunching underfoot as I wandered deeper inside this cathedral to a dead world. Rusted and decaying escalators linked the different levels, where once whole armies of passengers had come to take the monorails to every part of the country, the arteries of the old days, convey
