Hours later, Ru and I have to stop and rest while we watch mum and dad dig out the last of the rubble from the old bunker. We’re all covered in great sheens of sweat, reflecting the light of our lamps, and clouds of dust hang in the air around us.
Finally, the entrance is clear and we head inside, holding our lamps high, throwing shafts of light along the walls. A flight of stairs greets us after only a few steps, steep enough to be considered vertical. A handrail runs along one side and, feeling my stomach lurch, I grip it for dear life as we head down.
At the bottom, after catching our breath, we see that we’ve come to a long tunnel. A very familiar tunnel; at least to me, anyway.
The air is damp, filling our nostrils with the smell of must and mildew. I hold my lamp up to one of the
