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He shouldn't have touched the radio—but Sam amends the thought almost immediately.
It's not like he has a choice, there could be a clue anywhere. Literally anywhere—he’s found them inscribed in the walls, on the backs of chairs, inside photographs and woodcuts lining the narrow rooms—and where did the pictures come from anyway, whose faces, what places are these? Sometimes, it seems like they change and blend together, numbers in the background disappear and fade. Maybe he’s walked through one, before—but certainly that must have been a dream. He welcomes the portrait photos though, because he at least sees a face, a reminder that other people exist. Which was also why he'd turned the knob on the radio, thinking it would be nice to hear a human voice.
He should have known better, he's at the lighthouse again.
It's changed, whole sections of it blocked off, and new passages opened. Mur would know why. Sam craves the next communication with him, the next scrolling line of green text. He hopes to stumble upon a new terminal soon, so he doesn't have to go all the way back to the lab. They're few and far between though, and Mur seldom offers more than the thinnest reassurance.
The low, unintelligible warble of the radio speaker behind him, does nothing to assuage his fear that he might be alone in this labyrinth. Alone, with only the broken bricks and shuddering lamps to break up the monotony, the odors of dry rot, cast metal, rust and axle grease overpower his own human smell and make him feel smaller, like he's not there at all. Sam registers a steady humming sound emitting from the machine, that he feels in his teeth even after he turns it off.
He fights the awful notion, for the hundredth time, that Mur has tricked him into joining the project—that it’s just an experiment and he’s nothing more than a rat turning wheels and pulling levers. He can turn around any time he wants and go back—any time he likes he can go back to the Core.
Time means nothing here, though; there is light in some places, and where there is no light he can’t move forward, it’s as simple as that. Mur conveniently left flashlights out of their kits, along with a number of small tools, which would have been useful, in favor of more rations.
So, Sam has had to scrounge; it’s difficult but not impossible. He’s jumped between the different portals, transcribed everything he can about the new locations he’s explored; in ink on his hand and arm once, upon running out of room in his journal and on the scraps of paper he’s gathered. All of these notes are curled in a tight sheaf inside of his heavy pack, which is weighed down with odds and ends he knows now that he can’t afford to discard.
There’s not enough room here for anything to exist properly, not writing, not thoughts, not men, to tell the truth; the walls loom and lean in on him if he stares too long. He can't afford to keep his head down though, can't afford to miss a clue. The Subnet goes on; inside it, Sam climbs, he crawls, he is careful. He wipes his cold, clammy hands on his scuffed trousers.
He swears sometimes, when he picks up the odd coil or screwdriver littering the lighthouse, that each object is warm. Like someone has held it just long enough to transfer body heat and put it down again. That silver fork he'd seen in the rubbish pile was here in his hand and it was also recently discarded, it was held and not held. He occasionally resents that person in the other world, who must be so close, offering such meager evidence of their presence, like a ghost.
There are different dimensions, different layers, of course, and someone could be standing in this very spot the same time as he, on top of his very feet, and he would never see them. Sam can’t suppress the odd shiver that comes over him at that eerie knowledge. He moves into the next room and pores over the rough walls and in the rubble strewn corners, attempting to distract himself, trying to find another clue. He looks up sharply, sensing a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. What is it—the cat perhaps? He’s read of rumors of a cat here.
He bites his lip, as he looks around the corner, anxious. The radio is buzzing louder in his ears, making the same unearthly hum—not music—none of the buttons on or around the machines in the nearby rooms, seem to quell it. The sound follows behind him as he climbs a ladder to try to get away.
Strangely, as he ascends higher and passes through a tight, red brick tunnel, his pack scraping the wall behind him, he can for once make out words.
Don’t run away, it’s only me…
It’s a high-pitched voice, a howl almost, fuzzed with static, which echoes and trails off into burbling noise then fades back into the hum. He can’t be sure if it’s someone calling to him from another dimension, or if he’s having aural hallucinations. Sam is certain though, that if he goes back down, there will be no one standing waiting for him.
He climbs again, following the light from above; he crawls into a narrow opening high in the wall, covering his ears with his hands as he goes forward, creeping on elbows and knees, sweating and shaking a little. The hum fades, the closer he is to the broken earth blocking the end of the tunnel.
It’s enough, and as he breathes, he makes himself focus. He has to go out again, to backtrack through the portal and return to the lab.
Sam makes his way to the portal room, almost running, punches in 001, and waits. He stares between the antennas waiting for the three arcs of electricity to skitter up and burn their glow into the backs of his eyes before he's swallowed by light. Almost a minute and nothing happens. He tries again, as perhaps he's made an error. No light, no smell of ozone and burnt hair, but still the hum.
It's getting louder.
He looks around the base of the portal, panic seizing his chest. Where to go, if not the lab? He nearly cries out when he sees half-crumpled there on the floor a note, a quarter of a torn page, which reads only:
It knows we're here—the Submachine. Can you hear it?