The Decaying Dream of America: I Assemble Corpses and Confront Madness

The main door to Finch Labs was glowing with a ghostly blue light; it was a fingerprint access control system. Evelyn's blueprints said it could be opened with a simple command, but on Corina's tablet screen, the commands were stuck.

She bit her lower lip, her trembling fingers tapping the keyboard, a barrage of error messages appearing like venomous snakes. Suddenly, the access control system flashed a blinding red light, and a cold, mechanical voice announced, "Emergency lockout, passage blocked."

"Intruder detected. Defense system Taurus-7 activated. Red threat." The mechanical voice sounded again, tinged with coldness, as if Finch himself were speaking. Finch's blurry face suddenly popped up on Lina's tablet screen, then vanished into black, but that mocking laugh was etched deeply into her mind. A chill ran down her spine; Finch seemed to have anticipated everything and was enjoying this deadly game.

The sound echoed and trembled through the underground passage. The security lights flickered, casting indistinct shadows. Isabella hurriedly reported that the security system alarms were escalating.

Ava's voice came through, sounding calm yet heavy: "Finch changed the security system, and our backup plan is ruined."

"Finch... he's a madman, a genius madman," Arthur muttered, his hand unconsciously gripping the cold handle of the revolver at his waist. He thought he understood Finch's madness, but now it seemed Finch was far more twisted than he imagined. This man had not only altered the material world, but had also controlled the information and security systems, turning them into his tools. This wasn't a simple hack; it was a complete overhaul of the system's core, as if an evil command had been etched into Finch's brain.

This meant that the original route was completely blocked. Arthur's heart sank. Finch was even crazier than he had imagined; he had set a trap in the security system and knew they were coming.

The team couldn't get in, and the longer they delayed, the greater the risk of being discovered. Walter Lehman's team was nearby, and every step could be a matter of life and death.

"Let's take the abandoned ventilation ducts instead." Arthur's deep and decisive voice broke the silence. It was the only route to avoid the patrols outside, but it meant they would go from being relatively safe and hiding to facing unknown mental torment in a confined space.

Arthur's heart pounded with tension. The very word "ventilation duct" evoked despair. They were like cornered rats, abandoning their dignity, struggling in the dark, dampness. He opened the access panel, and a stench of decay, dust, and a pungent, metallic smell assaulted his nostrils, like an invisible hand choking him. Shining his helmet flashlight, he saw the ducts were severely corroded, with some sections oozing a nauseating black liquid.

He skillfully lifted a rusty access panel, the metallic scraping sound grating on the air. Inside were narrow, dark, winding metal pipes, reeking of damp mold and a strange, sweet, fishy odor.

The team members struggled to climb into this unknown underground pipe. It was filled with dust and grease, and every breath carried a metallic and musty smell. Their lungs felt sticky with a cloyingly sweet odor that made them sleepy.

This cloying sweetness wasn't just slowing people down; it was more like a carefully crafted poison. It entered the bloodstream through respiration, slowly eroding the brain, blurring the lines between reality and illusion. The team members began licking their lips, drowsiness and numbness spreading, their fighting spirit gradually eroding. Arthur felt unusually heavy, every movement like dragging a lead weight, and his memory began to fade.

The medicinal smell not only slowed their movements but also subtly eroded their spirits, causing confusion and impaired judgment. Arthur felt that the blueprint for Finch's laboratory in his mind was being gradually eroded and rendered incomplete by this sweet smell.

Most unsettlingly, indistinct whispers sometimes emanated from the depths of the pipes. They weren't real voices, more like tinnitus or distant whispers. Each time a whisper appeared, a strange heartbeat signal would flash on Lina's tablet, accompanied by odd mental fluctuations.

The whispers, which began as a buzzing sound, quickly turned into fragmented, incomprehensible words. Sometimes they sounded like a child's murmur, sometimes like the sigh of a dying man, sometimes like ancient, evil incantations. They echoed in the pipes, amplified and distorted, like countless hands tearing at their brains. Lena noticed on the tablet screen that strange life signals were accelerating, exactly like the whispers, as if sound were some kind of energy.

Lena gripped the tablet tightly, her knuckles turning white. She reported in a trembling voice, "Boss, the energy here is off, and everyone's feeling the strain."

As soon as she finished speaking, one of the team members clutched his head in pain, groaning softly. His face was deathly pale, the veins on his forehead bulged as if being eroded by an invisible force, and his eyes were lifeless, as if he had seen something terrifying.

The second team member also groaned, clutching his hair tightly, his eyes filled with terror, muttering incoherently, his heartbeat pounding wildly on the screen on his wrist. Finch's "dream" was becoming the deepest fear within them, not just eroding them, but threatening to devour them entirely.

Arthur's heart sank. The "whispers of decay" and the sweet, metallic smell permeating Finch's laboratory became a deadly psychological threat. These strange sensations brought them to their first direct experience of the mental effects of Finch's experiments. It was a madness from the depths of a dream, threatening to devour the sanity of any intruder.

Arthur's heart sank. The "whispers of decay" and the sweet, metallic smell permeating Finch's laboratory became a deadly psychological threat. These strange sensations brought them to their first direct experience of the mental effects of Finch's experiments. It was a madness from the depths of a dream, threatening to devour the sanity of any intruder.

"The guards are approaching rapidly and will be at your section of the pipe soon!" Isabella's voice was urgent, almost losing its composure. The panic in her tone indicated that the situation was critical.

Arthur felt despair. With unknown threats ahead and pursuers behind, he knew he had to stay calm, but the whispers and the strange smell clung to his nerves like a leech, leaving him mentally exhausted. This feeling was the same helplessness he felt when he was young, chasing "Nightmare Fuel" in the slums.

"Nightmare fuel..." Arthur murmured to himself. It had been the darkest business in the city, made from the fragments of the despairing souls of the poor, sold by slum gangs to offer solace in a false dream, only to ultimately lead to utter collapse. He had tried to save them, but the corrupt system had held him back, and he had watched helplessly as their souls were devoured. Now, he was powerless once more, as if Finch's experiment was an upgraded version of "Nightmare fuel"—dragging the world into a nightmare from which it could never awaken.

That was the groan of countless souls struggling in despair within the "American Dream." The sound made him wonder if his own struggle was merely an interlude in a larger ritual. He gripped the cold steel revolver tightly; the rough wooden handle gave it a sense of reality.

Inside the pipe, the team members' mental state began to be affected; some experienced auditory hallucinations and headaches. One team member suddenly stopped, staring intently at a black spot on the pipe wall, muttering something unintelligible.

Other team members were stiff, breathing rapidly, their pupils dilated, and unresponsive to their surroundings. Their eyes were filled with animalistic terror, as if terrifying hallucinations were appearing on the surrounding metal walls. They rubbed their skin vigorously, trying to get rid of the sticky feeling; the sweet, fishy smell seeped into their pores like liquid, making them nauseous.

Isabella's urgent voice rang out again in the communicator: "A guard squad is approaching from three o'clock ahead. Your position has been locked!" The footsteps of the guard squad could be clearly heard in the pipes, each step pounding on the heartstrings.

They were equipped with night vision gear and rifles, forming an encirclement. The squad was trapped in a confined space, caught in a pincer movement by a powerful enemy. Arthur felt a wave of weakness wash over him, as if his strength was being drained. It wasn't exhaustion, but rather a drain on his spirit, a loss of reason.

As Lina crawled, she slipped due to dizziness and slammed her body heavily against the metal pipe with a dull thud. The sound was particularly jarring in the silent pipe, enough to alert the guards and reveal the squad's exact location. She let out a painful groan, a bloody gash appearing on her arm.

The resounding crash of Lena's fall echoed through the narrow pipe, shattering the silence like an alarm. This not only exposed them, but also snapped the last thread of fear in the team members' hearts. A chilling fear spread rapidly; breathing became heavy, and sweat soaked their clothes. Arthur immediately sensed Walter Lehman's team quickening their pace; their footsteps became clearer and more rhythmic, each one like a death knell. Exposure meant death—this cruel reality weighed heavily on Arthur, making it hard to breathe.

Arthur and his team were instantly filled with despair. Enemies lay ahead, there was no way to retreat, and they were utterly exhausted, both physically and mentally. The scene of their failed mission years ago flashed through his mind, and that feeling of helplessness returned. That failure had led to his dismissal from the police force and eroded his trust in the system. This time, however, the despair seemed even greater.

He clenched his teeth, sweat mingling with dust blurring his vision. His body grew heavier and heavier, as if countless invisible hands were pulling him, dragging him deeper into darkness. The whispers grew clearer, like words of despair in his ear. He knew they had reached the edge of a cliff.

"They watch, they eat, they never sleep." On Lina's tablet screen, the red warning text wriggled as if it were alive. Finch had woven the mad consciousness of the dead into the base's network, creating virus code capable of infecting the system and directly attacking the underlying programs of Lina's tablet.

These viral codes didn't just attack numbers; they spread through the air like living viruses, distorting the light around Lena and making the metal pipes in her vision ripple eerily. Her eardrums buzzed, whispers exploded into deafening screams in her head, and countless blurry shadows swept past in her peripheral vision. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to escape this mental siege, but the writhing words and sounds implanted in her brain like parasites, constantly tearing at her consciousness. Finch's goal wasn't just to stop them, but to destroy their minds.

Arthur knew he had to find a way in as soon as possible. Finch had turned the entire laboratory into a living, thinking, and aggressive monster, and they were now inside its belly.

This "monster" possessed Finch's will; its "heart" was the enormous dream generator; and its pipes, cables, and vents were its "blood vessels" and "nerves." It seemed to sense their fear and feed on it, amplifying its mental influence. Arthur felt an unprecedented despair; this wasn't a fight against humans, but against this inhuman, intelligent, terrifying creation that yearned to devour their very existence.

He recalled what the intelligence broker had once said: the most reliable things in the world are often not the latest technology, but those forgotten, unmodified abandoned places. These places are often overlooked because of a company's "efficiency first" principle.

However, this thought was fleeting. The relentless corrosive force of reality continued, each breath carrying the sweet, rotten smell of decay, making him doubt whether his judgment had been compromised.

"I see an opening ahead..." a team member said weakly, pointing to a gap almost swallowed by shadows. It was an abandoned ventilation shaft, seemingly narrower and lower than the pipe they were crawling through, and full of unknowns.

Arthur adjusted his body, bringing the cold steel revolver closer to his waist, bringing a soothing pain relief.

That abandoned wastewater outlet, marked as a discharge point for some kind of mental suppressant in Finch's early blueprints, should have been an extremely harsh environment, yet it was also the most likely place Finch would have overlooked, as he was focused on core defenses and mental experiments. Perhaps it was precisely this "uselessness" that made it the only weakness. Arthur stared intently at the dark crack, a faint wisp of damp air with a corrosive odor seeping out—a different kind of danger, but at least not a mental crushing blow.

His fingertips traced the worn lines on the walnut handle, feeling a primal solidity untouched by any dreamlike erosion.

"Isabella, how far away is Walter Lehman's squad?" Arthur asked in a low voice, trying to remain calm, but his breathing became heavy involuntarily.

A brief silence came through the earpiece, followed by Isabella's more urgent voice: "They... have begun a tactical encirclement. There are two of them at the end of the tunnel, and another two at the entrance. You're caught in a pincer movement."

The news hit Arthur like a hammer blow, shattering his last shred of hope. Caught in a pincer movement, there was no way out. He glanced at his teammates behind him; their faces were etched with exhaustion and fear, some even showing clear signs of mental instability, their eyes glazed over, unable to concentrate.

"Ava, is there any way to disrupt their communications?" Lina's voice was weak as she gripped the edge of the pipe tightly with both hands, her body trembling slightly with fear.

Ava's voice rang out immediately: "Walter's communications are specially encrypted and cannot be completely interfered with at such close range. Their night vision equipment has an advantage over any of us in this environment." Her tone remained calm, yet it was like an insurmountable barrier, shutting out all hope.

In the narrow pipe, the whispers suddenly amplified, no longer indistinct. They were like countless insects crawling around the ears, clear and eerie, as if repeating some ancient incantation, directly assaulting everyone's brain. The team members' bodies trembled uncontrollably, and some even let out terrified screams.

The whispers were no longer mere tinnitus; they had twisted into repetitive, chilling chants, mocking and derisive, drilling directly into everyone's minds. The chants were interspersed with images of distorted faces, rotting limbs, and incessant screams. This was no longer a hallucination, but a forced implantation of horror into their very consciousness, like a terrifying slideshow projected directly into the depths of their being. The team members trembled; some even began tearing at their hair, whimpering. Their mental defenses had crumbled, leaving only primal fear.

Arthur shook his head violently, trying to banish the whispers. A flash of bloodlust crossed his eyes as past failures flashed through his mind like a slideshow: the unsolvable dilemmas he had faced, the evidence, the bloodstains of the innocent—all overlapping with the despair he felt now.

The face of the girl, emaciated and tormented by "Nightmare Fuel," flashed before his eyes in a corner of the slums. She had believed in him with hope, but he had ultimately failed to protect her. The wounds of those failures were like burning brands, deeply etched into his soul. Now, Finch's experiments and Lehman's pursuit were pushing him into the same predicament. He felt every muscle in his body protesting, every heartbeat heavy. But when he saw Lena's struggling back and the glimmer of hope for survival in the eyes of his teammates, he knew he couldn't fall. He had to tear open a hole, even if it led to an even deeper abyss, to give his teammates a choice.

He gritted his teeth, tasting a hint of blood on his tongue. The resentment and responsibility towards his teammates burned like two flames in his chest, sustaining his will on the verge of collapse. He couldn't fall here; he had to create an opening for them, even if the hope was slim.

"That opening up ahead!" Arthur pointed to the narrow, shadowy crevice, his voice hoarse. That was the direction of the abandoned wastewater discharge point; now, it seemed to be the only hope.

Walter Lehman's footsteps drew closer, mechanical and cold, mingling with whispers to create a symphony of death. The sweet, metallic scent in the air grew stronger, as if inviting them into an eternal "sweet slumber."

As Lina struggled to sit up, she saw a viscous, eerily green liquid seeping from the pipe wall in front of her. The liquid wasn't flowing from the crack, but rather "growing" directly from inside the metal pipe, spreading rapidly like blood vessels.

It was an unnatural, slow, yet irreversible physical change. The metal was no longer metal; it became like an organism driven by morbid energy. Tiny, pulsating green threads, like blood vessels, could even be seen emanating from the gaps in the pipes, emitting low-frequency vibrations that made the entire pipe tremble. The sweet, fishy smell instantly intensified, carrying a putrid, sour odor that made her stomach cramp. Lena felt an indescribable fear; this had transcended the realms of technology and biology. Finch's experiments had become sinister, even capable of distorting reality.

The whispers amplified instantly, like countless insects crawling around her ears, almost making her scream. This liquid, this sound, was subtly altering the physical structure of the pipes in an incomprehensible way. The once-hard metal now twisted like soft mud, flowing with green light, seemingly writhing.

She stared intently, and in the cramped space ahead, the resolute face of Walter Lehman's squad leader was clearly visible in the green light of her night vision goggles. The dark muzzle of his assault rifle was pointed mercilessly at them, its cold gleam reflecting the eerie green light emanating from the pipes. Isabella's urgent voice came through the earpiece: "They've surrounded us! There's no escape!"

Walter Lehman's imposing figure blocked the passage, his uniform appearing even darker in the green light, exuding a deathly aura. He raised his assault rifle, aiming the muzzle at Arthur, his eyes cold, like a predator stalking its prey. All hope was shattered at that moment by the cold metal muzzle.

Walter Lehman's lips curled into a cold, triumphant smile, a look of utter contempt from a victor. He didn't rush to fire, instead savoring the moment his prey struggled in its desperate moment, the cat-and-mouse game of cat and mouse. His eyes gleamed with a chilling green light, mirroring the viscous fluid seeping from the pipes, as if he himself were part of this twisted, corrupt laboratory.

The shadow of death loomed over the narrow pipes, and the sweet, metallic smell and whispers became especially clear, like a funeral dirge for them.