New Vance City

The Gorefield Underpass is a collapsed transit tunnel buried beneath the decaying outskirts of the Shambler’s Graveyard—once part of New Vance’s metro system, now a silent trench of dust, ruin, and rot. The surface has caved in across several blocks, creating a jagged pit partially exposed to the grey light above. This underpass has become a gathering zone for shamblers, who swarm through its yawning mouth like water flowing downhill. No one knows why. Some think it’s residual pheromones from a past cleanup burn, others believe the shape of the tunnel echoes something familiar to the infected mind. Whatever the reason, few dare to approach. The walls are slick with organic residue, and the deeper chambers echo with a low, unbroken moan that seems to come from everywhere. Occasionally, scavvers risk the outskirts for loot—old gear, a downed drone, or corpses worth salvaging. But they never linger. The Underpass isn’t just dangerous—it feels wrong, like something is watching…

The Gorefield Underpass opens like a festering wound in the cracked urban sprawl—jagged concrete teeth frame the collapsed roadbed, leading into a sloped tunnel swallowed by gloom. Fungal blooms crawl up the retaining walls in muted shades of gray and yellow, pulsing faintly with slow decay. Shambler drag-marks streak the dust like clawed tire treads, vanishing into the deeper dark. Streetlights hang askew above the pit, some still flickering weakly, bathing the entrance in a sickly amber hue. Inside, collapsed columns and shattered train segments jut from pooled water and broken tile, while skeletal remains cling to shattered railings like forgotten warnings. A thin mist clings to the lower levels, carrying the scent of rust, rot, and something faintly sweet—like spoiled fruit. Deep within the tunnel, faint glimmers of light flash and fade—never steady, never warm. The space feels tight, even in its openness, like the tunnel itself is holding its breath.