By Rubbag
He turns to the left, and I follow him away from the cloakroom, away from the exit. The main floor of the club is only some twenty feet across, but it must be more than forty feet high, with the floor suspended midway up. A tube of concrete not a cylinder though, its six-sided, a hexagon. The wall behind me has the door we’ve just come through, then the next wall is open, some kind of alcove or room beyond which we are walking toward. Then beyond, a bank wall, no door this time but a single entrance flanked by two statues and between them stairs leading up higher into the building. Then another room only single shining down there and through sixty degrees and then another flat wall, with stairs leading down. Last and behind us now, the last of the alcoves and then I know what the sound is. The sound of gym equipment in use, the multi-gym equipment with the slotted masses attached, moving up and down their metal rails.
There is the sound of someone working out, but there is something desperate and muffled about it. I turn around trying to see what exactly is going on even as I’m being led away from the source of the sound.
“No, Jed, this way.”
