Darkness. Dankness. The slow dripping of water echoing around the blackness of the bunker. Scattered bottles, graffiti scratched into the walls. Shadow. The hatch above ground wedged open: I have no real idea how securely. I am on my own. The signal on my dimly-lit phone, gone. Blackness. The darkness moves as I turn. Then, piercing the silence - a scraping, metal against stone. Behind me.
My heart lurches. I think: somebody? I think: the hatch closing?
Nope. A bloody frog jumping out of a rusted tin can, scaring the utter hell out of me.
(For actual details on the ROC [Royal Observer Corps] sites, have a look at last week's 'Forewarned Is Forearmed' entries. This one is in the fields outside of Guist, Norfolk).
And the source of my near heart-attack,