📖 Previous Chapter / 上一章： Echoes of the 47th第三十二章：第四十七号的回声

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Real faces don't stretch that way. It was a glitch. Pale lips snapping up into a jagged grin, yanked by stray voltage instead of muscle.

My brain didn't even have time to panic. The sac bulged. Stretched tight. Broke. A wet, tearing sound that hit my stomach before my ears.

Gallons of fake womb-water dumped over the rusted grating. Reeked of battery acid and dead meat. Slashed over my boots. The thing wearing my face flopped out with it. Thrashing on the iron mesh like a hauled-up shark. Thick neural cords still buried deep along its spine. Jaw snapping open, clicking shut. Rigid. Mechanical. A wet hand flailed in the sludge, grabbing blindly for my leg.

I bolted. No thoughts, no air in my lungs. Just boots hammering the floor.

Slipped on the slime, almost went down, but caught myself and just sprinted down the walkway. The whole rusted structure screamed over the pit. Needed to get out. Behind me, the chem-flare hissed and died. Pitch black now, except for this sick, pale green rot-light bleeding from the pipes above.

Kept running until the formaldehyde stink gave way to dust and burnt ozone. Dead end. A massive blast door, decades of grime choking the faded Pan-Asia logo. Grabbed the manual wheel.

Rusted shut. Rammed my shoulder into the metal, boots skidding on the grate. Fought the rust until the gears shrieked. Sounded like tearing metal. The seal gave way, leaving a crack just wide enough. Squeezed through, knife drawn.

Air in here was dead dry. Tasted like static electricity. Swept the wall, clipped a plastic bracket. Maglight. Yanked it free, thumbed the switch. Weak yellow halogen fought back half a century of dark.

Old transit depot. Monorail tracks vanishing into the black. But the floor. Jesus. Bodies. Dozens. Hundreds, maybe.

The dry air basically mummified them. Leather skin stretched tight over frozen screams. The quiet was so heavy my ears started ringing. Waded through them. Light shaking. Dropped the beam. Same reinforced boots I was wearing. Same tactical harness. Same frayed webbing.

Hit my knees. Used the flat of the knife to turn a dried-out face toward the beam. Me. Again.

A dumping ground for batch 47. And 46. Trash bin for broken parts.

Stood up. Swept the light wider. That's when the real sick feeling hit. Not dumped. Arranged.

Dragged into lines. Overlapping circles. A giant circuit board drawn with dead flesh. Like a corporate motherboard married to a cult blood ritual. Somebody was using my corpses to draw a summoning circle.

Spine went cold. Backed up to see the whole pattern, and my heel clipped something. Soft. Yielding. Warm.

Didn't even have time to point the light. A hand locked onto my ankle. Hydraulic grip. Not dry. Not dead.

Down in the shadows by my boots, a lung rattled. Wet coughing. Fresh blood. My own voice, chewed up and drowning.

"Late... forty-eight... they already opened... the gate."

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正常人根本笑不出那副德行。那更像是一个短路的劣质机械玩偶——苍白的嘴唇在某种幽灵般的微电流刺激下，不受控制地向上扯出一个令人毛骨悚然的假笑，根本不是肌肉的自然牵引。

恐慌还没来得及完全占据大脑，那个巨大肉囊的薄膜就猛地向外绷紧。然后，破了。

噗嗤。撕啦。

宛如瀑布般的合成羊水砸在生锈的铁网格栅上。刺鼻的化学酸味和腐臭味瞬间炸开。液体溅满了我的军靴，那个惨白的克隆体跟着滑落出来，像一条窒息的深海鱼一样在金属板上疯狂扭动。粗大的黑色线缆依然深深扎在它的脊椎里。它在酸性粘液中挣扎，下巴猛地张开又合上，发出极其僵硬、响亮的“咔哒”声。一只湿滑死灰的手，盲目地朝我的脚踝抓来。

我跑了。脑子里一片空白，连呼吸都忘了。只是拼命把一只脚迈到另一只脚前面。

鞋底在生物黏液上疯狂打滑。我连滚带爬地后退，猛地转身，顺着铁网步道狂奔。每一次落脚，脚下的金属都在无底深渊上方发出哀鸣。我必须离开这个屠宰场。身后，红色的冷烟火闪烁了几下，彻底熄灭。四周陷入绝对的死寂与黑暗，只有头顶输液管道漏出的令人作呕的惨绿微光在闪烁。

我一直跑，跑到福尔马林的恶臭终于被干燥的灰尘和陈年臭氧味盖过。步道走到尽头，堵死在了一扇厚重的防爆门前。几十年积攒的污垢下，隐约透出泛亚公司褪色的徽标。我一把抓住手动控制转轮。

完全锈死了。

我把整个肩膀的重量都砸了上去，靴子在铁网上打滑，死死地和铁锈较劲，直到齿轮终于发出一声凄厉的尖啸。听起来就像某种垂死野兽的惨叫。厚重的密封门裂开了一条刚好够一个人侧身挤过的缝。我挤了进去，手里已经紧紧反握着大马士革刀。

这里的空气干得让人喉咙发紧，带着股静电的味道。我摸索着墙壁，手指勾到了一个塑料支架。是个壁挂式应急手电。我把它扯下来，按下开关。微弱发黄的卤素灯光，刺破了这五十年的黑暗。

一个废弃的地下中转站。死寂的单轨列车轨道向前方阴影中延伸。但是地板上……老天，那地板上。

干尸。几十具，甚至几百具。

极度干燥的空气把他们完美地保存了下来。没有腐烂，只有如皮革般紧绷在脸上的皮肤，定格着死前极度痛苦的表情。死寂沉甸甸地压在耳膜上，变成了一阵尖锐的耳鸣。我拿着微微发抖的手电，走在他们中间。光圈下移。加固军靴。战术绑带。边缘磨损的胸挂，和我身上穿的一模一样。

我单膝跪下。用刀刃轻轻挑起一张干瘪的脸，迎向手电的光晕。

是我。又是我的脸。

这是47批次的万人坑。还有46批次，以及更早以前的。像报废零件一样被扔进垃圾桶里的残次品。但我站起身，把光束扫向更远的地方时，一阵真正的恶寒从胃底翻涌上来。

他们不是被随便扔在这的。他们是被“摆放”好的。

尸体被拖拽成交叉的直线和重叠的圆圈。这庞大、铺满整个地面的金属板上，用人类躯壳画成了一块巨大的电路板。看起来就像是最高级的主板设计图，被生生嫁接到了一场血腥的屠宰场献祭仪式上。

有人——或者某种东西——在用我的尸体，画一个召唤阵。

脊椎猛地窜过一阵战栗。我本能地往后退了一步想看清全貌。脚跟却绊到了什么东西。

软的。它在我的体重下陷了下去。有温度。

还没等我把手电筒砸向地面，一只手猛地死死掐住了我的脚踝。简直是碎骨般的握力。这不是干尸。脚下漆黑的阴影里，传来了肺部漏气的拉风箱声。湿漉漉的。伴随着咳出新鲜血液的闷响。

那是我自己的声音，破损，像是溺水般嘶哑。

“你来晚了……48号……他们已经……把门打开了。”

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Author's Note： ️ Author's Note / 原创声明

[EN] This chapter’s text is 100% human-authored. The original story was written in Chinese (my native language) and then manually translated and refined to break away from AI-generated stiffness. I am doing my best to preserve the authentic cyberpunk vibe and emotional tension in the English translation. (Note: The cover illustration was generated using AI tools strictly based on my original story prompts.) Thank you to the CCC community, the curators, and all my readers for supporting genuine human creators and following my journey!

[CN] 本文正文为本人 100% 全手工原创。原版故事使用我的母语中文创作，并经过人工翻译与精心润色，以摆脱 AI 翻译的生硬感，尽最大努力在英文版中保留原汁原味的赛博朋克氛围与情感张力。(注：本文封面配图为作者根据本人小说情节，使用 AI 工具生成的概念视觉图。) 感谢 CCC 社区、各位策展人以及所有读者对真实人类创作者的持续支持与鼓励，感谢大家一路以来的陪伴