There For The Taking

The air in the Vatican catacombs was thick, a palpable blend of ancient dust, damp earth, and something else… something metallic and faintly floral, like old perfume clinging to a forgotten corsage. Michael, ever the dramatist, took a theatrical sniff. "Smells like grandma's attic after a seventy-year nap, Mel. You getting this? The full bouquet of 'holy hell, we're deep underground'?"

Melissa, her headlamp beam cutting a sharp swathe through the gloom, didn't even look up. "Focus, Michael. Your olfactory observations are about as useful as a screen door on a submarine right now. And try not to breathe so loud. The dead might appreciate some quiet."

"Oh, they'll appreciate my breathing. It's a symphony of stealth, darling. They'll be writing sonnets about it in the afterlife. 'The Ballad of Mikey's Mighty Lungs,' coming soon to a crypt near you." He nudged a loose stone with his boot, the faint scrape echoing unnervingly. "Seriously though, this place is giving me the creeps. Like a mausoleum that forgot to die."