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I was on the way to Emily's house, a clutch of flowers in my hand and a stolen bottle of beer in my knapsack, when I saw the sign: knee-height, wooden, handpainted and hammered into the soil. It read, Corrosion.
I knew to stay away. Workmen had thrown up yellow warning tape around the site, but children had torn it down, left it flapping in the breeze, and now the patch of dying earth was vulnerable to any passing pedestrian. In my Mother's time, thirty years before, there would've been a police guard encircling the corrosion site, engineers throwing up walls and rebar, trying to anchor the earth. There was too much damage, now. Corrosion appeared too fast to fight. All we could do was step lightly and watch the cracks.
I went wide, crossing to the other side of the street, but I could still feel the hollowness beneath my boots. The curious echo that meant the caverns beneath the pavement were widening, spreading empty fingers, taking progressive bites from the loam. I felt the scratching of the unchildren as they skittered about their blackrock kingdom.
My shirt was stuck to my neck with sweat. The flowers were crushed in my fist. I walked fast, eyes ahead, waiting for the ground to split below me, for pale fish-scaled fingers to reach up from the soil and drag me down. It was only when I reached Emily's front door and fell into the cool of her living room that I allowed myself to cry.