Writing Group 7 : A terrible place

The feted stench of the artificially warm air hit me as I entered the tunnel, the unmistakable odes of sweat, urine, dirt and worse mingled together to create a putrid concoction.
I felt like I was entering a post apocalyptic, underground head quarters of the resistance against the robotic overlords.
The steep escalator chugged down, the only metal still shining was the small area scuffed by people’s feet, the rest black with dirt. The tunnel ceiling was red, the tiny tiles surrounded in thick black grouting. This dyeing artery hardly kept the life inside it moving. Brown stalactites of mould hung from the ceiling, eternally dripping filthy water onto unlucky passers underneath.
Upon arrival, the floor of the concord was an uneven black the build up of thousands of dropped chewing gums squished into the concrete.
I turned left into a smaller passage way that would hopefully take me to my destinations. Bare wires hung from over head and leering faces of long gone celebrates stared at me from the walls, all suffering attaches of moustaches, blacken teeth and the occasional pairs of glasses.
Down some steps and at the corner at the bottom a pile of human faeces lay surrounded by dirty paper. It’s producer lay nearby, spread-eagle on the floor, snoring from under a mess of hair and beard, a supermarket beer can held protectively as a child sleeps with a toy.
I arrived into the wide low space. I looked for an unbroken seat and tried to avoid the mysteries flood of water. I luckily found one and carefully sat down, miraculously it supported my weight.
A dog sniffs past me, limping slightly, its owner follows dragging a wheelie shopping bag, smoking a crumpled roll up. Following him in an arrowhead formation, three soldiers patrolled past, weapons ready, eyes searching.
And finally the RER arrives. I get onto the dim carriage and attempted to look out of the window but the outside was so covered in dirt and all I got was a brown blur of the outside world.

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