With a gloved fist, Miguel raps on the wrought-iron door in a series of distinct knocks: four rapid, two slow and one heavy. There are a few awkward moments as he can hear the faint sound of someone tinkering with a metal lock from the other side. Finally, the door opens slightly. "Who goes there?" An old voice calls out. "MC," Miguel responds in a hushed tone. There is a light-hearted chuckle before the door swings open, flooding the tunnel with light and forcing Miguel to squint his eyes against the abrupt brightness.
An elderly man of about 70 summers greets him with a wide, toothless grin of reassurance. Thin white wisps of hair hardly cover his weathered scalp. His frail skeleton is clearly visible through his old, leathery skin. His blue eyes glow with a thousand stories of action and adventure. This man is just one of the many look-outs throughout the Safe Zone. He spends most of his time carving wood in his shop, making little statues and painting them. It makes him joyful inside and provides an escape from the raw, unforgiving world outside.
"You've been gone for quite some time, friend. Come in," the elderly man waves Miguel through with a bony hand. They are huddled in a small storage room. Two florescent shop lights extending across the low ceiling provide illumination. The walls are solid concrete, the floor is dirt. The air is cold and clammy.
"I ran into some trouble," Miguel says, half-crouching as he enters the cramped space. The old man shuts the door behind him and secures its lock while grumbling under his breath at the mention of trouble, as though well used to it. Then, he leads Miguel upward through an uneven staircase to another door. Beyond here is the elderly man's wood-carving shop. They both enter quietly.
This room is much larger and far more comfortable to stand in. The air is warm and reeks of wood. A single light hangs over a round, wooden table and a folding chair positioned roughly in the center of the room. There is a lively fire roaring and crackling in a massive stone fireplace set into the wall to his right. A fine display of knives, axes and machetes hangs on the wall to his left. "Come," The elderly man tugs at Miguel's sleeve, offering for him to sit. "I will pour you some tea." Miguel politely dismisses the offer, "I have somewhere I need to be, Jownz." He gently rests a hand on his shoulder, "Perhaps another time, yes?" The elderly man - Jownz - nods and smiles in agreement before leading Miguel to the front door.
The rickety, wooden floor creaks beneath their feet as they move across the room. Jownz fidgets with a lock on the door before finally pulling it ajar. The bright morning light pours in along with the crisp, cool air from outside. Miguel pauses to retrieve something from his coat pocket. He holds it up for Jownz to see: a red Swiss Army folding knife. The elderly man's eyes gleam with excitement. "I found it, sitting on the countertop in coffee shop," Miguel chimes as he flips the blade open to show its fairly good condition. Then, he closes it again and hands it to Jownz, "Happy early birthday." The old man takes the knife with a wide grin and lightly pats Miguel on the arm. Miguel returns the gesture with a pat on the old man's back, then exits through the door, stepping into the street outside. "Be safe," Jownz calls after him before quietly shutting the door and locking it.
With a refreshing sigh, Miguel takes in a deep breath of cool air and turns his footsteps east, toward his destination: the safe house.
