…don’t… don’t… don’t…
Then — a sound. Not a scream. Not a roar. A whisper. Thousands of them. Synchronized. From deep inside the tunnel. …don’t… don’t… don’t… Then — a sound
No birds. No wind. Just the wet groan of a collapsed Ferris wheel rotating an inch at a time against a rusted spoke. distorted like corrupted digital video)
28 YEARS LATER (title card slams in, distorted like corrupted digital video) …don’t… don’t… don’t… Then — a sound