He tries to speak. All that comes out is a slack-jawed sound that utters from the back of his throat. Not comforting by any means. Disturbing if nothing else. Can't move at all now, either -- not even speak. Too much effort. So tired. Sleep sounds nice. If something happens, he'll never have to know...

Will it always be like this? Murphy can't even muster the strength to hope or be afraid anymore. He is down there, in a place where whatever happens, happens, and there's not a damn care in the world that can save him from that. Not even Anne and her words.

Something begins to tear away at the walls behind them, as if the corrosion is following. It's catching up to them now, in a hushed whisper.

The whisper almost becomes like a familiar voice, saying "Run!"

i'll slow you down