Swirling from a thousand cracks, the vines wrap around everything within their reach. The third turret is full of graffiti and trash from countless parties. Broken bottles and crushed beer cans fill the deep cement hole that used to hold the big gun and now plays host to bonfires. The names of 1970s punk bands are splashed across every wall alongside slightly satanic-looking doodles. Crows caw from overhead branches.
Sand gnats swarm and attack.
Periodic rumblings in the underbrush bring to mind McGowan's warning about snakes. Creeping through the compound's rancid breezeways, puddles of rotten water dampen the thick, stale-dirt stench that clogs the fort's corridors. The dim tunnel darkens, the air seems to freeze and the stillness is matched only by the silence. It's not long before the shadows take on a sinister quality and every little squeak prompts a heart murmur. Steve Thomas and Beaman stand at the top of the sand trail that leads from the fort.