Maps, Area Descriptions, and Location List

[montauk_mods]

Below are detailed descriptions of all locations that characters have explored or are immediately likely to explore within the city, and maps of every part of Seattle proper. The areas further south (Burien, White Center, Tukwila, Bryn Mawr-Skyway, Normandy Park, and SeaTac) that are also accessible do not have maps yet, and we're currently also looking for a map of SeaTac International Airport that includes the 1973 renovations but (for obvious reasons) not the ones that began in the 1980s.

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Fourth Floor (in progress)

[montauk_mods]

The fourth floor is laid out similarly to the first floor, but somehow wider, with a few of the floor’s fourteen apartments on the courtyard side of the building. The apartments are numbered counterclockwise around the hallways - actually joining at 90 degree angles on this floor, with no corridors winding off where there shouldn’t be any - beginning with 401 on the courtyard side to the west of the lobby and ending with 414 to the lobby’s south.

Apartments 414 and 413 appear to have been uninhabited at the time the city was abandoned; there are a few of the odd fleshy growths seen in other parts of the building pushing through the walls, but nothing of any particular interest.

Apartment 412 - the one lit up at night and visible from 34th Avenue - is fairly normal. This apartment has only a few things noteworthily wrong with it: in the living room, in front of the (still working) TV where a lounge chair might be, is a lump of flesh growing up out of the floor; in the back bedroom, the bed is likewise covered in skin; and there’s a broad crack on the wall above the bed, filled with teeth (which, if you touch it, will bite you, though it doesn’t break the skin, and there are no lingering effects). However, there’s a strangely inviting, soothing aura about the place, and there are canned food, drinking water, and blankets stored within the apartment, allowing for a brief respite - for one person, the food and water supplies would easily last three months. A box in one of the closets contains six AN/PRC-68 radios.

Directly across the hall from 412, apartment 411 also looks fairly normal. There are a few dozen cans of food in the cabinets in there as well, but not nearly as many as in 412, and flatware to accompany it. There's a box of foil-sealed dry milk packets in one of the cabinets as well. The furniture is normal (and upholstered in garish paisley), and tacked to a corkboard in the kitchen is a folded-up street map of the Magnolia, Interbay, Queen Anne, Cascade, Capitol Hill, Downtown, and Central Area (above Route 90) portions of the city. Nothing is marked on it, however.

Apartment 410 appears to be covered in wet pinkish tissue, piled up into small lumps four to eight inches tall. Most of these have insectile or mantislike limbs - with the same fleshy appearance, but sharply pointed - that reach toward anyone who opens the door. Soft scratching noises can be heard emanating from the apartment through the master bedroom wall of 412.

Just around the corner, in apartment 409, the floor, not just the windows, is made of squamous tissue, and deforms just barely perceptibly underfoot. There's furniture visible beneath the floor, and not all of it looks like it's really there - some of it looks almost two-dimensional, while other parts of it look like actual furniture, protruding into the squamous tissue nearly up to the surface, but with dimensions that don't look quite right even accounting for distortion involved with phase boundary transitions.

On the courtyard side of the southern hallway is apartment 408; faint slurping noises, like someone pipetting large drops of thick liquid, are audible from outside the door. Inside, the apartment is barely illuminated by a few washed-out fluorescent tubes, like the ones in the first floor hallways, and the window panes are heavily obscured by hair inclusions. The floors and walls have the faint suggestion of veins, and along them are more fleshy protrusions, of sizes ranging from no bigger than a housecat to almost the size of a twin bed, complete with some suggestion of limb differentiation.

Apartment 407's interior walls are composed of the same firebrick that makes up the outside of the building, though the bricks around the windows are noticeably charred, and the mortar between them bulges weirdly. There are some scorched remains of posters on the walls, and the polyester of the loud plaid sofas is slightly melted. In the kitchen cabinets, there's flatware and a few boxes of sugary cereal, their contents still sealed; the faint scent of decay coming from the refrigerator means it's not worth looking inside. Back in the master bedroom, there are worn blankets on the bed, and faded paisley house dresses in the closet; the second bedroom was obviously a children's room, with two small beds and a crib, and a scattering of stuffed animals. The closet contains a wealth of boardgames and an indoor croquet set.

All sounds in apartment 406, around the corner from 408, are weirdly muted and hollow, as though the apartment - identical in layout to all the normal ones in the building - is somehow much bigger, despite the light-colored plaid wraparound couches in the living room and shag carpeting throughout the apartment that would otherwise muffle sound. The kitchen cabinets are empty aside from a few sealed boxes of cereal and instant oatmeal, but issuing from the plumbing is a strange gurgling sound. In the guest bathroom - the walls papered in a garish floral pattern and the floor tiles black and white - the noise sounds like the cries of hunting hounds slowed down and dragged out on a stretched-out audio tape. There are a few thin sheets on the beds in both bedrooms, and the door to the master bathroom is locked; the door doesn't even rattle when kicked, not that one would want to break into the room where the plumbing noises not only seem to be emanating from, but sound like a woman's sobs.

Apartment 405 seems to be completely full of squamous tissue; the boundary phase distortion results in what, from the door of the apartment, is a tiny little window of the living room and what doesn't look even a little bit like the courtyard beyond it: the view is one of an underwater area, shallowly flooded and completely devoid of any signs of life, past or present, apart from a few pylons, heavily crusted with marine life, marking the boundaries of a long-decayed dock.