" A rough-hewn, squarish tunnel, maybe eight feet on a side, carved through dark stone, stretched ahead of him curving off to the left. Smokeless flames flickered in sconces spaced along the walls.
Okay, first question: Who lit the sconces? And second what were the flames feeding on?
What did it matter? In sharp contrast to the blah, semi-modern characterless buildings on the surface, this tunnel looked ancient. And that gave Frankie hope. Because it might lead somewhere else.
Was it unreasonable to hope it led back to Manhatten-his Manhatten? Most certainly. Did he have a better route to follow? No.
With the manuscript of the Great American Novella clutched to his chest, P.Frank Winslow started walking. "

― F.Paul Wilson