Sinkhole Gullet

Concrete tilted inward around a black circle. Cars slid nose-first. Rebar bent toward the center, and then the thing making the hole climbed out.

The Gullet's mouth was wider than a hotel elevator. Wet teeth continued up its shoulders and into the joints. Slabs of floor burdened its squat body, with pipe and bathroom tile pressed into the hide. It struck both forelimbs against the deck. Another mouth opened beneath our rear guard, joined to the first by a throat that couldn't fit the building.

Rusk threw a neon sign into the nearer mouth. The transformer burst. Blue light came back out, and the other holes became cracked concrete again. We ran.

Under a building it is patient. It chooses a load path, often a ramp or elevator core, and makes a small sag for someone to inspect. Once enough weight gathers, several mouths open. Heaving floors drive people between them. Only when it surfaces does it behave like a brute.

Loud machinery attracts it. Light foot traffic spread evenly may go unnoticed. It dislikes suspended structures it can't incorporate and won't willingly cross deep open water. As it feeds, it grows less subtle, biting whatever fills the darkest circle it can see.