We passed through places with names that could only come from a fever dream: the Swamp of Sorrows, the Valley of Tears, the Path of Boiling Waters. Each step was a reminder of our helplessness.

Then the laughter of an overweight woman echoed through the halls of AM. It wasn't Ellen. There hadn't been laughter for 109 years. But the sound multiplied in metallic echoes. It was a shapeless laugh, as if the very machine were mocking our flesh and memories.

We keep walking.

One by one, we collapsed from hunger, waiting for the next one. AM wouldn't let us die, but neither would it let us live. And the distance to the caves—the true ice caves—grew with each groan from our upset stomachs. AM was patient. We, his ghosts, his eternal jesters.

Part Six: The Last Hope: To Die

After crossing lands of torment with nightmarish names, we finally reached the ice caverns. A white, barren, and stunning landscape made of stalactites glistening like crystal spears. And there they were: the cans of food. Hundreds. Stacked, untouched. Inaccessible.

Benny's hands trembled as he took a bite. I couldn't open it. Nobody could. There were no tools, no can openers, no sharp stones. Just hungry. AM had brought us to the brink of relief only to deny it once more. Benny went crazy. He slammed the cans, shouted, and scratched like an animal.