The Pit extends far under the rest of Spider City
. Originally, this area was used as the dumping ground for cast-off technology, failed experiments and other refuse. Now the pit lies abandoned, a vast graveyard of forgotten artifacts and crazed inventions from every period of history. Weird golem-constructs
lie forgotten and web-covered next to bizarre congeries of gears and broken daVinci-esque devices. The place is a seemingly endless labyrinth of tunnels and corridors, dimly lit, with only the occasional fluorescent bulb to break the darkness. It stinks of battery acid and waste products. Living refuse is likewise tossed into the Pit. The Pit is the final destination for "flawed," weak spirits: broken or wounded Weaver-constructs or Umbral travelers trapped in the realm
often end up cast into the Pit. Their fate is a tragic one: they are typically rounded up by opportunistic Gnosis
-scavengers and broken down for their "juice."
Likewise, Banes occasionally enter the Pit to cannibalize what they can.
What, then, is a junkyard? Is it a resting place for automobiles, somewhere for these all-important objects to go when they're damaged beyond repair or rendered inoperable by the march of time. Is it a scavenger's delight, a place where spare parts sit openly on the ground, ready to be plucked and reused by anyone with the money and skill to do so? Possibly. But if cars have their own personas, and even souls as some aficionados suggest, then a junkyard is a truly ghoulish place, piled with corpses and dismembered remains
We stand in the cesspit of humanity. Everything is trash. It defines the landscape. Its fumes infect the air we breathe. It swirls and swills in the trickles of water that flow from nearby cloaca. But it is not the scale, nor the stench, nor the sense of the place seeping through the soles of my shoes that makes my gorge rise.
It is the humanity. It is the women and men and children scurrying through this detritus
. They are covered in the stains of filth. It is in their hair, their pores. It is deep beneath their fingernails. I see a boy no more than eight pulling a fistful of rusting metal from a pile of broken bottles. It comes loose with a spray of violent green fluid. He shoves the still-dripping mess into a shopping bag, wipes his brow with his polluted fist and blinks the dripping sewage from his eyes
—Arthur Wallace on Bordo Poniente Landfill, Anti-Hero, by Jonathan Wood
Dump Two was surrounded by unconvincing barbed wire, rusted through, broken and torn, deep in the coil of Griss Twist, surrounded on three sides by the sinuous Tar. It was the size of a small park, though infinitely more feral. A landscape not urban, not created by design or chance, an agglutination of waste remains left to rot, that had subsided and settled into random formations of rust, filth, metal, debris and moulding cloth, scinitillas of mirror and china like scree, arcs from splintered wheels, the skittering waste-energy of half-broken engines and machines.
He muttered an unfelt prayer to the Holy Mother and turned back to the dump, not so very far from Chihuahua, where more than a dozen human basureros
crept about under the overcast afternoon sky. They were scavengers - like Francisco himself, the poorest of the poor, hunched over among the moraines of trash, picking at it the way field workers plucked at strawberries in the harvest up north. But here they searched for saleable clothing - especially shoes - pieces of copper, batteries that could be sold to the unwary as if they were new
, appliances that could be repaired or might seem to be intact, even bits of edible food. Families. Children digging through trash alongside rats and crows and sometimes turkey vultures. The ninos
sometimes getting sick from the things they rooted about in: poisons from old computers, dumped chemicals. Syringes. Tainted food. It was dangerous work, but you never knew...