The first steps into the tunnel were worse than Mike had expected.
It wasn't just dark, it was thick. Like breathing through wet cloth. A breathless mouth carved in stone, heavy with silence and old things no one had touched in years.
The walls pressed in tighter than the train had. The ceiling dipped low. Overhead metal pipes hissed and creaked like bones adjusting in the gloom.
Above them, the emergency light of the tunnel flickered in and out, its blueish glow struggling to stay alive.
Mike kept his hand brushing the wall to his right, his mind automatically noting changes in texture: smooth concrete here, rougher patches there, the occasional pipe junction or maintenance access.
'Stay right. Stay clear of the rails.'
The third rail could still be electrified. One wrong step would end things fast and ugly. No way to know until it was too late.
Mike stayed near the front of the group, walking just far enough ahead to give the illusion he knew what he was doing. Behind him, people stretched into a single tense line along the tunnel wall, holding their breath in the murk. The lights from their phones wavered ahead, thin beams cutting through layers of dust and floating particles, creating a trail of shadows stitched together by fear.
No one spoke. The only sounds were the scrape of shoes over gravel and the dull knock of boots against old trash on the floor: torn paper, broken cups, a bottle rolling somewhere out of reach. They were clutching backpacks, phones, and whatever else they could salvage before they stepped off the train.
He had learned the names of five of them by now.
Eli, the young artist kid, walked a few steps behind Mike. Face pale, his fingers stained with graphite and blood, he kept looking over his shoulder like he expected a monster to chase him down. Eli's young mind was probably full of terror, Mike thought.
Lien was a quiet, middle-aged Asian woman, unreadable to Mike. She didn't fidget or complain at all. She just followed them, steady and silent, like none of this was enough to surprise her.
Walking in the middle of the line was Dana, red-haired, sharp tongue, clearly not one for taking orders. Her flashlight cuts slow arcs across the walls as if the shadows might lunge at her if left unchecked.
Peter followed farther back. High-strung, a corporate man through and through. Still clinging to that slim black suitcase like it held his soul. His eyes jumped at every shadow, every sound just out of sight. The same man who had nearly pulled the emergency brake earlier, still jittering with the need to do something, even if it was the wrong thing.
And closing the line was Sam, the broad-shouldered man in his fifties. Iron-gray hair framed his weathered face. Small hearing aids were barely visible in both ears, glinting occasionally when the flashlight beams caught them. Despite his solid frame, his voice carried a calm that settled the people around him. He said he was ex-military, and the way he held his flashlight, firm and ready, made it easy to believe.
Mike thought he heard the train door creak shut behind them. A slow, final goodbye. He didn't turn around. They had chosen to move forward. There was no sense in looking back now.
As they made their way along the train cars, Mike paused at each one, peering through the grimy windows. Blood smeared the glass like paint left in a storm. Some had bodies, twisted, unmoving. Others were just... empty.
No one else in the group looked inside the cars. They didn't need to. The blood on the windows told them everything they had to know.
When they reached the first car, the door was wide open. Mike climbed up the car with Dana and Sam behind him.
"Didn't think I'd be back so soon," Sam joked under his breath.
"Focus," Dana snapped, already sweeping her light across the floor.
Mike moved ahead of them, scanning the scene methodically. The first car was eerily clean, no bullet holes, no blood on the floor, no broken windows. It seemed the car was already inside the tunnel when the attack started and had not been impacted by the shooters at all.
The second car was safe as well but the third one was different: broken glass glinted on the floor, blood stained the corners.
By the fourth there were five bodies.
In the fifth car, there was only the aftermath: death scattered like discarded coats, silence soaked in smoke and grief. So many lives cut short, their stories ended in a place no one would remember, with no one left to mourn them.
But one figure lingered in Mike's mind, refusing to fade with the rest. A man lay face-up in the aisle, his features almost entirely obscured by a veil of drying blood. What struck Mike wasn't the face, it was the jacket. Bright yellow. Not neon safety gear. Just an ordinary windbreaker in a shade so cheerful it looked completely wrong here. Sunshine yellow, blotched now in deep reds, like someone had tried to paint over joy with violence. The contrast was jarring, like the man hadn't realized he had walked into a mine field.
Mike knew the yellow jacket would haunt him.
He stopped at the fifth. He already viewed what was waiting in the sixth car before. He didn't want to check it again.
For a brief moment, he considered heading back to car seven. To the people who had stayed behind and tell them that the conductor was gone, the power was dead, and help wasn't coming.
But he didn't.
Not because he thought convincing them would be a waste of time. Though it probably would be. The truth was more complicated. And uglier.
It was already hard enough to be responsible for his own survival, but now he had to carry the weight of the living around him too. He didn't have it in him to go back for people who weren't ready to move and would rather wait for a miracle.
Maybe it should have felt cruel. But it didn't.
Still, that wasn't the only reason. In a part of himself he kept silent, lived a quieter truth: he wasn't sure the path ahead was any better. If anything, it felt worse.
His bones were tight, his skin tingled and his mouth was dry. Every part of him whispered the same warning. That walking forward meant stepping into something colder, more wrong, more dangerous than anything they'd left behind.
And yet, he had to keep going anyway. Because he knew reaching the next station was the only way out. Their only hope.
On the way back through the cars, he spotted the emergency brake in car three. Pulled all the way down.
He could see that Sam and Dana hadn't found anything useful. No first aid supplies, no working flashlights. Just dust and silence. The cars had been looted long ago, stripped bare by those who had left before them.
Without a word, the three of them dropped back into the tunnel and kept walking.
9:03 a.m.
A rat the size of a small cat darted across the tracks, earning a few gasps and stifled screams. They passed a half-rotted traffic cone, a broken plastic crate, an electric hazard sign half-glued to the wall by grime.
Even sound barely traveled beyond a few metres. It felt like walking through thick cloth, like the air itself didn't want them speaking. Sometimes, pipes hissed with water pressure above them, making people flinch.
The further they went, the more the train behind them disappeared. At first they could still glimpse at the fallen iron beast, but after a slow bend in the tunnel, even that was gone. Now there was only blackness ahead, blackness behind, and the sense that they had crossed some invisible line.
A wet cough echoed from behind him, harsh and rattling. Mike glanced back to see Eli covering his mouth with his sleeve, shoulders shaking with the effort to suppress it.
"I can't believe the other cars left us behind," Dana's voice broke the quiet, her tone low suppressing her rage.
Sam's voice drifted up from the back of the line, steady and reassuring. "Don't worry. We'll catch up with them soon enough."
Mike didn't say anything, but the thought sat heavy in his chest. It didn't make sense. Even in panic, someone should have checked their car. Instead, they'd abandoned them like they were already dead.
But Sam was right. They'd catch up eventually. And when they did, they'd better have a damn good explanation.
Somewhere along the next stretch, Mike caught movement to his side and automatically stepped left, before realizing it was just Eli stumbling slightly.
"Watch your footing," Mike said quietly, steadying him. "You okay?"
Another cough wracked Eli's frame, deeper this time. He nodded, embarrassed, but Mike noticed a faint trace of blood glistening beneath his nose in the weak flashlight glow.
"Yeah. Sorry. I just—thought I saw something on the wall." Eli wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, leaving a dark smear, then coughed again into his elbow.
Mike glanced at the tunnel's side.
There was graffiti there. But it wasn't paint. It looked burned into the concrete.
Three symbols interlocked. One in the shape of a crude eye. One like a spiral. And the last one like a bent cross. The markings were scorched deep, the black crust still clinging to the raw edges like charcoal wounds.
Mike frowned. It didn't look like a gang tag or graffiti. He couldn't explain why, but it made his skin crawl. There was something wrong with the symbols.
Lien stepped up beside them, looking at the symbols. She watched them in silence for a moment, then said quietly, "This eye... does anyone else feel like we're being observed?"
A chill ran through the group. Several people instinctively stepped back from the wall, their flashlight beams wavering.
Peter's voice cracked with irritation. "Jesus Christ, woman! This isn't the time to try and scare us. We're already terrified enough without your creepy jokes."
Before Lien could defend herself, Mike cut in sharply. "Keep moving. Everyone, stay close and watch your step."
But as they continued down the tunnel, Mike couldn't shake the weight pressing against the back of his neck. That familiar crawl between his shoulder blades that meant something wasn't right. His instincts whispered warnings, something was wrong about this stretch of tunnel in a way he couldn't name or explain.
9:25 a.m.
A fork appeared ahead: two tunnels, identical but angled slightly apart. Recent footprints marked the dust in both tunnels. Leaving no clear indication on which path to take.
Peter stepped forward and pointed to the left. "That's got to be the way, right?"
No one answered. All eyes were on Mike. He felt the familiar weight of expectation pressing down on him. God, he couldn't wait to find the other group so someone else could take charge.
He stepped forward slowly, crouched at the fork, and studied both paths. He ran a hand along the floor, brushing through dust, searching for footprints, blood, anything useful. Then he checked the rails, looking for vibrations or some indicative signal.
Nothing obvious. The overlapping dust patterns were too disturbed to read clearly or give him a clear trail to follow.
But something about the right tunnel felt different. Not in a way he could explain logically. Just... a pull. A weight in his chest that settled there the moment he looked into it.
He then looked at the left tunnel and his gut pulled him back like a warning.
He glanced over his shoulder, and saw everyone watching.
"They probably went right," Mike said, rising to his feet.
Peter blinked. "Based on what, exactly? Tunnel feng shui?"
Dana stepped beside Mike. "He's basing it on shut up for a second." But her eyes stayed fixed on Mike, arms crossed, waiting. Her expression made it clear she'd silenced Peter not out of loyalty, but because she wanted to hear the explanation before deciding whether to follow or challenge him as well.
Mike didn't answer right away. He could feel the weight of their skepticism pressing against him. Not just from Dana, but from all of them. Eleven pairs of eyes watching, measuring, deciding whether to trust a stranger with their lives. The silence stretched taut as a wire.
He turned to the others instead, keeping his voice even.
"There's more disruption in the dust here," Mike said. "You can see where the ground's been pressed more often, and the footprints are deeper. Someone passed this way recently, and in numbers."
Dana nodded slowly, as if that made enough sense. But her posture remained guarded, ready to question the next decision.
Sam gave a small grunt of approval. Peter rolled his eyes and backed off, muttering something under his breath.
Mike felt uneasy. He was basing his decision on pure instinct only. His gut told him this was the right direction. So... yeah. If he was being honest, maybe it was a little like feng shui. But he couldn't say that out loud. That wouldn't inspire confidence.
So he let the dust speak for him. He let the lie pass, and walked forward like he knew what he was doing. And the group followed.
9:42 a.m.
After what felt like forever, the next station appeared ahead through the tunnel arc. But something was clearly wrong.
The tunnel should have been filled with the familiar hum of fluorescent lights from the platform ahead. Mike's stomach clenched. Every subway station he'd ever seen was lit, always. Even during power outages, backup systems kept emergency lights running.
After an attack like this, there should have been chaos and noise from the other train survivors: people calling for help, the wounded crying out.
Instead, there was only blackness. No voices echoing from the station.
And if shooters had been here too, there would be sounds of struggle or commands being shouted.
Instead, there was nothing. The silence was so complete it felt unnatural.
Mike stopped walking and turned back to the group. He caught Dana's eye and brought a finger to his lips, then made a sharp downward gesture with his palm. The signal passed back through the group like a whispered secret. One by one, phone flashlights clicked off, plunging them into near-total darkness.
"Wait here," Mike whispered, barely audible.
He moved forward alone, every muscle tense, using the tunnel wall for guidance as he crept toward the station entrance. His instincts screamed warnings with each step, but he had to see what they were walking into.
As he reached the end of the tunnel, the platform opened up before him. In the distance, four green exit signs flickered weakly, the only sources of light in the entire station. Their sickly glow barely illuminated the space, just enough to reveal no signs of life.
He thought he heard something. A whisper of movement, maybe voices too distant to make out. His pulse quickened. Mike crouched at the tunnel mouth, studying every shadow, every corner where someone might be hiding. He waited, letting his eyes adjust and his ears pick up any sound that might indicate danger.
After several long minutes, Mike made his decision. Whatever had happened here, the station seemed clear now. He gestured for the others to join him, and they crept forward like ghosts emerging from the darkness, their flashlights flickering back to life.
When they reached the platform, Mike, Dana and Sam climbed up and began helping others. One by one they climbed, pulled by trembling hands and hope too raw to speak. Their faces were pale and drawn, but he could see it in their eyes, in the slight slackening of shoulders. Relief. Real and sudden and nearly unbearable.
Mike turned around, automatically scanning the station. The platform was dim and mostly empty. A dull silhouette built from rusted steel. Green columns climbed up from the cracked platform, crooked and weary. Torn advertisement posters clung to the walls like peeling scabs, fluttering gently in stale currents of air.
But for those who had just walked through the guts of a concrete monster, it might as well have been a cathedral. A grim, broken one, but holy all the same.
It looked eerily peaceful at the moment but if you paid attention you could see blood pooled between tiles, scattered in smears and puddles. Some patches were so dense it looked like livestock had bled out here. Enough to make your throat go dry.
Chaotic red footprints told stories across the concrete patterns. It wasn't the heavy treads of combat boots, but regular shoes. Sneakers, dress shoes, even what looked like children's footprints. People had run through pools of blood, stepped on each other, trampled over the wounded in their desperation to escape.
And yet... there were no bodies. Not a single one.
Mike tried to imagine the chaos that would drive people to such panic, but his mind recoiled from the image. His stomach dropped. Whatever had happened here, it had been pure terror. He couldn't stop himself from thinking how glad he was to have been inside the train when the shooting started, and not out there on the platform.
Gasps broke his quiet reflection. Smiles, fragile and wet, bloomed like bruises turning inside out. Peter started to laugh in disbelief. Someone behind him sobbed something like a prayer.
"Thank God. Thank you so much..."
This was something else, a cracked, brittle moment of belief. Of hope uncoiling after too long underground.
Mike didn't let it last and urged them to continue. His instincts were still screaming warnings. It wasn't time yet to relax.
"Let's keep moving," he said, gently but firmly, pointing at the faint green glow of the exit sign.
He led them across the platform. They walked in a quiet procession, as though the green light might vanish if they blinked. Every step a breath closer to safety.
And as he moved, something started clawing at his gut. The green box grew clearer now. Its light glowing like it was a lighthouse on the shore. The sign was positioned directly over what should have been the main exit, but...
Mike was the first to see it.
In front of him stood a wall. Not just any wall, a sealed metal door, taller than a truck and twice as wide. Solid steel with no hinges, no door mechanism. It rose from floor to ceiling like the hatch of a vault, unbroken and unmoving.
His heart stopped beating and blood drained from his face.
Stepping forward, he stared at the giant metal. The flickering exit signs buzzed above, casting a sickly halo over the scene. He touched the door. Ice cold. No vibration. No hum. Just silence. The kind that didn't offer answers.
He hit it twice. A dull clang rang back, deep and final. Nothing budged. It didn't even echo properly, like the sound had been eaten by the metal.
The others began arriving behind him. First Dana. Then Sam. Then the rest.
The line of hope stopped short.
The panic that followed wasn't immediate. It spread slowly, like a confused murmur rippling from person to person.
A woman near the back sank to her knees and began rocking in place. She clutched her bag to her chest like a child clinging to a blanket, whispering the word "no" over and over as if it was enough to deny the truth.
Then the sobs came again. But not joyful this time.
Anger rose behind him.
"This was a mistake..."
"You said there would be a way out."
"You promised this was the exit."
Piercing fingers pointed at Mike. "This is your fault!"
The blame came quick, sharp as glass. Mike understood what this was: fear turning people into splinters, shattered in every direction.
Dana moved closer, ready to speak, but Mike stopped her with a glance.
'Let them vent. Let it pass through.'
He ground his teeth. His jaw ached. And before he could say anything, a sound interrupted.
Voices. From the far side of the platform.
Mike turned sharply, adrenaline already surging up his spine. He stepped forward, eyes narrowing into the gloom.
Were they shooters? Had they circled back? Had they been waiting?
But when the figures stepped into view, the light of a flashlight caught familiar shapes. Unmasked faces. Clothes still streaked with dust and blood, but unmistakably civilian. Survivors.
A lanky man stepped forward, built like a steel beam and dressed in a sweat-soaked uniform. The NY Metro patch on his chest was stained nearly invisible. He carried a crushed paper map in one hand and a radio clipped to his hip.
"I'm Jake, the train conductor," he said. His voice was rough, like concrete dragged across asphalt.
Relief surged through the group. For a moment, hope bloomed again. Just the happy shock of knowing they weren't alone. That someone else had made it this far. That someone in authority might have answers.
"Thank God," a voice whispered behind Mike.
"Sorry we..." Jake continued, "we heard your voices in the tunnel but we thought... we thought it was them coming back. The shooters... so we hid."
Jake looked at Sam, meeting his eyes for the first time. "Anyone else with you?"
Everything about Sam radiated natural authority. The broad shoulders, the way he'd handled himself with a steady presence. So Mike wasn't surprised Jake assumed Sam was the leader.
Sam shook his head. "It's just us. We were in car seven."
Jake's face went pale. His voice cracked slightly. "The back end of the train was a bloodbath."
The horror in Jake's eyes was unmistakable. Raw, recent trauma that made his hands shake as he spoke. Mike could see Dana's jaw tighten, her eyes flashing with anger at being abandoned.
But Jake continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "I thought... I thought everyone was dead. I didn't even check car seven. Every passenger on that train was my responsibility. And I failed. I'm sorry."
Mike watched Dana's fury deflate like a punctured balloon. Her rigid posture softened, her clenched fists relaxed. She'd felt Jake's sincerity, understood the weight of what he'd seen, the impossible position he'd been in. Even in her anger, she was fair enough to recognize genuine remorse.
"Guess we were lucky someone warned us in time," Sam said softly, catching Mike's eye with a slight grin.
Jake tried to smile, but it never reached his eyes. He nodded stiffly, shifting his grip on the map. His shoulders were tense. His hands restless.
A voice snapped from behind Mike. "Fucking coward, you left us behind!"
The words hit Jake like a slap.
Another voice rose from Jake's group, a man with a clenched jaw, pointing accusingly. "And one of you pulled the emergency brake. That's why we're in this mess to begin with!"
"You trapped us in the tunnels!" A woman snapped, "how stupid can you be?!"
"It wasn't me!" Peter blurted, face flushed with both fear and guilt. "I was going to—but I didn't!"
"No one from our car did it," Dana said coldly.
The accusations tangled into each other: half-formed arguments, overlapping denials and frustration turned into jagged personal attack. The tension sparked again, just like before, but worse now, fueled by fatigue, betrayal, and the sobering weight of that sealed door behind them.
Jake's face crumpled. His posture collapsed inward, shoulders curling as if trying to disappear. The man who had just taken responsibility for everyone's safety was being torn apart by the very people he'd tried to save.
Mike could see him breaking under the weight of their accusations and his own crushing guilt.
'So much for stepping back.'
Jake seemed a good man, but he was barely holding together. Mike had to step forward. Again.
"Stop. Everyone, stop," he said, raising his voice just enough to carry his command.
He turned in a slow circle, catching eyes where he could and holding them tight.
"None of this matters anymore. The train is gone. We've got one shot at surviving this, and it's not going to happen if we tear each other apart over what can't be changed. We need to work together and figure out how to leave this place."
The calm came back reluctantly. But it held.
Jake remained silent for a moment, his hands trembling as he gripped the map tighter. His eyes were bloodshot, barely holding back. He cleared his throat twice before he could speak.
"We already checked the whole station," he said finally. "Every exit is sealed. My radio's got no signal, and even the maintenance doors are welded shut."
He paused, pointing back at his group. "We raided the vending machines. So we got some water and food to share with everyone."
A few quiet grunts of disapproval could be heard but no one said anything aloud. Humanity was cracking, but it hadn't shattered completely.
Mike looked at Sam. "Let's rest for ten minutes, then we head for the next station."
Peter threw a hand toward the metallic gate. "You want to go deeper into the tunnels? You really think that's better than staying here and waiting for someone to open this?"
"You still think someone's coming?" Dana asked, her voice sharp. "Look at the blood around you. What happens when the shooters come back?"
Peter opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. His face flushed, but he had no answer.
"She's right. Nothing good will happen if we stay here too long." Lien spoke quietly.
Peter stepped back, gritting his teeth, but said nothing more.
Mike turned to look at Lien, surprised by her sudden support. She was so reserved that he still couldn't read her but her instincts seemed as sharp as his own. She met his gaze directly and gave him a single nod.
The group began to spread out across the platform, some sitting against pillars, others checking their supplies. Jake's people shared water bottles with Mike's group, a small gesture of unity in the face of what lay ahead.
9:53 a.m.
The station had gone silent again, except for the low hum of the exit sign above the sealed gate. That weak green glow looked almost mocking now, like the false promise of a world they couldn't reach.
Dana stood near one of the support columns, arms crossed, inhaling through her nose in slow, measured rhythm. The way someone does when trying to keep fury contained. Not panic. Fury.
Peter kept pacing near the locked gate, the black suitcase still glued to his hand like it was part of him now. He muttered to himself with increasing urgency, "This doesn't make any sense. This is a public platform. Why would anyone seal it shut?"
Mike crouched beside Eli. The kid didn't speak much during the walk. Even now he kept staring down at the floor, eyes red but dry, too tired for tears.
"You okay?" Mike asked, his voice low.
Eli hesitated, then nodded once. "I didn't think it would be locked. That exit. I really thought..."
"I know," Mike said softly. "So did I."
There was a pause. Mike's eyes dropped briefly to Eli's hands, the faint gray smudge along the side of his index finger was still there. "You an artist?" he asked.
Eli blinked, surprised. He glanced down at his hands. "Kind of. I go to CANY, the art school in Midtown. I'm a second-year."
Mike raised his eyebrows slightly. He hadn't expected that. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-one in two weeks."
Mike studied his face again. That fragile, narrow frame. The way his shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear. He wouldn't have given him more than sixteen. He would've believed him if he'd said he was twelve.
But he didn't say that of course.
Instead, he offered a quiet nod and said, "You'll celebrate it. Your birthday. With your friends and family. I promise you that."
He tried to reassure the kid but it was a cringy thing to say and he felt it as soon as the words left his mouth. 'Idiot.'
Eli looked away, he didn't speak, but his hands twitched slightly, and his shoulders rose and fell in a breath that wasn't quite steady.
Mike didn't press. He stood and walked back toward the others.
But he could sense Eli's shoulders ease a bit. He was still with them. Still holding on, and for now, that was enough.
9:59 a.m.
Mike circled back toward the center of the group, stepping past the remains of a busted vending machine, its glass shattered, its insides long stripped. He scanned the ceiling methodically, searching for cameras, emergency lights, communication panels. Anything that might still be active and help them reach the surface above.
There was nothing. Just dust, silence, and shadows that didn't move.
He exhaled slowly, let his eyes drift back to the others, and spotted Peter.
The man had sunk down onto the edge of the platform, face drawn, suit stained with dust and sweat. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, staring at nothing.
Mike walked over and sat beside him, not close, not far. Just enough to say 'I see you,' without saying anything at all.
Peter stared down at the tracks. His jaw was tight, like he was chewing on something bitter.
After a long moment, he muttered, "I'm not built for this."
Mike glanced sideways. "None of us are."
"I was supposed to be in Midtown by now," Peter muttered. "In a conference room with the New York skyline view. It was the biggest meeting of my life. I spent two years clawing my way toward that room."
Mike said nothing.
Peter let out a thin breath. "And now I'm wiping tunnel dust off a suit that cost more than my rent."
He laughed, once: low and sharp. But there was no humor in it.
Mike didn't smile. Just watched the void for a second longer.
"Then consider this your promotion."
Peter shook his head. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
"You don't have to do anything," Mike said, standing up. "Just don't make it harder for the others. Sometimes doing nothing is better than doing the wrong thing."
Peter's jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists as he continued staring into the tunnel's mouth. Something in Mike's words had struck a nerve, but he didn't answer.
Near the far wall, Sam's voice carried across the platform, telling some story that made a young woman laugh. The sound felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Even in this hell, Sam was trying to lift spirits.
Mike's gaze found Dana leaning against a support column. She looked different now, calmer. The fury that had been eating at her earlier had burned itself out completely, leaving her demeanor clearer and more focused. She caught his eye and nodded once, ready for whatever came next.
Without needing to be told, everyone began to gather again slowly, quietly, like gravity pulling them toward each other.
Jake stepped forward, his conductor's training kicking in. "Alright, everyone listen up," he called out, his voice carrying the authority of someone who'd guided passengers through countless delays and disruptions. "We stick together and walk along the right wall. Keep your voices low and stay close to the person in front of you." He paused, looking at each face. "It's just one station. We can do this."
Mike felt relief wash over him. Jake had authority and a good sense of responsibility. He could step back now, fade into the background and let someone else carry the load.
He turned around and looked at everyone. He could see their bruises, their bleeding, their broken edges. Some were crying softly. Some stared into nothing. But even though it was probably the worst day of their lives, none of them had given up. They moved toward the tunnel entrance with determination.
Into the darkness.