Munoz froze in horror as he watched the command center’s live video feed of the Pavilion. Three police officers were dragged into the darkness, and a black creature surged out of the tunnel and attacked another cop. He broke out of his state and shouted, “We’re under attack!”
“What?” Reynolds sprung from his chair, followed by Samuels, and they rushed to Munoz’s side. “Show me.”
On the video feed, nothing moved in the Pavilion. Cafferty and his group had packed themselves inside the rear car and were in the process of blocking the final set of doors with steel plates. Blood soaked the tracks behind the train.
“What am I looking at?” Reynolds asked.
“There was . . . this thing . . . it just attacked the police, dragged them back into the tunnel. It happened so fast.”
“Roll back the tape,” Reynolds commanded.
The rest of Munoz’s team crowded his chair. He gripped a small joystick on the console with his trembling hand and twisted it to the left, reversing the feed.
Frame 01:32:07:10. North wrestling with a cop.
He nudged it forward.
Frame 01:32:07:20. A cop’s legs disappearing into the tunnel.
He tapped the joystick again.
Frame 01:32:07:32. The creature in midair, arms outstretched, lunging toward a cop on the platform.
It all happened lightning fast.
Somebody behind Munoz screamed. Others muttered in disbelief.
“My God,” Reynolds said. “Go back to live.”
Munoz fast-forwarded back to real time.
Cafferty’s team had covered the final set of train doors, and the rear train looked like a custom-built silver torpedo. Something, or some things, moved at the mouth of the tunnel. It was impossible to see with any clarity because of the resolution and the smoky atmosphere. Arms reaching out of the darkness and retreating. Not just two.
Hundreds of arms.
Reynolds moved closer to the screen and scrutinized the image. “I thought it wasn’t true . . . This can’t be . . .”
“It can’t be what, Mr. President?” Anna asked in a shaky voice.
“Enough,” Samuels said. “It’s no longer safe for you here, sir. We’re heading for the sub, right now.”
“Mr. President,” Munoz said, “do you know something?”
Reynolds’ eyes darted between the team and the video feed.
“Mr. President,” Anna said with increasing fury.
A row of the Pavilion’s overhead lights next to the tunnel exploded.
All eyes went back to the screen.
The next row shattered.
And the next.
The grid of lights cut out in sequence, sending a dark staccato wave rolling across the Pavilion and plunging it into blackness. Only the deep blue beams of the IMAX projector and the timestamp remained visible on the screen.
“Mr. President,” Samuels said, “we need to leave. Now.”
A thunderous crash shook the walls of the command center. The screams of the Secret Service members guarding the outside of the blast door echoed through the speakers.
“What the hell is that?” one of the command center operators asked.
Another crash hit the blast door.
The MTA team recoiled toward the back office.
Samuels grabbed Reynolds’ arm and dragged him in the same direction.
Munoz crouched behind his chair. It didn’t take a genius to work out that the creatures were attacking the door with weapons . . . or mind-blowing strength. He feared for the people barricaded in the train, though held out no hope for the Secret Service guys and could only pray their deaths were quick.
“What the hell?” one of his team members shouted.
A moment of silence followed the rhetorical question.
Then another shuddering crash rocked the command center.
The hinges on the blast door—built to withstand just about all known conventional strikes—groaned.
A calendar dropped off the wall, pens rolled off workstations and bounced on the tiled floor, and a chair toppled over.
“Holy shit,” Anna said. “What are these things, Mr. President?”
Another wince-inducing crash buckled the door, but it held.
“How long until the sub arrives?” Reynolds asked, his voice trembling.
“Fourteen minutes,” Samuels said.
“How many passengers can it hold?” Anna asked.
“A maximum of twelve,” Munoz replied.
“We’ll all go.”
Samuels drew his pistol. “Mr. President, it’s you, me, and the one closing the hatch behind us. Nobody else. The door will hold. We cannot risk your life any further.”
“Are you insane?” Anna said. “You can’t leave us here.”
“Nobody is coming with us,” Samuels snapped. “The safety of the president of the United States is at stake and we follow clear protocols. I’ll do this as fast as I can and send the sub straight back.”
“Are you fucking mad?” Anna replied. “Mr. President, you can’t leave us here.”
Another crash rattled the walls and something inside the blast door cracked, but again it held. Samuels stood unflinching, uncompromising. Munoz knew nothing was getting past him or changing his mind.
“Mr. President!” Anna repeated.
“Mr. Munoz,” Reynolds said, trying to compose himself, “you’ll come with us, seal the door once I’m safely on the sub, and head back for your colleagues. I don’t like this as much as you, but if we act fast, we’ll all get out of here. Now, grab the gun from under the fire blanket. We don’t know if those things have infiltrated the emergency passage.”
“I don’t want him armed,” Samuels said. “He’s a former gang member, sir.”
Munoz stood glued to the spot, stunned at the revelation. All eyes focused on him and he couldn’t find any words to counter or explain the truth. “How did . . . ?” he said.
“Secret Service plans for every eventuality and carried out a deep-dive background check on everyone in the command center,” Samuels replied coldly. “You cannot hide your past, Mr. Munoz.”
Munoz shot daggers at the Secret Service agent. He hated being judged for mistakes he’d spent his life making amends for. And seeing as they were all in shit, now seemed like an irrelevant time to rake up his past.
“We need to move,” Samuels said. “I don’t want him armed.”
“Gather around,” Munoz said to his team. “Quickly.” Once they were all close, he whispered, “This’ll only take a few minutes. Once the president is safe and I’m back, we’ll all head for the docking station. Use my laptop to get in touch with Cafferty. My password’s HanS0l0. Capital S and H, zeroes for the o’s.”
“Let’s go!” Samuels said.
“Mr. Munoz,” Reynolds said, “I know you probably don’t trust me, but I’m putting my trust in you.” The president walked over to the dead agent, crouched next to the fire blanket, lifted it, and visibly shuddered at the sight of the agent’s pale skin and lifeless eyes. He reached a hand underneath and patted around, grimacing, and eventually located the blood-soaked weapon. Reynolds returned with the gun and approached Munoz.
“Mr. President, I strongly disagree with—” Samuels said.
“Enough,” the president said.
Reynolds handed the gun to Munoz. For the first time in years, Munoz wrapped his fingers around a pistol grip, something he had promised himself he wouldn’t do again. It felt familiar, though, like riding a bike, and he stared at the weapon, wondering if he still had the same cojones after all this time.
Guess I’ll find out.
Munoz led Reynolds and Samuels down a short corridor to the circular electromagnetic hatch. He keyed in the code on the digital pad and the steel locking bolts snapped open.
“Be careful where you point that,” Samuels said, peering down at Munoz’s gun. “Only fire on my command.”
“You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Actually, that’s exactly what I need to be. And to be very clear, if you point the gun anywhere near the president or me, you’re a dead man.”
The hatch opened with a mechanical grind, revealing a brightly lit concrete corridor that climbed out of view.
Samuels ducked through and extended his gun forward.
Reynolds followed.
Munoz glanced back at his team, gave a reassuring nod, and stepped inside the emergency passage. He keyed in the code on the opposite side.
The hatch slammed shut. They were on their own.
Cafferty held a steel pole across his chest and stood next to North in front of a set of the train’s blocked doors. The overhead lights shattering and the earsplitting booms coming from the direction of the command center had spread panic through the tightly packed car, but the mayor, the cops, and the MTA employees worked quickly to calm everyone down.
“Listen up,” Cafferty bellowed. “I don’t know what the fuck those things are, but we’re all in the same boat—”
“We’re on a train,” a young voice piped up.
Nervous laughter rippled through the car.
“Same train,” Cafferty said with a tight grin. “We have to fight them together. If we do—and if we don’t panic—we are going to get out of this alive. And if you don’t trust me, trust in New York’s finest.”
He didn’t think that would really sell it to the frightened passengers, but he did see the cops on the train stand up a little straighter. They were scared, too, but if they could show the mettle he’d seen from the NYPD time and time again, Cafferty felt they at least had a fighting chance.
He just wasn’t sure what they were fighting against.
Well, I’m sure we’ll find out soon.
Cell phone lights and MTA lanterns illuminated the interior of the car, casting thin light on the sweaty but now determined faces of others who stood by the windows and doors with their improvised weapons raised.
The injured cop lay in the aisle, groaning as two fellow police officers applied pressure to the gashes in his legs.
Nobody said a word as they waited for the creatures to attack.