Chapter 23 #2
I force myself to lock eyes with him. I’m not going down like a coward. I’m going to haunt the fuck out of this bastard.
“Move,” he grunts in a weird, hoarse, half-whisper.
That’s all the hesitation I need. Muscles coiled in complete fight or flight, I dive on him, taking him by surprise, knocking the air out of him.
His finger yanks the trigger when he goes down, and a spatter of broken brick flies across my temple.
Screams go up. A metallic clatter rings out against the high buildings as the gun falls.
I scramble for it, but even in his winded state, he lands a good punch to my stomach, sending me crashing to the pavement beside him. He rolls, scrambling for the gun.
And I bolt. I’m pretty sure a guy who can throw a punch like that is fitter and faster than me, but if I can stay where it’s crowded and lose him…
The Tube.
Back the way I came, I sprint two blocks as fast as I can, my stomach screaming at me from the punch I just took.
Cars screech, people swear and shout as I dodge between them running towards the station.
Thank Christ people in this country know to stand on the right on escalators.
Sharp clangs sound with every hard step as I overtake them, but I’m only halfway down when a second set rings out behind me.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Down and onto the concrete, I veer around the corner. Ah, fuck, which line, which line… I scan the board while I’m running. Next train in one minute. Victoria line.
A flash of pale blue off to my left alerts me to the direction, and I run for the turnstiles.
There’s a queue, of course, but fuck this.
I dive onto the thing, scrambling clumsily over the top, people shouting at me from both sides, then one voice louder, clearer above the lot. “What do you think you’re doing, mate?”
A conductor? I slip to the floor, scrambling back up on the dirty tiles, and vaguely see some guy in a black coat and hat.
“He’s got a gun!” I shout, flinging my arm somewhere behind me.
There’s an instant commotion, a slowing of things as everyone who heard me comes to terms with the horror of that statement. Then screams, every head turning so irresistibly my eyes can’t help but follow.
Boom! The bullet whizzes past me, smashing into the wall. It’s complete chaos—a hundred people scrambling for safety, vying to get out of the subway. I’m swept along in a wave of people who have no idea where the fuck they’re going, just trying to get away.
“August!”
But I can barely hear him in the crush of screams and seething terror.
The train’s here, right on time, and news can’t have got to the driver yet because it stops at the platform.
The doors gasp open and a hundred people pour onto it, spreading thick and fast to its corners.
Half of us crouch down, shoulders, hips, legs crushing into me as I try to work my way up the carriage.
People are crying out out, “Close the door! Close the door!” Shoving back and back and back.
Then, there’s a breathless silence, the carriage as full as it can be, the platform sweepingly empty.
Finally, that stark and sweet sound: “Doors closing. Please stand clear.”
Thwump. They’re closed. The train moves.
There’s a collective exhale, some nervous laughter, a lot of tears. “Is everyone okay?” someone asks, and people begin to stand, take hold of the railings, breathing again.
A bright, blinding flash claps out, and they’re still. Frozen. Every one of them.
Except me.
The train goes dark as we head into the tunnel, away from the station, then screeches as we hit a corner.
The whole load of passengers is thrown to the left, and, unable to control themselves, they fall, a mad scramble of arms and legs, tangling, people rolling this way and that.
I’m thrown to my knees when a man falls on me, and it’s all I can do to pull a boy to the top of the heap.
The doors slide open two carriages down.
“Fuuuuuuuuck!” I clamber to my feet, falling over the useless limbs and bodies all over the floor, trying to escape through to the next carriage.
People are everywhere. I grab a woman’s wrist and pull her sleeping body off the door, laying her down as carefully as I can, hoping no one will fall on her.
The sound of the far doors opening sends a bolt down my spine.
I rip through the walkway to the next carriage. It’s slightly less crowded than the last, and I climb up onto the seats to avoid the people lying on the floor. Fast as I can, I make my way to the centre, then hit the emergency stop button.
Nothing happens.
Is the driver asleep too? Can this guy control him? Did he do this? He must have. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.
I don’t have time to think, only stumble through, swinging on the bars to avoid the few people who managed to keep their seats. The door sounds behind me, and I shout back at him, “Why are you doing this?”
My only answer is another shot just as we veer around a corner. Blue sparks light the glass from the rails outside as his bullet smashes through, and my hurt shoulder hits the ground hard when I’m thrown to the only body-free space on the floor.
I hear the chink of his gun, and some back part of my brain tells me he’s reloading, that I need to move faster. I make a desperate dash for the next door, then up on the seats, running, faster, faster. The next door, the next one, on and on through the train.
How long do I have? How long until they wake?
Will he shoot them dead to get to me? He’s been reckless and could have so easily killed someone back at the station.
I’m not sure he’d hesitate now. God, if I could just get off this train.
But it doesn’t stop. It blasts through the next station at lightning speed, and I know the driver’s asleep.
How long until we come upon another line and smash into another train?
He must know. He must know he’s going to kill all these people.
I can see the driver’s cabin ahead in the next carriage, but I know it will be locked. It’s endgame if I go in there. So I slink down, rip the brown coat off the nearest passenger, and pull it over mine. I drop to the floor, shove my head beneath someone’s shoulder, and lie still.
This is the best I can do. And if it’s not enough, there’s a bullet coming for my brain about thirty seconds from now.
Shink! The door slides open. I try to make my body loose, let it move with the rhythm of the train.
Try not to look like I’m gripping this guy next to me, trying to stop him from rolling off me.
I keep my eyes closed, even if theirs aren’t.
Take slow breaths, like I’m asleep, when I want to scream.
My head’s floating, dizzy, so dizzy I could pass out, my lungs begging for oxygen.
Can’t let hands shake. Grip them tighter.
His footsteps. Close. Moving fast. Faster.
The train slams to the right, the lights flicker, and his boot lands in the small of my back, smashing the air out of me, my scream stifled by the fist I shove there, hoping he didn’t see.
A knee slams into my shoulder. “Fuck!” he hisses beneath his breath.
His boot clomps onto the floor. He’s got his footing again. The sound recedes, dwindling fast.
When the doors slide open, I risk one look to see them close behind him, then I’m off, back down the carriage. The train’s movement throws me to the floor several times, but I push on until I’m back in the incredibly crowded carriage I started in.
Slipping off the brown coat, I roll it into a ball and shove it beneath a bundle of people, then grab another, a black coat, and try to find another group to hide beneath, to attempt to keep this charade up for as long as I can.
But it’s a matter of time. He must know what I’ve done now, and be on his way back down, checking more carefully.
Dropping to the floor, I grab a man’s arm to shift him, then I’m thrown flat on top of him.
The train’s braking. It’s slowing. Is the driver awake?
Not a single person in this carriage shows any sign of consciousness.
No.
It must be the emergency override. They’ve noticed the train’s not stopping.
So I leg it down the carriage as fast as I can for the back before he can find me.
Back, back, running, falling, scrambling, on and on, always looking over my shoulder for that black figure moving between carriages after me.
The train slows, and I duck down in the last carriage, waiting.
When we finally pull up at a station, there are whistles and paramedics running for the front of the train.
The very second I lay eyes on them, there’s a bewildered groan about the carriage.
Everyone waking from their sleep, rubbing heads, murmuring about what the hell just happened, picking themselves and each other up.
Stay on? Or get off? Hide amongst them? Risk being spotted?
The doors open, and people pour out. What if they all go? What if it’s just him and me left on here? And it’s going to be here a while too, while they figure out what happened to the driver.
I really have no choice.
Before the mass of passengers can disperse, I push into the thick of them. But I’m not stupid enough to make for the exit. I thread through to the end of the platform, only a couple of metres away, then drop onto the track behind the train.
A little puff of dust springs up around my feet, and I crouch down into it. I’m careful to avoid the rails, especially the centre rail. And I wait. And people shout, and whistles sound, and wind blows down the tunnel, and I wait. And wait. And wait…
It’s a full half hour. And it may be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life, but at the first sign the train’s about to move again, I climb onto the back step, grab the bars, and hold on for dear life as it shoots me through the tunnel network, wind blasting around me, sparks flying, the screech of the tracks ungodly loud, one slip promising a grisly death.
It almost happens when the train slows suddenly, and I promise to steal myself some new boots so I never lose this life-saving tread. Can’t be too careful, living a life like mine.
A few minutes later, I stumble onto the platform at Islington station. I half collapse, hunched, hands on thighs, catching my breath, trying to shake off my sea legs.
At this point, if he wants to kill me, he can have me. I’m not doing that again.
The platform empties slowly, then finally, I’m alone.
What a day.
Right.
Time to go break up with the man of my dreams.