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When the return fire came, it felt as though it was from all directions. Smith heard the higher pitched sound of the reports from the rifles and he dropped to the ground, doing his best to keep his weapon high. Water splashed up on his face and he felt it soak through his clothes. He crawled to the first rail and over it, keeping his gun pointed up and firing. A click told him that it was empty. Even on semiauto, he’d fired a lot of rounds. He pressed his back against the platform wall and felt in his waist pack for fresh ammunition.

While he slammed the magazine home he noticed that Russell, too, was out. She’d stopped firing. From somewhere farther down the tunnel he heard the report of a new shooter. Howell was back and firing high, a fact for which Smith was grateful. The smoke bombs caused severe facial pain along the lines of tear gas and the enclosed space would intensify it. Smith’s mask smelled of rubber and stale air, but at least his eyes and throat didn’t burn. He could only imagine what Howell was experiencing. The way the chemical made one’s eyes run, it would be tough to fire on a target with any real accuracy. The best Howell could do would be to blanket the area, just as Smith and Russell were doing. Smith kept low, among the rails. They were right where the bacteria began, and Smith was thankful for the mask for another reason. He wasn’t breathing in the toxin.

He bent around and resumed firing, keeping the shots high. He saw Russell’s muzzle flashes in his peripheral vision and was grateful that she had more ammunition. This was his last magazine.

A fresh onslaught of gunfire from the platform caught him by surprise. It was as though the number of attackers had doubled in the last few minutes. The noise in the tunnel became deafening. Smith’s heart was racing and his ears rang continuously. The smoke was beginning to clear and Smith wished he had another bomb. He focused on the muzzle flashes, firing directly at them in a staccato byplay. He heard Russell give a short yell, and her gun clattered at his feet. She stumbled against him.

“I’m out and hit. Right arm.”

Smith didn’t take his eyes from the target. “Get back in the tunnel. Howell and I will cover here.”

“Not on your life. You have another pistol?”

Smith fired two more rounds. Ten left, he thought.

“Yes. Shoulder holster.”

“That leave you with one?”

“No, that leaves me with none. I gave Nolan the other one.”

“Then I am heading to the tunnel. I’m not going to take your last weapon.”

She was gone before Smith could ask how badly she was injured. He kept shooting and started to count: eight, seven, six. Howell shot as well, but Smith couldn’t help but worry that Howell would also be down to his last few rounds. The attackers, though, with their renewed numbers and zeal seemed to have been given a fresh lease on death, firing round after round. As the smoke cleared, their muzzle flashes became sharper. Smith saw one shooter moving toward the ledge.

Four, three, two, Smith counted. Time to go, he thought. He bolted across the tracks, bent over, keeping between the first and second rail, but this time running in Howell’s direction. He saw a last flash, heard the report, and he knew it was Howell.

Smith fired his final round, slung the AK carrying strap over his shoulder and yanked the pistol out of his holster. The smoke had dissipated enough that he could once again see the blue signal lights glowing halfway into the tunnel. The attackers emerged from the blackness, appearing as darker shadows amid the smoky atmosphere. He ran forward, holding his breath until he cleared the wall and was protected from the shooters. Howell moved up flush with his left shoulder. Smith was inordinately happy to see the man.

“No more ammo?” Smith said.

“Correct,” Howell replied. He wiped the tears that streamed from his eyes. “You?”

“AK’s out, but I have a pistol. How’d you slip past them to get to me?”

“The heavy smoke helped.”

“Any idea how many are on that platform?” Smith kept jogging forward while he spoke. He kept glancing back to see if any additional attackers would crawl onto the tracks and shoot straight down the tunnel. When they did, he wanted to be safely inside an opening. The next alcove couldn’t come soon enough.

“Six at least. It was down to four but I think two joined in the last five minutes. You managed to drive them backward, so that’s a gain.” Howell stumbled and Smith grabbed his arm.

“Watch out, the third rail’s hot.”

“You sure?”

“I have no doubt.”

“Why?” There came a rumbling from in front of them, and a train’s headlights came into view.

“That’s why,” Smith said.

50

Russell felt weak as she worked her way back down the tunnel. She reached the dead man and took a break, breathing heavily in the face mask. Sweat ran down the sides of her face and accumulated near her chin and at the bottom of the mask. Her fever had spiked again. She supposed she should feel regret at pushing herself so hard when she was newly recovered, but she couldn’t muster any.

She listened to the exchange of gunfire with rising dread. The shots from the direction of the platform had increased substantially, which told Russell that some additional muscle had joined the attackers on the platform. She’d seen four men at least. Some more with fresh ammo and renewed purpose would be enough to overcome Smith and Howell. She needed to get to street level fast so that she could ask Klein for reinforcements. She pressed on, leaving the safety of the alcove and keeping low, crawling through the tunnel. Water saturated her shoes, and her shirt was soaked with sweat under the bulletproof vest. The tunnel seemed an endless dark path that would go on forever. The glowing signal stands gave her some minimal illumination, but it failed to show her the small holes and debris that appeared on the tracks. She rose to a crouch, tripped over a small box and gasped when her foot fell into a hole and threw her off balance. Three steps later she kicked something that flashed bits of silver as it jumped into the air and then landed. She reached it and kicked it again. It was inanimate, whatever it was. On the third encounter with it she grabbed it with her hands. She felt the spokes and nylon covering. It was an umbrella. She tossed it out of the way, against the wall.

She heard the rumbling of a train coming from behind her and panic started to rise. She tried to stay rational; she could always step into an alcove and the train would simply sail by, but the idea of being on train tracks when an actual train was in sight made her palms start to sweat. She could hear the rasping of her breath in her ears, the sound magnified in the mask’s close confinement. A quick glance back told her everything she needed to know. A train was headed into the station. The smoke bomb had cleared completely, and the subway car’s headlights and signals were lit. The train was directly in her path. She increased her pace, looking for the next alcove. She found it and jumped inside with a sense of relief.

The rumbling grew louder, and she pressed her back against the wall. The train flew by, illuminating her hiding place in regular bursts of light. The noise was loud, and she winced at the sound. It never had seemed so loud when she was waiting safely on a platform.

The last car passed and she leaned out a little to watch the taillights recede. Soon her ears readjusted and she strained to hear whether the fight continued after the train had gone, but there was no sound that she could identify. She found the silence almost more ominous than the shooting. At least while the two factions were battling it out, she could be assured that Smith and Howell were alive.