The tsunami was still pushing inland, what were the physics of that? Here in the tunnel, the rushing water was still battering at the car and stirring debris throughout the station. And all the things that should never have been debris—
Unless and until things equalized, they could be stuck here. How long until the water stopped flooding eastward? How long till it settled? How long till it started receding back into the sea? And how fast would it retreat? When would the next wave arrive? James had no idea.
He wondered if Pearl’s train had made it safely to Union Station. Maybe. Probably. It had been packed full, so it wouldn’t have made any stops. They would have gained a few minutes. And maybe with this train blocking part of the tunnel, maybe the flow would have been less, and maybe Pearl’s train could have made it all the way downtown—?
And maybe that was all wishful thinking.
And maybe, despite everything, they weren’t going to make it after all.
The churning slowed.
It didn’t stop, but it slowed.
And they were still alive.
How did he know that?
Because they were still alive.
It didn’t make sense.
They hadn’t outrun the tsunami.
And they were under how many feet of water—
And yet… here they were, still alive, still breathing.
Still alive.
The water was brown and murky; where the headlamp beams pierced it for a few feet it looked like as much mud (and who knew what else) as water. If they hadn’t had the headlamps…
Maybe that was what had attracted the attackers, maybe they saw the light as a beacon. He wasn’t sure. It had all happened too fast, the subway car had flooded so quickly. James was wearing a professional-grade mask, it had extra-bright lamps, but down here, the advantage was minimal. He had only a small tunnel of vision, a gloom just a bit lighter than the darker gloom surrounding. He hung in place, thoughts trying to race, circling in confusion. He was a frozen moment of awareness in a shadowy underwater coffin.
He looked to the others. Julia was holding onto the regulator with both hands; her eyes were closed. She was fine, almost relaxed. Her mother too, though not as calm—she understood how precarious their situation was. Hu was floating close to Julia, watching her carefully. And the teenager—he was watching James as warily as a feral cat. He must have seen what James had done. James took his three breaths, then turned to look toward the raised end of the car. There were dark shapes floating in the water. He didn’t look long; he didn’t want to see them clearly. He already knew, and his gut churned.
He turned his attention to the dials on the tanks. They had air—just not enough. Nowhere near as much as he had hoped. The chaos, the exertion, they were sucking air faster than he had planned. And the pressure, more pressure meant each lungful sucked in more air. He had to assume they were under at least a hundred feet of water.
But how deep were they, really? How much water was pressing down on them?
It didn’t matter. They were in trouble. They had to move.
James wanted to stay nice and safe. Underwater was always nice and safe—if you knew what you were doing. But if you knew what you were doing, then you’d also know you can’t stay underwater. It’s not just how much air—it’s the other reason. At any serious pressure, they’d get wonky.
James knew what it felt like. It’s a little like being drunk or stoned—except it isn’t. It’s the rapture of the deep. And if you succumb to it, you become a statistic of the deep. No, you have to focus. You have to concentrate on every single task. Each specific task, one careful moment after the next.
James focused. He took his next three breaths and passed the mouthpiece back to the boy. Options. He had to consider the options. They weren’t good. But they were options. That was more than most people had—especially the ones now floating limp in the darkness. There were so many of them, and they couldn’t escape them, could they? They were a silent gauntlet, guarding any exit.
In the chaos of the moment, James hadn’t considered the panic, the terror, of those caught in the water, unable to escape, those last few desperate moments of grasping for possibility, gasping for air, choking on their own last screams of denial and rage.
James knew what it was like to drown. It had been one of the worst parts of his training. He’d never understood the necessity of the exercise—being pushed into that near-death moment—at least, not until afterward when he’d been painfully pulled out of the tank, choking and gasping and coughing up water, not until the medic checked his heart and listened to his lungs and nodded to the trainer. Not until the trainer had looked him straight in the eyes and said, “Now do you understand what you’ll be dealing with when you try to rescue a drowning man?”
And James had somehow managed to get the words out, “Was that fucking necessary?”
“I hope to fucking God it never is. But if it saves one life—yours—then, yeah.” The trainer added, “Given a choice, I’d rather lose the idiot. His funeral I don’t have to go to.”
James had made up his mind, there and then, never to repeat the experience. Not voluntarily. And definitely not involuntarily!
That had a lot to do with his relationship with Hu, as well. That first day, in the tank at Paramount, he’d been watching this beautiful young man with multiple overlays of awareness. At first, he’d thought him just a gangling teenager, then he realized not only was Hu older than he looked, but also how inexperienced he himself was at gauging ages, especially the ages of Asian men. He just didn’t have enough history.
For a moment, he’d wondered if Hu were… what’s a good word? Accessible? An interesting question, not one he usually considered, and not one he intended to pursue here. It was only a passing thought, quickly pushed aside by the necessities of the job.
Once in the tank, once the plastic and Styrofoam flotsam had been added, once the wind machines had been turned on and the mechanically produced waves had started churning, it became obvious—to James at least—that Hu did not have a lot of experience with this particular kind of stunt work. And even though plastic and Styrofoam looks and feels lightweight—if enough of it piles up against you, or on top of you, it can rapidly become an impenetrable mass. You can drown just as easily as if it were the real thing.
So James had watched Hu. He watched all the people in the water, but he watched Hu especially—because the beautiful young man wasn’t watching out for himself, not the way a more experienced stunt player would have.
James hadn’t waited for anyone to call “cut!” The rule was simple. Don’t worry about ruining the shot. Get out of the way of the bus. Dodge the falling rocks. Don’t get bitten by the mechanical dinosaur head. Don’t. Get. Injured. Especially don’t get killed. That costs money. It shuts the production down for two or three days. And it pisses off producers.
Rule Number One: Getting killed can ruin your whole day.
So James had dived into the tank, swum under the prop flotsam, grabbed Hu, and pulled him off to the side. He hadn’t been thinking of anything more than just getting the poor dumb schmuck out of danger. It wasn’t until later, over lunch, that he’d realized what an amazing smile shone on Hu Son’s face.
And even then, he hesitated. He’d been burned enough in the relationship fire. He wasn’t that eager to put his hand back into the flames—or any other part of his anatomy. But one thing led to another anyway—and now he had a ring on his finger.
It was an unfamiliar sensation. Hu’s life was the other half of his now. His responsibility. And not just Hu. Three other lives were depending on his expertise.
So. Options. They could head up the nearest stairwell, head for the surface. Except, where was the surface? Right now, Wilshire was under water. James didn’t know exactly how much, but it had to be a lot of fast-moving water. Ten mph, twenty mph, it didn’t matter. It would be like stepping into a hurricane, except they’d be weightless with no footing. The waters would carry them away like balloons in a storm.