The beam of Andrew's flashlight cut a clean path through the dark as he stepped forward, boots sounding dull and controlled against the concrete floor. The service passage swallowed the light instead of reflecting it, the walls painted once in some pale industrial color that had long since faded beneath grime, dust, and the slow creep of moisture stains. Whatever emergency lighting the corridor had once possessed was dead now, leaving the team's handheld beams as the only living light in a place that felt sealed off from the world.
At the front, Andrew led with Soap and Gaz flanking just behind him on either side.
They moved with the quiet confidence of men who were no strangers to confined spaces, their lights angled with deliberate care so the beams overlapped without blinding one another. Andrew's hatchet rested low but ready in his grip, his shoulders relaxed yet poised, posture balanced for either stillness or sudden motion. Soap kept his knife tight to his body, elbow tucked and profile narrow, while Gaz swept his light in slow, disciplined arcs that skimmed across the floor, wall seams, pipe brackets, and ceiling joints—anywhere something could be waiting unseen.
Behind them came the two Rangers assigned to point support, followed by three more Rangers holding staggered spacing. The drone operators stayed squarely in the center of the column where they were most protected, both clutching their equipment cases close, their breathing measured, the memory of grabbing hands and snapping teeth still evident in the tightness of their shoulders. The remaining Rangers filled the rear, with Price and Ghost naturally settling into positions that covered the back trail and any blind angles the corridor's tight geometry created.
The passage was narrow enough that no one could walk shoulder-to-shoulder. Exposed conduit lines ran along the right wall in clipped brackets, bundled cables tagged with strips of labeling tape that had curled and yellowed with age. On the opposite side, maintenance panels appeared every several yards, each secured by thick screws and marked with stenciled numbers softened by dust but still readable if someone cared to look closely. Overhead, occasional pipe runs forced the taller men to dip their heads slightly as they passed beneath, helmet shells whispering faintly against concrete.
The air felt different here than in the tunnels.
Heavier. Staler. Trapped.
It carried none of the open draft the rail lines had allowed. Instead it pressed inward from all sides, thick with the mineral scent of old cement and the faint metallic trace that lingered in places.
Their footsteps echoed once, twice, then died quickly, swallowed by the tight corridor. Every sound seemed briefly magnified before vanishing—the subtle shift of gear straps, the quiet brush of fabric against armor plates, the faint rasp of a glove tightening around a knife handle. No one spoke. Conversation would have felt out of place here, like noise in a tomb.
Soap's beam slid across a faded arrow painted along the wall ahead. The symbol pointed forward, its edges cracked with age, and beneath it faint block letters read MAINTENANCE ACCESS POINT. A few paces later, Gaz's light passed over a rusted junction box hanging slightly ajar, a few exposed wires visible inside like veins beneath torn skin. He slowed half a step to check it, then continued when nothing stirred.
Water dripped somewhere deeper in the passage.
Slow. Hollow. Irregular.
Soap lifted a hand briefly, signaling a slight reduction in pace as the corridor narrowed where structural supports pressed inward. The column adjusted instantly, spacing tightening, beams lowering, each movement flowing through the formation without a word needing to be spoken.
Andrew studied the walls as they advanced, noting stains left behind by years of maintenance—dark smears where oil had once splashed, chalk markings half erased by time, old boot prints fossilized in dust. The corridor carried the stillness of a place abandoned.
As they were approaching a corner Andrew raised a fist.
The formation stopped as one.
Soap and Gaz froze beside and just behind him, lights steady but unmoving. Behind them, the column locked into a silence so complete it felt practiced, every man holding position without shift or scrape.
Andrew tilted his head slightly, listening for any sounds that would be out of place.
There was nothing.
After a few seconds, he lowered his hand.
The line resumed its slow advance, lights carving narrow paths through the darkness as they pressed deeper into the passage, step by deliberate step.
···
As they continued to move forward, Andrew sensed the change in the corridor before he consciously registered why. The passage looked almost identical to the stretch they had been moving through for the last several minutes—same narrow concrete walls, same bundled conduit lines clipped in brackets, same powder-fine dust coating the floor like undisturbed ash. Yet something in the atmosphere had shifted, a subtle tightening that pressed against instinct rather than sight or sound.
Something feels off.
He slowed his pace without signaling, and the adjustment rippled through the formation immediately. Soap and Gaz shortened their steps beside him, their flashlights dipping lower so the beams skimmed rather than pierced the darkness. Behind them, the Rangers closed spacing around the drone operators, tightening the protective center without needing to be told.
Andrew's light slid along the right wall and caught a dark streak that was obscured by a support pilon. It ran across the concrete at about waist height, a wide smear whose edges had dried into thin flakes. The mark stretched several feet before tapering into finger trails that looked like they'd been dragged by someone losing strength. It wasn't splatter from an impact. It was contact, deliberate and desperate, the kind left by a hand searching for balance while blood loss made the world tilt.
He didn't stop moving, but his voice dropped into a controlled murmur. "Careful now."
The warning passed back through the column in silence without the need for clarification.
A few steps farther on, more signs emerged under their lights. A crushed plastic medical case lay near the base of the wall, its lid bowed inward as if someone had stepped on it in panic. The faded red cross printed on top was still visible through grime. Nearby, a shattered glass vial glittered faintly on the floor, its contents long since dried into a chalky residue. Torn gauze wrappers littered the ground in irregular patches, some ground into the dust by boots that had moved too fast to care what they were stepping on.
Gaz's beam drifted across a dark corner where a medic's shoulder bag rested several feet from the wall. It lay on its side, half open, straps twisted, the contents clearly rummaged through in haste. A snapped syringe barrel and a bent pair of trauma shears lay nearby, both abandoned where they'd fallen.
They continued forward at the same slow pace, boots landing with deliberate softness. The corridor curved gently left ahead, and as they rounded it the next detail came into view, a heavy steel door set into the wall. Industrial grade, thick hinges, reinforced seams. The kind designed to seal off sections of infrastructure during emergencies.
And it was closed, with every inch of its surface was marked.
Dark handprints overlapped across the metal in layered smears—palms, fingertips, partial grips dragged downward. Some prints were sharp enough to show individual fingers. Others were blurred into streaks where blood-slick hands had slid instead of pressed. One long trail ran from shoulder height almost to the floor, thinning as it went, as if the person who'd made it had collapsed before reaching the handle.
Wyatt's voice came low, barely louder than breath. "They tried to get in."
The locking bar was still fully set. Whoever had been inside hadn't opened it.
Andrew studied the door for only a moment before giving a small forward motion with two fingers. The team resumed, stepping past the silent testimony without touching it. The air grew heavier the farther they advanced, forcing them to put back on their gasmasks, the filters of their masks barely dulling the faintly sweet rot that lingered here more strongly than in the tunnels. Decay that settled into the concrete and was trapped in still air for weeks.
The corridor widened slightly ahead, opening into a shallow junction where another service spur branched off toward the next station. Andrew's light reached that space first, and the beam touched shapes that hadn't been visible before.
He stopped.
Everyone stopped.
Roughly twenty feet ahead, several figures occupied the widened section of corridor. Some were upright. Others were slumped against the wall or folded where they'd collapsed. Reflective safety stripes dulled by grime caught the light first, followed by the pale blue of paramedic uniforms and the darker work clothes of transit staff. They were positioned irregularly, as if they'd simply dropped wherever their strength had failed them. One body sat on the floor with its back to the wall and its chin sunk against its chest. Another leaned sideways with its shoulder pressed into concrete, arms hanging loose between its knees. Two more stood near the edge of the beam, swaying faintly with slow, unbalanced shifts that had no rhythm or awareness behind them.
Soap's voice slipped out quietly beside Andrew, restrained but certain. "There they are."
One of the standing figures reacted, its head tilting several degrees toward the sound. The movement was slow and stiff, a wet rasp slipped from its throat as its heel dragged against the floor and its posture adjusted. The others didn't react yet, but the stillness around them no longer felt empty. It felt as if the corridor itself were holding its breath.
Andrew lowered his flashlight slightly so the beam no longer struck them head-on, reducing the chance of drawing attention too soon. His grip tightened on the hatchet, knuckles firm but controlled. Behind him the formation had gone perfectly still, every Ranger poised, every light disciplined, every breath measured through filtered masks.
Just beyond those figures lay the exit into the next station.
Andrew did not rush the decision. He watched the figures ahead for several seconds, noting how many there are. There were two standing, swayed with the loose imbalance. Three slumped along the wall, which had not reacted yet.
He raised two fingers slightly, then angled them forward.
Silent takedown.
The signal moved down the column like a current. Soap and Gaz adjusted their grips at once, knives settling into reverse holds suited for close work. Behind them, the Rangers mirrored the shift, hatchets lowered, blades angled tight to their bodies to prevent accidental contact with the walls. No one spoke. Even the drone operators seemed to stop breathing for a moment.
Andrew stepped first.
His boots rolled heel to toe without sound, each placement deliberate. Soap paced with him on the left, Gaz on the right, the three of them forming a shallow wedge as they advanced. The nearest walker—the one leaning against the wall, remained motionless, its chin still resting against its chest. Up close, the beam of Andrew's lowered flashlight revealed a transit badge clipped to its vest and the dried lattice of old blood around its collar. Its eyes were open but empty, fixed on nothing.
Andrew moved in close enough to smell it through the filter.
One quick motion.
His hand shot forward, hatchet rising and falling in a short, efficient arc. The blade punched through the skull just above the temple with a dull, compact sound. The body twitched once, then sagged sideways and settled against the wall again, this time without even the illusion of life.
At the same moment, Soap stepped into the reach of the nearest standing walker. It turned toward him sluggishly, jaw working as if it were trying to remember how to bite. Soap's knife flashed once in a tight upward thrust beneath the chin. The blade slid into the brain, and he withdrew it just as smoothly, guiding the corpse down by the shoulder so it wouldn't collapse loudly.
Gaz handled the next one. His strike was angled and precise, slipping through the side of it's head with practiced efficiency. He twisted slightly before pulling the knife free, ensuring the brain stem was destroyed. The walker folded where it stood, knees buckling before its body slumped quietly onto the concrete.
Behind them, the Rangers moved in synchronized pairs.
Wyatt and Novak took the leftmost slumped figure. Wyatt pinned its shoulder to the wall while Novak drove her hatchet downward into the crown of its skull. The impact produced a soft, wet crack that echoed only a few inches before dying in the stale air. Reyes and Hale handled another, Reyes distracting it with a faint tap of his boot while Hale stepped in from the blind side and buried his blade to the hilt.
Each kill was controlled. Economical. Almost clinical.
Within seconds, the small cluster was reduced to still shapes on the floor and against the wall, no longer even pretending to be alive. The entire exchange had taken less than half a minute.
Andrew remained where he was for a beat, listening.
No sound of movement came from deeper in the corridor. No surge of distant footsteps. No rising chorus of groans. Just the same thick silence pressing in from all sides.
He gave a small nod.
"Clear," he murmured.
Behind him, a few shoulders loosened fractionally.
Gaz wiped his blade once on a dead sleeve before sliding it back into a ready grip. "If they all go down that easy," he whispered, "we might actually be in luck."
Soap tilted his head slightly, scanning the darkness beyond the junction. "Aye," he said quietly. "Which means we probably aren't."
A faint huff of agreement came from one of the Rangers at the rear.
Andrew stepped past the bodies, beam sweeping ahead again, checking corners, seams, shadowed recesses. The passage beyond stretched toward the station access point, its walls marked with more faint stains and old emergency symbols barely visible under grime and dried blood.
He lifted his hand once more, signaling the formation to move.
The exit revealed itself just several feet from where the walkers were clustered.
The corridor ended in a recessed alcove carved into the concrete. Set into that recess stood a heavy steel door, industrial and utilitarian, its surface scarred by age, scratches, and old impact dents. Most of its original safety-yellow paint had peeled away over the years, leaving a patchwork of dull metal and rust-stained edges, the color lingering only in thin flakes around the hinges and along the lower panel.
A rectangular placard was bolted at eye level.
STATION ACCESS – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
The door's push bar ran horizontally across the center, solid steel rather than plastic, the kind meant to survive decades of use. Dust clung thick along its top edge, but parts of it had been smeared clean long ago by frantic hands.
The hinges looked intact, the latch didn't looked forced. But before checking if it's locked, Andrew turned to group, gloved hand rested against the cold steel push bar as he looked over the lenses of his mask at the men gathered behind him. "Everyone ready?" he asked quietly. Several helmets dipped in silent confirmation. He gave a short nod. "Alright. Watch your surroundings, and avoid making any noise. If you see or notice something, give a tap on the shoulder. Let's not attract more attention than we already have." His gaze shifted briefly toward the front of the stack. "Me, Soap, and Gaz, we'll scout ahead."
Neither of the two objected. Soap simply adjusted his grip on his knife, while Gaz angled his flashlight down so its beam wouldn't spill under the doorframe the moment it opened.
Andrew pressed the bar.
The latch clicked with a dull mechanical thud that sounded louder than it should have in the tight space. He eased the door forward slowly, controlling the movement so the hinges wouldn't groan. The seal broke with a faint, sticky pull, like rubber separating after sitting too long undisturbed. A thin seam of darkness opened first—then widened as the heavy door swung inward.
It opened into the station's lower service level.
The space beyond wasn't the main platform, but a maintenance access corridor that ran parallel to it, separated from the tracks by a concrete support wall ribbed with structural columns. The ceiling hung lower here, crisscrossed with conduit trays, sprinkler piping, and cable bundles that cast tangled shadows in the dim spill of light from Andrew's flashlight. To the right, the corridor stretched into gloom, its tiled floor coated in dust and tracked footprints that had long since dried into faint gray ghosts. To the left, a short stretch led toward a narrow short stairwell opening that climbed up at a steep angle, an employee access route that likely surfaced somewhere along the platform or near a staff-only door.
Faded directional stencils were still visible along the wall, arrows pointing toward PLATFORM ACCESS, their lettering cracked and flaking with age. A dented janitorial cart sat abandoned near the base of the stairs, one wheel twisted sideways, a yellow mop bucket tipped over beside it. Whatever water it once held had evaporated weeks ago, leaving only a chalky mineral outline on the tile.
The air that drifted in from the station side felt different from the passage behind them. It wasn't fresher, exactly, but it carried space with it.
Andrew stepped just past the threshold and lowered into a partial crouch, scanning left first, then right, flashlight beam tight and controlled. Soap slipped out after him, keeping close to the wall, while Gaz followed last, angling his light toward the ceiling so it reflected softly instead of cutting a bright tunnel through the dark.
For a few seconds none of them moved.
They listened.
Somewhere far off in the station's unseen depths, something shifted with a faint, dragging sound.
It wasn't close, but that didn't make it any more comforting.
Andrew slowly approached the stairwell and held his position at the base of it, head tilted slightly as he measured the sound's direction and distance. But faded as quickly as it had come, dissolving back into the vast stillness of the station until only the soft hum of their own breathing remained. He waited another beat, making certain nothing followed, then gave a small forward motion with two fingers.
Soap acknowledged with a slight nod and shifted first, boots landing carefully as he moved toward the stairs. Gaz followed half a step behind, his light angled low so it washed across each step before they touched it. The rest of the team slipped through the corridor entrance behind them in disciplined silence, each man and woman spacing themselves instinctively, blades kept ready, beams controlled and deliberate.
The stairwell rose sharply, narrow enough that they had to climb single file. The concrete steps were worn smooth at their centers and darkened along the edges where dirt had gathered in thin lines. Overhead, pipes ran low enough that Soap dipped his head automatically while ascending, his shoulder brushing lightly against the wall. No one rushed. Each footfall was placed with care, weight distributed slowly to keep the structure from carrying sound upward into whatever might be waiting above.
At the top, the stairwell ended in a small service landing that opened into a maintenance-side section running along the platform's rear wall. Andrew stepped off the last stair and paused, sweeping his flashlight across the space in a tight arc.
A metal staff-only door stood a few feet away, flush with the tiled wall. Its institutional gray paint was dulled with grime, but the eye was drawn immediately to the marks on it. Dried handprints streaked across the surface at different heights, some smeared downward as if whoever left them had been slipping, or weakening, or pounding with failing strength. One print near the push bar was sharply defined, the outline of fingers preserved in dark crusted brown.
Near the door, a trash bin lay overturned on its side. Its contents spilled across the tile in a scattered fan. Several dark stains marked the floor nearby. Even in the dim light it was obvious what they were, dried blood, long oxidized into a dull rust color. One patch had pooled thickly before drying, its edges cracked and flaked like old paint.
Andrew's beam moved past it and out toward the platform beyond the maintenance partition. The light skimmed along tiled flooring, the base of structural columns, the edge of a bench bolted to the ground. Nothing moved within its reach.
Soap leaned slightly toward Gaz, voice barely audible through his mask. "Clear so far."
Gaz didn't answer aloud. He simply gave a small nod, eyes scanning the darker spaces beyond the beam's edge.
Behind them, the rest of the team finished filtering off the stairs and into position, forming a silent staggered line along the wall. No one spoke. No one shifted more than necessary.
The platform looked empty, and somehow that made it feel wrong.
Andrew gave a subtle forward motion with his hand, and the formation began to move.
They stepped onto the platform proper, boots rolling heel-to-toe in practiced silence. Their lights moved in controlled arcs, never lingering too long in one place, never crossing beams long enough to blind each other. The station opened around them in shadowed stillness, wide compared to the tight passage they had just left, yet it somehow felt more suffocating. Space meant angles. Angles meant blind spots.
Trash littered the tiled floor in irregular trails as if scattered by hurried hands or frantic searching. Torn backpacks lay half-unzipped, their contents spilled and trampled flat. A child's sneaker rested on its side near the platform edge, laces stiff with dried grime. Crushed drink cups, food wrappers, broken plastic containers, and scraps of clothing formed a silent record of panic and desperation. Between the debris, dark stains streaked across the tiles in smeared arcs and partial footprints where blood had once been tracked through before drying into dull brown shadows.
One of the Rangers swept his flashlight across a vending machine standing against a pillar.
The beam caught jagged metal first.
The front panel had been forced open, pried back so violently it hung crooked on its hinges. Inside, the spiraled racks were empty, stripped bare down to the last slot.
Dust beginning coating the interior shelves, undisturbed for some time now.
"Someone cleaned it out," Novak murmured quietly.
Her voice didn't echo far. The station seemed to swallow sound before it could travel.
A few feet away from the machine, two bodies lay sprawled on the floor.
Andrew's light shifted toward them automatically, the rest of the beams following a half-second later as the formation tightened. The corpses were desiccated but not ancient, clothing still somewhat intact, limbs positioned in unnatural angles that spoke of collapse rather than anything else. The tops of their skulls had been crushed inward with decisive force. Dried blood radiated outward from each head in dark halos, thickest near the wounds, thinner where it had run into the tile grout lines.
Price stepped out from the formation and crouched beside them, movements calm and economical. He studied the fractures, the collapse pattern of bone, then shifted his gaze to the floor around them. Several partial shoe prints overlapped nearby, preserved in old dust and faint residue. Some prints were sharp. Others were smudged where someone had pivoted or changed direction quickly.
He remained still for several seconds, taking it in.
When he spoke, his voice was low but certain. "I'd say this happened a few days ago."
The words settled over the group.
Someone behind Andrew inhaled sharply. "There are people still alive down here?"
The question carried disbelief more than hope.
From farther back in the line, another voice answered in a hushed tone, "It's not impossible."
Price rose to his feet again, eyes already moving past the bodies and back into the station's dim expanse. His grip tightened slightly on his knife, posture steady but alert.
"Stay sharp," he said in a low, steady tone, eyes still scanning the shadows of the station. "We can't let our guard down."
No one said anything.
Tightening their grips on their weapons, they continued their advance into the station.