Ascending the Boneyard by C. G. Watson

domed roof is actually a series of skylights, with neon and moonbeams pouring down on us through the panes. There’s enough ambient light coming in through the once-blackened windows that we can see traces of long-ago grandeur in the tunnels—gilded brickwork, glass tiles, brass chandeliers.
    â€œHoly mother of . . .”
    The UnderWorld looks nothing like this on the crappy screen of the Relic. Maybe this isn’t even the UnderWorld. There are no burning wall sconces, no armed guards patrolling. The world below will weep with blood. I look up. Nope. Not even that.
    I pocket my earbuds so I can listen for sounds of an impending incursion—soldiers, minion raiders, anything to indicate that we’re at least on the right track.
    I squint to see down one of the tunnel arms, but it’s too dark to see anything beyond the dome. I’ve never experienced the tunnels from this vantage point—I’m all turned around, no longer sure of the code sequence. All I know is, if I take the tunnels in the wrong order, we’ll be the ones running back out onto the highway in flames.
    I stop. Turn.
    It’s the on-ramp, Elan had said . You have to take the right on-ramp or you’re gonna end up crashing into—
    â€œI knew it,” I say, tasting the rank air is it rushes into my open mouth. “One of these tunnels is definitely the way in. We have to figure out the sequence from inside. Bastard has me all twisted around.”
    Haze is so busy gawking at all the history, he probably doesn’t even hear me.
    I let my gaze drag down the sides of the walls to the other arms that feed into the atrium. As my vision adjusts, it reveals even more skylights stretching down the tubes at regular intervals. This is Russian roulette. I already wiped this level once before, so spectacularly I almost got kicked out of the Boneyard for good because of it. I need mappers. And some dps wouldn’t hurt either. Something tells me I’m gonna want to wreck some shit pretty soon.
    I close my eyes, strain my ears to superhuman, hoping for any small clue, signal, direction.
    I walk toward one of the tunnel openings, face the undiluted darkness. The old arms of the tracks seem closed off and stuffier than under the dome, by a hefty factor. Sweat dribbles down the sides of my face, trickles into my ears, fogs up my goggles; I can’t even imagine what it’s like for Haze in that knit cap and painter’s mask. If ever there was a time he’d want to let that shit go, you’d think it’d be now.
    I squint into the void. Is this the one? Getting it wrong could be lethal.
    I made that mistake before. Split decision. Wrong choice. Devin. Max damage. I need to fix it. I need to know if this is the beginning of the end.
    Or the end of it.
    The answer comes as a low rumble at first. But as the noise and movement gain momentum, the dimness of the tunnel shrinks in proportion, and suddenly I realize that all that separates me and Haze from an oncoming subway car is a few measly inches of wall space.
    â€œRun!” I scream. Which is a ridiculous thing to say, if you think about it. No one should ever have to tell you to run if a train is barreling down on you.
    Haze and I sprint our asses off as the sound and the heat and the shaking get louder, hotter, nearer. I have never run this hard or this fast in my life; in fact, I’ve never had to run for my life. Now would be the worst possible moment for a text to buzz through.
    I refuse to answer it. It’s either Turk, trying to distract me so I get flattened, or the commandos—and if it’s them, well, screw their lousy timing and their better-late-than-never—
    Hold up.
    I got a message earlier that I never looked at. What if that one was something like, Watch out for the subway car! and there it is, sitting unread in my back pocket as I get smashed on the abandoned tracks under City Hall?
    A sprint or two later, we’re