Ascending the Boneyard by C. G. Watson Page A

back in the atrium and safely on the platform, where I yank the phone out of my back pocket and slide it open.
    The world beneath will weep blood.
    I look up. The atrium has gotten hot. Melt-my-bones hot.
    Sweet Jesus. I’m sweating, Haze is sweating; even the walls are sweating.
    The walls. Are sweating.
    Not water.
    Not condensation.
    Blood.

10
    The deep blast of a honking subway train nearly shoots me out of my own skin. I haven’t even had time to process the dark red ooze dripping down the walls of the catacombs, but Haze and I spin around, and there, not ten feet away, is a shrunken-down version of a subway car.
    And it’s waiting. For us.
    â€œWhat the hell is this?” Haze says. “It said on your app they haven’t run trains on these tracks in over a hundred—”
    â€œJust get in.” I push him through the open door of the car and scramble in behind him.
    So it wasn’t the tunnels—it was never meant to be the tunnels. It was the actual subway: this is our on-ramp. The mission hasn’t even started yet.
    Within seconds, we’re moving, our pint-sized train car negotiating through the tight-cornered tracks like an amusement-park ride. Ages-old brass chandeliers flicker as we pass by, eerily illuminating the tunnel walls until they’re just how I remember the Boneyard to look.
    â€œYo, Tosh.”
    I follow the trajectory of Haze’s shaky finger.
    The thick humidity that’s strong-armed its way into the subway car by now is still dripping in bloodred rivulets down the tiled walls of the station tunnels.
    â€œThat’s dire, man,” he says, and I feel a stab of guilt. He can’t even begin to conceptualize what we’re sitting in the middle of.
    The air around us is dense, heavy with the smell of wet cement and garbage. A metallic tang leeches off the walls of the subway car, burns my lungs every time I inhale.
    My vision goes into soft focus, drifts mothlike through the car. I shouldn’t be too pissed at the commandos for not keeping in better communication. Chat windows won’t be secure. Texting is the only method they can use, and it’s not very convenient. Still, I have to remember, they’re getting me where I need to go. I just have to remain vigilant. Turk and his army are clearly lying in wait. Watching. Listening.
    Outside the window, the shimmering skyline blinks in and out of view. A cast-off glow of neon-yellow streetlights illuminates my reflection in the glass and then too easily disappears. I feel the void in the center of my chest, the ache of being there one second and gone the next. If I don’t fix things, everything I know could blink out of view that way. For good this time.
    The train takes a sharp dip, dragging my stomach down with it, and suddenly we’re underground again. With sweat-slick fingers, I pop in an earbud so I don’t have to hear the screech of the subway tracks. Still, I keep a close eye out the window, hoping for some hint of where we’re headed, since no one seems too keen on telling me.
    â€œTosh?” I hear Haze whisper.
    He’s pressed so flat against the window it’s almost funny—until I turn to see what he’s on about.
    The bricks of the tunnel zip by us faster and faster, like a scene out of one of those sci-fi movies where the spaceship hits warp speed and the stars turn into blurred lines that shoot out behind it.
    â€œWhat the—” But before he can finish the thought, he drops off the grid again. Narcoleptic Haze, succumbing to blissful slumber.
    I close my eyes too, wishing I could lean my head back against the window and grab a quick nap. Not a good idea, unless I’m willing to sustain a third-degree concussion as the subway car caroms through the winding tunnels.
    Sometimes she’d take me with her on her drive-offs. We wouldn’t talk. I’d just lay my head against the window and let the vibration of the car soothe me.