The Romero Strain by TS Alan

Grand Central,” I demanded.
    “No. I signed a confidentiality agreement with the City not to reveal anything about the City’s infrastructure.”
    “Then get the hell outta my sight before I really decide to shoot you!”
    I walked away from him, searching for a passage or doorway that would lead me to the Lexington Avenue Line. There had to be a passage somewhere, since we were at Park Avenue South.
    I rode this line quite often and knew its history.
    The IRT was the first subway company in New York City . The East Side of Manhattan was comprised of portions of several different subway construction contracts. Construction of our part of the system began in 1900 and opened in 1904. Two deep rock subway tunnels from 33 rd Street to 41 st Street, nearly a half-mile in length, had also been constructed. Grand Central Station opened in 1918 and was the first station along the line from Brooklyn Bridge.
    Since we had traveled west along the most northern tunnel, the exit should be on the northern wall. The cross passage doorways, located every fifty feet between tunnel tubes, were plainly evident though the doors probably hadn’t been used since the beginning of the century. I just hoped the construction entrance through the subway system was not an urban legend.
    I was exhausted and my head was beginning to truly pound. Marisol noticed my distress.
    “Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”
    “Just a headache. Just need some ibuprofen,” I tried to assure her, as I took off my pack. “You and Max go ahead, but not too far.” I handed her Max’s leash.
    I took my medication, took a few deep breaths, and pressed forward. When I caught up to Marisol, she was looking at an old entry. It wasn’t an urban myth after all.
    The door was caked in filth. It looked as if it hadn’t been used since the early 1900s. It was not a polished stainless steel door. It was not even a hinged entry. It was like the crossover doors, an old rolling steel door, reminiscent of those found on railroad boxcars, painted brown and showing signs of significant age. The rollers and guides that had once helped glide the door open were rusted and corroded. There was rust rot along the edges of the door, especially along the bottom. But it had to be the correct door, for the dirty tunnel wall plaque read 33 rd Street Exit . And a grime covered aluminum sign attached to the door at eye level read Emergency Evacuation Exit. Authorized Personnel Only . What truly thrilled me was the inscription toward the bottom of the door: Messrs. Arthur McMullen and Olaf Hoff MCMVI. I was looking at a piece of history that most New Yorkers’ probably never knew existed. As I started to brush filth off the lettering, I smiled and said, “1906.”
    “1906?” Marisol questioned.
    “The year the door was made,” I informed her. “This is something few people will ever see. A true piece of New York history.”
    I pulled on the handle, hoping it would simply slide open, but it wouldn’t budge. I braced my feet against the tunnel floor and pulled as hard as I could. I could feel all the muscles in my body contract. My footing slipped and my body began to cramp. I could pull at the door no longer. I released it, bent over, put my hands above my knees, and tried to catch my breath.
    “Son of a bitch,” I exclaimed, gasping for air. “Marisol, do you remember if David or Julie packed that big pry bar or that hammer?”
    “I think David has it in his bag.”
    “Can you interrupt his conversation and tell him we found the way out? And that we need his tools to open the door.”
    “Sí.”
    Marisol left me, taking Max with her. I was going to try pulling on the door one more time, but I became lightheaded and beads of perspiration rolled down my forehead. I wasn’t sure if it was the sickness causing my weakness or the large amount of Jack Daniel’s I had consumed, but I needed to sit down. I propped myself up against the tunnel wall to the right of the