bearing down on me—and my palms are slick with sweat. I do what he says.
I jump.
My hands hit the concrete platform edge, and my whole body—even my face—slams against the wall with a thud so painful it’s almost blinding, and then the heat from the train is singeing my back as it pulls into the station and screeches to a stop.
Next to me, Barclay presses himself straight up. I try to imitate him, but I just don’t have the strength, and the train is too close to me, restricting my movement. My fingers feel slippery, and the fact that there’s nothing below me except sky makes the arches of my feet start to cramp.
I don’t want to die this way.
But Barclay is there, grabbing my arms and pulling me up.
Once my knees hit the cement, I scramble to my feet.
Another train is pulling into the station. It’s headed in the opposite direction, and it’s at least a hundred yards away. And I know the new plan before he even says anything.
Barclay grabs my arm. “We have to get on that train!”
We run.
All around us, I can hear people yelling. The IA agents are shouting orders. They know what we’re going to do and they’re trying to get to the platform and its train before us. The ordinary people trying to go to work scream when they’re caught off guard by the sheer amount of guns and excitement.
My whole body hurts. My ankles sting in pain every time one of my feet hits the ground, my shoulder and back throb from where the bullets are lodged in my vest, and my lungs feel like they’re ready to burst because I’m not getting enough air.
Heart pounding with the same furious rhythm as my legs, I narrow my focus on the open train doors. Like I’m in a tunnel, leading only to those doors, I block everyone else out. Getting there in time is the only option.
I push harder, move my legs faster, and when we’re about ten feet away and the bell sounds to signify the doors are about to shut, I hold my breath.
Barclay reaches the train just before I do, as the doors are sliding shut. His hand pushes against one of the doors, leaving a six-inch gap and giving me an extra second.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Chuckles coming down the stairs to this platform, several agents behind him.
The bell sounds again, and the doors push against Barclay.
I throw myself into the train and collide with Barclay, throwing both of us into the back wall. A metal pole runs into my shoulder, and I groan at the pain because that’s definitely going to leave a bruise.
The doors are closed. I release the breath I was holding, and suddenly I feel dizzy with relief. Barclay smiles at me, pulling me to my feet, and we stare at each other, breathing heavily.
Then I see Chuckles.
He’s barely ten feet away, running toward us at full speed and screaming at someone—probably the conductor of the train. If the doors open again, he’ll be able to get on. I turn and grab Barclay’s arm, trying to pull him toward the next door. If Chuckles gets on the train, we can get off. But Barclay stands his ground, smiles, and gives Chuckles the finger.
And the train starts to move.
00:17:31:25
Barclay’s face is flushed from running, and I can’t help it, I throw my arms around him. Because we made it. We’re still alive.
Barclay hugs me back, his arms tight, pressing me into his chest. I know he feels it too.
“Ben and Cecily?” I ask, pulling away.
“He believes them,” he says. “He’s asking a couple questions now, but . . .”
He doesn’t need to say anything else. The weight of this conspiracy has just been lifted off our shoulders, because it’s over now. We’ll portal back to the hospital, gather up the Unwilling, wait for IA, and then we’ll be able to go home.
We’ve won.
It’s enough to make me come undone. My eyes sting, my shoulders droop, and my body starts to quiver. I’m so relieved that all I can do is cry.
“Good plan, Tenner,” he says, but then I see his smile falter.
For a second I wonder if someone’s behind me, if one of the agents managed to make it on the train. If we’re not really safe.
But Barclay raises a hand to his earpiece, and I realize it’s something else.
It’s something happening with Ben.
“What is it?” I say as I lean