End of the Line

“Stand clear of the closing doors, please.”

A chime sounds, and the subway doors close. The mildly crowded train slowly pulls out of the underground station and picks up speed as it enters the dark tunnel.

Donna sits in a forward-facing seat, staring through the thick laminated glass window at travelers waiting for the local in the stations they pass. Between stations, her reflection flicks onto the glass, marred by the artistic etchings of King Boner and NotDed.

She shifts in her seat, the only sign of nerves for her date that evening, or perhaps it’s excitement, or merely discomfort from the hard plastic bucket seat. Donna exhales and settles in for the long trip.

The train travels downtown on its way to the outer boroughs. To the end of the line, Donna thinks. They inch into the express track of a long-closed station with crumbling tiles and outdated movie posters (“They’re waiting for you,” reads a tagline). A heap of refuse on the platform shudders and stills.

The train chunks slowly into the underwater tunnel connecting Manhattan and Brooklyn, its journey punctuated by occasional standstills. As they approach the next station, the subway jerks to a halt and the lights go out.

For a few beats, nothing happens. Donna lets her eyes adjust to the darkness and then turns to scan the car. Most of her fellow travelers had departed at some point, but she hears some low grumbles from the opposite end.

Two, ten, or thirty minutes pass. Through the window, Donna sees the erratic illumination of a headlamp on the tracks. Shortly after, a transit worker enters the car.

“Power’s out,” he says. “Gotta evacuate. Grab your stuff.” He flaps his right arm up and over his head.

Much louder grumbles, swears, and questions erupt from the passengers, but the connecting door is already closing behind the exiting transit worker.

Donna stands, picks up her tote, and checks the seat and floor around her. Nothing left behind. She shuffles with the other passengers into the next car, where additional transit workers hold battery-powered lanterns.

“Keep moving, keep moving,” an in-charge voice drones unnecessarily. They file through car after car, trying to get a signal on their phones and information from the workers, failing at both.

“I know as much as you,” a bored worker says to every person who passes as she waves them forward.

At the front of the train, emergency personnel escort travelers down the steps to track level and point the way forward to the station. Donna can just see the edge of the platform in the distance but chooses to focus on her footwork on the uneven terrain. Glad I wore sensible shoes tonight.

“You’re alright, you’re good, watch your step, head on up,” says a uniformed man in a reflective vest guiding people up a stepladder to the subway platform. “They say they’re gonna send shuttle buses, but I gotta be honest, it’s a mess up there. I don’t want to say you’re on your own, but you’re on your own. Keep coming, keep coming, be safe.”

Donna feels the crisp night air as she crams herself into the cage-like revolving door. It hits her like a shove when she steps in front of the stairs to the street, her hair instantly aloft and in her eyes, mouth. She grasps the handrail and ascends, shouldering through the gaggle of displaced passengers huddled at the top.

She glances around the unfamiliar area, looking for a landmark or street sign, and sees that the blackout extends far beyond the immediate area. The city skyline is all but erased. The only illumination emanates from a handful of emergency lights and phone screens. Donna checks hers; it’s SOS only. That rules out a rideshare, she thinks.

She hears a kerfuffle down the street to her left; two people are holding the right rear door handle of a taxi, claiming ownership. The driver pops out and tells them both to get in, and four others rush over from the curb and attempt to enter the vehicle.

Donna retrieves a small flashlight from her bag and walks purposefully away from the herd. She might have more luck finding a cab on a main thoroughfare, or at least fewer people to wrestle for one.

The city is different without power. The darkness is strange, alien, of course, but the quiet is perhaps more unnerving. Not silence—not ever—but the absence of the underlying hum of the place. The rumble of subways below ground, the ticks and groans of aged air conditioners, the electronic voices that tell you it’s safe to cross the street. Donna listens hard for signs that the power, the city, has returned.

“You lost, hon?”

A professionally dressed woman is walking next to her, matching Donna’s swift strides. Eyes forward, Donna says, “I’m fine.”

“Of course you are.” It’s too dark to make out features, but the woman’s eyes and teeth appear to glow. “Well watch yourself. Blackouts bring the crazies out.” The woman abruptly veers off toward the street and vanishes from view.

A chill wind blows from behind her, and Donna smells the wet pavement before she feels a drop. But she does, she feels many of them. Lightning zigzags through the sky, and … there’s the resounding boom. It’s a downpour, and Donna ducks under an awning. She pulls a bus map from her tote, studying it with the flashlight tucked under her chin. The map is a child’s scribble of lines, colors, numbers, and letters, but Donna spent part of the afternoon planning her alternate routes.

As if on cue, a bus meanders up the street toward the mid-block stop. Donna steps forward and raises her hand to signal the driver.

Despite the blackout, despite the weather, the bus is sparsely occupied. Donna finds a window seat near the back door. The seat back in front of her has a drawing of a skull biting a distraught stick figure’s hand.

Without traffic lights, the streets are chaotic, but most vehicles adhere to the you-go-I-go doctrine at intersections.

“What a night, eh?” says a disheveled man in the seat in front of her. Donna nods. “Makes you wonder if it’s worth it, being out on a night like this.”

The man coughs, coughs again, and then he’s hacking. Donna pulls a clean tissue from her bag and hands it to the man, who nods his thanks. She places a gentle hand on his shoulder and the man inhales, raggedly but deeply.

Before long Donna arrives at her transfer point, where her Queens-bound bus is waiting.

This one is standing room only. Donna chooses a spot, places her feet hip-width apart, and grasps the hanging strap with her right hand, bringing her bag close to her body.

The rain has stopped, and there’s a party-like atmosphere on the street. People cluster around a pizzeria with a backup generator, getting free slices and listening to songs about dancing in the dark. Donna sways along with the movement of the bus. An aproned man stands in front of a bakery handing out long loaves in white paper to exhausted commuters, who bite into the crispy bread without missing a step.

On the next street, a man seated in a folding chair on the corner with a cardboard box and a cooler switches his sale sign from $10 umbrellas to $10 bottles of water. A pair of pedestrians call him a ghoul and some other choice things as they trudge past him.

Donna exits the bus at a stop in front of a florist and across the street from a gated park. The bus pulls away from the curb, revealing a male figure standing casually in the street, his hands in his pockets.

“Donna! You made it,” he says, his eyes and smile glowing under his hood.

“Xan,” Donna says with a slight nod.

“I thought for sure the blackout would slow you down, but you’re a resourceful one. Oh well. There’s no point to it now.” He brings his hands up near his shoulder and performs two crisp claps.

With a palpable surge, the city’s lights, hums, buzzes, and beeps resume, cautiously at first and then confidently, with attitude, maybe annoyance.

“You’re too late anyway,” Xan says. “You can’t stop it. But I am ever so glad you’ll be here to see the Revenants rise tonight.” He sweeps his arms theatrically in the direction of the cemetery behind him.

“You think I’m here to stop it?” Donna asks. “I have no intention of stopping it. But you’re right about one thing. I’ll be here to see it.”

Xan’s smile falters, just for a moment. “You can’t—"

“Did you really think the Quorum would allow you to claim this power for yourself? You’ve stepped way out of line, Xan. And I’m bringing you back in. Make this easy, OK?”

Xan plants his feet, clenches his fists at his sides, and quietly murmurs an incantation. Dark clouds rapidly coalesce overhead.

Donna rolls her eyes. “Have it your way,” she says. She brings her thumb and middle finger to her mouth and releases a high-pitched whistle.

Two figures emerge from the flower shop, intoning their own enchantments, and walk around opposite ends of the bus shelter. Donna joins the chant and the three spellcasters converge on Xan, who is no match for their combined power. There is a burst of light, and Xan is gone. The clouds above scatter into wisps and vanish.

Donna enters the florist shop and returns with bouquets of lilies and roses. She hands one to the professionally dressed woman and another to the disheveled man and says, “Let’s go raise the dead.”