"They're coming back around," shouted the Lieutenant from his field telephone. "Astor Place reports a squadron headed over the East River."

"Fuck," said Camille. "Does Stuyvesant Company have a shot?"

"We can't get to anyone East of Park Avenue, Ma'am," replied the Lieutenant.

The skylights suddenly went dark in syncopated patterns. A warbling peal followed, cutting through the empty corridors of the subway. And then, like the beat of a heart, the air began to pull out. A rush of cold underground air went skywards past the soldiers, whipping up litter as it passed by.

"No..." began Camille.

The air blew back down the stairs, hot, smoky, smelling of rotting flesh. The men of Canal Station began to retch. Some donned their respirators. The burned man started to scream from his stretcher.

"You," said Camille, pointing to a medic,"get that man to shut up and get two more to carry him".

"Yes, Ma'am," replied the soldier.

"As for the rest of this station!" Camille shouted, barely audible above the din of dragons circling overhead,"They know we are in the tunnels. We are to fall back to City Hall Station. Take Broadway."

The guards and radio operators from the upper level barreled down the stairs like their lives depended on it. The infantrymen, some still shell-shocked from the previous night's raid, were slower to abandon their relative safety.

The skylights shattered, raining onto the platform along a storm of bluish flame. It was her.