Chapter One: No Choo Choo For You

By the time I see her, the day’s already gone sideways. She just ain’t realized it yet.

The lady in blue ran screaming down the platform, hollering like the train owes her rent. "HOLD THE DOOR!" she yells, just as the uptown D pulls out, too late to save her morning. Ain’t nobody ever held the door for me, and this metal beast ain’t about to start with her.

I watch her miss it. Whole body tight with frustration, she glares at the conductor like she could set him on fire with her eyes alone. He’s a marshmallow of a man wearing a navy blue skully leaning slightly out the train’s cab window. She flips him the bird with both hands—tense little fireworks of defiance. Pretty performance. Won’t change nothing.

She don’t see me yet. Most folks don’t, not right away. Just another piece of broken scenery. A wrinkle in the bench. An odor you step around.

But I see her. Right down to the way she carries disappointment like it’s a purse she can’t return. She mutters to herself—words I’ve heard in a thousand variations: “Late, again. Useless. Fucking. Asshole.” Her anger coats the air like thick smoke.

I chuckle. Can’t help it. Sometimes I laugh because it’s funny. Sometimes because it’s already too late. This time, I laugh ‘cause I know what’s coming.

“No choo-choo for you. Lucky girl, lucky girl,” I sing, quiet like a whisper under the floorboards. She turns, pissed like I slapped her pride.

“What did you say?”

I look just above her head, where the shadow hangs—slick and slow and waiting. Been watching her all morning, that shadow. Been watching me longer.

“No choo-choo for you,” I repeat, slow like honey through a crack. “You’re lucky.”

She don’t get it. Not yet. Thinks I’m mocking her. She unloads on me—curse words sharp as switchblades, pain wrapped in spitfire. I take it like I’ve taken beatings before: quiet. That anger ain’t for me. It’s for the world that lied to her. I just happened to catch the splashback.

“You didn’t want to be on that train anyway,” I tell her.

She don’t listen. They never do at first. I move my things, slow and steady. Don’t need much. Never did. I make sure I’m six feet from her. She thinks it’s to give her space. It ain’t. It’s to stay clear when the screaming starts. And sure enough, it comes.

Her phone lights up making sure she’s distracted. Her world shakes and she don’t even see the signs—literal signs blinking overhead. Broken words. Glitches in the system. The buzz of things trying to speak. She talks on that phone like it’s gonna save her. She thinks someone up there’s still got control.They don’t.

The train arrives. Not the one she missed. The one meant for her. And I see it in her eyes when it pulls in, that freeze. The old ones used to call it "the knowing." Comes a second before the world goes sideways.

She don’t step forward right away. She sees the bodies inside—pressed tight, suffocating, panicked. I see the blood she sees. I see the fear they feel. I see what she don’t see, too. The thin layer of something else behind their eyes. When the doors open, I start humming again.

“No choo, no choo. No choo-choo for you.”

She don’t heed me. Still think this is about a job. About being late. Bless her heart.Then chaos hits. 

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Anya exhaled and bit her tongue, annoyed and slightly embarrassed at how her morning was panning out. It’s not common for her to lose her cool in public, even less for her to actively yell at strangers sleeping on the subway platform. She began to fidget, feeling increasingly unsettled at the look on this strange man’s face. Something about his gaze disturbed her. His clay-dry skin. His matted hair curled like an elephant’s trunk. The way he continued to stare through her.

“You didn’t want to be on that train, anyway. The next one is in three minutes. Maybe you’ll be lucky again.”

He paused for a moment, waiting for a reply. Receiving nothing more than a poorly concealed look of disgust and dismissal, the man stretched forward and collected the clothes, plastic bags and debris that surrounded him in one sweeping motion and sauntered over to the next bench, several feet away. His gaze never shifted from the place above Anya’s crown.  

Anya sighed in defeat and pulled out her cell phone. 8:57 AM. She really was in trouble if she thought she could get to work and be presentation ready in under an hour. A presentation that she only just mentally completed in the shower that morning. She sighed again and calculated  how much a taxi would cost from downtown Brooklyn into the city. In peak, morning rush hour? Way too much. Fuck. With a surge of frantic energy, Anya grappled with her cell phone and typed out a two-line email to her senior designer. 

Running late train fucked me today – start the meeting without me. I’ll b there soon, good luck. Anya.  

Before she can even register the szoosh of the sent message, her phone comes alive in her hands blasting Frank Ocean’s Wise Man. For a moment, she thought she heard the homeless man humming along but quickly put him – and his weirdness – out of her mind as she answered the call. 

“Imani, hi – I’m in the train station so my service is pretty shitty. Did you get my email?” 

“Anya you need to get here right now! Like literally right now! There’s people here looking for you. They’re in uniform and I don’t know how to answer their questions and they have a LOT of questions and I think I told them something wrong and it’s just–”

“Okay, okay, Mani,” Anya interrupts, “Breathe, slow down. They’re just clients. Sounds like they’re early and a bit eager. Nothing you haven’t dealt with before. I’m going to be late, but you can handle it. You’re my right hand – that’s why you’ve been following me around, doing everything that I do for the last three years.” 

Imani was a shy, yet exceedingly capable architectural  designer that Anya had found on Twitter of all places. About a month after Anya had decided that her first venture in Corporate America would be her last, she did what every burnt out, broke, “there is no ethical consumption under capitalism” 20-something living in a big city decides to do and started her own company. Spatial and experimental design, something that after almost five years she still can’t explain to her mother. Imani was her first hire. One of the first decisions Anya had ever really made for herself and she did it on an impulse, or maybe it was instinct – she was still figuring that out. A decision which proved more than fruitful over the years. Good help was hard to find, so when Anya struck it big and landed a 7 year contract with a major real estate developer in New York City she brought Imani along with her. Sometimes, though she just wished the girl would get over her imposter syndrome and get the work done.   

“No, no, no. Listen to me, Anya. You don’t understand, they just came in and I —” Imani stammers.

“Imani, please. You know just as much about this project as I do and you’re more than ready. Plus I’m only gonna be like ten minutes late if these Uber prices wanna be nice to me.” 

Anya glanced up at the screen monitor hanging from the ceiling. The digital words were cut off, but she managed to make out the words flashing on the screen. D Train - Bedford Park, Arriving. Soon after, Anya felt the familiar rumbling of the incoming train and shielded her eyes against the warning of its headlights.

With an explosion of speed and power, the train was rushing past her on the tracks and Anya made a move forward to position herself directly in front of its metal doors. She froze, immediately; her breath caught in her throat as her eyes quickly followed each passing car. 

Behind the windows of the train, all Anya could see were the bodies–packed and pressed and loaded all on top of the other. As the train decelerated, the images continued to flash quickly and more visibly before her. One man’s cheek was pressed painfully up against the windowside. Another man struggled to protect his head from its continued pounding against the glass. A mother held her newborn baby above her head, like a tribal woman carrying home the village water. A teenage kid was seen clutching her dog so tightly it struggled in her grip. Was that blood splattered on one of the windows?  Shocked into disbelief, Anya stood watching the scene before her until the train artlessly rolled to a lurching stop.

“Oh shit. Imani I got to go. I’ve never seen a train packed this bad in my life. Something’s going on.” Against Imani’s continued protest, Anya hung up the phone and prepared herself for the onslaught that was sure to come. 

“No choo, no choo! No choo choo for you!” 

The homeless man had started up his chant again. This time his words seemed to echo throughout the empty station, serving as a stark reminder that they wouldn’t be alone for too much longer. Anya cut him a warning look. To her surprise and pleasure, he shrunk away and reduced his song to a whisper. 

Anya turned her attention back to the chaos ahead of her. She, like every New Yorker, knew the golden rule of letting everyone off the train before entering – but there was no time to waste on being polite. Her job was on the line and if she didn’t get to the office in 20 minutes flat, she feared poor Imani might stress herself to death. 

As the train doors stopped directly in front of Anya and, without meaning to, she locked eyes with one of the pass, no tie. Like all the rest, he was stuffed impossibly tight within the car to the point of immobility. His eyes were filled with a carnal fear, one that she had never seen on a human before. With a great effort, the man twitched his head left then right. NO. Before Anya could blink, she heard the quintessential Bing engers. An older man, maybe mid-fifties and dressed in the usual uniform of the Financial District – open blazer, dress shirtBong of the train's doors opening. 

A near deafening roar followed as men, women, and animals alike forced their way from their confines and onto the freedom of the train platform. Anya never stood a chance. The finance man that had tried to warn her was thrown face forward into the rock of the train platform with a sickening crunch. The sea of frantic New Yorkers poured out onto the platform, climbing over each other to reach the exit. It was all Anya could do to stay on her feet. She lost sight of the man, his body swallowed up by the Dr. Martens, Timberlands, and Nikes that rushed unforgivingly past. The noise was too disorienting, the confusion too great. 

Desperate gasps and terrified screams filled her eardrums, as Anya struggled to make sense of what was happening. She threw her arms before her in a pitiful attempt at defense, but the crowd was too much for her. She felt herself swept off her feet, floating amongst the scared, sweaty bodies. 

“What the hell is going on?!” she yelled. “Why is everyone freaking out? What the fuck?!”

If anyone replied to her, she couldn’t hear it over the symphony of sheer panic. Run! Move bitch! I gotta get out! Where’s my ma?! She heard strangers calling to their friends, abandoned babies crying for their guardians, curses, slurs, and even a few ‘I’ll kill yous’, all shouted with a manic passion. 

Suddenly, Anya’s head exploded as an elbow jabbed her in the temple, throwing her off balance. A thick warmth began to spread and roll down her face. Anya blinked away the blood and struggled to find her footing.  She felt like she was moving in slow motion through a sea of sweaty bodies, her head a swampy fog. The last thought Anya had before her head hit the floor was of something Imani had said. What did she mean they were in uniforms? 

፨ - ፨ - ፨

Lucky girl, lucky girl! Take my hand. 

The words broke through Anya’s mind like an ice pick and she was conscious before she opened her eyes. Silence. No dogs barking, no babies crying, no sounds of trampled bones. Had it all been a dream? Some fucked up, close-eyed day dream? But Anya knew, even as lay there on the cooling, sticky subway floor, that death lay with her. Her eyes squinted opened and she was shocked to discover she had been shoved across and down the train platform, more than 10 feet from where we once stood. As she fully came to, she noticed how her body dangled dangerously over the side of the platform and she scrambled to right herself. With a deep, steadying breath Anya surveyed the scene before her. 

Across from her, the uptown D train sat low on the track. Its windows were cracked and the lights flickered, ominously.  Anya shuddered at the memory of all those people, packed in like cattle. Clawing over each other, killing each other to get out. If only someone would wake up and tell her what the hell happened to them. The signs of chaos and rampage showed all around her. The benches had been torn from their bolts and the digital MTA screens were crushed beyond recognition. There were carts and strollers scattered over the floor. Abandoned bags and shoes littered the stair cases as if the owner could not be bothered to collect them. It looked as if a tornado had flown through leaving only debris and the memory of people in its wake. 

Although the mob was gone, the train platform was far from empty. Anya saw a littering of bodies, all motionless and still. She counted quickly – five bodies in the train, 2 by the stairs, three on the far side of the platform. Oh God. Please be unconscious. As she looked closely, Anya was relieved to see chests rising all around her. If she didn’t know any better, she would have thought a group of weirdos were merely camping out in the station. She opened her mouth to call out to them, but no sound came. 

Lucky girl, we ain’t got the time! Get up! 

Again, the words were not spoken through the air, but she heard them nonetheless. Her head snapped to the right, not so much following the sound but the feeling. At the far end of the platform—so small it looked like a vision—she saw the familiar curve of the elephant trunk. The homeless man. How had he made it through? How had she, for that matter? Before she could open her mouth again to ask, the platform lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then plunged into an eerie, buzzing darkness.

The sound came first: a metallic screech that rattled the concrete and tile above. Anya jumped to her feet, her heart leaping into her throat as the station trembled like a cornered animal. Sparks sprayed from the ceiling above her head and with a screeching grind, a jet black horn burst through into the underground. Anya was transfixed, too confused by what her eyes were showing her to move. The horn rippled and opened, revealing four prong-like fingers each several feet long. Anya felt a powerful vibration throughout her body as she craned her neck to stare into the black hole that formed. Then came the flash—green and brilliant and bright enough to sting—followed by a sound that wasn’t a sound at all but a pressure. The air itself was groaning. And out of the sky, they dropped.

Dozens of them. Their shapes slithered like liquid shadows over the walls and floor, growing tall and thin one second, then crouching low with spider-like legs the next. Light peeled away from their edges, like the subway itself rejected their existence.

In a second, that felt like hours, the leftover bodies that once slept animated in unison. They jolted once, as if struck by lightning before moving to sit up and orient themselves.  Anya looked on in horror as they blinked the confusion from their eyes, only for it to be replaced by terror at what took place above. A shriek pierced the air as one of the creatures lunged at a man waking up near the exit. It struck fast—almost too fast to see—wrapping itself around him like a living net. The man’s scream curdled to a choking whimper. The creature released him with a wet pop and he crumpled to the floor, skinless and raw.

Panic erupted. The few remaining stragglers on the platform half crawled, half ran, pushing toward the stairwells—only to find them blocked. Metal gates dropped, slamming shut like prison bars.

“What’s happening?” Anya whispered, backing up until her heels hit the edge of the platform. Her phone buzzed uselessly in her pocket; she didn’t dare look. She has eyes only for the shadows. For the creatures hunting.

“You don’t want to be here,” the homeless man muttered. He had appeared suddenly crawling below her from a trap door hidden on the side of the tracks. He was gazing up with such an intensity in his eyes that Anya gasped and jumped back. His voice was different now. Stronger. Sharper. 

“Come on, girl. Move.” He was already on his feet, gathering his things into a tattered satchel with practiced speed. Anya stared at him, stunned. He seemed—suddenly—bigger. The slouch was gone. His clay-cracked face had tightened with purpose.

The creatures skittered closer. One of them tilted its head—or what might have been a head—toward Anya. She felt it see her. Cold recognition curled around her bones.

“What… what do we do?” she choked out. The man didn’t hesitate. He grabbed her arm, his grip iron-clad, and yanked her toward the tunnel mouth. “We go down. It’s the only way.”

“Into the tracks? Are you crazy?!”

“Lady, you can trust me or them.” He jerked his head back at the creatures closing in. The choice was obvious. With her pulse pounding, Anya let herself be pulled off the platform and onto the grimy tracks. Sparks popped from the third rail, giving the air a stench of burnt metal and ozone.

“This is insane—insane!” she muttered as the two of them plunged into the tunnel’s darkness. Behind them, the screeches of the creatures echoed louder. They were following.

“Keep moving!” The man barked, his voice carrying a strange authority. He was no longer this mumbling vagabond that repulsed her. He moved like someone who knew where he was going. Someone who’d done this before.

“Who are you?” Anya demanded between breaths.

“A relic,” he said flatly. “But you’ll call me Eli.”

“Eli? What is happening right now? What were those things?”

“Aliens,” he said simply, as though it explained everything. “We call them Shadow Settlers. Been waiting for their kind to come back. Guess today’s the day.” 

፨ - ፨ - ፨

She sees me now. Really sees me. My loc like a curled horn. My face still dirty, still cracked—but stronger. She knows I ain’t just some mumbling bench prophet anymore. The lights flicker. That’s the cue.

10 seconds later, They come.

I don’t flinch when the black horn punches through the ceiling. I’ve seen it before. I saw it in ‘95 in Brownsville. I saw it in Detroit when the snow turned green. Nobody believed me then. Said the shelter food was messing with my mind. But I know what I know.

They come like smoke with bones. Shadows that slither like sin. They eat light. They eat memory. I call ‘em Shadow Settlers. They don’t just take your body. They take what makes you you. She sees one now. The way it wraps around a man. Leaves behind something raw and leaking. That’s when she finally asks:

“What do we do?”

I grab her.

“We go down,” I say.

She protests. They always do.

“You can trust me or trust them.”

She chooses right.

We hit the tracks, my world now. Not hers. Not yet.

“This is insane,” she mutters.

“No. This is truth,” I correct.

She asks who I am.

“A relic,” I tell her. “But you’ll call me Eli.”

Truth is, I’m what’s left when the city forgets itself. I’m what slips through the cracks. What remembers. Been living between signals. Beneath stairs. Below notice. And all that time, I’ve been watching the tunnels. Keeping one eye open. Waiting for them to return. They’re back now. And this time, I ain’t watching. This time, I’m leading.

፨ - ፨ - ፨

As they plunged deeper into the tunnel, Anya’s thoughts raced. The image of the finance man flashed before her eyes and she shut them just as quickly as the crunch of his head hitting the pavement invaded her ears. She had seen so many people due. And those things. She wasn’t sure she even had the ability to comprehend them. Never had she seen anything move with such calculated speed and detachment. And the way they leeched the flesh off those poor people. Anya shook the thoughts from her head; she would cry for them later. Right now, she was being led through the underground by a man who looked—and smelled—like he hadn’t seen a shower in years. A man who claimed aliens were attacking New York. A man who might just be the city’s last line of defense.

And for some reason—God help her—she believed him.