Water in Shaft 37

“I don’t know.” Her voice was terrifyingly flat. “If he’s alive, I’ll hit him first and ask second.” After fifteen minutes, the tunnel opened into a dead transit concourse. Half the ceiling had collapsed. There was standing water on the floor. The air smelled of oil, mold, and something sharper, something burning. “This is wrong,” Daniel said, stopping short. “There shouldn’t be power here.” “There isn’t,” Marcus muttered. And yet several temporary lights were on in the center of the concourse. Under them sat tables, supply boxes, medication bins, and stacks of sign-in sheets. A dozen volunteers were sorting water and cooling cloths with practiced hands.