At the bottom of the stairs was a door with a heavy latch. I pushed it open and stepped through. My breath caught.
An underground cavern stretched out before us. It was a tunnel carved through rock, tall enough for a train and wide enough for two. Electric lights ran along the ceiling, bathing everything in white. On one side of the tunnel, iron tracks glinted. On the other side, set back against the wall, sat a small train—just one engine cabin and a single passenger car behind it, both painted military green. It looked like something out of a war movie.
"Whoa," the class monitor whispered.
The sight calmed us. The air was still and cool. The chaos above might as well have been on another planet. I turned to the others. "Get on. Quick."
We climbed aboard. The interior was clean but spartan: rows of benches, metal handrails, emergency supplies in wire cages. The boys took seats automatically, huddling together. My brother sat near the front, eyes wide, clutching his lunchbox with white knuckles. I went to the front cabin. The driver's seat was empty. A simple control panel faced the window. There were two buttons and a lever.
I took a breath. "Here goes nothing," I muttered. I pressed the door button. The passenger door slid shut with a hiss. I pressed the green button. The lights on the dashboard glowed, and I heard the whine of an electric motor. I pulled the lever forward. The train lurched, then began to glide along the tracks.
For ten minutes, the only sounds were the hum of the engine and the clack of wheels. The tunnel curved gently, sometimes tilting up or down. The lights ahead created a sense of endless forward motion. No one spoke. I looked back occasionally to check on the boys. They were silent, staring ahead, holding each other's hands.
Then, one of them sniffled. Another wiped at his eyes. The tension broke. In the safety of the underground train, away from the roar of monsters and the crash of collapsing walls, the emotions they had held back flooded out. Tears streamed down cheeks. Small bodies shook with sobs. They cried for their school, their teacher, the unknown fate of their friends. They cried for relief and fear all at once.
My own throat tightened. I looked forward and let myself cry too, silently, my hands clenched on the lever. I didn't know where this track led. I only knew we were still moving, still alive.
The tunnel ahead stretched on, lit and empty, promising safety or something else entirely.