I looked back.

The flashlight beams were bouncing wildly against the wet bricks, growing brighter by the second.

Then, I saw a figure running toward me through the dark.

It was Vincent.

His coat was torn, and he was limping slightly, holding his side with his left hand.

“Out,” he panted as he reached me. “Get out.”

He shoved his shoulder against the iron grate, forcing it open wide enough for us to squeeze through.

We scrambled out into the wet weeds of the rail yard.

The cold rain hit my face, a welcome relief from the foul air of the tunnel.

The sky above New York was a dark, bruised purple, the city lights reflecting off the low clouds.

We were standing in a deep trench between two abandoned train tracks.

“This way,” Vincent muttered, his hand still clutching his side.

I looked down at his hand.

In the dim light of the distant streetlamps, I could see something dark and wet oozing between his fingers.

“You’re hurt,” I said.

“It is a scratch,” he said, his voice strained. “Keep moving.”