11
“This is so not going to work,” Tina says, for the fiftieth time.
We’re making our way through the abandoned subway tunnels that surround UWR. When New York City put in their subway, the uber-rich people like the Rockefellers didn’t want to use the same cars as the general population, so they built their own subway underneath the normal one, with stops directly under their own mansions and their most used destinations, like The Met. They’ve all been abandoned for a hundred years or more, and we’re surrounded by rotting opulence as Tina and I mark the path for our unlikely band of future escaped convicts.
What that really means is that I’m splashing sugar-laced blood all over fraying brocade and shattered crystals from fallen chandeliers.
“Are we done yet?” Tina asks, her hand coveri
