I'm limping. I try to step on the side of my foot, but it doesn't help. The wire in my left boot has pierced the leather and driven straight into my pinky toe. It's a sharp, rhythmic stab that forces me to bite my lip to keep from letting out a groan. The ground in Anhangabaú has changed. There's no longer any porosity in the asphalt; the plasma cannons vitrified everything. I'm walking on a gray blade, smooth and cold as glass. Breathe quietly, Pietro. Control the sound. I pass a support pillar where a compact car was cooked by the heat. The body melted and ran down the concrete, welding the wheels and chassis to the viaduct structure. It's a clean fusion, without explosion soot. The material simply lost its shape and became one with the cement. The sky is still green. That sickly hue weighs on my shoulders, an electric haze that erased São Paulo's blue six months ago. I draw in air and taste copper on my tongue. Oxygen ionized by the shots. My throat is dry, rough as sandpaper. I try to swallow saliva to ease it, but there's nothing there. My mouth isn't producing even saliva. I stop at the subway entrance. I close my eyes and, for one second, I'm back on the hills of Belo Horizonte. I see Miguel kicking a pebble and laughing. “Pietro, we're up high,” he used to say, with that Minas Gerais native's calm. “If the world ends, Minas is the last place they'll reach.” We thought altitude was a sacred shield. What a mistake. Here, Miguel learned to hate the sky. For the past few weeks, all he talked about was going down, digging. He said the concrete of São Bento was the only real armor. I open my eyes and stare into the station's dark hole. It's the only trail I have. I press the rifle against my chest. The metal is cold, even through the glove. On the first step, the trail. A red smear, bright and thick. Human blood, no doubt. I move forward with my heart pounding in my throat. The resistance's first-aid kit is lying up ahead, overturned. Gauze is scattered through the soot. I look at the loosened dressing and think of my mother. She would have been horrified by this filth. Someone tried to patch themselves up here, quickly, with trembling hands, before being dragged into the dark. Fear crawls up my spine like a spider. Easy. One step at a time. I plunge into the station's darkness. A few trembling lights are still blinking. The green outside disappears, and my vision turns to black static. The air down here is still, thick with the smell of ground concrete and a short circuit. Wiring that fried and never saw power again. My pinky toe hurts against the wire, but adrenaline is starting to shut down my body. My eyes feel their way through the emptiness until I see a rhythmic blue glow. Near the first-aid kit. It's the field radio. Its display pulses a faint blue, throwing shadows across the graffiti-covered marble pillars. But the radio isn't what stops me cold. On the ground, near the display, I see small footprints. Rubber sole treads, school sneakers. Children's steps. My throat closes completely. My heart hammers my ribs so hard it feels like the tunnel will echo. Breathe through your nose, slowly. Don't make a sound. My hands begin to shake, and I clamp them against the weapon's body. I'm not alone. Two meters from the radio, a crack from the side. Something breaking. I dive behind a fallen block of concrete. My injured shoulder hits the ground, and pain explodes, a coal of fire climbing up my neck. I hold my breath. I don't even let the air out. The emergency lights on the ceiling give one last sign, blinking a faint yellow, before dying for good. It was the second I needed. There, beneath the escalator's open space, I see the figure. Six feet tall. Red hair covered in dust. Miguel. But he's not alone. He's crushing two small bodies against his chest—a boy and a girl. They must be about nine. Their skin is pale, like paper. Miguel keeps his big hands over the children's mouths, pressing down with desperate force. He's begging them to stay silent with the weight of his own body. Our eyes meet. I see no relief in Miguel. His face is rigid, his jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles in his neck bulge beneath soot-stained skin. He doesn't relax. He only fixes his gaze on the dark corridor right behind me and narrows his eyes. I feel my blood go cold at once. The warning has been given. Breathe quietly, Pietro. Swallow hard. Don't make a sound. I feel the environment before I hear anything. The air temperature has risen, a strange stuffiness that makes sweat run cold along my ribs. The Grays are here. They sensed that the station's air had changed. The radio's blue glow on the ground keeps pulsing in the dust. From the darkness beyond the display, it emerges. It's tall, far taller than any man, with a thin silhouette that looks stretched to the limit of biological logic. Its skin isn't smooth; it has raised patterns, geometric designs reminiscent of scars or circuits. On its elongated face, a metal device covers its nostrils and emits a rhythmic, mechanical hiss. The respirator. They can't tolerate our pure oxygen. It moves with a fluidity that turns my stomach. I don't hear the impact of boots; it's a predatory glide. The Gray murmurs something, a sequence of clicks and hissing sounds. It's a language. That thing has logic, has a will. The radio crackled. Rodrigues's voice tore through the silence: —Unit Seven… Miguel… respond… The alien tilts its head. Its dark, empty eyes focus on the sound. It crouches, its long fingers reaching toward the blue light. I'm hunched behind the concrete block, the rifle glued to my chest. My hand is shaking so badly the metal knocks against my vest. I don't want to kill. But I have to kill now. I'm the kid who wanted to be on a road right now, eating pão de queijo and watching the sun. But the Gray is stretching its fingers toward the radio. Suddenly, the loudest sound I've ever heard explodes through the station. CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! Miguel let go of the children. He's standing, striking a support pillar with a rusty rebar rod. The sound reverberates through the tunnel like thunder. —Over here, you bastard! —Miguel's voice is pure hatred, coming out dry as sandpaper. —Look at me! The Gray stands. The respirator's hiss grows louder. It walks toward Miguel. Its hand reaches for a device at its waist. Adrenaline runs over my terror. I brace the stock against my shoulder, place the red dot on the alien's nape—right where the respirator connects to the spine—and pull the trigger. BANG. The shot in the tunnel is a violent punch to my eardrums. Its head disintegrates in a cloud of black fluid and shards of gray bone. The body pitches forward with a heavy thud. The silence that follows is worse. A vacuum of sound. I stand there, stunned. The smell of gunpowder mixes with the metallic, sweet odor of black blood beginning to snake across the floor of São Bento. I walk toward them on rubbery legs. I step over the corpse and feel the viscous spray on my face. I pull the boy up by the arm; Miguel grabs the girl. When I look at my black-stained hands, I can't look for long. —Let's go —I say, my voice trembling. —Before the others hear the noise.
The climb is a procession of silence and pain. And that pain grows when I see the eyes of those two children—empty. They're in shock. Afraid of the Grays and afraid of us, who just killed one of them right in front of them. I can't comfort them. I can't even comfort myself. The child in my arms grows heavier with every step, but I don't let go. She's the only solid thing left now. I check the time: an hour and a half. Thank God. We still had thirty minutes before we were declared dead. Miguel carries the girl beside me. Under the intermittent light of our flashlights, I see that the children are bandaged with a precision that surprises me. He used the resistance's medical kit to stop the cuts on the little ones. He really took care of them in the middle of that underground hell. —Pietro… —Miguel murmurs, his voice faltering as we climb. —Thank you. I knew you'd come. —You would've done the same for me, Miguel —I reply without looking back, focused on each step. —We always have. We cross the bronze doors of the Teatro Municipal with what little strength we have left. The support group surrounds us, taking the children to the velvet seats. We are led to the marble table. Rodrigues is standing with his arms crossed. Fernando only watches from the side, without taking his eyes off the map. —Report —Rodrigues orders. He looks at the bloodstains on me and the exhaustion on Miguel's face. Miguel takes a step forward. His red hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat and concrete dust. He takes a deep breath, trying to organize his words. —The Baleia explosion threw me clear —he begins, his voice gaining strength. —I was unconscious for a while. When I woke up, the world was white with dust and smoke. I saw the two siblings running desperately toward the subway stairs. They were hurt and alone, Rodrigues. I couldn't leave them there. Miguel looks at the children being treated and continues: —I went after them. They were hiding on the tracks, cornered. I started giving them first aid when I realized we weren't alone down there. I saw the Gray coming down the stairs. I tried to make contact over the radio to call for support, but with the children's panic and my hands shaking, the device slipped and hit the floor. The noise got its attention immediately. He looks at his own hands, still filthy with blood and dirt, and his voice drops. —I abandoned the radio and hid with them in the rubble beneath the stairs. It was ten minutes of prayer, Rodrigues. Ten minutes listening to that thing's respirator draw closer millimeter by millimeter. I prayed they wouldn't cry. Until Pietro showed up. And then what happened, happened. Rodrigues nods slowly. His face softens for a second beneath the yellow emergency light. —I'm glad everyone's safe. The report on Baleia's thermal breach will be useful to Fernando, but for now… —he uncrosses his arms and grimaces in disgust, bringing a hand to his nose. —Get out of here. Both of you. We look at each other, confused. —Go to the service area, use the water from the jugs, and take a shower —Rodrigues orders, shooing us away with a wave of his hand. —You can't stay within the same five-meter radius of each other. You stink of Gray blood mixed with feces. You're rotten. Go, before I change my mind and send you back to Anhangabaú just so I don't have to put up with that smell. It's green.