Julian Vance stood firm on the top stair-tread of Coach #404.
He held his brass fare-shovel horizontal across the doorway, level with his hip. The polished blade caught the amber glow of the step-well safety lamp.
Two inches behind his boots lay the yellow thermoplastic standee line.
Down on the wet asphalt, Harlan Reed was on his knees. The courier dragged his right arm, whimpering in pain as cold river wind whipped down the ambulance apron.
Behind Reed, beneath the rusted green skids of Biohazard Dumpster Number 4, the darkness began to move.
Thin, ink-black tendrils slid out from the drainage grate. The shadows peeled upward like wet tissue paper, licking at the heels of Reed’s boots.
“They’re coming out!” Reed shrieked, scrambling backward on his elbows. “The seams are unzipping! Look at the ground!”
“Rule 1 is in effect, Reed,” Julian said, his voice flat and steady. “No passenger crosses the yellow line without paying the tariff.”
