Twenty tons of cast iron made a very convincing dead end.
Marcus “Mac” Cole leaned against the sill of the front cab window in Car #1, his steel prosthetic arm resting on the cold brass brake housing. The twin high-beam headlights cut through the swirling subterranean mist, illuminating the dark wall of Bulkhead Gate #96-B.
The gate was a massive slab of ribbed cast iron, four inches thick and reinforced with diagonal manganese steel cross-braces. It had dropped flush into a granite trench cut across the track bed, sealing the circular tunnel bore from rail to crown. Chipped white paint along the header displayed the faded municipal stencil:
BULKHEAD GATE #96-B CIVIC QUARANTINE PERIMETER -- OCTOBER 21, 1996 ALL TRANSIT TRAFFIC TERMINATED BY ORDER OF EMERGENCY RECEIVERSHIP
The front anti-climber bumper of Car #1 sat sixty inches from the rusted iron face of the gate. Black, oily bilge water leaking from the harbor bedrock thirty feet above lapped against the steel wheels.
“The hydraulic gate dropped from the ceiling,” Mac growled, pointing through the glass with his five-hole brass punch. “Silt tripped a remote release from the station. The counterweights are buried inside the tunnel walls.”
Julian Vance stepped into the cramped cab, his boots crunching on safety glass. He peered through the front windshield, shining his 365nm UV inspection pen along the wet masonry of the right-hand tunnel wall.
