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The hidey-hole's normal purpose in life is as a maintenance cluster, where the VIMbots go to recharge, happy and humming. We have to boot some of them out to make space for us – it's not like they don't have work to do with the mess outside – and even then, we're both sitting hunched with our knees up.

When it gets too cramped and boring, I send Twitch (real name Eddie, he tells me) out to scout, half hoping he won't come back. But he crawls back in a few minutes later, so I have to fold my knees up again to accommodate him. Just when the pins and needles were wearing off.

'Well?'

'I didn't. I was–' The little shit can't even look at me.

'You're hopeless, Eddie.' I scoot past him on my butt, only to have a VIMbot zoom in the flapdoor and ram full-throttle into my shin. 'Fuck!'

I chuck the VIMbot out of the cluster and drop down out after it into one of the toilet stalls, nudging the door open cautiously with my boot. The bot is already fully recovered. By the time I nip a glance around the edge of the men's room door, it's already skittered away.

The station is deserted, although there is a droning coming from somewhere near the entrance. There are no trains running, at least not here, but there's a dull sound that could be rumbling in tunnels further away. The space is eerie without people. Déjà vu city. I'm almost expecting to hear a rusty gurgle.

The surfaces are coated with a damp beaded film, like the walls have been sweating. I know I'm already infected, but can you blame me for not wanting to touch anything or prolong the exposure?

There is a human bundle collapsed on the stairs, which I have every intention of ignoring. I touch my hand to my gun, even though it's only loaded with chemdye. I'm still trying to figure out whether it's better to head down to the tunnels, try and find a service exit or just, fuck it, go out the front, when there is the squeal of tackies on wet marble behind me. I tighten my grip on the .44, but it's only Twitch/Eddie, looking even paler and scared, oblivious to the squelch of his sneakers. I flap my hand at him and he gets it. He shifts to his toes, so that the rubber doesn't squeak so much.

He points at the bundle and whispers, cos speaking would be too loud in all this space, even if we were absolutely fucking totally positive that no one else was around. 'What's that?'

'Don't worry about it. It's nothing. Leave it.'

'Is she… dead?'

'How the fuck should I know? Just fucking leave it.'

'But what if it's–'

'It's not.'

'Oh.'

'C'mon.' And he pads after me, obedient as a puppy, up the far side of the stairs, far as possible from the bundle.

The murmuring is getting louder. 'Please be advised…'

'Hey, Buzzkill?' I cringe at the pre-assigned call sign.

'It's Toby. Okay? Just–'

'Toby?'

'I said, don't look. Ignore it.'

'Toby. She's moving.'

'I don't care.' But I look despite myself. And I don't know what I'm expecting, her face to be caved in, insides leaking out, even though they say this fucker doesn't work that fast. But who knows? Could be three hours or three months. They could have released the wrong fucking bug. For all I know, it could be the fucking flu and it's all a big psych. I look long enough to see that the pink sheen pooled underneath her body is not her liquefying interior but part of a slinky dress, long enough to see that it's not Ibis/Julia. 'Niks to do with us.'

'… is closed.'

'But–'

'Just shut the fuck up and just fucking leave it, okay!'

But it's like the gun all over again, the misfire in his brain.

'Toby?'

'I'll leave you here. I swear.' He shuts up for at least five seconds.

'More info?'

Then he says, sullenly, 'Your coat is still on.'

'Taxis are wait–'

'Thanks.' But as I touch the seam that deactivates the image capture, there's a snatch of green and silver reflected in my sleeve.

'Shit.'

'… transport you to Junction.'

Kendra-sweet is limp and unyielding when I yank her to her feet, my arm around