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next.”
    â€œCrap.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNothing. I think we were over here earlier. We were heading the other way. To Union Square.”
    â€œLong ways from there, now.”
    Sam just grunts in reply.
    Eventually we come to a spot where a bunch of tunnels run side by side. There’s a train that looks like it must have stalled out or jumped off a track. Whatever happened, it’s abandoned. And dry.
    â€œLet’s rest in there,” Sam suggests, and I don’t know that I’ve ever been so happy to get on a train before.
    We lay John out on one of the benches and then just stand there catching our breath. My whole body is tense. My arms and legs shake from overuse. The drumming in my head is getting worse.
    â€œWell,” Sam says finally. “We should probably let him rest for a little while.”
    I move my phone’s flashlight to Sam’s face like I’m in some kind of cop show. He winces, raising a hand toblock the light.
    â€œI guess it’s just us,” I say, dropping my duffel bag to the floor of the train. “And I’ve got lots of questions for you, Sam the Martian.”

CHAPTER NINE
    IT TURNS OUT SAM’S NOT AN ALIEN.
    John Smith, though . . . he’s a different story.
    â€œSo . . . ,” I say, trying to wrap my head around everything Sam has said. “He really is a good alien.”
    â€œI just told you everything I know about him,” Sam says. “If you’re not convinced that he hasn’t been tainted by the dark side yet, I don’t think you ever will be.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you guys tell everyone about all this sooner? Recorded some better commercials maybe. Put on, like, a protest or something.”
    Sam turns to me, squinting his eyes.
    â€œDo you really think a protest would have stopped them?”
    â€œNo, but at least we woulda been prepared for this shit. We could have nuked them in space or something.”
    He shakes his head. “You were listening when I saidsome of the government is in on this, right?”
    â€œDamn,” I mutter. “Guess you got a point.”
    We’re a few subway cars away from where we left John sleeping like a rock. Benny used to pass out that hard sometimes—though it was always from too many beers—and would be completely immovable until morning. I’m guessing John’s not waking up anytime soon either. As weak as my body feels, I can’t say I blame him.
    I carry a knockoff Prada purse slung over my shoulder. Sam’s got a tote that says “Music Is My Bag” on the side. Scavenging was Sam’s idea. He said it was in case we had to make a speedy exit and didn’t have another time to loot the train, but I think he was just hungry—which, after having hurled earlier and spending most of my night running, I totally understand. Luckily for us, whatever happened to this train caused a lot of people to leave their shit behind. I’ve already found some meal bars, little hundred-calorie packs of cookies and even a few bottles of water. Not to mention a couple of phones—which is great, because my battery is dead. No luck on finding a mobile charger or something yet. Not that I’d get any signal all the way down here, even if the network was up.
    â€œYou’re heading down to Wall Street, right?” Sam asks. He’s on his hands and knees fishing a plastic bag out from under one of the seats.
    â€œYeah,” I say. “That’s where my mom works. Shewaits tables. Sometimes bartends. The restaurant’s nice as hell. Lots of rich bankers.”
    â€œThat’s cool.”
    â€œI guess.”
    He stands back up and looks at me all serious-like.
    â€œDo you have any idea . . . ?”
    He trails off, but I know what he’s getting at.
    â€œShe called me when it all started,” I say. “Told me to go home. Then there was some kind of . . .” I struggle with the word.