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Your last few footsteps echo slightly as you reach the bottom of the subway stairs.
None of your movements sound as loud as they used to now that vines have taken refuge in every crack and crevice of the underground, muffling the noise. They weave through the benches and choke the pillars. Warm lights flicker gently overhead.
They’re not the cool blues and greens that used to glare down from above. They feel more like the grow lights you would get for indoor plants that don't have access to sunlight. They might as well be- there’s no sun down here either. It’s humid, too. The air is thick with vapor that has nowhere to escape to and the sound of droplets falling from the ceiling adds to the ambience.
You walk carefully, and with reverence, as if you’re afraid to disturb the peace that has settled in this place since it was reclaimed by nature. As you approach the train, all corroded and oxidized, its friendly yellow accents cracking and duller than they must have been on its maiden voyage, you look down at the tracks.
They’re hard to see through the depth of water that fills the tunnel, nearly reaching the ledge you're standing on. It crosses your mind that the wheels of the train have surely corroded and fused to the track after all these years. Even if it had the power to run, it wouldn't stir from its post.
When you crouch down and cautiously slip your hand into the water, it isn’t as cold as you expected. A goldfish comes up to bump your fingers before hurrying away and weaving through the water weeds. There are lilypads drifting across the water’s surface, and you can even hear a frog croaking out of sight.
Rising back up to your feet, you make your way to the subway train door.
It’s open, beckoning you with its shiny plastic seats and inviting greenery. Bracing your hand against the door frame, fingers lacing through the vines that border the entrance, you step into the chamber. Before you released your hold on the trailing plants, you could’ve sworn you felt a near-imperceptible movement, before you hastily talked yourself out of such an absurd notion.
From the center of the car, you can see to your left and right seemingly endless tunnels of chairs and poles and windows. Their man-made symmetry contrasts with the multitude of all manner of flora that have made a home here, roots intertwined with the very wires that used to operate this machine, coiled within the deepest parts of its inner workings.
Proceeding down the left tunnel, your eyes trace across the rows of chairs until you’re halted by the sight of a single seat that is devoid of plant life.
You stare at it, blinking slowly, as if waiting for an invitation that does not arrive.
Slowly, tentatively, you sit down, taking a moment to position yourself comfortably. It almost feels like there is a weight which sinks into your very being- not like a burden, but rather, an anchor.
Glancing to your side, your eyes catch on a warm green leaf with spiked edges fading to red. Without hesitation, you pluck it off of the vine and hold it up to your face. You twist the leaf around in your fingers by its stem, studying the thin veins that run through it, branching off in different directions and tapering at the ends. You take in its prominent crimson serrations, jutting out of the sides like needles, and you watch in petrified horror as the leaf’s color dulls and it dries up before your eyes.
The shriveled leaf falls from your trembling hand to the ground and an overwhelming feeling of dread overtakes your senses. When you attempt to jump out of the seat, however, you find that you are secured in place by vines.
They snake around your arms and legs, your throat, your chest. Tight enough to cut off your circulation.
Your heartbeat sounds like a ticking time bomb in the suffocatingly quiet atmosphere as you try to wrench your limbs away with a desperation you didn’t think you possessed. Heavy breathing fills the train car before it is muffled by more vines wrapping over your mouth.
With every new vine that further constricts your movement, you are drained of your will to fight as quickly as it came, as if the plants are sapping it directly from your body.
Thick, dark vines cloak your vision until all you can see is black, until they are the only thing left for you to perceive.
The agony lasts only seconds more, head throbbing and limbs numb, before your consciousness is entirely seeped away.
This has been traffic.