Tunnel lights flowed around the tram. Nobody seemed to appreciate having a volunteer driver.
A cop and two of the more-intelligent riders thrust the non-volunteer passengers to the rear. The other cop tazed Bates on the back of his neck. His body spasmed, and the tram lurched ahead to the sound of screams. The cop swung his truncheon at the side of Bates’ neck, but he wasn’t there any more. He’d kicked out the emergency hatch and dived outside.
The tram stopped abruptly, its deadman pedal released. The cops followed Bates out the emergency hatch. But, encumbered with weapons and radios, they couldn’t catch up. Holding their pistols at eye level with both hands, they fired. The darkness took the shots and gave back a manic laugh.
A backup force rushed to where the line emerged on the surface. But they didn’t find anybody.
Later, a man with a burn on his neck paused under the Hooligan’s neon sign to hawk and spit. He looked at his hand.
An inflamed area surrounded the tiny wound.