Miss Subways

by David Duchovny

It was one of those awful, mealy Red Delicious that looked like a jewel and tasted like waterlogged cardboard injected with stale fruit essence. Not much more of an apple than just a red, semi-edible thing.

She reached up and put her hand on the emergency brake. She’d never done that before. In New York you’d have to be pretty fucking sure some apocalyptic shit was going down before you pulled that thing—like a damn velociraptor on the loose would be the bare minimum reason.