text: The first explosion shook the underground train right off its track. I had just gathered my belongings and was waiting for others to get off at the end of the line stop before stepping out onto the platform myself. Through the shock and surprise, I stupidly thought that whatever had happened, at least it was at a moment when the doors of the train were open so nobody would be trapped inside. Those few passengers who waited to be last at least had shelter when the second blast went off. That one filled the stairwell with rubble, probably the remains of what had been the station above... the fate of the other passengers who had sprinted up the stairs unknown. Only six of us emerged from the broken train cars to try to gather our wits on the now filthy platform. Six total strangers, apparently trapped within the tiled walls that had probably served as shelter for many families during the London Blitz. No one spoke for several minutes. The silence was eventually broken by a mother in drab clothing, clutching a little boy to herself. "Is it terrorists? What happened? Stay close, Tommy." Tommy looked to be around nine years old. He kept trying to pull away from his mother and looked around with wide, blue eyes, naturally astonished at the turn his ordinary day out with his mother had taken. "Don't know, love, could be world war three." The South London accented remark came from a young man, perhaps twenty, with a punk look, dressed all in black and chains. His hair was shaved close to his head and something of the gaunt contours of his face suggested heroin addiction. Just what we didn't need among us. "Is there another way out?" I ventured aloud. Underground stations usually had multiple corridors and stairways, if only to separate arriving and departing passengers. I wondered if the designers had considered emergency exits in their plans. I couldn't see any passageways that didn't involve heavy steel locked doors and the stairs were heavily blocked. That left the tunnels. "We should be patient," suggested an Asian woman with a scarf wrapped over her head. She clutched a shopping bag to herself as closely as Tommy's mother held her son. The sixth survivor, I was already referring to us as survivors in my mind, was a man with a working class look to him. Eventually my mind cleared enough to note the uniform. He was the train driver. We heard a high-pitched whine come from one of the cars and despite the odd angle of the train that made the familiar phrase, "Mind the gap" take on new meaning, the driver leapt across the two-food chasm to the rescue. He was a middle-aged black man who looked as if he was in good physical shape, despite a beginning paunch. The emaciated twenty-something girl he helped climb out of the wreckage didn't look nearly as spry. It's sometimes too easy to judge someone by appearances. Skinny jeans, a barely-there vest top, fire engine red hair tied up in two shoulder-length pony tails and heavy eyeliner that gave her a waif-like countenance in the shocked expression we probably all shared to some degree didn't elicit much confidence. I was pretty sure she would turn out to be a weak link in a survival situation, yet it was the punk guy in black who trotted over to help the train driver assist the girl across to the platform. Appearances can be deceiving. Once we were all gathered together, the initial trauma began to settle into a dreadful acceptance of our situation and we exchanged names. Tommy's mother was called Sarah. There's always a Sarah. The emaciated girl was Nicola. What else? Punk boy was Dave and the train driver was named Richard. I had to ask the Asian woman her name twice and then have her spell it. Adilah might be a popular name in some parts of London, but I'd never heard it before. I told them my name, Rachel. Yeah, there's always a Rachel too. We compared our individual familiarity with the station and discussed alternative ways out. Richard was the most knowledgeable and he actually jumped down next to the track, warning us not to follow in case the electricity was still live. He followed the tunnel a short distance and came up against another pile of rubble. The tunnel had collapsed. After he reported that result, he tried the other direction while the rest of us avoided mentioning what might have happened if the explosions had gone off just a minute later. We heard him shouting for help and for a moment I wondered if he had run into trouble, but again he returned too soon with an inauspicious report. This time he had got as far as one of the doors for the maintenance crew, but he didn't have a key and no one answered his calls. Adilah suggested we should try to be patient and wait for rescue. I wondered what was happening above ground and whether there was any rescue to come. I could tell from the expressions of my fellow survivors that I wasn't the only one to have that thought. Small talk only emphasised how little most of us had in common. After trying for a little while, Tommy announced that he was hungry. His mother didn't have any food. Richard saved the day again, volunteering a little food he had on the train. He suggested we should pool whatever we had and try to make it last, as we didn't know how long we might be trapped. What Richard retrieved from the train was obviously meant to be his lunch. He offered a sandwich, neatly cut into quarters, and apologised that it was chicken curry. He also had a banana and a thermos of tea. Tommy turned up his nose at the chicken curry sandwich. His mother wouldn't accept it either, citing a dislike for spicy food. That was when we learned that Nicola was vegan. She wasn't about to touch the sandwich or the tea, and the banana had already gone to Tommy. The rest of us each ate a quarter of the sandwich and passed around the tea, refused only by Nicola because of the milk, while Adilah unpacked her shopping bag. She had some tinned goods, beans and carrots, but no tin opener. "I can sort that," Dave volunteered. To my horror, he drew a knife that would have made Crocodile Dundee proud out of his leather boot and plunged it into the top of the can of beans, twisting it to move the thin metal out of the way as if he had done this many times before. I wouldn't be surprised if he had. He then did the same to the carrots. So much for reserving food. He placed that tin in front of Nicola, leaving the rest of us to scoop cold beans out of a jagged tin with our fingers, as we had no other implements. I watched him stroll down the platform to the overpriced vending machine full of chocolate and crisps. He turned the knife so that a round-ended pummel could be used like a hammer. I immediately saw his intent. "They alarm those vending machines" I called out to him. He turned and gave me a crooked smile. "Let them come and arrest me," he answered. He had a point. The crash of glass made me flinch, even though I had braced for it. To give him credit, Dave handed the first chocolate bar to the child. He kept one with almonds for himself, then shared out the rest of the snacks to whomever would take them. Only our vegan companion hesitated to partake, then she sort of gave a half shrug and reached for a bag of crisps and a chocolate bar that was mostly coconut. "No point holding to trivialities, my dear," Dave said to the girl. "Won't be vegan food on offer down here again, and you're too skinny to make a good meal." It took me a moment to take in his meaning. If rescue didn't come very soon, the next meal we shared together would be one of us.