Creepers

by Robert Craig

  Mason grabbed the microphone from the floor and frantically called Control Central. “Give me power! Full power! Jesus, get me the fuck out of here!”

  Automatically, unconsciously, Ben Mason rammed the power handle into position and the train lurched, then began to crawl forward. With a sickening thud the first car rolled over the body of Jim Lyons and the thing that sat dining on him. Mason momentarily looked back into the car. One by one, the pack of creatures were leaping from the train, dragging the bodies of the dead passengers with them. Ben was safe now. They were all gone.

  The train moved up to full speed and hurtled south over the tracks. Ben remembered now how much he particularly liked the express run on the A or D train as it sailed uptown from Fifty-ninth Street to 125th Street without a stop. How exhilarating to rocket through station after station, waiting passengers nothing more than blurs in the sudden flashes of light from the stations. Who said a subway car couldn’t fly? That was flying!

  The red signal ahead told Mason he was coming into Chambers Street-coming into Chambers Street with a cargo of fresh-killed meat and a wild story of monsters with a taste for human flesh. His superiors would never believe him. They’d say the arthritis had gone to his head, that he was crazy. Flying was better than trying to explain. You didn’t have to explain soaring in the air, you just did it.

  He kept his hand on the throttle and his foot pressed down on the dead man’s brake, which automatically stopped the train when it was let up. That would keep him flying away from the terror in the tunnel. But what terror was there, really? The only terror was when it was time to come back down to earth. But Ben Mason had already decided that he wasn’t coming back down. He’d decided that he was destined to sail off into the clouds away from everything.

  As his train roared through a second red warning signal into the long Chambers Street station that was the end of the run for the AA train, Ben’s mind was thousands of miles away. And as the train plowed into the metal buttress at the end of the line, crumpling the cab and the first three cars into a grotesque sculpture-like a pop-art trash container full of crushed beer cans-Ben Mason knew seconds before the control panel crushed his chest and a twisted piece of steel from the rammed train decapitated him that he would fly off far away from his fear forever…and ever.

  12

  Stan Dolchik, in full captain’s uniform, including cap, elbowed his way through the mob on the Chambers Street platform toward the TA office. If ever there were a pure distillation of pandemonium, this station was it. Police, doctors, paramedics, curiosity seekers, the media, the injured and the dead, all fought for attention at the scene of what was already being called the worst subway accident in history. The air crackled with noise as the horror of the scene translated itself into the confused babble of everyone present.

  Dolchik was disgusted with the whole mess. If Russ Matthews, the mayor, had listened to him six weeks ago, none of this would have happened. But no, he and his men had their own plan; they were organizing a team to deal with the creepers, and because of their horseshit, ten people were dead this morning, including the motorman and conductor of the train, seven passengers whose bodies had been pulled from the wreckage of the second and third cars, and an old woman in the last car who’d had a heart attack. And that figure didn’t include the unknown number of victims who’d died in the first car, which, though empty, was sickeningly blood-drenched. Nor did the head count figure in the twelve men and women-and one child-his file listed as missing (and presumed dead).

  A woman reporter grabbed Dolchik by the arm and stuck a microphone in his face. “You look like a Transit Authority officer. Can you tell us anything?” She batted her eyelashes provocatively.

  “Yeah, sure,” Dolchik snarled. “Fuck off!” He pulled himself away from her and stalked off. It was bad PR to insult the media, but he didn’t have time to be part of any network’s sensationalized breakfast-, lunch-, and dinner-hour newscasts. Besides, he was nearly choked on his own anger. As far as he was concerned, this carnage was the willful result of political high-handedness and inertia.

  He stormed into the TA office, ignoring the dazed men and women who talked of nothing but the accident. Their faith in the safety of the system had been shaken to the foundation. Dolchik knew it was as secure as ever, but he wasn’t at liberty to divulge that. He had to protect the real culprits. As overseer of the creeper project, he’d seen to it that a series of malfunctioning safety signals were blamed for the accident. Therefore the trouble was placed squarely on the mechanics of an outdated system and not on the actual cause-the suicide of a hysterical motorman who’d confronted something so terrible that his mind had snapped. Dolchik knew that was what had happened the second the task force recovered the mutilated body of the conductor from the tracks… and the remains of that thing.

  “Get the mayor on the phone and tell him I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he barked at his secretary, a male civilian he’d recruited six months before when this whole situation started to look ominous.

  “You want me to call a car?”

  “I’ll walk.” City Hall was only a ten-minute walk from Chambers Street, and Dolchik knew he’d need the time to cool off. Cool off! If this didn’t send his blood pressure up over the top, nothing would. “And call Columbus Circle and tell them to get Francis X. Quinn down to City Hall, too.”

  “He’s going to meet with you and the mayor?” The secretary’s eyebrows rose dangerously high.

  “That prick knows where Corelli is and I want him to be sweet-talked by His Honor. If that doesn’t work, I’ll personally beat the shit out of him. Corelli knows too much, and after this fiasco…” He left the rest unsaid.

  Dolchik went to his temporary office, slamming the door behind him. He plunged into a swivel chair, let a fresh Cuban cigar (compliments of Russ Matthews, the mayor), then leaned back and for a moment relaxed. Personally, he’d wanted to bring Frank Corelli in on this case the moment he’d found the missing-persons file. Hell, any man with enough smarts to weave random disappearances into a pattern, and then start looking for a file on the subject, was a good man in Stan Dolchik’s book. He’d liked Corelli from the moment they met, but it wasn’t in the mayor’s game plan to bring any outsiders into the search for the creepers. Dolchik was planted at Columbus Circle because it was a main hub of activity and a good place to monitor the rising tide of disappearances that were now being attributed to mounting creeper activity.

  But no one had counted on a Frank Corelli to contend with. And now he knew too much to be left on the street. Now, on the eve of one of the largest covert paramilitary operations in the country’s history, Frank Corelli’s knowledge was a time bomb. One word from him, and weeks of planning, investigation, and millions of dollars went down the chutes. Dammit! Why did Corelli have to be so dedicated? Any other man would have ignored the subway disappearances as someone else’s business.

  Not Frank Corelli. He was dedicated and he was smart. Dolchik had lied to him all along, but he’d seen through it. And found his way to Dr. Geary at New York Mercy Hospital. And to Louise Hill. And, finally, to Lester Baker. And the mayor’s men were so clumsy that Corelli and the Hill woman were tipped to the dragnet out for them and were now in hiding. Corelli could be dangerous, that was for sure. The threat he used was the right one; it had sent terror into the heart of the mayor. Nothing was worse than exposure to the media.

  If Corelli got the press and television newspeople to believe that there was something terribly wrong, horrifyingly dangerous, going on in the subway, that innocent New Yorkers were disappearing and being slaughtered, the media would have a field day. And if they found out that the city government had been aware of it for nearly a year, that would blow it. There was no way Russ Matthews could make the networks shut their mouths. What did the Nielsen-crazed executives care that news of the carnivorous mutants would certainly cause a panic in New York the likes of which has never been seen before? The TV moguls wanted ratings, and the rest of t
he world be damned! And right now Frank Corelli held the key to that panic in his hand…and he didn’t even know it.

  Dolchik heaved himself out of the chair, signaled his secretary, and left the office. They walked in silence through the dark, empty streets, both of them thankful to be away from the anguished screams and cries that had filled the last two hours.

  During any business day, lower Manhattan’s conglomeration of twisting streets and lanes was congested with workers. But at five o’clock the hordes departed, leaving the financial district desolate-a city whose population has fled to the suburbs and shopping centers. It is a ghost town of darkened buildings and barricaded stores.

  Rising out of its own small park, City Hall stands like a Federal wedding cake, an ornate oasis in the middle of the towering office buildings. Tonight, except for a few sprinklings of lights, the building was dark. Dolchik focused on a lighted window on the second floor and imagined Russ Matthews pacing the room like he always did when there was trouble. Stan had known the mayor for years-since they were both at Princeton. He considered Matthews a rational, fair man. But as Dolchik mounted the building’s front steps and showed his ID to an armed guard, he also remembered that Russ Matthews was a game player nonpareil. And in the game of politics, holding onto your job always came first-no matter what idealistic rhetoric said to the contrary. And this creeper business was a very real threat to Matthews’ job, and that made him vulnerable…and that made him dangerous.

  Russ Matthews was just fifty years old and looked ten years younger. The inevitable comparisons to New York’s debonair ex-mayor John Lindsay were familiar and not made without reason. Matthews was a New Yorker born and bred, and although his world until the age of seventeen was bounded on the east and west by Fifth and Third avenues and on the north and south by Seventy-second and Fifty-seventh streets, Matthews truly loved the city in all its splendor-and its squalor. He was a reasonable man, except when someone was trying to strong-arm him into changing his mind about a cause he believed-or didn’t believe-in.

  “How’s it look?” Matthews asked from behind his desk as Dolchik entered the room.

  “Like a charnel house.”

  “Did you tell the press about the signal lights?”

  For a moment Dolchik remembered the face of the reporter when he brushed her off with the easy obscenity. “Every lying word of it.” He went to the bar and poured himself a drink of Jack Daniel’s without asking permission.

  Matthews lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. He was handsome, lithe, and in good shape from daily workouts. He was very comfortable being mayor of New York City and he wasn’t about to let anyone-or anything-interfere with that good feeling. “Think the media will buy the story?”

  “It’s not the media I’m worried about, it’s everyone else involved. Hell, Russ, the guys who work in the subway aren’t jerks. They know those systems were in working order just as well as they know Mason wrecked the train on purpose. Sooner or later, despite our threats, someone will open up. Then the shit will hit the fan.”

  “Says you.” Matthews leaned forward and fished a manila envelope from under a pile of papers and inched it toward Dolchik. “Take a look at this.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me about it, Russ?” Stan sat down and sipped his bourbon. One thing about the mayor, he had a highly refined taste in liquor.

  “This is a doctor’s report on Ben Mason’s health. Seems he’s in the first stages of rheumatoid arthritis. And he didn’t bother to tell anyone about it, even his wife.”

  “You sure?”

  “My men asked his wife; she drew a blank,” Matthews said proudly.

  “Shit, and he isn’t even cold yet.” Dolchik took another revitalizing swig of the bourbon.

  The mayor ignored the swipe. “We can play it two ways if the lie doesn’t hold: his arthritis crippled him, or he was so distraught over having the disease he killed himself.”

  “And took nine others with him?” Stan shook his head. “No one would buy that crap.”

  “I’ll see to it they do.” Matthews pushed the folder aside. “Now, tell me about Frank Corelli. You have him in protective custody, I presume. The minute he hears what happened tonight, he’ll know what really happened.”

  Dolchik immediately saw red. He slammed his drink down on the table, spilling some of the high-octane fuel on the desk’s shiny surface. “Don’t hand me that holier-than-thou shit, Russ. You know Corelli and the woman got away. It was your men who fucked up. If you’d listened to me, he’d be with us right now, helping us. Now nothing will get him to turn himself in, and I can’t say I blame him. Hell, if I were Corelli, I’d already be at the Daily News.”

  “What are the chances of that really happening?” The mayor’s cool facade crumbled.

  “Corelli isn’t crazy. He'll stay put…for a while.”

  The intercom on the desk buzzed and Matthews was informed that Detective Quinn was waiting outside. He had Quinn sent in, then leaned back in the chair, once again assuming his “benevolent-leader” pose. “Detective Quinn, come in, come in,” Matthews invited amiably. “You know Captain Dolchik, I believe.”

  Quinn was so stunned to see Stan Dolchik, he merely nodded. As far as he knew, the captain was on vacation. And also as far as he knew, the captain was a loudmouth redneck who had no place sipping drinks in the cozy company of New York’s mayor.

  “Now, I’ll get right to the point.” The mayor’s benevolent smile vanished. “I need to know where Frank Corelli is.”

  “How should I know that?” Quinn meant to sound offhand, but he sounded scared.

  “Stan tells me that you’re Corelli’s best friend. And from my own experience, best friends tend to know where the other is most of the time. Am I wrong?”

  Quinn shifted uneasily from foot to foot, but didn’t answer.

  “Quinn, this is important,” Dolchik added. “Corelli’s in trouble and we’re trying to help.”

  Quinn knew Corelli was in trouble without being told so. Why else would he have asked for a safe place to stay with that woman for a couple of days? Frank hadn’t had time to explain exactly what the trouble was, but from the worried sound of his voice, Quinn knew this wasn’t kid stuff. So he’d turned over his nephew’s apartment without question. But now, in the goddamned mayor’s office, he began to sense just how deep was Frank’s trouble. And unless he was wrong, he knew that the two men who waited impatiently for his reply to the question were the very men Corelli was running from.

  “I don’t know where Frank Corelli is, Captain,” Quinn said finally.

  “He called you earlier today. What’d he want?”

  “He was just checking in,” Quinn stuttered. Shit, they’d even monitored the office calls.

  Dolchik sighed ominously. “I know how much you two boys like to play games, Detective Quinn, but right now I don’t have the time or the patience to play hopscotch with you.” Dolchik finished his drink. “Either you tell me where Corelli is right now, or not only will you never work for the city government again, but in ten minutes you’ll find yourself in the Tombs without bail, awaiting trial for obstructing justice.”

  “Jesus, this ain’t fair…” Quinn complained.

  “Life ain’t fair, Quinn.” Dolchik leaped to his feet and pounded his fists on the tabletop. “Nothing in this fucking world is fair. But if you don’t cooperate, you’ll wish you never heard the name Frank Corelli. You’ve got one minute.” He immediately gazed at his watch and waited.

  The minute passed. “Okay, Quinn. Where is he?”

  “Goddammit, he’s at my nephew’s place in the Village-628 Bank Street,” Quinn spit out, hating himself for being such a coward. “And I hope like hell he’s gone when your goons get there.”

  “That’s a very admirable sentiment, Detective Quinn,” Matthews said. “I know you feel you’ve betrayed your friend, but trust me; you’re doing him-and the city of New York-a big favor.”

  Dolchik went over and put his arm aroun
d Quinn’s shoulder. “He’ll never know you told us,” he promised.

  Quinn shrugged Dolchik’s arm off. “Who else could tell you? He’ll know. Now, if you’re through with me…” He started toward the door.

  Matthews pressed a button on his desk, and two uniformed guards entered immediately. “Take Detective Quinn to the visitors’ lounge and get him anything he wants.” Quinn began to protest about being held against his will, but the mayor silenced him. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just that there’s too much at stake here to sacrifice in the name of camaraderie. As soon as we have a fix on Corelli, you’ll be released.” He nodded, and the guards escorted Quinn out.

  The moment the door was closed, Matthews turned to Dolchik. “I want you to get Corelli personally. Bring him back here. I have to know how much he knows and if he’s talked to anyone else.”

  “He’ll be a good man for the team, Russ,” Dolchik urged once again.

  “He’ll be better off out of sight in the Tombs,” Matthews countered angrily. “Now, get going, and don’t come back without him.”

  Like an all-night diner catering to those who feel the need for a bite to eat at three A.M., the morgue at New York Mercy Hospital was always open for business. In a hospital as large as Mercy, people died at all hours. It was the morgue’s grim duty to store the cadavers until they were released to the undertakers or until it was time for them to be autopsied.

  During the day at Mercy, a full-time attendant took care of human deliveries from various parts of the hospital. But at night when the great building slumbered, the dying were handled less officially; they were shunted downstairs by orderlies who, unused to the work, quickly dispatched their plastic-wrapped packages into the refrigerated storage lockers, then vanished back upstairs, glad once again to be with the living.

  Washington “Bimbo” Calhoun was not overly fond of the dead; He’d worked in the ER-emergency room-long enough to have seen every manner of death the city could provide. He’d washed corpses, tucked dismembered limbs next to bodies before hauling them downstairs, and had even been present at an actual death or two. Bimbo, like everyone else in the hospital, had an automatic shutdown mechanism that slipped into gear each time something truly tragic-or something awfully grotesque and macabre-came his way. Living off emotions in a hospital was one sure way to line up for the next nervous breakdown. Bimbo Calhoun was tough as nails, except when it came to corpses.