The hurt woman hadn’t come from the dark tunnel, Janelle thought. She’d probably been a victim of the bomb. But Janelle couldn’t go back and face her. Just couldn’t.
So whatever had been in the dark before—breathing down her back in the inky shadows, unseen but felt—was probably still there.
Chapter 5
Janelle knew she needed to be more careful—a lot more careful—because getting injured down here would mean the end of everything. No one was coming to rescue her. No one would answer her screams for help. Even if Harry heard her, he couldn’t walk. So she would die alone in a pitch-black tomb, attacked by rats and whatever else was crawling or slithering around in the darkness.
That first step back into the tunnel had been the worst. Noises surrounded her, low growling and high-pitched squeaks and squeals, the rhythm of metallic clangs and crumbling debris. Echoing sounds, like rocks being kicked, and something smashing against metal posts.
By what, she didn’t want to imagine.
No weapons anywhere, and Janelle had been keeping an eye out for one. A metal pole, a chunk of wood, a brick. Anything solid. Anything at all. Concrete lay everywhere, but most of it was in enormous slabs, or small hand-sized chunks that crumbled when she picked them up.
She aimed the light, spotlighting her path, and she took her first few steps alongside the train, jumping over the dead mother and child. She craned her neck, straining to hear anything lurking ahead in the darkness and heard nothing.
The smell from the subway cars—stench of decaying trash, of sweat and body odor and something even more awful—had grown worse. It oozed through the closed car doors, wafted through cracks in the seams and in the reinforced Plexiglas windows.
She stopped.
The door to the next car was open.
Her breath caught in her throat. She was sure that door had been closed before. How had it gotten open?
She froze. To go back now meant death, meant being trapped for sure, meant facing that badly mangled woman, facing those dead bodies. She had to go forward. But to go forward … could she even get her legs to work?
Pressing herself against the tunnel wall, she aimed the light down the tracks and beneath the train with a hand shaking so badly she could barely control the flashlight.
Nothing there. Nothing hiding.
She took a tiny step toward the open door and sidled along the tunnel wall, bits of plaster crumbling and dusting her hair and shoulders. She touched a trembling foot to the track beneath the entrance to the car, bringing her body slowly up to meet it. Listening—for what? sounds of life, breathing, gasping, moaning … ? A snort, a laugh, a wheeze, anything at all that would cause her to leave her senses completely, something so horrible she would run blindly through pitchy tunnels, yelling and screaming for her dead mommy.
She inched past the open car door, her back to the wall.
She had to face the train—refused to turn her back to it—but no way would she shine the light inside.
She passed the open door and made it to the next car. Her breath came out in ragged, painful puffs, and dots danced in front of her eyes.
Her body refused to move any farther. Knees locked, legs quivering like jelly.
A slithering, rubbing sound beside her.
Near the open car door.
Nothing on earth could have convinced her to point a light back in that direction. She finally moved again, much more quickly than before, not caring about anything as she escaped from the horrible train and found the tracks again.
Up ahead was a figure, too far to clearly make out. But not tall enough to be the bad man.
“Hello?” she called out.
The figure wasn’t moving.
She stopped. “Hello?”
Should she run back? But to what—the subway car, the dead woman and her son?
But moving forward felt impossible.
If he was a good man, why was he just standing there? He should have said something by now.
Janelle swallowed, decided to keep moving forward. She couldn’t let him stop her.
When she was a few feet away she shined the light in his face.
Her dead father stared back.
***
Walking around the compound, they passed mounds of rubble that had once been barracks and offices and official buildings.
Martin touched everything they passed. Pebbles lay strewn at his feet, and he bent to retrieve a small handful, caressing them in his palm as if they were delicate silk. “It’s worse than I imagined,” he said, gesturing at the leveled buildings. “This is horrible.”
“You were safe underground.”
“Safe.” He smiled, but his eyes were distant, humorless. “Believe me, I didn’t feel—”
“I’m sorry. Stupid thing to say.”
Martin squatted beside a Toyota-sized chunk of concrete that had formerly been the roof of the library. A daisy, the only other sign of life, jutted from between rocks, and he plucked it.
“Some things survive,” he said. “No matter what.”
“And yet you kill it.” Jeff rested against the chunk of concrete.
The moon provided the only light, full but blurred by dust and debris. Jeff doubted he’d ever see a clear night again.
“I’ll need more help,” Martin said, leaning back against the rock and lifting his face into the breeze, looking as if he were in the throes of orgasm. “We can’t do this alone.”
“Who do you plan to recruit?”
Martin grinned, the meager moonlight reflecting off his bone-white teeth. “Recruit? Ah, you military men.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Doesn’t matter. Whoever I choose will be loyal. I’ll have my army.”
“Loyal? Huh.”
Martin held the daisy up to his nose and inhaled. “Are you interested?”
“Interested in what?” But he knew.
“In joining me.”
“Not at all, Martin.”
“You’d make a wonderful second in command.”
“Not interested.”
“I could force you. I don’t have to ask.”
“Yeah, you could,” Jeff said. “But you won’t. I’ve never had to worry about this before. I never felt unsafe around you.”
“Not when there were bars separating us.”
This conversation unsettled Jeff. He changed the subject back. “So who are you planning to recruit?”
Martin stood, wiping chalky dust from the seat of his pants. “The people in this country will be in sorry shape. But that won’t matter, after. I believe siring them will be safer than trying to … recruit … enemy soldiers. I don’t know where their loyalties would lie. I suppose we could try.” He looked pensive, as if trying to decide.
Jeff glanced around the compound, looking for signs of human life. There were perhaps a couple dozen people left. He maintained the hope that a resourceful number of survivors were still scattered throughout the country, lying in wait, ready for the victory he hoped was inevitable.
This was what Jeff was doing: waiting for the right moment, creating a plan of attack.
But he wasn’t planning on doing it as a vampire.
“There are what, seven of you? How are seven supposed to … I mean, mathematically, is it even possible to increase your numbers enough?”
“I have the military to thank for some rather useful abilities. All their delightful experiments. If your people weren’t already dead, I’d kill them myself.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. How many?”
Martin didn’t answer.
“You said it would be easy to defeat them. You think the enemy is just going to roll over and die for you? Once they catch on and see what they’re up against, they’ll find a way to stop you.”
“Whose side are you on, Jeff?”
“Just playing devil’s advocate. I want you prepared for all possibilities.”
“Okay,” he said quietly, turning away. “Fair e
nough. Of course, there’s always the problem of now. We haven’t eaten in weeks.”
“I’m sorry about that. But there wasn’t a food source available.”
“We’re weak, need to build our strength. I’ll try to contain our meals to enemy soldiers, but I can’t guarantee anything.”
“I understand.”
“And Jeff—” Martin turned sharply to face him. “What about when this is over? Have you thought about that? You know we can’t go back to the way things were.”
Jeff wished he had an answer. He turned away, refusing to look at Martin. There was shame in what he was thinking.
He’d briefly wondered the same thing: Could they coexist? No, he’d decided. They couldn’t.
When this war was finally over, there would be no way Jeff could allow them to survive.
***
This was impossible.
Janelle’s father was dead. She’d seen him lying in his bed, covered in blood, her mother shaking him, trying to wake him. Trying to bring him back from the dead.
“No,” she cried. “No!”
She lowered the flashlight to her side and squeezed her eyes shut. Sobbing now, her breath hitching.
“Dah-daddy?” she stammered, terrified to look. More terrified he would answer.
He laughed, but it wasn’t the laugh she knew. Whatever was standing in front of her, it wasn’t her father.
Raising her arm was probably the bravest thing she’d ever had to do. She pointed the light toward the man’s face.
He was gone.
Janelle moaned. She shivered, suddenly so cold her head ached. She leaned forward and retched, her stomach heaving, legs shaking. Saliva dripped from her chin.
Sounds behind her. Scrapes and scratches.
And suddenly she was moving blindly through the tunnel. Not slowing, not stopping, barely breathing.
She reached the Eighty-Sixth Street station again.
“Harry!” she screamed as she threw herself on to the platform.
“Harry? Please. Please wake up. You have to wake up!” She shook him, but he didn’t wake.
She dropped to the ground and pulled her legs into her chest, tucked herself into as small a shape as possible. Eyes closed because she didn’t care any more, couldn’t fight this. It wasn’t fair. She was just a kid. Things like this aren’t supposed to happen to kids.
If anything crawled out of the subway tunnel now …
Ears strained for sounds from the tunnel. Heart pounding in her temples, stomach clenching.
She wished she was dead. At least that way it would all be over. She would be with her family again.
God how she wanted her mother. Her mother would know what to do. She would comfort Janelle, would pick her up and make soothing noises and stroke her hair.
“Harry,” she whispered. “Get up.” She sobbed into his neck. She moved closer to Harry and spooned him, rested her hand on his chest to feel his heartbeat. Somehow it would comfort her.
The problem was, there was no heartbeat.
“Harry!” she yelled. “Don’t be dead! Harry!” Her voice was shrill, and she sobbed until her throat was raw.
“Harry, please. Please wake up. You have to wake up! God, no!” she sobbed, coughing through her tears, trying to catch her breath.
She moved away from his body and pulled her legs into her chest, tucked herself into as small a shape as possible. Eyes closed because she didn’t care any more, couldn’t fight this. It wasn’t fair. She was just a kid. Things like this aren’t supposed to happen to kids.
She calmed down, sucked in a few breaths, and rubbed her sore eyes with her palms. Tried to think. Had to try again. Had to. Couldn’t stay here in the dark with Harry’s dead body. Couldn’t stay here because there was no way out, no one was coming to rescue her, and she swore if she made it out alive she’d never set foot in a tunnel again.
One more try. That was all she had left, all she was willing to do. If this didn’t work she would come back here and die next to Harry.
Downtown station this time. Seventy-Seventh Street.
Janelle reluctantly dropped onto the tracks again, her entire being filled with dread and a sense of impending doom. The flashlight beacon sliced into the darkness of the downtown tunnel’s gaping maw.
Her last chance.
If the next station turned out to be blocked, there would be no way out. She tried not to think about it.
She stepped into the tunnel and started on her way.
Okay, not terrible, there was still hope. She could do this. She crossed the fingers on the hand not holding the flashlight. Her body shook in terror as a response to her bravado.
***
Something moved in the darkness ahead.
She sensed the movement rather than saw it. Standing perfectly still she held her breath and listened. A small sound, like concrete being kicked. She wanted to call out but was petrified that someone—or something—might answer. Sweat dripped into her eyebrows.
Another scattering of pebbles.
She raised the flashlight, terrified to look, more terrified not to.
Its eyes reflected back in the light beam.
She nearly dropped the flashlight. When she sucked in her breath, its head jerked in her direction, a starved and crazed look in its half-dead eyes. Bones jutted from the animal’s emaciated flank. Its hind leg was clearly broken and hung at a peculiar angle to its body.
She tried whispering to it, because in her utter fear she had no idea what else to do.
It stared at her. Just stared, like it didn’t believe she was really there. Or like it was waiting for her to make the first move.
“Please, dog,” she whispered. “Let me pass.” She wasn’t really trying to reason with it, just begging out loud. This was a dog after all, and she was great with animals. Had even aspired to be a vet.
A low growling resonated in the back of its throat.
It lowered its head and stared at her, made darting little movements as if about to pounce. It bared its fangs, and the growling grew louder.
She looked for a weapon, her eyes darting from one side of the tracks to the other. A few feet away a wood beam leaned against the tunnel wall. The problem with these tunnels was that they just weren’t very tall, just high enough for train clearance. That wasn’t much height, but the designers likely didn’t build them to escape a crazed animal.
The beam was about five feet away. The dog was a little farther than that. She began to inch her way toward the plank, noticing how narrow it was, like the balance beam in gym class.
The dog noticed her movement and snarled, revealing teeth that hadn’t suffered much considering its malnutrition.
“Easy, dog,” she said sternly, hoping to show it who was master, hoping it was someone’s lost pet. The dog cocked its head but the snarls continued.
She crept toward the beam, afraid to move any faster.
The cracked two-by-four was all that stood between her and the dog.
The dog lunged. Its snarls and moans bounced off the tunnel walls. Its broken limb prevented it from gaining too much momentum. Its mouth clamped down on Janelle’s calf.
She screamed, pulling her leg free, jumping out of its way, landing on the beam. Adrenaline kept her moving, kept her from feeling the bite too badly. Blood soaked through her jeans. Walking sideways she inched up, arms flapping like a bird’s injured wings. The wood groaned and cracked in several more spots. She reached the tip of the beam and touched the tunnel ceiling, planted her palms against it for support.
The dog was too close, barely a foot away the end of the beam, and Janelle couldn’t go any farther. It lunged, snapping crazily at her feet.
She gripped the concrete ceiling so tightly her fingernails bled. “Stop!” she screamed, but the dog ignored her, lunged at her, tried to bite, its wounded leg the only thing keeping it from getting the momentum it needed.
Sobbing, Janelle looked away from the dog, tried to move farther up the beam. Noth
ing left but ceiling. Nothing useful in her backpack either, nothing that would make any kind of weapon.
The only thing left was the flashlight—her heavy-duty flashlight, weighing in around four pounds but thick, solid. She didn’t know if it could kill the dog but thought she might be able to do some damage. It was her only hope.
Planting her feet more firmly on the beam she shifted her weight, leaning her shoulder against the wall for leverage.
The dog showed no sign of tiring. It leapt into the air, flipped, and landed on its three good legs. It did this over and over, gaining more height each time, fangs snapping madly every time he was airborne.
She shined the light in its face when it jumped up at her again. It tried to hook its paws around the beam.
The light in its eyes showed nothing but a black craziness. It lunged again, paws making purchase with the wood, bringing itself inches from her. She raised the flashlight and smashed it down on the dog’s head. The animal squealed and dropped off the beam.
The force of the blow threw her to the ground, and the flashlight flew out of her hands.
She landed hard on her back, and it knocked the wind out of her. She groped until she found the flashlight lying in a pool of something. She could feel it was badly damaged. The parts rattled when she shook it.
“Oh no . . .” she cried, tears falling again. “Oh no.” Frantically she shook it, but that failed to make it work again.
In the blackness she couldn’t see the dog but it made no sound, and she assumed she had knocked it out or killed it.
She stood on the tracks, sobbing. This was it, she decided. Enough. There was no way out of this. It probably would have been better if she’d let the dog rip out her throat.
The blackness of the tunnel overwhelmed her. How was it possible not to be able to focus your eyes on something, some light source or another?
She forced herself to move again in the direction she guessed she’d been heading in. She walked haltingly, her arms sticking straight out ahead to feel for objects before smashing into them.
What Happens in the Darkness Page 6