by Adam Baker
Donahue looked up the stairwell to the street entrance. The Coke machine shook and rocked.
‘We should keep watch,’ she said. ‘If those bastards get down here, into the ticket hall, we’re in real trouble.’
Lupe shook out a Marlboro. She lit and passed it around. Donahue took a drag.
‘Fire department, huh?’ said Wade.
‘Yeah,’ said Donahue.
‘Running into the flames. You and your buddies.’
‘We’ve been down a few hallways.’
‘Bet you’ve seen some gnarly shit.’
Donahue took another drag on the cigarette. She coughed.
Lupe held up the matchbook. Juggs XXX Bar. She gestured to Galloway. He sat on the bench, dabbed his broken nose with tissue.
‘Classy son of a bitch.’
She blew rings.
‘You better keep a close watch on that guy,’ said Donahue. ‘Seriously. Better not turn your back. You broke his nose, took his gun, took his smokes. You folks all but cut off his dick. He won’t forget. Somewhere along the line, he’ll want payback.’
The lights flickered. They looked up at the fluted glass dome above their heads.
‘How long will the generator keep running?’ asked Lupe.
‘A gallon of gas gives us four hours’ light. A couple of refills should give us power for the duration.’
Donahue gestured towards Sicknote.
‘What’s the deal with that guy? Can we trust him?’
Sicknote crouched barefoot on the tiled floor, scratching patterns with a nugget of concrete. Fierce concentration.
Lupe shook her head.
‘Batshit crazy. He doesn’t belong in jail. He belongs in an asylum. Category J. In an honest world, if the prison system actually gave a shit, he’d be making macaroni art in the TV room of a sanatorium somewhere, drooling on psych meds. Look at him. Look at his eyes. Skull full of madness. Someone should shoot the poor bastard as a mercy.’
‘Maybe we should tie him up.’
‘Seems pretty placid right now. I’ll keep watch. We can lash him to a pillar if he starts to weird out.’
‘What was he doing at Bellevue?’
‘Ekks kept him in his Special Management Unit. Had him dosed on Haldol, Largactil, all kinds of shit. See that pink thing behind his right ear? Beneath his hair? An implant. It’s supposed to zap his brain each time he goes manic.’
‘Does it work?’
‘No.’
Lupe took a last drag on the cigarette and flicked it into shadows. The dying butt glowed like a hot coal.
Sicknote pricked blood from his thumb with a sliver of glass. He squeezed droplets, and smeared them across floor tiles. Broad strokes. He painted swirling astral bodies. He sat back once in a while, contemplated his work and composed his next addition. Orbital rings, moons and comet tails. And behind it all, the outline of a massive sun, a flaming aurora at the centre of the planetary alignment.
‘So what the hell is that supposed to be?’ asked Galloway.
‘The chasm between stars.’
‘The stars?’
Sicknote glanced around, made sure no one could overhear. He leaned close to Galloway like he was imparting a secret.
‘Did you know that atoms are basically an electrical charge? They aren’t made of anything. They are nothing. The basic building block of the universe, the primal substance, is Nothing.’ He pointed at blank tiles. ‘See? There are things, and there are spaces between things. That’s what I’m painting. The Howling Absence. The Terminal Truth. It speaks through me.’
Galloway shifted along the bench. ‘I’m not your nursemaid, all right? I’m not listening to your garbage all damn night.’
Sicknote pointed to the darkness of the platform stairwell.
‘There’s something in the tunnels. Can’t you feel it?’
‘Prowlers? The passageways are flooded. Nothing alive down there.’
‘No. There’s something else. Something blacker than black, colder than cold.’
‘Like what?’
‘This virus is smart. Probably shouldn’t call it a virus at all. People only use the term because it makes them feel better. Kid themselves they are up against a dumb germ, something they can beat with a pill. Those poor shambling folk out in the street? You think they’re the final stage? Think that’s the sum of its ambition? It wants more. A lot more. It’s going to tear down this world and build something new.’
‘You’re nuts.’
‘It knows we are here. It’s been watching since the very first moment we arrived. It’s reaching out.’
‘Keep away from me, all right? Just stay the fuck away.’
Nariko stripped to underwear. She stepped into her drysuit and zipped it to the neck.
She crouched beside her backpack. She checked cylinder pressure, adjusted valves, and shouldered the tanks.
She buckled a weight belt and pulled on gloves.
‘I can’t force you guys to come with me. If either of you want to stay behind and sit this one out, that’s cool. I’ll go on my own.’
Cloke shook his head.
‘That would be chickenshit beyond words. I’m coming with you.’
‘Yeah,’ said Tombes. ‘Fuck that. Rescue Four. The Rats. Sooner we get it done, sooner we can all get the hell out of here.’
Nariko watched Cloke and Tombes suit up. She stretched and paced, adjusted her tank harness straps and weight belt.
Her eyes were once again drawn by the cigarette sunset pasted to the wall.
Cloke stood by her side. He checked his gauntlet seals.
‘We’ll make it. We’ll be okay.’
‘Maybe.’
‘You were the first to raise your hand.’
‘It’s my job.’
‘You must have known the others would come too. Donahue. Tombes. They’d follow you anywhere.’
‘Don’t lay that crap on me. They’re adults. They made their own choice.’
‘You’re strong. You’ll be all right.’
‘This place is killing us. I can feel it. Closing round us like a fist. But I’ll be damned if I am going to go out snivelling like a bitch, you know? If I check out, I want it to mean something.’
She headed for the platform steps, helmet in one hand, flippers in the other. Cloke picked up his helmet and followed her.
Tombes turned to Donahue.
‘See you later, babe.’
‘Don’t do anything stupid, all right?’ said Donahue. ‘The Captain wants to be a hero. Screw her. No offence, but screw her. Stay safe, you hear?’
‘Back before you know it.’
He crossed himself, then he headed for the stairs.
Donahue sat in the office. She pulled up a chair.
Maps and subway schematics scattered on the table.
She shuffled papers. She picked up a five borough pocket atlas and contemplated the cover. Easy-Read, Large Scale. The Midtown skyline lit by the summer sun. Brooklyn Bridge and, beyond it, the ethereal spire of the Empire State. Life before the pandemic. Life before the bomb. A lost paradise.
She pushed the maps aside, clamped headphones and powered up the radio.
‘Rescue team to Ridgeway. Come in, Ridgeway.’
No response.
‘Rescue party to Ridgeway, over. Come in.’
No response.
She dropped the mike and rubbed tired eyes.
‘Get your shit together, guys,’ she murmured. ‘You’re supposed to man the damned radio.’
She picked up the antiquated mike. She adjusted frequency.
‘Ridgeway, can you hear me? Rescue team calling Ridgeway, where the hell are you, over.’
She sat back and listened to electromagnetic interference. The hiss of empty wavebands rose and fell like a desolate night wind.
She closed her eyes and pictured the raging surface of the sun: vast solar flame-licks ejecting coronal mass into the void.
She turned up the volume and listened to the c
rackle of stellar tides washing across the ionosphere: song of an indifferent universe.
24
The Federal Building. Six floors of derelict office space. Windows shattered as the atomic firestorm ripped through decades of cobwebbed silence in a moment of concussive violence.
A nurse lay slumped in a stationery cupboard among scattered index cards and manila envelopes, as if animal instinct compelled her to find a secluded niche, a womb-like space to curl and die. Her name badge said NGUYEN. Her uniform was streaked with blood and soot. Grotesque metallic sarcomas burst through fabric. She sprawled like a puppet waiting for someone to pull strings.
The nurse shocked awake. Jet black eyes stared into darkness. The air was tainted with the ferric scent of blood. New flesh, somewhere within the building.
She crawled into the hallway. The linoleum floor was wet with rain blown through vacant windows.
No moonlight. Transformed vision cut through shadow and picked out detail bright as day.
She sniffed the air, tried to locate the blood-taint, track it to source.
She crawled across the hall. She reached the elevator doors. She sniffed the inch gap. Blood. Rich and strong.
She gripped the twin slide doors and shouldered them apart.
The elevator shaft. A dust-furred cable. Six-storey drop to the plank roof of the freight elevator.
She climbed to her feet and stepped into the shaft. She fell in a rigid sentry stance. She hit the wall and hit the cable. She hit the cross beam on the roof of the elevator and shattered her shoulder.
She pawed the roof, broke fingernails as she tried to pull the planks aside.
Murmur of voices.
An air vent in the wall of the shaft. A grille veiled by webs. She tugged until screws popped from concrete and the duct cover came loose.
A narrow brick conduit. Darkness. Strange music. Ghost-jazz echoed faintly from within.
25
The IRT office.
Wade found the gramophone by touch. He groped the shelf until he located the leatherette box. He carried it across the office, walked until his thighs bumped the desk. He shunted the telephone and inkpot aside, and set the phonograph down.
He returned to the shelf and fumbled a handful of 78s.
He sat at the desk. He found the lid latch, unsleeved a disk and positioned it on the felt turntable.
He found the crank handle, set the disk spinning, then dropped the arm. Big band jazz. Duke Ellington.
He sat back, lulled by the music, and rubbed useless eyes.
He scratched his goatee. Hair pulled loose in clumps.
He took the brass cylinder from his pocket. He unscrewed the cap, shook the glass ampoule into his palm, and turned it between his fingers.
Donahue unzipped a red trauma pack and searched among pill boxes, sterile-sealed hypodermics and ziplocked dressings. She upturned the bag and shook it empty. She found a strip of Vicodin. She popped capsules from the foil and dry-swallowed. Bitter taste. She threw the pills to Lupe.
‘You look washed out,’ said Lupe.
‘Good job I never wanted kids,’ said Donahue. ‘Plenty to look forward to, after this fucking trip. Thyroid cancer. Leukaemia. Quite a prospect.’
‘Well, we all got to die of something, right?’
Lupe popped a couple of tablets into her palm and swallowed. She examined the foil strip.
‘This shit expires in three years. A world without pharmaceuticals. Better brush your teeth. Dentistry is about to get seriously medieval.’
Shriek and rattle from the entrance gate.
They ran to the foot of the stairwell.
The ancient Coke machine blocking the street entrance shook with repeated blows.
‘We’re starting to draw a Super Bowl crowd,’ said Donahue. ‘Might have to thin them out.’
‘No shooting,’ said Lupe. ‘Better conserve ammo.’ She gestured to the equipment pile. ‘We’ve got plenty of gear. Let’s get to work.’
They zipped NBC suits.
A bundle of heavy rescue tools lashed with canvas straps. Lupe released buckles. Clank and clatter. She picked up a heavy metal rod, tipped with a barbed spike. She took a practice spear thrust.
‘Ventilation tool,’ explained Donahue. ‘First thing you do at an apartment fire. Send a guy on the roof to punch a hole. Acts as an artificial flue. Vents heat and smoke. Makes it easier for the hose team to get in there and work.’
‘Thought you were a noobie.’
‘New to Rescue. I’ve been riding a truck eight years.’
Donahue hefted an axe. She contemplated the chipped blade, relished the heavy wooden shaft.
‘Personally, I like to be first through the door. Look the devil in the eye. Fire is a beautiful thing. Liquid gold.’
They climbed steps to the street entrance. They hauled the Coke machine aside. Hands pawed the opaque curtain draped across the gate.
They pulled on respirators.
Donahue gave the nod.
Lupe flipped open a knife and slit plastic ties. Crackle of polythene as she tugged the heavy sheet aside.
‘Jesus Christ.’
Donahue took an instinctive step back. Emaciated arms thrust between the bars. Talons grasped and clawed inches from her mask.
Cadaverous creatures. Hotel service staff. Maids, pot washers, laundrymen. Tumours knotted through burn-blackened flesh. They jammed their faces against the rusted iron lattice. They hissed. They spat.
‘How many do you reckon?’ asked Lupe.
‘Five or six.’
‘If they hammer the gate long enough, they’ll bring it down.’
‘Let’s start with this guy.’
Donahue braced her legs and hefted the axe. She took aim at one of the arms thrust through the bars. A chef. Dark spatter on his sleeve. Either blood or bolognese.
Donahue brought down the axe. The first blow cut deep and splintered bone. The second blow sheered the limb at the elbow. Blood-spurt. A severed forearm fell at her feet. Fingers grasped and clenched.
She crouched and picked up the limb.
‘Watch yourself.’
She slotted the hand through the grate and threw it into the street.
The chef continued to butt against the gate. The stump of his arm raked the bars.
Lupe thrust the pike through the iron lattice. She speared the chef’s eye socket. He toppled backwards into the street, feet dancing as he lay in the rain.
More emaciated prowlers crowded the gate, hungry for fresh meat.
Donahue hacked grasping hands.
Lupe held the pike shoulder-high like a javelin. Each thrust burst eyeballs and dug deep into brain.
A skeletal thing with no legs. Body armour and a Kevlar helmet. Some kind of cash truck guard. It crawled on its belly, thrust an arm through the grate and snatched at Lupe’s legs with a gloved hand. Lupe stabbed downwards with the steel pike and speared the creature in the back of the neck. It squealed and frothed as she pressed down with her body weight, twisted the tip of the pike deep into its cortex.
A fat guy in chalk-stripe suit slammed against the gate. He drooled. He snarled. Donahue reached through the lattice and gripped blood-matted hair. She pulled his pudgy face up against the bars. She drove a knife into his eye socket and rotated the blade.
‘Nice suit,’ said Lupe, gesturing to the body slumped in front of the gate. ‘Look at the lapels. Fine tailoring.’
‘Yeah?’
‘And check out his wrist. Guy is wearing a Breitling.’
‘Financial district,’ said Donahue. ‘Wall Street.’
‘You’d think they would be long gone. Hamptons. Connecticut. Wherever the hell rich bastards spend the weekend. Push their antique furniture up against the door and stand guard with a polo mallet.’
‘This place used to be central to their lives, I guess. So they came back. An instinct. A faint memory. They feel compelled to return, to mill around the sushi bars and coffee shops, but they don’t know why.’
<
br /> ‘We’re only a couple of blocks from The Federal Reserve,’ said Lupe. ‘Picture it. Fifty tons of bullion. Stacks of it. All those bars sitting in an unguarded vault. Want to fill your pockets?’
‘Hard to think of anything more pointless.’
‘We’ve got a thermal lance. We could cut through the vault door in a couple of hours.’
‘Come on. That’s a street-trash mindset. Look beyond it.’
‘Friend of mine got his throat cut over a pair of K-Swiss.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’d like one of those gold bars. I’d like to hold it in my hand just to say I made it, just to say I won.’
They looked down at the misshapen bodies.
‘Stinking fucks,’ said Lupe.
They re-hung the polythene curtain and shunted the Coke machine back in position.
They pulled off their respirators.
Donahue wiped sweat from her face.
‘There will be more,’ she said.
‘And we’ll kill them too.’
They headed down the stairs.
‘Can you hear that?’ asked Lupe.
‘What?’
‘Sounds like music.’
‘There’s something in the walls,’ said Wade.
‘Where?’ asked Lupe.
‘Over there somewhere. To my left.’
‘Must have been the gramophone.’
Wade shook his head.
‘I killed the music.’
The turntable still spun with a rhythmic metallic rasp. Donahue found the brake lever and brought it to a standstill. She closed the lid.
They stood in silence.
‘See? Nothing.’
‘It wasn’t the record player,’ said Wade. ‘There was a scratching sound, like dragging nails. I definitely heard it.’
‘Where exactly did it come from?’
‘Over there. The corner of the room. Or thereabouts.’
‘There’s nothing,’ said Donahue. ‘Seriously. It had to be the phonograph. The mechanism must be rusted to shit.’