by Adam Baker
‘I count three, four skulls. Army fatigues. Couple of lab coats.’
‘Infected?’
‘Can’t tell.’
‘Let me take a look.’
Cloke crouched by the jumble of scorched bone.
‘Got a knife?’
Tombes handed him a pocket knife.
Cloke flicked open the blade and probed the ashes. He lifted a wide, metal bangle from the debris. Cyrillic lettering stamped into the ring.
‘What’s that?’ asked Tombes. Cloke ignored him.
A steel box. Cloke scraped ashes from the metal. A weird half-skull symbol embossed on the lid.
‘Give me the backpack.’
Tombes passed him the pack. Cloke unzipped a side pocket and pulled out a digital camera. He took pictures of the box. Each flash lit the tunnel like lightning.
Tombes kicked a skull.
‘Ekks?’
Cloke shook his head. He lifted a scorched scrap of lab coat with his knife.
‘Ekks didn’t wear a coat. Insisted his team wore pristine medical whites, even down here in the tunnels, but he always wore a linen jacket like he’d been sipping mint juleps on a Hampton veranda. Kept his hands clean. Gave orders. Let his guys do the work.’
‘How will you recognise him?’
‘Fifties. Grey hair. People say he wore a silver ouroboros ring. A snake eating its own tail. Never took it off.’
They walked further into the tunnel.
‘Check it out,’ said Tombes. ‘Something big up ahead.’
Glint of silver. Something large blocking the passageway.
The steel hull of a subway train.
Cloke trained his flashlight on the motorman’s cab. Cracked windshield glass. A red line designation: 3.
‘Guess we found them.’
Cloke examined the carriage frame. ‘Blood all along the front here. Bunch of hair on the nose coupler. Guess she ploughed through a crowd at some point. Ran a bunch of people down.’
‘Nice,’ muttered Tombes. He checked the tunnel behind them, jittering sweeps of his flashlight as he scanned buttressed archways, made sure nothing lurked in shadow.
‘Wait here,’ said Cloke. ‘Let me check her out.’
Cloke walked the length of the train. He shuffled the narrow space between the tunnel wall and the cars. His flashlight lit windows blacked out with garbage bags. A route board: BROADWAY.
He crouched and shone his flashlight between the wheel bogies.
‘The last coach is buried under rubble. Looks like Canal pretty much imploded.’
‘Why did they come this far north? Why not stop in the tunnel?’
‘Because the driver screwed up. Panic. Confusion. Darkness. Hard to blame the guy.’
Cloke took a Geiger reading. He scanned the hull of the train. Fierce crackle.
‘Heavy gamma. She got pretty cooked. Bedrock didn’t give much protection.’
‘There are bodies on board,’ called Tombes. ‘I can smell them.’
‘Let’s hope they’re dead. That Cav officer floating downstream was infected. Doubt he was the only one to get bitten.’
He cupped his hands.
‘Hello?’ Heavy echo. ‘Anyone down here?’ He pounded his hammer on the side of a carriage. ‘Anyone home?’
‘Might not be such a good idea,’ called Tombes, glancing round the tunnel, checking shadows.
‘If there are any prowlers down here, let’s draw them out, face them head-on.’
‘We got problems enough.’
Cloke returned to the front of the train.
‘You’re right. Doesn’t smell too pretty.’
‘Let’s get these doors open.’
Cloke reached up, pressed his fingers into the rubber door seal and tried to prize it open.
‘We could use a crowbar.’
Heavy thud.
They jumped back. They trained their flashlights on the door above them. A bloody, tumourous hand pressed against the window, sliding down the glass leaving bloody finger-smears.
‘Fuck,’ muttered Tombes.
‘Guess we found the Bellevue guys.’
33
Galloway sat on the platform steps. He sought out darkness and seclusion, a chance to examine his hand unobserved.
He flipped open a lock-knife and used the tip to slit the dressing.
Micropore tape slowly tore from skin. He peeled back blood-crusted bandage.
The severed stump of his knuckle bristled with fine metallic splinters. The flesh of his hand was purple and swollen, mottled with spreading rot.
He probed the wound with the tip of the blade. His hand was numb. He pressed the point of the knife into his palm, pressed until he drew a bead of blood. Nothing. No sensation.
‘Doesn’t smell too fresh,’ said Wade. He stood at the head of the steps, hand on the balustrade, sightless eyes staring ahead. ‘You should let Donahue take another look.’
‘She won’t do a damned thing.’
Wade descended the stairs. He kept a tight grip on the balustrade, probed each step with his foot. He sat next to Galloway.
He took the cyanide cylinder from his pocket. ‘Maybe you should ask Donahue for one of these.’
‘Fuck that.’
‘You know the score,’ said Wade. ‘No vaccine, no antidote. Few hours from now, you’ll turn. Is that what you want?’
‘If you’re so in love with death, why not swallow the damned thing yourself and be done?’
‘Let me know if you change your mind.’
‘Three, two, one.’
Cloke and Tombes hauled the slide doors apart.
A skeletal figure fell from the train to the tunnel floor. Ripped army fatigues bristled with spines. The thing squinted into the glare of Cloke’s flashlight.
It howled.
Tombes delivered three skull-shattering blows with his hammer, and kicked the body aside.
They climbed into the carriage. They stood tensed, keyed for movement.
‘Christ,’ muttered Tombes.
The beam of his flashlight swept the carriage.
Bodies. Soldiers and civilians. A dozen of them, sat on equipment cases like they were all taking a ride uptown. A hole in the crown of each head. Brain and hair gummed to the melamine of the carriage roof.
Cartridge cases scattered on the floor. Clink and chime.
A Colt pistol hung from a skeletal hand. Cloke prized open fingers. He ejected the mag. Empty. He threw the weapon aside.
‘They were trapped. Guess they passed round a pistol.’
Tombes checked insignia.
‘Couple of 101st. A nurse. A doctor. This guy is a transit cop.’
Cloke found a battery lamp. He tried the on/off slide-switch. He shook it. Dead. He threw it aside.
‘Guess we better check ID,’ said Cloke.
‘Fifties. Silver hair.’
‘That’s right.’
Tombes surveyed the rows of bodies. Young guys. Crew cuts.
‘He’s not here.’
‘Double check.’
Cloke shone his flashlight round the carriage. The fibreglass seats had been removed. Boxes and ammo crates stacked on the floor, piled against the carriage wall. The walls had been lagged with opaque polythene: a crude attempt at insulation.
‘Must have frozen their asses off down here.’
He kicked through garbage. Empty water bottles. Foil MRE wrappers. He tipped a box. Dozens of shampoo bottles tumbled across the floor.
‘They brought some pretty random shit,’ said Tombes.
‘Looks like they raided a Duane Reade. Snatched whatever they found.’
‘Must have been miserable. No daylight. Dwindling rations. Surprised they didn’t go nuts.’
‘Looks like they did.’
Tombes walked between the bodies. He pulled on gloves.
Tombes plucked a crumpled sheet of paper from a dead hand.
‘They wrote suicide notes.’
‘Bag them up. That’s what we came for. Any wri
tten account of their time down here. Anything that might describe their research.’
Tombes took a bandana from his pocket, shook it open and masked his face. He knelt in front of a corpse and tried to push a rigor-stiff arm aside so he could reach a pant pocket. The cadaver toppled forwards, threatened to fall on him. He pushed it back in its seat. He pulled out a leather wallet.
‘This guy was a limo driver.’
‘Guess they picked up a few civilians along the way. Pretty ragtag bunch.’
Cloke shone his flashlight round the carriage. Grotesque, gaping mouths. Eyes sunk and rolled back. Some of the corpses leaned, like they were sleeping on each other’s shoulders.
He took a Geiger reading. He held the handset in front of an emaciated, shattered face. Fierce crackle.
‘They were dying and they knew it.’
‘This is how we’ll end up, isn’t it?’ said Tombes. ‘Sitting in the dark. For ever.’
‘Donahue is checking the charts. Maybe we’ll be okay.’
Donahue searched through the trauma bag. She found a box of Codeine. She pressed tablets from a foil strip and dry-swallowed.
Galloway sat on the entrance steps. He watched her and smiled.
‘A little something to take the edge?’
‘Mind your own damned business.’
‘Hey. So you need a little de-stress. I don’t blame you. No one would blame you. Nariko got us in this mess. She wanted to die a hero. Dragged us down here and got herself killed. You didn’t create this situation.’
‘Shut the hell up, all right? You didn’t know the Captain. I saw her suit up more times than I can count. One of the best. End of each shift, those hard-ass Irish fucks would save her a seat at the bar. Old-school motherfuckers, twenty-five years on the job. If you work on a fire truck, that’s worth more than a Congressional Medal of Honor. You got to eat some serious smoke to impress those bastards.’
‘Sure. She was better than me, better than all of us. But right now, we’re marooned. Each of us got to deal the best way we can.’ He gestured to the pill box. ‘Gonna throw me a few of those bad boys?’
Donahue tossed the pill box. Galloway snatched it from the air.
‘Could use a cigarette. Shit, I could use a drink.’
He was pale, face coated with a glistening sweat-sheen.
‘How’s your arm?’ asked Donahue.
Galloway looked down at his bandaged hand. He slowly clenched his fist.
‘Not so great.’
He pointed to the trauma kit.
‘You’ve got a ton of shit in that bag, right? Got a tourniquet? Scalpels? Sutures? All that stuff?’
Donahue shook her head.
‘Forget it. There is nothing anyone can do for you. That’s the hard truth. Sorry, dude. Your luck’s run out.’
Donahue headed back to the office. She slumped in a chair, head in her hands.
Lupe stood at the table, studying charts.
‘Are you going to help, or what?’
‘Let me rest,’ said Donahue. ‘Please. Just for a minute or two.’
‘Three cons and a guy on the turn. You’re the boss now. You’re supposed to take charge, sort shit out.’
Donahue didn’t reply. She closed her eyes and breathed deep as the Codeine hit.
‘We ought to talk about Galloway. We can’t let the disease take hold.’
‘So?’ asked Donahue. ‘What do you want to do? Force a capsule down his throat?’
‘We might have to use the shotgun. Could be the kindest thing. Pick our moment. Do it quick and clean. The guy wouldn’t have to know a thing about it.’
Donahue held out the gun.
‘Be my guest.’
Lupe took the weapon.
‘Okay. I’ll do what needs to be done. But I don’t want to hear any complaints when the time comes.’
Splutter and rev of a petrol engine.
‘What the hell is that?’
Lupe and Donahue ran for the door.
Sicknote held a petrol-drive stone-cutter. He shut off the motor. He watched the circular blade slow-spin to a halt. A fine blood spray across his forearms and face.
Galloway sat on the ticket hall floor. He had a leather belt tightly strapped around his forearm. A dripping stump where his hand used to be.
The air around him was tinged purple. A halo of exhaust smoke and blood mist.
He looked euphoric.
‘Holy mother of God,’ murmured Lupe.
The severed hand lay in a puddle of blood.
Donahue threw a balled T-shirt at Sicknote.
‘Wipe that shit off your face. Do it quick. He’s infected. And mop the floor, for Christ’s sake. We have to clean this mess up.’
‘What’s going on?’ demanded Wade, groping along the wall. ‘Someone tell me what the hell is going on.’
‘Just stay there, all right? Hang back. There’s blood. We’ve got to glove-up and sterilise this place.’
Donahue double-gloved, crouched and picked up a hypodermic.
‘What did you shoot? Dilaudid? How much did you take?’
Galloway shrugged. He held up his stump. Woozy smile.
‘Ain’t going out without a fight.’
34
Tombes walked among rows of bodies. The beam of his flashlight played over desiccated cadavers.
He plugged his nostrils with tissue. He searched pockets. He uncurled each fist and retrieved crumpled sheets of paper. Suicide notes stained with blood-spray and the mottled leak-grease of decomposition.
Cloke pulled open the door to the adjoining carriage.
Boxed lab equipment. Toppled stacks of high-impact Peli cases, like tumbled building blocks.
He pictured the chaos. The presidential announcement. Planes are in the air. Ten major cities selected for destruction:
Los Angeles.
Chicago.
Houston.
Philadelphia.
Phoenix.
San Antonio.
San Diego.
Dallas.
San Jose.
New York.
Panic. Less than an hour until a B2 reaches Manhattan and releases its payload.
Ivanek screaming at the radio, desperate to reach NORAD, desperate to tell them the Bellevue team is alive and they should call off the strike.
Soldiers and medics grab gear from the Fenwick Street platform and hurl supplies aboard the train. Their entire bivouac broken down in minutes. Cots, cooking utensils and lab equipment tossed through carriage doorways.
Personnel cower aboard the train, sobbing with fear as Donovan, the commanding officer, makes one last sweep of the station. He sprints across the ticket hall. He kicks open the plant room door and checks the IRT office, makes sure the place is stripped of gear and no one left behind.
He runs down the platform steps three at a time, yells to the motorman hanging out of his cab: All clear. He hurls himself aboard the train. The doors slide shut and the locomotive pulls away from the platform.
They sit parked in the tunnel, counting down the minutes, praying and weeping, waiting for the strike.
They knew how detonation would unfold:
EMP would kill the power. A half second of darkness, then they would feel a sudden ear-popping change of tunnel pressure. Half a second later, the blast wave would hit.
Maybe they passed round a pistol and blew their brains out before the bomb exploded. To escape the horror. To escape the fear.
Cloke found a plastic bag. He flapped it open.
He kicked through the wreckage. Thumb drives. A pile of printout. Clipboards loaded with paper. He stuffed them in the bag.
A PC. He threw it on the floor. He kicked the aluminium chassis and tore out the hard drive. He dropped it in the bag.
The next carriage.
Cloke paused in the doorway. He pressed his face to the glass. Darkness within. A couple of winking, emerald LEDs. Something powered up.
He pulled the door aside. Machine hum. Faint white
-noise hiss.
He adjusted his grip on the hammer.
‘Hey. Anyone home?’
He edged into the carriage.
His foot hit an obstruction. He shone his flashlight at the floor. A desiccated cadaver. Back arched, rigor-stiff, locked in a final death agony. The guy had a bayonet bedded deep in his eye socket, hands wrapped round the handle like he drove the blade into his own head.
No signs of infection. Cloke knelt and patted him down. Empty pockets, empty holster. He plucked the tag from the dead man’s neck.
Something grotesque at the back of the carriage. Metallic ropes and tendrils snaked across the floor, the walls, the roof.
Cloke reluctant to focus his flashlight. Sudden, gut conviction that he should turn and leave. Better not to see. Better not to know.
He forced himself to look.
‘Mother of God,’ he murmured.
Something at the centre of the knotted mess. The radio operator. He sat on a swivel chair, slumped over the receiver, embedded like the radio was eating him head first. He had succumbed to infection. His upper body was a mass of rippled metal. He was fused with the transmitter, fused with the torrent of chrome spilling across the floor, melding with the fabric of the carriage.
Cloke stepped between tendrils rooted in the splintered floorboards.
The young man gripped the edge of the table. His hand seemed healthy, normal. Cloke pulled off a glove, intending to check for warmth, for life, but glanced at the metal-melded head and withdrew.
He examined the radio. A green power light pulsed like a heartbeat. Frequency needles twitched in time to the strange, cardiovascular rhythm.
He checked beneath the table. The power cable hung severed and frayed.
It was as if the radio had become an extension of the kid’s nervous system. The chips and circuits were now incorporated into the neural architecture of his brain, responding to fleeting static-bursts of synaptic activity.
Cloke unhooked the Motorola from his belt and retuned.
‘Rescue party calling Bellevue, can anyone hear me, over?’
No response.
‘Ivanek. Can you hear me? Can you hear my voice?’
Transmission needles twitched and rose.
The young man’s voice crackled through the speaker of Cloke’s radio. Distant, shouting to be heard over a storm-howl of interference.