Primeval (Werewolf Apocalypse Book 2)

by William D. Carl

  When she’d emerged from the subway station, the gap between the skyscrapers was immediately noticeable. Several tourists surrounded the empty space, taking pictures of the already towering building being constructed. It had to be at least twenty stories tall already, and many of the mirrored windows were installed. She imagined one day it would look glorious, but for now it merely seemed sad, like a prop standing in for the real thing. She was approached by several venders who peddled books and pictures of the falling towers, and she brushed them off. One foreigner didn’t understand, and he kept shoving a booklet in her face with a picture of the second plane hitting the place where her brother had worked, only two floors above the impact zone. She hurried away, but the image filled her mind, and she turned her back on the construction zone.

  After her brief visit, after reading the plans for the future site on murals surrounding Ground Zero, after taking in the cross at St. Peter’s and seeing the plaque and all the votive candles on the sidewalk, she thought that Nicole had been wrong. She didn’t experience any kind of closure. All she felt was a strong sense of emptiness in her soul.

  Taking the subway up to Times Square where she had heard about a huge Apple Store, she marveled at the silver train and the speeds it attained. The subway was truly remarkable to her, a miracle of engineering. She tried to put the image on the booklet out of her mind by people watching. However, there was barely anyone on the train. She’d always figured there would be cars packed full of commuters standing and holding onto the poles and filling the seats. There were actually only thirteen people in the car, including her.

  Soon, she was ascending the stairs up to the streets of Times Square, surrounded by noise and skyscrapers. Huge screens showed animated ads for new musicals, reality television shows, and Coca-Cola, and long boards ran news headlines across one building – something about rats. Tables and chairs had been set up where the street had once been, and vendors called out to the people walking by their stores. Once again, Sandy thought there weren’t very many people in the streets. In all the pictures she’d ever seen, Times Square was a crowded, bustling area.

  As she headed to the Apple Store to buy a gift for Nicole, she wondered what kind of person could do such a thing as bomb the towers and kill so many innocent people. Had they been brainwashed or had they been so filled with hatred that suicide would feel like popping a pimple, a great relief for their anger-filled souls? She knew she would never completely understand it. She had, of course, studied the various reasons why Al-Qaeda had attacked America, but something within her had been unable to fully comprehend that kind of heretical fervor. In the meantime, her brother was dead. She found herself crying, the tears on her cheeks drying in the cool wind.

  She tried to turn her thoughts to something nicer – her relationship with her beloved Nicole. Sandy had met the sharpshooter in a bar, someplace dark and smoky with Melissa Etheridge blaring from a jukebox and shadowy tryst-filled corners. If it wasn’t love at first sight, it had been like-a-lot at first sight. That had been three years ago, and almost every moment of discovery had been joyful to Sandy. She was often sad when Nicole had to leave her to go fight her battles with the Army, but she understood why her lover did it. She was absolutely committed to keeping her country safe, despite the fact that a very vocal group of people considered gays and lesbians to be the downfall of that same country.

  In her duties to the Army, Nicole didn’t tell and her bosses never asked, and this seemed to be fine with Nicole. Unfortunately, Sandy wasn’t fine with it. She didn’t want to remain hidden in the shadows like something sinister and dangerous. Then, “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” was repealed, and Sandy had been ready to embrace the new openness of their love affair. Unfortunately, Nicole still recoiled from revealing that much of herself to her comrades in arms. She hesitated, and Sandy saw the road ahead of her – the road lined with picket fences, houses in the suburbs, and shaggy dogs in the yards – suddenly take a sharp sideways turn. She could tell Nicole was delighted with the repeal of the law, but she could also sense her trepidation. She’d been hidden away in a closet for so long she’d grown accustomed to the cramped space and half-light her veiled life had offered her. She was also still afraid that she would be treated differently if her superiors knew who she loved in her spare time. Sandy had argued that they knew – they had to suspect; Nicole was as butch as they came. However, the sniper had still vacillated, afraid to take that final step and tell her superiors. She remained quiet about it, living her life in a state of secrecy, and it had caused a small rift in their affections.

  Sandy begrudgingly consented to their furtive visits when Nicole was on leave, wonderful moments that were becoming few and far between with the advent of this whole Lycanthropy Virus. She had tried to convince Nicole to leave the Army, but girlfriend’s mind was made up. She said she felt useful, that she was good at what she did. Sandy agreed, knowing Nicole was one of the Army’s best shots – she had the trophies to prove it – but it didn’t make a difference to her heart. Heated arguments had resulted, and even more heated “forgive me” sex had followed. Their life was what it was – for now.

  Sandy knew in her heart that Nicole would come around to her way of thinking one day. She hoped it was relatively soon. Recently, she had started mentioning adopting a child to Nicole, but she had been rebuffed so far. Sandy wanted a kid one day. She decided to continue chipping away at Nicole’s patent refusal.

  At the Apple Store, she purchased an iPad and a green leather carrying case. Smiling, she knew Nicole would be thrilled with the gift – she often mentioned she needed something like one of these doodads to keep up with the world when she was on duty. Sandy had the sales clerk wrap it for her in bright paper. She couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel and start playing with the gadget with Nicole. Maybe she’d get one for herself with her next paycheck.

  Passing the TKTS kiosk, she wondered if Nicole would be open to seeing a Broadway show that evening. It would be an expensive indulgence, but wasn’t that what vacations were all about? She mentally made a note to ask her lover this evening.

  Brimming with the kind of happiness that only comes from finding a perfect gift for a loved one, Sandy headed toward the subway stairs. She whistled while walking past the wrought iron fencing and the gray subway sign. Dozens of people milled in both directions, and she found herself part of a descending herd. After a couple of turns, she scanned her recently purchased subway card and pushed through the turnstile. Passing the white-tiled mosaics, she looked for the orange B line heading to the hotel in Brooklyn. Moving right, she came across a filthy man playing guitar while sitting cross-legged on the floor. He sung softly, leaning against a metal magazine kiosk, his eyes closed, completely absorbed in the moment. Sandy dropped a five-dollar bill into his open guitar case.

  The sound of the approaching train overwhelmed the man’s soft voice, and Sandy headed toward the tracks.

  This was going to be a great evening.

  Chapter 7

  12:05 p.m.

  John Creed took notes on Michael Keene’s story of woe, but he found his attention wandering across the road to the 42nd Street subway entrance. The McDonald’s where they shared a table was humming with activity, but John was certain there was a lot more to see on – hell, even under – the street. He’d been listening to Michael talk about his descent into poverty, his difficulty in hanging onto his home and his girlfriend, his downhill slide into the tunnels under the city where the so-called mole men lived. It was a depressing story with little hope for redemption, and such tales of wretchedness made for tedious reading. He would print the story, and it would be as well written as he could manage, but it really didn’t peak his interest.

  Dirty tunnels … yadda yadda yadda … searching for food … blah blah blah … finding warmth under the city streets in the arms of another homeless person … trying not to lose his humanity … and so on and so forth …

  It was tragic, but it wasn’t original or reve
latory. Therefore, to John, it wasn’t news.

  But orders were orders, and he was going to do his best to wring every bit of pathos out of the man’s sad fable.

  Outside, a few people were passing, moving in that distinctively aggressive way New Yorkers moved, as if everything depended on getting someplace fast. There was always a sense of actual direction in their fast walking. Places to go, people to destroy, business to attend to, worlds to conquer.

  For a moment, he wondered about the lack of pedestrians. The streets seemed to be fairly empty for lunch hour. He wondered if something had happened to drive them all indoors, where they were now glued to their television screens.

  Then a woman ran screeching from the subway entrance, her hands fluttering in the air, purse clutched at her side. John perked up. Something was happening. Something worth his while as a reporter.

  As he watched, he witnessed several other people fleeing, followed by a stream of a dozen or so large rats. The rodents were moving with the same purpose as the New Yorkers … places to go, people to eat. John was amazed at their size, at least a foot and a half in length, not counting the naked tails. They were the biggest rats he’d ever seen, and they really seemed determined to catch at least one of the screaming people. As one, they honed in on a heavy-set Chinese woman wearing Prada shoes and carrying a Coach bag. They moved with singular intent, chasing after her as she rounded a corner and disappeared from view.

  “Holy shit!” John said, standing at the table, interrupting Michael’s narration. “Did you see those rats?”

  “Big ones?” the homeless man asked, turning in his seat. His back was to the window. “Been hearing about them all over down in the tunnels. Getting to be the size of dogs, so the others say.”

  “They just ran after a woman, like they were hunting as a pack.”

  “It’s happening a lot lately,” Michael said. “Some of my people have been getting bit. Then they just sort of disappear.”

  “You think the rats are eating people in the tunnels?” John asked, wide-eyed. Now this was more like it. This could be exploited, maybe even tied in with the whole Lycanthropy Virus outbreak. John could feel his yellow journalistic senses tingling, the singular thrill of the story as it unfolded.

  “I don’t know if they’re eating anyone or not,” Michael continued, “but people are disappearing all the same. Been hearing some weird noises down there lately, too.”

  John couldn’t help himself. He blurted, “Like howling? Like werewolves?”

  Michael thought it over for a moment before answering. “Maybe. It’s hard to tell. The acoustics are all bent out of shape. Things echo, sound like they’re coming from other places. All the water doesn’t help either.”

  “Just how many tunnels are down there?”

  “No idea. Thousands, probably. City’s been building them since it started becoming a city. Some have that old red brick for walls, some have concrete. It’s different depending on where you go and when they were built.”

  “Would you give me a tour, Michael? You know, take me around, show me some of the sights? Maybe I can get a listen to some of those weird sounds you’ve mentioned?”

  “Sure. You wanna go down now?”

  “Are you kidding?” John gasped, gathering up his mini recorder and pen and paper. He had his jacket on before he finished, “There’s no time like the present, right?”

  “Why not?” Michael said with a shrug. “Could improve the story, huh?”

  “Oh, it will most definitely help the story. If something’s really happening down there, this could be the story of the year.”

  Pulitzer Prize, here I come, John thought, making sure his camera bag was secure on his shoulder.

  “And this could do a good turn for my people?” John asked.

  “Yeah, yeah, sure it will. Now let’s go tunnel crawling.”

  They stood and walked out of the McDonald’s, heading for the 40th Street subway entrance. The air had a chill to it. He didn’t spot any more rodents, and the street was nearly cleared of people. As they made their way to the entrance, John noticed that nobody was exiting the subway. It was strangely silent for this time of day. He again wondered where all the people had gone.

  Probably scared of the rats, he thought. Who could blame them? Those buggers were huge.

  “This is the easiest way in,” Michael said. “Only there’s usually a crowd. Maybe you’re lucky. We won’t have to sneak around so much.”

  They walked down the steps into the station, and John felt that same pricking sensation along his spine. It usually boded a good story, but he wondered if this time it was a warning not to go any farther.

  They wove down the steps, past the white tile that gleamed as though someone had just buffed it. Movie posters, some of them comically defaced, adorned the walls.

  “Come on, we need to get on the tracks heading south,” Michael said.

  “We’re going to Flatbush?” John asked.

  “No. We’re going down, like you wanted.”

  There were very few people on the platform – an elderly Hassidic Jew fingering his prayer shawl, a pretty blond woman talking to a tough looking African-American woman with a buzz cut and a sleeveless T-shirt, an elderly woman with a cart full of grocery bags, and a rather fat businessman with a briefcase. A young African-American man in sweats leaned against a wall, tapping his feet in rhythm with a song on his iPod. Sitting at one of the benches was an athletic girl in a New York Nets jersey, probably high-school aged, and an attractive Spanish-looking woman in a gray suit. They were deep in conversation, and John overheard them say, “There can’t be any more of them. If there were lots of them, you’d see it on the news. Relax.”

  “This way,” Michael said, leading the reporter to the edge of the platform of the number 2 and 3 lines heading toward Brooklyn. “Is anyone watching?”

  John joined him and looked down onto the tracks that led off into darkness.

  “I asked if anyone was watching.”

  In the distance, John heard a train rumbling, heading for the station. It screeched against the tracks. He turned, looked at the small group of people. They were all peering down the tunnel in the direction of a gathering light – the B train heading downtown.

  “Yes, they’re all looking this way,” John said.

  “Then we wait till the train leaves.”

  Within a few moments, the downtown B train had pulled up to the station and had opened its doors. The small group of people shuffled inside, looking around at the empty car as though just realizing they were nearly alone. With a hiss, the doors of the subway car closed, and it squealed as it took off for the next station.

  “Now,” Michael said, leaping off the platform, landing between two rails. “Hey, look at this. We’re lucky.”

  He held up two yellow construction hats, hard plastic, with lights built into the bills. He handed one to John, who immediately put it on and tested the brightness of the beam of light.

  “I feel like a coal miner,” he said with a grin.

  “Okay, come on down here. Watch out for the third rail.”

  “I thought that was a myth,” John said, jumping off the platform. He stumbled a bit upon landing.

  “So are giant rats and werewolves,” John said. “You wanna take the chance?”

  He headed north into the near darkness, and John followed.

  “You ever seen any alligators down here?” he asked as they headed for the island platform.

  “Little ones,” Michael said nonchalantly.

  That cold, tingly feeling was racing up and down John Creed’s spine again.

  Chapter 8

  12:10 p.m.

  Nicole Truitt paced her hotel room, anxious for Sandy’s return. In the background, CNN blasted yet another story about killer mutant animals appearing in New York City. Nicole tried not to worry about it, but her girlfriend had been gone for the morning, and she wished Sandy would call to tell her she was all right. She chastised herself; just
because Sandy hadn’t called didn’t mean she’d been devoured by some freak of nature from the monster gene pool.

  There was a knock on the door, and she stepped over and opened it. General Taylor Burns stood in the hallway, looking sheepish. He appeared smaller in his civilian clothes, loose black jeans and a faded gray sweatshirt, but his broad John Wayne-ish face grinned back at her with pearly white teeth, his brown eyes turned down at the corners so he always looked a little remorseful – a basset hound with a tan. Sighing, Nicole motioned him into the room, knowing he didn’t have anywhere else to go.

  He had followed her and Sandy to New York, claiming he wanted to see the botanical gardens, but the women knew he had no interest in plants and butterflies. If there had been a gun and knife show, maybe they could have believed his assertions. They knew he didn’t have anywhere else to go. He had no family, no close friends. Other than his connections in the Lycan Sniper Team, he had very little in the way of human connections. So he stayed close to his favorites, and Nicole was at the top of that list. Usually, she didn’t mind him tagging along, but she had been craving some quality time with her girlfriend, and his presence felt like a bit of an intrusion.

  She still hadn’t told him about her real relationship with Sandy. She knew he couldn’t get her kicked out of the Armed Services, not since “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” had been repealed, but she didn’t want their professional relationship to change, either. She liked him, his solid world view, the way he brightened when she showed him any attention. She figured he had to at least suspect what she and Sandy did behind locked hotel doors, but he was old school, and he wasn’t about to ask her about her personal life. Nicole wondered if this had anything to do with the fact that he had no personal life of his own.