Awakened

by James S. Murray

  The speaker let out a static squelch. “Go ahead, Carl.”

  “We’re by marker 119. It looks like the railroad ties buckled under the track. There’s a pretty deep hole. We don’t know how far down it goes.”

  Nobody replied.

  “Did you get that?” Bradshaw asked.

  “Roger. Is the track still intact?”

  “It’s bent upward on both sides of the hole, but the track hasn’t ripped off the ties entirely.”

  “Is there any way you can block or fill in the hole?”

  “Not unless you send down a backhoe and a shit ton of dirt.”

  “Any signs of life?”

  “None.”

  “In that case, you and Jim pull back and return to the station. Don’t forget to keep your weapons holstered and stay alert.”

  “Understood.”

  The men turned to retreat, and Bradshaw’s shoe made a squishing sound. He looked down to examine the ground and gasped.

  “We’re standing in a goddamn pool of blood.” He nearly gagged. “And what are those clumps on the floor? Is that . . . ?”

  Bradshaw leaned down to get a closer look.

  A liver. What looked like a giant hock of flesh. Severed digits.

  Bradshaw stumbled back in shock, nearly tripping over his own feet. The walkie-talkie slipped from his hand and plunged into the abyss.

  “Fuck!” Bradshaw yelled futilely.

  “That’s the least of our concerns,” Donaldson snapped. “Let’s get outta here.”

  The officers retreated up the tunnel. At the next marker, the walkie-talkie on Donaldson’s belt crackled. He ignored it and continued until it chirped twice, as if somebody on the same channel had double-tapped a transmit button.

  “Come on,” Bradshaw said. “Keep up.”

  Donaldson unclipped his walkie-talkie. “Wait. You hear that?”

  “No?”

  “It sounded like . . . I’m not sure. Something.” He hit transmit. “Diego, did you just pick anything up?”

  “Nothing. What are you hearing?”

  “Give us a minute.”

  Donaldson slowly walked back in the direction of the hole. The crackling cleared, and in the faintest regions of audible discernment, he thought he heard a faint voice calling out. He drew closer.

  The speaker hissed, followed by a whisper. A child’s whisper.

  “It sounds like a kid,” Bradshaw said.

  Both men froze, silently waiting for another transmission.

  “Help me,” a little girl said more clearly through the speaker.

  Donaldson pried away his gas mask and raised his walkie-talkie. “What’s your name?”

  “Help me,” she repeated.

  “You’re not hearing this, Diego?” Donaldson asked.

  “Just hearing you. What’s going on?”

  Donaldson didn’t answer as he took in the situation. He knew he wasn’t imagining things, because Carl definitely heard the girl, too. Which meant that Munoz was probably out of her range. And since her voice became clearer when he neared the damaged part of the tunnel . . .

  He was pretty sure a passenger who had fallen into the hole had Bradshaw’s radio.

  Donaldson sprinted for the hole and lifted his walkie-talkie. “We have a passenger alive. A little girl. May need medical assistance. We’re going back, over.”

  “Negative,” Munoz replied through the speaker. “Return to perimeter. Immediately.”

  “To hell with that. There’s a kid down there.” Donaldson skidded to a halt by the marker post and flipped open one of the MTA emergency boxes lining the tunnel. He grabbed a basic medical pack and unhooked a coil of orange rope and an LED lantern.

  Bradshaw knelt by the hole and raised his mask again. “Sweetheart, can you hear me?”

  “Help me,” came through the walkie-talkie.

  “We’re coming,” Donaldson yelled. “Carl, tie this end to the track.”

  “Are you nuts? You can’t go down there. Hell, you don’t even know how far down it goes!”

  “Are you prepared to leave that kid to die?” Donaldson tore off his jacket and slipped on a pair of gloves. “We have to at least try, don’t we? Tie the goddamn rope, Carl.”

  Bradshaw hesitated for a moment before he secured an end to the track.

  Donaldson cast the other end into the abyss. He wrapped the rope around his gloved hand, latched the lantern on to his belt, and passed Bradshaw his walkie-talkie. “Keep Munoz in the loop. And be careful with it this time.”

  “You got it.”

  Donaldson planted his feet, leaned back, and lowered himself into the pitch-black shaft. The dim orange light from his swinging lantern bounced off the walls. He descended slowly, careful to avoid brushing against the jagged edges of the rock.

  “You see anything, Jim?” Bradshaw called.

  “Not yet.”

  The shaft narrowed toward an opening and he had twenty feet to go.

  “Sweetheart,” Donaldson said. “I’m almost there. Can you hear me?”

  “Help me,” echoed from below. “Help me.”

  Hearing the little girl’s voice directly for the first time struck him as odd. It sounded the same every time, like a talking doll. He paused to catch his breath and listened more intently.

  The rock snapped below his boots and gave way. He plummeted a dozen feet, crashing against the sides of the shaft, and sharp outcrops tore into his left side. He clamped his hands around the rope to stop his slide.

  Dirt and rock rained on him, showering into his eyes and battering the top of his head and shoulders. The light from the lantern cut. Donaldson winced as strength drained from his body.

  The rope slipped from between his fingers.

  He plunged toward the opening and braced himself for the moment of impact. His boots crashed against solid ground sooner than he expected and pain seared in his left ankle, and he collapsed in a heap over a pile of rubble.

  Bradshaw yelled something.

  Donaldson coughed. He shook the lantern and tapped its side. It flickered back on and he held it in the dusty air, illuminating the walls and ceiling of a small cavern. The points of sharp stalactites hung down, making it impossible to stand if he wanted to search the place, but he had enough room to crawl.

  “Jim,” Bradshaw’s voice echoed from above. “Can you hear me?”

  “I’ll live but I think I broke my ankle.”

  “Do you see the girl?”

  Something rustled in the darkness.

  “Sweetie, is that you?” Donaldson asked. “Are you hurt?”

  “Help me.”

  “Darling, head toward the light. I’m here to help you.”

  Nobody replied.

  “Don’t be scared. I’m a police officer.”

  Donaldson crawled through the cavern and entered a tighter space where the stalactites scraped his back. His lungs burned and his ankle throbbed, but his determination to save the girl drove him on.

  His hand hit something soft, and he lifted a child’s tattered and bloodstained white dress. “Sweetie, my God, I’m coming. There’s no need to be afraid.”

  A figure darted across his front. He extended his lantern, inched closer to a dark corner and toward the sound of the girl’s coarse breaths.

  “Reach for my hand, honey.”

  Donaldson’s shirt snagged on a stalactite. He lowered the lantern and reached back to free his shirt.

  In his peripheral vision, the figure lunged at him. With no room to maneuver, there was nothing he could do as hands grabbed his shoulders, nails pierced his flesh, and his body lifted in one sudden movement.

  The glistening ends of two stalactites exploded through the center of his chest and stomach and held him in the air. Blood spurted from his mouth and his vision blurred.

  “Jim,” Bradshaw screamed in the distance. “Jim, are you there?”

  Through the darkness, a snarling face appeared below Donaldson’s torn-open torso. A scaly hand lifted Brads
haw’s walkie-talkie, and a dirty fingernail hit the transmit button.

  “Help me.”

  Not . . . terrorists . . . was the last thing that went through Donaldson’s mind before the scaly hand choked the little life he had left out of his throat.

  Reynolds and Samuels stood on either side of Munoz as he listened to Bradshaw’s increasingly frantic and incoherent transmissions about losing contact with his partner. Guilt burned inside Munoz at the mission’s apparent failure, but he needed confirmation before carrying out a full internal self-flagellation.

  Munoz leaned toward the mic. “Calm down. What’s happening? Over.”

  Static.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead.

  He squeezed the mic harder. “Officer, what’s—”

  “It’s a trap!” Bradshaw screamed over the walkie-talkie. “Goddamn it, someone help us!”

  “Calm down and tell us what’s happening.”

  “There was a girl’s voice. Jim climbed into the hole to rescue her and . . . My God, I think he might be dead. Now she’s trying to lure me down.”

  “He’s losing it,” Samuels whispered to the president.

  “Get the hell out of there and return to the station now,” Reynolds said.

  “I can’t just leave him. What if—”

  “Follow the president’s order,” Munoz said. “You’ve located the breach and the enemy. We’ll let the rescue teams know about Jim Donaldson.”

  “I can’t just—”

  A hiss came through the speaker, followed by silence.

  “Bradshaw?” Munoz said.

  Static.

  “Bradshaw!”

  Nothing.

  Munoz rested his head in his hands.

  “It’s time to focus on that sub, Mr. President,” Samuels said.

  “What’s the ETA?”

  Samuels and Reynolds headed for the monitor displaying the sub’s GPS coordinates superimposed on a map of the Hudson.

  Even as the grief and guilt coursed through him, with Samuels’ shadow gone, Munoz seized the opportunity at hand. He flipped open his laptop, read Cafferty’s messages, and composed a quick reply.

  DM: Tom, some kind of breach in the Jersey City tunnel. Methane leak at dangerous levels. Extreme explosive hazard. Terrorist attacks still possible. DO NOT enter Jersey City tracks. Rescue team on its way thru the Manhattan tunnel. Pavilion not at explosive level yet, seek shelter fast. Half hour tops. Protect against possible suffoca

  Munoz hit enter and quickly folded his laptop lid down right before Samuels turned his attention back his way.

  He prayed Cafferty got the message in time.

  Chapter Nine

  Protect against possible suffoca

  Cafferty read it over and over. His blood pressure soared at the idea of Reynolds purposefully holding back this information. Playing politics was one thing; treating him like an untrustworthy fool was another story.

  He typed an immediate reply.

  TC: When are the rescue teams arriving?

  No response from Munoz.

  TC: Diego, are you still there?

  Nothing.

  Cafferty guessed Munoz was back under the control of Reynolds and his Secret Service detail. He slowly spun in the AV room chair while digesting the rest of the message. It seemed inconceivable that terrorists had mined a route under the Hudson to attack the train. Unexpected methane pockets were found during the construction process, but all were filled, and a ground-penetrating radar survey confirmed the absence of any potential breaches. To dig a tunnel of that magnitude underneath their whole operation—it just wasn’t possible. And yet . . . clearly it was. Something was missed, and it was costing people their lives.

  Is this because I rushed the project through? The tunnel collapse that had claimed the life of that construction worker—what was his name, McGoins? McGowan?—had been a true accident, but Cafferty couldn’t help but wonder if his obsession had led to more than just his marriage’s struggles. He had pushed, and pushed hard, but . . .

  No. Maybe we missed something, but it wasn’t for lack of looking. This was especially true after the collapse—safety had been the top priority moving forward, and thorough inspections of all the tunnels and their routes had been instituted, even though it could have meant serious delays. Terrorists caused this mess. They were to blame.

  Still, the Z Train extension was his project—his baby—and even the most observant parent was to be blamed if the child got hurt, regardless of if the fault lay elsewhere.

  Blame would have to wait, though. Right now, a more pressing fact remained: he had to come up with a contingency plan if help didn’t arrive in time.

  North leaned his head around the door. “All civilians searched, Tom. We found nothing.”

  Cafferty stayed glued to the screen.

  “What’s up?” North asked.

  “Our dear president hasn’t been forthcoming with certain details,” Cafferty said, twisting the laptop to face him.

  North inclined toward the screen and read the message. “Jesus Christ. Do we know when the teams are coming?”

  “I asked Diego the same thing. But we don’t have time to wait. Grab one of the senior MTA workers and bring them here fast. We need a backup strategy.”

  North hustled out of the room, leaving Cafferty alone with his thoughts. Precious time had been wasted by the president not looping him in to the situation. If they got out of this alive, regardless of Reynolds’ position, a score required settling. A new score. That was for later, though. The question right now was how they were going to get out of this, and he pondered his options.

  Footsteps rushed back up the short corridor.

  North reentered with a vaguely familiar-looking man wearing an MTA polo shirt. “This is Paul DeLuca, one of the project’s technical managers. He knows this place like you know baseball.”

  Cafferty rose and shook his hand. “Thanks for coming, Paul. We need your help, and we need it fast.”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Mayor.”

  “I’ll get straight to the point: you’ve probably got a headache, like me, and it’s because of a methane leak in the Jersey tunnel. If rescue teams don’t arrive in half an hour, we’re . . . well, we’re dead.”

  DeLuca’s face sunk. “What?”

  “I know it’s a lot to take in on top of what we’re already facing, but we have to come up with a solution. Forget the command center. We need to create a sealed environment out here where we’re shielded from an explosion and won’t choke to death before rescue teams arrive.”

  “I don’t . . .” DeLuca said. “I mean, I’m not . . .”

  Cafferty rested his hand on his shoulder. “Take your time, buddy. Not thirty minutes, obviously, but digest it. Keep your cool and think.”

  DeLuca slipped his hand inside his satchel, retrieved a tablet, and scrolled through technical drawings. Cafferty paced the room, thinking about the consequences of the leak for Ellen and the passengers. He came to the stomach-churning conclusion that if any had survived the attack, the methane drastically cut their chances of leaving the subway system alive.

  “What about the train?” North asked, interrupting his thoughts.

  “What about it?” Cafferty said.

  “The rear car is intact and untouched. Only the first car where the passengers were was attacked. Can we use it?”

  They both looked to DeLuca.

  “I guess it’s possible. But we’d need to create an airtight seal in the car.” DeLuca pulled up a list of materials stored in the Pavilion. “Okay, let’s see . . . We’ve got oxygen tanks, spare wall panels, and should have four blowtorches in the maintenance room. If we block the vents, seal the doors and windows, it might work. The thing is . . .”

  “What?” North asked.

  “I just don’t know if we’ll have time.”

  “Mr. DeLuca, you’ve got time,” Cafferty said. “You’ve got twenty minutes. Get it done. Our lives depend on it.”

  De
Luca swallowed, then nodded.

  “Good—let’s go.”

  Cafferty left the AV room and jogged over to the food court, but slowed his stride before anyone could see him rushing anywhere. The appearance of him, North, and DeLuca drew curious looks from the seventy or so guests, MTA workers, and cops who sat around the tables, and he knew he needed to appear calm if they were going to get through this. The fact that most had the pallor of corpses, courtesy of the leak Reynolds had forgotten to mention, was not helping him keep his emotions in check.

  But you don’t become mayor of New York by losing your shit in public.

  He climbed on top of the nearest empty table. “Ladies and gentlemen—”

  “What’s going on?” someone shouted.

  Cafferty held up his hands. “I know you have questions, but right now, we don’t have time. The reason for your headache is the level of methane in the air. Help is on the way, but we need to take a precautionary measure and seek shelter now before the methane level rises further.”

  The crowd murmured, and some looked toward the train.

  “We’ll see this through,” Cafferty said. “But I need your help. I need a dozen people to help Mr. DeLuca with gathering materials from the maintenance room. Anyone with welding experience, report to David North.”

  “What’s happening?” a woman he recognized from city hall asked.

  “We’re sealing the second car of the train and taking refuge inside.”

  “Are you mad?” the Washington Post journalist called out. “There’s not a chance in hell I’m going near that subway train.”

  “Suit yourself,” Cafferty said, half expecting this response. “The second car is completely intact. The methane level is okay at this moment, but it won’t be soon. So until the rescue team arrives, it’s your choice—seal up that train and stay safe, or stay out here and take your chances, buddy.”

  The man shifted uneasily in his seat.

  “This isn’t a debate, folks,” Cafferty said with a sharp clap. “Speed is of the essence. Let’s go.”

  Twelve people approached DeLuca and he led them out of the food court. Five approached North—which was more than the available blowtorches, but it wouldn’t hurt to have as many on hand as possible—and his group crossed the Pavilion toward the train.