Terminus

by Adam Baker

  IRT Superintendent Office

  She checked the Glock. She fumbled the safety and adjusted her grip.

  She kicked open the door, the impact of her boot gunshot-loud in the oppressive chapel-hush of the deserted station.

  The door swung wide. Assault entry. A swift sweep of the room, braced to fire.

  A windowless office. A desk and a couple of toppled chairs. A wooden filing cabinet with no drawers. A gramophone next to a stack of 78s sheathed in paper sleeves.

  She lowered the weapon.

  She checked out the desk. She stroked a finger through dust. Rotary phone, inkwell, blotter. She turned the phone dial and watched it slowly grind back to zero.

  She left the office and crossed the ticket hall.

  Steps sloped downward.

  A brass arrow:

  To All Trains

  Nariko cautiously descended the steps. Skin-crawl blackness. The long stairway lured her further from the surface world, took her further from help. She fought claustrophobia, the sudden, gut conviction that she was climbing into her own grave.

  She reached the bottom of the stairs. Dark water lapped the foot of the steps. She stood at the water’s edge and shone her flashlight into the cavernous tunnel space.

  ALL PERSONS ARE FORBIDDEN TO ENTER UPON OR CROSS THE TRACKS.

  The track-trench and platform were submerged. Drifting detritus. A milky skim of rock dust. Street garbage swept down through the drains: soda bottles, chip bags, clamshell burger cartons, leaves.

  The south entrance was blocked with crooked planks. The north tunnel mouth framed impenetrable darkness.

  Something white in the water. Nariko trained the beam. A naked body, floating face down, hand locked round an empty whiskey bottle. Hard to tell gender. Bloated bruise-flesh marbled with livid veins.

  She raised the pistol and fired a shot into the cadaver’s flank. Crack. Puff of muzzle smoke. Meat-smack as the bullet punctured inert flesh.

  She watched the corpse, waited for movement. A couple of air bubbles broke water. She steadied her aim and fired a second shot. The round blew out the back of the cadaver’s cranium. The impact sent the carcass drifting in a slow and stately pirouette into deep shadow.

  She unhooked her radio.

  ‘The place is deserted. The subway tunnel is flooded. It was a wasted journey.’

  ‘No sign of Ekks?’

  ‘No sign of anyone.’

  ‘We’ve got to get below ground, Captain.’

  ‘The emergency stairs are choked with rubble. Give me two minutes. I’ll crank up the elevator.’

  12

  Nariko struck a flare. It burned fierce red. She held it above her head and peered into the shifting shadows of the plant room.

  She put the flare on a brick ledge, let it fizz and smoke.

  She crouched next to a big traction motor bolted to the concrete floor. Dust-furred hoist gear. Murphy Elevator Company, Louisville. Cracked rubber belts and interlocking gears. A cable drum controlled counterweights in an adjacent shaft.

  She unhitched her backpack. She set it on the floor, unbuckled the straps and pulled out a compact Schneider two-stroke generator. She wrenched the starter cord. The motor sputtered and whined like a lawnmower. Puff of exhaust fumes. She attached bulldog leads to corroded copper terminals and threw a web laced, wall-mounted knife switch. Pop and spark. 120 volts AC. Steady hum.

  She returned to the ticket hall, struck a second flare and threw it down.

  A cage elevator:

  Freight

  IRT Staff Only

  No Passengers Allowed

  Nariko unhooked her radio.

  ‘Okay. You got power. Take her up.’

  Clank and shudder as the elevator began to ascend.

  Nariko peered upwards into the brick-lined shaft. She watched the wooden platform rise out of sight. She watched the counterweights descend on rails.

  The filigree clock hand of the floor indicator gradually swung from Sub to 6. Brief pause, then the elevator began its descent.

  Cloke.

  He stepped from the elevator. He looked around the flare-lit ticket hall. Flickering shadows. Porphyry columns. Mosaic tiles. Tannoy horns. A leaded glass light dome.

  ‘Place is a tomb,’ he said, voice muffled by his respirator. ‘The old Federal Building. Walked past the place a bunch of times. No idea they had a derelict subway terminal hidden in the basement.’

  Nariko helped drag a Peli trunk from the elevator. Lid stencil:

  UNITED STATES ARMY

  MEDICAL RESEARCH INSTITUTE

  OF INFECTIOUS DISEASES

  She slammed the gate and spoke into her radio.

  ‘Clear. Sending her back up.’

  ‘Ten-four.’

  ‘Where’s the street entrance?’ asked Cloke.

  ‘This way.’

  A brass arrow pointed upwards to street level.

  Exit

  They climbed the steps. A cage gate sealed the entrance like a portcullis. Nariko shone her flashlight through the lattice grille.

  Darkness. Merciless rain.

  A garbage-strewn side street. Toppled dumpsters. An abandoned motorcycle on its side.

  Flakes of ash drifted to earth: fallout blown from ledges, parapets and rooftops. Burned paper. Melted textile fibres. Carbonised people.

  A warning notice spray-stencilled on brickwork next to a fire escape:

  IT IS FORBIDDEN TO DUMP BODIES

  VIOLATORS WILL BE SUBJECT TO ARREST

  PURSUANT TO FEMA 373-8729

  A lightning flash lit a broken, skeletal figure as it feebly dragged itself through rainwater. Ratty overcoat and a watch cap. Advanced infection: metallic sarcomas erupted from flesh.

  A homeless guy. Probably didn’t have the resources to flee the city when the outbreak began. Hid in a shitty basement somewhere, ate from cans and sucked a crack stem while loudspeaker trucks cruised street-to-street broadcasting martial law.

  The creature hauled shattered, useless legs. Terrible blistered burns down the left side of its body. An empty eye socket wept pus. The remaining jet-black eye fixed on Nariko.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Nariko. ‘That guy really caught the crispy.’

  ‘Must have been out in the open when the bomb dropped,’ said Cloke. ‘Seared by the thermal flash. Classic gamma burn.’

  ‘They were people once. The infected. Easy to forget.’

  Nariko raised the pistol and took aim. The slow-dying creature turned towards her and struggled to raise an arm. It reached towards the light.

  ‘Don’t waste your ammunition,’ said Cloke. ‘It stopped being human a long time ago. It’s beyond your help.’

  She lowered the Glock.

  ‘How many prowlers are left, do you think?’ she asked.

  ‘Most died in the initial blast, I suppose. Those inside the detonation zone would have been vaporised in a millisecond. Those outside the heat-core would have been ripped apart by a hurricane of high velocity glass and metal. The rest, those that were far enough from the hypocentre to survive the initial explosion, are fatally irradiated. They won’t last long. Accelerated cellular breakdown. Couple of weeks from now Manhattan will be truly lifeless. No birds, no grass. Nothing but scorched rubble.’

  ‘When do you think New York will be safe for human habitation?’

  ‘Some of the isotopes will decay over the next few months, but plenty of contaminants will seep into the soil, the water. This region will be lingering death for the next quarter of a million years.’

  Cloke jerked the gate.

  ‘I don’t trust this latch. Do we have any chain?’

  ‘I’ll look around, see what I can find.’

  ‘Help me curtain the entrance. We’ll decontaminate as best we can.’

  They lashed polythene sheet across the lattice gate, then returned to the ticket hall.

  Cloke strapped a water tank to his back. A steam cleaner for blasting graffiti from brickwork. He hosed walls and pillars with 0.5% h
ypochlorite solution.

  ‘Now you.’

  Nariko stood cruciform, enveloped in a jet of broiling vapour.

  ‘Do me.’

  She shouldered the cleaner and scoured Cloke front and back. Condensed water pooled on the floor. She blasted run-off towards the platform steps.

  Cloke flipped latches and opened the crate. Radiological equipment set in foam. He selected a Geiger counter. A yellow handset with an LCD screen. He tested for power. He took a reading.

  ‘It’s okay. You can take off your mask.’

  Nariko pulled the respirator from her face. She massaged strap welts.

  She unzipped, and stepped out of her C-BURN radiological suit. She kicked off heavy butyl overboots and stripped down to Fire Department fatigues. A blue T-shirt with an embroidered breast patch: a snarling rodentine face.

  RESCUE 4

  FDNY

  TUNNEL RATS

  She lifted the hem of the shirt and towelled sweat from her face.

  Cloke shrugged off his suit.

  ‘Stinks in here. Damp and rot.’

  Nariko sniffed.

  The acrid stink of melted synthetics and seared flesh filtered from the streets above.

  ‘Burned plastic. The whole city.’

  Cloke checked the Geiger unit. He held it towards the station entrance, watched numerals flicker.

  ‘How bad?’ asked Nariko.

  ‘Hard to tell without proper dosimeters. Those minutes we spent outside were the worst. Fully exposed, transferring gear from the chopper to the roof. Got to be eighty, ninety roentgens, out in the open. Maybe more. How long were we up there? Six, seven minutes before we got under cover? The suits gave us some protection, but we still took a heavy hit. Not so bad down here. Concrete and bedrock protect us from the worst. Every hour probably the equivalent of a chest X-ray.’

  ‘Twenty-four hours until the chopper picks us up.’

  ‘We should be okay if we stay below ground.’

  ‘We’re on our way down.’

  ‘Ten-four,’ said Nariko.

  The elevator hummed and rattled. The floor indicator counted down from 6 to Sub.

  Lupe and Galloway slowly descended into view.

  Nariko pulled back the rusted gate. Metal shriek.

  Jab with the shotgun barrel.

  ‘Move.’

  Lupe shuffled out into the ticket hall. Her ankle shackle forced baby steps.

  ‘Stand still, both of you,’ said Cloke.

  He hosed them head to toe.

  ‘All right,’ said Nariko. ‘You can take off your masks.’

  Galloway pulled back his rubber hood and peeled off his respirator.

  Nariko loosened head harness straps and removed Lupe’s mask.

  ‘How you doing?’ asked Nariko.

  Lupe held out her hands.

  ‘You folks going to uncuff me, or what? I got nowhere to run.’

  Galloway unzipped his NBC suit. His armpits were blotched dark with sweat. He unclipped cuff keys from a belt ring. He threw them to Nariko.

  Nariko released Lupe’s shackles. Galloway stood back, shotgun raised.

  ‘Pull any shit, I’ll blow your fucking legs off.’

  Lupe stretched, slow and defiant. She looked around.

  ‘Take off your gear,’ said Galloway.

  ‘Freezing in here.’

  ‘Take it off.’

  Lupe unzipped the heavy rubber suit and stepped out of the overboots.

  ‘Hold out your hands.’

  ‘What the fuck, dude?’ protested Lupe.

  ‘I said hold out your hands.’

  Nariko re-cuffed Lupe’s wrists. She looped a chain round a pillar and padlocked Lupe’s ankle.

  ‘Down,’ said Galloway. He prodded her shoulder with the shotgun barrel. ‘Down on the ground.’

  Lupe sat cross-legged on the floor.

  ‘There’ll be no warning shot, all right? If you mess with me, I’ll waste you.’

  The freight platform juddered back into view. Donahue and Tombes. Quick decon drill. They stripped off their suits.

  They both wore RESCUE 4 – TUNNEL RATS shirts.

  They struck a fresh flare and unloaded the elevator. A pallet of holdalls and equipment trunks. Rescue gear, trauma bags, coils of polypropylene rope. They threw them skidding across the floor.

  Lupe sat with her back to the pillar and watched them work.

  ‘Anyone got a smoke?’

  They ignored her.

  ‘Give me a drink, at least.’

  Nariko crouched beside Lupe. She held bottled water to her lips. Lupe swigged.

  ‘So how about it?’ asked Nariko, gesturing to the cavernous shadows of the ticket hall. ‘Where is he? Where’s Doctor Ekks?’

  13

  Radio crackle. Cloke’s voice:

  ‘Anything?’

  A light-dome on the ceiling flickered and glowed weak orange. A cluster of sodium bulbs behind an opaque bowl of leaded glass.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Nariko. ‘We’ve got light.’

  She looked around the ticket hall. Palatial dereliction. Cracked tiles. Scuffed dirt. Broken glass. Arch spans draped with a delicate lacework of dust and webs. Ghosts of the jazz age. Plutocrats at the height of their reign. Astors, Morgans, Vanderbilts.

  The superintendent’s office.

  Nariko shook open a five borough street map and smoothed it over the table.

  She blew to warm her hands. Steam breath. She was wearing her Nomex turnout coat, black with hi-viz trim, collar raised against the cold.

  ‘So where the hell is Ekks?’ asked Nariko. ‘He should be right here. We made brief contact just before the bomb dropped. There wasn’t time to organise an airlift. So we told them to stay below ground, get as deep as they could. Ride out the blast and wait for the rescue party.’

  ‘Doesn’t make sense,’ agreed Cloke. ‘There’s no way off the island.’

  ‘How about the Battery Tunnel?’ asked Nariko.

  ‘Battery. Holland. Almost certainly ruptured and flooded.’

  ‘The Marina?’

  ‘Forget it. Anyone with a yacht or sports fisher took off months ago. Packed a couple of suitcases and sailed south, soon as the outbreak began. Must have looked like a big-ass regatta, all those rich fucks heading for the Bahamas.’

  ‘What are their chances at street level?’ asked Nariko.

  ‘Nil,’ said Cloke. ‘Ekks and his team weren’t radiologists, but any fool would know time above ground without an NBC suit would be fatal. The streets are dusted with fallout. Strontium, caesium, all kinds of nasty shit. A steady ash-fall, settling on the rubble. If anyone walked north up 5th or Broadway towards the epicentre of the blast, they would be dead in minutes.

  Ekks and his boys would know, instinctively, their only shot at survival would be to stay below ground, conserve food and water, and hope Mayday calls summoned a rescue party.

  He should be right here. He’s got nowhere else to go.’

  Lupe sat chained to the ticket hall pillar.

  Galloway sprawled on the bench. He took a state correctional baseball cap from his pocket, flapped it open and set it on his head.

  ‘Wearing your old uniform. Aim to show me who’s boss, is that it?’

  He didn’t reply. He took a soft pack of Marlboros from his pocket. He broke the seal, tore foil and shook out a smoke.

  Lupe craned and examined the brand burned into the wooden stock of the Remington twelve–gauge.

  PROPERTY OF SS

  ‘Sing Sing. Yeah. I figured you were up river. Gun tower, or did you work the galleries?’

  Galloway ignored her. He took a matchbook from his breast pocket and scratched a flame.

  ‘Like your moustache. Got that gay porn star thing going on.’

  No response. He brushed ash from his uniform. Grey polyester. Pin holes for collar brass and a name badge. His stars and stripes shoulder patch was a fleck of brilliant primary colour among the shadows and dust of the ticket hall.


  He wore a thick leather belt. Loops for chemical spray, radio and latex gloves. An empty holster that looked like it used to sheath a .38 revolver. A baton ring. A cuff pouch. Keys hung from a clip.

  His boots were polished to a high gleam. He had rolled the short sleeves of his shirt to emphasise his biceps.

  ‘Bet you’re a big hit in the leather clubs. I can picture you, standing at the bar in your boots and chest harness, scoping the crowd. Picture it real easy.’

  ‘Bitch, you got a big mouth.’

  Galloway stood. He kicked her in the side. He aimed for a low rib. Lupe grunted and twisted in pain.

  ‘You live with your mother, don’t you?’ said Lupe. ‘Shitty, train-rattle apartment somewhere. Bet you’ve still got a box of G.I. Joes under the bed. Bet you line them up and have little battles when no one else is around.’

  Galloway shook a fresh cigarette from the pack. He lit it, and tossed the burning match in Lupe’s lap. She slapped out the flame with cuffed hands.

  ‘Don’t think you’ve quite grasped the new reality,’ he said. ‘No laws. Think about it. No Miranda, no recourse to appeal. Just you and me. Shit, I’m not even sure why we keep your tweaker ass alive. You’re a liability. A waste of food. Better off without you. Start the world over. Burn it clean. Let decent folk run the place for a change. You better hope no one puts it to a vote. Plenty of guys back at Ridgeway happy to pull the trigger. They’d draw lots for the privilege.’

  Nariko emerged from the office. She sat on the bench beside Galloway.

  She thumbed through the dossier. A thick bundle of mismatched documents pinned by brass brads. A picture of Ekks on the inside cover. A smudged scan of his driver’s license. An older guy. Fifties, sixties. Lean, silver hair. His face reduced to a pixel blur. Slavic bone structure. Thin lips. Eyes masked by shadow and printer grain.

  She closed the dossier and threw it on the bench beside her.

  ‘Hey. Galloway. Give me your cuffs.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The spare set on your belt.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For the gate.’

  Nariko held out her hand.

  Galloway reluctantly popped a belt pouch and slapped steel cuffs in her palm.

  ‘I got to talk to Lupe,’ said Nariko. ‘Give us five, all right?’