by Adam Baker
Donahue snatched a heavy crash axe from the equipment pile.
‘Who’s back there? How many guys?’
‘Keep your fucking mouth shut.’
‘How’s it going, Wade?’ shouted Lupe.
‘You all right, babe?’ said the voice.
‘Yeah. I’m good.’
Donahue fumbled at her belt for her radio. The clip hung loose. She had left the radio in the office.
She adjusted her grip on the axe shaft, shifted foot to foot, tried to figure her next move.
‘Walk.’ Another barrel-prod to the back of Galloway’s head.
Galloway stumbled to the centre of the ticket hall.
A man stood behind him. A tall guy. He had a bandana tied round his forehead. A blonde mullet and goatee. He wore the same red state-issue as Lupe. NY CORRECTIONS streaked with dust and dirt. His right hand kept the shotgun pressed to the back of Galloway’s head. His left hand gripped Galloway’s collar, steering him forwards, keeping him upright.
‘Stop,’ he ordered. ‘Stand there. Don’t move.’
Galloway came to a halt. He was white with shock. He started to tremble.
The convict stood in a half crouch, using Galloway’s body for cover.
‘Drop the axe, girl,’ said Lupe. ‘Scissors beats paper. He’s packing a shotgun.’
Donahue shifted left. The convict reacted to the crunch of her boot falls. He pulled Galloway to the right, keeping cover. They circled.
‘Seriously. Better drop the axe.’
Donahue readjusted her grip on the shaft. White knuckles.
The convict nudged Galloway forwards.
‘Kneel.’
Galloway slowly sank to his knees.
‘Please. Don’t. Don’t shoot.’
The convict kicked him in the back. Galloway sprawled face down. The gun barrel pressed to the nape of his neck. He stared at the floor, wide-eyed, like dust and chequered tiles were the last thing he would ever see.
The convict crouched. He fumbled at Galloway’s belt. He slapped and groped the leather. He unclipped the key fob.
‘Where are you, babe?’ He shouted like he was trapped at the bottom of a deep well calling upwards to distant daylight.
‘Here, you dumb fuck,’ said Lupe. ‘What the hell is the matter with you?’
The convict threw the keys towards the sound of her voice. They skittered across floor tiles. Lupe snagged them with her foot. She released her hands. She reached down and unshackled her ankles. She got to her feet.
‘Stop,’ shouted Donahue. She raised the axe, ready to swing. ‘Both of you. Keep still, all right? Just stay where you are.’ She circled, to keep both convicts in view.
‘Nadie se mueve, all right?’ said Lupe, hands raised in a placating gesture. ‘Relax. Let’s all just cool the hell out. We don’t want to hurt you. We don’t want to hurt anybody.’
She took a step forwards.
‘Back up,’ shouted Donahue, hefting the axe, tensed to strike. ‘Back the fuck up.’
‘Chill,’ said Lupe. ‘We all want the same thing: a route out of this shithole. No point fighting. Just put down the axe.’
‘Screw that. We throw down together, all right? Count of three. We sit tight until Nariko and the rest of the team get back.’
The convict shook his head.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said, smiling a sour, crooked smile. He stared through and beyond her.
Galloway lifted his head. Blood dripped from his shattered nose and splashed on the tiles in front of him. He looked at Donahue. His lips moved. His eyes flickered like he was trying to indicate something behind her.
Donahue turned, and caught a fist to the side of her head.
Donahue and Galloway sat with their backs to the ticket hall wall. They sat cross-legged, hands on their heads.
The side of Donahue’s face had started to swell and bruise black, pinching her left eye closed. She tongued her gums, made sure she hadn’t lost teeth.
Galloway’s nose dripped blood. He licked drips from his upper lip and spat.
Lupe stood over them. She had taken off her state-issue smock and tied the arms round her waist. She wore a white vest. Crude illustrations etched down both arms. Skulls. Devils. A snake coiled round a dripping hypodermic. The tattoos had already faded pale, like they had been in place since early childhood.
She held the shotgun. She had Donahue’s radio clipped to her waistband.
She stroked the Remington, relished the weight, the ergonomic comfort of the grip-stock.
‘Wipe your nose,’ she commanded.
Galloway looked up at her, eyes full of hate.
‘I haven’t got a tissue.’ Lupe stepped back to avoid blood-spray as he spoke.
‘Give him a tissue.’
Donahue pulled a pack of tissues from the pocket of her jacket and handed them to Galloway. He dabbed blood from his nostrils. He wiped his lip and chin.
‘So who are your friends?’ asked Donahue.
Lupe pointed to the tall convict.
‘That’s Wade.’
‘Why was he in jail?’
‘Biker stuff.’
Wade stood at the equipment boxes. He found an open carton of water by touch, uncapped a bottle and chugged it straight down. He fumbled for a fresh bottle, twisted the cap and emptied it over his head.
‘What’s up with his eyes?’ asked Donahue.
‘Damned if I know.’
Donahue gestured to a second convict. He was short and fat, with thick, black-rimmed glasses.
‘And him?’
‘Sicknote. One sandwich short of a picnic. Mother dropped him on his head, or something. He’s all right most of the time. But he has seizures. You can see it in his eyes. One minute he’s talking, making perfect sense. Next minute his face freezes and his eyes go cold. That’s when you got to steer clear.’
‘Dangerous?’
‘Don’t worry. We got him on a short leash.’
Sicknote searched through the rescue pile. He tore open boxes. He emptied bags. Trauma gear. He threw sterile dressings over his shoulder. A bag of clothes. He held up firehouse pants and jackets, checked pockets and threw them aside.
He found energy bars.
‘I got eats, brother.’
He and Wade tore foil wrappers with their teeth. They gorged like they hadn’t eaten in days.
‘Give me another.’
Sicknote unwrapped a second bar and slapped it in Wade’s hand. Wade folded it into his mouth.
‘Fuck is this crap?’
‘Forest Fruit.’
‘Give me a bunch.’
Sicknote gave him the box.
‘What about weapons? Can you see any weapons?’
Sicknote glanced over the pile.
‘Axes and hammers. Couple of folding knives. Shitload of flashlights.’
‘Guns?’
‘No.’
‘They got plenty of first aid stuff, right?’ asked Wade. ‘Pills and shit?’
‘Yeah.’
‘See what they got. Check for Valium, Vicodin, any kind of ride.’
Sicknote rattled pill boxes and bottles. He wiped grime from his glasses and squinted at labels. He mouthed words as he struggled to decipher text.
‘Hey,’ said Wade. ‘Lupe.’
‘What?’
‘So who are these dicks? What do they want?’
‘Fire department,’ explained Lupe. ‘Some kind of rescue squad. They came for Ekks.’
‘Fucker is dead.’
‘You saw him die?’ asked Donahue.
‘He was down in that tunnel when the bomb dropped. Him and the rest of his crew. Place probably caved on their heads.’
‘You can’t be sure.’
‘We’ve been camped in this shithole for days,’ said Wade. ‘Me and Sick. If those Bellevue bastards survived, they would have shown their faces by now. They went into that tunnel and they haven’t come out. No sight, no sound.’
‘So this is where you
came? After we broke loose?’
‘Yeah. Decided to hide in the plant room. Last place anyone would look, right? They’d expect us to run. They wouldn’t expect us to double back to Fenwick. How about you?’
‘Got picked up by a patrol. Bastards tried to lynch my ass.’
Sicknote gagged. He bent double and convulsed. Thick vomit splattered on the floor. Half-chewed energy bar. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Someone clean that shit up,’ said Wade, turning his head from the stench. ‘I don’t want to smell that stink.’
‘Hey,’ said Lupe. ‘You. Galloway.’
Galloway shook his head.
She lowered the shotgun to his chest, nudged his breast bone with the barrel.
‘Come on. Down on your knees. Get scrubbing, fucknuts.’
‘With what?’
‘Your hands. Your shirt. Whatever. Get it done.’
Galloway laid tissues over lumps of regurgitated energy bar. He tried to scoop them up. Vomit dripped through his fingers.
Radio beep. Lupe unhooked the Motorola from her waistband. Nariko’s voice:
‘Donahue. Come in, over?’
Lupe held the radio beside Donahue’s head.
‘Say “Go ahead”.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘We’ve made contact with at least one survivor. Heading back.’
‘Sign off,’ ordered Lupe.
‘Ten-thirteen. Roger and out.’
‘Well done, girl,’ said Lupe. She patted Donahue on the shoulder. ‘Let me get some painkillers for your face, all right? Take the edge off the hurt.’
Lupe crossed to the equipment pallet. She led Wade away from the group. They stood at the foot of the entrance stairwell.
She switched on a flashlight. Wade’s face lit harsh white. She trained the beam eye-to-eye. No reaction. Dilated pupils.
‘What’s wrong with your eyes?’
‘Night blind. Been down here too long. I’ll be okay once we reach daylight.’
‘I guess,’ said Lupe, unconvinced.
‘So. Some kind of rescue team, yeah?’
‘Yeah. Three, travelling by boat. One nine milli between them.’
‘An army guy?’
‘Some kind of boffin. Institute of Infectious Diseases. He’s not a shooter. The other two are fire department EMTs.’
‘We can take them.’
‘We?’
‘Jump the fuckers soon as they get off the boat. Take them out. Do it quick, do it right.’
‘No. We rope them. Keep them compliant and intact.’
‘When did you grow a conscience?’ asked Wade.
‘They got a helicopter scheduled to pick them up in a few hours. If they go off air, the guys back at base won’t send the chopper. Think you’re going to walk home? Go tapping your way through the streets with a white stick? It’s hell out there.’
‘So what’s the plan?’
‘Tell Sicknote. Make sure he understands. These folks are our ticket out. We need them, bro. We need them alive.’
21
The boat drifted through the tunnel darkness.
Nariko unhooked her radio.
‘Donahue. Come in, over?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘We’ve made contact with at least one survivor. Heading back.’
‘Ten-thirteen. Roger and out.’
Nariko pulled the Glock from her belt and press-checked for brass.
‘What’s up?’ asked Cloke.
‘Ten-thirteen. Urgent assistance required.’
‘Lupe?’
‘Who else?’
Fenwick Street. They waded across the submerged platform to the steps. They stood in the stairwell.
Nariko drew the Glock.
‘Get me out of this suit.’
Nariko kept the pistol trained on the ticket hall above them. Cloke and Tombes flanked her. They pulled back duct tape and zippers, helped her squirm from cumbersome NBC gear.
‘You guys hang back.’
She crept up the ticket hall steps, pistol gripped in both hands. She was stripped down to T-shirt and pants. Her skin prickled in the cold. Her breath fogged the air.
Cloke and Tombes followed behind her.
A face appeared at the top of the stairwell. A chubby guy with black-frame glasses.
‘Hey,’ shouted Nariko.
Shotgun roar. Smack of impact. The wall beside Nariko erupted. She shielded her eyes from whirling tile splinters and stone chips.
She fired back. 9mm rounds blew craters in the ticket hall roof.
Gunfire died slow like thunder. Silence and dust-haze.
Nariko heard a distant shout. Lupe’s voice. She couldn’t make out words. Angry, like she was calling some kind of ceasefire.
Nariko crept upwards.
The ticket hall.
Wade, sitting on the bench. He sat, legs crossed, arms stretched over the back of the seat like he was sitting in a park, enjoying the sun.
Nariko took aim at his chest.
‘Where’s Donahue?’ demanded Nariko, glancing round the empty hall. ‘Where’s the other guy? The guy with glasses? The guy with the shotgun?’
Wade didn’t reply.
Tombes grabbed a crowbar from the equipment pile. Cloke grabbed a hammer.
‘Donahue?’ shouted Nariko. Her voice echoed through the vaulted ticket hall.
‘Donnie?’ yelled Tombes. ‘You okay?’
Muffled shout from the office:
‘Yeah. I’m all right.’
Nariko turned back to Wade.
‘Come on. Talk. Who the hell are you?’
‘Just a guy waiting for a ride.’
‘Who’s the other creep?’
‘My spiritual advisor.’
Something weird and unfocused about the convict’s expression. Nariko leaned sideways. His gaze didn’t shift as she moved from his field of vision. He continued to stare straight ahead.
‘Cut the crap. What do you want?’ she asked.
‘Like I said. I’m looking for a way off this island.’
Nariko crept closer. She waved her hand in front of his face. No reaction.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Maybe I can get you a ride.’
Wade twitched, startled to hear her standing so close.
‘That easy?’
‘You were down here with Ekks, is that right? You were one of his lab rats?’
‘Yeah,’ said Wade.
‘Listen. I honestly don’t give a damn who you are, or what you want. But I don’t have time to waste on some lame-ass Mexican stand-off. Just stay out the way until we’re done. That’s all I ask. Call off your friend. I’ll get you home.’
Nariko engaged the safety and tucked the Glock into her belt. She sat beside Wade.
‘You’re blind.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Totally blind?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How long?’
‘Couple of days. Vision went blurry. Thought my eyes were tired. Tried to sleep it off. Woke the next day and couldn’t see a damn thing. Nothing. Not even black. It’s got to be a temporary thing, right? Eye strain. Down in the dark too long. Be fine, once I’m out of here and get some sun.’
Nariko checked out Wade’s shin. Red on red: a deep crimson streak below the knee of his scarlet state-issue pants.
‘What’s up with your leg?’
‘Cut it shaving.’
‘Let me take a look.’
Tombes picked a trauma bag from the equipment pile and threw it skidding across the floor to Nariko.
‘Roll your leg.’
Wade rolled his pant leg. Black, crusted blood.
‘That’s a pretty bad sore.’ She double-gloved and cleaned the wound. She probed the lesion. Wade winced.
‘Doesn’t look infected.’
She packed the wound with gauze and wrapped bandage round his shin.
Cloke discreetly unhooked the Geiger counter. He set it to silent. He took a background count,
then swung the handset towards Wade. Flickering digits. The LCD readout flashed a threshold warning.
‘You folks here for Ekks?’ asked Wade.
‘Yeah,’ said Nariko. ‘Any member of his team left alive. Failing that, his research.’
‘The guy is long gone.’
‘We know where he is. Just got to figure how to reach him.’
‘You’ve got a chopper set to pick you up?’
‘Yeah. A JetRanger. It’s fucked up, but it flies.’
‘And go where?’ asked Wade.
‘Ridgeway. An old airfield upstate. It’s a temporary base. A few cops, reservists and civilians. Handful of folks trying to stay alive. You can join us, maybe find a role. Or we can dump you by the side of a highway somewhere, if you want. Try and make it on your own. Your choice.’
Wade cocked his head, tried to gauge if she was lying.
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s Year Zero,’ said Nariko. ‘I don’t give a damn who you are, or what you did. Doesn’t matter much any more. I’m happy to give you a ride out of here. I’m happy to blow your brains out. Honestly don’t care either way. I came here to do a job.’
‘On the level?’
‘A straight deal. Stay out of our way, and you get a ride.’
‘What’s waiting for us at this airbase?’
‘It’s safe. Safer than here.’
‘Have they got doctors? Can they fix my sight?’
‘Let me take a look.’
Nariko shone a pen torch into Wade’s eyes. No dilation.
‘They’re okay, yeah? My eyes. No actual damage?’
‘Where were you when the device exploded?’
‘Hiding in the plant room. Me and my buddy. Waiting for the bomb. Felt it before we heard it. I was about to drink some water. Had the bottle raised to my lips when there was a sudden weird change of air pressure. My ears popped like I was dropping in an elevator. Then the ground shook. A massive jolt. Half a second later, we heard the blast. The loudest thunderclap you can imagine. We covered our heads. Thought the roof was coming down. Thought we were dead for sure.’
‘We have to tell him,’ said Cloke.
‘Tell me what?’ demanded Wade.
‘The bomb,’ said Cloke. ‘It was a Sandman. A tactical nuke. Small. Probably fit in the trunk of a car.’
‘And?’
‘The Sandman is an enhanced radiation warhead: a fissile core jacketed with cobalt. At the moment of detonation the device pulsed a wave of fierce neutron energy strong enough to pass through bedrock. Everyone for miles around caught a lethal dose. Wouldn’t matter if you were sheltered within a building or hidden in a basement. Wouldn’t matter if you were shielded by lead, steel, or concrete. The wave would pass right through you like an X-ray.’