by Adam Baker
Sediment broiled like smoke. Their headlamps lit curling vortices of stone dust.
They floated side by side. Particulates settled. The water around them slowly cleared.
The bus had been buried by an avalanche of rubble.
‘Captain?’ called Cloke. ‘Cap? Can you hear me?’
Tombes settled flippered feet on the tunnel floor and began to dig. He clawed at the rubble, grabbed fist-sized lumps of cement and hurled them aside. Cloke joined him. Grind of stone on stone.
‘Did her suit have some kind of locator? Some kind of beacon?’
‘Look for bubbles,’ said Tombes. ‘She may have a ruptured tank.’
Cloke lifted a paving slab aside and exposed a coil of rope.
‘I’ve found the gear.’
They excavated their equipment. Trauma packs. Clothes and boots sealed in polythene. The plasma arc. They dragged the stretcher clear.
They kept digging.
‘Nariko? Captain? Are you alive? Can you hear my voice?’
‘Sound off, Cap,’ called Tombes. ‘Where the hell are you?’
Nariko lay in darkness. A minute of slow-spinning who-am- I/where-am-I. Then she remembered Fenwick Street, the dive, the bus.
She lazily raised a hand. She touched stone. A wall of concrete close on every side.
No sound but her own irregular breath, and the click of the oxygen solenoid injecting fresh gas into the micro-environment of her suit.
She coughed. She shook her head, tried to clear her thoughts. One of her dead helmet lights blinked to life and glowed weak orange. The beam lit concrete inches from her face.
She tried to move. She was pinned tight. She lay on her back, entombed in rubble, trapped in a pocket little bigger than a coffin.
She was numb below the waist.
For a brief moment she succumbed to claustrophobia. She clawed at her helmet. Head encased in a steel bubble, held rigid by foam pads, vision restricted by the hex-bolt porthole inches from her face.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck . . .’
She thrashed. She punched ferro-concrete boulders hemming her on all sides. She struggled to lift her head. The helmet butted cement. Harsh abrasion; metal on stone.
‘Hey.’ Deafened by her own cry for help. Hot, stale breath filled the helmet. ‘Hey, I’m here. I’m right here.’ A tone of shrill hysteria creeping into her voice. ‘Someone. Hey. Help.’
Feedback from her earpiece. Cloke’s voice:
‘. . . ome on . . . me . . . your head . . . alive . . . hear my voi . . .’
She reached down to the Motorola clipped to her weight belt. She checked the jack and upped volume.
‘Hey. I’m here. I’m right here.’
Nariko fumbled the shoulder harness of her back-tanks and flipped the release latches. She struggled to lift her head and look down at her feet.
The bus had been crushed by subsiding rubble. Nariko was halfway out of the rear door when the vehicle compacted flat. She was pinned in an envelope of yellow metal. Her lower body, her groin and legs, compressed into a space eight inches high. Wisps of blood in the water.
‘Tombes? You out there? Cloke? Can you hear me?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, we hear you. Are you all right?’
‘I’m stuck. I’m trapped.’
‘Have you got any room for manoeuvre? Any room to crawl?’
‘No.’
‘Are you injured?’
‘Think I broke my back.’
‘Lie still, all right?’
‘I hurt my head. I don’t feel so good.’
‘Keep talking. Recite a poem or something.’
‘I can’t think. My head is fuzzy.’
‘Do the alphabet. Count backwards from a hundred. Just stay awake, okay? Stay with me. Don’t close your eyes. We’re coming for you.’
Cloke and Tombes hauled rubble aside. They hefted chunks of cement. They levered a NO THRU TRAFFIC sign loose and threw it clear. They rolled a Con Edison manhole lid. They extracted a baby stroller, did it quick, did it with the periphery of their vision so they wouldn’t have to see if it were occupied.
They burrowed beneath a massive slab bristling with rebar.
A cacophony of cracks and grinds as debris shifted around them. A steady cascade of stone dust and trickling grit.
Cloke held back. Tombes kept digging.
‘Jesus,’ said Cloke, surveying the mountainous rubble pile. ‘We need major lifting gear. Some kind of Hurst tool. A bunch of them. We’ll never shift this stuff.’
Tombes pointed to the radio clipped to his belt and made a zip-mouth gesture. Open channel. Nariko listening to every word.
Tombes dug towards Nariko’s helmet lights. He wormed between slabs. His helmet and air tank scraped rock.
‘Don’t rip your suit,’ said Cloke.
Tombes ignored him.
‘How you doing, Boss?’
‘Not so great,’ said Nariko.
‘You need an air line?’
‘I can’t feel my legs. I think they might be gone.’
‘They’re probably broken. You’ll feel them big time once the shock wears off.’
‘I honestly think they’re gone.’
‘We’re almost there, all right? I’m a couple of feet away. So just relax. I’m going to unfuck this, okay? The torch will rip that bus apart like paper. You’ll be out of there in a couple of minutes.’
A thick girder blocked his path.
‘I can see you, Captain. I can almost reach you. But there’s a bar, some kind of steel beam. Got to cut the damned thing. This could take a few minutes. Can you hold on?’
‘There’s blood in the water.’
‘How much?’
‘I don’t know. Some. Don’t think it’s arterial.’
‘Are you in pain? Do you need a shot? If we passed you a hypodermic, taped it to a pole or something, could you use it? Self-administer?’
She didn’t reply.
He squirmed deeper into the narrow space. He turned to Cloke.
‘Give me the plasma gear.’
Cloke passed the webbed cylinder.
Tombes struggled to manoeuvre in the confined space.
Stone-crack. Grinding concrete. Tumbling debris. Swirling rock dust fogged the water.
Tombes froze, waited for the tremor to pass.
‘Work fast,’ said Cloke.
‘I am.’
‘Work faster.’
Boulders shifted and settled. The hull of the bus groaned and compressed an inch further. White pain shot through Nariko’s spine. She screamed. She gripped the slab above her head and strained to lift the impossible tonnage from her body.
‘Hold on, Boss. Just rest easy. Almost there.’
Nariko lay still. She tried to breathe steady. Muffled roar of the cutting flame. The water around her began to cook. The tight sarcophagus space was lit fluttering white.
‘I think I’m pretty messed up.’
‘Just chill, boss. Cutting through this thing like butter.’
‘Whole lower body seems pretty trashed. I think this bus is the only thing holding my guts together. I’ll bleed out the moment you lift me.’
‘One thing at a time. We’ve got to reach you first.’
Another gunshot crack. A fresh puff of rock dust fogged the water.
‘Get out of here, guys.’
‘Relax, Captain. You’re hurt. You’re not thinking straight. Let me make the calls.’
‘Seriously. Command decision. This debris pile could subside any minute. I’m ordering you to pull back.’
‘Rescue Four. We don’t pussy out, am I right? Shut the hell up and let me do my thing.’
‘Listen. Just listen. People are counting on us, understand? We are the last frigging hope. Forget about me. I don’t matter. Neither do you. Find Ekks, whatever the cost.’
‘Just rest easy, Cap. You know how this works. I’m the responder, okay? You’re the pin-job.’
‘I got water in my helmet.’
&nbs
p; ‘Can you reach your tanks? Can you increase suit pressure, force the water out?’
‘Go. Just go.’
Nariko clumsily reached behind her back. A sudden jolt of pain stole her breath. She let it subside, then gripped the regulator valve of her gas tanks.
She twisted the demand valve. Her wrist screen flashed brief amber, then glowed red. The depth/time readout was replaced by:
DANGER
EXCESS NO2
An alarm. Computer voice, calm but insistent:
‘. . . danger . . . danger . . . nitrogen toxicity warning . . . danger . . . danger . . . adjust levels now . . .’
‘Captain. What the fuck are you doing?’
‘Find the cure. Get it to Ridgeway.’
She twisted the valve full open.
‘. . . danger . . . danger . . . nitrogen level critical . . . danger . . . danger . . . operate manual shut-off now . . .’
Pounding blood-roar in her ears like crashing waves.
‘Captain. Hang on, you hear me? Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare fucking code on me.’
Nariko was back in the womb, enveloped in warmth, surrounded by the reassuring diastole/systole tidal surge.
Drooping eyelids. Drowsy smile.
‘. . . danger . . . danger . . . nitrogen level critical . . .’
She unplugged her wrist gauge.
She closed her eyes. She took a deep breath. And another. Her body relaxed.
‘You’re wasting time,’ she murmured. ‘Been in the water too long already. Get going. Go on. Get out of here.’
‘We’ll patch you up, get you back to Ridgeway. It’ll be all right.’
‘Good luck guys.’
‘Nariko, for God’s . . .’
She reached down to her belt and pulled the jack cable from her radio.
She coughed. A deep, guttural bark. She convulsed, arched her back. A last involuntary struggle. Her gloved hands pawed the walls of her concrete tomb then fell still.
Her breathing settled. Shallow respirations merged with the hiss of the regulator valve. Nitrogen flooded her body. It filled her lungs, infusing arterial blood, saturating every muscle.
Creeping euphoria. A chance to put herself on a tropical beach, or some other endorphin-induced paradise, but she fought it, determined to be present at the moment of her own death.
‘Never enough . . .’
Her consciousness contracted to a point of light that glimmered like a star. Then the light was gone, and there was nothing but the whisper of tanks bleeding lethal gas, smothering Nariko in cold bliss.
31
‘. . . Mayday, Mayday. Can anyone hear me, over? Hello? Is anyone out there? This is Bellevue Research Team broadcasting on emergency frequency one-two-one point five megahertz. If anyone can hear me, please respond . . .’
Ivanek trapped in the dark. No sense of time.
‘. . . Please, if anyone can hear me, answer this call . . .’
A voice, right by his ear. Deep, mellow, pure Tennessee:
‘How you doing, son?’
‘Doctor?’
‘Are you feeling okay?’
‘I’m cold.’
‘Yeah. Me too.’
‘I can’t see you. Why can’t I see you?’
‘Don’t worry. I’m right here.’
‘It’s so dark. I can’t see anything. I can’t see my own hands.’
‘It’ll be all right. You’ve just got to hold on.’
‘Where are we? I don’t understand where we are.’
‘It’s hard to explain.’
‘I’m scared.’
‘No reason to be frightened. Think back. What do you remember?’
‘I remember the train, the bomb. Are we still in the tunnel? Did the roof collapse?’
‘We are in a strange place, you and I. Nothing like it has existed before. Nothing on earth, anyway.’
‘Are we dead?’
‘No. No, we’re not dead.’
‘Is this hell?’
‘It’s too cold for hell.’
‘I want to leave. I want to get out of here. How do we get out?’
‘We have to be patient.’
‘I want to go home.’
‘Where is home?’
‘Bushwick.’
‘It’s not there any more.’
‘Please.’
‘There are men on the way.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I just know. A rescue party has entered the tunnels. They are coming for us. They will be here soon.’
‘How soon?’
‘Soon. Hold on, son. They are almost here. It won’t be long. All we have to do is wait.’
32
The tunnel followed a gentle upward gradient. Cloke and Tombes swam, then waded, as the water level diminished. Chest high. Waist high. Knee high. They dragged the backboard behind them like a sled.
They trudged clear of the flood water. They were robbed of buoyancy, suddenly burdened by the full weight of their diving gear.
They unbolted lock-rings and removed their helmets. They released their back-tanks, shut off gas valves and lowered them to the dead track.
‘We can’t abandon the mission,’ said Cloke.
Tombes didn’t reply. He looked back at the dark waters from which they had emerged. Deep shock.
‘We’ve no choice but to proceed. What would she say if she were here right now? Focus. Keep your shit together. People depend on us. Finish the damned job.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
Cloke switched on his flashlight and surveyed the tunnel walls. Ancient brickwork. Gang tags.
Water splashed his face. He looked up. Seeping groundwater. Calcite hung from the ceiling in petrified drips.
Tombes unclipped his radio. He checked for signal bars.
‘Donahue, do you copy, over?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Nariko is dead.’
‘Say again.’
‘She’s dead. The Captain. The Captain is code one.’
‘How?’
‘A rockfall. The rubble shifted. She got trapped.’
‘Oh Jesus.’
‘We did our damnedest to reach her. There was nothing we could do.’
‘You actually saw her die?’
‘She’s dead, Donnie.’
‘Are you guys okay?’
‘We’re fine.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Other side of the rockfall. We’re out of the water, north near Canal.’
‘Any sign of the Bellevue team?’
‘Not yet. Listen. We’re trapped in this section of tunnel. Our route back is sealed. Check the charts. Check the schematics. There must be a way out of here. Some kind of utility pipe, sewer tunnel, whatever.’
‘Okay.’
‘Our flashlights are good for a few hours. After that, we’ll be stumbling in the dark. We’re depending on you. Check every map, every survey you’ve got. Get us out of here.’
The ticket hall.
‘Nariko’s dead,’ announced Donahue. She listened to the harsh echo of her voice. Wade lay on the bench. He instinctively reached for the cyanide cylinder in his pocket, gripped it like a talisman. His ride. His ticket out of this world. A guarantee he would not be marooned sightless and starving in the tunnels.
Galloway sat on the entrance steps. He stared down at his hands, overwhelmed by the horror of infection and his own imminent death.
Sicknote ignored her. He remained crouched on the floor, coaxing the last ink from the Sharpie, obsessively mapping the cosmic void, the horrors in his head more real to him than anything taking place at Fenwick Street.
‘Guess I’m the only one that gives a shit,’ murmured Donahue.
She turned her back on the ticket hall and re-entered the office.
Donahue hurriedly unravelled nicotine-yellow charts and spread them on the table.
Lupe joined her.
‘What happened? How did she die?’
‘There was a r
ockfall,’ said Donahue. She didn’t look up from the charts. ‘Some kind of landslide. Cloke and Tombes got clear. The Captain didn’t.’
‘Christ.’
‘The rescue went bad. Could happen to any of us. Comes with the job.’
‘What about the guys?’
‘Trapped. No way back.’
‘So who’s in charge of this cluster-fuck?’
‘Cloke. The mission was his idea.’
‘So I guess that makes you the boss right now.’
‘Yeah,’ sighed Donahue. ‘I guess it does.’
‘Sorry,’ said Lupe. ‘Sorry about your friend.’
They examined a tunnel schematic.
‘Can they walk north to Canal Street?’ asked Lupe.
‘They can try. But I doubt they would get far. If that section of tunnel is dry, it must be sealed both ends. The blast probably collapsed Canal Station. Our guys are trapped in an air pocket. No maintenance exits, no junctions. No way out.’
‘Do they know?’ said Lupe.
‘Of course. They’re screwed. They’ve got no food, or water. Their flashlights are good for a few hours. After that . . .’
‘Fuck that shit. Give me the map.’
Lupe grabbed the scrolled chart. She checked the legend.
‘Department of Transport. City engineers schematic. This thing is twenty years old. Plenty of underground construction since then. Give me everything you’ve got.’
Cloke and Tombes kicked off flippers. They unzipped and stripped out of their drysuits. They left their dive gear piled on the tunnel floor next to their tanks and helmets.
They shivered in T-shirts and shorts.
‘I wish we had time to say a prayer,’ said Tombes.
‘Nariko?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Maybe there’ll be time, later.’
Cloke crouched by the stretcher. He cut ropes and opened a holdall. Combat fatigues taped in polythene.
They ripped the bags with their teeth. They dressed. They jumped and swung their arms to get warm.
Cloke unzipped a canvas tool bag. He took out a couple of hammers. He tossed one to Tombes.
‘Tuck this in your belt.’
They laced boots, shouldered equipment and headed down the tunnel.
Cloke took a Geiger reading.
‘We better watch the numbers. Closer we get to Canal, more chance of a radiation spike. If the tunnel is ruptured, open to the street, we might have to mask-up in a hurry.’