Terminus

by Adam Baker

  They crossed the ticket hall. Eerie silence. Their flashlights shafted through blue haze. Skeletal bodies. Carbonised limbs. Petrified screams.

  Lupe crossed herself.

  ‘Santa Muerte,’ she murmured.

  Donahue coughed and blinked away tears.

  ‘Damned smoke.’

  The walls, pillars and ceiling had been seared by flame. The two-toned white and terracotta tiles burned uniform black.

  The bench was charcoal. The wall clock was a fist of melted cogs.

  Shattered tiles of the station sign:

  Fe ck eet

  Lupe looked up at the leaded glass bowl mounted on the ceiling.

  ‘Guess we killed the lights,’ said Donahue.

  Lupe lifted the axe and smashed the soot-blackened dome. She shielded her eyes from falling glass. A couple of sodium bulbs still shone within. They cast a weak piss-yellow glow.

  ‘Better than nothing.’

  Donahue looked around. One of the central pillars had fractured. Concrete had split and crumbled to powder, exposing a buckled steel column at its core.

  ‘Jeez. Guess heat damage really trashed the place.’

  Scattered tiles. Porcelain crunched underfoot like broken glass.

  A deep fissure in the roof. Donahue trained the beam of her flashlight and examined the jagged fracture. It ran from the entrance stairwell to the back of the hall.

  ‘The whole building is starting to come apart. It could drop on our heads any minute.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Stick around much longer, this place will be our tomb.’

  Donahue studied the fissure, tensed for gunshot cracks that would signal the roof was about to buckle and collapse.

  Lupe began to laugh.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Donahue.

  Lupe walked away, chuckling, shaking her head.

  ‘Seriously, what’s so fucking funny?’

  Crumpled bodies blocked the office doorway. Smoke curled from charcoal flesh. Twisted, interlocked limbs. Grinning skulls. Stench like bacon.

  ‘Help me shift these bodies,’ said Lupe.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We could be down here hours yet. I don’t want to look at these bastards. Sure as hell don’t want to breathe their stink.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said Donahue. ‘Won’t be the first poor souls I bagged and tagged.’

  She wrapped a bandana round her mouth and nose.

  ‘Pulled four kids out the ashes once. Gas explosion. A tenement in Queens. Cooked them real good.’

  She pulled on leather gloves.

  ‘Propane. Nasty shit. Heavier than air. Pools like liquid.’

  She took a deep breath and gripped an arm. Rigor stiff. Flesh tore and leaked pus. She dragged the brittle corpse across the ticket hall and kicked it down the platform steps. It tumbled down the stairway, shedding crisped skin, scattering toes and fingers, and was lost in darkness.

  Lupe stood over a second body lying contorted in the office doorway. Hispanic girl, silver crucifix melted to her breast bone. Shrivelled remnants of a maid uniform. The Cedars. A beaux-arts hotel off Wall Street.

  Lupe contemplated the corpse like she was staring down at her own doppelgänger. Waitress. Cleaner. Laundry girl. The kind of life Lupe could have led if she swallowed her pride and punched a clock.

  She brought down her axe in a hard chop. The blade embedded in the thorax of the charred corpse. She dragged the cadaver across the ticket hall. She tugged the axe free and kicked the body down the platform steps. She heard it tumble. She heard it splash.

  They retrieved bodies from the entrance stairwell. They dragged them across the ticket hall and pitched them down the platform steps into the flooded tunnel.

  ‘We ought to get out of here,’ said Lupe. ‘Place is screwed.’

  ‘The Federal roof is the only landing site for half a mile.’

  ‘We could wait across the street. Find a basement.’

  ‘To hell with that,’ said Donahue. ‘Fenwick Street was padlocked. People forgot it was here. That’s why it was a perfect holdout. But every other subterranean space, cellars, underground parking structures, MTA stations, got overrun by refugees. Hundreds of people. Their pets, their bags, their bedding. If we head into any of those sublevels we could find an army of prowlers waiting for us. It would be like kicking an ant nest.’

  ‘What’s the time?’ asked Lupe.

  Donahue checked her watch.

  ‘One. One in the morning.’

  ‘Fucking chopper,’ muttered Lupe. ‘Scoping the Adirondacks? In the middle of the night? What kind of bullshit is that?’

  ‘Infected folks are warmer than background. Not by much, but they’ve got a signature. The chopper will buzz Avalanche Lake, overfly the forest a few times. If there is anyone stumbling around between the trees, they’ll stand out plainer than day.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Lupe. ‘I don’t like sitting here, waiting to be saved. Every instinct tells me to get moving, get the hell out of here.’

  ‘You said it yourself. There’s nowhere to go. Just got to survive until dawn.’

  ‘Fuck that shit. Get on the radio. Talk to Ridgeway. Apply some leverage. We’ve got Ekks, and we’ve got his papers. How about we put a match to his research? Toast some marshmallows over that notebook? About time we called the shots. If they want their vaccine, their cure, they have to come get it. Right now.’

  The office door hung from its hinges. Lupe lifted it aside.

  Smoking wreckage. A toppled desk. Smashed chairs. Broken furniture still danced with licks of flame. Varnish bubbled and popped.

  Donahue untabbed an extinguisher and trained a jet of carbon smoke. Stuttering gas roar. She swept the hose cone back and forth. A typhoon of fire-suppressant vapour engulfed the debris, leaving the shattered desk and chairs coated in white residue like frost.

  She threw the extinguisher aside and began to kick through the wreckage. Carbon fog curled round her feet.

  A body huddled in the corner. Black, mummified, rictus grin.

  Dunkin’ Donuts.

  The guy had punched through the door ablaze and careened off the walls, blinded by flame. He set the place alight, turned the room to a furnace. Convulsions gave way to paralysis as cooked muscles and ligaments began to contract, pulling him to the ground, curling him foetal. Finally, the polyester Donuts cap melted to his scalp and mercifully cooked his brain.

  Donahue grabbed the cadaver’s foot with a gloved hand. Skin crumbled and flaked. She dragged the corpse from the room.

  She returned with a DeWalt case and a box of screws. She flipped latches. A power drill.

  ‘Help me shift the desk.’

  They shunted the desk beneath the vent. Donahue climbed onto the scorched desktop, a clutch of rock screws held between pursed lips. She bored deep into wood and concrete. She pinned boards over the aperture. The drill sparked and burned out on the last screw.

  ‘I guess it won’t take much to bust through that opening. Might slow him down a minute or two.’

  ‘He’ll be back,’ said Lupe. ‘Count on it. That air con network runs for miles, but he won’t go far. He’ll stay close, wait until we’re weak, wait until we are alone. He’s probably crouched in that tunnel right now, listening to us talk.’

  Donahue picked up the flag pole. The satin stars and stripes reduced to scorched threads hanging from a brass rod. She straightened the pole and propped it in the corner.

  ‘I could read all kinds of symbolism into this shit, but I’m too tired.’

  ‘Got any Dex out there in those bags?’ asked Lupe. ‘Any kind of boost?’

  ‘Thought you wanted to stay straight.’

  ‘I want an up, not a down.’

  Donahue dug in her coat pocket. She rattled a pot of NoDoz and threw it to Lupe.

  ‘Don’t eat them all.’

  Lupe uncapped and knocked back a fistful of tablets.

  Donahue raked through debris with her axe. She li
fted the remains of a filing cabinet and pushed it aside. She found the transmitter headphones. She traced the cable hand-over-hand.

  The RT lay beneath a toppled chair. She kicked the chair to one side. She crouched and trained her flashlight. She brushed away burned paper. She licked her thumb and rubbed ash from the dials, flicked a toggle switch, hoping to see a green power light.

  Dead.

  Lupe stood over her and looked down at the charred radio.

  ‘Looks pretty cooked.’

  ‘Fixable?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I don’t know electronics,’ said Donahue. ‘I just turn the dials.’

  Lupe picked up the radio and shook it. Loose components rattled inside.

  ‘Let’s get this back to the plant room. Get it open. Take a look at it under light.’

  They sat cross-legged on the floor. Lupe turned the heavy transmitter in her hands. She examined the scorched and dented case. Foliage paint burned away, exposing base metal beneath.

  She unthreaded screws with a Leatherman. She jammed the knife in the case seam and shucked open the lid.

  A mess of cooked components.

  ‘Jeez,’ said Lupe. ‘Look at it. This thing is toast. Split circuit board. Bunch of wires melted through.’

  ‘But it’s old army gear, right?’ said Donahue. ‘Built for field repair. All we got to do is splice the wires, match colour-to-colour.’

  ‘Forget it. It’s totalled. Screwed beyond redemption.’

  ‘We’ve got serious problems without it.’

  ‘Want me to wave a wand? Expelliarmus? Believe your own eyes. It’s trashed.’

  Donahue stood and paced. She unhooked a Motorola from her belt.

  ‘We’ve still got handsets. Ridgeway is beyond reach, but we should be able to talk to the chopper once it’s within range.’

  ‘What kind of range?’ asked Lupe.

  ‘A mile. Maybe two.’

  ‘If we don’t respond to long-range radio transmissions, Ridgeway will assume we are dead. They only have one chopper. They won’t risk losing it.’

  ‘They have their orders,’ said Donahue. ‘The Chief is a chain-of-command kind of guy. NORAD told him to retrieve Ekks. He’ll commit all his resources to get the job done.’

  Lupe shook her head.

  ‘We need a plan B. I don’t trust people who hide behind uniforms. Never have, never will.’

  ‘The Chief will be here soon,’ said Donahue. ‘Six hours. Maybe less. Best thing we can do is sit tight and stay alive.’

  ‘Suppose those six hours come and go?’ asked Lupe. ‘What then? I’m heading out at sunrise. I’m going to hit the streets and head for the shore. You should come with me.’

  ‘There’s no way across the river.’

  ‘I’ll build a raft, if that’s what it takes. Couple of oil drums lashed with rope. Plank for a paddle. About a half mile of water to the Brooklyn shore. I could make it on my own, but it would be easier with your help.’

  ‘The Chief will come. He won’t abandon us.’

  Lupe shook her head.

  ‘People are people. Scared, stupid, selfish. You know who I trust in this situation? Me. That’s who.’

  ‘You’re wrong. He’ll come. He won’t leave us behind.’

  54

  Tombes kept guard. He sat cross-legged on the floor, axe in his lap, gaze fixed on boxes and tins stacked against the air con grille. He was tensed for the slightest movement: the gentle rasp of crates beginning to shift, the clink of paint tins pushed together. Any sign Galloway was nudging boxes aside in a sly attempt to reach fresh meat.

  His head began to nod. Tombes shook himself awake and rubbed his eyes. He got to his feet and paced. He blew his hands and tried to get warm.

  Sicknote snored. Mouth open, head thrown back. Each exhalation dwindled to a wheezing chest rattle. He coughed to clear his throat, then spluttered awake as a gulp of vomit splashed down his red state-issue smock.

  ‘Christ,’ muttered Tombes.

  He picked up the ragged shreds of Galloway’s pants. He searched pockets and retrieved cuff keys. He tossed the keys to Sicknote.

  ‘Mop that shit up.’

  Sicknote unlocked his shackles. He rubbed his wrists. He pulled the smock over his head. Big belly, thick chest hair. He knelt and sopped a splash of steaming vomit from the floor.

  ‘There’s a pile of junk in the hall,’ said Tombes. ‘Take a look. Most of it got fried, but you might find fresh clothes if you dig around.’

  The hall was bathed in a steady torrent of chill air from the street entrance. The tiled floor was coated in a treacherous ice-sheen. Roof-rubble glittered as if split bedrock had exposed a mineral seam.

  Sicknote stepped over trashed equipment. Melted nylon bags. A steel dive helmet burned black. Plastic hypodermics melted to viscous tar.

  He sifted debris. He found a Tunnel Rat shirt. He held it up. Lower half burned away. He threw it aside.

  Boot steps. Lupe and Donahue descended the street exit stairs carrying a body wrapped in foil insulation blankets.

  ‘Hold on,’ said Donahue. ‘Got to rest my arms.’

  They lowered the body to the floor. They blew their hands and flexed cold fingers.

  They saw Sicknote.

  ‘Thought we had you on a leash,’ said Donahue.

  Sicknote stood over the corpse.

  He lifted the edge of the blanket with his foot. A hand seared to a carbonised claw. He lifted the blanket a little further. Melted sleeve fabric. A trace of red: the remnants of a state-issue smock.

  ‘Damn. Is that Wade?’

  ‘The bits they didn’t eat.’

  ‘Poor, poor bastard.’

  Lupe glanced at Sicknote’s naked belly.

  ‘Aren’t you cold? You’re turning blue.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘We got to get you covered up. You’ll freeze to death.’

  A couple of holdalls had survived the fire. Lupe unzipped and shook out the bags. Bundled clothes. A fire hat rolled across the floor.

  She dressed Sicknote in bunker pants and an FDNY sweatshirt.

  ‘Few burn holes, but it’ll trap a little heat.’

  ‘What will you do with Wade?’ he asked, as he buttoned pants.

  ‘Put him in the office. We threw the other bodies into the tunnel water, but Wade deserves a little better. Don’t want to treat the guy like refuse.’

  ‘How about me? Am I worth a prayer? Or would you toss me like garbage?’

  ‘Yeah. If it comes down to it, I’ll say a few words.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Same goes for me, all right?’ said Lupe. ‘Don’t leave me down here. If anything happens, put me out in the street. I wouldn’t want this place to be my grave.’

  Sicknote hitched thick yellow braces.

  ‘One nut house to another, my whole life. Drawstrings and elastic. Baby clothes. Can’t remember the last time I wore anything with buttons and buckles.’

  He pulled on socks and boots. He wrestled into a heavy fire coat and turned up the cuffs. He fastened jacket clasps. He picked up the fire helmet, brushed ash from the brim and set it on his head.

  ‘Must be nice to have a uniform. Actually do something in the world.’

  He found a Maglite in the coat pocket. He tested the beam.

  ‘Well. See you around.’

  He gave Lupe a mock salute. He headed for the street exit and began to climb the steps.

  ‘Where the hell are you going?’ called Lupe from the foot of the stairwell.

  Sicknote paused and caught his breath. He leaned against the wall.

  He contemplated the entrance gate above him. A night wind stirred the ripped polythene curtain. Snowflakes drifted through the lattice bars.

  ‘I’m insane. Most madmen, the lucky ones, don’t know they are nuts. But I guess that’s my curse. I’m batshit, and I know it. There’s a real world, a normal world, beyond the voices, beyond the visions, but it’s out of reach.’ He turn
ed and looked at Lupe. He tapped his fire helmet. ‘Truth is, I’m tired. Bone tired. I just want it all to stop.’

  He wearily climbed the steps and stood in front of the gate.

  ‘Say that prayer for me. Say it when I’m gone.’

  He pulled back the curtain and relished the chill wind that caressed his face.

  A cold, white hell. Rubble and wreckage furred with ice.

  IT IS FORBIDDEN TO DUMP BODIES.

  He pushed a hand through the bars. Snowflakes settled on his palm. He watched them liquefy. A lethal beauty. Exquisite feathered crystals tainted with fallout.

  Lupe watched him from the foot of the stairwell.

  ‘Where will you go?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘I’ll take a walk up Fifth. See how far I get. What do you think the Empire State looks like right now? New York in ruins. You got to be curious. It must be a hell of a sight.’

  He took the cuff key from his pocket. He unlocked the gate. He hauled back the lattice. Harsh rust-shriek. He stood in the entrance archway, polished the remaining lens of his spectacles on the sleeve of his fire coat, then looked around.

  Spectral silence.

  Cotton candy flakes settled on rubble and broken bodies. He shone his flashlight upwards. A vertiginous plane of scorched brick and fire ladders stretching high into the night.

  He shivered and turned up his collar.

  ‘Wait,’ called Lupe. ‘Hold on.’

  Sicknote turned around.

  ‘Don’t go out there.’

  He stared at her.

  She held out her hand.

  ‘Come down here. I’ll look after you.’

  Sicknote hesitated.

  ‘Please. Come on down.’

  He pulled the gate closed and descended the steps to the ticket hall.

  ‘There’s been too much death,’ said Lupe. ‘Someone’s got to survive this shitstorm. For my sake. Stay.’

  55

  Tombes carried a chair from the office to the plant room. He swung it over his head and smashed it on the concrete floor. He jammed wood into the rusted fire bucket. Scrunched paper for kindling. He snapped open his Zippo and sparked a fire.

  They stood round the bucket and warmed their hands.