"We’ll be back," Winstead said. "It won’t be long and the regular maintenance man will relieve you."
He grinned. "No hurry. Like I said," he continued as he heaved another load of fuel into the flames, "this don’t make no never mind to me."
"You chose him because he’s black," Magdya said as they left Green to work alone. He was already whistling as the door closed behind them.
Winstead shook his head. "I chose him, ratherhe chose him, because he’s the only one whocan do it. I’m sorry if you think it’s demeaning. But without him we could never do what we have to do."
"I don’t like this at all. I don’t likeyou at all!" And Magdya stormed ahead of them.
"I don’t think that’s right," Gannon told Winstead as they left the boiler room.
"You heard him. He’s right. I can’t do it. He’s the only one who can." And he’ll be safe there.
"Who is he anyway?"
"An escaped slave."
She stopped abruptly. "You’re shitting me."
"Not at all."
She pondered that information for several minutes. "When this is over, what are you going to do with him? Send him back?"
"I don’t know if I can. Icertainly wouldn’t send him back to the plantation he escaped from." He frowned. "Think about it. A man from over a century ago. How do you think he’ll survive in your world?"
"There are social agencies, places he can get help."
"And if he tells someone he’s from the 1800’s, what then? A sanitarium? Or will he make the talk show circuit? Maybe a made-for-television movie?"
She knew he was right but she was not going to admit it without a fight. Then the scream drove any counter arguments from her mind. They turned to see Magdya huddled on the floor ahead of them, sobbing and flailing her arms in the air.
"What is it?" Winstead yelled as they ran to her. He grabbed her and pulled her to her feet. "What is wrong?"
"Demons," she said, pointing to the wall. She looked at him with eyes glazed over and it was evident she was losing the battle with the panic welling within her.
He looked but saw only the featureless pale walls endemic toWestchester. Or did he? For only a second the wall appeared to ripple, as if being viewed below a sheet of water. "Are you sure?"
"Ihear them," and she held her hands to her ears. "I can hear them! They’re talking to me. Get them out of my head!"
Winstead held her, trying futilely to comfort her. "If they’re talking to you, then perhaps you can talk to them."
"What are you saying?" Gannon asked. She saw nothing unusual about the walls either, but Magdya’s panic was real enough.
"She must be able to communicate with them. Perhaps she can ask them to help us."
"No!" Magdya jerked away from his grasp. I can’t, I can’tdo that. I’m not a psychic. It’s all a scam!"
Winstead grabbed her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. "Maybe you have the power and don’t realize it. Look, only you have sensed them. I know they’re there butI can’t communicate with them. Somehow you have to do this."
"I can’t." She stared at the ground, her mascara streaming down her cheeks. "You don’t understand. They’ll destroy me! They drove me here!"
"Or perhaps you were summoned. Look at me." He grabbed her chin, forcing her upward. "You have to do this. You are the only one who can."
"I don’t knowhow !"
"You do even if you don’t realize it. What were you doing when they first spoke to you?"
"A séance," she said after a long pause. "But it was all fake!"
"Maybe, maybe not. Can you hold a séance here? Mrs. Gannon and I will help you."
She shook her head, trying to deny him, trying to drive away the voices whispering within and without her. "I don’t have candles. I don’t have a crystal ball."
Good, she’s listening. "Is there anything else you can use?"
"I don’thave anything." She opened her purse to show him. "Comb, compact, wallet." She paused when she noticed the clear plastic ball she had retrieved and never returned to the child. It was glowing. She reached for it, expecting it to be hot to her touch. But it felt, looked, like any plastic ball. Except for the unearthly glow in the center. "This," she whispered.
Winstead nodded. "What do you want us to do?"
"I don’t know. I keep telling you, it’s all a scam!" She gnawed at a fingernail.
"It may be the only way to get them to stop endangering you," he said softly.
She rocked for several moments as if somehow that movement would quiet the unholy voices. Then she grimaced. "Hell, sit your asses down and form a circle like they do in the movies, I suppose." They complied, the ball on the floor between them. "Hold hands and keep quiet." Magdya then closed her eyes and concentrated reluctantly. She had done this so many times before, but this time it wasreal . This can’t work, she tried to convince herself, trying to ignore the unseen presence she knew was so close and threatening.
Then she felt something. At first no more than a feather’s touch reaching out to her mind. Tentative, perhaps even afraid. Another touch, more forceful. Another. And suddenly she was engulfed by a torrent of thoughts and images beyond anything she had ever imagined...or dared to. She stiffened, tried to scream, tried to open her eyes even though she was terrified of what she might see. Then the presence inundated her totally, seizing control of her as surely and easily as if she were a mere insect on the ground.
Winstead and Gannon noticed nothing...until Magdya broke the long silence. "Winstead." The voice came from her but it was not hers. It was hoarse and seemingly unfamiliar with using a tongue, teeth and lips to talk.
Winstead shivered when he heard it. He looked at the plastic ball. The glow had been replaced by a roiling red cloud. Something was within that cloud, something he could nearly discern. Something that might drive him insane if he ever saw it clearly. "Yes."
"You are the station master."
Could this still be Magdya? he wondered. Just play-acting? But the glowing ball and Magdya’s appearance convinced him that was not the case. "Yes I am. Who are you?"
"I am Fhennezel, as if that would make any difference to you. You have to stop it." There was finality in that statement that was more than unsettling.
"Stop what?"
"The collapse of the nexus."
"You meanWestchester?"
"If that is what you call it."
He licked his lips before replying. "Then you must stop your attacks on us."
"We are not attacking you."
"You attacked the train." He decided to let his anger show in his voice. He knew instinctively he couldn’t show weakness to whatever presence he was conversing with.
"They were invaders. The sign says ‘Trespassers Will Be Eaten.’ We are not responsible if they choose to ignore it. They had no right to threaten us."
"They were not threatening you. They were merely...passing through."
"We do not want you here. You have no right."
Winstead glanced at Magdya. Her body was slumped forward, her face taut and colorless. One would think she was unconscious and he hoped for her sake that she was. "I am merely the station master. I do not control what route the trains take."
"You must stop it."
"The trains? As I just said..."
"The collapse."
He looked at Gannon. Her eyes remained closed, her breathing relaxed. Could she hear this? Or was she unconscious as well? He squeezed her hand lightly but there was no response. It is just us two. "Then tell me how. Help me. Help us."
"You must stop the collapse. Or you will destroy our world as well as yours."
"Tell mehow. "
"You have everything you need. Do not fail, Winstead."
Damn it! "You’re not helping."
The voice was unmoved. "I’ve done all I can or will do. The rest is up to you. I can remain no longer. The effort is too taxing. I am releasing the one who calls herself Sarah Goldsmith now."
; He felt Magdya’s/Sarah Goldsmith’s grip tighten, saw her tremble, throw back her head. Then she screamed. One long, soul-chilling scream that faded into a barrage of whimpering as she relaxed her grip on his hand and fell forward.
Winstead stood, shaking his legs to return the circulation. His assumption had been right; Westchester Station was a nexus and was collapsing. Yet if he could believe the voice, the "demons" were not to blame. And I have everything I need to stop...what?
He took a step and kicked something accidentally. He looked down and saw the plastic ball roll away. It now appeared like nothing more than a clear plastic toy. He bent down and retrieved it. Would he have to communicate with the "demons" again? He hoped not for Magdya’s sake but put it in his pocket just in case. "Magdya," he whispered, bending over her and shaking her softly. "Are you okay?"
She slowly responded. She stood as if every muscle in her body ached. "What happened?"
Good, she doesn’t remember. "We have to get going. We have to get to the other section of Westchester."
She nodded reluctantly and straightened her disheveled clothing and wiped the ruined make-up off her face. Then she looked at him with questioning eyes. "Did it work?"
"In a manner of speaking. Not very helpful, I’m afraid. But they won’t be troubling us again." Unless we fail .
"I don’t remember anything," and she shook her head.
"I was the one they needed to talk to."
She nodded. Already she noticed that she no longer sensed the unseen presence that had been so obvious before. Perhaps Winstead had been right, she thought. Perhaps they would no longer need to contact her. She could only pray. "How’s Gannon?"
"She should be all right. She probably doesn’t remember either."
"So now what?"
"We do what we have to do. SaveWestchester." Somehow .
It took several minutes for him to rouse Gannon. When she was finally completely awake, she looked at the others, mildly surprised that both were alert and seemingly none the worse for the experience. "What did I miss?" she asked as she stood awkwardly.
"My suspicions were correct. Unfortunately. It’s up to us three now."
"Two," Magdya said abruptly.
Winstead turned and frowned. "What are you saying?"
"I’m saying I’m staying. Mr. Green may need my help. You don’t need mine anymore. Everyone has a purpose to come here, right? I just fulfilled my obligations. Go on without me."
She was correct about that, he knew. And the demons had made it clear there would be no more communications. "I can’t force you of course. So be it. Mrs. Gannon, do you wish to stay here with them?"
"It’s tempting, I grant you that. But," and she gave him a sarcastic smile, "I don’t think you can do the deed on your own. I’ve come this far; I’m going all the way."
He breathed a sigh of relief. "Magdya, take these," and he handed her some fruit. "I suspect we won’t be gone that long." We don’t have that much time.
She nodded. "Good luck, I guess. Oh, and travel well. Whatever that means."
"Thank you." He picked up their sack of provisions and slung it over his shoulder, then nodded at Gannon. "Let’s go."
***
Green was surprised to see Magdya walk into the boiler room. He set his shovel down and approached. "Why are you here?"
"To help you," she said, handing him an orange. "I’m through with that asshole."
He blushed. "He needs your help," he said while gratefully accepting the fruit.
"He already got it. There’s nothing more I can do or will do for him." She cocked her head and studied him. "What about you? Why are you lapping up his line of bullshit?"
Why does she talk like that? Still he didn’t dare question a white woman. "He saved my life."
"Really? I find that hard to believe. How?"
He told her about his escape, about the men who had come after him, about hiding in the tunnel beneath the house, about the fire they set. "I would have died there," he finished.
She wasn’t appeased. "But he’sstill treating you like a slave!" She stomped her foot in frustration. "Look what he has you doing! Toiling away while he struts around like some damn peacock! You’re free now, don’t you understand that?"
"Free? Yes, I guess I am," he said as he easily shoveled another load of coal into the fire. "I chose to do this. The first time in my life I was able to choose to do anything." He paused. "It feels wonderful."
"I don’t think I’ll ever understand you," and she shook her head.
Or you. These white women confused him so. Their language, their behavior; not at all what he was accustomed to, even from the white women he knew on the plantation. And yet these two appeared genuinely concerned about him. He was not accustomed to that, either. Magdya’s question shattered his musing. "What?"
"I said, where are you from?"
"Louisiana. A plantation in Louisiana." It was a place, he realized, he would never see again. And for that he was grateful.
"What are you going to do when this is over?"
He frowned. "I don’t know," he admitted.
"You could come with me. Back toPhiladelphia."
She would help him? He shivered at the thought. "What is it like? Do they have slaves there?"
"No slaves. A lot of Afican-Americans. Blacks, colored folk, I won’t use the ‘n’ word," she added when she saw his questioning look. "It’s crowded. More than what you’re used to. Exciting, though." She started to tell him about her home, but stopped when she saw the confusion in his eyes. It was only then she fully realized his circumstances. "Ah, hell."
"What?"
"I can’t take you there. You’d never...fit in."
"Because I’m colored?"
"No. Like I said, there are plenty of blacks living inPhiladelphia. Because you’reyou. You’ve never seen a car, a plane, a subway, a skyscraper, a television, nothing."
"I’ve, I’ve seen a telephone," he tried to argue, but without conviction.
She shook her head. "You can’t go there. You’ll never survive. You’ll be a circus freak at best. No one could ever know the truth, or believe it." She threw her half-eaten apple away in disgust as she finally accepted the obvious. "You can never leaveWestchester."
Green shoveled in another load of coal before answering. "Master Winstead is agreeable enough. If he’ll let me."
Suddenly she smiled. "He’ll let you. I think he needs you."
He needs me. The thought pleased him. "And you?"
"I’m on the first train out of Dodge."
"Dodge?"
She sighed. "No, you wouldn’t fit inat all ."
Green noticed the fire going down so he returned to work. "Tell me aboutPhiladelphia," he said as he effortlessly fed the flames.
"What would you like to know?"
"Everything."
She began while he continued his labors. Both steadfastly avoided discussing or considering what would happen if Gannon and Winstead failed.
***
Plank was becoming more frustrated by the minute. His brief respite in the unusual and totally unexpected garden had been relaxing enough but now he had a mission to fulfill. Although the enigmatic cleric had not been overly helpful. But one thing was clear: lingering in the garden was not going to help.
Yet he was equally wary of merely marching through the main section of the station. One of the frequent side corridors should lead him to a safer, less conspicuous part ofWestchester, he reasoned. Despite the number of corridors, however, most were ending abruptly in blank walls. This makes no sense, he thought as he left another dead end. What could possibly be their purpose?
He was exploring another when he noticed a can lying on the floor. He picked it up to find it was an empty spray paint can. No, not quite empty, he realized when he shook it and depressed the button. A short mist of paint flew out. He debated only seconds before putting it in a coat pocket.
Now why was an empty can of spray paint lying here? He look
ed at the walls, but they were the same nearly featureless gray as all the others. This paint was yellow. Then he entered farther, turned a corner and found his answer. One entire wall was adorned with a mural. He recognized the style immediately; it had to be the work of the man who had painted the depiction of the WorldTradeCenter destruction.
This was of another disaster. In the forefront, buildings were in flames, smoke and dust were everywhere, and water was gushing from exploded water mains below the streets. In the background, a mushroom cloud was rising slowly in the night sky. What shocked him the most, however, was the location. Even though nearly all the buildings were in ruins, he recognized this city. It wasBaghdad.
Why would he paint this? At least his depiction of theWorldTradeCenterwas accurate. But this was not. Even during the American attacks on the city, the destruction had never beenthis total. He trembled in anger as he viewed the painting. If he met the man responsible for such an offense against his people and his cause, he would kill him immediately.
Hoping the artist might still be near, he continued down the corridor. But once again it ended in a blank wall. He rubbed his hand along the seam where the walls met. It didn’t feel smooth at all, more like a hastily constructed and temporary joining, and the walls were surprisingly warm to the touch. Especially considering how generally cool the rest of the station was. He could even feel a slight vibration. Or was he imagining it? He turned and left the corridor, but not before pausing at the hideous painting. I’ll find you and you’ll pay for this sacrilege, he vowed.
Huk watched, crouched behind one of the many wooden benches scattered throughout the chamber, as the creature emerged from the tunnel. He had been following the stranger ever since leaving the garden, but thus far the latter had not noticed him. He could only feel disgust at the ineptitude of the creature. If its tribe was as ineffective as it was, then he was certain his own people would have nothing to fear from them.
Still he was relieved that the wooden objects offered him some protection. Except for a brief and unexplained darkening, night had yet to fall. Perhaps there was no night here at all. His prey was moving rapidly, so he darted from one bench to the next, not getting too close and remaining low to the hard ground to better escape notice. He could attack the creature any time he wanted, he was confident of that. But not yet. Not until he was led to his tribe. His spear held ready, he moved on to another hiding place.
Westchester Station - the assault Page 10