***
Winstead sat near the fire Huk had built and was more than willing to share, and watched Gannon and Plank trying to get some rest. He had no idea how badly hurt she truly was and—worse—there was nothing he could do for her. He still didn’t understand how her vest had protected her from the mountain lion’s attack and probably never would. Just another of Westchester Station’s many peculiarities, he decided.
Of course it was his fault she was injured and that troubled him. But once againWestchester was giving him no choice. Something that happened all too frequently. If we get through this, I’m going to retire, he told himself. But he knew that was a lie.
Frustrated, he turned his attention to Plank. Why was he here? Just a traveler caught by mistake and surprise? He shook his head. Impossible, not if what he believed—wantedto believe—about the station was true. He had already helped save Gannon and, indirectly, prevented the artist of destruction from succeeding again. But there was something about Plank that made him uneasy. Somehow, Winstead was certain, the man knew something about the missing guard.
Finally he looked at Huk. The primitive stared at him like a curious child, not at all afraid of Winstead or the others. Which was not reassuring. "You ate the crubbin, didn’t you?" Winstead said.
Huk didn’t reply, merely kept gnawing on a leg of lion.
Winstead realized if that shop owner was right, if the crubbinwas from the fabled Tree of Knowledge, then Huk had to know more than when he had entered Westchester Station. "You won’t be going back, either," he said with resignation.
His musings were interrupted by a groan from Gannon. He walked over to where she was resting. "Are you okay?" he whispered.
"Hell no. I can’t get to sleep, damn it." She tried to rise up, then groaned again and fell back. "Help me up."
He sat behind her and lifted her to a sitting position. "I’m sorry for what happened to you."
"Yeah, whatever. Not your fault." And that’s bullshit .
"We’re going to have to start out soon."
"I know. Damn, I’m hungry."
"We’re about out of fruit. Maybe Huk will share more of his food."
She grimaced. "Maybe."
He nodded, then cautiously approached the little man. All this time Huk had sat by himself, watching them while occasionally eating. Winstead stopped when Huk reached for his spear, then squatted a few feet away. Holding his breath, he slowly reached out to the charred carcass. When he noticed Huk relax his grip on his weapon, Winstead grabbed a rib and ripped it away. He nodded before rising and walking slowly back to Gannon.
Huk felt a shiver of pleasure as the stranger walked away. As a hunter, he always shared his kill with others of his tribe. Perhaps, he thought, he now had been accepted into this one. Although the one who sat apart from the others, the first one he had seen, that one troubled him. He looked at the man lying alone in the grass. When the others talked, they were unintelligible. Even the first. Except for one word. Fools, he had said. In a language Huk could understand even if he had no idea why. He must be from a different tribe, he decided. He would bear watching.
Meanwhile Plank watched them through half-closed eyes. The station master would have to die. The woman? He was still confused about her. As an infidel, she deserved to die as well. In his war, there were no civilians, no sex. Only enemies. Yet part of him still resisted that necessity. Perhaps he could ask the cleric for advice. But as long as he was with them, he didn’t dare go to the mosque.
Then he turned his attention to the pygmy. No, Cro-Magnon, Winstead had insisted. He noticed immediately the creature was studying him as well. That one was the only threat to him, he was certain of that. But only as long as he had that spear. Huk, that’s what Winstead had called him. Huk, he decided, would be the first.
"We can’t wait any longer," Winstead said, standing. He glanced at his watch, a reflex he had yet to break despite his long stay inWestchester. In Westchester, because of the way time operated, watches were nearly useless. But he guessed they had rested nearly two hours.
"Slave driver," Gannon groaned but painfully got to her feet. "Now where?"
"The danger is in this chamber. Somewhere. With all the side chambers, we still could have hours of work ahead. Mr. Plank, you will accompany us?"
"Of course." I have to.
"What about Huk?" Gannon asked as they headed out.
Winstead looked back over his shoulder. The caveman remained at his fire still finishing his meal. "That’s up to him. We certainly can’t ask him. But I suspect he will. It’s apparent he’s adopted us."
Plank merely grunted as they left the garden and headed for the left wall and the many chambers branching out from it. Better Huk follow, he knew. It would be much easier to dispose of him if he did.
They had already eliminated more than a half dozen chambers when they entered one that was not empty. "What is that thing?" asked Gannon. She stared up at the large brass object hanging from the top of the chamber. The bell of the instrument—and to her it could be nothing else—covered half of the ceiling. Then it tapered into a tube that curved around itself, ending as a pipe no more than an inch in circumference just a few inches above her head. "Who made it?"
"As for the latter, I have no idea," said Winstead. "The man who found it claimed it was a star trumpet. According to him, you could speak to the very stars."
"Really?" She brightened and reached for the tube. "Let me try."
He grabbed her hand. "Not a good idea. The man was wrong. I was wrong. He paid dearly for it."
She made a moue. "You’re no fun."
"He didn’t have any, either." He looked at Plank. "You didn’t try to use this, did you?"
"I never saw it before." He walked to it and, reaching up, touched the side of the rising bell. It tingled as if a small electric current was running through it. And there was a faint noise as well, like from a beehive. He turned to Winstead with a frown. "It’s running. Somehow."
"The voices outside are never quiet. Come, this isn’t what we’re looking for."
Plank stopped and looked back at the star trumpet before following Winstead. Why was it vibrating? What is causing that humming sound? Winstead knew, but, again, he refused to explain. There was so much about this place he wanted to learn. Unfortunate Winstead can’t live long enough to tell me.
When he caught up with them, Winstead was leaving another side corridor. His breath caught. Was that where I hid the guard? But they were already starting on their way. "Nothing?" he asked.
Winstead shook his head. "Blocked like most of the others. It’s almost as if the station is trying to isolate itself."
Plank suppressed a smile as they continued. Perhaps he was wrong. After all, most of the corridors appeared identical from the entrance. Or perhaps the tunnel had closed itself off in front of the dead guard.
Ahead, Winstead put his arm around Gannon and drew her close to him. "How sweet," she said. "But shouldn’t we just hold hands?"
"Be wary of Mr. Plank," he said. "He is not what he appears."
She glanced back. Both Plank and, farther back, Huk were dutifully following them. "What do you mean?"
"I told you one of my guards had met with an accident."
"So?"
"I found his body in that last corridor. I’m certain Plank was involved."
"Great. First mountain lions, then cavemen, now a killer. I don’t think I’ll recommendWestchester as a vacation getaway to anyone."
"It never has been. Let’s try this one."
Before Winstead could enter the tunnel, Plank came running up. "I was in that one before. There’s nothing there."
"Perhaps," Winstead said. "But then you didn’t know what we were looking for. Should only take a minute." And he ducked into the corridor.
Plank cursed. He was certain that was the entrance to the mosque. As an infidel, Winstead had no right to enter the holy shrine. Would the cleric still be there? he wondered. He was tempted to follow a
nd dispose of the station master once and for all. Yet Winstead returned within minutes shaking his head. "Nothing. Let’s keep going."
Plank fought to keep the surprise from his face as they started walking. Nothing? Was the man lying? Or had the corridor closed itself around the holy place? He didn’t notice the caveman come up beside him until he heard Huk say something. In Arabic. "What?" he asked, spinning in surprise.
"Fool," Huk repeated in Arabic, then started after the others.
Plank couldn’t move. How could this be possible? The primitive knew his real language? Or was Huk merely parroting something he had said? He had always been careful around others, making sure he never spoke anything but English. The he calmed himself. So far Huk had revealed nothing that suggested he understood or could speak English. This revelation only assured that Huk, not Winstead, would be the first to die.
The others were still walking, either deep in conversation or unmindful that Plank wasn’t with them. He went into the tunnel to discover if Winstead had been lying, and his heart sank when he found himself in front of another blank wall. He had planned to use the mosque as his escape route, or at least his sanctuary. Now he had no one to rely upon but himself. But he was thoroughly trained for that.
When he returned to the main chamber, the others were no longer in sight. They had gone off in another corridor, he realized, and hurried down the long, wide aisle. He passed two more before he heard their voices from up ahead. He turned into the next offshoot and found Huk and Winstead staring at a large painting dominating one wall. It was the assault on theWorldTradeCenter, and Plank felt himself fill with pride for the successful martyrs.
Gannon was rubbing vigorously at it with a scrap of cloth. "We’ve got to get this off," she said between gritted teeth, then glared at Winstead. "Help me, you bastard!"
"It won’t do any good," he said. "You told me the attack already happened. You can only prevent the disaster by destroying the painting before it happens."
She continued rubbing desperately. "We’ve got to get this damn shit off! Don’t you understand? Thousands of people were killed! The bastards!"
And thousands more will die, I promise you, Plank thought. "That is also by this artist you talked about?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice neutral.
"Without question." Winstead looked once more at the painting, then shook his head. "I can only pray this is the last of them."
Plank fought to keep from smiling as he admired the depiction. A brilliant plan brilliantly executed, he thought. The Americans and their allies would continue to pay dearly for their treatment of his people. "This cannot be what you were looking for."
"No, of course not. If only we had found it sooner," Winstead said, his voice fading.
"Then we should continue our search." Before you damage that masterpiece.
"You assholes can go one without me," Gannon said, pausing from her fruitless efforts. "I’ll get this piece of shit off if it’s the last thing I do."
"Mr. Plank is right." Winstead walked up to her and gently pulled on her arm. "It won’t do any good now. Later I’ll have it removed." He led the sobbing Gannon back into the main chamber. "We have to be getting close," he told her. "The shadow started at this end of the station."
"I had a friend who died in that attack," she said, wiping away tears.
"Yes," said Winstead as they continued. The image had shaken him as well, especially since he had known nothing about the tragedy. What else has happened outsideWestchester since I’ve been here? he wondered.
Huk adopted his usual place behind the others. The one in the odd attire had not reacted as the others and he wondered what that could mean. More and more, he was certain that man was not part of this tribe. And why did he know that man’s language? The one they normally used was still incomprehensible to him, even if their gestures were clear enough. The other one, he was a threat. Huk was sure of that. He tightened his grip on his spear. He would watch that one closely.
They continued past a closed arcade and several more empty side corridors until they were in the rearmost section ofWestchester. The lights were dim here, the chamber empty except for a rear tunnel and a spiral staircase that went straight up to the ceiling. The sign on the structure said "Closed for repairs." Gannon gave it a push but it held solidly. "What’s up there?" she asked.
"It’s our observatory, but I don’t think our problem lies there." Winstead pointed at the tunnel before him. "I suspect this is where our friend Huk enteredWestchester."
Gannon stared at the tunnel for a moment. "If that’s true, that tunnel leads back to prehistory!"
He nodded. "It isn’t the only one. And other eras as well. Consider yourself fortunate only that mountain lion got intoWestchester. I wouldn’t want to be fighting a tyrannosaurus or griffin about now. Stay close; I don’t know what we’ll be running into."
They entered the tunnel. They soon discovered this one was totally unlike the others. Rather than smooth walls, they found themselves avoiding stalactites and stalagmites and puddles of oily water. The air was hot and humid, and somewhere up ahead Gannon was sure she heard the faint roar of some animal. There was a stench of rotting vegetation that made her lightheaded. Plank began sweating almost immediately and for a second considered removing his jacket, then changed his mind. It was safer to wear it than to carry it, laden as it was with explosives. Only Huk was untroubled by the climate. They were going to his home, Huk was certain of that. Although he was unclear why.
"How far does this go back?" Gannon asked as they stumbled along.
"Pleistocene Era I would think. Oh, you mean distance." Winstead stopped and wiped away sweat dripping from his forehead. "I don’t know. I didn’t venture very far into this corridor." He managed a weak smile. "I was afraid I might not make it back."
"You really know how to cheer me up, don’t you?" and she shook her head. She took a few more steps, then stopped abruptly and grabbed his hand. "Did you hear that? A cry. Soft. Like whimpering. Someone or something is in pain."
He strained but heard nothing except noises echoing far off in front of them. "Could it be an animal or something?"
"I don’t know. But it’s close, I’m sure of that."
"Mr. Plank, stay alert. We might be getting close."
Plank nervously clenched and unclenched his fists as they walked slowly onward. Nothing in his training had prepared him for anything like this. This had to be an illusion, he told himself. All of this was an illusion, had to be. Perhaps even the words of the cleric. He reached in one of his pockets and felt one of the dates he had picked at the mosque. He wasnot hallucinating that. No, all this was too real. And it has to end soon, he told himself, fighting for control. One way or the other.
As they continued on, the chamber became brighter from the light streaming in from the other end of the tunnel. They were finding evidence now that this section had been used: ashes from fires, discarded bones, drawings on the walls. Gannon picked up a broken gourd, then looked at Huk. She held it out to him but he ignored it. He had never seen this cave before and was as curious as they. Would the tribe that lived here be returning any time soon? If so, they would have to fight, and he tightened his grip on his spear.
Gannon dropped the gourd when she heard another nearby cry of pain. "You heard that?" she asked Winstead.
"Yes. But where is it coming from?"
They looked around the chamber, then Gannon saw it. An opening nearly hidden in the shadows. "It has to be coming from there."
"Be careful," Winstead said as they started toward it. "There could be a wounded animal in there." The opening was small, requiring they enter in single file. "I’ll go first." Ruing that he was unarmed, he forced himself through the opening.
He found himself in a small cavern. There was only a sliver of light seeping in from the entrance, keeping the back wall entirely in shadow. "It’s safe. I think," he called out.
The others joined him quickly. "I can’t see shit," said Gannon.
"We need more light." Winstead removed his shirt, then turned to Huk. He pointed at the spear, then held out his open hand. At first Huk only looked at him, then, reluctantly handed him the weapon. Winstead wrapped his shirt around the butt end and asked Plank, "Do you still have that lighter?" Plank pulled it from his pocket and lit it. Winstead held his shirt over the flame until it caught. "Now maybe we can see." Pointing the torch like a lance, he walked toward the back wall. But it was not rough rock that the flame revealed. "What the hell is this?"
The others joined him and stared at the wall. It was covered with a sickly pink substance, one that seemed to throb in the flickering light. "It must be some type of fungus," Plank said.
"No," Gannon said. She walked closer, then touched it with a trembling finger. She stepped back and gasped. "My god, it’s alive!"
"That is some kind of animal?" Winstead asked.
"No, no. That is Westchester Station. It has to be. The station is alive!" Then she paused. "And dying." She turned to Winstead. "I’ve seen that type of growth before. As a nurse. That is some kind of malignant tumor!"
The station is dying. Winstead shuddered at the thought. "But what do we do?"
"Well, we certainly can’t treat it with radioactivity or drugs. We have to remove it somehow. Cut it out. If possible." She started to open her purse, then cursed. "Damn, I left that knife back in the garden."
Then Plank knew. He took off his jacket and walked up to Winstead. "Give me the spear. And get out of here. Now."
Winstead stared at the jacket in his hand, then at Plank. "But why?"
Plank took the spear from him. "You claim we were brought toWestchester for a reason. I now know what I have to do. Nowget out of this chamber! "
Winstead had no counter. He didn’t trust the man but he also knew he had to choice. "Do as he says," he told Gannon, taking her hand and pulling her toward the entrance.
Plank ignored them. He doused the makeshift torch in a nearby pool of stagnant water, then removed the shirt and forced the tip of the spear through the coat. "For the honor of Allah," he said in Arabic as he approached the wall. Gritting his teeth, he shoved the spear into the hideous growth. A soft groan immediately emanated from somewhere and for a second the ground quivered. He stepped back and was relieved to see the spear remained stuck in the wall.
Westchester Station - the assault Page 13