Her Name Will Be Faith (57 page)

"Nobody..." the policeman repeated.

"Forget it," the
sergeant said. "Look here, Muldoon, I have to tell you that tunnel ain't
safe."

"It's caving in or something?"

"Nope. Not yet. But
there's flooding on lower Manhattan, getting worse
all the time. It'll come down that tunnel any moment now. And the
electrics are out; you'll have only your headlights to see by. If you want to
go through
that bad I'll let you, but it has to be at your own
risk."

"Sure
it'll be at my own risk," Muldoon agreed. "You think I'm afraid
of the dark? Or of a
little flood water?"

"Okay." The sergeant stepped back, and
saluted. "Good luck, fella."

He signaled his men, and
the boom was raised. Muldoon put the cab into drive and dipped into the tunnel.
As the sergeant had prophesied, it
was
pitch dark in there, but he turned his headlights up to full beam and they
provided adequate illumination. Yet he drove slowly, determined not
to have an accident – there was no way of
telling when he might come upon
abandoned
vehicles. Above him he could hear the roar of the river, and he
cast one or two anxious glances at the walls to
see if they were standing up
okay. They looked as safe as ever, and he
realized that down here the
turbulence up
there could have little effect. His confidence began to grow.

He was
half way through when he heard the other noise. He had
realized only slowly that
he was actually driving through water, several
inches deep – the Chevrolet was sliding about, but this was
something
else. Muldoon instinctively
braked, staring ahead to the limit of his lights,
and beyond, at a foaming mass of white coming out
of the darkness.
"Holy fucking hell!" he shouted, and swung to
the left to make a U-turn.
Immediately he
skidded and struck the wall of the tunnel. The taxi slewed
half way
round and he had not regained control when the rushing flood water smashed into
the vehicle, sweeping it up towards the York side of the river as if it had
been a cork.

Alloan
half ran, half fell, dragging Garcia behind him, the two men
carried
along on the wind from alleyway to recessed doorway, from the
lee of abandoned cars and
through the shattered glass doors of lobbies,
falling
against each other in the scant shelter as they tried to catch
their
breaths. It was difficult to find protection anywhere, even in the cavern-like
New York streets, now the wind was funneling between the high buildings,
increasing its strength. It was almost impossible to see,
identify individual noise or even to think; apart
from the driving rain and
continuous thunder the air was full of dirt
and flying debris. The young man knew it was a miracle they had survived this
long, not been cut to ribbons by hurtling glass or crushed by automobiles which
were being picked up and thrown through the air. They had sidestepped a number
of casualties, some clawing at them for help, mouthing inaudible pleas
which they ignored. They had crawled through giant
tangles of fallen
trees and torn power lines – if the electrics
hadn't been out they'd have
fried to a chip.
Garcia was a helluva burden, lying wherever he fell,
pleading exhaustion and having to be hauled each
time to his feet. If
he hadn't known that Garcia was an expert locksmith
he would have abandoned him long ago; but to achieve his goal he might well
need the
man. He was not only driven by
fear of the rising water behind them, but
by anger – and an
all-consuming desire...

Garcia had no idea why
they were still together. In a way he wished they weren't, that he could be
left in a doorway to rest his aching limbs
and
chest. But as the kid had got them out of the cells, fighting a way up
the
stairs through cascades of water and people screaming, gasping
and being trampled underfoot to drown,
subconsciously he felt obliged
to
force himself to keep going. He didn't know where but the kid had
some
place in mind. Come to think of it, he didn't even know the boy's name.

Alloan looked at Garcia,
at the heaving chest and tinge of blue round
his
mouth. Might be wiser to show a bit more patience, he didn't want
this
character passing out on him. It was fairly sheltered just here and
the storm would continue for hours yet; plenty
time to do what he wanted.

His eyes narrowed. That weatherman he'd seen on the
station box had
spoken of 'an eye', a patch
of calm weather in the center of the storm.
They
could wait on that 'eye', then they'd get there in a fraction of the
time. "Okay, Domingo. We'll rest up here a
while. That's it," he nodded
as Garcia slid gratefully down the
wall and leaned his head back, "you have yourself a rest."

There was still
electricity at Penn Station, where they were using emergency generators.
Washington Jones was told there were no more trains
running north, but that he could take the cross line, under the East
River,
to Lorimer. He held
Celestine's hand, carrying two suitcases in the other,
and Patsy ran behind him, the baby in her arms;
they had become part
of a terrified
mob of people trying to get away, driven by reports that
rising flood
water was within a few blocks.

Washington knew that he
had indeed left it too late – but the fault was
not entirely his. It had taken him more than an hour to regain his
house,
and then he discovered that Celestine had done nothing, that she
didn't really want to go. She had neither packed nor called the boy. He had
convinced her that it was urgent, and she had got to work, slowly and
resentfully. He had tried calling the boy's work
place, over and over
again, and never got through. He shouldn't have had
to get through; the boy should have come home by nine. But he hadn't. So they
had waited,
and waited, because Patsy wouldn't
leave without him, while the wind
had grown stronger and the house had
trembled and the phone and the electricity had gone dead. And at last they had
realized the boy wasn't
coming, for
whatever reason, and Washington had been able to persuade
the women to
leave.

Just
in time, he thought. Oh, just in time, as he tried to keep his family
together in the midst of
the huge crowd of people, hurrying down the corridors, jamming the stairs,
filling the elevators, screaming and shouting. They had left home with
three suitcases, but the one Celestine had
carried
caught in an elevator door and Washington made her abandon
it.

They reached the platform
and piled into the train, which immediately
started
to move off, attendants shouting at people who were trying to
push their
way into the compartments, and then being crammed in by those behind them.
"There ain't gonna be no more trains after this one," a man said to
Washington. "They say Greenwich Village is almost under
water. Did you hear that, man? These electrics
can't last too much
longer."

Obstructing bodies prevented the
door from closing until the attendants
started shouting that another train would be along in a
minute.
"Wanna bet?" the man
asked.

The train moved off very
slowly, gathered speed, slowed, stopped and
started
again. "Holy Mother of God, we're going to be here until the
middle
of next week," a woman yelled. She had a little girl on her knee, who wore
a straw hat with a ribbon and carried a plastic doll with long hair.

Washington
saw they were all alone and took pity on them. "Don't
fret. We'll all stick
together. Can't be much further now." He could feel them begin the gradual
ascent on the east side of the river.

Suddenly the train
stopped; at the same moment the lights went out. There was a chorus of screams
and shrieks, and Washington abandoned
the
suitcases and put both arms around Celestine and held her close. The din was
tremendous as more than a thousand people all shouted together
and
pushed against each other and the doors, which remained firmly closed.

"We're going to
die," Celestine gasped. "We're going to die."

Patsy
wept, and the baby wailed, and the woman with the little girl
kept
shouting, "Holy Mary Mother of God, save us," over and over
again.

They heard, faintly, an
attendant out in the tunnel shouting for calm, but nobody was paying any
attention to him, and the press was growing greater and greater. Washington
felt all the air being crushed out of his body, that he was indeed going to
die, when suddenly the doors against
which he
was being flattened opened and he almost fell out. Celestine
went with
him, and Patsy and the baby. And then the crowd followed,
screaming and yelling, trampling over each other.
He heard people
shrieking in fear
and agony as they were thrust into the water… because
he realized that
he was ankle deep in water. But they had been first out and could move along
the track.

"The electric
line," Celestine gasped.

"If that line was
live, the train would be moving," Washington gasped
back at her. "And if it comes live again
we're all going to die anyway.
Just
hold on to my jacket with one hand and Patsy with the other. Careful
now,
mind your step. I'll lead the way."

He was
worried by the water; it was rising quite quickly. They must
get out, but people didn't
seem to be moving in any particular direction, just floundering. Thanks to God
they had been in the front carriage. He suddenly felt compelled to do something
– help these terrified, braying sheep to get out in time. In his youth he
had been a good baritone in the
church
choir. Now he stood tall and called, his voice resounding down
the
tunnel behind them. "Just make a line, folks, and follow behind us. We'll
soon be out of here. Just keep calm, and sing to the Lord." He drew a deep
breath and began: "Oh, God, our help in ages past, our hope in years to
come… "

Celestine smiled into the
darkness, and her soprano joined him. "Our shelter from the stormy blast..."
and Patsy and the man who held her coat and the woman who held his hand all
began to follow the strong baritone who was attempting to lead them away from
impending peril.

Washington
could feel his way because of the train, and when the train
ended there was the wall
of the tunnel. His fingers groped and his feet stumbled and splashed. He was
aware that there were a lot of people
behind
him not singing, just shouting and sobbing, moaning and cursing,
falling and being pushed over. His breath became
short and his throat
dry. The hymn
ended, and he swallowed and started again. How long
was it to the next
station? And the water was rising every minute. It was
past his knees, and his legs were feeling like lead. Once Celestine
fell, and
he had to drag her up again,
soaking wet. He didn't know how much
longer he could keep going, when he
saw flashing lights ahead of him.

Several MPs were peering
down from a platform, waving their powerful flashlights. "We heard there
were people in here. Listen, you guys, you gotta get out, quick. This tunnel is
gonna flood any moment now."

Washington
helped Celestine up as one of the young men held her
hand. "Son," he
said, "you just show us the way."

Patsy
passed the baby to another soldier and was heaved up out of the
water.
People stopped singing and began to clap and cheer as they realized
they'd all but reached
safety. By the dim glow of the flashlights, several
stopped to shake the big black man's hand, and thank him as he handed
them up to the platform. But that only embarrassed him. He couldn't see
that
he had done anything except walk, and sing.

"Washington, come on,
or we'll get separated," Celestine begged.

"She's right,
mister," an MP said. "It's time you were with your family.
You've done your bit." He offered his hand
while another MP held the other to heave together; Washington Jones was a heavy
man… and
very tired.