Terminus (21 page)

‘
Please. I don’t want to be here any more. It’s cold. It’s dark. Are you on your way? Will you be here soon?
’

‘We’re coming for you, son. We’re almost there. Just hold on. It won’t be long. It won’t be long now.’

Cloke laid an FDNY shoulder pack on the floor. He unzipped, and took out a cardboard box labelled with brissive warning icons.

He pulled back the flaps. Half-pound sausage tubes of ammonium nitrate demo charge wrapped in wax paper.

He carefully picked his way between metallic tendrils snaking across the floor. He crouched beside the radio operator. He lashed a tube of explosive to the table leg with duct tape.

‘I hate it here. It’s so dark. So cold.’

‘Hang on, kid. It’ll be over soon.’

The subway tunnel. Cloke walked the track, peering into shadows. He was spooked by the silence, spooked by the dark.

A buttressed arch. He mashed explosive against the brickwork.

Tombes unrolled a yellow radiation suit. He dressed Ekks as gently as he could: rolled him in the cot, manoeuvred the rubber suit beneath him, zipped arms and legs. He sealed the gloves and overboots with tape.

Cloke joined him.

‘All set?’

‘The seals should remain hermetic unless we dive deep. They’ll keep out water, but not under pressure.’

Cloke dumped the explosive pack on the floor.

‘Laid a couple of charges. Last thing I’ll do when we leave this damned place. Bring down the roof.’

‘Whatever. I just want to get the hell out of here.’

‘You got some kind of detonator?’ asked Cloke. ‘How do I trip them off?’

Tombes picked up the backpack and unzipped a side-pocket. He took out a plastic box and unclipped the lid. Silver cylinders laid out like cigars.

‘Time pencils. Old school, but they work. Each tube holds a little glass capsule full of acid. When the time comes to start the clock, pinch the top of the tube with pliers. The glass will break. Acid will start to corrode a lead wire. When the wire burns through, it releases a spring-loaded percussion cap. Kaboom.’

‘All right.’

Tombes held up a time pencil.

‘Blue band. Burns for fifteen minutes.’

‘How many do I use?’

‘One. Two to be sure. Those demo charges are ammonium nitrate, stuff they use for blasting quarries. Pop one charge, and the blast will trigger the rest.’

‘How’s Ekks?’ asked Cloke. ‘Any improvement?’

‘Holding. Just holding.’

They carefully lifted Ekks and strapped him to the backboard. They lashed cylinders either side of his arms. They put the helmet over his head and sealed the neck with tape.

‘Sure this is airtight?’ asked Cloke.

‘Probably maintain integrity for an hour or so. Long enough to get him to Fenwick.’

The IRT office.

‘I don’t like it,’ said Wade. ‘It’s chickenshit. Shooting the guy like a sick dog.’

‘You’ve seen what this disease can do.’

‘The guy deserves to make his peace. Sure, if Galloway were walking the wing, if he got shanked, I wouldn’t give a shit. Probably cheer when I heard the news. But we’re not in the joint any more. The man has a right to die on his own terms.’

‘We’ve given him plenty of time, plenty of space. When he turns, it will happen fast. We can’t wait for ever.’

‘What does Donahue say about this shit?’

‘She doesn’t give a damn. She just wants to get home.’

‘So what do you want from me? I’m blind. If you off the guy, nothing I can do about it.’

‘I guess I want your blessing.’

‘Looks like Donahue left the phone off the hook. So you’re stuck down here with two dead guys and a madman. Do whatever you’ve got to do.’

Galloway sat on the bench. Blue lips, cold sweat. The stump of his wrist tucked beneath his left armpit. He rocked back and forth.

Lupe wandered from the office. She walked across the ticket hall slow and casual. She sat beside him, kicked back and crossing her legs. She laid the shotgun across her lap.

‘So how you doing?’

‘Not so great. Painkillers are wearing off. Might need another shot.’

‘How’s your arm?’

‘Minus a hand. How’s yours?’

‘Let me take a look. Maybe we can redress the wound.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll dig out some fresh bandage later. Patch myself up.’

‘Come on. Let me take a look. See what I can do.’

‘Forget it.’

Lupe spoke softly:

‘Show me your arm.’ Edge of menace.

Galloway stopped rocking back and forth. He turned to look at Lupe. He observed the shotgun laid across her lap, barrel trained on his belly.

‘Show me your arm,’ repeated Lupe.

Galloway slowly held out the stump. Metal spines protruded through bloody gauze.

‘Sorry, man.’

‘Amputate,’ said Galloway. ‘Make another cut. Take my arm at the shoulder.’

‘No.’

‘Please. You’d do the same in my position. You’d fight to your last breath.’

She shook her head.

‘When my time comes, I’ll look it in the eye. I won’t go out snivelling.’

‘Bullshit. You’re no different from anyone else. You’ll cling to life with everything you’ve got. You’ll want every last moment.’

‘Don’t make this hard on yourself. Don’t drag it out.’

‘You’re my executioner, is that it? Bet you’ve been dreaming of this moment. Talking everyone round.’

‘Swear to God, it’s nothing personal. You could bite a cyanide capsule, but you are so far gone there is no guarantee poison would have any effect. Right now the disease, the parasite, is burrowing into your brain. Shot to the head. Only way to be sure. For your sake as well as ours.’

‘Fucking bitch. Bet you lay in your bunk fantasising about a moment like this, didn’t you? Life-or-death power over a correctional officer. You must have prayed for a riot. You, and every other recidivist thug. Tiers gone to hell, inmates trashing the place, guards at your mercy. Relishing a few snatched hours of anarchy until the takedown squad toss CS and kick their way inside, batons flying. And here it is. Your sweet daydream come true.’

Lupe shook her head.

‘I’m just trying to do right.’ She got to her feet. She stood in front of Galloway, shotgun at the ready. ‘Time to go.’

Galloway shouted across the ticket hall:

‘Hey. Hey, Donahue. You’re leaving her in charge? This bitch? Fucking barrio trash?’

Donahue sat on the platform steps, staring downwards into the dark. She didn’t turn around.

‘What the hell happened to you people?’ shouted Galloway, addressing the ticket hall. ‘Taking orders from some spic gangbanger? Some crack whore? Is she the boss now? Shaking a cup outside Citibank, and now she’s calling the shots?’

No reply.

‘Come on. She’s picking us off, one by one.’

He looked around. Sicknote absorbed in his art.

‘Hey,’ said Galloway, trying to get his attention. ‘Hey, dude. Help me out.’

‘You got bit. Sorry, brother.’

Wade leaned against the wall, listening to the conversation.

‘Yo, Wade,’ called Galloway. Give a guy a break.’

Wade turned away.

Lupe prodded Galloway with the barrel of the gun.

‘Make it easy on yourself.’

He slowly got to his feet.

‘Here?’

‘No.’

Lupe took a step back. She signalled with a wave of the shotgun. The plant room.

Galloway slowly walked across the ticket hall, each step deliberate and heavy, his time left on earth measured in floor tiles.

He reached the plant room door. He pushed it open. Heavy creak. He took a last, despairing look at his companions.

Donahue hadn’t moved position. Still sitting with her back to the hall, still turned from the light.

Sicknote was on his knees, scribbling with a pen. He glanced up. Mix of boredom and pity.

Wade groped along the wall to the IRT office.

‘Hey,’ pleaded Galloway. ‘Wade. Please.’

Wade closed the office door. Latch-click.

Galloway’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He took a shuddering breath and walked into the plant room.

He was swallowed by shadow.

Lupe and Galloway faced each other. The bare bulb overhead threw harsh shadows, turned their faces to grotesque Kabuki masks.

Lupe. Resolute. Deep frown, clenched teeth.

Galloway. Sweat-sheen, panting with fear.

He was mesmerised by the yawning, blacker-than-black cavern mouth of the barrel, inches from his face.

‘Want me to turn my back?’ asked Galloway. ‘Want me to kneel?’

‘Makes no difference to me.’

He pushed his hands in his pockets.

‘Got a final message for the world?’ asked Lupe.

‘I’d like to pray.’

Lupe shrugged.

‘Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come . . .’

He palmed the scalpel.

‘. . . on Earth as it is in heaven . . .’

The generator coughed. The light flickered. Lupe glanced upwards at the web-draped ceiling bulb.

Galloway snatched his hand from his pocket. Silver blur. The scalpel blade embedded in Lupe’s cheek.

Angry cry. She staggered.

Galloway grabbed one of the generator cables hanging from the wall, and wrenched the clamp from high voltage switch gear.

Sudden darkness.

Lupe pulled the scalpel from her face and threw it aside. Clink and clatter. She raised the shotgun and fired. Blast-roar. Muzzle flare lit the room like a camera flash. Glimpse of Galloway ducking between battery racks, flinching from a high-velocity shower of brick chips as buckshot blew a crater in the wall.

She fumbled for the generator cable. She reattached the clip. Spark and hum. The bare bulb flickered and glowed steady.

She cranked the shotgun slide. She crept between racks, gun to her shoulder, poised to fire. The room was fogged by a blue haze of stone dust and gun smoke.

‘Hey. Galloway.’ She wiped trickling blood from her cheek with the back of her hand. ‘Step out, dude. No use skulking back there.’

Distant rasp of metal.

‘I didn’t want it to end this way. It should have been quick and clean.’

She peered into shadows, finger on the trigger.

The air con grate high on the back wall was pulled back.

‘Galloway?’

She peered into the narrow conduit. Brickwork receded to darkness. Distant scuffle and pant.

‘Is this really what you want?’ she bellowed into darkness. ‘You want to become a monster? You want to let it win?’

Lupe emerged from the plant room. She dabbed blood from her cheek.

‘Is it done?’ asked Wade.

‘No.’

‘I heard a shot.’

‘He ran. He hid in the pipes. Fuck him. If he wants to endure a living hell, if he wants to be transformed into a sickening mess, then let him. He’s not our problem.’

She cleaned her face with antiseptic swabs then pasted a dressing over the wound.

‘Are you hurt?’ asked Wade, listening to the rustle and rip of sterile wrappers.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Any word from Cloke or Tombes?’

‘Nothing we can do but wait.’

A muffled crash.

‘What the hell was that?’

Sicknote stood at the foot of the street exit steps, transfixed, gazing upwards at the entrance gate.

‘What’s going on, Sick?’

He smiled. He giggled.

Lupe ran to the foot of the stairwell and pushed him aside.

The entrance gate was open. Metal-shriek as infected creatures pushed the Coke machine to one side and stumbled down the steps towards her.

‘Holy fuck,’ muttered Lupe.

‘They’re in?’ said Wade, panic in his voice. ‘Did they get in?’

Lupe shouldered the shotgun and fired. A guy in a pus-streaked Starbucks shirt caught a blast to the chest. For a brief moment Lupe could see clean through his torso: a smouldering, cauterised hole bored through ribs, lungs, shirt fabric and skin.

The guy reeled like he took a gut-punch, but kept coming.

She ran up the steps to meet him. She racked the slide, adjusted her grip, adjusted her aim.

Muzzle-roar. Point-blank skull burst. The headless body toppled backwards and sprawled across the steps. The tight stairwell filled with gun smoke and blood mist.

A blue-haired skater kid, iPod beads fused to his ears.

Lupe racked the slide, took aim and fired. Second head burst, body hurled in a near back flip. Blood and skull fragments dripped from the stairwell ceiling.

Two guys in grey janitor shirts jostled through the entrance gate and stumbled down the steps towards her.

She racked the slide, took aim and pulled the trigger. Click. Empty.

Donahue stood next to her, paralysed with horror.

‘Shells,’ shouted Lupe. She cuffed Donahue round the head. ‘Give me the spare shells.’

Donahue dug cartridges from her pocket.

‘Make them count.’

Lupe snatched the shells from her hand and fed them into the breech.

‘Grab an axe, a hammer, anything.’

Donahue ran to the equipment pile, pulled a strap and released a clutch of heavy tools.

‘Give me something,’ shouted Wade. ‘Give me something I can swing.’

Donahue ignored him. She grabbed an axe and ran back to the stairs.

Lupe shouldered the gun. She squinted down the barrel sight, waited for a clear and certain shot.

‘Come on, fuckers. Come get some.’

Cloke and Tombes lowered the stretcher from the subway carriage and set it on the track. They inspected the oxygen and nitrogen cylinders lashed to the backboard. They checked straps, gas levels and helmet hose.

Ekks lay impassive, face serene behind his visor.

‘Let’s get him in the hole.’

Tombes squirmed beneath the subway car. He dragged Ekks behind him.

He tied kernmantle rope to the head of the backboard. He looped the rope over a greased axle and slid Ekks into the shaft. It was a tight angle. The head of the backboard scraped against the underside of the coach.

He fed rope hand-over-hand until there was no more slack. He shone a flashlight down the narrow pipe. Concrete ribbed with ladder rungs. Ekks hung far below, suspended by taut rope.