Terminus (25 page)

I asked Ekks about the glove. Was it part of some secret military space programme? Had a Soyuz capsule fallen to earth?

He smiled. He said the gloved hand represented the original, most lethal strain of the virus.

He wanted to observe the virus colonise a human body. He wanted to see it pervade the blood stream, infiltrate tissue, bore into the spinal column and brain stem. Could the initial colonisation be blocked by antineoplastic agents? If it were treated like any other malignancy, attacked in the early stages using anti-cancer drugs such as Thioguanine or Methotrexate, could it be stopped?

It was a problem that dogged us during our time sequestered in Bellevue. We had unlimited access to infected subjects snatched off the street. But they were too far gone. Advanced cases. The process of infection, the manner in which the virus first fused with its host, remained a mystery.

Ekks put it to a vote. He wouldn’t undertake the procedure unless we gave unanimous consent.

We talked it over. I trusted Ekks. I trusted his judgement. His expertise far exceeded my own. In all the years I have know him, followed his work at Bellevue, he has always acted with the highest integrity. He had been a second father, a guiding hand. So when he sequestered the medical team in one of the subway carriages and laid out his plan, I had no choice but to raise my hand in assent.

It seems ridiculous to spend my last minutes on earth writing this account of our time below ground. We are sealed in a tunnel. Our bodies will never be found. We will lie here for ever, entombed like the pharaohs.

Why should a single death matter? The execution of a recidivist piece of garbage, a valueless fleck of human junk. A man who wasted his entire life, spread misery, achieved nothing. Why care? Every survivor on this continent has witnessed unimaginable slaughter, experienced terrible grief. The world has become an abattoir. New York itself is burning above our heads. The entire city levelled by a nuclear firestorm. Thousands killed. Our team, down here in these tunnels, conspired to take a single life. A trivial deed, by comparison. An insignificant man, a vicious criminal. Is it absurd that this act torments me? That I can’t scrub away the disgusting taint of my own complicity?

‘Choose,’ Ekks told me. ‘We will all carry the burden. Like pallbearers, we will each shoulder a fraction of the load. Your duty is to choose. We have four prisoners, four worthless criminals. Decide. Who will be the sacrifice? Who must give his life?’

It haunts me. The moment I stood in front of the captives, pointed a finger and said ‘Him’.

Ekks stirred. He shifted his head.

Cloke checked the man’s pulse, his breathing.

He leaned close and whispered in his ear.

‘Can you hear me? Doctor Ekks? Can you hear me?’

No response.

Cloke poured a capful of water into the man’s mouth. Reflex swallow.

‘Give me a sign. Blink, or move your fingers, if you can hear my voice.’

No reaction.

Cloke watched him awhile, then resumed reading the sheaf of notes.

The presidential order arrived nine days before the bomb dropped. Our last direct contact with the outside world.

We pleaded for rescue time and again, but help never came. One by one, all radio contacts fell silent. Every army unit that might have conceivably come to our aid had been surrounded, overrun, torn apart.

It added new urgency to our work. The realisation our lives had no value unless we made significant progress in our research.

We were marooned with no hope of fighting our way to safety. Then we received a terse radio message. A chopper would land that afternoon. It had been dispatched from an airfield upstate. It would carry fresh orders.

A brief and perilous touchdown at the junction of Lafayette and Canal. Chief Jefferson and a couple of NYPD SWAT. It must have been a nightmare journey. A quarter-mile dash down the street, ducking between wrecked cars, advancing cover/fire as infected creatures stumbled out of doorways to meet them.

The Fenwick entrance gate was so rusted it took us ten minutes to hammer the padlock loose. Jefferson and his men took position at the mouth of the alley while we worked. They slapped a fresh mag into his rifle and methodically took down a shambling mob of infected headed their way.

We released the gate. Jefferson and his escort ran down the steps to the safety of the station. We sealed the entrance behind them.

The Chief brought a presidential order from the continuity government based at NORAD. As soon as he reached the ticket hall he took the envelope from his jacket pocket and presented it to Doctor Ekks.

Ekks tore open the envelope and read the note.

‘You understand the situation?’ asked the Chief. ‘We haven’t got the manpower or equipment to shift your entire team. You folks are stuck here for the duration. It’s chaos out there. Anarchy. It’s down to you guys now. Continue your work as long as you can.’

Ekks nodded.

‘I understand.’

‘You’ll do what needs to be done?’

‘Count on it.’

The cops glanced around. They checked out our camp. Six medical staff. Twelve guards. Boxes and bunks. Cold, damp subterranean squalor.

We offered them food. They declined. Their chopper was circling Manhattan. It was a small vehicle, limited fuel capacity. A Bell JetRanger commandeered from a Pittsburgh TV station.

There would be room aboard the helicopter for one additional man.

‘Not you, doc. You’ve got work to do.’

We conferred. Lawson, the youngest member of the 101st platoon, drew the most votes. He shook hands and said goodbye. We gave him letters to pass to our relatives, if they could be found.

We locked the gate after they left, and listened to the sound of distant gunfire as they fought their way back up Lafayette to the chopper.

We were now stranded. Those of us left behind knew there was virtually no hope of rescue.

Ekks showed me the decree. Thick note paper. The presidential seal. An unrecognisable signature. Permission to apply ‘extraordinary therapeutic measures’ in our search for a cure.

‘You must choose,’ Ekks told me. ‘You must make the selection. One of the prisoners must be sacrificed. You will decide which of them is the ideal experimental subject, the healthiest physical specimen. That is your burden. You must decide who will die.’

We had four captives. Very few medical records. No prison files.

Wade. Judging by his tattoos and blond mullet, he was some kind of biker. He was from Texas. I have no idea how he came to be imprisoned in New York.

Lupe, aka Lucretia, aka Esperansa Guadalupe Villaseñor. She refused to divulge any background information, but her short, violent life was etched in her skin. A map of Honduras on her shoulder. Dead gang brethren inscribed on each bicep. Guns, knives and hypodermics down each forearm.

Marcus Means, aka Sicknote. His skull had been drilled and his thalamus wired with iridium electrodes. A failed attempt to control psychotic episodes using high-frequency electrical impulses. He was lost in nightmares. We had exhausted our supply of anti-schizoid meds and had to quiet his screams with regular doses of Valium. He spent most of each day curled in a foetal ball, staring into space.

Knox. The fourth prisoner. African American. Bright. Articulate. Cooperative.

Time to choose.

I immediately eliminated Means from consideration. His profound mental illness and subsequent brain surgery made him an unsuitable test subject.

Wade was in good physical shape. He was lucid, apparently mentally unimpaired. However, his arms showed signs of long-term intravenous drug use: scaring and collapsed veins. Again, the neurological implications of this drug habit removed him from consideration. A dependence on heroin or methamphetamine would render him an atypical test subject.

Knox and Lupe. Both fit. Both young.

One of them would have to die.

The prisoners were held on the station platform. We had no cells, no containment facilities. Moxon, the orderly charged with guarding the convicts, had drawn chalk squares on the ticket hall floor. The prisoners were confined within the chalk squares. They could sit, lie or pace within the boundaries of their imaginary cell. They could eat from paper plates. They could urinate and defecate in a plastic bucket. They could wash from a basin. But if they stepped beyond the chalk, they would be shot.

I spoke to Lupe first.

I sat cross-legged on the ticket hall floor. She knelt and faced me, the chalk perimeter of her cell between us. She drew a blanket around her shoulders like a shawl.

I’m not sure why Lupe had been sent to Bellevue for psych evaluation. The patient files we rescued from the hospital contained basic medical information. Dosage charts and X-rays. We had no charge sheets or prison documentation. Moxon told me tattoo tears were an emblem of gang-sanctioned assassination. Each tear represented a kill.

I asked Lupe if she was hungry or thirsty. She held out cuffed hands and demanded to be released. I asked if she were cold, if she would like an extra blanket. She looked me in the eye and told me, calm and clear, that I was attempting to use a series of token kindnesses to make myself feel better about holding people captive while the world went to hell, and maybe I should fuck myself.

I shifted position so I could talk to Knox. He sat by the entrance of his cell.

The doorway to each cell was designated by a series of chalk dashes. When the prisoners were escorted to and from their imaginary cells, they were expected to use this demarcated entrance.

Knox sat hugging his knees. He hummed old Motown hits. I gave him a stick of gum.

I liked him. He had been arrested on an assault charge. He told a convoluted story involving mistaken identity and police racism. He was adamant the case should never have seen trial.

He had been transported to Bellevue for treatment to a hip injury following a minor fracas at Sing Sing. A poker game that ended in scattered cards, shoves and recriminations. The prison infirmary had been damaged by a burst water pipe, so he had been sent outside the walls for examination.

I’m not fool enough to think I am a fine judge of character, that I have a deep insight into human nature. But I sympathised with Knox. The pettiest of criminals. No gang tattoos, no track marks. Not a bad man. Not malicious. Just pathetically weak.

Knox or Lupe? Who would you choose?

Lupe deserved to die. Vermin. Irredeemable street trash. A life-long killer. Probably responsible for a dozen deaths, gang rivals shot or knifed in retaliation for near-imperceptible violations of her honour code. Most people would circle her name without hesitation.

But what is evil? Is murder part of the normal spectrum of human behaviour? Or is it indicative of illness? If Lupe was a psychopath, incap-able of empathy, could that be regarded an actual physical abnormality, rather than simply a mental state? Her anti-social behaviour might be the result of some malformation of the central nervous system. Or it might be the result of post-natal injury. A blow to the head, some form of traumatic encephalopathy. As a doctor, should I regard her as a defective specimen? An imperfect test subject? Was she, on some basic level, less than human?

I handed Ekks the list knowing, as I did so, I had set the death machine in motion.

A folded sheet of paper. Four names. Three crossed in red. A big green tick next to KNOX.

Ekks lay a hand on my shoulder. His solemn, wordless Thank You.

I condemned an innocent person to death. Played my role with cold, clear deliberation.

I did the right thing. I did what needed to be done.

But I’m not the man I used to be. I have become something else. Something ugly. Something broken.

Tombes slept, back against the wall.

He swallowed. He choked and convulsed. He woke, and found a thin string of drool hanging from his mouth.

‘Christ.’

He took a bandana from his pocket. He dabbed his chin and shirt. He sipped bottled water and rinsed the taste of vomit from his mouth.

He ran fingers across his scalp. Sudden fear his hair might be falling out in clumps.

Sicknote stood by the barricaded door, forehead pressed to the wood panels like he was deep in prayer.

‘Told you to keep away from that door.’

Sicknote smiled and backed off.

‘You want to go outside, is that it? Want to commune with those bastards in the hall? Embrace the darkness, all that shit? Happy to oblige. Glad to see the back of you.’

Sicknote giggled and walked to the back of the plant room. He sat, rocked, and chewed his nails.

‘Stay there. Seriously. Stay put. I got too much to worry about. If you’re going to freak out for real, I’ll push you out the door. Won’t hesitate.’

Lupe sat opposite Tombes.

‘It’s all right,’ said Lupe. ‘I’ll keep my eyes on him. He won’t try anything.’

‘If he pulls any shit, I got to take steps. I don’t want to hurt the guy. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I get it: he’s nuts. It’s not his fault. But a situation like this, what else can I do?’

‘I’ll watch the guy, all right? He’s my responsibility. If there are problems, I’ll deal with it myself.’

Lupe knelt beside Ekks.

She examined his signet ring. A silver snake, eating its own tail. She tried to twist the ring from his finger. His hand slowly balled into a fist.

She studied his face. Silver hair. Wide, Slavic lips.

She leaned close and listened to breath escape his parted lips.

She clapped her hands. He didn’t flinch. His eyelids didn’t flutter. His jaw didn’t clench.

‘I doubt he is faking,’ said Cloke. ‘Nobody is that good an actor.’

‘I wouldn’t put it past this fuck. He’ll wake up when it suits him. Not before. He’ll lie there, listening to us talk, map our minds, figure out which strings to pull.’

‘You’re building this guy up into some sort of satanic manipulator.’

‘Damn right.’

Cloke threw the notebook aside. He rubbed his eyes.

‘No luck with the code?’ asked Lupe.

‘I’m not a cipher expert. I haven’t got the right sort of mind, the right kind of logic. I’ve never won a game of chess in my life.’