Bone

by George C. Chesbro

  But the two Wolfpack members who were still on their feet were already running away down Forty-eighth Street.

  Two cars had stopped across the street, and a small knot of early-morning pedestrians crowded together on the opposite sidewalk, staring in astonishment. Bone, his vision blurring once again, struggled to get to his feet. A huge hand reached down and grabbed the back of his jacket, then lifted him to his -feet as though he were no more than a child.

  "Can you walk, Bone-man?" Zulu asked in his deep, rumbling voice. When Bone nodded, he continued, "Then let's start walking."

  With a sweep of one huge arm, Zulu cloaked Bone with his robe. Holding his staff in his right hand and supporting Bone with his left, he began walking back toward Park Avenue.

  Moving his legs as best he could, leaning against Zulu for support, Bone was half led, half carried to the corner, where Zulu turned left and headed back in the direction of Grand Central Terminal. Bone felt like he was floating, and he tried even harder to move his legs, which had gone numb. His vision cleared just as Zulu turned left into a doorway a half block from the entrance to Grand Central.

  "You're lucky I was just leaving from home for the office, Bone-man," Zulu mumbled as he moved with Bone down a sloping concrete ramp.

  People coming up out of the terminal quickly moved aside, some staring open-mouthed at the sight of the giant Zulu with his staff in one hand and his closely held companion wrapped in the folds of his robe. At the bottom of the ramp Zulu turned right, and now Bone could see that the ramp they had come down was one of dozens connected to the labyrinth of tunnels that radiated from the concourse at Grand Central. They passed a newspaper kiosk, already doing a brisk business with early-morning commuters, a coffee shop, a sign that read Oyster Bar. Then they went down another sloping ramp that led to gated entranceways with numbers above them. Bone glanced through one of the doorways, saw people, tracks, trains.

  Zulu guided Bone to the left, down a wide corridor. They turned a corner, into another corridor which seemed to Bone to lead nowhere, and which was empty of commuters. Then Zulu stopped in front of the wide, closed doors of a freight elevator.

  "This is risky business at this time of the morning," Zulu continued in his deep, rumbling voice as he produced a ring of keys from somewhere beneath his robe. He glanced around to make sure they were unobserved, then inserted one of the keys into the lock of the freight elevator, turned it. The door opened. Zulu raised the wooden gate, helped Bone into the huge box, then quickly lowered the gate and pressed the Basement 3 button on a panel to his right. The door swung shut, and the elevator began to descend.

  "Where are we going?" Bone murmured as he leaned heavily against the side of the box. He felt very faint, dizzy.

  "My home, six stories down," the black man replied in a voice that to Bone seemed almost like the low rumble of trains that reverberated in the walls around them. "I've got quite a spread here, don't you think? Forty acres in all, seven levels. Of course, I have to share it with a few million people who traipse in and out all year long, but they don't bother me, and the rent is just right."

  The freight elevator bumped to a stop, and the door opened.

  Zulu lifted the gate, poked his head out into the dimly lit corridor, looked back and forth.

  "We're in luck, Bone-man," Zulu continued quietly as he reached back, took a firm grip on Bone's elbow and gently pulled him forward. "Come on; we don't have far to go now."

  They went left, down a short wide corridor that led to a large storage area, then through an opening which led onto tracks now shrouded in darkness. Bone watched Zulu reach down for something on the ground, close to the concrete wall. There was a soft click, and suddenly the beam of a powerful flashlight cut through the darkness. Zulu led Bone down the tracks for fifty yards, then up a short flight of metal stairs which ended on a catwalk stretching away into the distance beyond the beam of light. They moved on down the catwalk, often, to Bone's horror, having to step over or around piles of newspapers or rags which turned out to be covering people who stared up at him with vacant eyes.

  Finally Zulu stopped in front of a large iron door. Zulu again produced his key ring, inserted one of the keys into the lock in the iron door, turned the key and pushed on the door, which swung open easily and silently on its well-oiled hinges. Bone, whose vision was completely blurred now, staggered, felt Zulu's strong hands holding him up, guiding him into the darkness beyond the iron door. Then he was eased down onto a soft surface that seemed to swallow up his body. Bone tried to speak, but could not. He closed his eyes and let himself disappear into the darkness.

  Chapter Fourteen

  (i)

  There were the usual nightmares of darkness and flickering torches or candles, bones, an orange-clad figure stalking him; but Bone slept, and finally in his dreams there was pain that brought him back to semiconsciousness. Then the pain eased and he drifted off into deep sleep, dreamless, restful, healing. It was the smell of food that finally caused him to wake.

  He opened his eyes, found himself lying on an air-inflated mattress in one corner of a spacious, concrete area that had no windows but was filled with the low hum of what Bone assumed were large ventilation fans. It was quite warm in the room, but two large fans at opposite corners whirred quietly, producing a pleasant breeze. Behind him, off to his left, there was an opening in the concrete wall, but it was dark beyond. There was a wardrobe made of heavy cardboard off to one side, and bookcases constructed of wooden packing crates piled on top of one another. Books, magazines and newspapers were everywhere, overflowing from the bookcases, stacked in neat piles around the room. Against one wall was a pile of cartons containing canned food. There was a rocking chair, another air mattress and pillows, sheets, blankets. Light was provided by two bare bulbs screwed into fixtures in the high ceiling; wires and electrical cables of varying thickness snaked along one wall and through the opening in the wall into the darkness. Paintings of sea- and landscapes hung from nails driven into the concrete walls. Everything was very clean—which only made Bone more conscious of his own stench.

  Against the far wall next to the cartons of canned food were two hot plates, as well as a small stove beneath which two Sterno heaters burned; the delicious aromas that had awakened him had come from two pots that were simmering on the stove. A card table had been set up, complete with tablecloth and two place settings. There was only one chair at the table, but an overturned milk crate had been placed in front of the second setting. Bone sucked in a deep breath, savoring the smell of the cooking food. He could not remember ever being so hungry.

  He pulled back the single cotton sheet that covered him, found that he was naked. His clothes were nowhere to be seen. The wound in his belly had been attended to, seemingly by an expert. The cut was perhaps six inches long, just above his naval, and the area all around it had been swabbed with what looked to be either iodine or Merthiolate. It was held closed with six small shiny butterfly clamps.

  Suddenly there was the sound of metal clicking against metal, and the door noiselessly swung open. Zulu stepped in, closing the door behind him. He was carrying his staff in one hand, and an armful of packages. He looked at Bone, smiled thinly.

  "Bone-man," Zulu said evenly. "I didn't think I'd find you awake yet."

  Bone started to sit up, then grimaced and clutched at his belly as fiery pain stabbed through his stomach. Then the pain subsided. He exhaled slowly, leaned back against the wall.

  "You'd best take it easy, Bone-man," Zulu continued as he came across the room and placed the packages next to Bone's air mattress. "That's only a flesh wound you've got there, and you're damned lucky the knife didn't pierce the stomach wall. But those things bleed like crazy; if you move too suddenly and pop those clamps open, I'm going to have a lot of cleaning up to do all over again."

  "You're Zulu, aren't you?"

  The huge black grunted, raised his eyebrows slightly.

  "You've gotten to be a regular chatterbox, Bone-man. Thi
s is the first time I've ever heard you talk."

  "But you do know me?"

  "Know you?" Zulu laughed—a deep, booming sound that echoed in the concrete chamber. "Picking you up off the sidewalk and bringing you home with me is getting to be a habit."

  Bone felt his heart begin to pound, and he swallowed hard, took a deep breath. "When did you pick me up before?"

  "You don't remember, do you?" Zulu said, studying Bone's face.

  Bone shook his head. "No. I . . . God, Zulu, I don't know where to start. I've been looking for you for almost a week, from the time when I learned that you might know something about me."

  "I've been on vacation," Zulu replied evenly. "It was you staring at me from across the street the other day, wasn't it?"

  Bone nodded. "I should have come over to you then, Zulu. I can't remember anything that happened to me over the course of a year. A few weeks ago I woke up, as I describe it, in Central Park. It was like I was born at that moment. I didn't—and don't—remember anything that happened to me during a year I lived on the streets, and I don't remember who I am, or where I came from, or what I did. I've been searching for my identity ever since. Somebody told me your name, and when I saw you that day I had a strong feeling that I should know you—or had met you before."

  "Mmm. You've changed, Bone-man, and that's for sure. You look different, because you got your hair cut. You haven't got that blank look in your eyes, you speak—and, frankly, you smell like a goddamn goat. Before, you were always clean."

  The words cut to Bone's heart, and he lowered his head. "I know. I'm sorry. There was a reason—or I thought there was. Is there someplace down here where I can wash?"

  "Did you cut the heads off all those people, Bone-man?" Zulu asked in an even tone.

  Bone's head snapped up. "No," he replied flatly.

  "I thought you just said you couldn't remember anything you did for a year."

  "And I still don't. For a time I was afraid I had committed those murders, and even after I 'woke up' I was afraid I might have another, hidden, personality and was still killing people.

  But the last killing—Dr. Ali Hakim—I know I didn't do. That murder was committed to frame me. Dr. Hakim was treating me. I was on my way to see him, and he was dead and mutilated when I got there. It was then that I knew I hadn't killed anyone—but I would never be believed. The reason I'm so filthy is because . . . I just haven't been able to take care of myself the way I should."

  Zulu was silent for some time, staring into Bone's eyes. "Okay," he said at last.

  "Okay?"

  "I believe you, Bone-man. I always thought you were a decent man. I never believed you were killing those people like the first news reports said, but that last killing seemed to nail you good. Now you've explained it to me."

  "I have an awful lot of questions to ask you, Zulu."

  "They'll wait. You must be very hungry. I've got some food for you over here."

  Bone nodded, gestured around the chamber. "Where are we?

  Zulu smiled thinly, pointed to the ceiling. "Beneath the metropolis of New York City—specifically, beneath Grand Central Terminal. Incidentally, I'm sorry it's so hot in here. There are steam pipes beneath the floor, and they make things quite cozy in the winter. But it's uncomfortable when the weather changes. In another week or so I'll be moving to my summer quarters—two blocks west of here, in another room like this that's right next to some air-conditioning ducts."

  "But this room . . . ?"

  "It's what's called a junction terminal room. Abandoned. All the switching equipment that was here has been moved out. You ready for some food? I'll bring it over to you."

  Bone shook his head, then struggled to his feet. "I'm not a dirty person, Zulu. I want to wash first."

  "Sit down, Bone-man, before you open up that wound. I'll bring water for you to wash with later. There are clothes in those packages. I'll help you get cleaned up, and then we'll get you dressed: But first you eat. I don't want you opening that cut—which, if I do say so myself, I think I did a pretty good job on. I don't want you messing it up. I've got first-aid supplies down here, and you learn how to take care of yourself. It costs you a fortune to go to a hospital, and they ask you a lot of questions that are none of their damn business."

  Bone again shook his head. "I'll be careful, Zulu. Please; this is important to me. Is there someplace down here where I can wash?"

  Zulu sighed, opened a trunk that was set between two bookcases and took out a huge bath towel, a bar of soap, a razor and a small mirror. He put the articles into a plastic bag, draped the towel over his arm, nodded toward the door. "Come; I'll take you."

  "I'll take myself, Zulu. Tell me where I can go to wash."

  Zulu studied Bone for a few moments, then slowly nodded. "Don't you get that wound wet."

  "I won't."

  Zulu handed Bone the towel, which Bone wrapped around his middle, wincing slightly when the rough material touched his cut. Then Zulu handed him the toilet articles and a large flashlight.

  "When you go out of here, turn left. Go up on the catwalk, and stay on it. About a hundred yards down you'll find a tap. You can wash up there." Zulu paused, held up a huge hand as Bone walked past him toward the door. "Be careful, Bone-man," he continued. "You won't find any alligators in these tunnels, but there are mutant cats, and rats the size of dogs. But it's the humans you have to watch out for."

  "God, I remember seeing people on the way here. I don't understand how anyone could live down here."

  "Why? I live here, don't I?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "Most of the men who find their way down here are quite mad, Bone-man, and they can be dangerous. Avoid them."

  Holding the plastic bag in one hand and the flashlight in the other, Bone walked out of the junction terminal room, then up a narrow flight of stairs to a catwalk beneath three massive pipes. He had gone perhaps twenty yards when he suddenly stopped and sucked in a deep breath.

  Ahead of him, just barely visible at the end of the beam of light, a half-naked man sat in a pool of urine, idly rocking back and forth as he stared off into the darkness. He did not turn toward the light as Bone approached, then, with his back to the metal railing, edged past. The man gave no indication that he even saw Bone.

  He passed three more men on his way—all of them simply sitting or lying down in the darkness. Bone saw no food or water near the men, and he wondered how they survived, how they managed to come and go, in this eternal night far below the city streets.

  He found the tap, braced the flashlight against the railing and quickly washed himself. He found he was already feeling stronger, more confident. He shaved, washed his hair, then vigorously toweled himself off, being careful to avoid the wound on his stomach.

  When he returned to the concrete chamber that was Zulu's "winter home," he found the black man dressed in flannel shorts, thongs and a T-shirt. The clothes Zulu had bought for him were laid out on his air mattress.

  "Thank you," Bone said simply.

  Zulu nodded, then pointed to the clothes. "Get dressed."

  "I have a thousand questions to ask you, Zulu."

  "First we'll eat, then we'll talk."

  (ii)

  "When I first found you, it was at about the same time of morning as when I found you today. You were lying on the sidewalk with your face in a mud puddle next to a construction site at Thirty-third Street and Ninth Avenue. You were absolutely covered with mud, which first made me think that you'd injured yourself down there in the foundation pit that had been dug, and had somehow managed to crawl out. But you weren't dressed in construction worker's clothing; you had on leather shorts, a T-shirt and hiking boots with heavy woolen socks. You had no identification on you, and the side of your head was bashed in.

  "I don't usually go that way; normally, I walk from here directly to St. Thomas Church, where I work the corner. But that day they were having a convention of booksellers at the Jacob Javits Convention Center, and there wer
e some displays I wanted to check out. I don't know if anybody else had seen you and walked on by, but there wasn't anybody attending to you when I found you. You were semiconscious, and when I touched your shoulder you moaned and tried to get up. I helped you to your feet, and then I tried to take that bone away from you. No way. You'd kept a tight grip on that thing even while you'd been unconscious, and there was no way you were going to let go of it.

  "I had a decision to make. I hailed a taxi, figuring to check you into a hospital. When we got to the nearest one, there were problems—just like I knew there were going to be—in the emergency room; they didn't want to accept you because you had no identification, and obviously had no money to pay. They said I should take you someplace else, to a clinic that I'm familiar with; but I knew you were going to be hassled there too. By this time you were conscious most of the time, but couldn't talk. Well, some of the charity hospitals in this city can be dangerous places even for people who can talk. I figured you had a pretty good concussion, but that if you were conscious and walking around the most dangerous time had passed, and that you'd be all right as long as you got a lot of rest. So what I did was bring you down here, clean you up and otherwise take care of you. As long as you didn't slip into a coma or develop a very high fever, I figured the care I could give you was as good—or better—than you'd get on some of the charity or welfare wards around here.

  "Eventually you did get stronger, and you stopped sleeping so much. You'd been eating okay when you were awake, so I figured you were healing. I got you some clothes, a razor and some other stuff, and you started taking care of yourself. You ate the food I cooked for you, slept and spent a lot of time just watching me, but you didn't talk. Well, I do talk—a lot; you listened, and for some reason I thought you understood what I was saying, but you didn't respond.