by Adam Baker
Hammering slowed to silence. Lupe pressed her ear to the door. She listened a full minute.
‘Anything?’ asked Cloke.
‘Nothing.’
‘Maybe they backed off.’
‘Feel the door.’
Cloke put his hand to the door.
‘Jeez. Baking hot.’
‘I’m going out there,’ said Lupe. ‘I’m going to take a look.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’ve got to know what’s going on.’
Cloke slowly pulled back deadbolts. He held the door handle, flinched as he gripped hot metal.
Lupe gripped the rusted pipe in both hands, ready to strike.
She gave the nod.
Cloke wrenched open the door.
They recoiled from acrid flesh-stink. Lupe waved her hands, tried to clear broiling smoke.
A corpse. A jumble of bone and smouldering rags lying on the tiled floor. The door was carbonised and blistered.
Lupe cupped a hand over her mouth. She pushed the brittle cadaver aside with her foot and edged into the ticket hall.
The hall was dark. The ceiling light was blackened with soot.
Lupe fumbled her way to the equipment pile and tipped out a couple of scorched nylon holdalls. She found a flashlight and switched it on. The beam shafted through smoke.
The hall looked like a battlefield. Bodies littered the floor. Spastic, contorted limbs. Grinning skulls. Seared flesh bubbled and smoked.
‘I’m going up top,’ said Lupe, gesturing to the street exit stairs. ‘We have to seal the entrance gate before any more of these bastards stumble down here.’
Cloke tossed her a respirator and gloves.
‘Don’t get careless. Close the gate quick as you can, then get back down here. Every second at the top of those steps is a second too long.’
Cloke returned to the plant room. He knelt beside Ekks. He checked pulse and respiration.
‘Still don’t like the sound of that chest rattle,’ he murmured.
He hung a clear bag of saline from a water pipe above Ekks and ran line to the cannula in his forearm.
‘Doctor, can you hear me?’
He leaned over Ekks and gently lifted an eyelid. He shone a penlight. Weak dilation.
‘Come on. Give me a sign. Move your fingers.’
No response.
‘We need you, Doctor. We have to know. The cure. How close did you get?’
No reply.
‘Please. Summon your energy, Doctor. Summon your strength. Talk to me. The cure. Did you succeed?’
No reply.
Cloke sighed and sat back. He glanced at Sicknote. The man was petrified. He was staring past Cloke, shocked rigid by what he saw.
Cloke felt hot, fetid breath on the back of his neck. He slowly turned.
Exposed muscle. Knotted tumours. Bared teeth.
‘Jesus,’ he murmured. ‘Galloway.’
Cloke was lifted clean off his feet. He tried to scream, but a hand clamped round his throat and cut off all sound. His legs danced in the air.
Sicknote watched from the shadows. He squirmed deeper into darkness. He suppressed a terrified giggle.
Cloke fought to release the hand wrapped round his neck. He punched. He strained. He choked as fingers dug into his larynx.
He looked down at the skinless, grinning skull-mask.
He shoved a hand in his pant pocket and retrieved a cyanide cylinder. He struggled to unscrew the cap with his thumb and forefinger.
Galloway slammed Cloke’s head against the wall. The cylinder fell to the floor. Brass chimed as it hit cement. The glass ampoule smashed, spilling droplets of amber liquid.
Sicknote squeezed his eyes shut and clamped hands over his ears. He sobbed. He bellowed ‘White Christmas’ to drown choking screams that reverberated from the plant room walls.
51
Galloway.
No longer human. A grotesque mess of metallic sarcomas and rotting, peeling flesh.
The creature hauled Cloke through the pipe.
It stopped. It listened to voices from the distant plant room.
Door slam. Shouts.
Hours ago, Galloway would have understood words, emotions. He would have recognised Tombes and Lupe, understood their anger and fear. But the insect intelligence behind his eyes simply heard human vocalisations at high volume. Alien animal barks.
Shadow and seclusion.
The creature’s vision cut through the tunnel darkness. It crouched over the prone man and surveyed every pore, inspected every bead of sweat, every fleck of blood. It caressed Cloke’s face and examined fingers wet with tears.
Cloke scrabbled at the tunnel wall. A chunk of brick. He gripped it in his fist and struck out, wild blows flung in total darkness, missing their target. Galloway watched the man flail with detached fascination.
Cloke adjusted his grip, drew back his arm and attempted to deliver a skull-crushing punch. He put all his strength into the blow. Galloway twisted his head to avoid the impact. Cloke’s fist slammed into the tunnel wall, breaking fingers.
Cloke lay back and sobbed. Galloway crouched over him, and studied the physiology of fear. Grotesque facial contortion. Eyes wide, pupils dilated with adrenalin. Cloke’s mouth pulled down like he was cartoon sad. A howling monkey-jabber of mortal terror.
The creature copied the sound. It emitted a harsh, braying cackle that reverberated in the tight space and echoed deep into the tunnel system.
Cloke thrashed as he was dragged across brickwork. He was drawn further into darkness, further from help. Mortar, sharp as coral, shredded his clothes. Fingers ripped and bloody, abraded to bone as he fought to grip the tunnel walls.
‘Stop,’ gasped Cloke. ‘Think. Remember who you are. You’re Galloway. Jim Galloway.’
The monstrous thing paused and turned. It leaned close like it was drinking the scent of fear.
‘Kill me,’ said Cloke. ‘Come on. Kill me now.’
The creature raised a hand.
‘Do it. Get it done.’
The hand slammed into Cloke’s belly. Talons broke skin. Cloke convulsed. He arched his back and screamed.
‘Oh dear Jesus.’
The creature drove a twisting fist into Cloke’s gut, tearing muscle, ripping skin. Cloke choked as his diaphragm was compressed, forcing air from his lungs.
‘Motherfuck.’
The arm pushed elbow-deep into a slurry of intestines, tearing the wound wide. Cloke’s scream turned to a blood-spray gurgle. ‘Jesus fucking Christ.’
Galloway leaned over the gaping wound and slowly forced his head inside.
52
Lupe examined the conduit mouth. Blood and strands of fabric hung from torn wire.
She shone her flashlight into the pipe. Brickwork receded to deep darkness.
‘Maybe we should go after him,’ said Tombes.
‘Think he’s still alive?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Why take Cloke?’
‘Because he was the healthiest specimen, at a guess. Ekks is half dead and Sicknote has mush for brains.’
Tombes crouched beside Ekks.
‘Is he injured?’ asked Lupe.
‘Doesn’t look like it.’
Lupe shone her flashlight into the corner of the room. Sicknote huddled in shadow, rocking back and forth.
Lupe waved a hand in front of his face. She snapped fingers.
‘Hey. Sick. Can you hear me?’
She shook his shoulder. No response.
She crouched.
‘Dude. What happened to Cloke? Can you tell me what happened?’
Sicknote slowly raised his head and met her gaze. A twisted, sour smile. Then his eyes lost focus like he was looking through and beyond her.
‘He’s zoned out.’
‘Can’t we give him something?’ asked Donahue. ‘A shot to chill him out?’
Lupe shook her head.
‘The seizure will pass. Then we can find out what actu
ally happened in here.’
Donahue climbed the steps to the street entrance. She stepped over broken bodies. Bone-chips crackled underfoot. She left boot prints in puddles of coagulating blood.
She pulled on a respirator and adjusted straps. She pulled on gloves.
She checked the gate, rattled the cuff and chain. Secure.
She shone her flashlight into the alley.
Rain had turned to snow. A silent cascade of plump flakes. Asphalt carpeted white. The wrecked motorbike already veiled by a growing drift. The scattered bodies in front of the gate, the frozen screams, clawing hands, sightless eyes, dusted with ice.
The snow was flecked with ash. Particulates from the cinder cloud that still hung over the city like a shroud. Cremated buildings, cremated people. Prevailing winds would already have swept radioactive nucleotides inland, scattering lethal toxins across the Midwest.
She listened to the growling rubble-roar of a distant Midtown mega structure folding in a titanic avalanche of concrete and girders. The iron gate rattled in its frame. Donahue placed a hand on the stairwell wall and felt the tremor slowly subside.
‘How’s it looking?’ called Lupe, from the foot of the stairwell. ‘What’s it like out there?’
Donahue pulled the polythene curtain back in position. She descended the steps. She took off her respirator and gloves.
‘Want to build a snowman?’
‘Shit.’
‘Turning into a blizzard. Better wrap up warm. This place will get cold as a meat locker soon enough.’
Donahue loaded a hypo with 15mg Diazepam, slapped Sicknote’s arm and sunk the needle. His panting breath slowed to steady, gentle inhalations. He closed his eyes and blissed.
A dried trickle of blood down the side of his neck. Donahue gently turned his head and examined the wound.
‘Bitten?’ asked Lupe.
‘No. He’s been pulling at the implant behind his ear.’
Lupe contemplated the conduit mouth.
‘So. Galloway is back.’
‘Or whatever he’s become.’
Tombes sorted through the equipment pile. He shook out burned bags. He salvaged clothing and energy bars.
He pulled a scorched tarp aside and wiped soot from a pile of gas cylinders. He checked psi gauges.
Lupe joined him.
‘The tanks got pretty roasted. Still intact, though.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Which is why we didn’t get burned to hell. Imagine if this shit ruptured.’
‘You shouldn’t be out here alone.’
Tombes threw Lupe an FDNY sweatshirt. ‘Put it on. This place will be an ice cave in a couple of hours. Get some layers.’
He loaded Lupe’s arms with gear. Coats, bottled water, an axe.
‘We better fortify the plant room. Turn it into a proper fallback position, in case we get more problems.’
‘Are you kidding me? Cloke just got snatched from the damned place.’
‘You got a better idea?’
‘No.’
‘We ought to get a fire going. Generate a little heat.’
Lupe crawled into the conduit, knife in one hand, flashlight in the other.
She crouched and shone her flashlight deep into shadow. The brick pipe receded to a distant junction.
She gripped the knife, tempted to crawl further, find Galloway and drive the blade into his eye.
‘Hey,’ called Donahue, from the mouth of the pipe. ‘Don’t go too far.’
Lupe inspected the brickwork. Blood smears.
‘Broken fingernails. Looks like Cloke put up a fight.’
She shone her flashlight into the tunnel darkness.
‘Cloke?’ she shouted. ‘Can you hear me?’ No response. ‘Dude, if you’re injured, if you can hear my voice, make some noise.’
Her voice echoed and died.
‘He’s gone,’ said Donahue. ‘Come on out. Let’s see if we can block this aperture. Do it right this time.’
Lupe backed out of the pipe. She held up ragged, bloody fabric.
‘Found a pair of pants.’
‘Cloke?’
Lupe examined the fabric. Black polyester.
‘No. Galloway, I think. His uniform.’
She threw the bundled rags into the corner.
‘Look at this,’ said Donahue. She crouched on the floor. A brass case. Flecks of glass. ‘Cyanide capsule. I guess Cloke tried to use it.’
‘Poor bastard.’
Donahue picked up a couple of empty nail jars and tossed them into the pipe mouth. Broken glass scattered over brickwork.
‘That won’t stop him,’ said Lupe.
‘No, but we’ll hear him coming.’
Tombes opened a backpack and took out a red plastic case.
‘I have something that might help.’
DANGER
EXPLOSIVE/EXPLOSIF
He popped the lid and took out a demo charge.
‘How much you got?’ asked Lupe.
‘Not much. Enough left to blow Galloway to offal.’
He mashed the nub of ammonium nitrate against the side of a small, green oxygen cylinder.
He selected a colour-coded time pencil from a cigar box. Yellow band. He carefully pressed the aluminium tube into the explosive.
‘You know how these detonators work, right?’ He held up pliers. ‘Pinch the tube. Two minute burn. Big fucking bang. Oxygen will create a fierce secondary burn. If Galloway is in the vicinity when she blows, he’ll be torn to pieces, and those pieces will be cooked down to the bone.’
He set the bomb and the pliers on a wall ledge.
‘Remember. Two minutes. Long enough to get clear. Because you better be on the other side of the hall when she pops. If those explosives are fired in a confined space, they could bring down the roof.’
They held torn mesh over the conduit mouth and lashed it back in place with plastic ties. They stacked boxes against the grille.
‘He could punch through easy enough,’ said Tombes. ‘A pile of boxes won’t slow him down. But we’ll be waiting. We’ll stand guard. If the fucker makes another appearance, we’ll shut him down for good.’
Sicknote slowly awoke. He looked around. He blinked. No glasses. The plant room was a blur.
Pounding headache. He reflexively reached for the port behind his right ear. He discovered his hands were cuffed and his ankles were lashed with flex.
‘What’s going on? Why am I tied up?’
‘You wigged out,’ said Lupe. ‘Didn’t want you to get hurt.’
‘Are you going to let me go?’
‘Maybe later. How are you feeling?’
‘Like utter shit.’
‘That thing in your head. Doesn’t seem to help much.’
‘I got wires in my brain. I’d tear them out, but the socket is screwed to my skull.’
‘Want some Codeine?’
‘It won’t help.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘The pain will pass in a few minutes. Just got to ride it out.’
Lupe picked his spectacles from the floor and placed them in his hand. He put them on. The left lens was missing.
‘Sorry,’ said Lupe. ‘Guess they broke.’
‘Can you blank out the missing lens?’ asked Sicknote. ‘Tape it over, like an eye patch?’
‘If you like.’
‘One good eye. I’ll see better that way.’
‘Tell me what happened to Cloke.’
‘Galloway. Must have been watching, listening, lying in wait all the while. Picked his moment, then made the snatch.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Pretty far gone. A putrefied mess. Not much left of his face. He looked like those ghouls outside. But stronger, faster. He picked up Cloke with one arm. Threw him around like he didn’t weigh a damn thing. Took him into the pipe.’
‘So why are you alive? Why not take you? Why not take Ekks?’
Sicknote shrugged.
‘Maybe Galloway is toyin
g with us.’
‘Average prowler has the brains of a cockroach. They don’t play games.’
‘Some are pretty smart.’
‘They tear people up. That’s the height of their ambition.’
‘Maybe those guys in the street are just foot soldiers. Drones. Ever think of that? Maybe there is a hierarchy. Creatures we haven’t seen yet.’
‘Give your imagination a break, all right? Get some rest.’
Lupe stood. She turned to Donahue and Tombes.
‘Anytime we leave this room, we go in pairs, okay? From now on nobody moves on their own.’
They nodded.
‘No more sleep. And no more pills, Donnie. We need to stay frosty. We have to watch our backs at all times.’
53
Lupe pulled at the plant room door. Jammed. Roof subsidence. The frame had begun to distort, wedging the door closed.
‘Son of a bitch.’
Lupe braced a foot against the wall, gripped the handle and strained until the door juddered open with a tortured wood-shriek.
She shone her flashlight round the cavernous darkness of the ticket hall, probed shadows, checked for movement. She clapped a hand over her mouth and nose to mask the stench of incinerated flesh.
‘No point going out there again,’ said Donahue.
‘We better make sure they’re all dead.’
Lupe and Donahue advanced into the hall. Lupe carried an axe. Donahue carried a steel pike.
They crossed the ticket hall. Eerie silence. Their flashlights shafted through blue haze. Skeletal bodies. Carbonised limbs. Petrified screams.
Lupe crossed herself.
‘Santa Muerte,’ she murmured.
Donahue coughed and blinked away tears.
‘Damned smoke.’
The walls, pillars and ceiling had been seared by flame. The two-toned white and terracotta tiles burned uniform black.
The bench was charcoal. The wall clock was a fist of melted cogs.
Shattered tiles of the station sign:
Fe ck eet
Lupe looked up at the leaded glass bowl mounted on the ceiling.
‘Guess we killed the lights,’ said Donahue.
