Night-Train

by Thomas F Monteleone

  “No telling whether or not we’ll need this,” he said. “I wasn’t sure if it had fallen down there or not.”

  “Michael, this is awful …” She heard herself speaking, realizing how silly she must sound, but the words had just slipped out.

  He didn’t say anything, merely shook his head; he looked like he was close to lapsing into a mild state of shock. There was something about his eyes that was different, definitely not right. He touched her shoulder and indicated that they should begin walking.

  After they had traversed the narrow ledge, leaving the pit behind in the darkness of the shadows, Michael paused to check on her arm. It was alive with pain and throbbed at the gentlest touch. She tried to keep her mind off her pain and inadvertently reminded him of his own.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “About John, I mean. I—”

  He turned away from her, looking up the tunnel. “Not now,” he said. “I don’t want to think about that right now.”

  Again they began walking silently, each trapped in a private torment, each trying to assimilate what they had witnessed. Michael picked their way carefully, making certain that they retraced the correct path through the underground cavern. She was surprised to see that there were still lingering traces of the mist, which hung in cloudy patches in smaller alcoves of rocks, softly glowing. Several times the star-stone glowed faintly, and each time, Michael stopped, scanning the area cautiously.

  “What does it mean?” she asked once.

  “I don’t know. There’s no way to tell. Let’s just keep moving.”

  He led her past the mist, and the star-stone grew dark, but Lya wondered uneasily what forces still seeped through the shadows of that place. They approached the underground grotto, the place with the small temple, and again Michael signaled for her to stop. Inadvertently she touched her broken forearm, and the fiery pain erupted into a new heat again. She no longer had the sensation of being on the verge of blacking out, but the pain was still interrupting her thoughts in brief flashes. She leaned against the cold rock wall and watched him. He seemed to be listening for some sound.

  “Did you hear anything?” he asked.

  Lya shook her head slowly. “No, did you?”

  “Not sure. But I have the feeling that we’re being followed, that we’re being watched.”

  They stood silently, listening for several minutes, but heard nothing. Finally, Michael touched her shoulder and guided her on again. When they reached the grotto, he stopped again, carefully checking it. The still water of the pool was like a sheet of dark glass, reflecting the phosphorescent veins that laced the walls of the place. Again Lya was overtaken by the sense of violating a sacred, a forbidden place, but she said nothing, tried to think of nothing. Her mind was almost as exhausted as her body, and there was no point in trying to approach anything rationally. She kept wanting to just let go of everything and sit down and go to sleep. Each step was an effort, each blink of her eyes increased the burning under her lids, and through it all the throbbing in her arm seemed to be threatening to erupt into a new round of terrible pain. She just wanted it to all be over.

  Michael reached the small stone bridge over the pool and looked up to the ceiling, but it was clean and empty. Whatever had been there before had vanished. “All right, come on,” he said, offering his arm to her as she approached the small bridge. “We’re almost home free.”

  When they had reached the center of the bridge, the sounds began.

  Shuffling sounds of feet upon smooth stone, the rustle of rough fabric, and the wheezing rasp of heavy breathing. As though materializing from the shadowed crevices, from the darkness itself, they appeared. Lya tensed as she saw the shapes take on definition. Michael bent down, placed the star-stone on the inlaid path of the bridge, and held the rifle cocked at his hip. The dwarves gathered at the end of the bridge, stepping from the shadows, forming a sea of paper-white faces under the black cowls of their robes, their eyes like flat shining coins, all fixed upon the intruders. Lya and Michael were outnumbered at least one hundred to one.

  Before they could react or even speak, a low chanting began. Soft and low, emanating from deep within the throats of the small figures, it gradually rose in intensity. It was like a rhythmical medieval requiem, punctuated by sharp accents and abrupt rises in intonation. Lya was almost hypnotized by the sound as the voices of the dwarves gathered power. Soon the entire grotto was filled with the choirlike chant. The mass of tiny robed bodies swayed slightly to the waves of the song.

  “What are they doing?” screamed Lya above the droning. “What do they want?”

  Michael shook his head, lifting one hand from the rifle to wipe the sweat from his forehead. His hands were shaking and his eyes had a distant look. The pressure and the unreality of what they had been through were catching up to him as well. Lya wondered how much longer they would be able to hold on to their sanity.

  Sensing that the chanting was reaching its crescendo, Michael reacted. He opened fire on the row of figures at the end of the bridge, his volley of shots lacing them across their stomachs and hurling them away like rag dolls.

  “Let’s go!” screamed Michael, and he grabbed her roughly to get her moving. They darted through the small opening created by his gunfire and entered the passageway that led away from the grotto. The chanting had stopped abruptly and there were now the sounds of low, guttural voices filled with rage and the rush of pursuing footsteps. Glancing back, Lya could see the crush of small, darkly robed bodies filling the space like hundreds of rabbits swarming through their warren. For the first time, she caught a clear look at their faces and could see that they were not all so similar. She saw the young and the old, the male and the female in their faces. And she saw the evil and the hatred lurking behind their flat, lemurlike eyes.

  As they rushed through the darkness, putting a little distance between themselves and the pack of hobbling little people, Michael managed to eject his spent clip and snap another into its place. Reaching a bend, he turned and squeezed off a burst into their midst. There were so many of them that he could not have missed if he had wanted to. The bullets struck the small dark bodies and they fell, momentarily clogging the path of those behind. He had bought them some time, some precious distance. Michael handed the star-stone to Lya as they ran, and she noticed that it had begun to glow again, very faintly at first, but it seemed to be growing stronger as they ran. She clutched the crystal to her breast with her good hand.

  The tunnel ahead of them was widening and they were reaching the huge, cathedral-like vault of rock; she thought that they must be nearing the place where they had entered the nightmare world. Michael turned to fire at their pursuers once again, finishing the clip; again more of the little bodies fell, only to be replaced by more of their number.

  The star-stone was burning strongly now, casting a green glow on Lya’s face and clothing. Looking ahead, she saw that there was a wall of mist forming—a mist that was now so familiar and so full of terrible meaning. Lya was confused, and her thoughts were coming in short, erratic bursts. Wasn’t it over now? Hadn’t Carter sealed off the gateway, closed the door on all this craziness? Then what lay beyond the mist? She slowed down.

  “That’s the way out,” cried Michael. “We’ve got to go through it, don’t you remember!”

  He tugged at her clothing, pulling her along, and she obeyed his urging, stealing a final glance behind at their pursuers.

  “Now!” Michael screamed and she looked ahead, startled to see the folds of glowing mist almost in front of her. It seemed to be reaching out smoky tendrils, attempting to pull her into its foggy depths, but as she entered it, with Michael right beside her, the star-stone burned with a cold light and the mist rolled away from them as though recoiling. Whatever magic, whatever forces reigned down here, they were still under the influence of the strange crystal. They passed through …

  … and were again in the familiar confines of the IRT maintenance tunnel. For an instant, the sounds of the d
warves were swallowed up by the thick folds of mist, and she thought that they were safe. But Michael pulled at her sharply once again, and she suddenly saw the small dark shapes taking substance as they passed through the barrier.

  No! No, it couldn’t be! The thought stuck in her mind, repeating itself as she started running again. Her breath was now a burning column in her breast, each passage of air tearing at the membranes of her throat. Her legs seemed to be moving on their own, her feet automatically landing one in front of the other. She felt herself wanting to just give up, to simply stop and surrender to the exhaustion and the horror. The smooth walls of the old IRT tunnel slid by in the periphery of her vision as she concentrated on Michael’s shoulders as he pushed on just ahead of her. The star-stone continued to glow as she held it clasped to her breast. Behind her, she could hear the sounds of pursuit, louder now, closer, she was certain, but she didn’t have the nerve to look back. Any second, she expected to feel their tiny hands sink into her flesh and pull her down …

  Suddenly Michael was fumbling with a latch on a steel door. It swung inward and he pushed her through, following close behind. He slammed it shut, hooking the latch as the dwarves reached the other side. Lya almost tripped as she stumbled down to the roadbed, and she could smell the familiar odors of the train tunnels. For the first time, the sting of ozone and the musky smell of machine oil was a welcome sensation. She leaned against a support girder, taking a slow, deep breath.

  “No!” yelled Michael. “No time now! Come on!”

  He grabbed her good arm and pulled her along, past the point of exhaustion, pushing her to the outer limits of her physical endurance. The door behind them clanged open and she could hear the sounds of the small ones coming after them again.

  And then a new sound came to them. At first a rumble in the roadbed and then a rattling roar of sound. A train! It was bearing down on them in the darkness of the tunnel, from which direction, she couldn’t tell. Michael pulled her close to him, ducking into one of the small alcoves that lined the tunnel.

  “Give that to me,” he said roughly, snatching the star-stone from her hand. She noticed that it was only a dim specter of what it had been.

  The sound of the approaching train was almost upon them, its vibrations shaking the roadbed and the support girders. Lya looked up the track and saw its headlight growing larger like an expanding eye. Suddenly, Michael threw the star-stone back down the tracks toward the advancing pack of dwarves. It landed in between the rails and the swarm of little men fell upon it, all reaching for it at once, obscuring its dim light under the cover of their robes.

  In another instant there was the blur of a monstrous dark shape and the sound of a continuous explosion as the train ripped past Lya and Michael and over the pack of dwarves. The D Train did not slow, or give any indication that its motorman had noticed anything amiss. A flickering of lights from the windows, the clatter of wheels upon steel, and then returning silence as the train was swallowed up by the tunnel.

  Michael jumped down to the roadbed and headed back to the spot where he had thrown the star-stone, and Lya followed him, expecting to see a mass of twisted, savaged bodies.

  But there was nothing.

  The star-stone was gone. The dwarves had also vanished. In the dark silence, she and Michael stood for a moment staring at the empty roadbed, then down into the tunnel.

  “What happened?” she asked finally, her breath gradually easing, the burning sensation slipping away.

  “They’re gone!” said Michael. “Goddamn it, they’re gone!”

  “Why did you do that? Throw the stone to them?”

  “It occurred to me while we were running that that’s what they wanted, but I didn’t have time to explain it,” he said.

  “But what happened to them? Where are they?”

  “I don’t know, Lya. There’s a lot about this we still don’t understand …” He looked back up the tracks. “Come on. There’s a station near here somewhere. Let’s get moving before another train comes through.”

  “But what about those men … the dwarves?” she asked. “What happened to them? What do you think they wanted with the star-stone?”

  Michael shook his head. “I’m not sure … I thought I might be able to stop them by throwing the stone in front of that train—wipe them out, you know?”

  “But what happened to them? They just disappeared.”

  “No,” said Michael. “I don’t think so. The more I think about it, the more it figures that they used the star-stone to escape.”

  “What?”

  “They were probably familiar with its powers, far more so than Carter was. They were chasing us to get that stone, not us. I probably played right into their hands by giving it to them.”

  “Which means that we haven’t seen the last of them?” asked Lya.

  “That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” He took her good arm firmly. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

  They reached the nearest station platform without incident and climbed up onto its concrete platform. He had to go up first, then pull her up by her good arm; the other was throbbing dully, totally useless. Lya was glad that the station was deserted, even though on second thought she figured that their sudden appearance would not have been questioned by anyone waiting for a train. That just wasn’t the way of the natives of the city. Most of them felt it was far better to ignore the oddities, the things that were not quite right.

  Michael put his arm around her as he guided her up the steps, through the exit gate, and up another flight of stairs toward the street. She wanted to say something to him, but the words would not form in her mind—too many random impressions and images from the past hours were still trying to order themselves. Too much had happened far too quickly, and she wondered if it would ever make sense, ever seem real. She decided that it did not matter right now. She was so tired, so drained, she just wanted to lie down, to sleep, and perhaps forget …

  As they emerged on the sidewalk, she was surprised to see a thin gray light in the sky. Like a winter sky, the city was gray and cold and full of long shadows as it slowly warmed to the dawn. The drab buildings and storefronts of Houston Street stared at them like blank faces with empty eyes; scant traffic moved through the morning shadows.

  They walked silently, following the straight line of the sidewalk. Lya drank in the open spaces, the feel of the autumn wind on her face, the sense of being above the darkness. As her breath became more regular, even the foul air of the city smelled fresh and sweet. She turned and looked at Michael and he must have sensed it because he looked at her too.

  “Is it over?” she asked.

  He tried to smile, then shook his head. His beard was bluish-black and rough-looking, but Lya thought he looked very handsome. “Over?” he said slowly. “I don’t know. I don’t think we’ll ever know for sure.”

  She could tell that he did not feel like talking, and since she could think of no answer herself, she remained silent as they walked along. Approaching an intersection, they passed an alley between two boarded-up storefronts. Out of the corner of her eye, Lya detected movement, and stopped short, turning quickly.

  There in the shadows was the dark, hunched-up shape, a droopy hat on the shriveled head. Two obsidian eyes peered up at them.

  Michael turned and stepped forward, facing the little man, as Lya gasped for a breath. The wino stepped back, waving his gnarly hands defensively. “Hey, take it easy. I don’ wannothin’. I ain’ botherin’ youse people.” He turned and scuttled down the alley, into the shadows and piles of debris.

  “Christ, he scared me!” Lya found that she was clutching Michael’s arm tightly.

  He pulled her close and kissed her forehead. “Me, too … I’d be lying if I said anything else. Just take it easy, now. We’ve got to get you to an emergency room.”

  Lya nodded and let him guide her down to the corner. The sunlight seemed stronger now, and the sky brighter. It looked like it was going to be a beautiful day.

&nb
sp; EPILOGUE

  Autumn quickly surrendered to winter in the city as Michael and Lya tried to slip quietly back into the routine of ordinary life. It was difficult at first, but as the weeks turned into months, the memories grew less distinct and the nightmares less vivid and more infrequent. Officially, John Provenza had simply vanished without a trace. Although Michael was questioned by his superiors about his partner’s disappearance, he convinced them that he knew nothing. Lane Carter’s name was placed in the Missing Persons File after his absence was reported by NYU and substantiated by his landlord, and, following a routine investigation, was forgotten.

  At Christmas Michael and Lya decided to become engaged, and they planned a spring wedding. They learned more about each other, and grew more secure in their decision to get married. They lived and loved, argued and talked and dreamed, but they never discussed their night-journey into hell. Perhaps by ignoring it so completely, the terrible experience might lose its impact upon their lives.

  But when each was alone, walking the streets of the city, it was impossible not to contemplate what might be taking place beneath their feet. Lya, for instance, refused ever to set foot in the subway again and, in fact, felt a shudder pass through her whenever she saw the signs announcing the location of a station above the stairs leading down into the earth.

  Michael’s work continued to be a never-ending struggle against the entropy of the city, and he continued building his reputation as a writer on the side. He was given a new partner, and while they were very compatible on the job, he never allowed himself to get close to the new man. He had made a friendship out of a partnership once before, and it had been disastrous. Michael would not allow it to happen again.

  And about once a month, he would go down to Records, where he had made a friendly acquaintance with one of the computer operators, to request a printout. It was a database similar to the one Lane Carter had originally used, and it told him what he needed to know. At first, he had been afraid to interpret the columns of numbers, but as he learned their message, he began to feel better—the incidence of crimes in the Lower East Side was in a decline; the number of odd, bizarre, and “unsolvable” crimes had dropped dramatically.