by Jack Womack
"O'Malley, "she screamed, seeing them near, "get out."
"The door's stuck," I replied, pushing. She started shoving me as I shoved at the door. I looked up. A Fun City tour bus filled with business travelers (required by their employers in the outback to see New York and be grateful) turned a corner, blocking us off as it paused to let traffic move ahead. The Redstar-a solid, plated vehicle-struck the bus broad. The bus tipped slowly toward us; the passengers within surely wondered if this was part of the tour.
"Got it," I said, feeling as if I had broken my shoulder. The door swung open; we fell out. The store against which we'd crashed was some sort of booty; we pulled ourselves inside, finding that the gates were open and the entrance unlocked. The bus fell onto our cab; a clerk within the store leapt forward, pressing a button to raise the store's steel shield. There was time enough for it to rise halfway before the vehicles blew.
We were flung to the far end of the shop, sailing down the side aisle's floor as if on a slide. The shield fell inward; the store's fixtures tumbled. The blast's wind spread the fire throughout the front half of the establishment; sprinklers showered water over us as the alarms rang. We suffered nothing more disabling than lacerations and minor burns. Opening my eyes I vizzed what at first I took to be the crushed plaster chest of a mannequin. A charred I CI Love New York banner was wrapped around her waist.
One clerk survived, emerging stealthily from behind the former checkout. He looked at us through the black smoke and hazy rain. Forget your receipt, the register repeated. Don't forget. Your receipt.-
As we ran out onto Forty-first Street, a fresh Redstar turned the corner toward us.
"Well?" she said. "Now?"
"In here," I said, rushing across the street as I took her hand, dashing between cars. "Quick."
At Third and Forty-first was a grand old hotel built in pre-Ebb heyday. Its mirrored skin shone scarred gilt; raw plywood covered half the windows. A sign near the lobby entrance announced the arrival of the Beach Boys for one week in the Metrolounge. I suspected we could avoid our latest fans by cutting through the lobby. We flashed the guards-pox-scarred fourteen-year-oldsour IA cards and were allowed in; we maneuvered into the atrium.
"Should we run?" she whispered.
"No," I said. "Those guards are paid to suspect. The little bastards all use superstars." I referred to the razoredge pentagrams they tossed to deter. "Look as if we're meeting someone."
"Here?"
Judging from the crowd the place remained popular. Eighty tons of marble covered the atrium walls; graffiti intensified the stone's natural patterns, close to the floor, where inscribers needed not to stretch that they might scrawl and carve. The twenty-story escalators-none working-resembled girders dropped acciden tally from above; the hanging gardens had hung and gone to dust; colored lights made cheery the trash clogging the fountains. Pigeons fluttered through the atrium's free air and caucused on the floor; their guano whitened the balconies. Vidiac played over half the monitors; on the others, the images rolled and flapped as if for art's sake.
"Business trade stay here, probably," I said, peering about.
"Let's get out of here, Shameless."
"There's probably an exit this way. Let's check."
In public buildings public space was yielded to the use of public organizations; here, the Army and the Health Service were boothed. Recruitment posters plastered the Army's, crying for Manhattan's youth-those sans connections-to register and so be drafted: It's Fun. It's Easy. It's Duty. It's Law. Above each health booth's counter was a reproduction of a painting of E, his eyes shut, begarbed in white, on one knee, touching his left hand to his brow as if he had reached the chorus and forgotten the words. In his right hand he held an embryo: A NEW LIFE MAY BE IN YOUR HANDS, the sign above read, STOP BABY KILLINGS. On the counter of each health booth, below the painting, were jars. Within the jars, floating as if on summer breezes, were aging fetuses, each thrusting tiny fingers toward the guilty. Capital offense or not, the law had never been so effective as wished; in private hands, where, as the government decreed, problems were best solved, there were always wire hangers and chemical solutions. The Army and health booths went well together: one planted, one harvested.
"Shameless-"
At the end of the hallway was a sign identifying the subway entrance. A familiar sound hissed behind us. The missile launched misfired, striking the health booth; it flared, misting pink. A hotel guard tossed a superstar, hitting a stroller close by in the face, slicing dead through.
"Subway," I said, reaching the stairs.
"Is it safe?" The railing broke away as we grasped it; we slid down the stairs. Recovering, we leapt the piles of trash lying underfoot, splashed through puddles of urine, zazzed past the token booth. The clerk shouted at us from behind his lucite shield; we vaulted the turnstiles. Dashing to the platform, we saw a train at the wait and jumped aboard as the doors clanked shut. One of our pursuers, closing in, jumped after; he screamed like an angel as he fell beneath the wheels. We made our way to the last car, knowing that it would be the emptiest.
"Now where?"
"We're on a downbound train," I said, "So-" The train whipped along at five or six miles an hour.
"What's the next stop?"
"Fourteenth, I think."
"Where we started," she sighed.
"We can relax for a few minutes," I said.
We were not alone in the car. There was a pair of midmen, forced for whatever reason to rough it; a gent in a green shirt who tugged at his ears in sequence, repeatedly-they bled; a nondescript, asleep on the floor, whom some had used as a lav; several homebodies, their savings resting in bags between their feet. One fellow, not poorly dressed, sat down the way, calmly throwing up over his pants and shoes. Most of the windows in the car were broken out, only half the lights worked; we kept to the far end of the car, away from the others.
"Better than the fucking bus," Avalon said.
The door to the next car slid open and six young women-four black, two white-clad in ripped fatigues entered; each wore a black fez. They lugged lengths of chain; one shouldered a long spiked pole, at the end of which was impaled a dead rat.
"They don't look like they're up to good, Shamey," Avalon said, "And this fuckin' train is just crawling. "
"Ignore them," I said patting her arm. "I'm sure they beat the fare like everyone else."
The leader-lanky, and wearing aubergine shades-stopped near the puking gent. For a moment she eyed him, and then she pulled out her pick and jabbed out his eyes. He stopped throwing up; as he lay on the floor, they freely gave him the boot.
"If need be," I murmured, "can you take the two small ones?"
" Easy."
Shades conferred with her companions; I saw her jacket's colors. They belonged to one of the more problematic gangs, the Whispers of Love.
"Yo," she said, nodding toward us. She smiled; several of her front teeth had been withdrawn.
"Easy action here, sis," said another.
"Surprise them," I whispered from my mouth's corner. "Always works."
They sauntered over, dragging their chains behind them. The little ones appeared to be twins. An exceptionally ugly one tailed; at closer viz I could tell that half of her nose had been bitten off. The one toting the rat lay down her stick as she neared. The one bringing up the rear was sumo-size, carrying an iron pipe. They clustered around us, laughing. The rest of the car emptied.
"Honey, you come down here just to see us?" Shades asked Avalon, tightening her grip on her chain.
"Bitch, what'chu doin' with Percy here?" asked Ugly.
"He look like what the rat drug in," added one of the twins.
"How come you so quiet?" Shades asked. "Boyfriend here wantin' you to behave yourself 'round us nasty girls?"
"Don't fuck yourself over him, babe, you want him, you can have him-"
Ratgirl lit a match and flicked it on me. I brushed it away and smiled.
"Too cool for tha
t, motherfuck?" she said, flicking another at me, which I also brushed away. Ugly reached down, pulling Avalon up by the front of her sweater.
"Let's fuck, bitch. Girl to girl."
Avalon twisted away, turning around as she did. Ugly seized her arms and jerked them behind her back, bending her over until the wall of the car. They noticed the split in her pants and laughed all the louder.
"They was ready, girl-"
"Fuck, yeah, if we hadn't showed they'd be on the floor now."
"Got a sweet ass," said Ugly, ripping Avalon's pants further open and digging in. "Nice, soft pussy-"
Shades pulled a long knife out of her coat. "Be hard for him to fuck if he ain't got nothin' to fuck with," she said, pointing it toward my groin. "What'chu say to that? Huh?" I said nothing; she brought the blade up to my cheek.
"Honey, you know what this boy wants?" said Ratgirl, extracting a length of broomstick from beneath her jacket, slapping it hard against her hand. "He wants some fuckin' of his own."
"Yeah."
"He look like a girl with them big pink lips."
"Let's fuck him first, then."
"Take down those pants, bro, that what you want?" asked Shades. "Huh?"
I said nothing; she pushed her face closer to mine.
"I said, what do you want?" She dipped the blade into my cheek.
"Your soul," I said, flipping out my chuks. By bringing them up at the right angle I hit her nose at the right spot. She moaned and hit the floor twitching. Avalon pressed her head against the wall for balance and, kicking back with both boots, caught Ugly in the jewels. She fell back, choking; continued to choke until Avalon kicked her in the throat. We turned and looked at the others.
"Goddamn! "
Taking my chuks, I wrapped the chain around Ratgirl's neck; holding fast to the lengths of wood, I twisted them fast as if knotting a tourniquet. As I pulled harder the blood vessels in her face burst beneath her skin as if in time lapse. Avalon reached out; grasping the twins by their collars, she flung them apart and then slammed their heads together as if slapping erasers. There was a sharp crack; she dropped them. That left the big one. She hadn't yet joined in, nor had she run.
"What're you waiting for?" I asked her, dropping Ratgirl.
"The undertaker, man," she said, smashing me across the head with the pipe she carried. "Gonna haul your ass away."
As I fell over I realized that she'd be a challenge. I felt as if my brains were rushing out; my hair seemed thick with blood. Avalon hopped up, dropkicking her in the chest. She staggered but didn't fall; swinging out with her forearm, she knocked Avalon halfway down the car. Blood dripped into my eyes; it was almost impossible to see. When I lose control I tend to lose as well my sense of pain; I was glad, this time. Jumping blindly onto the seat, I ran down to where Avalon had landed. The big one stayed at the opposite end of the car for a second and then barreled toward us. Avalon sprang up, clipping her in the knees. She fell forward, nearly crushing Avalon. The car rattled as she struck the floor; before she had a chance to rise, I grabbed one of the floor-to-ceiling poles, swung once around and heeled her in the jaw. She fell over to one side, hitting her head on the window frame. Avalon picked up the woman's feet and attempted to push her through the window before she could reawaken.
"Gimme a hand," she said, "She's big as a house."
"I don't think she'll be coming around soon," I said. She groaned; I grabbed her legs and started shoving.
"You're hurt," said Avalon.
"Not much," I said, barely able to see or stand. "Push."
As the train at last began speeding, we got her up and over. As she started sliding out she struck one of the tunnel columns and was torn from our hands. Avalon and I fell to the floor as the train crashed to a halt. For what seemed a blessedly long time we lay there. Then Avalon sat up, holding her arm.
"What happened?" she asked.
"We must have derailed," I said, dragging myself to my feet. The car was tilted several degrees to the right. "We could be stuck for hours. Come on. Out the back."
Forcing open the rear door, we stepped down onto the tracks. One of the tunnel lights illuminated she upon whom the train had derailed. We moved uptown once more, keeping to the rails when possible; the catwalk on the left was crumbling away, and where the ties were visible above the still pools of water they were rotten and worn. The working tunnel lights and the soft glow from the old station ahead guided our path as we moved along.
"What station's that?" she asked.
"I think it's Twenty-third." On the walls of the tunnel were the names of the vanquished, scrawled and etched in days long past.
"It'll be closed, won't it?"
"Yeah. We can sit down. Rest." Subway entrances were open only at zone borders, so that closer control might be kept. In a short silent time we reached the station and lifted ourselves onto the platform-well, nearly; I was so sore that Avalon had to help me up. It was difficult to see through the dim yellow light even after our eyes adjusted. The station walls were dabbed with a forty years' palimpsest, name over name over name. The stairs once leading to the street were blocked off by concrete slabs.
"Let me see your head."
When she touched my scalp I thought for a moment that I'd pass out.
"That hurt?" she asked, pulling back my hair. "Shit."
"It does," I said. "What is it?"
"There's a gash about six inches long. No wonder it hurts."
"Can you see the bone?"
"No. It needs stitches."
"The blood's clotting?"
"Mostly. "
"It'll be all right, then. I keep gauze in my right pocket. Get it.
She did, pressing it down onto my wound. With effort I remained conscious. She placed more gauze onto my head and then wrapped a bandage around it. She pulled off Enid's bright jacket and took off her sweater. Kneeling before me, she wrapped the sweater around my head and tied the arms together, knotting them so that it wouldn't slip. She giggled, finishing.
"What is it?"
"You look awfully silly," she laughed. "That'll help, maybe. It's not bleeding as much."
"I've had worse."
"I'm sure," she said, sitting beside me. Her nipples rose sharp in the cool air.
"Put your jacket on," I said. "You'll catch cold."
"I'd rather sit on it," she said, "long as we're sitting." She leaned forward, took one of my hands and placed it on her breast. "That'll do."
We sat on the dirty concrete, retrieving our breath. Another train wouldn't be by for an hour, if at all-they usually stopped sooner on weekends, I gathered. In the tunnels resounded no sounds but those of our breathing, and of the drip of water.
"Have I been getting more like them?" I asked.
"What are you talking about?"
"Like the Drydens. Do you think I've been starting to get more like them?"
"Why do you think that?"
"I don't know. It worried me."
"You might be," she said. "I guess anyone would if they had the chance."
She put her arms around my waist. I kissed her; we kissed for what seemed an endless time, probably a few seconds.
"What are we going to do tonight, Shamey?"
"I think Enid can help us."
"Won't they still have the apartment tabbed?"
"She won't be there," I said, "We'll have to meet her."
"Where? If we go back up-"
"We won't be going back onto the street. Not yet. We'll be staying in the subway."
"Down here?"
"She'll be about forty blocks down and three blocks over, roughly."
"What'll she be doing down there?"
"Going to church," I said.
Avalon looked at me, shook her head, and shrugged. She lay down, gently tugging me along with her, resting me between her legs.
"Just lie here," she said. "Rest."
"All right. It shouldn't take us that long to get down there."
She shushed me. "
Safe now," she said, stroking my face. "Safely sound."
For a few minutes, at least, I rested; my pain whelmed over. Care's nurse kissed shut my eyes. Freedom rang.
10
Once I recovered-somewhat-and Avalon had rested, we climbed back down onto the tracks and aimed downtown once again, walking the northbound tracks to avoid the train we'd derailed. It was still there as we passed; probably no one had yet noticed its absence. We returned to the southbound tracks not long after, at Avalon's request, but there was nothing to fear. No trains shuttled by in either direction as we strode along.
We continued through the tunnel for miles, for hours, or so it felt, landing our feet upon the ties wherever possible. From what Enid had told me I knew roughly when services began; knew the old East Broadway station of the abandoned F line served as the congregation place. I hoped to time our appearance so that we wouldn't disturb their service; for interlopers to appear at Under the Rock was something that none of them would appreciate.
We passed into the tunnel that led to the F line, off the old Bleecker Street station.
"You sure you know where we're going?" Avalon panted, splashing along.
"Positive," I said. "I've just never been down here before. Have to take it a little slowly-"
"Then how do you know where we're going?"
I didn't answer; my head hurt, still, and it took all concentra tion to go where we went, the way I felt. The tunnel was so clammy that even the air felt slimy against my face. It was un- seeably black through there; I kept a long flash in my pocket, and so took it out, turned it on, and shone a thin cord of light into the darkness. Clouds of bats pitched as we awakened them; they resettled as we passed. Guano lay deep upon the slippery rails. We waded through stagnant pools; when we trod the ties here, the decaying wood felt spongelike through the soles of our shoes. Drips echoed in every corner. We reached a quadrant where the side wall had collapsed onto the tracks.
