Terminus

by Adam Baker

  She pointed at crooked planks nailed over the south tunnel entrance.

  ‘Guess we just pull those aside and see how far south we can get.’

  ‘If the water rises any higher we’ll drown.’

  ‘This city is dreaming up new ways to kill us every hour. We’ve got no choice. We got to move out.’

  Donahue checked her watch.

  ‘Still a couple of hours before the scheduled pickup.’

  Lupe glanced at her watch.

  ‘They’re due at seven. At one minute past, we climb in that boat and paddle like motherfuckers, all right? Seven. We don’t wait a second longer.’

  ‘I hear something,’ said Sicknote. He gestured to the little speaker cone. ‘A voice.’

  ‘No shit.’

  ‘Listen.’ He held out the speaker. ‘A human voice. For real.’

  Lupe crouched beside Sicknote and put the speaker to her ear.

  ‘Holy shit. The chopper. It’s in range.’

  She snatched the Motorola from her waistband. She upped the volume and switched to vox.

  ‘Rescue Four, this is Air Cav Charlie Charlie Foxtrot, do you copy, over?’

  Donahue grabbed the radio from Lupe’s hand.

  ‘This is Rescue Four, good to hear your voice.’

  She leaned against the wall, weak with relief.

  ‘Do you have the objective, over?’

  ‘Ten-four. We have Ekks.’

  ‘Rescue, we estimate ten minutes to touchdown, five minutes to reach your location. Prep the doctor. Get him ready to move.’

  ‘Copy that. Can’t wait to get out of here.’

  Donahue turned to Lupe.

  ‘See? Told you they wouldn’t leave us behind.’

  65

  Seventy knots. A slow, ten degree bank into headwind.

  Byrne twisted in the pilot seat.

  ‘Check it out.’

  Chief Jefferson unbuckled his harness. He adjusted headphones.

  ‘What am I looking at?’

  Nothing to see but instrumentation reflected in black cockpit glass.

  Byrne pointed to a distant orange glow.

  ‘Fire. Miles of it.’

  ‘The city?’

  ‘The refineries. Burn for months. Maybe years.’

  Chief turned back to the passenger compartment.

  His team:

  Craven, chewing gum, cradling a belt-feed SAW.

  Bingham, unfolding a stretcher, laying it on the cabin floor. She hung a couple of saline drips from a drip rack.

  ‘The guy will be heavily irradiated,’ said Chief, shouting to be heard over rotor roar. ‘Don’t forget. He’s a patient. And he’s a valuable asset. But he is also radioactive waste. Don’t touch him with bare hands.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Bingham. You all right?’

  ‘I’m fine, sir.’

  ‘You looked spooked.’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  The Chief unzipped his radiation suit, reached into a shirt pocket and pulled out a hip flask. He unscrewed the cap and passed it to Bingham.

  She took a swig.

  Jefferson addressed the pilot.

  ‘Patch me through to Avalanche.’

  ‘Forward Team to Flight One, go ahead, over.’

  ‘How’s it looking?’

  ‘Pretty good, sir. We’ve done a full sweep of the lodge, covered every floor. The building is secure. Open ground on all sides. Hundred yards to the tree-line. Perfect for claymores. One approach road. Good range of vision. The place will make an excellent holdout.’

  ‘Supplies?’

  ‘There’s an extensive dry store behind the kitchens. Good inventory.’

  ‘Outstanding.’

  ‘There are a couple of outbuildings near the helipad. We’ll check them out at sun-up. Might be some aviation fuel.’

  ‘There’s a cabin by the lake, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir. A log chalet.’

  ‘That’s where we’ll treat Ekks. Move the medical gear to the cabin. See if you can fire up the generator. And check for running water.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘He is to be held in isolation, understood? No one goes near him without my permission.’

  ‘Am I to understand Doctor Ekks will be the only arrival? There will be no other patients?’

  ‘He is the sole priority.’

  ‘Ten-four.’

  Jefferson pulled the headphone jack from the ceiling socket and threw the headset on the seat beside him.

  ‘What about the fire department guys, sir?’ asked Byrne.

  Jefferson ignored the question.

  ‘Twenty minutes from target,’ shouted Byrne.

  ‘Mask up,’ said the Chief. ‘Good luck, every one.’

  66

  The office.

  Sicknote sat cross-legged. He pulled back the foil hypothermia blanket.

  Wade, torn and charred. His face was a charcoal mask. No eyes. Carbon lips curled back revealing brilliant white teeth. His hands were folded across his chest, clenched and curled; muscles and tendons cooked and contracted, twisting his arms into a contorted pugilistic pose.

  Sicknote gripped Wade’s rigid corpse. He lifted the body a couple of inches. Blood and body fat had boiled away during the fire, depleting the cadaver of half its weight.

  He reached into a pant pocket. Crisp fabric tore and flaked. He pulled out the brass cyanide cylinder. He unscrewed the cap and inspected the vial. Intact.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Lupe stood in the doorway.

  ‘You guys are going to ride out of here on that chopper. Guess I’ll be staying behind.’

  He glanced at Lupe. Melancholy smile.

  ‘I’ve enjoyed it. These last few days. Isn’t that pathetic? Isn’t that the saddest thing you ever heard? I’ve enjoyed the company. My time down here in this shithole has been the happiest I can remember.’

  ‘It’ll be all right. We’ll look after you.’

  ‘No. I’m dying. And that’s okay. I mean, we’re all fucked, right? In the long run. We live out our time, and wonder what it all means.’

  ‘You don’t have to die down here in the dark.’

  ‘I’ll help you guys get aboard the helicopter. Then I might go outside. Take that walk.’

  She put her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘God bless you, Michael.’

  He held her hand and fought back tears.

  They walked across the rubble-strewn ticket hall to the platform steps.

  ‘Oh Christ.’

  They found Donahue crouched over Ekks, delivering rapid chest compressions.

  ‘Help me for God’s sake.’

  Lupe ran down the steps.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He’s not breathing.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘I don’t know. I looked at him. His lips were blue.’

  She checked his carotid pulse. She checked his breathing.

  ‘Don’t you fucking dare.’

  More compressions.

  ‘Lungs, right?’ said Lupe. That chest rattle. Pneumonia.’

  ‘First aid kit. Quick.’

  Lupe tossed Donahue a trauma pack.

  Donahue leaned over Ekks and shone a penlight into his mouth.

  ‘Lesions. His airway is swollen shut.’

  She tore open a sterile pack and uncapped a scalpel.

  ‘This is going to get messy.’

  She probed the man’s throat, located his Adam’s apple and the cricoids cartilage beneath.

  ‘Here we go.’

  The scalpel punctured flesh. Ekks convulsed. Coughing blood-spurt. Donahue pushed a forefinger into the wound and wormed it wider.

  ‘I need some kind of tube.’

  Lupe uncapped the pen torch and shook out batteries. She unscrewed the lamp head.

  Donahue twisted the metal tube into the neck wound. Whooping, whistling inhalation. Ekks arched his back. His chest began to rise and fall.


  ‘Jesus, that was close,’ said Lupe, sitting back.

  Donahue watched Ekks breathe. Juddering exhalations, slow and shallow.

  She shook her head.

  ‘We’ve lost him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s slipping away. Nothing we can do.’

  ‘Give him a shot,’ said Lupe. ‘Adrenalin. Whatever you got.’

  ‘No. He’s sinking. For real.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  They sat beside Ekks and watched his final moments.

  Lupe leaned close, as if she wanted to drink his dying breath.

  ‘I know what you are. Hear me, motherfucker? I know what you are.’

  One last, shuddering exhalation.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Donahue. ‘We lost him. All for nothing. The whole damn trip.’

  67

  ‘Rescue, this is Flight One. We are on approach. We need your beacon, over.’

  ‘Ten-four.’

  Donahue unzipped a backpack and took out a black cylinder like a Thermos flask. She climbed the street level steps. She pulled on a respirator.

  She held back the curtain. Street garbage smothered by a thick carpet of snow. Plump flakes drifted from the night sky.

  A CSAR beacon. She thumbed the slide switch to on. She pushed her arm through the gate and threw the strobe into the alley. It bounced and lay in the snow.

  The beacon was cupped by an infrared filter. It appeared to be inert, but the chopper pilot, equipped with night vision goggles, would glimpse a brilliant pulse of light as he overflew the ruins of lower Manhattan.

  Lupe restarted the generator and returned to the hall.

  They rolled Ekks. They slid his arms and legs into a yellow NBC suit. They sealed the chest zip. They pushed his hands into heavy butyl gloves and lashed the cuffs with tape. They strapped an M40 respirator to his face and secured the hood.

  ‘Nice job,’ said Donahue. ‘By the time they figure out he’s dead, we’ll already be in the air.’

  ‘If that notebook delivers a cure, they’ll name high schools after the sick bastard,’ said Lupe.

  ‘He’ll deserve it.’

  ‘Easy for you to say. I was next on his kill list.’

  ‘Face it. You’re not angry at him. You’re angry at yourself, because you know how little you are worth.’

  Lupe climbed into an NBC suit. Donahue helped her zip.

  ‘Here’s the deal,’ said Lupe. ‘The elevator is messed up, but it’ll work. I’ll take the first ride. Soon as they land, I’ll head up top and gauge what kind of reception we’ll get.’

  ‘No,’ said Donahue. ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘I don’t trust him. The guy is a corn pone fascist.’

  ‘Exactly. He’ll shoot you on sight. I’ll go. Maybe I can talk him round. Persuade him to keep his side of the deal. Fly you out of here and set you free.’

  Lupe held out her lock-knife.

  ‘Take a blade.’

  ‘They’ll have guns.’

  ‘Take it anyway.’

  Lupe tucked the knife into Donahue’s belt.

  ‘Hey, hear that?’ said Sicknote.

  They turned towards the entrance steps and listened. Rising rotor thrum. The JetRanger manoeuvring for touchdown.

  ‘Flight One to Rescue, do you copy, over?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Incoming. Prepare for immediate dust-off.’

  ‘Roger that. Glad to be going home.’

  Donahue clipped a fresh filter cartridge into her respirator. She pulled on the mask and adjusted straps. Sicknote helped secure her hood.

  Chopper noise reached a crescendo. Change of pitch as it began a controlled descent.

  Donahue pictured the landing.

  The JetRanger battling a fierce headwind as it hovers over the flat expanse of the Federal roof. The pilot lowers the collective, pulls back the cyclic. Skids settle on bitumen. Rotor downwash kicks up a blizzard. The pilot keeps the engine running, ready for immediate take-off.

  The side door is wrenched open and boots hit the ground. NBC suits and heavy respirators. Quick deployment. Cops running for the roof stairs, ducking low beneath blurring blades.

  ‘All set?’ asked Lupe.

  Donahue gave a mock salute.

  ‘First in the door.’

  She stepped into the elevator. Lupe pulled the gate closed.

  ‘Watch your ass,’ said Lupe. ‘Don’t take your eyes off that lizard.’

  ‘It’ll be all right.’

  Lupe hit Up.

  Chief kicked open the stairwell door. He edged into the sixth-floor hallway. He held a Colt auto in gloved hands. A laser sight mounted beneath the barrel. The red needle-beam swept the hallway.

  Open doorways. Glimpse of bombed out offices. Toppled chairs and desks. Drifts of paper ruffled by a blizzard wind blowing through vacant windows.

  The elevator doors were ajar. He leaned into the shaft and shone his flashlight down into darkness. A dust-furred cable. The splintered roof of the freight elevator six floors below.

  He turned back to the roof stairwell and shouted:

  ‘Come on down.’

  Craven and Bingham laid the empty stretcher on the hall floor. Bingham fetched a drip stand.

  ‘I’ll cannulate both arms and hit him with hypotonic fluid,’ said Bingham. ‘Best I can do until we get him back to Avalanche. Keep him stable. Then we better try and contact NORAD, see if they can provide specialist help. Bone marrow transplants are beyond my pay grade.’

  Chief gestured to Craven.

  ‘Check the rooms.’

  Craven gripped the belt-feed SAW strapped to his shoulder. Safety to off. He checked each office. He upturned tables. He kicked open cupboards.

  ‘Hey, boss. Found something.’

  A hall stationery cupboard. Bloody handprints on the wall. A woman’s shoe.

  The Chief crouched beside Craven. He tested blood with a gloved finger. Fresh.

  ‘Prowler. Round here somewhere. Better watch our backs.’

  A faint rumble from the elevator shaft. Gears engaged. A concrete counterweight heading down to the basement. The floor indicator needle began to rise.

  ‘Sir,’ shouted Bingham. ‘We’ve got company.’

  The elevator began its ascent. Lupe watched the brass needle of the floor indicator rise from SUB.

  Faint crackle from her radio. She upped volume and held it to her ear. Elevator noise. Donahue must have set her Motorola to transmit.

  The floor needle climbed to 6, then stopped.

  Donahue stood in the hallway. She was faced by three figures in camo green NBC suits.

  ‘Where’s the objective?’ asked the Chief.

  ‘Down below.’

  ‘What’s his condition?’

  ‘Stable.’ She pointed to the SAW. ‘Want to point that thing somewhere else?’

  Chief gave the nod. Craven angled the weapon at the floor.

  ‘Any other survivors?’

  ‘Just me.’

  ‘Feeling okay?’

  ‘Pretty exhausted.’

  Bingham took a Geiger counter from her shoulder bag. She held it close to Donahue and took a reading.

  Discreet shake of the head.

  The Chief unbuckled his hip holster and drew the Colt. He engaged the laser sight.

  ‘You’ve done a fine job. It’s an inspiration. Way above and beyond the call.’ He shucked the pistol slide. ‘I’m desperately sorry.’

  The Chief took aim.

  Donahue pulled back her hood and ripped off her mask. She looked him in the eye.

  ‘Piece of shit.’

  The red dot of his laser centred on her forehead.

  Gunshot. Clatter. Brief feedback whine.

  Lupe stared at the speaker grille of her Motorola. Sicknote opened his mouth like he was about to speak. She mimed hush.

  Chief, voice muffled by a respirator:

  ‘Get Byrne. Tell him to shut off the damn rotor and get
in here.’

  Receding footsteps.

  A young woman’s voice:

  ‘Sir, there’s a green light on that radio. I think it’s transmitting.’

  Clunk and rustle. Donahue’s radio picked from the floor.

  Respirator rasp. Chief, speaking directly into the radio:

  ‘Who am I talking to?’

  Lupe looked down at her handset. She listened to the him breathe.

  ‘I know you are listening. Who’s down there?’

  Lupe didn’t reply.

  ‘We’re on our way. We don’t want trouble. We just want Ekks. Nothing more. Let us have him, and we’ll be on our way. We’ll leave food, medical supplies, anything you need.’

  Lupe shut off the radio.

  ‘Bastards,’ she muttered. She stared up at the ceiling, hatred cutting through the building’s superstructure like an X-ray as she pictured the Chief and his men standing over Donahue’s corpse six storeys above her.

  ‘Motherfucking bastards.’

  She clipped her radio on her belt.

  She picked up a fist-sized lump of concrete and hurled it at the roof lights, shattering the remaining bulbs.

  Sudden darkness. Lupe switched on her flashlight.

  She turned to Sicknote.

  ‘Come on. Help me move Ekks.’

  Sicknote lost in panic and confusion.

  ‘They killed her. Just shot her.’

  Lupe grabbed him by the collar, shook until his eyes regained focus.

  ‘Ekks. The plant room. Now.’

  They carried the body to the plant room.

  ‘Back of the room. Come on.’

  Lupe covered Ekks with waste paper and cardboard.

  ‘Got a flashlight?’ asked Lupe.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Then get out of here. The Chief will search the place. And if he finds us, he’ll kill us. Gutshot. Leave us to scream as we bleed out.’

  Sicknote shook his head.

  ‘I’m staying with you.’

  ‘Fuck that shit. He wasted Donahue, so he sure as hell won’t think twice about popping a cap in your sorry ass. Go down to the platform. Get on that boat and stay out of sight. If anything happens to me, kick through those planks and row far as you can. Get to the shore.’

  ‘We should hand over the notebook. Give him what he wants.’

  ‘No. He thinks we’re garbage. Kill us without a thought. But today, he’s messing with the wrong motherfucker.’