by George Right
He still would like to get as far as possible from that... creature, and, spreading wide his raised hands and catching first the left and then the right handrails, he came up almost to the end of the car. Nothing hindered him. At last he turned aside and flopped on a seat–which he could not see, but was assured that it was empty. This time his intuition had not deceived him.
He tried to summon his common sense–though now, in the dark, it turned out especially hard. "It's a shame to run from an unfortunate cripple," Tony told himself. "Perhaps the poor fellow simply needed help... But then why didn't he ask for it? Did he lack not only legs, but a tongue as well?"
And what if this man was simply drunk? Or mentally sick? Anyway–what harm can be caused to a strong and healthy guy by a legless man wriggling on the floor?
But at this moment, one more source of unease, besides darkness and uncertainty, broke through these reasonable thoughts. A smell. Tony distinctly smelled a faint, but heavy, stench. It it were stronger, he surely would vomit.
After suspiciously sniffing for some time, he understood that the smell came from himself.
More precisely, from his hand. The hand which had touched someone in the dark. It seemed to him that his fingers were covered now by some dirt. Slippy and rotten, judging by the smell.
However, that creature was not necessarily the reason. Quite probably that sticky muck was on a handrail or door handles which it had grabbed.
Tony began to rub his hand against the next seat, though firm cold plastic could hardly substitute for a towel...
"Anyway, this isn't a nightmare," Logan gloomily thought, holding his hand away from his nose. "My sensations are too bright and distinct." He did not remember himself ever smelling anything in a sleep, and his sense of touch in dreams always was significantly dulled. Still smelling the rotten stench–and hoping that now it mostly came from the seat–he stood up and, stretching his hands forwards, crossed obliquely the aisle in the dark and took a seat at the very end of the car.
It solved the problem only partly.
Having sniffed, he again noticed an unpleasant smell–but not the scent of decay. Different. Now the smell of something burned was clearly felt in the air.
"A fire in this hellish train will cap it all!" Tony thought, turning his head in search of flames. But there was still an impenetrable darkness all around. And the smell... no, it did not contain the caustic bitterness of fresh smoke. More likely such a smell can be produced by something that has burnt out already. Something cooled down long ago... cold...
Logan suddenly remembered the Black man, sitting in the far end of a car. Apparently, it was this car... and he sat somewhere right here. Or on an opposite seat? Tony tried to remember, but he could not. And now Logan had the clear feeling that, just slightly moving his hand, he would touch that person. But he did not want to do it–oh no! Even at the thought of touching whoever was sitting next to him, his hand became as heavy as not even lead but... what is heavier? Uranium? Let it be uranium.
The train began to reduce speed again until it stopped at a station sunk in impenetrable darkness. Or probably in the middle of the tunnel? But if it was the tunnel, why open the doors?
And then Tony heard clatter of heels on a platform. This time without any shuffling. The unknown woman went steadily as if the station and the train were brightly lit. She entered the car through the door nearest to Tony. Heels clattered several more times, approaching. Then the sound ceased. But by almost inaudible movement of air he understood that she had eased onto a seat to the left of him.
So, there had been nobody on the nearest seat before–the Black man had either left earlier, or had been sitting opposite... But that was before. And now...
"She's simply blind", Logan tried to convince himself. "So it's all the same to her if there is light or not. She doesn't even know about the power failure." Oh yes, one more almost feasible version. But, even if he believed in such a concentration of sick and disabled people on one night train, Tony had observed blind persons before. In the dark they, of course, are more confident than sighted people–but still less confident than a person able to see in the light. A blind woman would tap her way with a cane and the noise would be audible. She would not go stamping along like a person who knows precisely where she's going... or who does not care about it at all.
The train again started off.
Tony sat next to the invisible woman without daring to move and almost trying not to breathe. He didn't know whether she knew about his presence. He didn't know what would happen if he drew her attention. And, despite all rational hypotheses, he absolutely, definitely did not want to check it.
And then he felt a cold touch on his hip.
Tony didn't scream. Perhaps, because the fear of betraying his presence was stronger. Or simply because he understood–he wasn't touched by fingers or anything similar. Not by an object at all. It was a liquid. A liquid had flowed under his hip from the next seat.
"Blood," he thought. "She's bleeding profusely".
However, the liquid was not warm. It was hardly anything... physiological. Perhaps, she simply had a bag and in it–a self-opened can of beer. Or cola. Or any fruit or vegetable juice. Or... even more simple: a wet umbrella and a raincoat. Since the evening sky had been overcast, it could be raining now... However, isn't it too much water even for a very wet umbrella? Not just individual drops, but a whole pool flowing into the next seat... Tony felt the liquid seeping farther along his leg. Doesn't she feel that she's sitting in a pool? And why the hell is he resignedly suffering it? If it is not simple water, his trousers are already spoiled. At least they should be washed... He should express his indignation to this person, whoever she is! Or, at least, stand up and change his seat!
But in this impenetrable darkness he didn't dare do that either.
The train again began to brake and entered the next station dipped in gloom. However, this time the dark was not absolute. Beyond the car windows, an ominous, dim crimson shimmer shivered and fluctuated. And when the doors opened, Tony saw its source.
Right on the platform a fire burned. As if a cave fire of the Stone Age. Or... the brazier of an executioner in an inquisition dungeon. But no–there was no brazier, no designated border of a fireplace. Probably, some garbage dumped on the platform was burning there–and, judging by ashes around the fire, had been burning for a long time already. The flame gave oddly little light and seemed dense and heavy; it slowly waved, without shooting sparks; streams of a black smoke reached for a ceiling, indiscernible in darkness. The strangest thing was that the fire burned absolutely silently, without any crackling, and, because of this, seemed even more ominous.
Tony, distracted for an instant by this show, not so much heard as felt his neighbor stand up. Heels clattered to an open door. Logan saw her dark silhouette against a flame, and then she stepped outside, turning away from the fire, and was gone in the gloom which absorbed her completely, together with the knock of her heels. Tony could not distinguish any details other than that her clothes, apparently, were really wet and hung sticking around her body.
But he saw something else. The Black man sat directly opposite to him.
However, fire flaring behind Tony's back allowed him to discern only the general silhouette of a heavy figure. Not a single facial feature; Tony could not even see if the man's eyes were open or closed. But he, in his turn, Logan understood, should see my face well enough...
Tony did not know what inspired more dismay–the prospect of remaining seated opposite the silent black figure or exiting at such station. Nevertheless he forced himself to rise sharply–and at the same moment almost fell to the floor. His right leg gave way like rubber; he could not feel it. Obviously, it was numb due to sitting a long time in an awkward pose when he did not dare to move near that wet passenger... Having lost his balance, Tony reflexively threw his hand forward while already knowing what would happen next–and indeed, at the following instant his hand stuck the Black man's shoulde
r with some force.
Logan not so much heard as felt an unpleasant crunch under his fingers.
"Oh my God," Tony thought, "I've broken his collar bone!"
"S-sorry," he stammered. "Are you all right?"
Logan was not very much surprised when he heard no answer. But just in case he moved back and to the side.
Doors slammed and, beyond the car window, dirty smoked letters, dimly lit with crimson shimmer, crept: "Worth Street."
Logan would not swear that he knew the nearly five hundred stations of the New York subway, but was still confident that there was no Worth Street Station among them. Be it in any distant suburb of Bronx or Queens which he never visited, he still could doubt–but not in Brooklyn. In Brooklyn there is no street with such a name. presents in southern Manhattan (how could he appear there again?!), but on it there is no subway station. For this he was ready to be charged by life.
However, at the same moment he thought that in current circumstances it is better to refrain from such guarantees.
The fire passed behind with the mysterious station, and Tony again found himself in a roaring, shaking darkness. He took some steps teetering in the aisle (his leg still didn't obey him very well), then plopped down on a seat, fortunately, not occupied by anybody. Then his left hand touched his wet trouser leg–no, it definitely was not sticky–and with fastidious care he brought his fingers to his nose.
Definitely not blood and not beer. And not urine. Water, he thought. Simply cold water...
With an oozy river smell which could hardly belong to rain drops.
The situation with his right hand was even worse. He could not say any longer that he smelled the burnt stench from the fire at the station. His palm was soiled by something that he, of course, could not see, but by smell and touch it resembled a thick layer of soot.
In the windows light began to dawn. The train at last rode to a lit station. However, this station also looked rather strange. The platform was curved like an arc under vaulted, semicircular ceilings; the arches which led somewhere into darkness were semicircular also. Capital letters "CITY HALL" floated beyond the car windows. But it obviously was not City Hall on route R in Manhattan, which Logan knew well...
The train, still dark within, opened its doors. Now it was easier to choose between darkness and light. Moreover, Tony's sixth sense told him that the train wouldn't go farther. The City Hall-R station could be intermediate, but this one was definitely final.
Tony darted a cautious glance towards the Black man–but saw nobody. Logan again was absolutely alone in the car. Could the dark silent figure just seem to have existed in the dim light? No, impossible. After all, he not only saw it...
And the black soot on Logan's palm confirmed it.
"Probably, that guy rose and went to the next car and his leaving was not audible because of train noise," Tony told himself, wiping a dirty hand against a handrail. "Though why would he have needed to move? Well, what the hell is the difference! Anyhow, before the doors slammed again, I need to get out of here."
Tony hastily left the car. He was not too surprised to see nobody else on the platform. Only its central part was lit and even it was dim; both ends of the curved station, more resembling a corridor of an ancient dungeon, were sunk in gloom. Everywhere, as much as it was possible to discern under such illumination, a thick layer of dust lay, and from the semicircular arches either small stalactites or dirty rags of something like an old torn web hung here and there.
Logan looked back at the train. It still was at a stop, dark and silent, grinning with its black holes of opened doors and blindly staring with its cataracts of windows. Seemingly, nobody more would exit from any car. Was there anyone inside? The gloom did not allow Tony to make anything out from outside and he did not have much desire to go along the cars and look in. The poster with the beheading doors appeared again in his mind.
"Superstitious bullshit," Tony told himself without, however, any real confidence. "Anyway, from outside it's a train like any train. Simply something has happened to the electricity..."
Here, however, he paid attention to one more detail. Letters on the cars, designating the route... What he has taken for Q, was not Q at all. The "tail" was missing. It was the letter O–or number zero.
Neither route exists in the New York subway system, as Tony perfectly well knew, because the letter would be confused with the digit...
Behind Logan's back a nearly silent, insinuating rustle sounded.
Tony sharply turned back. At first he saw nothing–because he was looking at his own height. But then he lowered his gaze to the floor...
An absolutely black shapeless thing crept towards him. It was a size of a medium dog. A fat dog whose limbs and head were torn off. It now flattened, sprawling on the floor, then rose, inflating, and in silent entreaty stretched its black stumps towards Logan; now stiffened for some seconds, then again jerkily came nearer. Its movements had no rhythm; it just simply moved along the dirty floor, coming closer and closer...
Tony looked at these convulsive movements in mute horror although, apparently, the creeping thing could more likely cause pity than fear. But Logan could not even imagine what it was. It resembled no animals known to science, nor even creatures from legends. In the following instant it pulled itself toward him again–and wrapped itself around his feet...
And then Tony burst out in relieved laughter.
A bag. An ordinary black plastic bag from a supermarket, dropped by someone on the floor and moved by wind...
Only Tony did not feel any wind. But he told himself that he just did not feel air on his face and hands. Along the floor, however, there could be a weak draft–proving, by the way, that this station does have an exit...
Having shaken the bag from his foot (it as if has stuck, it was necessary to jerk the foot sharply several times), Tony turned to the nearest arch which led upward. But, having moved closer, Tony saw that the sign hanging under the vault did not say "Exit." It said "Downtown"–again without any route specifications.
After having walked the station from end to end, Logan was convinced that all the signs there said the same thing. It looked like there was no way from here to upper Manhattan (and whether only to Manhattan?).
The train still stood with open doors as if it was waiting to see whether its single passenger would return to its dark belly. But Logan resolutely went to the nearest arch. The staircase in the heart of it led into darkness, too–but at least upward. On the second step lay some newspaper–more likely even, a separate newspaper sheet. It had lain here for a long time, obviously, for it has grown a thick layer of dust like everything else here. But Tony still discerned familiar Gothic letters "New York Times" and a part of large headline under them: "Blood Bath..."
He stopped. As much as he remembered, no large accidents had occurred recently in the city or even in the world. And it looked somehow not like the respectable "New York Times" to use headlines more typical of the tabloid press...
Tony tried to clean off the dust with his shoe. Now he could read the whole headline:
"Blood Bath in Normandy! American Soldiers Torn to Pieces!"
What damned Normandy?!
Logan hunkered down to peer at the paper (he didn't want to handle the dirty thing). To discern the publication date under such poor illumination was difficult, but still,with straining eyes, he managed to do it. Not trusting himself, he reread it again and again.
June 7th, 1944.
Impossible, this museum specimen could not have lain here for almost seventy years! But it was not the only strangeness. Tony was never especially interested in military history–no less than journalism history–and, naturally, had no idea, how the front page of the "New York Times" reporting on "D-Day" looked. But he believed that one of the leading national newspapers, writing about the key operation of World War II, would have done it in a more inspiring patriotic tone. Especially since the operation was successful, and losses, in percentage to number of p
articipants, were, as much as Tony remembered from school lessons, not so huge... But here it seemed the story was about total failure and defeat.
Under the headline there was a photo, unexpectedly sharp for an old newspaper picture. Two American soldiers had dragged their comrade from the water and had already pulled him out waist-high... still, seemingly, without realizing that below his waist there was nothing except entrails trailing from the water. And, judging by his thrown back head and his face deformed by pain, the poor fellow was still alive and trying to shout...
Was this really printed in the "New York Times?!" And if not, why had this fake been made?
Logan was unable to read the main text of the article in the dim light. He stood up and began to climb the stairs, with each step going deeper into gloom.
When he reached the top of the staircase, he stood in total darkness. But there was no option to retreat–Tony wanted to get out from underground as quickly as possible and at any cost–and he moved forward, extending his hands. This time he came across not a silently stiffened figure, but the cold metal of turnstiles. However, to the touch it was not only cold. It was dusty and deeply corroded. Tony had a strong doubt that these turnstiles would respond to his MetroCard; however, he needed to exit, not to enter. Under the pressure of his body, the metal cores turned with a hollow squeak and released him to freedom.
He slowly moved farther through darkness and after several seconds, though trying to go carefully, stumbled against the bottom step of one more staircase. This one probably led to the street; ahead the gloom was not so impenetrable. Tony began to climb again and soon reached the surface.
But it was not an usual exit from the subway–framed with a metal lattice or a stone border, or hidden in a glazed box, with inevitable green-white or green spheres on each side. It was simply a hole in the earth; the staircase did not reach its edge. It would be possible to assume repairs were under way here if the pit were surrounded with any protection, Tony mused. But there were no fences, barriers or tense yellow tape; only a hole in the middle of sidewalk, as if a trap for night passersby–especially on such a dark moonless night... All right, to hell with this hole and with all lawsuits to be filed against the city by people who fall down here! Tony was immensely glad to get out at last to fresh air, even cold air...
