D

by George Right

  Cold, yes–as Logan expected (there was no rain, however). But not so fresh. Tony saw through the gloom the outline of buildings, slightly faded by fog, and understood that he was outdoors–but the air around was musty, as in a damp cellar where nobody had entered for fifty years.

  All right. The central part of New York is not an Alpine resort. The narrow streets of Manhattan, as if cut through a continuous mass of skyscrapers, can smell unpleasant–though usually it happens on a hot and stuffy afternoon, and a fog here is a real rarity, it is not London... However, of course, if after a warm day it has sharply become cold... But the main thing, after all, is to figure out how to get home to Brooklyn. Tony, of course, was not going to dive back in the underground hole. And even if he were to find a normal entrance to a normal station–there, in principle, should be several nearby–he had had enough subway for today! There was some bus from Manhattan to Brooklyn, but does it go at night? Tony strongly doubted that. Looks like it is necessary to fork out for a taxi... Logan had no intention of staying here till morning, really!

  But first–where is he, after all? Tony, whose spirit had just been encouraged by the end of his underground adventures, looked around with increasing confusion. If he, indeed, had gotten out from City Hall station, even through some closed and abandoned exit, nearby there should be New York City Hall itself, and a courthouse, and the bulk of the Municipal Building topped with a gold statue to the northeast of them, and to the west–Broadway with the Woolworth Building. With such recognizable reference points, it is impossible to lose one's way. However, Tony did not see anything familiar.

  In the gloom directly before him, impassable thickets sprawled. Thick, curved, knotty branches stuck out extensively in a hilly-clumsy place disfigured by ugly fissured outgrowths. Naked branches, similar to picked bones, intertwined at inconceivable angles, squeezing tree trunks in suffocating embraces like monsters' tentacles tightly linked in a last painful agony. Here and there, hung down dirty rotten tatters of exfoliated bark and long shreds of polyethylene (probably blown onto branches by the wind). But nowhere, despite the early autumn, was a single leaf.

  Never in all his life had Tony seen such ugly plants. They resembled not at all the numerous trees surrounding City Hall. And, nevertheless, these terrible thickets were enclosed by a high and strong metal fence (also nothing like City Hall Park's low fence); however, branches had intertwined with it long ago and sprouted through it. In some places, corroded fence rods were bent and broken under pressure from the branches. In other places, the rods had grown into the wood, piercing thick branches and curved trunks, bulging them like bursting abscesses and strengthening the impression of a deadly fight without winners. If there were any buildings behind all this mess, it was impossible to distinguish them in darkness through the interlacing of branches. Tony felt almost physical discomfort from this view–it resembled everted guts stricken with cancer with plural metastasizes. Trembling with cold (and, probably, not only with cold), Logan hastily walked along the fence to the left–as he believed, to the west.

  But the narrow street where he soon found himself resembled Broadway as little as these terrible dead tangles resembled City Hall Park. There were no skyscrapers on this street. Only gloomy brick houses like those built in city slums before the Second World War–or maybe even before the First. Somber, ugly dark cubes–Tony knew that even in daylight their walls would look dirty brown–six or eight floors, without any decoration or plaster, and with rusty zigzags of fire escape stairs hanging outside. Some windows gaped with broken glass or had been boarded up with plywood; in none of them was there a single spark of light. The street, as far as the eye could see, was absolutely empty, without either cars or pedestrians. But even the dark could not hide how much garbage was on the street. Not only on the sidewalks, but on the trafficway as well, as if nobody had driven here for a long time. Tony shuddered, nearly stepping on a dead pigeon. The carcass was almost decayed and from under the tousled feathers small bones gleamed whitely.

  What area is it? The boondocks of Harlem or Bronx? How he could be there if just recently he was on DeKalb Avenue in Brooklyn? And City Hall Station... no matter how it looks, there is only one City Hall in New York and it is in lower Manhattan!

  Perhaps something is wrong with his mind? Hallucinations? Memory blackouts? He definitely didn't want to believe in anything like this, but, after all, these events should have an explanation! What time is it now, by the way? Perhaps almost daybreak already? Tony looked at his watch but could not see the hands in the darkness. The cellphone! It shows time, too! And, by the way, it's not a bad idea to make a call... only to what number? There was probably no lawful reason to call 911 and he did not remember any phone numbers to call a taxi.

  Nevertheless, he reached into his pocket and, having darted a glance around–the last thing he wanted would be the arrival of any thugs interested in his cellphone, an expensive folding model–he pulled out the device. He unfolded the phone, woke it up by pressing a button, and looked at its right corner, where the time was displayed... 12:00 a.m.

  What? It can't be. He had sat down in that devil's train nearly at 1 a.m. and now it's probably not less than two... Anyway, definitely not midnight.

  Had he, without noticing it, spent almost a day underground?

  No, that's impossible. How could he–without eating, drinking... or even going to a toilet? It is more logical to assume that the damned cellphone is buggy.

  Then Logan's gaze moved to the left corner of the screen, where the signal level indicator should be. He expected to see there, at the best, the usual five bars, or in the worst case–none, although, of course, in New York there could be no open air place not covered by cellular communication. But what he was unprepared for was total emptiness. In the left top corner was missing not only signal bars, but even the icon of an aerial.

  Well, of course. The popular Japanese thing had fritzed out. However, it was only Japanese in name, but where it was assembled actually... that damned globalization! Luckily, the warranty had not expired yet...

  Nevertheless he opened his contacts list and examined the names. Logan lived alone and had no close friends–so, perhaps, among people in his telephone directory, there was nobody who could be called in the middle of night without a very serious reason. Not that he expected to receive any help, but simply wanted to check whether the phone actually worked or not. Probably to key in any random number and then to apologize for a mistake is better than to disturb those who know you...

  So he made his call, taking for a basis the number of one of his colleagues and having changed a pair of digits. He heard no ring. Nothing at all. But Tony knew that it was not the silence of an inoperable phone. Simply the call was taken on the other end before the first ring. The call was taken, but no answer was given.

  "Hello?" Tony said uncertainly. "Hello, Jim?"

  It was the first name which came to his mind and he thought at the same moment how funny it would be if the unknown call recipient was actually Jim.

  However, whoever it was did not respond. There still were no sounds on the phone. But Tony nevertheless felt that someone was listening.

  "Sorry," he said, "I mistook the number," and hung up.

  All the same, most likely, it was a malfunction of the cellphone. Tony folded it and began to put into his pocket.

  The phone rang.

  In the deserted night street its melody seemed a siren roar to Logan, and he, having shuddered in fright, hastily pressed the green button with a receiver picture only to stop this noise.

  "Hello?" he said in much lower voice.

  Silence.

  "Are you the one I just called? Excuse me, I've already said it was an mistake. I think my phone is malfunctioning."

  Tony waited a little more, but, still receiving no response, said, "Good night," and disconnected. And then he looked at options to lower the phone's loudness.

  But before he could change anything, the phone rang again.

/>   "Hello!" Logan bellowed with irritation.

  He got no answer again.

  "Well, fine," Tony thought, "I can be silent, too!" He demonstrated this ability during the next minute, and then, still having achieved nothing, again moved his finger to the red button. But before he had time to hang up, he heard... sounds. As if something rotten and slimy moved, sticking together and coming unstuck again. The same sounds as in the train intercom.

  Logan reflexively pressed the button, breaking the communication.

  Hastily having left options mode, he entered "Received Calls". He was almost assured that he would see the same number he has typed before, but wanted to be sure.

  He was mistaken. No, it was not another number. There was no number at all. Only a name: "Edward Luciano."

  Tony did not know any Edward Luciano and, naturally, did not have him in his contact list. Among his acquaintances there was nobody with an Italian name at all. Besides, the number should be highlighted anyway... What the hell is it? A virus? Tony had heard about viruses for cell phones... Just in case he chose "Options–Block."

  The phone rang again, vibrating in his fingers.

  Logan shook so violently that he nearly dropped the device. Then he pressed the switch-off button and waited until the screen went out. Having thought a little more, he pulled out the battery and SIM card and stuffed them in different pockets.

  The phone was silent and showed no signs of life. Tony looked at it mistrustfully, thinking that if it made a sound again, he would throw it in the nearest trash can, and the hell with how much he had paid for this miracle of technology. First, though, a trash can needed to be found...

  But the phone, placed back into a pocket, behaved how a disconnected electronic device should. After spending a few more minutes in suspense, Tony calmed down and walked in the direction which would be south if this dirtied foul place were Broadway and if the gardener nightmare behind him were City Hall Park.

  However these surroundings, as far as it was possible to make out in the dark, were not becoming any more attractive–in fact, just the contrary. The street, narrow and dirty as a suppurating wound from a slashing blade, passed between two rows of crowded and ragged houses which appeared absolutely uninhabited. There were even more broken windows and the intact ones–at least on the lower floors, which Tony could see most clearly–were nearly opaque with dust. Logan, who never before had looked in someone else's windows, tried to wipe some of them, but it did not help–they were as dirty inside as outside. The walls had no graffiti, though, in an area like this, they should be everywhere. Fire escape stairs here and there lacked wells, allowing rusty steps to break right in emptiness. House numbers mostly were absent, and where they were still present, they seemed a senseless series of digits. House number 183 followed 1547, then two houses with no numbers, and then 804–without observance not only to an order, but also to a principle of even and odd sides. And all this was within the single, infinitely long block. Tony went on in hope of finding a crossroads and reading the street name on it, but the walls of this stone gorge had not a single gap. Occasionally, at odd intervals, were street lamps and they had different designs–some light poles were concrete, others wooden, and the lamps were either modern ovals, or glass spheres or obviously archaic polyhedrons. But the main thing–none of them were lit, the covers often were broken, and the poles–lop-sided, with torn off wires. But the darkness still was not absolute–which is, however, natural enough for a city, especially on cloudy nights when low clouds reflect city lights. But Tony saw neither lights, nor clouds, nor stars. Only darkness hung over the city–darkness in its pure state, homogeneous and impenetrable.

  He came upon a dead pigeon again. Then one more. And here a decaying seagull lay with spread shabby wings, like a dead eagle of a fallen empire. Strange–usually seagulls keep to coasts and do not fly deep into the city... Perhaps, the coast is very close?

  Tony raised his eyes from the carrion–and shivered. Towards him along the street a person walked.

  Logan knew perfectly well that at night in bad areas, especially when you were alone, it was possible to have most unpleasant meetings. However the figure going right on a trafficway didn't resemble a street thug at all. But looking at the figure still made Tony feel a little odd. First of all, this person wasn't dressed according to the season: he had on a baggy winter jacket and a fur cap with long ears tied under his chin. He also wore a scarf wrapped around his face up to his eyes. And, seemingly, despite all it, he still could not get warm, as he hid his hands under his arms. His gait was also strange–the figure hobbled on half-bent legs, spreading knees wide sideways and turning out his feet almost 180 degrees. The head was also turned to the right at such an angle that Tony wondered this creature did not break his neck. At first Logan thought that the stranger purposely had turned away from him, but, seemingly, he had been walking this way for a long time without noticing Logan at all.

  Nevertheless, though the looks of the stranger brought unaccountable fear, Tony decided to talk with him. It was the first live being he had met on the surface and he needed to find out what this rotten place was and how, damn it all, to get from here to a normal part of Manhattan.

  "Sir!" Logan called, surprised at the hoarse sound of his own voice. "Excuse me, sir, could you tell me..."

  The figure continued to hobble forward, looking to the right (and even to the right rear) and without showing in any way that he heard. He? A thought came to Logan's mind that, actually, nothing proved that it was a man. These shapeless clothes could hide a woman as well...

  Tony resolutely crossed the road and stopped in front of the walking figure, wishing to look in his–or her–face.

  It did not help much. The face was completely concealed by the scarf from below and by the cap from above, and the narrow gap between them was covered by sunglasses (at night!). Even on the nose, something white, apparently, had been stuck. But Tony noticed a smell which made him frown with disgust. Probably, a tramp who had not had a bath for a couple of months... or who had not even taken off these wrappings since last winter... However, in this smell there was something worse than the usual stench of a body dirty for a long time. The smell brought to mind associations inconceivable in Logan's ordinary life, something almost medieval: plague and cholera pits overflowing with bodies... field hospitals full of abandoned patients under a scorching sun...

  But still, overcoming disgust–since there was nobody else to ask–he repeated the question:

  "Do you hear me? What is this place? Seems I got lost."

  The figure hollowly murmured something under the scarf, but Tony could not distinguish the words. Was it English at all? In New York more than two hundred nationalities live...

  "Sorry?" Logan asked again.

  More unintelligible muttering, as if the creature's mouth was filled by some viscous stuff. But this time, apparently, the words were different. It came to Tony's mind that, probably, this being was not talking to him, but simply talked to himself, and, moreover, had done it for a long time already and would do it further... Not just a stinky tramp, but also a madman? Why not... especially taking into account that since Tony got on that ill-fated train, everything around him looked pretty crazy.

  But while Logan was sure that he would be ignored again, the creature suddenly jerkily pulled his hand from under his arm and stretched it towards Tony.

  Logan recoiled in horror, looking at what had come up from a dirty sleeve. It was not a hand in the usual sense. It was a swollen, shapeless, ulcerated stump, on which five wet hillocks stuck out like ugly flattened slugs–all that remained of fingers. Logan's gaze jumped again to the wrapped face, and he understood that what he had accepted in the darkness as a scarf were actually bandages, sodden with pus and God knows what other discharges. He was not sure whether under these bandages (when were they last changed?) remained any skin, or if they had long ago grown into the sick meat.

  The thought that it could touch him made Tony move
back quickly, without looking behind him; he saw a dreadful stump directed towards him and heard a hollow illegible mutter from under the rotten bandages. A second later he stumbled against a curb and, helplessly waving his hands, crashed down, hitting his head against the sidewalk. A flash sparkled in his eyes and all sank in blackness.

  Tony came to his senses, looking around in panic. Disgusting images appeared to him: sticky touches of the leprous creature–or what this disease was?–and his stinking breath right in Logan's face, in his mouth... probably, even a kiss through dirty bandages (what if it nevertheless was a woman?) Was it simply a delusion of his scared imagination–or an echo of what really happened during his unconsciousness?

  Anyway, the street was empty again. And there remained the same darkness–unless the fog had become thicker. But, possibly, Tony had been unconscious not too long. Strange, but he did not feel a pain in his head. However, having carefully touched it, he felt something wet and sticky.

  "I'm going to see a doctor," he promised himself. "As soon as I get out of here. And not only about a head injury. I'll get tested for infections..."

  But first, he needed to get out of here.

  He stood up and turned right, walking along the street. However, the longer he walked, the more he doubted in his chosen direction. Underfoot was old crumbled asphalt. On the road, there were more dead birds, and not only pigeons. Here was a black raven, regarded by romanticists as a symbol of death, lying with its feet drawn into itself, there a worm-eaten albatross, and there... Logan smelled the largest of them earlier than he saw it: it was either a heron or a stork–in such a state of decay, it was impossible to know anymore. Tony knew that such birds live in New York parks, but never saw them flying in the city...