Westchester Station - the assault

by The Assault--Free(Lit

  When he turned, he saw Huk was still there, watching him. "Go and live, or stay and die," Plank told him in Arabic. With that he brushed past the primitive and out into the main chamber.

  He found Winstead and Gannon waiting for him. "What did you do?" Winstead asked.

  "Saved your precious station. If that is what it indeed is." He pressed one of the stems on his watch. "It’s activated. We’ve got five minutes." He started back down the tunnel toward the station.

  "What’s activated?" Gannon asked as they tried to keep pace on the rocky floor.

  "The bomb. In five minutes it will detonate." And he continued on.

  "Wait! You had a bomb?" Gannon managed to grab his arm. "You had a bomb with you? Why?"

  He shook his arm free, then glanced at his watch. "We have less than three minutes. I wouldn’t want to be in this chamber when it goes off."

  "Why would he have a bomb?" she asked Winstead as they stumbled after him.

  "Later," he said between gritted teeth. He had no doubt now; Plank had killed the guard. Silently and as rapidly as Gannon’s sore ribs allowed, they stumbled through the rocky chamber and finally reachedWestchester proper. Ahead, Plank was running into the open chamber.

  Winstead started after him but Gannon grabbed his arm. "Where’s Huk?"

  "I don’t know." He stopped and turned around, but didn’t see anyone leaving the tunnel.

  "Perhaps he went the other way."

  I hope not. Not with what he knows now. "I can’t go back for him. If only he…wait."

  Huk abruptly appeared, walking slowly from the tunnel into the chamber. "Hurry," Gannon said and began waving. Huk saw them and turned toward them, but still at the same slow pace.

  And then the tunnel exploded.

  ***

  The sudden intense tremor nearly threw Magdya off her feet. "What was that?" she asked, holding on to a partially destroyed bench for balance.

  "I don’t know," said Green. Then they heard something, a far-off keening of intense pain that surrounded them and penetrated to their very bones. And the lights flickered.

  "More fuel," he said, forcing aside his confusion and dread. He threw a leg torn away from one of the benches into the boiler. "Hurry!"

  Magdya kicked one of the slats on the back of the bench she was dismantling. It took her three tries before the wood cracked. She grabbed it with both hands and started pulling, ignoring the pain from the open blisters and splinters in her hands. The keening continued, setting the hair on the back of her neck erect. Whatever it was, it was in great pain.

  The slat finally, reluctantly gave way and she handed it to Green. "What do you think it means?"

  "If I were on the plantation, I would say an animal was dying. Here?" He tossed the fuel into the fire, then went to work wrenching free the arm of another bench. "We have to keep the fire going." We have to.

  Magdya grunted, then started loosening another slat. She shook her head as blood from her hands stained the wood and made it difficult to grasp the slat. She wouldn’t be reading any palms for a while, not with hands as damaged as hers. I’m going to need one hell of a manicurist when this is over. Another slat succumbed and she tossed it on the slowly growing pile of fuel.

  Suddenly the keening ceased. She stopped pulling on one arm of a bench. The lights flickered again, but this time they brightened. Then there was another sound, like falling rock. Like an avalanche. And suddenly coal began pouring from the chute in the wall.

  "Get back!" Green grabbed her arm and pulled her away as the fuel began raining out. Within seconds it totally inundated the bench she had been working on.

  "They did it!" she said, coughing from the dust. She hugged the startled Green, then surprised and embarrassed him even more when she kissed him on the lips.

  He stepped back, not willing to look at her. He didn’t know if he should feel guilt or pleasure at being treated so by a white woman, so he tried to force his mind to other matters. "We still have to keep the fire lit." He grabbed the shovel and began tossing coal into the flames, hoping his exertion would distract him.

  She sensed his unease. "I’m sorry," she said, blushing, then stifled a giggle. "How can I help?"

  "You’ve done enough. Rest." He continued his labors, concentrating entirely on the slowly growing pile of coal. Within a few minutes he was whistling.

  Magdya sat on one of the benches they hadn’t destroyed. She looked at her ruined hands and shook her head. Physical labor was something she avoided and now she remembered why. Gritting her teeth, she removed one of the splinters embedded in her hands. I feel like I’ve petted a porcupine, she thought. Didn’t that Gannon woman claim she was a nurse? She would ask for her help when they returned.

  ***

  Gannon and Winstead were knocked to the floor by the force of the blast. Rock and dust spewed from the tunnel, covering them almost totally. Immediately after, a terrible roar of pain deafened them, and the floor and walls shook as if some great beast was rousing itself from a long deep sleep.

  It took several moments for Winstead to catch his breath and make a mental inventory of his body. He ached everywhere, but when he moved there was no accompanying increase in pain. No broken bones, he decided. Then he turned his attention to Gannon. "Are you hurt?" He had to nearly shout into her ear to be heard above the keening echoing in the chamber.

  "I, I don’t think so." She managed to sit up and started brushing away the shards of rock that covered her. "That did wonders for my ribs, though." Then she glanced at him and laughed. "I hope I look better than you do. A woman must look her best under all circumstances."

  Winstead rubbed his hand along his cheek, leaving streaks in the dust covering him. "We’re both going to need a hot bath after this. I wishWestchester had a hot tub about now."

  "Requisition one. You are the station master, aren’t you?"

  "My authority doesn’t extend that far. Here, let me help you." He placed his hands beneath her arms and as gently as possible lifted her to her feet.

  "Thanks. Ouch, damn." She rubbed her sore ribs gently. "What is that horrible sound?"

  "I think that’sWestchester." He spent a minute checking her for cuts, then gasped. "Huk!" He turned and ran toward the tunnel entrance.

  "Damn!" Gannon started after him, but between her soreness and the clutter on the floor, it took her a good ten minutes to reach him. He was huddled over Huk, brushing away debris, when she arrived. "How is he?" she asked, kneeling beside him.

  "Out cold. Perhaps a concussion." He cradled the primitive’s head in his hand. Huk’s eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth. "I’m afraid to move him."

  "That’s a good idea. Should have brought a first-aid kit. But," and she gave him a withering glare, "I don’t supposeWestchester has any of those, either." Her leather vest was none the worse for wear, but her slacks were torn in several places. She ripped part of a pants leg away, then wrapped it around the deepest cut on Huk’s forehead. "I’m afraid this will have to do until we can get him to that pool we found. I hope he’s strong; he’s going to have to be to survive this."

  "What else can I do?"

  "Find me some antibiotics. Although," she looked at her patient, "I’m not sure they’ll work on him. Otherwise, nothing."

  He stood and futilely dusted his pants. "Then I have to find Plank."

  "Go, I’ll stay with him."

  He nodded grimly and headed back into the chamber.

  She looked down at Huk. Because of his height, he reminded her of nothing more than a boy of about ten. She dabbed blood from his lips but he didn’t respond, so she grabbed his wrist. Good, she thought, there is a pulse. "We can’t leave you here," she said. "I just hope your back isn’t broken." She slid one arm under his knees, the other under his shoulders, then picked him up. Her ribs throbbed in protest and she bit her tongue trying not to cry out as she managed to stand. She was surprised to discover how little he weighed. "Sleep," she whispered as she
started her painful way toward the garden. "We’ll get you well, I promise."

  Why would Plank have explosives? Winstead wondered as he started after the terrorist. He recalled the painting of theWorldTradeCenter, an event he had not been aware of until recently. Was he somehow involved in that?

  The air was still heavy with dust while the keening continued, although softer. Worse, the lights were flickering; he knew he would have little hope of finding Plank in total darkness. Had something happened to Green and Magdya? If so, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He checked the first tunnel he found, but it was empty. Sighing, he headed for the next.

  Meanwhile Plank had reached the tunnel to the mosque. He hadn’t stopped running despite the fact he was certain the others weren’t following him. Despite the fact they might be dead. "Please be here," he whispered as he entered the tunnel. But it still ended at a blank wall. I have to get out of here, he thought. I’ve done what the cleric asked. I have to escape.

  But not this way, he realized sourly. "The station master." The station master will show me the way out, he decided. Show me and then die. He headed back into the chamber.

  He could be anywhere, Winstead realized as he exited another blind tunnel. Plank had a good fifteen-minute head start, perhaps more. If he escaped from this section ofWestchester, he knew, Winstead would never be able to stop him. Unless the guards are back . But then, Plank had already killed one guard.

  He walked past the arcade, but it was empty. Yet he did notice that several of the machines were now running. That, he was sure, had to be a good sign. The chamber housing the star trumpet was empty as well, but he wasn’t surprised about that. Plank knew that was a dead end. Winstead cursed softly as he continued on. This section was vast; he could search fruitlessly for hours. He could just make out the wall on the other side of the chamber. If Plank were over there, he would never know it. I’ll check one more tunnel, then help Mrs. Gannon, he decided and entered the one housing the obscene painting.

  He turned the corner…and was seized immediately. "I knew you’d come looking for me here," Plank whispered in his ear.

  Winstead didn’t even try to break free, knowing his efforts would be fruitless. The last time this had happened to him, he had been threatened by a sentient knife. But he was certain Plank didn’t need a weapon. "You killed the guard."

  "Yes." Plank tightened his grip around Winstead’s head, then slowly began to twist his prisoner’s neck. "Would you like me to show you how I did it? It’s quite simple, you know."

  "No. Please."

  "Maybe later." Plank stopped twisting but maintained his grip. "Where is the woman?"

  "She’s tending to Huk. He’s seriously injured."

  "That is good to hear. He would be the only one of you difficult to dispose of."

  Winstead shivered. He had to break loose, somehow. But the way he was held, he was helpless. "There’s no need to kill us."

  "There is for the one you call Huk. He knows Arabic. Somehow. He does not belong here. He is an affront to Allah."

  Really? Now he had no doubts. "The Tree of Knowledge."

  "What?" Plank’s grip loosened momentarily.

  "The crubbin. He ate one."

  "You speak in riddles and I have not time for that. I must leave this station. You will show me."

  "I don’t know if I can."

  Seconds later Winstead was gasping for breath as Plank tightened his grip around his throat. "That is not what I want to hear. You are the station master. You know this place."

  "Yes," he managed to say. "But …"

  "But what?" Plank increased the pressure.

  Winstead tried futilely to pull the terrorist’s hands from his throat. "We might be trapped here." His words came out in a whisper.

  "I refuse to believe that. You will show me an exit or I will kill the female. And the disgusting creature you call Huk."

  You’ll kill us anyway. But perhaps not, he realized suddenly. There might be a way to save them. "The observatory."

  "What observatory?" Plank ever so slightly relaxed his grip.

  "We passed it. Back at the very end ofWestchester. The staircase rising to the ceiling. It leads to an observatory. There should be an exit there."

  "That is not what you said before."

  "We had to saveWestchester. If I had told the truth, you might have tried to escape instead of coming with us."

  No, I had to follow the instructions of the cleric. But Plank wouldn’t tell Winstead that. "Show me. If you lie, I will snap your neck like I broke your guard’s."

  They started out, Plank following a full pace behind Winstead. Far enough where if Winstead tried to turn and strike, his blow would miss completely; close enough where he had no hope of outrunning his captor. Winstead made it a point to stay near the wall. If Gannon was taking Huk to the garden, he wanted to increase the chance Plank wouldn’t see her. "What were you planning to do with the bomb?" he asked as they neared their destination.

  "Strike a blow for Allah. Teach the Americans they are helpless against us."

  "Kill hundreds of innocent people, you mean."

  "Innocent!" Plank let out a loud laugh that echoed coldly off the concrete walls. "There are no innocents in this war. You have abused my people for centuries. Conquering us, stealing our land, our oil. Supporting the murderous Jews in their campaign of genocide. Ignoring the will of Allah. You have earned our divine retribution."

  Winstead swore softly as they approached the spiral stairs. Yes, this man had helped saveWestchester. But Plank could never leave the station. In his first visit to Westchester, Winstead had managed to exile three so they would no longer be threats to those in the station or elsewhere. Plank, he was sure, would be the most difficult of all. Winstead grabbed the stairs with both hands and pulled. Again the structure held firm. "Just climb to the top. You’ll find a trapdoor. Your freedom is on the other side."

  "I think not. Show me."

  He had expected that response. Taking a deep breath, Winstead started the long climb upwards. He had been to the top once before. Would they be alone this time? he wondered. He hoped so; he didn’t have the stomach to deal with two demons.

  "Quit dawdling. This is taking too long."

  "Dawdling? You speak our language very well." Winstead increased his pace up the stairs.

  "My father was an American. He raped my mother, then abandoned her. And me. I know all I can stomach about you and your people."

  Plank was right behind him. Winstead debated whether to attack Plank now, then changed his mind. He was no match for the terrorist in hand-to-hand combat. Unless he knocked the terrorist off the stairway, an attack would accomplish nothing. As for weapons, all he carried was the plastic ball and a crubbin, one in each pants pocket. He would have to wait until they reached the platform above.

  It was so cold that he could see his breath by the time he reached the top. Below, the stairs were shrouded in mist. Or was it a cloud? Winstead pushed open the trapdoor to the platform above and climbed out onto the observatory.

  The view hadn’t changed since the last time he visited. The earth below was nearly adrift in streams of lava freshly spewing from the volcanoes. The sky was streaked in bright red and orange from the continuous eruptions. There were no clouds and in the clear night sky, the full moon hovered serene and unmarked. The noise and heat and stench of sulfur did not penetrate, however. At first glance, in fact, one would assume he or she was only watching some movie.

  Winstead was so entranced he forgot about Plank until he was shoved roughly. "What is this place?" Plank demanded. "Where is the exit?"

  "This is Earth. The beginning. This is what your jihad will create."

  "Fool! You know nothing of our holy cause." He studied the vista for another moment. "A movie. Some sort of hallucination. This entirestation is a hallucination. As well as an affront to all that is holy. I should not have saved your precious building." Suddenly he grabbed Winstead by the throat. "Show me t
he exit."

  If I knew of one. Winstead felt a cold calmness settle over him even as Plank’s fingers tightened painfully. By all rights he should feel fear, if not overwhelming panic. But the beggar he had met on his first visit to Westchester had effectively removed those emotions from him. Plank was pressing him against the railing, and he felt something begin to compress in his pocket. The crubbin. "Aren’t you," he gasped, "aren’t you curious?"

  He held his fist close to Winstead’s face. "I am only curious about the exit."

  "You don’t want to know how Huk learned your language?"

  "He is an aberration."

  "The crubbin."

  "You keep mentioning that. What is it?"

  "The fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. Huk ate one and suddenly knew your language. Imagine; what could you accomplish if, say, you could speak and understand every language?"

  "You are wasting my time. We are not going back to that garden."

  "No need. I have one with me." He began reaching for his pocket.

  Plank immediately tightened his grip. "Tell me where the exit is or I throw you over this railing."

  Winstead ignored him. Instead he forced his hand in his pocket and pulled out the fruit. He held it before Plank. "This is your escape."

  "You think you can poison me? If that is so precious, you eat it."

  Winstead took a big bite of the crubbin. The taste was as sharp as lye, and it took all his effort not to spit it out. Instead he grimaced and forced himself to swallow. He shivered as the fruit slid down his protesting throat. Then he shivered anew, but for an entirely different reason. He looked at Plank and smiled. "Oscar didn’t lie," he said. In Arabic.

  Plank’s eyes widened in surprise. "You know Arabic?"

  "I do now. Mahoud Sa’an."