He’d make it or he wouldn’t; either way, he didn’t think he’d be surprised.
Claire hit the floor at the base of the stairs and leapt to her feet, blood running down her leg in a hot pulse of stinging pain. She staggered away, nothing broken—
• but she knew her clawed leg was just the begin-ning of what it would do to her, a prelude to the real pain.
Mr. X was still bent over the railing of the steps, but as she stumbled away, back toward the broken gate of the platform, the monster pushed itself off. It turned its immense body in her direction, the open blackness of its empty eye socket drooling out some dark and ichorous liquid. It would compensate for its altered senses, she was sure—it would compensate, realign, run at her again—and would slaughter her like the merciless machine it was, there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Claire tripped on the metal bars of the gate, barely catching herself, blood pattering to the ground as she staggered another step, please let it be quick—
“Here! Use this!”
Claire spun, saw that Mr. X was positioning itself for its killing strike—and saw the silhouette high above, on the walkway over the train. A woman’s voice, a woman’s shape, the shadowed figure throwing something—
• who—
• that clattered across the concrete, landing be-tween her and Mr. X. It was metal, it was silver—she’d seen them in movies, it was a machine gun—and Claire ran for it. Another final hope, another chance, however slim, that she and Sherry would survive.
She reached the weapon, dropped, saw X pushing itself toward her, the thunder of its steps shaking the ground—
• and she scooped up the heavy gun, kicking against the floor and rolling onto her back, her shaking hand finding the trigger, her body moving to accommodate the weapon. Stock on the ground, arms twisted around the cold metal, aiming—
• please please—
The monster was only a step away when the spray of bullets crashed out of the gun, a clattering, rattling string of tiny explosions that shook Claire’s entire body—and whammed into the gut of the beast, the sheer force of so many rounds stopping it in mid-stride—and pushing it back.
• tattatattatatta—
She felt the vibrating metal trying to shake itself free of her grip, so she held it tighter, the butt of the weapon tapping against the floor at a manic pace. The bullets were still pounding into the creature’s abdo-men, so fast and so many that she couldn’t hear her own gasping cries of fury and pain and exaltation—
• and Mr. X was trying to move forward, but a strange thing was happening, a strange and beautiful thing. Its gut was being shredded by the endless stream of rounds, its midsection gaining depth and texture, black fluids coursing down its lower half from the ragged, growing wound. X’s mouth was open, an empty hole like its eye socket—and like the socket, thick liquid was pouring out, obscuring its pitiless face.
• tattatattatat—
Claire held on, directing the hail, watching the creature try to stand against the pulsing, crashing spray. Watching it bleed. Watching as it seemed to—condense, its massive body crumpling, its torso sink-ing down.
The bullets still flying, Mr. X raised its arms—
• and split in two.
Claire took her finger off the trigger as X’s upper body toppled to the cement, a wet slap of heavy meat, and its legs collapsed, falling to one side, more strange blood gushing from both halves. Pools of shiny black grew around the massive pieces of its broken body, forming stinking puddles. The creature was dead—and even if it wasn’t, it didn’t matter anymore. Unless it could pull itself across the floor as fast as she could run, her battle with the terrible mystery that had been Mr. X was finally through—
• hell with all that, no time, MOVE!
Claire was on her feet in a second, ignoring the squelch of blood in her boot and the pain that had caused it, her gaze searching the upper platform for her unknown savior. No one was there, and she didn’t know if another minute had ticked by, the warning lost in the gunfire.
“Hey!” Claire shouted, backing toward the subway car. “We have to go, now!”
No answer, no sound but the ringing in her ears and the echo of her trembling words. If she wanted to save Sherry . . .
Claire turned and ran.
• * *
“—two minutes until—“
Leon pushed himself to go faster, the twining tunnel a blur of gray that spun past his aching, breathless perception. He’d lost all track of the turns and twists of the corridor and was rapidly losing hope, a voice in the back of his mind telling him that maybe it would be best to stop, to sit and rest—
• and then he heard it, and that tiny, despairing whisper was obliterated by the sound.
The sound of heavy machinery stirring to life, somewhere up ahead. Not far ahead.
Train!
Faster, legs distant, rubbery, lungs working, heart pounding—one way or another, it was almost over. TelRjY-Two
CLAIRE BURST INTO THE TRAIN, HOLDING A
giant rifle and with one leg covered in blood, barely pausing to hit the controls to the door before running for the engineer’s booth. Sherry knew that they were in trouble, that it was going to be close, so she didn’t waste time asking questions; she followed, relieved beyond measure that Claire was okay but keeping it to herself.
Okay, she’s okay and we’re going now....
A small, tinny version of the intercom voice and alarms blared out of the tiny room’s control board. “There are two minutes until detonation.” Claire had dropped the oddly shaped rifle and was hitting buttons, throwing switches, her attention fixed on the console. A giant mechanical hum suddenly enveloped them, a growing, whining rumble that made Claire grit her teeth; Sherry couldn’t tell if it was a smile, but she smiled as she felt the train lurch—
• and start to move, taking them away from the platform.
Claire turned, saw Sherry standing behind her, and tried to smile. Claire rested one hand on Sherry’s shoulder, but didn’t say anything—so Sherry didn’t either, waiting to see what would happen. The train started to go faster, sliding past dimly lit halls and platforms, the tunnel in front of them dark and empty. Sherry let the warmth of Claire’s hand remind her that they were friends, that whatever happened, Claire was her friend—
• and she saw a man, a policeman, stumble into view ahead on the left, and then the train was gliding past him, his eyes wide and searching and desperate in his dirty face.
“Claire!”
“I see him—“
Claire turned and ran out of the booth, her foot-steps clattering through the metal train car, sprinting to the door. She hit the control and the door slid open, the booming, grinding sounds of the subway billowing into the closed space.
“Leon!” she screamed. “Hurry!”
She jerked back suddenly, a wall sliding by, and spun around looking as desperate as the man—
Leon—had. After another second she turned back and closed the door.
“Did he make it?” Sherry asked, realizing that Claire couldn’t possibly know, even as the words came out of her mouth.
Claire came to her and put an arm around her, as the train kept going faster and her face knotted with worry—
• and the voice in the intercom told them they had one minute left—
• and the door in the back of the car opened. In stumbled Leon, his arm wrapped with a shredded, stained bandage, his hair matted with dark, dried goo, his eyes bright and blue in the mask of dirt. “Full throttle!” he shouted; Claire nodded, and Leon blew out a heavy breath. He staggered toward them, the train shifting back and forth, speeding now, rocketing through the tunnel. He put his arm around Claire, and Claire hugged him tightly.
“Ada?” Claire whispered. “Ann—the scientist?” Leon shook his head, and Sherry saw that he might cry. “No. I didn’t—no.”