At the far end of the street, silhouetted against the light, a man was standing. The man had one hand on his hip, the other raised in a shooting position. Blaine hesitated, and glanced back at Theseus.
The little hunter fired, scorching Blaine's sleeve. Blaine ran toward an open door, which was suddenly slammed in his face. A second shot charred his coat.
With dreamlike clarity he watched the hunters advance, Theseus close behind him, the other hunter in the distance, blocking the way out. Blaine ran on leaden feet, toward the more distant man, over manhole covers and subway gratings, past shuttered stores and locked buildings.
“Back off, Theseus!” the hunter called. “I got him!”
“Take him, Hendrick!” Theseus called back, and flattened himself against a wall, out of the way of the blast.
The gunman, fifty feet away, took aim and fired. Blaine fell flat and the beam missed him. He rolled, trying to make the inadequate shelter of a doorway. The beam probed after him, scoring the concrete and turning the puddles of sewer water into steam.
Then a subway grating gave way beneath him.
As he fell, he knew that the grating must have been weakened by the lancing beam. Blind luck! But he had to land on his feet. He had to stay conscious, drag himself away from the opening, use his luck. If he went unconscious, his body would by lying in full view of the opening, an easy target for hunters standing on the edge.
He tried to twist in mid-air, too late. He landed heavily on his shoulders, and his head slammed against an iron stanchion. But the need to stay conscious was so great that he pulled himself to his feet.
He had to drag himself out of the way, deep into the subway passage, far enough so they couldn't find him.
But even the first step was too much. Sickeningly, his legs buckled under him. He fell on his face, rolled over and stared at the gaping hole above him.
Then he passed out.
PART FOUR
27
When he revived, Blaine decided that he didn't like the hereafter. It was dark, lumpy, and it smelled of oil and slime. Also, his head ached, and his back felt as though it had been broken in three places.
Could a spirit ache? Blaine moved, and discovered that he still had a body. As a matter of fact, he felt all body. Apparently he wasn't in the hereafter.
“Just rest a minute,” a voice said.
“Who is it?” Blaine asked into the impenetrable darkness.
“Smith.”
“Oh. You.” Blaine sat up and held his throbbing head. “How did you do it. Smith?”
“I nearly didn't,” the zombie told him. “As soon as you were declared Quarry, I came for you. Some of my friends down here volunteered to help, but you were moving too fast. I shouted to you when you came out of the pawnshop.”
“I thought I heard a voice,” Elaine said.
“If you'd turned around, we could have taken you in there and then. But you didn't so we followed. A few times we opened subway grates and manhole covers for you, but it was hard to gauge it right. We were a little late each time.”
“But not the last time,” Blaine said.
“At last I had to open a grate right under you. I'm sorry you hit your head.”
“Where am I?”
“I pulled you out of the main line,” Smith said. “You’re in a side passageway. The hunters can't find you here.”
Blaine once again could find no adequate words for thanking Smith. And Smith once again wanted no thanks.
“I'm not doing it for you, Blaine. It's for me. I need you.”
“Have you found out why yet?”
“Not yet,” Smith said.
Blame's eyes, adjusting to the gloom, could make out the outline of the zombie's head and shoulders. “What now?” he asked.
“Now you’re safe. We can bring you underground as far as New Jersey. From there you’re on your own. But I don't think you should have much trouble then.”
“What are we waiting for now?”
“Mr. Kean. I need his permission to take you through the passageways.”
They waited. In a few minutes, Blaine was able to make out Mr. Kean's thin shape, leaning on the big Negro's arm, coming toward him.
“I'm sorry about your troubles,” Kean said, sitting down beside Blaine. “It's a great pity.”
“Mr. Kean,” Smith said, “if I could just be allowed to take him through the old Holland Tunnel, into New Jersey —”
“I'm truly sorry,” Kean said, “but I cannot allow it.”
Blaine looked around and saw that he was surrounded by a dozen ragged zombies.
“I've spoken to the hunters,” Kean said, “and I have given them my guarantee that you will be back on the surface streets within half an hour. You must leave now, Blaine.”
“But why?”
“We simply can't afford to help you,” Kean said. “I was taking an unusual risk the first time, allowing you to defile Reilly's tomb. But I did it for Smith, because his destiny seems linked with yours in some way. And Smith is one of my people. But this is too much. You know we are allowed to live underground upon sufferance only.”
“I know,” Blaine said.
“Smith should have considered the consequences. When he opened that grating for you, the hunters poured in. They didn't find you, but they knew you were down here somewhere. So they searched, Blaine, they searched! Dozens of them, exploring our passageways, pushing our people around, threatening, shouting, talking on their little radios. Reporters came too, and even idle spectators. Some of the younger hunters became nervous and started shooting at the zombies.”
“I'm very sorry about that,” Blaine said.
“It wasn't your fault. But Smith should have known better. The world of the underground is not a sovereign kingdom. We exist on sufferance only, on a toleration which might be wiped out at any time. So I spoke to the hunters and the reporters.”
“What did you tell them?” Blaine asked.
“I told them that a faulty grate had given way beneath you. I said you had fallen in by accident and had crawled into hiding. I assured them that no zombie had been involved in this; that we found you and would place you back on the surface streets within half an hour. They accepted my word and left. I wish I could have done otherwise.”
“I don't blame you,” Blaine said, getting slowly to his feet.
“I didn't specify where you would emerge,” Kean said. “At the very least, you'll have a better chance than before. I wish I could do more, but I cannot allow the underground to become a stage for hunts. We must stay neutral, annoy no one, frighten no one. Only in that way will we survive until an age of understanding is reached.”
“Where am I going to come out?” Blaine asked.
“I have chosen an unused subway exit at West 79th Street,” Mr. Kean said. “You should have a good chance from there. And I have done one more thing which I probably shouldn't have done.”
“What's that?”
“I have contacted a friend of yours, who will be waiting at the exit. But please don't tell anyone about it. Let's hurry now!”
Mr. Kean led the procession through the winding underground maze, and Blaine brought up the rear, his headache slowly subsiding. Soon they stopped beside a concrete staircase.
“Here is the exit,” Kean said. “Good luck, Blaine.”
“Thanks,” Blaine said. “And Smith — thanks.”
“I've tried my best for you,” Smith said. “If you die, I'll probably die. If you live, I'll keep on trying to remember.”
“And if you do remember?”
“Then I'll come and visit you,” Smith said.
Blaine nodded and walked up the staircase.
It was full night outside, and 79th Street seemed deserted. Blaine stood beside the exit, looking around, wondering what to do.
“Blaine!”
Someone was calling him. But it was not Marie, as he had expected. It was a man's voice, someone he knew — Sammy Jones, perhaps, or Theseus.