‘Masks will be useless down there,’ he said. ‘No peripheral vision. Wouldn’t see a damned thing.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Just seal your suits and stay out of the water. Like I said, it’s nasty shit. If you go over the side, you’ll get more than wet.’
Nariko and Tombes stood face to face. They tore strips of duct tape and wrapped them round each wrist and ankle joint. A well-drilled haz-mat protocol.
Fist bump.
‘Good to go.’
‘You folks done this before?’ asked Cloke, trying to break the tension.
‘Suit up?’ said Nariko. ‘Before today? Big chem spill out on the FDR last year. Rush hour. A truck blew a tyre, jackknifed, spilled a bunch of drums across the lower deck. Some kind of noxious, carcinogenic shit. Put the whole city in gridlock. Had to foam down the freeway and mop it up. Closest we ever got to this kind of duty.’
She twisted at the waist and wheeled her arms to make sure the suit was sitting right.
‘This is your mission, but I manage the turn-around, okay?’ said Nariko. ‘We’ll take it as far as we can. But if it goes bad, I’m pulling the plug. I don’t want to hear any argument. My word is final.’
‘Understood.’
She re-checked glove seals. She paused for a moment, distracted by the mildewed Camel poster on the wall beside her. Rich red amid grey dereliction.
‘Do you think we’ll ever see the sun again?’ she asked.
They listened to the steady, white-noise roar of torrential rain, the rumble of thunder and the faint rasp of ragged nails dragged down polythene.
‘Maybe we are better off down here, below ground,’ said Tombes, and crossed himself.
17
The tunnels beneath Manhattan.
Eight hundred miles of darkness and silence. Dripping water. Mournful wind-whisper. Passageways and caverns sealed for ever. A necropolis that would endure long after surface structures collapsed and were subsumed by forest.
A subterranean realm ruled by rats.
Rodents navigated the tunnels in packs. They sought out survivors, the handful of New Yorkers that fled into subterranean darkness to escape ground-level horror. Bewildered refugees stumbling through unlit passageways slowly succumbing to dehydration. Weak. Injured. Maimed by the concussive detonation: the crushing shockwave which burst eardrums, ruptured capillaries, made blood fizz with liberated nitrogen. Victims convulsed, dripped frothing blood from ears and nose as they were subject to massive decompression trauma, like a diver dragged from the depths.
One by one the helpless survivors were overwhelmed by a swarming, seething tide of vermin. Screams echoed through the tunnels as countless yellow incisors sank into flesh.
Rats burrowed into eye sockets, gnawed soft extremities, chewed deep into muscle and viscera.
Bodies quickly reduced to scattered, skeletonised remains.
Rushing water. A rumble like an oncoming train.
Rats scattered and ran. They fled the tidal rush. A rippling stream of dirt-streaked fur. They scurried across rail beds. They scampered along pipe work and ropes of high-voltage cable, looking to reach high ground, looking for air-locked tunnels and chambers that would escape the flood.
Grand Central Terminal. A flame-seared ruin. A cascade of roof rubble had buried each concourse, pulverised the ticket booths and destination board, crushed the information stand and four-faced clock. The 9/11 memorial flag had burned and shrivelled to black melt-drips.
The netherworld beneath the station, the labyrinth of stairways, passageways and ducts, still intact.
Substation Four. A deep-level generator house beneath the ruins of the terminal. A vast dynamo hall. Five hulking rotary DC converters in a row.
Rats infiltrated sub-levels beneath the terminal, but instinctively avoided the generator room. They turned tail rather than explore the long corridor leading to the power house. They reared and shrieked when they glimpsed the rivet-studded entrance at the end of the passageway, the high-voltage zags and danger signs.
The substation doors hung ajar. Impenetrable darkness.
A powerful sentience evolving in shadow deep inside the monumental chamber. A sleepless alien intelligence that pervaded the entire subterranean network, reaching out through the structural fabric of the flooded tunnels.
It sensed an intrusion.
Fresh meat had entered the subsurface system far south at Fenwick Street.
18
The subway tunnel, lit crimson by flickering flare-light.
Nariko, Cloke and Tombes waded knee-deep across the submerged platform. They kicked through drifts of floating garbage.
‘Walk slow,’ advised Cloke. ‘Don’t splash.’
Nariko held the grab line for stability as they climbed into the boat. She crouched at the prow. She held a floodlight.
Cloke and Tombes sat behind, each with an oar. Tombes wore his battered leather fire hat with a brass RESCUE 4 insignia.
The boat sat low in the water. They pushed away from the platform and began to paddle. Slow, deliberate oar strokes.
Donahue stood at the platform steps, flare held high. She watched them depart.
‘Catch you later,’ shouted Tombes. His voice echoed in the cavernous space.
‘Watch your ass,’ replied Donahue.
The boat headed into the tunnel mouth.
Donahue tossed the flare into the water. It floated, spitting fire for a couple of seconds, then dimmed and died.
Galloway inspected the rusted Coke machine. He pounded the side of the cabinet and checked the return slot for nickels.
Lupe shifted position. She stretched. She rubbed her wrists, massaged cuff abrasions.
‘Sooner or later, you’ll cut me loose,’ she said. ‘How will that feel? When the chains are off and you have to look me in the eye? Whole different ball game.’
‘Think I’m scared? I’ve straightened out a few hard-asses in my time. I know how to deal with street trash like you.’
‘Bronx accent, right? Must have been tough. How many ex-cons lived in your neighbourhood? Bet you spent a lot of time looking over your shoulder, worrying some ex-jailbird with a grudge is going to spot you in a bar and turn his mind to payback. What did you tell people? Did you say you were a plumber or some shit? Did you chain the door each night? Keep a .38 under the pillow?’
‘None of your damned business.’
‘Corrections. Only law enforcement job you can get without an education. The police department turned you down, didn’t they? Thank you for your resume, but due to the high volume of applicants…’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Should have worked at the airport, man. Could have sat on your ass and watched a luggage scanner all day. Easy money.’
‘Think you can get under my skin? I get shit from you lowlives every working day. Scumbags shouting through the bars. Lifelong losers.’
‘Most COs just punch the clock. Do their shift, drive home, pop a cold one. But you love it. I can tell. You’re the type. Tuck your pants into your boots like you’re SWAT. Does it make up for being a short guy?’
‘You’re nothing but noise.’
‘Live for it, don’t you? Pulling on your pads and helmet for a cell extraction. Choke-holds. Beatings. Some juicy pain compliance. You’re nothing without your nightstick, nothing without your keys. The moment they unlock these cuffs, the moment you got no one to push around, you’ll cease to exist.’