‘Guess we found the Bellevue guys.’
33
Galloway sat on the platform steps. He sought out darkness and seclusion, a chance to examine his hand unobserved.
He flipped open a lock-knife and used the tip to slit the dressing.
Micropore tape slowly tore from skin. He peeled back blood-crusted bandage.
The severed stump of his knuckle bristled with fine metallic splinters. The flesh of his hand was purple and swollen, mottled with spreading rot.
He probed the wound with the tip of the blade. His hand was numb. He pressed the point of the knife into his palm, pressed until he drew a bead of blood. Nothing. No sensation.
‘Doesn’t smell too fresh,’ said Wade. He stood at the head of the steps, hand on the balustrade, sightless eyes staring ahead. ‘You should let Donahue take another look.’
‘She won’t do a damned thing.’
Wade descended the stairs. He kept a tight grip on the balustrade, probed each step with his foot. He sat next to Galloway.
He took the cyanide cylinder from his pocket. ‘Maybe you should ask Donahue for one of these.’
‘Fuck that.’
‘You know the score,’ said Wade. ‘No vaccine, no antidote. Few hours from now, you’ll turn. Is that what you want?’
‘If you’re so in love with death, why not swallow the damned thing yourself and be done?’
‘Let me know if you change your mind.’
‘Three, two, one.’
Cloke and Tombes hauled the slide doors apart.
A skeletal figure fell from the train to the tunnel floor. Ripped army fatigues bristled with spines. The thing squinted into the glare of Cloke’s flashlight.
It howled.
Tombes delivered three skull-shattering blows with his hammer, and kicked the body aside.
They climbed into the carriage. They stood tensed, keyed for movement.
‘Christ,’ muttered Tombes.
The beam of his flashlight swept the carriage.
Bodies. Soldiers and civilians. A dozen of them, sat on equipment cases like they were all taking a ride uptown. A hole in the crown of each head. Brain and hair gummed to the melamine of the carriage roof.
Cartridge cases scattered on the floor. Clink and chime.
A Colt pistol hung from a skeletal hand. Cloke prized open fingers. He ejected the mag. Empty. He threw the weapon aside.
‘They were trapped. Guess they passed round a pistol.’
Tombes checked insignia.
‘Couple of 101st. A nurse. A doctor. This guy is a transit cop.’
Cloke found a battery lamp. He tried the on/off slide-switch. He shook it. Dead. He threw it aside.
‘Guess we better check ID,’ said Cloke.
‘Fifties. Silver hair.’
‘That’s right.’
Tombes surveyed the rows of bodies. Young guys. Crew cuts.
‘He’s not here.’
‘Double check.’
Cloke shone his flashlight round the carriage. The fibreglass seats had been removed. Boxes and ammo crates stacked on the floor, piled against the carriage wall. The walls had been lagged with opaque polythene: a crude attempt at insulation.
‘Must have frozen their asses off down here.’
He kicked through garbage. Empty water bottles. Foil MRE wrappers. He tipped a box. Dozens of shampoo bottles tumbled across the floor.
‘They brought some pretty random shit,’ said Tombes.
‘Looks like they raided a Duane Reade. Snatched whatever they found.’
‘Must have been miserable. No daylight. Dwindling rations. Surprised they didn’t go nuts.’
‘Looks like they did.’
Tombes walked between the bodies. He pulled on gloves.
Tombes plucked a crumpled sheet of paper from a dead hand.
‘They wrote suicide notes.’
‘Bag them up. That’s what we came for. Any written account of their time down here. Anything that might describe their research.’
Tombes took a bandana from his pocket, shook it open and masked his face. He knelt in front of a corpse and tried to push a rigor-stiff arm aside so he could reach a pant pocket. The cadaver toppled forwards, threatened to fall on him. He pushed it back in its seat. He pulled out a leather wallet.
‘This guy was a limo driver.’
‘Guess they picked up a few civilians along the way. Pretty ragtag bunch.’
Cloke shone his flashlight round the carriage. Grotesque, gaping mouths. Eyes sunk and rolled back. Some of the corpses leaned, like they were sleeping on each other’s shoulders.
He took a Geiger reading. He held the handset in front of an emaciated, shattered face. Fierce crackle.
‘They were dying and they knew it.’
‘This is how we’ll end up, isn’t it?’ said Tombes. ‘Sitting in the dark. For ever.’
‘Donahue is checking the charts. Maybe we’ll be okay.’
Donahue searched through the trauma bag. She found a box of Codeine. She pressed tablets from a foil strip and dry-swallowed.
Galloway sat on the entrance steps. He watched her and smiled.
‘A little something to take the edge?’
‘Mind your own damned business.’
‘Hey. So you need a little de-stress. I don’t blame you. No one would blame you. Nariko got us in this mess. She wanted to die a hero. Dragged us down here and got herself killed. You didn’t create this situation.’
‘Shut the hell up, all right? You didn’t know the Captain. I saw her suit up more times than I can count. One of the best. End of each shift, those hard-ass Irish fucks would save her a seat at the bar. Old-school motherfuckers, twenty-five years on the job. If you work on a fire truck, that’s worth more than a Congressional Medal of Honor. You got to eat some serious smoke to impress those bastards.’
‘Sure. She was better than me, better than all of us. But right now, we’re marooned. Each of us got to deal the best way we can.’ He gestured to the pill box. ‘Gonna throw me a few of those bad boys?’
Donahue tossed the pill box. Galloway snatched it from the air.
‘Could use a cigarette. Shit, I could use a drink.’
He was pale, face coated with a glistening sweat-sheen.
‘How’s your arm?’ asked Donahue.
Galloway looked down at his bandaged hand. He slowly clenched his fist.
‘Not so great.’
He pointed to the trauma kit.
‘You’ve got a ton of shit in that bag, right? Got a tourniquet? Scalpels? Sutures? All that stuff?’
Donahue shook her head.
‘Forget it. There is nothing anyone can do for you. That’s the hard truth. Sorry, dude. Your luck’s run out.’
Donahue headed back to the office. She slumped in a chair, head in her hands.
Lupe stood at the table, studying charts.
‘Are you going to help, or what?’
‘Let me rest,’ said Donahue. ‘Please. Just for a minute or two.’
‘Three cons and a guy on the turn. You’re the boss now. You’re supposed to take charge, sort shit out.’
Donahue didn’t reply. She closed her eyes and breathed deep as the Codeine hit.
‘We ought to talk about Galloway. We can’t let the disease take hold.’
‘So?’ asked Donahue. ‘What do you want to do? Force a capsule down his throat?’
‘We might have to use the shotgun. Could be the kindest thing. Pick our moment. Do it quick and clean. The guy wouldn’t have to know a thing about it.’
Donahue held out the gun.
‘Be my guest.’
Lupe took the weapon.
‘Okay. I’ll do what needs to be done. But I don’t want to hear any complaints when the time comes.’
Splutter and rev of a petrol engine.
‘What the hell is that?’
Lupe and Donahue ran for the door.
Sicknote held a petrol-drive stone-cutter. He shut off the motor. He watched the circular blade slow-spin to a halt. A fine blood spray across his forearms and face.