‘Jeez.’
‘They offered me the same deal,’ said Lupe. She reflexively touched the tattoo tears etched on her cheek. ‘Sat me in an interview room white as heaven. Laid out the whole thing. I could have walked. Picked a new name. Said they would burn me clean with lasers and let me start over somewhere new. They pushed an amnesty document across the table. It was from the DA’s office. Big stamp, big signature. I tore it in strips and ate it.’
‘Can’t say I ever understood that code-of-silence stuff.’
‘The first time they put me in a cell with Wade, I spat in his face. He could never look me in the eye, even when he had his sight.’
‘He saved your life, though.’
‘Maybe he was trying to redeem himself. Cancel the shame.’
‘You would be dead, if not for him. Leave it at that.’
An unearthly moan echoed from the air handling system. Long, mournful, unutterably sad.
Lupe and Cloke stood and tentatively approached the grille high on the back wall.
‘Santa Muerte,’ murmured Lupe. She crossed herself. ‘What the hell was that?’
41
Galloway crouched in the crumbling brick conduit. He hunched to stop the crown of his head raking mortar.
A faint glimmer of light. If he retraced his steps, if he followed a bend in the pipe, he would find himself back in the plant room.
He pulled bandages from his stump. The wound bristled with spines. Needle-barbs protruding from muscle and bone marrow. Veins and arteries horribly distended.
He didn’t want to die alone. He wanted the comfort of people and voices.
Sudden fury.
Rage flaring like a struck match. Clenched teeth, left hand balled into a fist. Tired of being an outsider. Treated with contempt by soldiers back at Ridgeway who saw a correctional officer as some kind of sleazy, low-rent mall cop. Ostracised by a rescue squad that seemed to hold a sneaking admiration for his gang-girl prisoner.
He composed speeches in his head. Things he should have said:
‘I got no reason to feel ashamed. I got a flag on my arm, same as you. I swore an oath and did my job. I punched the clock each day and put myself among the meanest, most vicious motherfuckers to ever walk the earth. I did it so you guys could sleep safe in your beds. Fuck yourselves, okay? Army. Fire department. Acting all superior. You can all go to hell.’
Faint noise from the plant room. Distant voices echoed down the conduit.
Lupe:
‘Close the damned door. Quick. Close it. Get it shut. Here, use this.’
Cloke:
‘Put him down there.’
‘Is he alive?’
‘Just.’
Tombes:
‘Where’s Donahue? Did anyone see Donahue? Christ, she must still be out there.’
Galloway touched his face. Needles protruded from his cheek.
He wanted to be back among Lupe, Donahue and Sicknote, even if they despised him, even if they wanted him dead.
He wept metal tears.
42
Donahue ran to the IRT office and slammed the door. Fists pounded the wooden panels.
Heart-hammering panic. She gripped the handle. Her boots squeaked and slid across floor tiles as she struggled to keep it closed. Brief glimpse of hunched skeletal thing wearing a Dunkin’ Donuts cap. It gripped the doorframe. It leered.
She threw her shoulder against the door and slammed it closed. Bone crunch. Blood spurt. Severed fingers pattered to the floor.
She slapped deadbolts in position.
Heavy impacts. She grabbed a wooden chair and held it above her head ready to strike.
Gun-crack pop. Sudden darkness. A brief moment of what-the-fuck, then a wave of frustration and anger as she realised she had smashed the single bare bulb that lit the room.
She set down the chair.
She unbuckled her watch. A yellow G-Shock. She used the weak face-light to examine the door. The bolts and hinges looked like they would hold.
She caught her breath. She backed away from the door. Glass crunch. The floor dusted with bulb fragments.
She pulled a bandana from her pocket and wiped sweat from her forehead. A dark stain on the bandana. She touched her face. Blood on her fingertips. She hurriedly explored her scalp and neck, passed the watch-light over her arms and legs looking for bite marks.
Plenty of spray. She had kicked a couple of infected creatures to the ground in the ticket hall, stamped on snarling faces until their skulls shattered and pulped.
No wounds.
She mopped blood from her pant legs and boots.
She walked to the back of the office and slid to the floor. She listened to fists pound the door. The fusillade of blows slowly diminished to silence.
She waited.
She unhooked her radio and whispered into the handset.
‘Lupe, do you copy, over?’
No reply.
‘Lupe. Anyone. Can you hear me?’
Tombes:
‘Donnie. Holy shit, girl. Are you all right?’
She turned the volume way down. She crouched over the radio, cupped her hand over the mouth-grille and whispered:
‘Just.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in the station office. I’ve locked the door. Not sure how long it will hold if they make a concerted effort to get inside.’
‘We’ll figure something out. Just stay put. Stay out of trouble.’
‘Are you guys okay?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, we’re good. We’re safe. We’re in the plant room.’
‘This is so messed up.’
‘We’ll be fine. Just got to keep our heads and think our way out of this mess.’
‘Don’t leave me in here, man. You’ve got to get me out.’
‘We aren’t going anywhere without you. You got my word. Is there anything else in there with you? Anything else you can throw against the door?’
‘Not much.’
‘Are they still trying to get in?’
‘They were pounding at the door for a while. They’ve quit. For now.’
‘Can you hear them?’
‘I can sure as shit smell them. Hold on. I’m going to check.’
‘Don’t make a sound, for God’s sake. Do it quiet as you can.’
Donahue got to her feet and quietly crossed the room.
A peep hole in the door. She wormed dust and grime from the lens with her finger and put her eye to the hole.
She stifled an involuntary gasp. A ghastly, skeletal face, close-up in fish-eye distortion. Dunkin’ Donuts.