‘No. He’s been pulling at the implant behind his ear.’
Lupe contemplated the conduit mouth.
‘So. Galloway is back.’
‘Or whatever he’s become.’
Tombes sorted through the equipment pile. He shook out burned bags. He salvaged clothing and energy bars.
He pulled a scorched tarp aside and wiped soot from a pile of gas cylinders. He checked psi gauges.
Lupe joined him.
‘The tanks got pretty roasted. Still intact, though.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Which is why we didn’t get burned to hell. Imagine if this shit ruptured.’
‘You shouldn’t be out here alone.’
Tombes threw Lupe an FDNY sweatshirt. ‘Put it on. This place will be an ice cave in a couple of hours. Get some layers.’
He loaded Lupe’s arms with gear. Coats, bottled water, an axe.
‘We better fortify the plant room. Turn it into a proper fallback position, in case we get more problems.’
‘Are you kidding me? Cloke just got snatched from the damned place.’
‘You got a better idea?’
‘No.’
‘We ought to get a fire going. Generate a little heat.’
Lupe crawled into the conduit, knife in one hand, flashlight in the other.
She crouched and shone her flashlight deep into shadow. The brick pipe receded to a distant junction.
She gripped the knife, tempted to crawl further, find Galloway and drive the blade into his eye.
‘Hey,’ called Donahue, from the mouth of the pipe. ‘Don’t go too far.’
Lupe inspected the brickwork. Blood smears.
‘Broken fingernails. Looks like Cloke put up a fight.’
She shone her flashlight into the tunnel darkness.
‘Cloke?’ she shouted. ‘Can you hear me?’ No response. ‘Dude, if you’re injured, if you can hear my voice, make some noise.’
Her voice echoed and died.
‘He’s gone,’ said Donahue. ‘Come on out. Let’s see if we can block this aperture. Do it right this time.’
Lupe backed out of the pipe. She held up ragged, bloody fabric.
‘Found a pair of pants.’
‘Cloke?’
Lupe examined the fabric. Black polyester.
‘No. Galloway, I think. His uniform.’
She threw the bundled rags into the corner.
‘Look at this,’ said Donahue. She crouched on the floor. A brass case. Flecks of glass. ‘Cyanide capsule. I guess Cloke tried to use it.’
‘Poor bastard.’
Donahue picked up a couple of empty nail jars and tossed them into the pipe mouth. Broken glass scattered over brickwork.
‘That won’t stop him,’ said Lupe.
‘No, but we’ll hear him coming.’
Tombes opened a backpack and took out a red plastic case.
‘I have something that might help.’
He popped the lid and took out a demo charge.
‘How much you got?’ asked Lupe.
‘Not much. Enough left to blow Galloway to offal.’
He mashed the nub of ammonium nitrate against the side of a small, green oxygen cylinder.
He selected a colour-coded time pencil from a cigar box. Yellow band. He carefully pressed the aluminium tube into the explosive.
‘You know how these detonators work, right?’ He held up pliers. ‘Pinch the tube. Two minute burn. Big fucking bang. Oxygen will create a fierce secondary burn. If Galloway is in the vicinity when she blows, he’ll be torn to pieces, and those pieces will be cooked down to the bone.’
He set the bomb and the pliers on a wall ledge.
‘Remember. Two minutes. Long enough to get clear. Because you better be on the other side of the hall when she pops. If those explosives are fired in a confined space, they could bring down the roof.’
They held torn mesh over the conduit mouth and lashed it back in place with plastic ties. They stacked boxes against the grille.
‘He could punch through easy enough,’ said Tombes. ‘A pile of boxes won’t slow him down. But we’ll be waiting. We’ll stand guard. If the fucker makes another appearance, we’ll shut him down for good.’
Sicknote slowly awoke. He looked around. He blinked. No glasses. The plant room was a blur.
Pounding headache. He reflexively reached for the port behind his right ear. He discovered his hands were cuffed and his ankles were lashed with flex.
‘What’s going on? Why am I tied up?’
‘You wigged out,’ said Lupe. ‘Didn’t want you to get hurt.’
‘Are you going to let me go?’
‘Maybe later. How are you feeling?’
‘Like utter shit.’
‘That thing in your head. Doesn’t seem to help much.’
‘I got wires in my brain. I’d tear them out, but the socket is screwed to my skull.’
‘Want some Codeine?’
‘It won’t help.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘The pain will pass in a few minutes. Just got to ride it out.’
Lupe picked his spectacles from the floor and placed them in his hand. He put them on. The left lens was missing.
‘Sorry,’ said Lupe. ‘Guess they broke.’
‘Can you blank out the missing lens?’ asked Sicknote. ‘Tape it over, like an eye patch?’
‘If you like.’
‘One good eye. I’ll see better that way.’
‘Tell me what happened to Cloke.’
‘Galloway. Must have been watching, listening, lying in wait all the while. Picked his moment, then made the snatch.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Pretty far gone. A putrefied mess. Not much left of his face. He looked like those ghouls outside. But stronger, faster. He picked up Cloke with one arm. Threw him around like he didn’t weigh a damn thing. Took him into the pipe.’
‘So why are you alive? Why not take you? Why not take Ekks?’
Sicknote shrugged.
‘Maybe Galloway is toying with us.’
‘Average prowler has the brains of a cockroach. They don’t play games.’
‘Some are pretty smart.’
‘They tear people up. That’s the height of their ambition.’
‘Maybe those guys in the street are just foot soldiers. Drones. Ever think of that? Maybe there is a hierarchy. Creatures we haven’t seen yet.’
‘Give your imagination a break, all right? Get some rest.’
Lupe stood. She turned to Donahue and Tombes.
‘Anytime we leave this room, we go in pairs, okay? From now on nobody moves on their own.’
They nodded.
‘No more sleep. And no more pills, Donnie. We need to stay frosty. We have to watch our backs at all times.’
53
Lupe pulled at the plant room door. Jammed. Roof subsidence. The frame had begun to distort, wedging the door closed.
‘Son of a bitch.’
Lupe braced a foot against the wall, gripped the handle and strained until the door juddered open with a tortured wood-shriek.
She shone her flashlight round the cavernous darkness of the ticket hall, probed shadows, checked for movement. She clapped a hand over her mouth and nose to mask the stench of incinerated flesh.
‘No point going out there again,’ said Donahue.
‘We better make sure they’re all dead.’
Lupe and Donahue advanced into the hall. Lupe carried an axe. Donahue carried a steel pike.
They crossed the ticket hall. Eerie silence. Their flashlights shafted through blue haze. Skeletal bodies. Carbonised limbs. Petrified screams.
Lupe crossed herself.
‘Santa Muerte,’ she murmured.
Donahue coughed and blinked away tears.
‘Damned smoke.’
The walls, pillars and ceiling had been seared by flame. The two-toned white and terracotta tiles burned uniform black.