The bench was charcoal. The wall clock was a fist of melted cogs.
Shattered tiles of the station sign:
Lupe looked up at the leaded glass bowl mounted on the ceiling.
‘Guess we killed the lights,’ said Donahue.
Lupe lifted the axe and smashed the soot-blackened dome. She shielded her eyes from falling glass. A couple of sodium bulbs still shone within. They cast a weak piss-yellow glow.
‘Better than nothing.’
Donahue looked around. One of the central pillars had fractured. Concrete had split and crumbled to powder, exposing a buckled steel column at its core.
‘Jeez. Guess heat damage really trashed the place.’
Scattered tiles. Porcelain crunched underfoot like broken glass.
A deep fissure in the roof. Donahue trained the beam of her flashlight and examined the jagged fracture. It ran from the entrance stairwell to the back of the hall.
‘The whole building is starting to come apart. It could drop on our heads any minute.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Stick around much longer, this place will be our tomb.’
Donahue studied the fissure, tensed for gunshot cracks that would signal the roof was about to buckle and collapse.
Lupe began to laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Donahue.
Lupe walked away, chuckling, shaking her head.
‘Seriously, what’s so fucking funny?’
Crumpled bodies blocked the office doorway. Smoke curled from charcoal flesh. Twisted, interlocked limbs. Grinning skulls. Stench like bacon.
‘Help me shift these bodies,’ said Lupe.
‘Why?’
‘We could be down here hours yet. I don’t want to look at these bastards. Sure as hell don’t want to breathe their stink.’
‘Leave it to me,’ said Donahue. ‘Won’t be the first poor souls I bagged and tagged.’
She wrapped a bandana round her mouth and nose.
‘Pulled four kids out the ashes once. Gas explosion. A tenement in Queens. Cooked them real good.’
She pulled on leather gloves.
‘Propane. Nasty shit. Heavier than air. Pools like liquid.’
She took a deep breath and gripped an arm. Rigor stiff. Flesh tore and leaked pus. She dragged the brittle corpse across the ticket hall and kicked it down the platform steps. It tumbled down the stairway, shedding crisped skin, scattering toes and fingers, and was lost in darkness.
Lupe stood over a second body lying contorted in the office doorway. Hispanic girl, silver crucifix melted to her breast bone. Shrivelled remnants of a maid uniform. The Cedars. A beaux-arts hotel off Wall Street.
Lupe contemplated the corpse like she was staring down at her own doppelgänger. Waitress. Cleaner. Laundry girl. The kind of life Lupe could have led if she swallowed her pride and punched a clock.
She brought down her axe in a hard chop. The blade embedded in the thorax of the charred corpse. She dragged the cadaver across the ticket hall. She tugged the axe free and kicked the body down the platform steps. She heard it tumble. She heard it splash.
They retrieved bodies from the entrance stairwell. They dragged them across the ticket hall and pitched them down the platform steps into the flooded tunnel.
‘We ought to get out of here,’ said Lupe. ‘Place is screwed.’
‘The Federal roof is the only landing site for half a mile.’
‘We could wait across the street. Find a basement.’
‘To hell with that,’ said Donahue. ‘Fenwick Street was padlocked. People forgot it was here. That’s why it was a perfect holdout. But every other subterranean space, cellars, underground parking structures, MTA stations, got overrun by refugees. Hundreds of people. Their pets, their bags, their bedding. If we head into any of those sublevels we could find an army of prowlers waiting for us. It would be like kicking an ant nest.’
‘What’s the time?’ asked Lupe.
Donahue checked her watch.
‘One. One in the morning.’
‘Fucking chopper,’ muttered Lupe. ‘Scoping the Adirondacks? In the middle of the night? What kind of bullshit is that?’
‘Infected folks are warmer than background. Not by much, but they’ve got a signature. The chopper will buzz Avalanche Lake, overfly the forest a few times. If there is anyone stumbling around between the trees, they’ll stand out plainer than day.’
‘I don’t like it,’ said Lupe. ‘I don’t like sitting here, waiting to be saved. Every instinct tells me to get moving, get the hell out of here.’
‘You said it yourself. There’s nowhere to go. Just got to survive until dawn.’
‘Fuck that shit. Get on the radio. Talk to Ridgeway. Apply some leverage. We’ve got Ekks, and we’ve got his papers. How about we put a match to his research? Toast some marshmallows over that notebook? About time we called the shots. If they want their vaccine, their cure, they have to come get it. Right now.’
The office door hung from its hinges. Lupe lifted it aside.
Smoking wreckage. A toppled desk. Smashed chairs. Broken furniture still danced with licks of flame. Varnish bubbled and popped.
Donahue untabbed an extinguisher and trained a jet of carbon smoke. Stuttering gas roar. She swept the hose cone back and forth. A typhoon of fire-suppressant vapour engulfed the debris, leaving the shattered desk and chairs coated in white residue like frost.
She threw the extinguisher aside and began to kick through the wreckage. Carbon fog curled round her feet.
A body huddled in the corner. Black, mummified, rictus grin.
Dunkin’ Donuts.
The guy had punched through the door ablaze and careened off the walls, blinded by flame. He set the place alight, turned the room to a furnace. Convulsions gave way to paralysis as cooked muscles and ligaments began to contract, pulling him to the ground, curling him foetal. Finally, the polyester Donuts cap melted to his scalp and mercifully cooked his brain.
Donahue grabbed the cadaver’s foot with a gloved hand. Skin crumbled and flaked. She dragged the corpse from the room.
She returned with a DeWalt case and a box of screws. She flipped latches. A power drill.
‘Help me shift the desk.’
They shunted the desk beneath the vent. Donahue climbed onto the scorched desktop, a clutch of rock screws held between pursed lips. She bored deep into wood and concrete. She pinned boards over the aperture. The drill sparked and burned out on the last screw.
‘I guess it won’t take much to bust through that opening. Might slow him down a minute or two.’
‘He’ll be back,’ said Lupe. ‘Count on it. That air con network runs for miles, but he won’t go far. He’ll stay close, wait until we’re weak, wait until we are alone. He’s probably crouched in that tunnel right now, listening to us talk.’
Donahue picked up the flag pole. The satin stars and stripes reduced to scorched threads hanging from a brass rod. She straightened the pole and propped it in the corner.
‘I could read all kinds of symbolism into this shit, but I’m too tired.’
‘Got any Dex out there in those bags?’ asked Lupe. ‘Any kind of boost?’
‘Thought you wanted to stay straight.’
‘I want an up, not a down.’
Donahue dug in her coat pocket. She rattled a pot of NoDoz and threw it to Lupe.
‘Don’t eat them all.’
Lupe uncapped and knocked back a fistful of tablets.
Donahue raked through debris with her axe. She lifted the remains of a filing cabinet and pushed it aside. She found the transmitter headphones. She traced the cable hand-over-hand.
The RT lay beneath a toppled chair. She kicked the chair to one side. She crouched and trained her flashlight. She brushed away burned paper. She licked her thumb and rubbed ash from the dials, flicked a toggle switch, hoping to see a green power light.