They propped the shelves against the wall. They threw the remains of the phonograph aside.
A section of antique map, brown like parchment, lay on the floor. It had been shielded from the flames.
Lupe spread the ragged section of map on top of the desk.
1939 World Fair Travel Guide. Public transport routes to Flushing.
She flipped open her knife and stabbed Fenwick Street.
‘We are here.’
She stood her Maglite next to the knife.
‘And Wall Street is here. A short distance. Third of a mile, at most.’
‘What of it?’
‘The south tunnel mouth is boarded up. I reckon if we bust through those boards and follow that old IRT passage south it will intersect with the modern MTA line near Wall Street.’
‘So?’
‘What if we retrieved the boat? It’s sitting in the north tunnel, near that rockfall. What if we brought it back and headed south? If we reach the MTA network we might be able to travel far as South Ferry before we need to head above ground. We could bypass the streets entirely. Save ourselves a shitload of grief. Reach the shore without setting foot above ground. Then we could use the boat to cross the river.’
‘The flood waters are rising. Won’t be long before the passageways are completely submerged.’
‘There’s still enough clearance to navigate.’
‘Fenwick Street was a terminal stop. The end of the line. The south tunnel might not connect with anything. It might be a dead end.’
‘It’s worth a shot.’
‘You’re asking me to suit up. Put on dive gear, get back in the water and fetch the boat.’
‘Yeah.’
‘A quarter-mile trip. Another shitload of rads.’
‘Up to you, girl. Your call. But if these tunnels carry us south to the river, we’re home free. We can cross to the mainland. Shit, we can row up the coast without setting foot on land, put this city well behind us.’
They returned to the plant room.
Donahue sorted through jumbled dive gear, tried to find sufficient intact components to assemble a single functioning dive rig. She laid out a suit and checked front and back for integrity. She found gloves, overboots and flippers. She found a weight belt. She found a helmet and checked the headlamp battery for charge.
Lupe helped strap gas tanks to the back frame.
‘How are they looking?’ asked Donahue.
Lupe tapped glass and checked psi levels.
‘Some of these needles are getting mighty friendly with zero.’
‘Fuck it.’
‘Hey,’ said Lupe, looking round. ‘Where the hell is Sicknote?’
‘Ought to put that guy on a leash.’
Sicknote stood at the top of the platform steps.
The stairwell danced with ghostlight. Tarnished, broken fixtures unkinked and took on a polished gleam. Shattered bulbs recomposed themselves. Broken filaments fused and glowed incandescent. Mottled wall tiles washed porcelain white.
Phantoms pushed past and through him. Suits and wasp-waist dresses. Slicked hair and bouffants. Attaché cases and crocodile handbags. Edge of the financial district. Commuters, office workers and service staff, instinctively heading down the stairs in racially segregated streams.
Sicknote walked down the steps. He stood in the middle of the stairwell, spread his arms and let the spectral crowd wash through him.
A train pulled up at the station. Decelerating motor hum. Sneeze of air brakes. A silver subway car with old-time porthole windows.
‘Fenwick Street. This is Fenwick Street.’
Doors slid back. A fresh stream of commuters filled the platform and jostled their way up the stairwell.
‘Why not board the train?’ he thought to himself. ‘What will happen if I enter the ghost locomotive and take a seat? Where will it take me? What will I find at the end of the line?’
He began to descend the steps.
‘Hey. Hey, Sick.’
Lupe’s voice.
‘What are you doing, dude?’
Her words echoed down the decades. He heard them above station noise, the clatter of footsteps, babbling voices, the hum of traffic in the street outside.
He looked around the stairwell. Buy War Bonds! Trilbys, slicked hair, faces knotted with get-there-on-time anxiety.
A couple of girls in the blue blazer/brass button uniform of the Women’s Reserve.
All of them watched over by Cary Grant and Joan Fontaine. Each time they kissed there was the thrill of love… and the threat of murder!
‘Dude, what are you doing?’
Lupe’s voice, stronger, closer.
He searched for her among the jostling crowd, tried to spot her soot-streaked fire coat amongst the sea of grey flannel suits.
‘Look at me, bro.’
Her voice right by his side.
One by one, the stairwell ceiling lamps died.
The teeming crowd of business men and office girls dissipated like smoke.
Pristine tiles were mottled by a spreading accretion of dust and mould.
Cary Grant faded sepia and flaked to dust.
Sicknote found himself once more in the darkness and dereliction of the platform stairwell, feet at the water’s edge.
Lupe stood by his side. She put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Fight it,’ she said. ‘Fight the madness. Be here now, with me.’
He nodded.
‘Just breathe. Look at me. Look me in the eye. Breathe deep.’
He instinctively massaged for the implant behind his right ear. He struggled to breathe slow and deep.
‘That’s it. Better?’
‘Yeah.’ He smiled. ‘Yeah, I’m all right.’
The flood waters erupted. They leaped back. Sicknote lost his glasses. He pawed the step beside him, found the spectacles and jammed them back on his face.
A tumourous, skeletal thing rose from the water and straightened to full height. It waded thigh-deep across the submerged platform towards the stairs.
Lupe and Sicknote scrambled clear. The creature stretched clawed hands. A membranous, translucent lacework of skin hung from bare arms. The rotted thing opened its mouth and vomited filthy tunnel water.
Then it lunged.
60
Lupe pushed Sicknote to one side and swung her axe. The blade embedded in the creature’s throat. The creature staggered to maintain balance, head lolling, spinal cord intact. A second axe blow sheered clean through its neck. The head bounced down the steps and splashed in the water. The decapitated corpse toppled backwards and sprawled on the stairs.
Two more infected figures rose from the flood water.
Lupe grabbed Sicknote by the collar and dragged him clear.
‘Come on. Let’s face them on high ground.’
Donahue ran down the steps to meet them. She gripped an iron pike. She swung at one of the creatures. A glancing blow to the head ripped away its jaw, leaving upper teeth and a lolling tongue.
She gripped the pike like a javelin. She delivered a stab to the chest and pushed the rotted thing into black waters.
Another shuffling figure, arms outstretched. A doorman weighed down by a long braid coat.
Lupe swung her axe. She brought it down hard, missed the guy’s head, and lopped an arm. The blade continued its downward trajectory, hit a step and struck sparks.
‘Damn,’ winced Lupe. Her hands and forearms stung from the impact.
She hefted the axe and swung again. The blade embedded in the doorman’s stomach. It lurched backwards, jerking the axe from Lupe’s hands.
Lupe and Donahue backed up the steps. Another creature rose from the water. A sanitation worker draped in garbage. Green overalls and hi-viz. It stumbled up the stairs towards them. Lupe delivered a chest-kick that sent it toppling into the flood water. They leaped aside to avoid the toxic splash.