Nariko joined him.
‘You got three flights of stairs. After that, thin air.’
‘Let me see how far I can get.’
She pulled on a backpack and shouldered a coil of kernmantle rope.
‘Watch yourself.’
She descended the stairs. Three flights of concrete steps and an iron balustrade. The steps led nowhere. The stairs ended abruptly. A black chasm. She leaned over the edge and shone her flashlight downwards into darkness. The lower prefabricated sections of stairwell had detached from the wall and lay in a jumble of rubble far below.
Nariko tested the balustrade railing beside her. Firm. Anchored.
She buckled a harness and clipped a carabiner to the balustrade. She walked to the edge of the chasm and rappelled into black nothing.
She passed numbered doors in the wall.
3… 2… 1…
She switched on the flashlight hanging from her belt. The beam lit the pile of masonry beneath her.
She touched down, booted feet coming to rest on splintered concrete. She unclipped the harness.
She wiped condensation from the visor of her respirator. She blinked sweat from her eyes.
She scanned the walls of the wrecked shaft.
She unhooked her radio.
‘I’m at the sub-level.’
‘Is there a route below ground?’
‘Hold on.’
A wood lintel. She crouched and pulled rubble aside. Top of a blocked doorway. She hauled chunks of concrete until she exposed a narrow cavity.
She shone her flashlight through the gap.
Darkness.
‘I think I’ve found a way through.’
11
Nariko explored the darkness.
The beam of her flashlight washed across pillars and archways.
Silence and shadows.
An abandoned subway station built long before MetroCards, steel turnstiles and Helvetica signage. One of the derelict crypt-spaces of the city.
She crept through the sepulchral gloom of the ticket hall. Mausoleum hush. No sound but the grit-crunch of her boots, the rasp of her respirator and the rustling fabric of her NBC suit.
Her flashlight pierced the shadows.
A rusted Coke machine.
A smashed clock, hands hanging at half-six.
A phone booth. Screw holes and frayed cable where a trumpet earpiece would once have hung.
She examined a couple of panel ads. Faded paper curling from the station wall.
A cartoon bikini babe rode an eagle, coy wink like B17 nose art. ‘Driving is like flying, with Burd piston rings!’
A debonair guy reclined on a Riviera yacht. ‘Camel Cigarettes – Pleasure Ahoy!’
Nariko caressed the sunset with a gloved hand.
She wiped grime from wall tiles, revealed the mosaic letters of the station sign:
She crouched and examined a deep fissure at the foot of the wall. She probed split tiles, held a nugget of concrete in a gloved hand, and crumbled it to sand between her fingers. She traced the jagged crack with the beam of her flashlight, followed it up the wall and across the ceiling.
Radio crackle:
‘How’s it looking, Captain?’ Cloke’s voice echoed through the vaulted shadows, abrupt and metallic.
She fumbled for the yellow Motorola handset hanging from a belt loop.
‘Structural damage. Strong chance of subsidence.’ Her voice was muffled by the heavy respirator. ‘Give me a minute. Let me check the place out.’
She unhitched her backpack and dumped it on the bench. She pulled the Glock from a side pocket, slapped a magazine into the butt and chambered a round.
She wiped condensation fog from the Lexan visor of her mask.
She walked deep into subterranean darkness, Maglite projecting a cone of brilliant white radiance ahead of her.
An oak-panelled ticket kiosk. Smashed teller glass crackled underfoot. She leaned through the window. Scattered tokens. A cobwebbed bar-stool chair, seat leather cracked like dried mud. A brass till with ornate lever keys.
The deep recesses of the station hall. The beam of her flashlight ranged across bone-white tiles.
She checked the Glock. She fumbled the safety and adjusted her grip.
She kicked open the door, the impact of her boot gunshot-loud in the oppressive chapel-hush of the deserted station.
The door swung wide. Assault entry. A swift sweep of the room, braced to fire.
A windowless office. A desk and a couple of toppled chairs. A wooden filing cabinet with no drawers. A gramophone next to a stack of 78s sheathed in paper sleeves.
She lowered the weapon.
She checked out the desk. She stroked a finger through dust. Rotary phone, inkwell, blotter. She turned the phone dial and watched it slowly grind back to zero.
She left the office and crossed the ticket hall.
Steps sloped downward.
A brass arrow:
Nariko cautiously descended the steps. Skin-crawl blackness. The long stairway lured her further from the surface world, took her further from help. She fought claustrophobia, the sudden, gut conviction that she was climbing into her own grave.
She reached the bottom of the stairs. Dark water lapped the foot of the steps. She stood at the water’s edge and shone her flashlight into the cavernous tunnel space.
The track-trench and platform were submerged. Drifting detritus. A milky skim of rock dust. Street garbage swept down through the drains: soda bottles, chip bags, clamshell burger cartons, leaves.
The south entrance was blocked with crooked planks. The north tunnel mouth framed impenetrable darkness.
Something white in the water. Nariko trained the beam. A naked body, floating face down, hand locked round an empty whiskey bottle. Hard to tell gender. Bloated bruise-flesh marbled with livid veins.
She raised the pistol and fired a shot into the cadaver’s flank. Crack. Puff of muzzle smoke. Meat-smack as the bullet punctured inert flesh.
She watched the corpse, waited for movement. A couple of air bubbles broke water. She steadied her aim and fired a second shot. The round blew out the back of the cadaver’s cranium. The impact sent the carcass drifting in a slow and stately pirouette into deep shadow.
She unhooked her radio.
‘The place is deserted. The subway tunnel is flooded. It was a wasted journey.’
‘No sign of Ekks?’
‘No sign of anyone.’
‘We’ve got to get below ground, Captain.’
‘The emergency stairs are choked with rubble. Give me two minutes. I’ll crank up the elevator.’
12
Nariko struck a flare. It burned fierce red. She held it above her head and peered into the shifting shadows of the plant room.
She put the flare on a brick ledge, let it fizz and smoke.
She crouched next to a big traction motor bolted to the concrete floor. Dust-furred hoist gear. Murphy Elevator Company, Louisville. Cracked rubber belts and interlocking gears. A cable drum controlled counterweights in an adjacent shaft.
She unhitched her backpack. She set it on the floor, unbuckled the straps and pulled out a compact Schneider two-stroke generator. She wrenched the starter cord. The motor sputtered and whined like a lawnmower. Puff of exhaust fumes. She attached bulldog leads to corroded copper terminals and threw a web laced, wall-mounted knife switch. Pop and spark. 120 volts AC. Steady hum.