There were two stairwells about ten feet apart. Smith pressed his back against one and waved Howell to the other. He peered around.
“This one’s clear. Yours?”
“Clear,” Smith said. He ran up the stairs, meeting Howell on the first landing where the two stairs met. They repeated the maneuver and kept going up. Smith made it to the next landing. He caught sight of one of the attackers, who lobbed something at him. Smith dodged and it flew past him, rolling on the ground and then tumbling down the stairs.
“That sounded like a grenade,” Howell said.
“They wouldn’t risk it. It would destroy the third rail. They need it to spread the virus.”
“Then it’s filled with something other than explosives, because I’ve heard grenades being thrown and that was one.”
Smith listened to the attackers’ footfalls as they ran away.
“Strike that. They’re taking off, it must be a…” Before Smith could finish, he heard a small pop and then a fizzing noise. With it came an overpowering smell of garlic. “Gas. Hold your breath and run like hell,” he said.
Smith turned another corner and stared down a long tunnel. The attackers were already at the far end. The first group pounded up the short stairwell and disappeared into the night. Smith sprinted down the tunnel. He pulled the mask back over his face completely as he did. It had no more oxygen, but covering his face with the rubber was better than nothing. Howell was next to him. Graffiti images and drawings flashed in his peripheral vision. The tunnel felt endless. He felt his lungs start to burn from holding his breath, but he knew better than to inhale. After a moment he noticed that Howell had fallen farther behind. He backtracked to grab him, wrapping his arm around the man’s bicep and dragging him forward. Howell had the plastic bag over his head. They reached the stairs and Smith pushed Howell ahead of him. While the oxygen mask was out of air, it still contained a filter, so Smith thought he would be spared the worst effects. Howell’s makeshift mask would be far less effective. Cotton was useless against gas and while the plastic would help, the best antidote would be to get out of the subway and get clean.
Smith couldn’t hold his breath much longer.
He ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He reached the top and stumbled into a man standing at attention with a gun pointed at his head.
“Bloody hell,” Howell said.
A quick glance told Smith all he needed to know. Sheets of sweat ran down the man’s face and the gun wobbled a bit. Nevertheless, Smith stayed still, not wanting to provoke him into firing. A temporary canvas screen surrounded them, blocking the subway entrance and creating a ten-foot-wide area. A makeshift work light clipped to a pole threw a harsh white glare in the small space. The light’s cord snaked into the back of a panel truck and Smith could hear a generator humming. At their feet was a large hose that had one end attached to a fire hydrant and the rest fed into a subway grate. Next to the hydrant lay two men, both dead. Then the man with the gun collapsed.
“The hydrant. Fast,” Smith said.
“Ricin?” Howell said. He pulled the plastic bag off his head.
“Mustard gas. Smelled like garlic, which is a marker. Mustard gas is heavier than oxygen, so it sank. Running upstairs to higher ground helped, but we need to get this hose out of the grate and ready to use, fast. We need to wash it off.” He shoved his own pistol into his waistband and pulled on the hose, retracting it from the subway grate. Howell worked next to him. The hose was heavy but the water wasn’t on, making it easier to remove. When the end appeared, Smith dropped it next to the body of the collapsed man and reached for a two-foot-long heavy-duty wrench that was still attached to the nut on the hydrant. It wasn’t until then that he noticed that the hose connection to the hydrant was not complete. The men must have been in the process of disconnecting it when they took ill.
“Slow,” Howell said. “There may be a lot of force.”
“We can’t afford slow,” Smith said. “Step back.” He hauled on the wrench and was rewarded by the sound of gushing water. He jogged backward, watching the hydrant. Within seconds the force of the water unseated the hose and water exploded into the air. Smith stepped into the stream and shivered as the water washed over him. He fought to keep standing while being pummeled by the open hydrant. Howell stood next to him, with his face up to allow the water to rinse it. He started to tear his clothes off and Smith followed suit. The stream hit the canvas screen and drenched it. The aluminum frame rattled from the force of the pummeling water, but the supports’ feet were held down with sandbags and the screen stayed upright. Too late Smith remembered the pistol in his waistband. He placed it out of the main stream of water before stripping off his pants, but it was probably soaked already. So be it, he thought. Better than having two-thirds of his body blistered with third-degree burns from mustard gas exposure. He stood naked in the shower of water and shivered at the cold of it. He stepped past the screen and spotted a pharmacy, closed at the early hour, across the street.
“Wait here,” he told Howell.
He reached down and ripped the clothes off the collapsed terrorist, putting the pants on as quickly as he could. They weren’t his size but Smith didn’t care. He removed the wrench from the hydrant and ran across the street, dodging a lone car that drove past.
The pharmacy was a small independent, with minimal square footage and inventory. The partial glass door was recessed between two glass storefront displays. Smith stepped into the recessed area and swung the wrench at the side of the glass display. The pane shattered and an alarm went off. Smith hit it again, knocked out a section large enough for him to fit, and angled through into the store.
It was his third visit for first aid in less than twenty-four hours and he had the fleeting thought that he hoped it was to be his last. His clothes dripped and the floor was cold under his bare feet. He snatched at a plastic bin and carried it with him, heading to the baby section and tossing three big bottles of baby shampoo into the carrier. He found the contact lens supplies and snatched two bottles of saline off the shelf and headed to the pharmacy area. He located the Betadine and tossed in four bottles. He worked his way back to the front door, crawled through the glass and ran back to Howell, who was still standing in the water. He shoved a bottle of baby shampoo at him.
“Mustard gas has lipid qualities. This will dissolve some of it.”
“Excellent,” Howell said. “I put the clothes in the plastic bag and tied it. That should help contain the off-gassing of the vapor.”
Smith nodded. He pulled his clothes off again, uncapped a bottle of baby shampoo and poured it over his head, arms, chest, and legs. He scrubbed his skin, letting the soap run down his body. Howell was busy flushing his eyes with the saline.
“Here.” He handed Smith the bottle. “Don’t delay.”
“Use the baby shampoo in your eyes as well,” Smith said. He flushed his, though he thought that perhaps the mask had spared him his eyes. His major exposure would be to his body, because clothes wouldn’t be any protection against it.
Howell picked up the Betadine. “Why this?”
“It’s been shown to help. It’s the same thing that we used to wash our hands in the ER, so it makes sense. Can’t hurt. Done?” Smith indicated the water spray. Howell nodded.
Smith went to the hydrant and shut it off. He grabbed the Betadine and started to smear it over his skin. Howell did the same. They worked in silence. Smith’s mind raced with clinical observations; that they’d gotten their skin rinsed within one minute of exposure, washed in three, and flushed their eyes within five. One minute was good. Five, not so much.
“How long do we have to wait before the symptoms appear?” Howell said.