The debris started at the first intersection after the tunnel and stretched on as far as they could see. Slowly they walked up to it trying to understand its magnitude. They stood there; Wentworth lit a cigarette, Raxx put down his rucksack and started making trial attempts at climbing the pile, seeing if it was possible. The dust spiralled up with the wind while dead leaves and garbage blew about in corners.
Finally Raxx gave up. “I don’t know how we’re going to get past this. We could climb it, but it’d be slow going all the way. Dangerous, too.”
Wentworth had been looking about him while Raxx spoke. “I’ve got an idea. Let’s go see if the subway system hasn’t collapsed.” He indicated a stairwell going down into the earth.
They walked down the stairs. The bottom was filled with debris and a set of glass doors, spider-webbed into small granules but still in the frames. Wentworth used his rifle to beat on one of them; the safety glass resisted with a rubbery consistency, but after his third strike it broke and sprayed pellets into the interior. For a second he felt like a vandal before shaking it off.
A cool wind was blowing out through the empty frame; it carried the hint of mildew. Somewhere in the distance water was dripping. They foyer they’d stepped into opened up into a labyrinth of turnstiles, stairwells, and confectionary stands. There were newspaper kiosks but their contents were long decayed. There’d been people in here when the bomb went off, but the blast hadn’t hit them directly; they’d been allowed to decay. Their fragmented skeletons and tattered clothing didn’t look real.
The two men turned on his flashlights and started exploring.
The subway was convoluted, three dimensional, and counter instinctive. For half an hour they wandered its upper level, investigating the stands, maintenance hallways, all of its nooks and crannies. They discovered things which were technically useful, but generally worthless: brushes, mops, old currency, and magazines; they picked them up, looked them over, then left them. The only exception was some news magazines, brittle but still readable, that Wentworth pocketed. Occasionally they’d see something — a missing fire extinguisher, a knocked over garbage can — that suggested that others had been through here before, but if so it had been a long time ago. The dust was heavy on the floor, and Wentworth was uncomfortable with the prints they were leaving.
Eventually they made it down to the lower levels. The tunnels were still intact. A soft, keening wail filled the air. Their electric light gazed endlessly into the darkness. They were several stories below the surface now, in the city’s calcified bowels.
They hopped down to the tracks and started walking.
One by one they reached the different stations. Many were blocked, but some were still passable. One exited at a street-level intersection, blocked by rubble on all four sides. In it they found an overturned delivery truck carrying water filters, a few of which they stored in Wentworth’s duffle. Another opened up into the City Hall plaza. They walked through the paved area, examining the statues and monuments. The streets surrounding it were a mess of broken down vehicles and collapsed buildings. They walked towards City Hall itself. It was built of glass and steel, and somehow the glass had survived the years, dirty though it was. Looking in they saw the silhouettes of people outlined in black against the walls. A shudder went down Wentworth’s spine as he realized they were the shadows of those who’d been standing there when the bomb hit, burnt into the walls with radiation. They left the building and kept exploring.
The last exit they checked took both of their shoulders to lever open. They stepped through the doors, and climbed up the rubble covering the steps. When they reached the street level there was nowhere to go, only a small area where walking was possible. Something caught Wentworth’s eye. High up, on an uncollapsed building, were the blue and yellow colours of a faded billboard. It depicted three bright faces above a corporate logo; a dark haired woman, reposing in a bath; an old man smiling happily; a child laughing. Had anyone believed it back then, he wondered?
By this time evening had arrived a slight drizzle had started up. They decided to retreat back to the shelter of the subway tunnels. They got a fire going and Wentworth shot a rat. They debated whether or not to eat it at first because it was albino and hairless, but the Datapad picked up no traces of radiation so they agreed to cut out the fatty bits where poisons would have accumulated and cook up the rest. Wentworth watched the spit, while flipping through one of his news magazines. Raxx, meanwhile, practised dry-firing his new shotgun. He already had the drills memorized; he was now balancing a coin on the front sight while trying to pull the trigger gently enough not to upset it.
The afternoon had been exhausting. Aside from the water filters, they’d come across nothing of value. Even the magazines Wentworth had picked up were short sighted and deluded; there was little insight to be garnered. Just a deep sense of irony.
It really was a graveyard. What was left was no more useful than the dates written on tombstones; without a context, it was meaningless.
The rat seemed to be finished so Wentworth gave a shout to Raxx. The meat was tough but nourishing. He’d flavoured it with some spices they’d brought with them, and it was better than any rations. A pigeon might have been tastier, but their weapons were too high calibre for the tiny birds, and besides, it was raining outside. They ate in silence, sitting in a tiny alcove along the subway track, while the flames flickered in time to the wind currents flowing down the tunnel. Their dark and greasy surroundings only emphasized their gloomy feelings.
Raxx spoke after chewing the meat off his last bone and throwing it in the fire. “It makes you wonder, what’s the point? I mean, here we are in the city and it’s never gonna be what it was. Everything’s broken and the people who could’ve fixed it are long dead. So why do we bother?”
Wentworth pulled a flask out of his pocket and handed it over to him. “You’re thinking about Blackstock, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, that and my uncle,” he said, taking a swig.
Wentworth accepted the flask back and took a swig of his own. “These conversations always go better with a bit of alcohol lubricating things,” he said, lighting a cigarette. The distant rain shower was just barely audible while closer at hand there was the echo of water dripping somewhere in the tunnel. “Part of the reason you’re asking me is because you know, with my history, that I can’t say ‘your family,’ or some other bullshit—‘your community,’ ‘your girlfriend,’ ‘your little malformed child,’ or whatever.”
“I figure you’ll give me an honest answer. Saying any of that stuff, well, that’s just avoiding the question. Family and community can only matter if something else matters.”
Wentworth grunted out a laugh. “Yeah, those answers are philosophical suicide. Well… I don’t know Raxx. I wonder about that sometimes, why I’m still wandering around like some derelict. I don’t really know. But… maybe this is bullshit… or maybe not, but I think it’s more interesting being alive than dead — and dead’ll come soon enough, anyway, I figure. Besides, I figure I ought to do something about the shitheads of this world. If I can. Sometimes I can. Maybe…”
He lapsed into silence and took another swig from the flask.
“At least the whiskey here is good.”