“Then. .” Cal realized he didn’t have a then. Saying no more, he slid into the opening.
It’s like climbing into a grave. Cal pushed the thought away. He focused on the task at hand, gripping the metal rungs set in the concrete wall of the shaft, lowering himself-how far? He couldn’t see clearly below, couldn’t gauge the depth. As far as it took. That was all the answer he had, for any of this.
The metal and concrete and air about him were sharp with chill, but he felt flushed nonetheless, the wound on his scalp screeching, his head an overinflated balloon. Everything had a muzzy edge of unreality to it. Glancing up, he saw the world above was now no more than a distant square of blue surrounded by blackness. Rung by rung, arms straining, he moved stiffly, as though needing lubrication. Oil can, he thought sardonically. Oil can what?
He felt a subtle shift in the flow of air around him and abruptly his feet found support. He released the last rung and stood, gaining his balance. His eyes had adjusted to the gloom, and the light from above cast a pallid radiance.
He was in a subway tunnel, was standing, in fact, on the track itself, which snaked away into the darkness. Another time, this would have been cause for alarm, but there was no roar of an approaching train, nothing save a hushed ocean-like murmur that was a sound and not a sound. His fingertips brushed the wall and found no vibration in the stone, no rumble of distant engine and cars. A dead place. . at least as far as the machines were concerned.
As all the world seemed to be dead.
He leaned against the wall and considered his options. How many hundreds, thousands of miles of tunnel serpentined under the streets? I’m looking for a crazy man, Cal thought. Does that make me crazy?
Cal shrugged out of his backpack and unzipped it. His probing hand found the cool glass and metal of the Coleman lantern. He withdrew it, closed up the pack and replaced it, then dug in his jeans pocket for the lighter.
Suddenly, his ears pricked at a strange flitting sound, here and there about him, like an immense, unseen hummingbird. He spun, trying to detect the source.
And then he spied it, in an arched recess against the tunnel wall, twenty feet off. There, seeming to hover in the blackness, was the glowing face of a pale boy, eyes liquid blue, regarding him with wary surprise.
Cal saw him just for a twinkling, then the boy darted back into the darkness, face wild with fear.
“Wait!” Cal ran a few strides after him, lantern banging in his hand. The sound of his voice rebounded off the walls, frighteningly loud, his footfalls staccato accompaniment. But there was no sound of the boy running at all, just that odd thrumming tone, higher now, climbing in pitch, then cutting out to silence.
Cal reached the archway, saw that it was an opening between inbound and outbound tunnels. He dropped onto the other side, eyes straining the darkness, alert for any sound. But there was nothing.
The boy, or whatever it had been, was gone.
Cal lit the lantern, watched its light spread slowly along the trackbed. Ahead of him, vast and still, lay a subway train, like a row of steel coffins. He moved cautiously along it, raising the lantern high to illumine the interior of the cars, the untenanted seats and straps, the ads for skin treatments and personal injury lawyers. “You may have been the victim of an injustice,” one proclaimed. “Have you suffered a recent calamity?”
In the darkness, a pebble thwanged off a metal rail, sending up an echoing reverberation. Cal snapped to wariness. The boy? No. Something else. Listening intently, not breathing, he could make out a soft padding of many feet. Voices too, whispery, guttural. He had a sudden flash of the clump of shadowy figures he’d seen the other night on the street, moving in that queer, flowing rhythm. They had sounded like that. It had made his skin crawl; he’d felt an immediate, unaccountable revulsion.
The sound of their steps was growing louder, coming his way. And with their approach, their voices grew into a din of expectation, excitement. . hunger.
Cal felt a stab of terror. They know I’m here.
He took to his heels, knowing he should extinguish the lantern but unable to bear being alone in the dark with these pursuers.
His flight spurred them, and they broke into a clamorous run behind him, shouting with frenzy and delight. Cal rounded a bend, could hear them closing. His free hand shot to the buck knife in its sheath. He pulled it free in a wild arc, heart hammering, the blood loud in his ears.
And then his foot caught on something, a wire strung taut. Abruptly, he was flying, tumbling headlong. He landed hard, breath knocked out of him, lantern and knife skittering away. He floundered wildly, fighting to rise, and something heavy fell on him from above. A net; it was a weighted net. Snared, he cried out in fear and rage, tore at the ropes. It held fast.
His pursuers slowed, watching. The lantern lay on its side some yards off, miraculously unbroken, illuminating a grotesque tableau.
They were perhaps fifteen in number, grunting among themselves, chuckling malignly as they drew near. There was something loathsome and furtive in the way they moved. In their too-big clothing, they looked like some demented, stunted street gang, pale as grubs, eyes milky white with slitted pupils.
Cal’s eyes darted to his knife, impossibly out of reach. A bare hairy foot came down on the handle. Cal lifted his gaze to the figure, took in the baggy jeans, scuffed bomber jacket, ragged “I Love NY” T-shirt. With a thrill of surprise, Cal realized he knew this one.
It was Rory.
“I seen you.” Rory’s lips curled nastily, revealing stained icepick teeth. “You were with my chick.”
Rory scooped up the knife. As he advanced on Cal, the others followed, pressing close. Cal struggled futilely against the net. They reached toward him with hideous malformed fingers, as Rory swung the knife high and back. .
Suddenly, from the far end of the tunnel came a flashing of lights and booming sounds, like myriad skyrockets going off. The creatures gaped, shielding their eyes. Astonished, Cal craned his neck to see through the netting.
A figure was approaching, fireballs of light shooting out of his hands and bouncing off the walls.
“BEGONE!” The voice was huge and commanding, God on the mountaintop-and a vengeful God, to boot. Terrified, blinded, the little brutes skittered down the tunnel into the darkness, their screams floating in the air and then evaporating.
The fireballs ceased. The figure reached Cal, bent down to him.
“Well. Hello, Cal.”
It was Goldie.
He looked the same as ever, with his cascade of hair, electric clothing, cacophony of buttons pinned to his padded vest. Through his amazement, one of them caught Cal’s eye: REALITY’S A BITCH.
“How-” Cal was gasping, breathless. “How did you-?”
Goldie wiggled his fingers. “That? Little something I just picked up. Doesn’t do jack, but it scares the hell out of them.”
Cal tried to speak, but he was overwhelmed.
“I can see you’re a little freaked. Lemme help you.” Rory had dropped Cal’s knife in his flight, and now Goldie grabbed it up, started to cut away the net.
Cal felt sheepish, ashamed. “I walked right into their trap.”
“Hm?” The net fell away, and Goldie helped Cal to his feet. “Oh no, this is mine.” He grinned and handed him back his knife. “I’m very particular who comes to my place.”
Sergeant Rodriguez hated this part.
He and the rest of his boys stood flanking the back of the wagon, the crowd around it like hungry locusts. His squad had been doling out the emergency rations for the better part of two hours here at Columbus Circle, handing out cans of evaporated milk, Spam and jerky and instant pudding, whatever the hell the government had gotten a lock on.