The lights flickered. They looked up at the fluted glass dome above their heads.
‘How long will the generator keep running?’ asked Lupe.
‘A gallon of gas gives us four hours’ light. A couple of refills should give us power for the duration.’
Donahue gestured towards Sicknote.
‘What’s the deal with that guy? Can we trust him?’
Sicknote crouched barefoot on the tiled floor, scratching patterns with a nugget of concrete. Fierce concentration.
Lupe shook her head.
‘Batshit crazy. He doesn’t belong in jail. He belongs in an asylum. Category J. In an honest world, if the prison system actually gave a shit, he’d be making macaroni art in the TV room of a sanatorium somewhere, drooling on psych meds. Look at him. Look at his eyes. Skull full of madness. Someone should shoot the poor bastard as a mercy.’
‘Maybe we should tie him up.’
‘Seems pretty placid right now. I’ll keep watch. We can lash him to a pillar if he starts to weird out.’
‘What was he doing at Bellevue?’
‘Ekks kept him in his Special Management Unit. Had him dosed on Haldol, Largactil, all kinds of shit. See that pink thing behind his right ear? Beneath his hair? An implant. It’s supposed to zap his brain each time he goes manic.’
‘Does it work?’
‘No.’
Lupe took a last drag on the cigarette and flicked it into shadows. The dying butt glowed like a hot coal.
Sicknote pricked blood from his thumb with a sliver of glass. He squeezed droplets, and smeared them across floor tiles. Broad strokes. He painted swirling astral bodies. He sat back once in a while, contemplated his work and composed his next addition. Orbital rings, moons and comet tails. And behind it all, the outline of a massive sun, a flaming aurora at the centre of the planetary alignment.
‘So what the hell is that supposed to be?’ asked Galloway.
‘The chasm between stars.’
‘The stars?’
Sicknote glanced around, made sure no one could overhear. He leaned close to Galloway like he was imparting a secret.
‘Did you know that atoms are basically an electrical charge? They aren’t made of anything. They are nothing. The basic building block of the universe, the primal substance, is Nothing.’ He pointed at blank tiles. ‘See? There are things, and there are spaces between things. That’s what I’m painting. The Howling Absence. The Terminal Truth. It speaks through me.’
Galloway shifted along the bench. ‘I’m not your nursemaid, all right? I’m not listening to your garbage all damn night.’
Sicknote pointed to the darkness of the platform stairwell.
‘There’s something in the tunnels. Can’t you feel it?’
‘Prowlers? The passageways are flooded. Nothing alive down there.’
‘No. There’s something else. Something blacker than black, colder than cold.’
‘Like what?’
‘This virus is smart. Probably shouldn’t call it a virus at all. People only use the term because it makes them feel better. Kid themselves they are up against a dumb germ, something they can beat with a pill. Those poor shambling folk out in the street? You think they’re the final stage? Think that’s the sum of its ambition? It wants more. A lot more. It’s going to tear down this world and build something new.’
‘You’re nuts.’
‘It knows we are here. It’s been watching since the very first moment we arrived. It’s reaching out.’
‘Keep away from me, all right? Just stay the fuck away.’
Nariko stripped to underwear. She stepped into her drysuit and zipped it to the neck.
She crouched beside her backpack. She checked cylinder pressure, adjusted valves, and shouldered the tanks.
She buckled a weight belt and pulled on gloves.
‘I can’t force you guys to come with me. If either of you want to stay behind and sit this one out, that’s cool. I’ll go on my own.’
Cloke shook his head.
‘That would be chickenshit beyond words. I’m coming with you.’
‘Yeah,’ said Tombes. ‘Fuck that. Rescue Four. The Rats. Sooner we get it done, sooner we can all get the hell out of here.’
Nariko watched Cloke and Tombes suit up. She stretched and paced, adjusted her tank harness straps and weight belt.
Her eyes were once again drawn by the cigarette sunset pasted to the wall.
Cloke stood by her side. He checked his gauntlet seals.
‘We’ll make it. We’ll be okay.’
‘Maybe.’
‘You were the first to raise your hand.’
‘It’s my job.’
‘You must have known the others would come too. Donahue. Tombes. They’d follow you anywhere.’
‘Don’t lay that crap on me. They’re adults. They made their own choice.’
‘You’re strong. You’ll be all right.’
‘This place is killing us. I can feel it. Closing round us like a fist. But I’ll be damned if I am going to go out snivelling like a bitch, you know? If I check out, I want it to mean something.’
She headed for the platform steps, helmet in one hand, flippers in the other. Cloke picked up his helmet and followed her.
Tombes turned to Donahue.
‘See you later, babe.’
‘Don’t do anything stupid, all right?’ said Donahue. ‘The Captain wants to be a hero. Screw her. No offence, but screw her. Stay safe, you hear?’
‘Back before you know it.’
He crossed himself, then he headed for the stairs.
Donahue sat in the office. She pulled up a chair.
Maps and subway schematics scattered on the table.
She shuffled papers. She picked up a five borough pocket atlas and contemplated the cover. Easy-Read, Large Scale. The Midtown skyline lit by the summer sun. Brooklyn Bridge and, beyond it, the ethereal spire of the Empire State. Life before the pandemic. Life before the bomb. A lost paradise.
She pushed the maps aside, clamped headphones and powered up the radio.
‘Rescue team to Ridgeway. Come in, Ridgeway.’
No response.
‘Rescue party to Ridgeway, over. Come in.’
No response.
She dropped the mike and rubbed tired eyes.
‘Get your shit together, guys,’ she murmured. ‘You’re supposed to man the damned radio.’
She picked up the antiquated mike. She adjusted frequency.
‘Ridgeway, can you hear me? Rescue team calling Ridgeway, where the hell are you, over.’
She sat back and listened to electromagnetic interference. The hiss of empty wavebands rose and fell like a desolate night wind.
She closed her eyes and pictured the raging surface of the sun: vast solar flame-licks ejecting coronal mass into the void.
She turned up the volume and listened to the crackle of stellar tides washing across the ionosphere: song of an indifferent universe.
24
The Federal Building. Six floors of derelict office space. Windows shattered as the atomic firestorm ripped through decades of cobwebbed silence in a moment of concussive violence.
A nurse lay slumped in a stationery cupboard among scattered index cards and manila envelopes, as if animal instinct compelled her to find a secluded niche, a womb-like space to curl and die. Her name badge said NGUYEN. Her uniform was streaked with blood and soot. Grotesque metallic sarcomas burst through fabric. She sprawled like a puppet waiting for someone to pull strings.
The nurse shocked awake. Jet black eyes stared into darkness. The air was tainted with the ferric scent of blood. New flesh, somewhere within the building.