She crawled into the hallway. The linoleum floor was wet with rain blown through vacant windows.
No moonlight. Transformed vision cut through shadow and picked out detail bright as day.
She sniffed the air, tried to locate the blood-taint, track it to source.
She crawled across the hall. She reached the elevator doors. She sniffed the inch gap. Blood. Rich and strong.
She gripped the twin slide doors and shouldered them apart.
The elevator shaft. A dust-furred cable. Six-storey drop to the plank roof of the freight elevator.
She climbed to her feet and stepped into the shaft. She fell in a rigid sentry stance. She hit the wall and hit the cable. She hit the cross beam on the roof of the elevator and shattered her shoulder.
She pawed the roof, broke fingernails as she tried to pull the planks aside.
Murmur of voices.
An air vent in the wall of the shaft. A grille veiled by webs. She tugged until screws popped from concrete and the duct cover came loose.
A narrow brick conduit. Darkness. Strange music. Ghost-jazz echoed faintly from within.
25
The IRT office.
Wade found the gramophone by touch. He groped the shelf until he located the leatherette box. He carried it across the office, walked until his thighs bumped the desk. He shunted the telephone and inkpot aside, and set the phonograph down.
He returned to the shelf and fumbled a handful of 78s.
He sat at the desk. He found the lid latch, unsleeved a disk and positioned it on the felt turntable.
He found the crank handle, set the disk spinning, then dropped the arm. Big band jazz. Duke Ellington.
He sat back, lulled by the music, and rubbed useless eyes.
He scratched his goatee. Hair pulled loose in clumps.
He took the brass cylinder from his pocket. He unscrewed the cap, shook the glass ampoule into his palm, and turned it between his fingers.
Donahue unzipped a red trauma pack and searched among pill boxes, sterile-sealed hypodermics and ziplocked dressings. She upturned the bag and shook it empty. She found a strip of Vicodin. She popped capsules from the foil and dry-swallowed. Bitter taste. She threw the pills to Lupe.
‘You look washed out,’ said Lupe.
‘Good job I never wanted kids,’ said Donahue. ‘Plenty to look forward to, after this fucking trip. Thyroid cancer. Leukaemia. Quite a prospect.’
‘Well, we all got to die of something, right?’
Lupe popped a couple of tablets into her palm and swallowed. She examined the foil strip.
‘This shit expires in three years. A world without pharmaceuticals. Better brush your teeth. Dentistry is about to get seriously medieval.’
Shriek and rattle from the entrance gate.
They ran to the foot of the stairwell.
The ancient Coke machine blocking the street entrance shook with repeated blows.
‘We’re starting to draw a Super Bowl crowd,’ said Donahue. ‘Might have to thin them out.’
‘No shooting,’ said Lupe. ‘Better conserve ammo.’ She gestured to the equipment pile. ‘We’ve got plenty of gear. Let’s get to work.’
They zipped NBC suits.
A bundle of heavy rescue tools lashed with canvas straps. Lupe released buckles. Clank and clatter. She picked up a heavy metal rod, tipped with a barbed spike. She took a practice spear thrust.
‘Ventilation tool,’ explained Donahue. ‘First thing you do at an apartment fire. Send a guy on the roof to punch a hole. Acts as an artificial flue. Vents heat and smoke. Makes it easier for the hose team to get in there and work.’
‘Thought you were a noobie.’
‘New to Rescue. I’ve been riding a truck eight years.’
Donahue hefted an axe. She contemplated the chipped blade, relished the heavy wooden shaft.
‘Personally, I like to be first through the door. Look the devil in the eye. Fire is a beautiful thing. Liquid gold.’
They climbed steps to the street entrance. They hauled the Coke machine aside. Hands pawed the opaque curtain draped across the gate.
They pulled on respirators.
Donahue gave the nod.
Lupe flipped open a knife and slit plastic ties. Crackle of polythene as she tugged the heavy sheet aside.
‘Jesus Christ.’
Donahue took an instinctive step back. Emaciated arms thrust between the bars. Talons grasped and clawed inches from her mask.
Cadaverous creatures. Hotel service staff. Maids, pot washers, laundrymen. Tumours knotted through burn-blackened flesh. They jammed their faces against the rusted iron lattice. They hissed. They spat.
‘How many do you reckon?’ asked Lupe.
‘Five or six.’
‘If they hammer the gate long enough, they’ll bring it down.’
‘Let’s start with this guy.’
Donahue braced her legs and hefted the axe. She took aim at one of the arms thrust through the bars. A chef. Dark spatter on his sleeve. Either blood or bolognese.
Donahue brought down the axe. The first blow cut deep and splintered bone. The second blow sheered the limb at the elbow. Blood-spurt. A severed forearm fell at her feet. Fingers grasped and clenched.
She crouched and picked up the limb.
‘Watch yourself.’
She slotted the hand through the grate and threw it into the street.
The chef continued to butt against the gate. The stump of his arm raked the bars.
Lupe thrust the pike through the iron lattice. She speared the chef’s eye socket. He toppled backwards into the street, feet dancing as he lay in the rain.
More emaciated prowlers crowded the gate, hungry for fresh meat.
Donahue hacked grasping hands.
Lupe held the pike shoulder-high like a javelin. Each thrust burst eyeballs and dug deep into brain.
A skeletal thing with no legs. Body armour and a Kevlar helmet. Some kind of cash truck guard. It crawled on its belly, thrust an arm through the grate and snatched at Lupe’s legs with a gloved hand. Lupe stabbed downwards with the steel pike and speared the creature in the back of the neck. It squealed and frothed as she pressed down with her body weight, twisted the tip of the pike deep into its cortex.
A fat guy in chalk-stripe suit slammed against the gate. He drooled. He snarled. Donahue reached through the lattice and gripped blood-matted hair. She pulled his pudgy face up against the bars. She drove a knife into his eye socket and rotated the blade.
‘Nice suit,’ said Lupe, gesturing to the body slumped in front of the gate. ‘Look at the lapels. Fine tailoring.’
‘Yeah?’
‘And check out his wrist. Guy is wearing a Breitling.’
‘Financial district,’ said Donahue. ‘Wall Street.’
‘You’d think they would be long gone. Hamptons. Connecticut. Wherever the hell rich bastards spend the weekend. Push their antique furniture up against the door and stand guard with a polo mallet.’
‘This place used to be central to their lives, I guess. So they came back. An instinct. A faint memory. They feel compelled to return, to mill around the sushi bars and coffee shops, but they don’t know why.’
‘We’re only a couple of blocks from The Federal Reserve,’ said Lupe. ‘Picture it. Fifty tons of bullion. Stacks of it. All those bars sitting in an unguarded vault. Want to fill your pockets?’
‘Hard to think of anything more pointless.’
‘We’ve got a thermal lance. We could cut through the vault door in a couple of hours.’
‘Come on. That’s a street-trash mindset. Look beyond it.’
‘Friend of mine got his throat cut over a pair of K-Swiss.’