A cold, white hell. Rubble and wreckage furred with ice.
He pushed a hand through the bars. Snowflakes settled on his palm. He watched them liquefy. A lethal beauty. Exquisite feathered crystals tainted with fallout.
Lupe watched him from the foot of the stairwell.
‘Where will you go?’
He shrugged.
‘I’ll take a walk up Fifth. See how far I get. What do you think the Empire State looks like right now? New York in ruins. You got to be curious. It must be a hell of a sight.’
He took the cuff key from his pocket. He unlocked the gate. He hauled back the lattice. Harsh rust-shriek. He stood in the entrance archway, polished the remaining lens of his spectacles on the sleeve of his fire coat, then looked around.
Spectral silence.
Cotton candy flakes settled on rubble and broken bodies. He shone his flashlight upwards. A vertiginous plane of scorched brick and fire ladders stretching high into the night.
He shivered and turned up his collar.
‘Wait,’ called Lupe. ‘Hold on.’
Sicknote turned around.
‘Don’t go out there.’
He stared at her.
She held out her hand.
‘Come down here. I’ll look after you.’
Sicknote hesitated.
‘Please. Come on down.’
He pulled the gate closed and descended the steps to the ticket hall.
‘There’s been too much death,’ said Lupe. ‘Someone’s got to survive this shitstorm. For my sake. Stay.’
55
Tombes carried a chair from the office to the plant room. He swung it over his head and smashed it on the concrete floor. He jammed wood into the rusted fire bucket. Scrunched paper for kindling. He snapped open his Zippo and sparked a fire.
They stood round the bucket and warmed their hands.
‘We better shut off the generator,’ said Tombes. ‘No spare kerosene. If we let the tank run dry, we won’t be able to operate the elevator. We’ve got plenty of flashlights and flares. We’ll still have light.’
Lupe shook open a backpack. She emptied the contents on the floor. Cloke’s personal stuff. Rolled clothes and a bag of toiletries.
She packed a respirator. She packed NBC gauntlets and a reel of seal tape.
She held up a radiation suit and checked it front and back.
‘What you doing?’ asked Donahue.
‘Bailout bag. Look around you. The building is falling apart. Sooner or later we’ll have to hit the streets.’
Lupe climbed the steps to the entrance gate. She set the bag on the floor alongside a rolled NBC suit. Quick inventory: gloves, overboots, sealer tape. She twisted a fresh filter into her respirator. She propped an axe against the wall.
‘You shouldn’t be out here alone.’
Tombes climbed the steps and joined her. He dumped a backpack and NBC suit on the floor.
‘Makes a lot of sense,’ he said, gesturing to the backs. ‘A fallback plan. That’s army thinking. Someone should have sent your ass to West Point.’
‘This isn’t a fallback plan. I’m leaving soon as dawn breaks. End of story.’
He watched Lupe kneel and tuck a big lock-knife into the side pocket of the backpack alongside a couple of energy bars and a pair of socks.
‘Got a canteen?’
‘No point,’ said Lupe. ‘Temperature at street level is sub zero. No point carrying a brick of ice around. Might as well weigh down my pack with cinder blocks.’
‘What the hell were you doing in jail, girl? You’re smart. You could have been somebody.’
‘I am somebody.’
Lupe straightened up.
‘I’m not going back to Ridgeway, that’s for sure. I’m going to cross the river and get beyond the city.’
‘Brooklyn. The streets will be blocked. And there will be plenty of infected running around. Way more than Manhattan.’
‘I’ll use elevated train track. I’ll walk right over their heads. Travel light. Keep moving. That’s the trick. Don’t let the bastards mass and box you in.’
‘Got a street map?’
‘I don’t need one.’
‘Where will you go? After the city.’
‘North. Far as I can. Avoid towns and cities. Avoid highways. Travel across open country. See if I can reach Canada before winter kicks in for real. Food won’t be a problem. Plenty of pets and livestock running loose. Build a fire every night. Spit some meat.’
They listened to the rising night-wind. The polythene curtain billowed and crackled.
‘The night is turning mean,’ said Tombes. ‘I’d hate to travel in this weather.’
‘Might work in my favour. Colder it gets, slower those fuckers move. Easy to outrun. And cold deadens smell. A person could walk right past them.’
‘You really want to step out there?’
‘Sick of waiting. I’ll leave at first light.’
‘What are you going to do when you reach the river? Build a raft? Strong currents. Stronger than you think. The strait bumping gloves with water from Long Island Sound. The tides can be pretty nasty. Time it wrong, you could be swept out to sea.’
Lupe held up her Motorola. ‘I’ll take a radio. Give updates as I move street-to-street. If I run into trouble, you guys will know to take a different route.’
An unearthly sobbing scream echoed from the hall. The sound built slow, peaked, then died away.
‘Mother of God.’
They looked down the stairwell to the shadows of the station.
A second juddering howl.
‘What the fuck was that?’
Lupe picked up her axe. Tombes unsheathed a knife. They crept down the steps to the hall. They scanned shadows with their flashlights. Scorched dereliction.
‘See anything?’ asked Tombes.
‘If I did, I’d tell you.’
A low, whimpering moan. The sound came from directly above their heads.
They trained their flashlights upwards, examined the dust-furred louvred slat of an air-con vent.
‘Must be Galloway. Fucker is in the pipes, trying to spook us out.’
‘No,’ said Lupe. ‘That’s not Galloway. Listen.’
A faint, keening whine.
‘Cloke. My God, that’s Cloke’s voice. Mother Mary, he’s alive.’
56
Cloke died, time and again.
His chest was ripped open, his body bled dry. His empty heart had fluttered to a standstill. Yet some kind of fusion was taking place. He was melding with Galloway. Their cardiovascular systems were knitted together. Veins and capillaries entwined. Fresh blood filled Cloke’s flaccid heart and set it pumping. He jerked back to consciousness.
‘Please, I just want it to stop.’
He reached out and scrabbled at the crumbling brickwork, hoping to find a shard he could drive through his eye into his brain.
He gnawed his wrist. He ground his teeth, tried to break skin and tear open an artery. His jaws, his will, were too weak.
He lay on his back. He convulsed as Galloway burrowed beneath his ribs. He lifted his head and slammed it down, tried to knock himself insensible.
‘Stop. Please. Just stop.’
The bodies lay conjoined in the tunnel shadows as Galloway pushed deep into Cloke’s chest cavity.
‘Get out,’ whispered Cloke. He fought to regain control of his hands as they began to clench and unclench under alien volition. ‘Get the hell out of my mind.’
Galloway shouldered his way into the man’s thorax. Ribs peeled back and snapped like twigs. He buried his face deep in gelatinous viscera, opened his mouth wide and inhaled blood and lymph.