Noon. The war beneath Manhattan was starting.
"Let me quote to you from a speech given once by Don Carlo Gambione himself," said Frederico "the Butcher" Macellaio. He grimly surveyed the groups of capos and their soldiers gathered around him in the chamber. In the '30s, the huge room had been an underground repair facility for midtown transit. Before the Big War, it had been closed and sealed of when the IA. decided to consolidate all maintenance yards across the river. The Gambione Family had soon taken the space over for storage of guns and other contraband, freight transfer, and occasional burials.
The Butcher raised his voice and the words echoed. "'W'hat will make the difference for us in battle will be two things: discipline and loyalty."
Little Renaldo was standing off to one side with Frankie and Joey. "Not to mention automatic weapons and H.E.," he said, smirking.
Joey and Frankie exchanged glances. Frankie shrugged. Joey said, "God, guns, and glory."
Little Renaldo commented, "I'm bored. I wanna go shoot somethin'.
"
Joey said a little louder, so the Butcher could hear, "Hey, are we goin' to roust some rummies, or what? Who's fair game? Just the blacks? Jokers too?"
"We don't know who their allies are," said the Butcher. "We know they wouldn't act alone. There are traitors from among our own race helping them for money"
Little Renaldo's manic grin widened. "Free-fire zone," he said. "Hoo-boy." He tugged his boonie hat down snug. "Shit," said Joey, "you weren't even there."
Little Renaldo gave him a thumbs-up. "I saw that John Wane movie."
"That's the word from the Man, huh?" said Joey.
The Butcher's smile was thin and cold. "Anybody gives you problems, just waste 'em."
The groups began to move out, scouts, squads, and platoons. The men had their M-16s, pump scatterguns, a few M-60 machine guns, grenades and launchers, rockets, riot gas, sidearms, knives, and enough blocks of C-4 to handle any kind of heavy demolition.
"Hey, Joey," said Little Renaldo. "What you gonna shoot?"
Joey slapped a magazine into the AK-47. This weapon wasn't from the Gambione armory. It was his own souvenir. He touched the polished wooden stock. "Maybe a 'gator."
"Huh?"
"Don't you read any of them rags that's been talking about the giant alligators down here?"
Little Renaldo looked at him doubtfully and shivered. "The jungle-jokers are one thing. I don't want to go up against no big lizards with teeth."
It was Joey's turn to grin.
"No such things, right?" said Little Renaldo. "You're just shittin' me, right?"
Joey shot him a jaunty thumbs-up.
Jack had lost all track of time. He knew it had been a long while since he'd shunted his track maintenance vehicle off the main line onto a spur. Something was wrong. He decided to check out some of the more obscure routes. It was as though a piece of ice pressed against a spot just north of his tailbone. He'd heard trains, but they had passed at a distance. The tunnels he now traveled were seldom used except for diverted routes during high congestion, track fires, or other problems on the main line. He also heard far-off reports that sounded like gunfire.
Jack sang. He filled the darkness with zydeco, the bluesy Cajun-Black mixture he remembered from his childhood. He started with the Big Bopper's "Chantilly Lace" and Clifton Chenier's "Ay-Tete-Fee," segued into a Jimmy Newman medley and Slim Harpo's "Rainin' in My Heart." He'd just pulled the switch and slid the car onto a spur he knew he hadn't checked in at least a year, when the world blew apart in a flash of red and yellow flame. He'd had time to sing one line of "L'Haricots sons pas sales" when the darkness fragmented, the pressure waves slammed against his ears, and the car and he took different, spinning, twisting directions through the air.
All he really had time to say was, "Wha' de hail-" as he fetched up against the stone of the tunnel's far wall and crumpled to the floor. For the moment, he was stunned by concussion and flash. He blinked and realized he could see smoke swirling, and the hand-held lights that illuminated the smoke.
He heard a voice say, "Jesus Christ, Renaldo! We weren't going up against a tank."
Another voice said, "Sorta sorry to do this one. Hate to kill anybody sounded that much like Chuck Berry."
"Well," said a third, "at least he had to be a spook."
"Check it out, Renaldo. Guy probably looks like an open can of Spam, but you better find out for sure."
"Yo, Joey"
The lights came closer, bobbing in the dissipating smoke. They're gon' kill me, Jack thought, reverting to the dialect of his childhood. There was at first no emotion to the realization. Then the anger started. He let the feeling sweep over him. The anger escalated to rage. Adrenaline pricklings agonized his nerves. Jack felt the first brush of what he had used to think was the onset of loup-garou madness.
"Hey, I think I see something! Off to your left, Renaldo." The one called Renaldo approached. "Yeah, I got him. Now I'll make sure." He raised his weapon, taking aim with the light held tight along the stock.
That pushed Jack over the edge. You chill son of a bitch! Pain, welcome pain, wracked him. He… changed. His brain seemed to spin, his mind folding in on itself endlessly down into the primal reptile level. His body was elongating, thickening; his jaw thrust forward, the teeth springing up in profusion. He felt the length of perfectly toned muscles, the balance of his tail. The utter power of his body… he felt it completely.
Then he saw the prey in front of him, the menace. "Oh, my God!" Little Renaldo cried. His finger tightened on the trigger of the M-16. The first burst of tracers went wild. He never had the chance for a second.
The creature that had been Jack lunged forward, the jaws closing around Renaldo's waist, twisting and tearing at his flesh. The man's light spun, smashed, and went out.
The other men started firing wildly.
The alligator registered the cries, the screams. The smell of terror. Good. The prey was easier when it located itself. He dropped Renaldo's corpse and moved toward the lights, the bull roar of his challenge filling the tunnel.
"For the love of God, Joey! Help me!"
"Hold on. I can't see where you went!"
The corridor was narrow, the materials old and decaying. Caught between two equally tempting morsels, the alligator twisted around in the confined space. He saw flashes of light, felt a few stinging impacts, mainly in his tail. He heard the prey screaming.
"Joey, it busted my leg!"
More flashes. An explosion. Acrid smoke choked his nostrils. Irregular chunks of stone fell from the ceiling. Rotten beams splintered. Deteriorated cement collapsed. Part of the floor beneath him gave way and his twelve-foot length tumbled heavily down an incline. Smoke, dust, and solid debris rained from above.
The alligator smashed into a thin metal hatch that had never been engineered for this kind of force. The aluminum tore like ripping canvas and he toppled into an open shaft. He fell for another twenty feet before crashing into a spider's nest of wooden beams. Bits of debris followed for a little while. Then there was silence, both above and below. The alligator rested in darkness. When he tried to flex his body, nothing much happened. He was thoroughly jammed into a wooden cat's cradle. A beam was wedged securely across his snout. He couldn't even open his jaws.
He attempted to roar, but the sound came out more as a muffled growl. He blinked his eyes, seeing nothing. His strength was dwindling, shock taking its toll.
He didn't want to die here. He wished to end in the water.
Worse, the alligator didn't want to die hungry. He was starved.
Bagabond felt something she hadn't experienced for a long time, sympathy, for Rosemary Muldoon. She knew the social worker wanted to help, but how could Bagabond tell her that she didn't need help? Puzzled by that emotion, Bagabond discovered another one. She could be happy with the caring and companionship of her friends, however nonhuman they might be.