Adam Baker - Terminus

‘How far have we travelled?’ asked Tombes.

‘About a quarter of a mile, at a guess,’ said Cloke.

‘Hello?’ shouted Nariko. Her voice echoed down the dark passageway and died slowly. ‘Hello? Anyone hear me? Anyone out there?’

No reply.

Tombes cleared his throat and cupped his hands.

‘Hey,’ he bellowed. ‘Hey. Anyone. Sound off.’

Silence.

‘The roof is getting low.’

‘Ten minute cut-off,’ said Nariko. ‘Ten minutes, then we turn back.’

‘We should keep going,’ said Cloke. ‘That soldier was guarding Ekks and his boys. Part of the team. His body drifted south on the current until he snagged on something beneath the water. Proves the rest of the Bellevue Team must still be up ahead.’

‘Probably dead.’

‘Doesn’t change a thing.’

She pointed to the G-Shock strapped round the wrist of her gauntlet.

‘Ten minutes. Then we’re done.’

They paddled further down the brick tunnel.

An arched passageway to their left. The entrance was blocked by prop-beams and planks. An old work notice nailed to the wood:

Nariko trained her flashlight on the tunnel entrance. The beam shafted through crooked planks. Absolute darkness beyond.

‘You didn’t say anything about a junction,’ said Tombes. ‘You said it would be a straight run.’

‘It isn’t on the map,’ said Nariko. ‘It shouldn’t be here.’

‘There are bound to be uncharted passageways,’ said Cloke. ‘The city has been overbuilt so many times no one knows exactly what’s beneath the surface. Records were lost when City Hall burned to the ground in the nineteenth century.’ He looked around at crumbling brickwork. ‘There are hundreds of miles of subway tunnel, a warren of speakeasy cellars and opium hideouts, sewer channels dating back beyond the revolution. A vast subterranean realm. No wonder homeless guys took refuge down here. They could siphon water from the pipes, splice power cables. Create their own world.’

‘Place gives me the damned creeps,’ said Tombes. Involuntary shiver.

‘Ionised air,’ said Cloke. ‘Moving water. Prickles your skin like a static charge.’

They kept rowing. Nariko’s flashlight lit nothing but crumbling brickwork and rafts of floating garbage.

‘We must be approaching Canal,’ said Cloke. ‘Doesn’t make sense. Why would they travel this far north?’

‘Something up ahead,’ said Nariko. ‘Some kind of obstruction.’

The tunnel choked by a wall of debris. The flashlight lit tumbled cinder blocks, deformed girders, massive slabs of reinforced concrete bristling rebar. A BROADWAY street sign protruded from the rubble.

Nariko leaned from the boat. She lashed the tether to the Broadway sign.

She shone her flashlight over the jumbled blocks. Marble. Travertine. Polished granite.

‘Guess a building collapsed. Compacted the tunnel.’

She leaned over the side of the boat and shone her flashlight into the depths. The beam shafted through black water.

‘Something yellow down there. Something big. A school bus? A Ryder?’

Tombes surveyed the rockfall.

‘We’ve got a few demo charges,’ he said. ‘Nowhere near enough to shift this masonry. Maybe we ought to head overground to Canal.’

Nariko shook her head.

‘Forget it. Heavy rads. Street fires. Buildings collapsing left and right. Down here, we have a chance. Up top, we’d get ripped apart.’

She unhooked the Motorola and fumbled with gloved fingers. She retuned and held up the handset until she got signal bars. Hiss of static. A faint, rhythmic tocking sound.

‘Hear that? Their radio is still live, still transmitting, beyond that wall of rubble.’

‘Doesn’t mean a whole lot,’ said Tombes. ‘Might be a dead man with his hand resting on Transmit.’

‘Hold on,’ said Nariko. She mimed hush. ‘Listen.’

A young man’s voice whispering through waves of static. She held the radio to her ear and strained to make out words.

‘… Help us. If anyone can hear this transmission, please, send help… ’

She upped the volume and switched the speaker to vox. The ghost-voice echoed from the tunnel walls.

‘… Can anyone hear me? Is anyone out there? Can anyone hear my voice?… ’

‘Jesus,’ murmured Cloke. ‘They made it. The Bellevue guys. Some of them are still alive.’

‘Who is this?’ asked Nariko, addressing the radio. ‘What’s your name?’

‘ I don’t know. ’

‘Get a grip, kid. Come on. Get it together.’

‘ Ivanek. Casper Ivanek. ’

‘What’s the situation? Where are you?’

‘ I’m not sure. ’

‘Describe what you see.’

‘ It’s dark. It’s cold. ’

‘Is anyone with you? The Bellevue team? Is anyone else left alive?’

The voice faded to a whisper.

‘I’m alone. They were here, with me. But now they are gone.’

‘All right. Sit tight. This is Rescue Four. We’re coming for you, kid. We’re coming for you.’

Galloway stood in the plant room doorway, hands on his head, shotgun barrel jammed against the back of his neck. Blood dripped from his shattered nose.

Donahue snatched a heavy crash axe from the equipment pile.

‘Who’s back there? How many guys?’

‘Keep your fucking mouth shut.’

‘How’s it going, Wade?’ shouted Lupe.

‘You all right, babe?’ said the voice.

‘Yeah. I’m good.’

Donahue fumbled at her belt for her radio. The clip hung loose. She had left the radio in the office.

She adjusted her grip on the axe shaft, shifted foot to foot, tried to figure her next move.

‘Walk.’ Another barrel-prod to the back of Galloway’s head.

Galloway stumbled to the centre of the ticket hall.

A man stood behind him. A tall guy. He had a bandana tied round his forehead. A blonde mullet and goatee. He wore the same red state-issue as Lupe. NY CORRECTIONS streaked with dust and dirt. His right hand kept the shotgun pressed to the back of Galloway’s head. His left hand gripped Galloway’s collar, steering him forwards, keeping him upright.

‘Stop,’ he ordered. ‘Stand there. Don’t move.’

Galloway came to a halt. He was white with shock. He started to tremble.

The convict stood in a half crouch, using Galloway’s body for cover.

‘Drop the axe, girl,’ said Lupe. ‘Scissors beats paper. He’s packing a shotgun.’

Donahue shifted left. The convict reacted to the crunch of her boot falls. He pulled Galloway to the right, keeping cover. They circled.

‘Seriously. Better drop the axe.’

Donahue readjusted her grip on the shaft. White knuckles.

The convict nudged Galloway forwards.

‘Kneel.’

Galloway slowly sank to his knees.

‘Please. Don’t. Don’t shoot.’

The convict kicked him in the back. Galloway sprawled face down. The gun barrel pressed to the nape of his neck. He stared at the floor, wide-eyed, like dust and chequered tiles were the last thing he would ever see.

The convict crouched. He fumbled at Galloway’s belt. He slapped and groped the leather. He unclipped the key fob.

‘Where are you, babe?’ He shouted like he was trapped at the bottom of a deep well calling upwards to distant daylight.

‘Here, you dumb fuck,’ said Lupe. ‘What the hell is the matter with you?’

The convict threw the keys towards the sound of her voice. They skittered across floor tiles. Lupe snagged them with her foot. She released her hands. She reached down and unshackled her ankles. She got to her feet.