Adam Baker - Terminus

‘Stop,’ shouted Donahue. She raised the axe, ready to swing. ‘Both of you. Keep still, all right? Just stay where you are.’ She circled, to keep both convicts in view.

‘ Nadie se mueve , all right?’ said Lupe, hands raised in a placating gesture. ‘Relax. Let’s all just cool the hell out. We don’t want to hurt you. We don’t want to hurt anybody.’

She took a step forwards.

‘Back up,’ shouted Donahue, hefting the axe, tensed to strike. ‘Back the fuck up.’

‘Chill,’ said Lupe. ‘We all want the same thing: a route out of this shithole. No point fighting. Just put down the axe.’

‘Screw that. We throw down together, all right? Count of three. We sit tight until Nariko and the rest of the team get back.’

The convict shook his head.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said, smiling a sour, crooked smile. He stared through and beyond her.

Galloway lifted his head. Blood dripped from his shattered nose and splashed on the tiles in front of him. He looked at Donahue. His lips moved. His eyes flickered like he was trying to indicate something behind her.

Donahue turned, and caught a fist to the side of her head.

Donahue and Galloway sat with their backs to the ticket hall wall. They sat cross-legged, hands on their heads.

The side of Donahue’s face had started to swell and bruise black, pinching her left eye closed. She tongued her gums, made sure she hadn’t lost teeth.

Galloway’s nose dripped blood. He licked drips from his upper lip and spat.

Lupe stood over them. She had taken off her state-issue smock and tied the arms round her waist. She wore a white vest. Crude illustrations etched down both arms. Skulls. Devils. A snake coiled round a dripping hypodermic. The tattoos had already faded pale, like they had been in place since early childhood.

She held the shotgun. She had Donahue’s radio clipped to her waistband.

She stroked the Remington, relished the weight, the ergonomic comfort of the grip-stock.

‘Wipe your nose,’ she commanded.

Galloway looked up at her, eyes full of hate.

‘I haven’t got a tissue.’ Lupe stepped back to avoid blood-spray as he spoke.

‘Give him a tissue.’

Donahue pulled a pack of tissues from the pocket of her jacket and handed them to Galloway. He dabbed blood from his nostrils. He wiped his lip and chin.

‘So who are your friends?’ asked Donahue.

Lupe pointed to the tall convict.

‘That’s Wade.’

‘Why was he in jail?’

‘Biker stuff.’

Wade stood at the equipment boxes. He found an open carton of water by touch, uncapped a bottle and chugged it straight down. He fumbled for a fresh bottle, twisted the cap and emptied it over his head.

‘What’s up with his eyes?’ asked Donahue.

‘Damned if I know.’

Donahue gestured to a second convict. He was short and fat, with thick, black-rimmed glasses.

‘And him?’

‘Sicknote. One sandwich short of a picnic. Mother dropped him on his head, or something. He’s all right most of the time. But he has seizures. You can see it in his eyes. One minute he’s talking, making perfect sense. Next minute his face freezes and his eyes go cold. That’s when you got to steer clear.’

‘Dangerous?’

‘Don’t worry. We got him on a short leash.’

Sicknote searched through the rescue pile. He tore open boxes. He emptied bags. Trauma gear. He threw sterile dressings over his shoulder. A bag of clothes. He held up firehouse pants and jackets, checked pockets and threw them aside.

He found energy bars.

‘I got eats, brother.’

He and Wade tore foil wrappers with their teeth. They gorged like they hadn’t eaten in days.

‘Give me another.’

Sicknote unwrapped a second bar and slapped it in Wade’s hand. Wade folded it into his mouth.

‘Fuck is this crap?’

‘Forest Fruit.’

‘Give me a bunch.’

Sicknote gave him the box.

‘What about weapons? Can you see any weapons?’

Sicknote glanced over the pile.

‘Axes and hammers. Couple of folding knives. Shitload of flashlights.’

‘Guns?’

‘No.’

‘They got plenty of first aid stuff, right?’ asked Wade. ‘Pills and shit?’

‘Yeah.’

‘See what they got. Check for Valium, Vicodin, any kind of ride.’

Sicknote rattled pill boxes and bottles. He wiped grime from his glasses and squinted at labels. He mouthed words as he struggled to decipher text.

‘Hey,’ said Wade. ‘Lupe.’

‘What?’

‘So who are these dicks? What do they want?’

‘Fire department,’ explained Lupe. ‘Some kind of rescue squad. They came for Ekks.’

‘Fucker is dead.’

‘You saw him die?’ asked Donahue.

‘He was down in that tunnel when the bomb dropped. Him and the rest of his crew. Place probably caved on their heads.’

‘You can’t be sure.’

‘We’ve been camped in this shithole for days,’ said Wade. ‘Me and Sick. If those Bellevue bastards survived, they would have shown their faces by now. They went into that tunnel and they haven’t come out. No sight, no sound.’

‘So this is where you came? After we broke loose?’

‘Yeah. Decided to hide in the plant room. Last place anyone would look, right? They’d expect us to run. They wouldn’t expect us to double back to Fenwick. How about you?’

‘Got picked up by a patrol. Bastards tried to lynch my ass.’

Sicknote gagged. He bent double and convulsed. Thick vomit splattered on the floor. Half-chewed energy bar. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Someone clean that shit up,’ said Wade, turning his head from the stench. ‘I don’t want to smell that stink.’

‘Hey,’ said Lupe. ‘You. Galloway.’

Galloway shook his head.

She lowered the shotgun to his chest, nudged his breast bone with the barrel.

‘Come on. Down on your knees. Get scrubbing, fucknuts.’

‘With what?’

‘Your hands. Your shirt. Whatever. Get it done.’

Galloway laid tissues over lumps of regurgitated energy bar. He tried to scoop them up. Vomit dripped through his fingers.

Radio beep. Lupe unhooked the Motorola from her waistband. Nariko’s voice:

‘Donahue. Come in, over?’

Lupe held the radio beside Donahue’s head.

‘Say “Go ahead”.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘We’ve made contact with at least one survivor. Heading back.’

‘Sign off,’ ordered Lupe.

‘Ten-thirteen. Roger and out.’

‘Well done, girl,’ said Lupe. She patted Donahue on the shoulder. ‘Let me get some painkillers for your face, all right? Take the edge off the hurt.’

Lupe crossed to the equipment pallet. She led Wade away from the group. They stood at the foot of the entrance stairwell.

She switched on a flashlight. Wade’s face lit harsh white. She trained the beam eye-to-eye. No reaction. Dilated pupils.

‘What’s wrong with your eyes?’

‘Night blind. Been down here too long. I’ll be okay once we reach daylight.’

‘I guess,’ said Lupe, unconvinced.

‘So. Some kind of rescue team, yeah?’

‘Yeah. Three, travelling by boat. One nine milli between them.’

‘An army guy?’

‘Some kind of boffin. Institute of Infectious Diseases. He’s not a shooter. The other two are fire department EMTs.’

‘We can take them.’

‘We?’

‘Jump the fuckers soon as they get off the boat. Take them out. Do it quick, do it right.’

‘No. We rope them. Keep them compliant and intact.’

‘When did you grow a conscience?’ asked Wade.

‘They got a helicopter scheduled to pick them up in a few hours. If they go off air, the guys back at base won’t send the chopper. Think you’re going to walk home? Go tapping your way through the streets with a white stick? It’s hell out there.’