Adam Baker - Terminus

Wade nodded.

‘You’re exhibiting the typical symptoms of acute radiation poisoning. The prodromal stage lasts a couple of days. Nausea and vomiting. Dry throat, hacking cough. Burns, blisters. Random neurological effects, like blindness. Then there is a latent phase, the illusion of recovery. The initial symptoms abate for a while, but remission doesn’t last long. Day or two at the most. You’ll go downhill fast. It’ll be bad. Brain swelling. Congested lungs, internal bleeding. You may shit your guts out, literally excrete your own stomach lining. That’s the reality of the situation. So if you’ve got any thoughts about hijacking the chopper and heading south to the Caribbean, put them from your mind. You’d never make it.’

‘Can we beat this thing? Me and Sicknote? Do we have a chance?’

‘The dose you took? No. Nobody has received that kind of exposure and lived. You’re going to die. You should be dead already.’

‘Take us back to Ridgeway. Send for the chopper.’

‘If the world were still intact, if there were hospitals and surgeons, then we might have options. We could put up an oxygen tent, isolate you from infection. We could transfuse blood, maybe find a marrow donor. But we don’t have much equipment back at base. A few bandages. A few antibiotics. Enough to fix a broken arm, maybe pull a tooth. Basic first aid. But we’ve got morphine. We can manage the pain. That might not matter much right now. But in a day or so you’ll be screaming for a shot. At that moment you’ll need us more than you’ve needed anyone in your life.’

‘Fuck.’

‘There’s an alternative.’

Cloke unzipped the trauma bag. He took out a cardboard box. The box looked like it had sat on a shelf for a couple of decades. Faded serial number. Faded radiation emblem.

He opened the box. Little brass cylinders in rows, like a pack of rifle bullets. He put a cylinder in Wade’s hand. Wade held it to his ear and shook it. Faint rattle.

‘What’s this? Lipstick?’

He uncapped the cylinder and shook a glass ampoule into his palm. He rolled it between his fingers.

‘Cyanide,’ said Cloke. ‘We all carry one. My advice? Keep that capsule in your pocket. Hold out as long as you can, then use it.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Like I said. Forget about fleeing south. You got bigger problems.’

Wade stroked cold glass.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘Cyanide? I hear it’s a pretty quick way to go. Takes effect within seconds. Shuts down respiration. You might convulse a little, fight for breath, but not for long. Your world will be over in less than a minute.’

‘Christ.’

‘Better than the alternative.’

‘You should have just put it on my tongue,’ he said quietly. ‘Told me it was a painkiller or some shit.’

‘If I were dying, if I had hours to live, I would want to know. I would want to choose my moment, make my peace.’

‘Sorry man,’ said Nariko. ‘Guess you reached the end of the line.’

Wade turned the cyanide cylinder between his fingers.

‘Do you think he’s lying?’

‘About the radiation?’ said Lupe. ‘About the bomb? I doubt it.’

‘You trust him?’ asked Wade.

‘Yeah, I guess. Broom up his ass, but he’s on the level.’

‘We were below ground. Me and Sicknote. Miles from the blast site. We didn’t set foot outside. We didn’t breathe fallout. Maybe we’ll be all right.’

‘Yeah,’ said Lupe. ‘ Asi es, asi será . Some people beat the odds. It’s like cancer. Someone has a big-ass tumour. Melanoma the size of an apple lodged in their lung. Next time they take an X-ray it’s gone. It happens. Don’t bite that capsule just yet.’

She looked towards Sicknote. He sat on the street exit steps, staring into space, lost in waking nightmares. His lips moved. He whispered to himself. He pulled strands of hair out of his scalp and watched them drift to the floor.

‘Is he cool with this truce?’

‘He’ll do whatever I say.’

‘So what do we tell him?’ asked Lupe.

‘Nothing. When the time comes, I’ll feed him the capsule myself. Say it’s vitamins or some shit. Let him bite down and fall asleep.’

Nariko and Cloke stood in the IRT supervisor’s office. They leaned over schematics spread on the table.

Cloke uncapped a Sharpie and scribbled a break in a Liberty Line tunnel.

‘One of the buildings flanking Broadway must have pancaked, crushed the tunnel flat. And I’m guessing there was another collapse, further north.’ He scribbled a second break. ‘It’s created an air pocket. That’s how this Ivanek guy, the young man you heard on the radio, survived. The subway train must be sitting in a sealed section of tunnel, cut off from rising flood water.’

‘We haven’t got equipment to shift that much concrete aside,’ said Nariko.

‘We brought scuba gear,’ said Cloke. ‘We could check beneath the waterline. There might be a gap between some of those big slabs. Some way to worm our way to the other side.’

‘The flood water is tainted with fallout,’ said Nariko. ‘You said it yourself: if anyone dives in that water, they will get seriously irradiated. It’s potential suicide.’

‘I’ll go,’ said Cloke. ‘This is a military mission. I brought you here. It’s my responsibility.’

Nariko wearily shook her head.

‘How long since you pulled basic? Twenty years? Thirty? You’re a lab tech. You spend your time behind a microscope. I trained for this shit. Confined space operations. I do it every day.’

‘This is a little bit worse than a neighbourhood house fire. A whole different league. If you get in that water you’ll pay for it. Maybe not right away, but somewhere down the line.’

‘Comes with the job.’

‘You need to keep your exposure to the absolute minimum. Make a brief survey. Be thorough. But don’t hang around.’

‘Yeah.’

‘If there’s a route through the rubble, some kind of crawl-space to the other side, we’ll send a team.’

‘Okay.’

‘Like I say. Do it quick, but get it done. We can fail but we can’t quit, understand?’

‘Yeah. I know the score.’

Lupe and Donahue pushed the Coke machine across the tiled floor of the ticket hall, inch at a time. Metal shriek. Flaking rust. They hauled the Coke machine up the stairwell. Donahue called a breathless three-count each time they hefted the heavy cabinet a step higher.

‘Hold on.’

Donahue wiped sweat from her forehead. She winced as she touched her bruised and swollen cheek.

‘Sorry about your face,’ said Lupe.

‘Sorry about yours.’

They reached the top of the stairs and paused for breath.

Donahue bent double, like she was about to vomit.

‘You all right?’ asked Lupe.

‘Yeah,’ she said, straightening up. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

‘Is it the sickness?’

Donahue clapped a hand over her mouth and fought back rising bile. She waited for nausea to subside.

‘I’ll be all right.’

Clawed fingernails raked polythene. The plastic bulged as hands tried to pull it aside and reach fresh meat.

‘Got to admire their persistence,’ said Lupe. ‘This virus, this parasite, whatever the hell it is pulling their strings. A single driving purpose.’

‘You prefer it to humans?’ asked Donahue.

‘Darwinism in action, baby. This bug wants the world more than us. You can’t win against that kind of enemy. Trust me. I’ve seen it. On the street, in the yard. Some guys have their own dark purpose. Spooky fuckers with a weird, Charles Manson charisma. They’ve got an aura, like they’ve seen further, deeper than anyone else. They’re driving headlong to hell, and nothing better get in their way. You can’t beat that intensity. All you can do is back off.’