Adam Baker - Terminus

‘You’re nuts.’

‘It knows we are here. It’s been watching since the very first moment we arrived. It’s reaching out.’

‘Keep away from me, all right? Just stay the fuck away.’

Nariko stripped to underwear. She stepped into her drysuit and zipped it to the neck.

She crouched beside her backpack. She checked cylinder pressure, adjusted valves, and shouldered the tanks.

She buckled a weight belt and pulled on gloves.

‘I can’t force you guys to come with me. If either of you want to stay behind and sit this one out, that’s cool. I’ll go on my own.’

Cloke shook his head.

‘That would be chickenshit beyond words. I’m coming with you.’

‘Yeah,’ said Tombes. ‘Fuck that. Rescue Four. The Rats. Sooner we get it done, sooner we can all get the hell out of here.’

Nariko watched Cloke and Tombes suit up. She stretched and paced, adjusted her tank harness straps and weight belt.

Her eyes were once again drawn by the cigarette sunset pasted to the wall.

Cloke stood by her side. He checked his gauntlet seals.

‘We’ll make it. We’ll be okay.’

‘Maybe.’

‘You were the first to raise your hand.’

‘It’s my job.’

‘You must have known the others would come too. Donahue. Tombes. They’d follow you anywhere.’

‘Don’t lay that crap on me. They’re adults. They made their own choice.’

‘You’re strong. You’ll be all right.’

‘This place is killing us. I can feel it. Closing round us like a fist. But I’ll be damned if I am going to go out snivelling like a bitch, you know? If I check out, I want it to mean something.’

She headed for the platform steps, helmet in one hand, flippers in the other. Cloke picked up his helmet and followed her.

Tombes turned to Donahue.

‘See you later, babe.’

‘Don’t do anything stupid, all right?’ said Donahue. ‘The Captain wants to be a hero. Screw her. No offence, but screw her. Stay safe, you hear?’

‘Back before you know it.’

He crossed himself, then he headed for the stairs.

Donahue sat in the office. She pulled up a chair.

Maps and subway schematics scattered on the table.

She shuffled papers. She picked up a five borough pocket atlas and contemplated the cover. Easy-Read, Large Scale. The Midtown skyline lit by the summer sun. Brooklyn Bridge and, beyond it, the ethereal spire of the Empire State. Life before the pandemic. Life before the bomb. A lost paradise.

She pushed the maps aside, clamped headphones and powered up the radio.

‘Rescue team to Ridgeway. Come in, Ridgeway.’

No response.

‘Rescue party to Ridgeway, over. Come in.’

No response.

She dropped the mike and rubbed tired eyes.

‘Get your shit together, guys,’ she murmured. ‘You’re supposed to man the damned radio.’

She picked up the antiquated mike. She adjusted frequency.

‘Ridgeway, can you hear me? Rescue team calling Ridgeway, where the hell are you, over.’

She sat back and listened to electromagnetic interference. The hiss of empty wavebands rose and fell like a desolate night wind.

She closed her eyes and pictured the raging surface of the sun: vast solar flame-licks ejecting coronal mass into the void.

She turned up the volume and listened to the crackle of stellar tides washing across the ionosphere: song of an indifferent universe.

The Federal Building. Six floors of derelict office space. Windows shattered as the atomic firestorm ripped through decades of cobwebbed silence in a moment of concussive violence.

A nurse lay slumped in a stationery cupboard among scattered index cards and manila envelopes, as if animal instinct compelled her to find a secluded niche, a womb-like space to curl and die. Her name badge said NGUYEN. Her uniform was streaked with blood and soot. Grotesque metallic sarcomas burst through fabric. She sprawled like a puppet waiting for someone to pull strings.

The nurse shocked awake. Jet black eyes stared into darkness. The air was tainted with the ferric scent of blood. New flesh, somewhere within the building.

She crawled into the hallway. The linoleum floor was wet with rain blown through vacant windows.

No moonlight. Transformed vision cut through shadow and picked out detail bright as day.

She sniffed the air, tried to locate the blood-taint, track it to source.

She crawled across the hall. She reached the elevator doors. She sniffed the inch gap. Blood. Rich and strong.

She gripped the twin slide doors and shouldered them apart.

The elevator shaft. A dust-furred cable. Six-storey drop to the plank roof of the freight elevator.

She climbed to her feet and stepped into the shaft. She fell in a rigid sentry stance. She hit the wall and hit the cable. She hit the cross beam on the roof of the elevator and shattered her shoulder.

She pawed the roof, broke fingernails as she tried to pull the planks aside.

Murmur of voices.

An air vent in the wall of the shaft. A grille veiled by webs. She tugged until screws popped from concrete and the duct cover came loose.

A narrow brick conduit. Darkness. Strange music. Ghost-jazz echoed faintly from within.

The IRT office.

Wade found the gramophone by touch. He groped the shelf until he located the leatherette box. He carried it across the office, walked until his thighs bumped the desk. He shunted the telephone and inkpot aside, and set the phonograph down.

He returned to the shelf and fumbled a handful of 78s.

He sat at the desk. He found the lid latch, unsleeved a disk and positioned it on the felt turntable.

He found the crank handle, set the disk spinning, then dropped the arm. Big band jazz. Duke Ellington.

He sat back, lulled by the music, and rubbed useless eyes.

He scratched his goatee. Hair pulled loose in clumps.

He took the brass cylinder from his pocket. He unscrewed the cap, shook the glass ampoule into his palm, and turned it between his fingers.

Donahue unzipped a red trauma pack and searched among pill boxes, sterile-sealed hypodermics and ziplocked dressings. She upturned the bag and shook it empty. She found a strip of Vicodin. She popped capsules from the foil and dry-swallowed. Bitter taste. She threw the pills to Lupe.

‘You look washed out,’ said Lupe.

‘Good job I never wanted kids,’ said Donahue. ‘Plenty to look forward to, after this fucking trip. Thyroid cancer. Leukaemia. Quite a prospect.’

‘Well, we all got to die of something, right?’

Lupe popped a couple of tablets into her palm and swallowed. She examined the foil strip.

‘This shit expires in three years. A world without pharmaceuticals. Better brush your teeth. Dentistry is about to get seriously medieval.’

Shriek and rattle from the entrance gate.

They ran to the foot of the stairwell.

The ancient Coke machine blocking the street entrance shook with repeated blows.

‘We’re starting to draw a Super Bowl crowd,’ said Donahue. ‘Might have to thin them out.’

‘No shooting,’ said Lupe. ‘Better conserve ammo.’ She gestured to the equipment pile. ‘We’ve got plenty of gear. Let’s get to work.’

They zipped NBC suits.

A bundle of heavy rescue tools lashed with canvas straps. Lupe released buckles. Clank and clatter. She picked up a heavy metal rod, tipped with a barbed spike. She took a practice spear thrust.

‘Ventilation tool,’ explained Donahue. ‘First thing you do at an apartment fire. Send a guy on the roof to punch a hole. Acts as an artificial flue. Vents heat and smoke. Makes it easier for the hose team to get in there and work.’