Adam Baker - Terminus

‘They probably did.’

‘I found Galloway’s boot. He’s around here, somewhere.’

‘Watch yourself. ’

‘There’s a junction. I’m heading right.’

‘How far have you got? ’

‘Hard to tell.’

‘We got paint tins. We’ll try to set the fuckers on fire, create a distraction. ’

‘Hold on. I can see light up ahead.’

Tombes shut off his flashlight and tucked it into his waistband. He crawled forwards. A dust-furred grille in the floor of the conduit. The slats projected lattice light on the tunnel roof.

He took the radio from his pocket and reduced the volume.

‘I’m above the ticket hall. I’m looking down. Can’t see too well. I count seven infected. Probably more outside my field of vision. They look pretty far gone. Slow. Messed up. I reckon we could take them, if we move fast.’

The pounding stopped. Donahue remained braced against the desk barricade for a full minute, then slowly relaxed.

She wiped sweat from her face. She shook out exhausted limbs.

She shone the watch and inspected the door. The wood surrounding the hinges had started to rip and splinter.

A faint crackle from her radio.

Lupe’s voice:

‘Donahue? You there? ’

Donahue crouched in the corner and whispered into the Motorola.

‘Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.’

‘How you doing? ’

‘The door took a battering. The hinges are tearing loose. Surprised it hasn’t caved.’

‘Are they still trying to get inside? ’

‘They seemed to have laid off, for now.’

‘We made a ruckus. A bunch of them are outside the plant room, trying to break in. Our door is solid. It should hold.’

‘Okay.’

‘Can you see the vent?’

‘Like I said, there’s a couple of chunks of wood screwed high on one of the walls.’

‘Can you shift them? ’

‘Hold on.’

A couple of short lengths of wood secured by heavy screws. Donahue reached up, gripped the planks and pulled. She grunted and strained. She lifted her feet off the floor and hung by her arms, tried to wrench the slats from the wall using her full body weight.

‘They’re screwed directly into the brickwork. Can’t shift the damn things. I guess they could be blocking a vent. Hard to tell.’

‘Don’t worry about it. Tombes will kick them free from inside once he reaches the office. ’

‘All right.’

‘Look, you have to do me a favour. I know it’s asking a lot. But I need you to draw these bastards away from the plant room door. We’ve got paint bombs, Molotov cocktails. We can burn those fuckers to a crisp, but we need them to back away from the door so we can get into the hall and hit them. Can you do that? Can you create a distraction? ’

‘You got to time it right. If I make a racket, they’ll head my way. The door won’t hold out much longer. The moment I start to holler, I’m committed. You’ve got to get into the hall and take them down. Any delay, and I’m screwed.’

‘We’re set. The moment you ring the bell, we’ll head into the hall and fry those fuckers. ’

‘Let’s do it before I change my mind.’

Donahue set the gramophone on the floor. She picked a random 78, threaded it onto the spindle and set it running. She dropped the needle arm. Pop and crackle.

She braced against the desk.

‘Hey,’ shouted Donahue. His voice rang loud and metallic in the confined office space. ‘Hey. Come on, you bastards. Food’s up. Come get me, motherfuckers.’

Benny Goodman. ‘King Porter Stomp’. Jazz filled the room. Fists pounded the door.

‘Listen,’ said Cloke.

Impacts against the plant room door diminished to silence. Faint music.

They gripped the battery rack and hauled it aside. They did it slow, tried to minimise stone-scrape and grit-pop as they dragged the heavy frame across concrete.

‘Let’s do this.’

Lupe gave Cloke two paint tins.

‘Sure it’ll burn?’

‘Oh yeah. This shit is old school. Flammable as hell. Don’t breathe the fumes. They’ll strip the lining from your lungs.’

‘Okay.’

‘You throw. I’ll back you up. And, hey. Make them count, all right?’

Cloke held out the tins. Lupe struck a match and lit the wicks. Red cotton smouldered and flared.

She tossed the match and snatched up the section of pipe.

‘On three.’ She pulled back the deadbolts. ‘One, two, three.’

She pulled open the door.

A rotted, infected guy standing directly in front of her. Suit and tie. A ridge of spines across his head like a Mohawk. He grunted and looked up, a grotesque parody of surprise.

‘Hi there.’

Lupe caved his forehead with a vicious swing of the pipe. He tottered like a drunk and fell.

They ran into the hall.

A dozen shambling, infected things turned their way.

‘Oh fuck.’

Cloke threw the first tin. It hit a garlanded Hare Krishna on the chest. Crimson paint splashed across satin robes and caught alight. Fabric shrivelled and burned with a blue flame, turning the man to a pillar of fire.

A woman in a pus-streaked waitress uniform. Her name tag said DOROTHY. She limped forwards, arms outstretched. Lupe caved her head with a side-swing of the pipe.

‘Over there.’

Four rotted creatures battered the IRT door, trying to get inside.

‘Burn them.’

Cloke hurled the second tin. It hit the wall above the door. Vapour ignited like a napalm flame-burst, and the four were engulfed in fire.

Lupe and Cloke shielded their faces. They recoiled from searing heat.

A guy ran at Lupe. He was enveloped in flame. She kicked him to the ground. He struggled to his feet. She kicked him again. He sank to his knees, pitched face forwards and lay motionless as he burned.

Lupe ducked back in the plant room and grabbed more tins. She hurled them. Crimson paint dashed against the pillars, ceiling and floor. The paint ignited like gasoline. Fire washed across the hall. Blazing creatures stumbled and flailed. Clothing and hair shrivelling in the flames.

A burning figure staggered towards Cloke, arms outstretched. It waded across the ticket hall, waist-deep in flame, then collapsed as cooked muscle ceased to respond to nerve transmissions.

Cloke and Lupe ran for the plant room, slammed the door and slapped deadbolts back in position.

Shuddering impacts.

They backed away. Black smoke curled from the crack at the foot of the door. They covered their mouths to mask the stench of burning flesh.

Donahue struggled to keep the office door closed. Shoulder to the desk, feet braced against the back wall.

Her radio lay on the floor, out of reach. She could see the LED wink brilliant emerald in the darkness. A faint voice, part-drowned by jazz:

‘Donnie, can you hear me? Donnie, do you copy, over?’

‘Hey,’ yelled Donahue, trying to be heard beyond the door. ‘Lupe. Anyone. Need some fucking help here.’

The door began to give way. Too dark to see damage, but she could hear oak splinter and split.

More impacts. Orange flame-light. Burning arms punching through the wood, pulling panels aside.

‘Help,’ yelled Donahue, loud as she could. ‘For Christ’s sake. Help.’

Sudden crash. A boot kicked out the wall vent.

Dazzling glare. A flashlight beam shafted through the office darkness.

Tombes leaned out of the narrow aperture.

‘Give me your hand.’

Donahue ran across the room and grasped Tombes’ hand. He hauled her up. She squirmed into the brick-lined conduit.

She twisted around. A last glance back.

The door smashed off its hinges. The desk thrown aside. The gramophone kicked and smashed.