Adam Baker - Terminus

‘Supplies?’

‘There’s an extensive dry store behind the kitchens. Good inventory.’

‘Outstanding.’

‘There are a couple of outbuildings near the helipad. We’ll check them out at sun-up. Might be some aviation fuel.’

‘There’s a cabin by the lake, is that correct?’

‘Yes, sir. A log chalet.’

‘That’s where we’ll treat Ekks. Move the medical gear to the cabin. See if you can fire up the generator. And check for running water.’

‘Sir.’

‘He is to be held in isolation, understood? No one goes near him without my permission.’

‘Am I to understand Doctor Ekks will be the only arrival? There will be no other patients?’

‘He is the sole priority.’

‘Ten-four.’

Jefferson pulled the headphone jack from the ceiling socket and threw the headset on the seat beside him.

‘What about the fire department guys, sir?’ asked Byrne.

Jefferson ignored the question.

‘Twenty minutes from target,’ shouted Byrne.

‘Mask up,’ said the Chief. ‘Good luck, every one.’

The office.

Sicknote sat cross-legged. He pulled back the foil hypothermia blanket.

Wade, torn and charred. His face was a charcoal mask. No eyes. Carbon lips curled back revealing brilliant white teeth. His hands were folded across his chest, clenched and curled; muscles and tendons cooked and contracted, twisting his arms into a contorted pugilistic pose.

Sicknote gripped Wade’s rigid corpse. He lifted the body a couple of inches. Blood and body fat had boiled away during the fire, depleting the cadaver of half its weight.

He reached into a pant pocket. Crisp fabric tore and flaked. He pulled out the brass cyanide cylinder. He unscrewed the cap and inspected the vial. Intact.

‘What are you doing?’

Lupe stood in the doorway.

‘You guys are going to ride out of here on that chopper. Guess I’ll be staying behind.’

He glanced at Lupe. Melancholy smile.

‘I’ve enjoyed it. These last few days. Isn’t that pathetic? Isn’t that the saddest thing you ever heard? I’ve enjoyed the company. My time down here in this shithole has been the happiest I can remember.’

‘It’ll be all right. We’ll look after you.’

‘No. I’m dying. And that’s okay. I mean, we’re all fucked, right? In the long run. We live out our time, and wonder what it all means.’

‘You don’t have to die down here in the dark.’

‘I’ll help you guys get aboard the helicopter. Then I might go outside. Take that walk.’

She put her hand on his shoulder.

‘God bless you, Michael.’

He held her hand and fought back tears.

They walked across the rubble-strewn ticket hall to the platform steps.

‘Oh Christ.’

They found Donahue crouched over Ekks, delivering rapid chest compressions.

‘Help me for God’s sake.’

Lupe ran down the steps.

‘What happened?’

‘He’s not breathing.’

‘How long?’

‘I don’t know. I looked at him. His lips were blue.’

She checked his carotid pulse. She checked his breathing.

‘Don’t you fucking dare.’

More compressions.

‘Lungs, right?’ said Lupe. That chest rattle. Pneumonia.’

‘First aid kit. Quick.’

Lupe tossed Donahue a trauma pack.

Donahue leaned over Ekks and shone a penlight into his mouth.

‘Lesions. His airway is swollen shut.’

She tore open a sterile pack and uncapped a scalpel.

‘This is going to get messy.’

She probed the man’s throat, located his Adam’s apple and the cricoids cartilage beneath.

‘Here we go.’

The scalpel punctured flesh. Ekks convulsed. Coughing blood-spurt. Donahue pushed a forefinger into the wound and wormed it wider.

‘I need some kind of tube.’

Lupe uncapped the pen torch and shook out batteries. She unscrewed the lamp head.

Donahue twisted the metal tube into the neck wound. Whooping, whistling inhalation. Ekks arched his back. His chest began to rise and fall.

‘Jesus, that was close,’ said Lupe, sitting back.

Donahue watched Ekks breathe. Juddering exhalations, slow and shallow.

She shook her head.

‘We’ve lost him.’

‘What?’

‘He’s slipping away. Nothing we can do.’

‘Give him a shot,’ said Lupe. ‘Adrenalin. Whatever you got.’

‘No. He’s sinking. For real.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yeah.’

They sat beside Ekks and watched his final moments.

Lupe leaned close, as if she wanted to drink his dying breath.

‘I know what you are. Hear me, motherfucker? I know what you are.’

One last, shuddering exhalation.

‘That’s it,’ said Donahue. ‘We lost him. All for nothing. The whole damn trip.’

‘Rescue, this is Flight One. We are on approach. We need your beacon, over.’

‘Ten-four.’

Donahue unzipped a backpack and took out a black cylinder like a Thermos flask. She climbed the street level steps. She pulled on a respirator.

She held back the curtain. Street garbage smothered by a thick carpet of snow. Plump flakes drifted from the night sky.

A CSAR beacon. She thumbed the slide switch to on. She pushed her arm through the gate and threw the strobe into the alley. It bounced and lay in the snow.

The beacon was cupped by an infrared filter. It appeared to be inert, but the chopper pilot, equipped with night vision goggles, would glimpse a brilliant pulse of light as he overflew the ruins of lower Manhattan.

Lupe restarted the generator and returned to the hall.

They rolled Ekks. They slid his arms and legs into a yellow NBC suit. They sealed the chest zip. They pushed his hands into heavy butyl gloves and lashed the cuffs with tape. They strapped an M40 respirator to his face and secured the hood.

‘Nice job,’ said Donahue. ‘By the time they figure out he’s dead, we’ll already be in the air.’

‘If that notebook delivers a cure, they’ll name high schools after the sick bastard,’ said Lupe.

‘He’ll deserve it.’

‘Easy for you to say. I was next on his kill list.’

‘Face it. You’re not angry at him. You’re angry at yourself, because you know how little you are worth.’

Lupe climbed into an NBC suit. Donahue helped her zip.

‘Here’s the deal,’ said Lupe. ‘The elevator is messed up, but it’ll work. I’ll take the first ride. Soon as they land, I’ll head up top and gauge what kind of reception we’ll get.’

‘No,’ said Donahue. ‘I’ll go.’

‘I don’t trust him. The guy is a corn pone fascist.’

‘Exactly. He’ll shoot you on sight. I’ll go. Maybe I can talk him round. Persuade him to keep his side of the deal. Fly you out of here and set you free.’

Lupe held out her lock-knife.

‘Take a blade.’

‘They’ll have guns.’

‘Take it anyway.’

Lupe tucked the knife into Donahue’s belt.

‘Hey, hear that?’ said Sicknote.

They turned towards the entrance steps and listened. Rising rotor thrum. The JetRanger manoeuvring for touchdown.

‘Flight One to Rescue, do you copy, over?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Incoming. Prepare for immediate dust-off.’

‘Roger that. Glad to be going home.’

Donahue clipped a fresh filter cartridge into her respirator. She pulled on the mask and adjusted straps. Sicknote helped secure her hood.

Chopper noise reached a crescendo. Change of pitch as it began a controlled descent.

Donahue pictured the landing.