Adam Baker - Terminus

The JetRanger battling a fierce headwind as it hovers over the flat expanse of the Federal roof. The pilot lowers the collective, pulls back the cyclic. Skids settle on bitumen. Rotor downwash kicks up a blizzard. The pilot keeps the engine running, ready for immediate take-off.

The side door is wrenched open and boots hit the ground. NBC suits and heavy respirators. Quick deployment. Cops running for the roof stairs, ducking low beneath blurring blades.

‘All set?’ asked Lupe.

Donahue gave a mock salute.

‘First in the door.’

She stepped into the elevator. Lupe pulled the gate closed.

‘Watch your ass,’ said Lupe. ‘Don’t take your eyes off that lizard.’

‘It’ll be all right.’

Lupe hit Up.

Chief kicked open the stairwell door. He edged into the sixth-floor hallway. He held a Colt auto in gloved hands. A laser sight mounted beneath the barrel. The red needle-beam swept the hallway.

Open doorways. Glimpse of bombed out offices. Toppled chairs and desks. Drifts of paper ruffled by a blizzard wind blowing through vacant windows.

The elevator doors were ajar. He leaned into the shaft and shone his flashlight down into darkness. A dust-furred cable. The splintered roof of the freight elevator six floors below.

He turned back to the roof stairwell and shouted:

‘Come on down.’

Craven and Bingham laid the empty stretcher on the hall floor. Bingham fetched a drip stand.

‘I’ll cannulate both arms and hit him with hypotonic fluid,’ said Bingham. ‘Best I can do until we get him back to Avalanche. Keep him stable. Then we better try and contact NORAD, see if they can provide specialist help. Bone marrow transplants are beyond my pay grade.’

Chief gestured to Craven.

‘Check the rooms.’

Craven gripped the belt-feed SAW strapped to his shoulder. Safety to off. He checked each office. He upturned tables. He kicked open cupboards.

‘Hey, boss. Found something.’

A hall stationery cupboard. Bloody handprints on the wall. A woman’s shoe.

The Chief crouched beside Craven. He tested blood with a gloved finger. Fresh.

‘Prowler. Round here somewhere. Better watch our backs.’

A faint rumble from the elevator shaft. Gears engaged. A concrete counterweight heading down to the basement. The floor indicator needle began to rise.

‘Sir,’ shouted Bingham. ‘We’ve got company.’

The elevator began its ascent. Lupe watched the brass needle of the floor indicator rise from SUB.

Faint crackle from her radio. She upped volume and held it to her ear. Elevator noise. Donahue must have set her Motorola to transmit.

The floor needle climbed to 6, then stopped.

Donahue stood in the hallway. She was faced by three figures in camo green NBC suits.

‘Where’s the objective?’ asked the Chief.

‘Down below.’

‘What’s his condition?’

‘Stable.’ She pointed to the SAW. ‘Want to point that thing somewhere else?’

Chief gave the nod. Craven angled the weapon at the floor.

‘Any other survivors?’

‘Just me.’

‘Feeling okay?’

‘Pretty exhausted.’

Bingham took a Geiger counter from her shoulder bag. She held it close to Donahue and took a reading.

Discreet shake of the head.

The Chief unbuckled his hip holster and drew the Colt. He engaged the laser sight.

‘You’ve done a fine job. It’s an inspiration. Way above and beyond the call.’ He shucked the pistol slide. ‘I’m desperately sorry.’

The Chief took aim.

Donahue pulled back her hood and ripped off her mask. She looked him in the eye.

‘Piece of shit.’

The red dot of his laser centred on her forehead.

Gunshot. Clatter. Brief feedback whine.

Lupe stared at the speaker grille of her Motorola. Sicknote opened his mouth like he was about to speak. She mimed hush.

Chief, voice muffled by a respirator:

‘Get Byrne. Tell him to shut off the damn rotor and get in here.’

Receding footsteps.

A young woman’s voice:

‘Sir, there’s a green light on that radio. I think it’s transmitting.’

Clunk and rustle. Donahue’s radio picked from the floor.

Respirator rasp. Chief, speaking directly into the radio:

‘Who am I talking to?’

Lupe looked down at her handset. She listened to the him breathe.

‘I know you are listening. Who’s down there?’

Lupe didn’t reply.

‘We’re on our way. We don’t want trouble. We just want Ekks. Nothing more. Let us have him, and we’ll be on our way. We’ll leave food, medical supplies, anything you need.’

Lupe shut off the radio.

‘Bastards,’ she muttered. She stared up at the ceiling, hatred cutting through the building’s superstructure like an X-ray as she pictured the Chief and his men standing over Donahue’s corpse six storeys above her.

‘Motherfucking bastards.’

She clipped her radio on her belt.

She picked up a fist-sized lump of concrete and hurled it at the roof lights, shattering the remaining bulbs.

Sudden darkness. Lupe switched on her flashlight.

She turned to Sicknote.

‘Come on. Help me move Ekks.’

Sicknote lost in panic and confusion.

‘They killed her. Just shot her.’

Lupe grabbed him by the collar, shook until his eyes regained focus.

‘Ekks. The plant room. Now.’

They carried the body to the plant room.

‘Back of the room. Come on.’

Lupe covered Ekks with waste paper and cardboard.

‘Got a flashlight?’ asked Lupe.

‘Yeah.’

‘Then get out of here. The Chief will search the place. And if he finds us, he’ll kill us. Gutshot. Leave us to scream as we bleed out.’

Sicknote shook his head.

‘I’m staying with you.’

‘Fuck that shit. He wasted Donahue, so he sure as hell won’t think twice about popping a cap in your sorry ass. Go down to the platform. Get on that boat and stay out of sight. If anything happens to me, kick through those planks and row far as you can. Get to the shore.’

‘We should hand over the notebook. Give him what he wants.’

‘No. He thinks we’re garbage. Kill us without a thought. But today, he’s messing with the wrong motherfucker.’

‘Give him the book.’

‘I’ll let the whole world burn before I bend for a cunt like him.’

‘Please.’

‘Get out of here. Go on. Go.’

Sicknote sprinted from the plant room. Sudden head-spinning wave of nausea. He stumbled and fell to the floor. He knelt on broken tiles, panting for breath. He touched the surgical dressing taped behind his ear. It was wet with blood.

He looked up. The needle of the floor indicator executing a smooth arc from 6 to SUB.

He coughed and retched. He snatched up his flashlight and struggled to his feet. He ran to the head of the platform stairwell and stumbled down the steps into darkness.

The Chief jerked back the elevator gate. He stepped into the ticket hall, pistol raised.

He signalled Advance.

Byrne.

Craven.

Bingham.

They emerged from the elevator, weapons raised, and fanned.

Donahue lay slumped at the back of the elevator, a scorched bullet hole at the centre of her forehead.

The Chief explored the darkness. The brilliant needle-beam of his laser sight swept left and right.

‘Give me some light.’

Bingham struck a flare and threw it down.

Compacted pillars and fractured archways. Silence and shadows. Debris and dereliction.

‘Keep it tight. Remember: we’re not alone down here.’

He crept through the sepulchral gloom. No sound but the rasp of his respirator and the crunch of boots kicking through broken bricks and nuggets of gypsum.