Adam Baker - Terminus

‘Lucretia Guadalupe Villaseñor. A puddle of piss. A piece of human excrement. An abortion that wouldn’t die.’

‘I wear it like armour.’

‘Ekks should have vivisected your ass. You. Wade. That poor psychotic bastard. Gutted you all like fish. What happened to Galloway? He was supposed to be tugging your leash.’

‘Gone.’

‘Guess you put a knife in his back.’

‘No.’

‘He was a good man.’

‘He was nothing.’

‘You know what? You are categorical proof there is no god. Billions of righteous dead, and scum like you still drawing breath. Breaks my heart. Truly does. Three.’

Lupe sniffed. Blood trickled from her nose. She wiped her lip clean with the back of her hand.

‘You look sick,’ said Chief. ‘Real sick. Let me give you something for the pain.’ He locked his arm and prepared to fire.

‘Ekks had a notebook. All his research, all his data.’ Lupe gestured to the platform stairwell. ‘I’ve got backup. Marcus Means. Anything happens to me, the notebook goes in the water.’

Bingham edged towards the platform steps.

‘Stay where you are,’ ordered Lupe.

The Chief opened his mouth like he was about to speak but was silenced by a low, mournful moan that echoed through the ticket hall. Inhuman. Unutterably sad.

‘What the hell was that?’ muttered Craven.

The soldiers glanced around, tried to locate the source of the noise.

‘Sounds close. Sounds like it’s in here, with us.’

‘Human?’ asked Byrne.

‘Can’t be,’ said Bingham. ‘Some kind of animal. A dying dog.’

‘You checked the rooms, right?’ said Chief, glancing round at his men. ‘Checked them thoroughly?’

‘It’s the tunnels,’ said Lupe. ‘They sing. We’ve been listening to it all night.’

‘Bullshit. That was a living thing.’

‘Sure as hell don’t want to meet it,’ muttered Craven.

The Chief turned to Bingham. He gestured to Lupe.

‘Search her.’

Bingham slung her rifle, approached Lupe and began to pat her down.

She searched the pockets of Lupe’s bunker pants.

‘Got the fuse. We can fire up the elevator.’

She checked Lupe’s turnout coat. She checked her collar, groped rolled sleeves.

A knife tucked in an inside pocket. A rescue tool for cutting seatbelts. Bingham flicked open the blade, gave it a cursory inspection and threw the knife aside.

‘So what do you want to do with her?’

Sudden cacophonous crash. The hall ceiling vent smashed out. The grille clattered to the floor. An arachnid thing unfolding from the darkness. Suppurating arms roped with metallic tendrils. Jet black eyes. A grossly distended face. Galloway/Cloke, close to death, but impelled to seek rejuvenating flesh.

Craven shrieked as he was lifted clean off his feet, legs pedalling air. A high, animal scream of mortal terror.

Bingham and Byrne ran across the ticket hall. They each grabbed a leg and tried to pull him free.

Chief tried to get a clear shot.

Lupe ran for the plant room.

Craven punched and clawed at the hands wrapped round his neck. The creature began to haul him into the conduit. Fingernails tore flesh. He tried to swing the SAW upwards, but tangled the strap. He pawed his chest, grasping for his bayonet. He stabbed and slashed at the tumourous arms.

He was lifted higher.

‘Kill me. Do it, Bingham. Kill me.’

Face-to-face with the monstrous thing. A final scream. The creature tore out his throat and hurled his body aside.

Byrne and Bingham shouldered their rifles and fired full auto. Deafening roar. The hall was lit by fluttering muzzle flare. Bullets sparked the metal vent frame. Tungsten rounds blew roof tiles to powder, blew craters in concrete.

The Chief ejected a spent mag and slapped a fresh clip into his pistol. He racked the slide and pumped the trigger. Air full of whirling chips and stone dust.

They jumped back as a large chunk of concrete detached from the fissured ceiling and hit the floor, shattered to powder.

The Galloway/Cloke hybrid crouched among the rubble. It was wreathed in dust and gunsmoke. It looked around and hissed. It edged towards Byrne.

Byrne backed away. He fumbled a fresh mag from a shoulder bag. He fed the clip into his assault rifle and punched it home with the heel of his palm. He cranked the charging handle. Jammed.

‘Fuck.’ He wrenched the slide, tried to clear the obstruction. ‘Fuck, fuck.’

Chief took aim. Dry click. He ejected the spent clip, hurriedly checked nylon mag pouches looped to his belt.

Bingham snatched Lupe’s cutting tool from the floor. She ran to Craven’s body, sliced through the SAW shoulder strap and hefted the weapon.

The creature ran towards her, crossing the rubble-strewn floor in a smooth scuttle. It hissed.

Bingham braced the SAW and fired from her hip. Muzzle-scream. Cascading brass. Belt feeding through the receiver at seven hundred rounds per minute. She fought to keep the bucking weapon steady.

Chief and Byrne covered their ears. The hall filled with blue smoke.

The hybrid was hurled across the ticket hall. It hit the wall and sank to the floor leaving a bloody smear. It danced and flailed as bullets tore it apart.

The belt ran dry. Bingham threw down the spent weapon. Smoke poured from the barrel and receiver.

‘Give me another flare,’ shouted Chief.

Bingham struck a flare and threw it on the floor.

The Chief walked across the hall. The hybrid was a pulped mess. It was trying to drag itself towards the street entrance. Broken arms slapped the steps.

He smacked a final clip into his pistol and emptied a single hollow point round into the back of the creature’s head.

Chime of a cartridge case hitting the tiled floor.

Abrupt silence.

They stood wreathed in gun smoke and stone dust.

‘Should have brought grenades,’ murmured Byrne.

Bingham crouched beside Craven. Throat ripped down to the bone. Steaming blood pooled on the floor. His face was locked in a rictus of terror. White, exsanguinated flesh. Sightless eyes.

She put a hand on his shoulder.

‘I’ll miss you, bro.’

The Chief stood over the body. He trained his pistol. Red dot centred on Craven’s left eyeball.

‘Leave him,’ said Bingham. ‘He’s dead.’

‘Yeah. But sometimes they come back.’

Gunshot.

Bingham shielded her face from blood spray.

‘Bag him up,’ said Jefferson. ‘We’ll take him back. He deserves a burial.’

‘We’ve been here forty-five minutes, sir,’ said Byrne. He tapped his watch. ‘If we wait much longer, the chopper will ice up. We’ll be marooned in this fucking city.’

‘He’s right,’ said Bingham. ‘We ought to go.’

‘Not yet,’ said Jefferson.

Chief rolled Craven. He pulled a box magazine from the dead man’s backpack.

‘I’ve got a score to settle.’

He picked up the SAW. He fed the belt into the receiver and locked the magazine in place.

‘Hey,’ he shouted. ‘You hear me, Lupe? Come on out. Let’s get this done.’

Lupe hurriedly rebuilt the plant room door. She grabbed a couple of panel sections and propped them in the frame. She wedged them in position with an iron battery rack.

She could hear shouts and screams from the hall outside. Craven battling the hybrid as it tried to haul him into an overhead vent.

She coughed. She doubled up, then fell to her knees. She puked water.

‘Jesus,’ she muttered. She wiped her mouth.

She unzipped a trauma pack. Anti-nausea meds. She popped Zofran tablets from a foil strip and knocked them back.

Bottle of Scopolamine. She loaded a hypodermic and injected into her forearm.