D. MacHale - The Merchant of Death

“This is it,” he announced and jumped off the bike. I jumped off too and gratefully removed my helmet. Finally, I could hear again. Uncle Press left his helmet on the bike and headed for the subway entrance.

“Whoa, hold on, we’re going to leave the bike and the helmets?” I asked with surprise. I couldn’t believe it. He didn’t even take the keys out of the ignition. I’m no expert on crime, but I could pretty much predict that if we left this gear here, it would be gone before we blinked.

“We don’t need it anymore,” he said quickly and started down the subway stairs.

“Why are we taking the subway?” I asked. “Why don’t we just stay on the bike?”

“Because we can’t take the bike where we’re going,” he answered with a matter-of-fact tone. He turned and headed down a few more steps.

I didn’t move. I wanted answers, and I wasn’t taking another step until I got some. Uncle Press sensed that I wasn’t following him, so he stopped and looked back at me.

“What?” he asked, with a little bit of frustration.

“I just blew off the most important game of my life, my team is going to crucify me tomorrow, and you want me to follow you into the subway in the worst part of New York City? I think I deserve to know what’s going on!” This had gone far enough and if I didn’t get some answers, I was walking. Of course I wasn’t exactly sure of where I would go if Uncle Press left me there and went on alone. I figured it was a safe risk, though. After all, he was my uncle.

Uncle Press softened. For a moment I saw the face of the guy I’d known all my life. “You’re right, Bobby. I’ve asked you to do a lot on faith. But if we stop for me to explain everything, we may be too late.”

“Too late for what?”

“There’s a group of people who are in trouble. They’re relying on me to help them, and I’m relying on you to help me.”

I was flattered and freaked at the same time. “Really? What kind of trouble?”

“That’s what would take me forever to explain. I’d rather show you.”

I didn’t know what to do. Even if I wanted to run away, I had no clue of how to get out of there. And here was this guy, my uncle, staring me straight in the eye and saying he needed me. There weren’t a whole lot of options. I finally decided to divulge the single overriding thought in my head.

“I’m scared.” There, I said it.

“I know. But please believe me, Bobby, as long as it’s in my power, I won’t let anything happen to you.” He said this with such sincerity, it actually made me feel better…for about a second.

“What happens when it’snot in your power?” I asked.

Uncle Press smiled, and said, “That won’t be for a while. Are you with me?”

They say that just before you’re about to meet your doom, your life flashes before your eyes. Surprisingly, that didn’t happen. I didn’t think of the game. I didn’t think of my family. I didn’t even think of Courtney Chetwynde. I just thought about me and Uncle Press. Here and now. I took that as a good sign. So I mustered all the bravura I could and said, “Hey, ho, let’s go.”

Uncle Press let out a laugh like I hadn’t heard from him in a long time, then turned and rushed down the stairs. As I watched him disappear into the dark hole of the subway, I did my best to pretend I wasn’t being an idiot by going along with him. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I saw Uncle Press standing in front of a wall of graffiti-covered plywood that blocked the entrance. The station was closed and by the looks of the old wood, it had been closed for a long time.

“Well, that’s a problem,” I said glibly. “No go, right?”

Uncle Press turned to me and with the sincerity of a sage teacher imparting golden words of wisdom, he said, “There are no problems, only challenges.”

“Well, if the challenge is to catch a subway at a station that’s closed,” I countered, “then I’d say that’s a problem.”

But not for Uncle Press. He casually reached toward the wall with one hand, grabbed one of the boards and gave it a yank. It didn’t seem as if he pulled all that hard, but instantly four huge boards pulled loose in one piece, opening up an avenue into the darkened station.

“Who said anything about catching a subway?” he said with a sly smile.

He effortlessly dropped the large section of boards on the stairs and stepped inside. I had no idea Uncle Press was that strong. I also had no idea why we were stepping into a closed subway station, at night, in the worst section of the city.

Uncle Press then poked his head back out. “Coming?”

I was half a breath away from turning, running up the stairs, and giving myself a crash course in motorcycle driving. But I didn’t. Chances are the bike was already stolen anyway. I had no choice, so I followed him.

The station had been closed for a long time. The only light came from street lamps that filtered down through grates in the sidewalk. The soft glow cast a crisscross pattern against the walls that threw the rest of the station into darkness. It took a while for my eyes to adjust, but when they did I saw a forgotten piece of history. At one time this was probably a busy station. I could make out ornate mosaic tile work on the walls that must have been beautiful when new, but was now a mess of grimy cracks that looked like a giant, dirty spiderweb. Garbage was everywhere, benches were overturned, and the glass around the token booth was shattered. In a word, it was sad.

As I stood on top of the cement stairs, the derelict station began to show signs of life. It started as a faint rumble, that slowly grew louder. The station may have been closed, but the subway trains still ran. I saw the headlight first as it beamed into the opening, lighting up the track and the walls. Then the train came-fast. There was no reason to stop at this station anymore so it rumbled through like a shot, on its way to someplace else. For a brief moment I could imagine the station as it had looked in better days. But just as quickly, the image was gone, along with the train. In an instant, the place was deathly quiet again. The only sign that the train had been through was the swirling pieces of crusty paper caught in its slipstream.

I looked to Uncle Press to see if he were appreciating this forlorn piece of old New York history the same as I was. He wasn’t. His eyes were sharp and focused. He quickly scanned the empty station looking for…something. I didn’t know what. But I definitely sensed that he had just notched up into DefCon 2. He was on full alert, and it didn’t do much to put me at ease.

“What?” was all I could think of asking.

He started quickly down the stairs. I was right after him. “Listen, Bobby,” he said quickly, as if he didn’t have much time. “If anything happens, I want you to know what to do.”

“Happens? What do you mean happens?” This didn’t sound good.

“Everything will be fine if you know what to do. We’re not here to catch a train, we’re here because this is where the gate is.”

“Gate? What gate?”

“At the end of the platform are stairs that lead down to the tracks. About thirty yards down the track, along the wall, there’s a door. It’s got a drawing on it, like a star.”

Things were going a little fast for me now. Uncle Press kept walking quickly, headed for the far end of the platform. I had to dodge around pillars and overturned garbage cans to keep up with him.

“You with me?” he asked sharply.

“Yeah,” I said. “Stairs, door, star. Why are we-”

“The door is the gate. If for some reason I’m not with you, open the door, go inside and say, ‘Denduron.’”

“Denda-what?”

“Den-du-ron. Say it!”