George Right: D

The situation with his right hand was even worse. He could not say any longer that he smelled the burnt stench from the fire at the station. His palm was soiled by something that he, of course, could not see, but by smell and touch it resembled a thick layer of soot.

In the windows light began to dawn. The train at last rode to a lit station. However, this station also looked rather strange. The platform was curved like an arc under vaulted, semicircular ceilings; the arches which led somewhere into darkness were semicircular also. Capital letters “CITY HALL” floated beyond the car windows. But it obviously was not City Hall on route R in Manhattan, which Logan knew well…

The train, still dark within, opened its doors. Now it was easier to choose between darkness and light. Moreover, Tony’s sixth sense told him that the train wouldn’t go farther. The City Hall-R station could be intermediate, but this one was definitely final.

Tony darted a cautious glance towards the Black man—but saw nobody. Logan again was absolutely alone in the car. Could the dark silent figure just seem to have existed in the dim light? No, impossible. After all, he not only saw it…

And the black soot on Logan’s palm confirmed it.

“Probably, that guy rose and went to the next car and his leaving was not audible because of train noise,” Tony told himself, wiping a dirty hand against a handrail. “Though why would he have needed to move? Well, what the hell is the difference! Anyhow, before the doors slammed again, I need to get out of here.”

Tony hastily left the car. He was not too surprised to see nobody else on the platform. Only its central part was lit and even it was dim; both ends of the curved station, more resembling a corridor of an ancient dungeon, were sunk in gloom. Everywhere, as much as it was possible to discern under such illumination, a thick layer of dust lay, and from the semicircular arches either small stalactites or dirty rags of something like an old torn web hung here and there.

Logan looked back at the train. It still was at a stop, dark and silent, grinning with its black holes of opened doors and blindly staring with its cataracts of windows. Seemingly, nobody more would exit from any car. Was there anyone inside? The gloom did not allow Tony to make anything out from outside and he did not have much desire to go along the cars and look in. The poster with the beheading doors appeared again in his mind.

“Superstitious bullshit,” Tony told himself without, however, any real confidence. “Anyway, from outside it’s a train like any train. Simply something has happened to the electricity…”

Here, however, he paid attention to one more detail. Letters on the cars, designating the route… What he has taken for Q, was not Q at all. The “tail” was missing. It was the letter O—or number zero.

Neither route exists in the New York subway system, as Tony perfectly well knew, because the letter would be confused with the digit…

Behind Logan’s back a nearly silent, insinuating rustle sounded.

Tony sharply turned back. At first he saw nothing—because he was looking at his own height. But then he lowered his gaze to the floor…

An absolutely black shapeless thing crept towards him. It was a size of a medium dog. A fat dog whose limbs and head were torn off. It now flattened, sprawling on the floor, then rose, inflating, and in silent entreaty stretched its black stumps towards Logan; now stiffened for some seconds, then again jerkily came nearer. Its movements had no rhythm; it just simply moved along the dirty floor, coming closer and closer…

Tony looked at these convulsive movements in mute horror although, apparently, the creeping thing could more likely cause pity than fear. But Logan could not even imagine what it was. It resembled no animals known to science, nor even creatures from legends. In the following instant it pulled itself toward him again—and wrapped itself around his feet…

And then Tony burst out in relieved laughter.

A bag. An ordinary black plastic bag from a supermarket, dropped by someone on the floor and moved by wind…

Only Tony did not feel any wind. But he told himself that he just did not feel air on his face and hands. Along the floor, however, there could be a weak draft—proving, by the way, that this station does have an exit…

Having shaken the bag from his foot (it as if has stuck, it was necessary to jerk the foot sharply several times), Tony turned to the nearest arch which led upward. But, having moved closer, Tony saw that the sign hanging under the vault did not say “Exit.” It said “Downtown”—again without any route specifications.

After having walked the station from end to end, Logan was convinced that all the signs there said the same thing. It looked like there was no way from here to upper Manhattan (and whether only to Manhattan?).

The train still stood with open doors as if it was waiting to see whether its single passenger would return to its dark belly. But Logan resolutely went to the nearest arch. The staircase in the heart of it led into darkness, too—but at least upward. On the second step lay some newspaper—more likely even, a separate newspaper sheet. It had lain here for a long time, obviously, for it has grown a thick layer of dust like everything else here. But Tony still discerned familiar Gothic letters “New York Times” and a part of large headline under them: “Blood Bath…”

He stopped. As much as he remembered, no large accidents had occurred recently in the city or even in the world. And it looked somehow not like the respectable “New York Times” to use headlines more typical of the tabloid press…

Tony tried to clean off the dust with his shoe. Now he could read the whole headline:

“Blood Bath in Normandy! American Soldiers Torn to Pieces!”

What damned Normandy?!

Logan hunkered down to peer at the paper (he didn’t want to handle the dirty thing). To discern the publication date under such poor illumination was difficult, but still,with straining eyes, he managed to do it. Not trusting himself, he reread it again and again.

June 7th, 1944.

Impossible, this museum specimen could not have lain here for almost seventy years! But it was not the only strangeness. Tony was never especially interested in military history—no less than journalism history—and, naturally, had no idea, how the front page of the “New York Times” reporting on “D-Day” looked. But he believed that one of the leading national newspapers, writing about the key operation of World War II, would have done it in a more inspiring patriotic tone. Especially since the operation was successful, and losses, in percentage to number of participants, were, as much as Tony remembered from school lessons, not so huge… But here it seemed the story was about total failure and defeat.

Under the headline there was a photo, unexpectedly sharp for an old newspaper picture. Two American soldiers had dragged their comrade from the water and had already pulled him out waist-high… still, seemingly, without realizing that below his waist there was nothing except entrails trailing from the water. And, judging by his thrown back head and his face deformed by pain, the poor fellow was still alive and trying to shout…

Was this really printed in the “New York Times?!” And if not, why had this fake been made?

Logan was unable to read the main text of the article in the dim light. He stood up and began to climb the stairs, with each step going deeper into gloom.

When he reached the top of the staircase, he stood in total darkness. But there was no option to retreat—Tony wanted to get out from underground as quickly as possible and at any cost—and he moved forward, extending his hands. This time he came across not a silently stiffened figure, but the cold metal of turnstiles. However, to the touch it was not only cold. It was dusty and deeply corroded. Tony had a strong doubt that these turnstiles would respond to his MetroCard; however, he needed to exit, not to enter. Under the pressure of his body, the metal cores turned with a hollow squeak and released him to freedom.