D A Novel (George Right)

D A Novel (George Right) - By George Right


DOWNTOWN


In different places it has different names. Metro. Underground. Tube. Subway.

Some stations look like magnificent palaces. Others more resemble a tile-revetted public toilet. Some, with many platforms and levels, bound by a network of passageways, corridors, staircases and escalators, are a real labyrinth. Others have only one entrance, which is an exit as well. The car designs, fares, personnel uniforms–all these can differ. Only one thing is invariable: the subway grows into the flesh of big cities, the network of its tunnels penetrates them from the center to the most remote blocks, like a blood system–and plays the same role. Any clot that corks a separate blood vessel leads to a paralysis of the whole area. If the subway stops completely, life in a city becomes impossible. And millions of people who daily descend under the earth through the opened mouths of stations in order to become a part of streams flowing through tunnels, got used to it long ago and take it in stride. At least, the majority of them.

Some, however, feel an uprush of fear.

What is the reason of this fear? Claustrophobia? But is a subway car more close and confined than a bus aisle, office space, or an apartment room? Tabloid press rumors about mutant rats, runaway maniacs or monsters hiding in tunnels? But does anyone take such rags seriously? Lastly, the idea that hell lies under ground? But, after all, in our time even the most naive believer knows that heaven is not in the physical sky, and it is impossible to reach paradise by a plane or a rocket–so it is impossible to get to an underworld through a mine or a subway tunnel. So what is the reason for the fear?

Employees of the New York subway, as well as of any another, of course, wave such fears aside with irritation. The subway, they will tell you, is the safest form of transportation. Accidents, especially with those with casualties, are extremely rare here, in contrast to the roads above where cars crash every day. As for the crime level, it is not the 1980s now, thank God, and the subway was put in order long ago. And even if something extreme were to happen, there are detailed schemes and mechanisms for helping and evacuating passengers. And as to ostensibly strange and inexplicable cases–that is a pile of crap, and you should not addle your brain with superstitious bullshit, but familiarize yourself with the real facts.

These facts are presented in the New York Transit Museum at the corner of Schermerhorn Street and Boerum Place, or you can find them yourself on the Internet. The New York subway has 468 stations in operation and 24 routes. The total length of the routes is 842 miles, approximately equal to the distance from New York to Jacksonville, Fla. a whole, it is a rather complex enterprise which can easily confuse a newcomer. The modern subway is the result of unifying three previously independent railway systems, so it operates two different types of trains. Some routes are designated by letters, while others are designated by numbers. Trains of different routes can travel the same lines, while trains of one route can go by different railways, depending on the day of the week and the time of day. On average, the New York subway transports more than four million people daily. So its employees are busy enough doing important work and annoying them with silly questions is a waste of time.

Especially since the absolute majority of those millions of passengers who daily go down under the earth safely comes back to the surface.

The absolute majority, yes.



When Tony Logan descended to the 42nd Street station, it was almost 1 a.m. already. Tony's mood was extremely foul. To have to stay at office till midnight is not too pleasant by itself, and moreover, when it appears to be in vain... The buggy computer destroyed the work of several days (oh yes, all of us learned to make regular backups, and all of us remember it too late), and all attempts to restore information had also failed. Now the project will surely not meet the deadline, and then... "And then it probably won't be necessary to work late any more," Logan thought gloomily. "There simply will be no work."

The weather wasn't pleasing either. Since the September morning sun had been warm, Tony had thoughtlessly left home having put on nothing warmer than a shirt. But the evening dragged clouds in, and by night it became so cold that Logan almost had to run to warm himself. His office was nearly on the bank of Hudson, and in Manhattan south of Central Park and west of Eighth Avenue, there are no subway stations. Tony needed route Q, and usually in good weather he went on foot to Times Square along the surface, and in bad weather waited for a bus under a bus stop roof–but now both options were unattractive, so Logan was glad to dive into the subway heat near Port Authority, though it meant walking underground a whole block, and navigating by numerous signs. The 42nd Street station, where as many as ten routes meet, is a good example of a station, or, perhaps, a cluster of stations, forming a real labyrinth where, without signs, it is easy to lose one's way.

Logan, being upset, missed necessary turns and exits several times. At one point he was bewildered to find himself at a dead end. He turned back, looked around, and noticed two familiar signs "Uptown & Bronx" and "Downtown & Brooklyn." For some reason, there were no designations of routes. Logan, who lived in Brooklyn, turned left.

Having walked a little farther, he reached a staircase leading downwards, and began to descend absentmindedly. Mentally he was still far from his surroundings. Nevertheless, when something crackled unpleasantly under his foot, he noticed that the staircase looked dusty and dirty... as if it had not been in use for a long time. Tony even had a momentary thought of climbing back and checking whether he had passed, without having noticed, any sign announcing that that portion of the station was closed. However, as much as he remembered, in such cases there was always something more solid than just a sign which can be easily missed–namely, the tense yellow tape, a steel or wooden fence or other barrier. Since the New York subway, as well as the whole city, never sleeps, any maintenance or construction work is carried out on the fly. Sometimes it's necessary to close a whole station for awhile. So, considered Tony, here probably was a recent repair, and there was not enough time to clean away the trash–though this staircase did not look newly repaired in any way... Well, then, perhaps this passageway had been closed for a long time and now it is open because some other passageway was closed for maintenance.

He came down to a platform. Nowhere, as far as he could see, was anybody waiting. Probably, the train has just left, Logan thought with disappointment. At such time the next one will arrive no sooner than in fifteen minutes...

But isn't this the wrong line? Do Q trains go from here? There is only one way to the right of the platform... No, it is obviously not the place where Tony usually took the train. Or have they opened some alternate way, and he has not paid attention to a service change announcement? The station, in fact, looked no less abandoned than the staircase, and it was lit rather dimly... The clock over the platform, however, worked and showed 12:55 a.m. No, he probably missed a sign and has gone down to some other line. Tony approached the sign hanging over the edge of the platform. Not only were any route letters or numbers lacking, but even the mention of Brooklyn had disappeared. The inscription said simply: "Downtown".

Tony tried to remember whether any route not going to Brooklyn passes through the 42nd Street station. Yes, number 1 comes to an end in lower Manhattan... Then, just the same, he had come to the wrong place. He moved back toward the staircase, but at this moment the train appeared from the tunnel.

Logan shuddered in surprise. He had gotten used to the fact that a train approaching a station announces itself by noise and headlights, but this one appeared in the black throat of the tunnel somehow suddenly. There must be an abrupt turn, Tony guessed. And in the following instant, he gladly distinguished on the flat muzzle of the forward car the capital letter Q in a red circle.

Yes, probably, after all it is a temporary change of service causing the train to come to an alternate platform. Therefore the signs were not changed. Well, for a New Yorker, such things are not surprising.

The train stopped and opened its doors. Tony stepped into the air-conditioned cool and arranged himself on a seat, only after that noticing that, except for him, there was nobody in the car. Well, at one a.m. it's probably not too surprising, though usually there are at least two or three passengers in any subway car, especially here, in the center of Manhattan. And, by the way, has anybody came out to the platform from any car of the train? It seems, no... And this is really strange for such a busy station as 42nd Street, even at night. However, Tony, after all, had come in immediately, instead of looking around and waiting for exiting passengers... But, maybe, something is wrong with this train, and it goes straight to the depot? Then why did it open its doors? Well, let's assume, to let the last passengers out, but not to take on new ones. But this should be announced loudly, and a subway employee should pass through the train, checking whether everybody has left...

While Tony reflected on it, the doors closed and the train began moving. Oh, that's all he wanted after all today's other troubles–not to arrive at home, but at the depot! Logan stood up and, grasping a handrail, moved to the left, to the nearest end of the car. Having stopped before a door, he began observing the neighbor car. It looked empty, too–but not absolutely. In the distant end some Black man sat. Black not only meaning his skin color–all his clothes were absolutely black, too. Black and... disheveled, or something like that. Tony could not make out the details from such a distance. Probably, a homeless man in rags? More often homeless New Yorkers are dressed decently enough–not richly, of course, but also not in old, torn clothes. A few times, though, Logan also met quite classic beggars in tatters. He thought then that they probably selected such an image intentionally, and not at all because they did not know any charity organization supplying tramps with free food and clothing.

All right. Whoever that guy was, the fact that there were other passengers on a train calmed Logan. He returned to his former seat, wearily closed his eyes and relaxed, intending to doze. He needed a long ride, to Sheepshead Bay station, so he could fall asleep for a half-hour without risking missing his stop. Especially because stops are announced, which usually wakes you up and, understanding that it is still too early, you fall asleep again...

"Announced?" asked his brain, which was already ready to sink into a black abyss. Before doors were closed, did he really hear the classic phrase uttered by a recorded female voice? "This is a Brooklyn-bound Q local train. The next stop is..." No, not at all. Well, not all New York subway trains have this automatic feature, but the Q trains are so equipped. Probably, a malfunction of the loudspeaker. A loose contact...

Tony dozed off. He had some nasty dream: he still realized that was riding a train, however the tunnel was not a tunnel, but something like a huge gut, and the train did not roll on wheels, but crept, convulsively extending and contracting. It crept unexpectedly quickly for this way of moving, but nevertheless it was not fast enough–as in the clammy suffocating darkness behind it, something else moved. Moved, gradually decreasing the distance. Tony did not know what it was, but he knew that if it were to catch up, then... then... it would be more awful than any accident that ever happened in underground tunnels. Much, much more awful... He already felt its icy breath; he would like to shout, but fear had closed his throat with a spasm. And the train–or whatever it was actually–instead of rushing to safety suddenly began to slow down, as if purposely allowing the anonymous horror to overtake it...

Tony opened his eyes and abruptly raised his head. The train was actually braking, approaching the next station. And it was cold in the car. The air conditioner here was definitely overused. Maybe he'd better move to the next car? Though it may not be warmer there... also he would have to warm a new seat. Tony ruffled up, hiding his hands under his arms.

The train stopped. Doors opened behind Logan. In the opposite window he saw a ceiling- propping column, behind it–the counter way sunk in twilight and behind it–a hardly distinguishable platform. What station is it? It was almost impossible to discern an inscription on the distant wall, but it still seemed to Tony that he saw a figure 8. "Eighth Street - New York University"? But Q trains do not stop there. N and R, which use the same line–yes, but not Q. However, if there was really a change of service... Or has he nevertheless taken the wrong train? But no, it is unlikely the Eighth, there is a two-digit number. 28th? Q does not stop there, too, and more to the point–this vertical dash can not be "2" anyway. 18th Street? But it is somewhere on the red lines, and Q goes on the yellow ones...

Tony jumped up, wanting to leave before this train delivers him the devil knows where. But the doors had closed already. He swept his eyes over the car in search of subway maps which always hang in every car. But in this one they did not. Ubiquitous advertising was on the walls, but no maps. Electronic boards showing the current station also were absent.

But he found that he was not alone anymore.

Close to the opposite end of the car, a child sat. It seemed to be a boy, and not older than nine years. He was dressed in a thick jacket and a knitted cap–perhaps too warmly for September, even considering an evening cold snap. But the main point–why is a little child alone in the subway after one o'clock at night? What are his parents thinking and does he have parents at all?

The child sat motionlessly, probably slept, too. His cap was drawn so low that it covered his eyes and his chin hid in a jacket collar. Logan reflected on whether it was necessary to interfere. Probably, the boy was lost or had run away from home. On the other hand, Tony did not enjoy the prospect of the additional fuss if it was necessary to call the police or other authorities. Besides, modern children have learned to keep as far as possible from strangers... If such a demure little thing says "this bad man bothered me," try to prove then...

All right. He will simply ask the boy whether help is necessary.

Tony passed along the car, continually catching the handrails (and why does this train shake so much? He didn't remember such jolting on this line), and stopped opposite the child.

"Hey, kid!" he called, not too loudly so as not to frighten. "Are you all right?"

The child did not answer and did not react at all. From above Tony could not see his face–only a cap from under which a thin peaky nose, similar to a bird's beak, stuck out. And something in this nose was... wrong. Repulsive.

Logan sat down on hunkers before the silent child, clinging by hand to an empty seat to the left. Even in such a position, Tony did not see clearly the face hidden by a cap and a collar. Only a bone white nose-beak bent from top to bottom, and sharply prominent cheekbones with deep shadows under them. The boy was probably very thin, even emaciated.

Tony called him again, but the child still did not move nor in any way showed that he heard. Logan felt real dismay at the silence of this strange child in an empty night train. Most of all he would like to stand up and go away–not even to his former seat, but to another car. Nevertheless, he reached out and, having mumbled, "Don't be afraid, I only want to see whether you are okay," pulled the cap from the boy.

And was struck dumb with an open mouth.

The head appeared to be almost absolutely bald, only here and there, like mold stains, weightless white shreds grew. The mushroom-like skull was fitted with a dry skin, all in senile pigment spots and so thin that it seemed likely to tear at any moment; under the skin knotty blue veins boldly bulged. An unnaturally big forehead, standing out like two hillocks, hung over the small wrinkled face which had gathered in folds around the fallen-in mouth and deeply sunken eyes. These eyes, the muddy sick eyes of a decrepit old man, were open and looked directly at Logan, without moving and without blinking.

"S-sorry," Tony stammered, put the cap on the knees of the sitting child, and hastily stood up. He felt too awkward to remain here, so he decided to go to the next car. Ignoring a sign forbidding transiting cars on the move, he opened the car door and stepped into the space between cars. The tunnel roar deafened him, and the cold wind angrily jerked his hair and shirt. The clanking metal of two narrow semicircular platforms shook underfoot as if aiming to dump him on the rails, and low-sagged soft handrails on each side hardly could prevent it. Tony hastily seized the door handle ahead and tried to turn it, but the door refused to open. In an instant panic attack, Logan fancied that he could not go back either, and would have to ride between cars until the nearest station... at the best case. He desperately jerked the handle again, and this time the door yielded–previously he had simply pulled in the wrong direction, Tony realized, walking into the new car.

There was nobody here, either. Well, okay, no passengers is better than... And, after all, this small person, apparently, is really a child, not an old dwarf, Logan thought. There is such an illness... genetic, as far as he remembered...

Then he still needed to inform the train operator. The seriously ill child was alone at night and, seemingly, in complete prostration...

Tony approached an intercom and pressed the button. No voice answered him, but from the speaker a small noise was heard, showing that communication had been established.

"Here... that is, not here, but in the next car, an old boy... that is, I wanted to say, a little boy is sick with old age... " Tony confusedly began. And what, by the way, if the train operator had not heard about such an illness and decides it's a prank? "It seems to me, there is a person here who needs help. Do you hear me? Hello?"

Still nobody answered. But from the speaker came... sounds. At first, Tony thought the noise was just interference. But no, it did not resemble the usual static and cracklings. More likely such a sound can be produced only by something wet... sticky... mucous... if it slowly moves, coming unstuck and sticking together again.

"Hello?" Logan once again shouted, but the only response was the same sounds.

"Nevertheless, it's interference," Tony told to himself. "This piece of crap is faulty."

And what works normally in this train?!

Maps of the subway and of the current route, seemingly, were absent in this car, too. There was only the advertising pasted between windows. What was, by the way, advertised here? Logan had gotten used to ignoring posters in the subway, without giving them a look even in boredom, but now he suddenly felt curious. He looked at the nearest poster.

"CORPSES. THE EXHIBITION"

Tony shuddered when his eyes stopped at the large letters. Then he remembered hearing about this exhibition. Its founder was some German pathologist who built a large-scale exposition of embalmed human bodies, displaying them in various poses and dissections, whole and in parts, showing the structure of muscles, sinews and visceral organs... Probably, really informative, especially for medical students, but Logan absolutely was not a fan of such shows and would not go there even if the entrance fee were paid to visitors, not by them. Giving one more look at the poster–which displayed a color image of a skinless pregnant woman whose laid-open belly contained a lengthways-cut fetus within the stretched ring of her cleaved uterus (why didn't various activists either for or against abortions raise a cry?)–Tony fastidiously frowned and went farther along the car.

His glance indifferently slipped across the next poster, an eyesore probably to each passenger of the New York subway. A schematic red figure struggled against closing car doors. "Hold your urge to hold the doors. Wait for the next train." And something about you making everyone wait and how many trains are regularly late because of such irresponsible passengers... Oh yes, of course. Who would object to waiting ten minutes or even more for the next train? No, better let everyone be several seconds late, than I for a quarter of an hour.

Tony was already going to move on, but something forced him to turn back again. Something was wrong with this poster. And in the following moment he understood what exactly.

The head of the red figure was almost completely cut off by the subway doors. Blood splashes were scattered around. Blood also splashed down the closing edges of doors forming a kind of guillotine.

Haw. It seems that someone understood that plain warnings didn't work and decided to strengthen the emotional impact. Though, of course, real doors of subway cars are not capable of such things...

By the way, the exhibition advertising differed from the usual, too, Logan realized. First, there was this ripped up woman instead of cheerful dead sportsmen. Secondly, the title was a bit different. It seems that that exhibition was called "Bodies," instead of "Corpses." But, what's a slight difference in wording?

At this moment the train began sharply braking, and Logan, having missed a handrail by his hand, clumsily plopped down on a seat. Outside the windows, dimly lit numbers "14" on breast boards of eagles passed. "Fourteenth Street?" Q trains definitely stop at the 14th Street station, but Logan could not remember these eagles. Some nasty story was connected with this station... Oh yes, a major accident with casualties in the early nineties. Tony was in elementary school in Connecticut at that time, but remembered how his parents had discussed this accident. More precisely, not the smash-up itself, but the fact that the train operator–or were they still called motormen that time?–was sentenced to fifteen years of prison for it. So, by now he should be released...

Doors opened, and Tony heard the incoming knock of heels. More precisely, one heel; then there was a short pause and a slow shuffling, and then new abrupt clatter followed. Logan turned his head and saw a girl entering the car. Yes indeed–the poor creature had broken a heel and now limped, shuffling her foot. For some reason she held the heelless right foot sideways, putting it on edge, as if the foot was sprained and could not return it to its normal position. That, certainly, was not possible–in this case any attempt to put her body weight on it, increasing the strain, would cause terrible pain.

In other respects, however, the girl was quite usual–even more, attractive. Slender, in a light summer blouse with a miniskirt (probably, she also believed the morning sun when she left her house, Tony thought sympathetically), long nut-brown hair, a bit twisted on the ends, a nice profile. She passed by Logan in her limping gait and sat down opposite and obliquely to him. Now he noticed that, while on the right side her hair passed behind an ear, at the left, on the contrary, it hung over her face, almost completely hiding an eye and a cheek.

"Excuse me, Miss," Tony called her, "is this the Q train?"

The girl answered nothing and did not even look in his direction. The doors closed, and the train got under way.

"Probably, she thought that I was trying to pick her up," Logan thought, "so she's ignoring me. Really, my question sounded silly: the person already on a train asks someone just getting on what train it is. If it were on the contrary..."

Nevertheless Logan felt more and more uncomfortable on the train and the desire to talk to a normal person became stronger than thoughts about possible negative reactions. "Well, what will she do, eventually–call the police through the intercom? Hm, let her try," Tony mentally grinned. "Though she could have a taser... or even a gun..."

As a result he chose a compromise: he did not sit near the girl but only moved to a seat opposite her.

"I must apologize for troubling you," he said as politely as possible, "but I'm confused. There are no maps and stops are not announced here. When I entered, it seemed to me that this was the Q train, but now I'm not sure. I don't recognize the stations. Was there any change of service? And what happened, by the way, to the electricity, do you know? Why are stations lit so badly? Budget cuts? You know, I seldom ride so late, but it seemed to me..."

The girl still was silent and did not react in any way. Exactly as that senile child. The long hair obscuring the left half of her face rocked slightly with the car movement. "Maybe she's deaf?" Tony thought. "However, deaf people are usually able to read lips..."

All right. If she prefers to ignore him, he has no right to force the issue. And he will get off at the next stop. Will get off and wait for a normal train, however long it takes.

Nevertheless, the girl looked at him with her only open eye. Probably, she was waiting for whatever he would say or do further. Tony, feeling that to stare back at her would be rude, muttered, "Never mind, excuse me" and looked away. But, after looking around for some time ("CORPSES. THE EXHIBITION!"), he felt that she was still looking at him. Not expectantly, not savagely, not even enticingly. Simply looking. And there was something unnatural about her gaze. Something that made Logan feel even more creepy. She doesn't blink, Tony realized. She has never blinked...

Forcing himself (why is it so difficult to look in the eyes of a stranger?), he again focused his eyes on her face. And then understood that his imagination played a trick on him. The right eye of the girl was closed. Possibly, she had decided to sleep until her stop, too...

However, Logan never before saw anybody that slept sitting bolt upright, without throwing the head back or drooping it on the chest.

And he felt an irrational confidence that her left eye was not closed–not at all, but watched him from under hanging-down hair.

Following an unaccountable impulse, he moved to his former place to get away from this supposed gaze. He was almost sure that she would turn her head to follow him. But the silent girl remained sitting as before.

The train began to brake sharply again before a station. Tony was going to rise, as soon as the train stopped. But the girl moved first. Paying no attention to inertia which should have tumbled her down, especially considering the current instability of her gait–she, shuffling the turned foot the same way, moved towards Tony. He froze in his seat, looking at her with absolutely irrational fear. The girl, however, passed by him and turned to the doors, obviously going to exit.

Was it his illusion, or had her right eye really remain closed?

Now Tony could not answer this question any more because the girl stood with her left profile to him, which was still concealed by hair.

The train stopped and the doors opened. The girl stepped onto the platform outside, and at the very same time wind from a tunnel rushed into the car and for an instant blew her hair aside.

A spasm seized Logan's throat.

He saw damp meat... wet, shapeless, exuding ichor... a hole with torn edges in place of an eye, from which some tatters hung down... naked gums and teeth where there should be a cheek... a dangling torn-off lip similar to a fat dead worm...

All this lasted less than a second. In the next instant, the girl was already on the platform. And no force in the world could make Tony follow her.

"You did not see it," he told himself. "She just has, well, a birthmark covering the whole cheek. A very ugly birthmark. Therefore she wears her hair this way. And all the rest you simply imagined. My God, in a such a short time it was simply impossible to make out such details!"

But, nevertheless, he remained on his seat, as if he were glued. He still heard receding clattering-shuffling sounds.

Doors slammed. Dirty, dimly lit letters floated by the windows: "Myrtle Ave."

What the hell? Myrtle Avenue is in northern Brooklyn. And there are neither Q train stops nor parallel routes on it. It seemed like farther to the east there was a subway station belonging to the brown line. But, the main thing, if the train is in Brooklyn, it had to pass over the bridge! Manhattan bridge or, at the worst, Williamsburg, if it is indeed a "brown" station. But Tony could swear that the train had remained underground all the time. After all, it is impossible to be mistaken about this even at night. It is possible of course to cross the East River by a tunnel, but those routes definitely do not go through any Myrtle...

"It's a bad dream," Tony thought. "I've fallen asleep in a subway train and am having a nightmare..." It was impossible to wake up, however. And, as if wishing to prove the reality of the situation, the train once again began to brake sharply, almost tumbling Logan down on a seat. This time the appeared to be very short.

"Is he crazy?" Tony angrily thought about the train operator. "Why is he braking this way all the time?"

"And what if that's true," a wild thought flashed. "The crazy train operator drives the train goodness knows where, paying no attention to routes and the schedule... However, even a madman can't go where rails aren't laid."

In the following moment, Tony read the name of the next station with relief: "DeKalb Ave."

Well, at last. So, Brooklyn after all, and it's unimportant how he arrived here. Five routes meet at the DeKalb Avenue station and here Tony can change to the normal Q train. He could hardly wait when the doors opened and allowed him to jump out onto the platform.

He had time to take some steps. Had time to notice that the platform was empty and garbage lay about everywhere. Had time to see the "Downtown" sign, though in Brooklyn stations they do not use such a sign...

And then the lights went out.

Tony stopped dead, then turned towards the train that still was at a stop, lit from within, with hospitably opened doors. Strange, but light from the windows for some reason did not disperse the surrounding darkness at all.

"No, thanks!" Logan mentally said to the waiting train and walked through the darkness, extending his hand forward. He could see the train sideways from him and he was assured that he wouldn't fall down from the platform. Even if there is an power failure in the station, somewhere here should be a staircase... he saw it while the station lights were still on...

His hand encountered something soft.

More precisely, someone. Logan understood that he was touching a person dressed, apparently, in something woolen.

"Sorry," Tony confusedly muttered, hastily withdrawing his hand. "Do you know what happened to the electricity? And where is a staircase?"

The person answered nothing and seemed to not move at all.

And then Tony remembered that a few seconds ago, there was nobody on the platform. And he had not heard any steps since then.

Logan recoiled.

And then from the darkness sounds came. No, not from where somebody silently stood. From the other side. A heavy breath and a sound as if a body was being dragged on a stone floor. And these sounds were approaching.

Tony quickly turned and rushed to the open doors of the nearest car. It was very clear to him that these doors would close immediately. He would be only a fraction of second late. A fraction, still sufficient time to push his head between closing doors... and to experience the same fate as the red figure on the poster. This abrupt fear was so strong that, already having reached the doors, Tony almost recoiled back, but nevertheless forced himself to jump in, feeling during this moment, as if he was jumping from one skyscraper roof to another. With great relief he fell on the nearest seat.

"Well, and why were you so frightened?" inquired common sense, which appeared, as usual, after instinct. "There is a power failure at the station. Workers probably are simply dragging a cable or something like that."

Yes, certainly.

But why don't these workers use flashlights in the dark?

And then Tony realized that he was still hearing those dragging sounds and they were approaching again. Now he mentally begged the doors to close as soon as possible. But they still remained wide open.

And then Logan saw a man creeping into the car.

He snuffled and puffed, but crept rather fast, pushing off the floor with his hands...crept without rising his head, so Tony could not see his face. He saw only a shining bald pate and a dirty gray coat which was puffing up on his back.

And just when the man was halfway in the car, the doors slammed and chopped his legs off at the groin.

The train moved. Tony screamed.

The maimed man turned in the aisle and crawled straight towards Logan.

There wasn't any blood. There was none on the floor, nor on the remnants of the creeper's trousers. The doors apparently were free of blood, too–while Logan, who was sitting with his back to the dark platform, hardly could make them out from such foreshortening. He understood that he once again had become a victim of his own imagination. The man's legs had not been chopped off tonight, this man had not them for a long time...

If it was a man at all.

Tony looked in dismay at this stump quickly creeping along the aisle between seats. He could not imagine a disabled person who would behave this way. At home, having fallen from a wheelchair or a bed–certainly, a legless man has no other option than to creep on a floor on his hands. But in a public place, in a subway, and before, obviously, on the street–otherwise how did he get here? The most terrible impression was made by the fact that the creeper did not lift his head at all and almost dragged his face along the dirty floor...

As if having heard Tony's thoughts, the freak, now separated from Logan by no more than one and a half yards, began to raise his head.

But before Tony, who was frozen in horror, had time to see his face, the light shut off in the train, dipping all cars into the absolute darkness of underground.

Tony could not stand it. He jumped up and blindly rushed away down the aisle, hearing behind him the same sounds of a dragged body. His extended hand ran across a door at the end of the car. In his panic, he could not grasp the handle and began to rummage blindly on glass and plastic. Sounds behind were quickly approaching and Tony thought that he would be seized by his ankle any moment. But his fingers caught the handle, which moved with a click. Tony stepped again into the roaring intercar space blown by an icy wind–but this time in complete darkness. Now he was moving in the opposite direction–not to the head of the train, but to its tail. And at that moment, the next, especially sharp lurch of cars, ruined his balance, knocking the support out from under his feet! But fortunately, already falling into darkness, Tony managed to grab an invisible handrail. For some seconds he stood, grasping the handrail with both hands and waiting in horror for the sound of an opening door behind his back. Then Logan thought that the legless man simply could not reach the handle from the floor, and felt himself grow slightly more confident. He made himself unhook his right hand from the handrail and reach for the door to the next car. On the second or third attempt, he caught the door handle which was wiggling in the dark and entered the next car.

He still would like to get as far as possible from that... creature, and, spreading wide his raised hands and catching first the left and then the right handrails, he came up almost to the end of the car. Nothing hindered him. At last he turned aside and flopped on a seat–which he could not see, but was assured that it was empty. This time his intuition had not deceived him.

He tried to summon his common sense–though now, in the dark, it turned out especially hard. "It's a shame to run from an unfortunate cripple," Tony told himself. "Perhaps the poor fellow simply needed help... But then why didn't he ask for it? Did he lack not only legs, but a tongue as well?"

And what if this man was simply drunk? Or mentally sick? Anyway–what harm can be caused to a strong and healthy guy by a legless man wriggling on the floor?

But at this moment, one more source of unease, besides darkness and uncertainty, broke through these reasonable thoughts. A smell. Tony distinctly smelled a faint, but heavy, stench. It it were stronger, he surely would vomit.

After suspiciously sniffing for some time, he understood that the smell came from himself.

More precisely, from his hand. The hand which had touched someone in the dark. It seemed to him that his fingers were covered now by some dirt. Slippy and rotten, judging by the smell.

However, that creature was not necessarily the reason. Quite probably that sticky muck was on a handrail or door handles which it had grabbed.

Tony began to rub his hand against the next seat, though firm cold plastic could hardly substitute for a towel...

"Anyway, this isn't a nightmare," Logan gloomily thought, holding his hand away from his nose. "My sensations are too bright and distinct." He did not remember himself ever smelling anything in a sleep, and his sense of touch in dreams always was significantly dulled. Still smelling the rotten stench–and hoping that now it mostly came from the seat–he stood up and, stretching his hands forwards, crossed obliquely the aisle in the dark and took a seat at the very end of the car.

It solved the problem only partly.

Having sniffed, he again noticed an unpleasant smell–but not the scent of decay. Different. Now the smell of something burned was clearly felt in the air.

"A fire in this hellish train will cap it all!" Tony thought, turning his head in search of flames. But there was still an impenetrable darkness all around. And the smell... no, it did not contain the caustic bitterness of fresh smoke. More likely such a smell can be produced by something that has burnt out already. Something cooled down long ago... cold...

Logan suddenly remembered the Black man, sitting in the far end of a car. Apparently, it was this car... and he sat somewhere right here. Or on an opposite seat? Tony tried to remember, but he could not. And now Logan had the clear feeling that, just slightly moving his hand, he would touch that person. But he did not want to do it–oh no! Even at the thought of touching whoever was sitting next to him, his hand became as heavy as not even lead but... what is heavier? Uranium? Let it be uranium.

The train began to reduce speed again until it stopped at a station sunk in impenetrable darkness. Or probably in the middle of the tunnel? But if it was the tunnel, why open the doors?

And then Tony heard clatter of heels on a platform. This time without any shuffling. The unknown woman went steadily as if the station and the train were brightly lit. She entered the car through the door nearest to Tony. Heels clattered several more times, approaching. Then the sound ceased. But by almost inaudible movement of air he understood that she had eased onto a seat to the left of him.

So, there had been nobody on the nearest seat before–the Black man had either left earlier, or had been sitting opposite... But that was before. And now...

"She's simply blind", Logan tried to convince himself. "So it's all the same to her if there is light or not. She doesn't even know about the power failure." Oh yes, one more almost feasible version. But, even if he believed in such a concentration of sick and disabled people on one night train, Tony had observed blind persons before. In the dark they, of course, are more confident than sighted people–but still less confident than a person able to see in the light. A blind woman would tap her way with a cane and the noise would be audible. She would not go stamping along like a person who knows precisely where she's going... or who does not care about it at all.

The train again started off.

Tony sat next to the invisible woman without daring to move and almost trying not to breathe. He didn't know whether she knew about his presence. He didn't know what would happen if he drew her attention. And, despite all rational hypotheses, he absolutely, definitely did not want to check it.

And then he felt a cold touch on his hip.

Tony didn't scream. Perhaps, because the fear of betraying his presence was stronger. Or simply because he understood–he wasn't touched by fingers or anything similar. Not by an object at all. It was a liquid. A liquid had flowed under his hip from the next seat.

"Blood," he thought. "She's bleeding profusely".

However, the liquid was not warm. It was hardly anything... physiological. Perhaps, she simply had a bag and in it–a self-opened can of beer. Or cola. Or any fruit or vegetable juice. Or... even more simple: a wet umbrella and a raincoat. Since the evening sky had been overcast, it could be raining now... However, isn't it too much water even for a very wet umbrella? Not just individual drops, but a whole pool flowing into the next seat... Tony felt the liquid seeping farther along his leg. Doesn't she feel that she's sitting in a pool? And why the hell is he resignedly suffering it? If it is not simple water, his trousers are already spoiled. At least they should be washed... He should express his indignation to this person, whoever she is! Or, at least, stand up and change his seat!

But in this impenetrable darkness he didn't dare do that either.

The train again began to brake and entered the next station dipped in gloom. However, this time the dark was not absolute. Beyond the car windows, an ominous, dim crimson shimmer shivered and fluctuated. And when the doors opened, Tony saw its source.

Right on the platform a fire burned. As if a cave fire of the Stone Age. Or... the brazier of an executioner in an inquisition dungeon. But no–there was no brazier, no designated border of a fireplace. Probably, some garbage dumped on the platform was burning there–and, judging by ashes around the fire, had been burning for a long time already. The flame gave oddly little light and seemed dense and heavy; it slowly waved, without shooting sparks; streams of a black smoke reached for a ceiling, indiscernible in darkness. The strangest thing was that the fire burned absolutely silently, without any crackling, and, because of this, seemed even more ominous.

Tony, distracted for an instant by this show, not so much heard as felt his neighbor stand up. Heels clattered to an open door. Logan saw her dark silhouette against a flame, and then she stepped outside, turning away from the fire, and was gone in the gloom which absorbed her completely, together with the knock of her heels. Tony could not distinguish any details other than that her clothes, apparently, were really wet and hung sticking around her body.

But he saw something else. The Black man sat directly opposite to him.

However, fire flaring behind Tony's back allowed him to discern only the general silhouette of a heavy figure. Not a single facial feature; Tony could not even see if the man's eyes were open or closed. But he, in his turn, Logan understood, should see my face well enough...

Tony did not know what inspired more dismay–the prospect of remaining seated opposite the silent black figure or exiting at such station. Nevertheless he forced himself to rise sharply–and at the same moment almost fell to the floor. His right leg gave way like rubber; he could not feel it. Obviously, it was numb due to sitting a long time in an awkward pose when he did not dare to move near that wet passenger... Having lost his balance, Tony reflexively threw his hand forward while already knowing what would happen next–and indeed, at the following instant his hand stuck the Black man's shoulder with some force.

Logan not so much heard as felt an unpleasant crunch under his fingers.

"Oh my God," Tony thought, "I've broken his collar bone!"

"S-sorry," he stammered. "Are you all right?"

Logan was not very much surprised when he heard no answer. But just in case he moved back and to the side.

Doors slammed and, beyond the car window, dirty smoked letters, dimly lit with crimson shimmer, crept: "Worth Street."

Logan would not swear that he knew the nearly five hundred stations of the New York subway, but was still confident that there was no Worth Street Station among them. Be it in any distant suburb of Bronx or Queens which he never visited, he still could doubt–but not in Brooklyn. In Brooklyn there is no street with such a name. presents in southern Manhattan (how could he appear there again?!), but on it there is no subway station. For this he was ready to be charged by life.

However, at the same moment he thought that in current circumstances it is better to refrain from such guarantees.

The fire passed behind with the mysterious station, and Tony again found himself in a roaring, shaking darkness. He took some steps teetering in the aisle (his leg still didn't obey him very well), then plopped down on a seat, fortunately, not occupied by anybody. Then his left hand touched his wet trouser leg–no, it definitely was not sticky–and with fastidious care he brought his fingers to his nose.

Definitely not blood and not beer. And not urine. Water, he thought. Simply cold water...

With an oozy river smell which could hardly belong to rain drops.

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.

He slowly moved farther through darkness and after several seconds, though trying to go carefully, stumbled against the bottom step of one more staircase. This one probably led to the street; ahead the gloom was not so impenetrable. Tony began to climb again and soon reached the surface.

But it was not an usual exit from the subway–framed with a metal lattice or a stone border, or hidden in a glazed box, with inevitable green-white or green spheres on each side. It was simply a hole in the earth; the staircase did not reach its edge. It would be possible to assume repairs were under way here if the pit were surrounded with any protection, Tony mused. But there were no fences, barriers or tense yellow tape; only a hole in the middle of sidewalk, as if a trap for night passersby–especially on such a dark moonless night... All right, to hell with this hole and with all lawsuits to be filed against the city by people who fall down here! Tony was immensely glad to get out at last to fresh air, even cold air...

Cold, yes–as Logan expected (there was no rain, however). But not so fresh. Tony saw through the gloom the outline of buildings, slightly faded by fog, and understood that he was outdoors–but the air around was musty, as in a damp cellar where nobody had entered for fifty years.

All right. The central part of New York is not an Alpine resort. The narrow streets of Manhattan, as if cut through a continuous mass of skyscrapers, can smell unpleasant–though usually it happens on a hot and stuffy afternoon, and a fog here is a real rarity, it is not London... However, of course, if after a warm day it has sharply become cold... But the main thing, after all, is to figure out how to get home to Brooklyn. Tony, of course, was not going to dive back in the underground hole. And even if he were to find a normal entrance to a normal station–there, in principle, should be several nearby–he had had enough subway for today! There was some bus from Manhattan to Brooklyn, but does it go at night? Tony strongly doubted that. Looks like it is necessary to fork out for a taxi... Logan had no intention of staying here till morning, really!

But first–where is he, after all? Tony, whose spirit had just been encouraged by the end of his underground adventures, looked around with increasing confusion. If he, indeed, had gotten out from City Hall station, even through some closed and abandoned exit, nearby there should be New York City Hall itself, and a courthouse, and the bulk of the Municipal Building topped with a gold statue to the northeast of them, and to the west–Broadway with the Woolworth Building. With such recognizable reference points, it is impossible to lose one's way. However, Tony did not see anything familiar.

In the gloom directly before him, impassable thickets sprawled. Thick, curved, knotty branches stuck out extensively in a hilly-clumsy place disfigured by ugly fissured outgrowths. Naked branches, similar to picked bones, intertwined at inconceivable angles, squeezing tree trunks in suffocating embraces like monsters' tentacles tightly linked in a last painful agony. Here and there, hung down dirty rotten tatters of exfoliated bark and long shreds of polyethylene (probably blown onto branches by the wind). But nowhere, despite the early autumn, was a single leaf.

Never in all his life had Tony seen such ugly plants. They resembled not at all the numerous trees surrounding City Hall. And, nevertheless, these terrible thickets were enclosed by a high and strong metal fence (also nothing like City Hall Park's low fence); however, branches had intertwined with it long ago and sprouted through it. In some places, corroded fence rods were bent and broken under pressure from the branches. In other places, the rods had grown into the wood, piercing thick branches and curved trunks, bulging them like bursting abscesses and strengthening the impression of a deadly fight without winners. If there were any buildings behind all this mess, it was impossible to distinguish them in darkness through the interlacing of branches. Tony felt almost physical discomfort from this view–it resembled everted guts stricken with cancer with plural metastasizes. Trembling with cold (and, probably, not only with cold), Logan hastily walked along the fence to the left–as he believed, to the west.

But the narrow street where he soon found himself resembled Broadway as little as these terrible dead tangles resembled City Hall Park. There were no skyscrapers on this street. Only gloomy brick houses like those built in city slums before the Second World War–or maybe even before the First. Somber, ugly dark cubes–Tony knew that even in daylight their walls would look dirty brown–six or eight floors, without any decoration or plaster, and with rusty zigzags of fire escape stairs hanging outside. Some windows gaped with broken glass or had been boarded up with plywood; in none of them was there a single spark of light. The street, as far as the eye could see, was absolutely empty, without either cars or pedestrians. But even the dark could not hide how much garbage was on the street. Not only on the sidewalks, but on the trafficway as well, as if nobody had driven here for a long time. Tony shuddered, nearly stepping on a dead pigeon. The carcass was almost decayed and from under the tousled feathers small bones gleamed whitely.

What area is it? The boondocks of Harlem or Bronx? How he could be there if just recently he was on DeKalb Avenue in Brooklyn? And City Hall Station... no matter how it looks, there is only one City Hall in New York and it is in lower Manhattan!

Perhaps something is wrong with his mind? Hallucinations? Memory blackouts? He definitely didn't want to believe in anything like this, but, after all, these events should have an explanation! What time is it now, by the way? Perhaps almost daybreak already? Tony looked at his watch but could not see the hands in the darkness. The cellphone! It shows time, too! And, by the way, it's not a bad idea to make a call... only to what number? There was probably no lawful reason to call 911 and he did not remember any phone numbers to call a taxi.

Nevertheless, he reached into his pocket and, having darted a glance around–the last thing he wanted would be the arrival of any thugs interested in his cellphone, an expensive folding model–he pulled out the device. He unfolded the phone, woke it up by pressing a button, and looked at its right corner, where the time was displayed... 12:00 a.m.

What? It can't be. He had sat down in that devil's train nearly at 1 a.m. and now it's probably not less than two... Anyway, definitely not midnight.

Had he, without noticing it, spent almost a day underground?

No, that's impossible. How could he–without eating, drinking... or even going to a toilet? It is more logical to assume that the damned cellphone is buggy.

Then Logan's gaze moved to the left corner of the screen, where the signal level indicator should be. He expected to see there, at the best, the usual five bars, or in the worst case–none, although, of course, in New York there could be no open air place not covered by cellular communication. But what he was unprepared for was total emptiness. In the left top corner was missing not only signal bars, but even the icon of an aerial.

Well, of course. The popular Japanese thing had fritzed out. However, it was only Japanese in name, but where it was assembled actually... that damned globalization! Luckily, the warranty had not expired yet...

Nevertheless he opened his contacts list and examined the names. Logan lived alone and had no close friends–so, perhaps, among people in his telephone directory, there was nobody who could be called in the middle of night without a very serious reason. Not that he expected to receive any help, but simply wanted to check whether the phone actually worked or not. Probably to key in any random number and then to apologize for a mistake is better than to disturb those who know you...

So he made his call, taking for a basis the number of one of his colleagues and having changed a pair of digits. He heard no ring. Nothing at all. But Tony knew that it was not the silence of an inoperable phone. Simply the call was taken on the other end before the first ring. The call was taken, but no answer was given.

"Hello?" Tony said uncertainly. "Hello, Jim?"

It was the first name which came to his mind and he thought at the same moment how funny it would be if the unknown call recipient was actually Jim.

However, whoever it was did not respond. There still were no sounds on the phone. But Tony nevertheless felt that someone was listening.

"Sorry," he said, "I mistook the number," and hung up.

All the same, most likely, it was a malfunction of the cellphone. Tony folded it and began to put into his pocket.

The phone rang.

In the deserted night street its melody seemed a siren roar to Logan, and he, having shuddered in fright, hastily pressed the green button with a receiver picture only to stop this noise.

"Hello?" he said in much lower voice.

Silence.

"Are you the one I just called? Excuse me, I've already said it was an mistake. I think my phone is malfunctioning."

Tony waited a little more, but, still receiving no response, said, "Good night," and disconnected. And then he looked at options to lower the phone's loudness.

But before he could change anything, the phone rang again.

"Hello!" Logan bellowed with irritation.

He got no answer again.

"Well, fine," Tony thought, "I can be silent, too!" He demonstrated this ability during the next minute, and then, still having achieved nothing, again moved his finger to the red button. But before he had time to hang up, he heard... sounds. As if something rotten and slimy moved, sticking together and coming unstuck again. The same sounds as in the train intercom.

Logan reflexively pressed the button, breaking the communication.

Hastily having left options mode, he entered "Received Calls". He was almost assured that he would see the same number he has typed before, but wanted to be sure.

He was mistaken. No, it was not another number. There was no number at all. Only a name: "Edward Luciano."

Tony did not know any Edward Luciano and, naturally, did not have him in his contact list. Among his acquaintances there was nobody with an Italian name at all. Besides, the number should be highlighted anyway... What the hell is it? A virus? Tony had heard about viruses for cell phones... Just in case he chose "Options–Block."

The phone rang again, vibrating in his fingers.

Logan shook so violently that he nearly dropped the device. Then he pressed the switch-off button and waited until the screen went out. Having thought a little more, he pulled out the battery and SIM card and stuffed them in different pockets.

The phone was silent and showed no signs of life. Tony looked at it mistrustfully, thinking that if it made a sound again, he would throw it in the nearest trash can, and the hell with how much he had paid for this miracle of technology. First, though, a trash can needed to be found...

But the phone, placed back into a pocket, behaved how a disconnected electronic device should. After spending a few more minutes in suspense, Tony calmed down and walked in the direction which would be south if this dirtied foul place were Broadway and if the gardener nightmare behind him were City Hall Park.

However these surroundings, as far as it was possible to make out in the dark, were not becoming any more attractive–in fact, just the contrary. The street, narrow and dirty as a suppurating wound from a slashing blade, passed between two rows of crowded and ragged houses which appeared absolutely uninhabited. There were even more broken windows and the intact ones–at least on the lower floors, which Tony could see most clearly–were nearly opaque with dust. Logan, who never before had looked in someone else's windows, tried to wipe some of them, but it did not help–they were as dirty inside as outside. The walls had no graffiti, though, in an area like this, they should be everywhere. Fire escape stairs here and there lacked wells, allowing rusty steps to break right in emptiness. House numbers mostly were absent, and where they were still present, they seemed a senseless series of digits. House number 183 followed 1547, then two houses with no numbers, and then 804–without observance not only to an order, but also to a principle of even and odd sides. And all this was within the single, infinitely long block. Tony went on in hope of finding a crossroads and reading the street name on it, but the walls of this stone gorge had not a single gap. Occasionally, at odd intervals, were street lamps and they had different designs–some light poles were concrete, others wooden, and the lamps were either modern ovals, or glass spheres or obviously archaic polyhedrons. But the main thing–none of them were lit, the covers often were broken, and the poles–lop-sided, with torn off wires. But the darkness still was not absolute–which is, however, natural enough for a city, especially on cloudy nights when low clouds reflect city lights. But Tony saw neither lights, nor clouds, nor stars. Only darkness hung over the city–darkness in its pure state, homogeneous and impenetrable.

He came upon a dead pigeon again. Then one more. And here a decaying seagull lay with spread shabby wings, like a dead eagle of a fallen empire. Strange–usually seagulls keep to coasts and do not fly deep into the city... Perhaps, the coast is very close?

Tony raised his eyes from the carrion–and shivered. Towards him along the street a person walked.

Logan knew perfectly well that at night in bad areas, especially when you were alone, it was possible to have most unpleasant meetings. However the figure going right on a trafficway didn't resemble a street thug at all. But looking at the figure still made Tony feel a little odd. First of all, this person wasn't dressed according to the season: he had on a baggy winter jacket and a fur cap with long ears tied under his chin. He also wore a scarf wrapped around his face up to his eyes. And, seemingly, despite all it, he still could not get warm, as he hid his hands under his arms. His gait was also strange–the figure hobbled on half-bent legs, spreading knees wide sideways and turning out his feet almost 180 degrees. The head was also turned to the right at such an angle that Tony wondered this creature did not break his neck. At first Logan thought that the stranger purposely had turned away from him, but, seemingly, he had been walking this way for a long time without noticing Logan at all.

Nevertheless, though the looks of the stranger brought unaccountable fear, Tony decided to talk with him. It was the first live being he had met on the surface and he needed to find out what this rotten place was and how, damn it all, to get from here to a normal part of Manhattan.

"Sir!" Logan called, surprised at the hoarse sound of his own voice. "Excuse me, sir, could you tell me..."

The figure continued to hobble forward, looking to the right (and even to the right rear) and without showing in any way that he heard. He? A thought came to Logan's mind that, actually, nothing proved that it was a man. These shapeless clothes could hide a woman as well...

Tony resolutely crossed the road and stopped in front of the walking figure, wishing to look in his–or her–face.

It did not help much. The face was completely concealed by the scarf from below and by the cap from above, and the narrow gap between them was covered by sunglasses (at night!). Even on the nose, something white, apparently, had been stuck. But Tony noticed a smell which made him frown with disgust. Probably, a tramp who had not had a bath for a couple of months... or who had not even taken off these wrappings since last winter... However, in this smell there was something worse than the usual stench of a body dirty for a long time. The smell brought to mind associations inconceivable in Logan's ordinary life, something almost medieval: plague and cholera pits overflowing with bodies... field hospitals full of abandoned patients under a scorching sun...

But still, overcoming disgust–since there was nobody else to ask–he repeated the question:

"Do you hear me? What is this place? Seems I got lost."

The figure hollowly murmured something under the scarf, but Tony could not distinguish the words. Was it English at all? In New York more than two hundred nationalities live...

"Sorry?" Logan asked again.

More unintelligible muttering, as if the creature's mouth was filled by some viscous stuff. But this time, apparently, the words were different. It came to Tony's mind that, probably, this being was not talking to him, but simply talked to himself, and, moreover, had done it for a long time already and would do it further... Not just a stinky tramp, but also a madman? Why not... especially taking into account that since Tony got on that ill-fated train, everything around him looked pretty crazy.

But while Logan was sure that he would be ignored again, the creature suddenly jerkily pulled his hand from under his arm and stretched it towards Tony.

Logan recoiled in horror, looking at what had come up from a dirty sleeve. It was not a hand in the usual sense. It was a swollen, shapeless, ulcerated stump, on which five wet hillocks stuck out like ugly flattened slugs–all that remained of fingers. Logan's gaze jumped again to the wrapped face, and he understood that what he had accepted in the darkness as a scarf were actually bandages, sodden with pus and God knows what other discharges. He was not sure whether under these bandages (when were they last changed?) remained any skin, or if they had long ago grown into the sick meat.

The thought that it could touch him made Tony move back quickly, without looking behind him; he saw a dreadful stump directed towards him and heard a hollow illegible mutter from under the rotten bandages. A second later he stumbled against a curb and, helplessly waving his hands, crashed down, hitting his head against the sidewalk. A flash sparkled in his eyes and all sank in blackness.

Tony came to his senses, looking around in panic. Disgusting images appeared to him: sticky touches of the leprous creature–or what this disease was?–and his stinking breath right in Logan's face, in his mouth... probably, even a kiss through dirty bandages (what if it nevertheless was a woman?) Was it simply a delusion of his scared imagination–or an echo of what really happened during his unconsciousness?

Anyway, the street was empty again. And there remained the same darkness–unless the fog had become thicker. But, possibly, Tony had been unconscious not too long. Strange, but he did not feel a pain in his head. However, having carefully touched it, he felt something wet and sticky.

"I'm going to see a doctor," he promised himself. "As soon as I get out of here. And not only about a head injury. I'll get tested for infections..."

But first, he needed to get out of here.

He stood up and turned right, walking along the street. However, the longer he walked, the more he doubted in his chosen direction. Underfoot was old crumbled asphalt. On the road, there were more dead birds, and not only pigeons. Here was a black raven, regarded by romanticists as a symbol of death, lying with its feet drawn into itself, there a worm-eaten albatross, and there... Logan smelled the largest of them earlier than he saw it: it was either a heron or a stork–in such a state of decay, it was impossible to know anymore. Tony knew that such birds live in New York parks, but never saw them flying in the city...

Meanwhile, from the fog, dark silhouettes of houses appeared, continuing to change. Here, they were of different height and architecture and were not arranged in monolithic rows along the sides of the street, but stuck out separately. Here, this one jutted forward to the very edge of the street, there, that one receded deep into the dark. Their locations resembled the curve of decayed teeth of a mutant from a horror movie. The blank walls with no windows occurred more and more often, and buildings with windows looked even worse. Tony doubted that such shabby ruins could exist even in the poorest and the most remote parts of New York, let alone the business area of Manhattan. Municipal services were simply obliged to demolish all this very long time ago before it crashed on somebody's head... It seemed the majority of these buildings, though obviously multifamily, were not stone; in the cold air, the heavy, damp and musty smell of decaying wood was clearly present. Moreover, outlines of either some dilapidated villas or farm houses loomed ahead; but while such buildings usually stand in rural open space, here they were literally piled up, leaning against each other in terrible narrowness, interlocking by lopsided walls and fallen-in roofs and, probably, only for that reason had not yet collapsed completely.

Looking around, Logan almost stumbled against some object lying directly in the middle of the street and merging with the blackness of the asphalt. For a terrible instant it seemed to him that it was a swollen corpse–more precisely, a trunk without legs, arms or head. But it was only a very full black plastic garbage bag. All the same, looking at it was unpleasant. It seemed that it was just about to burst and spew out its fetid contents. How long had it been lying right in the middle of the road?

At this moment a quickly approaching noise–some rhythmical scratch and gnashing rustle–came from behind Tony. He turned back–and saw just few feet from himself the rapidly approaching blunt muzzle of a radiator, a heavy rectangular bumper, the blind cataracts of extinguished headlights, the dark glass of a windshield... He hardly had time to jump aside. The long vehicle rushed past without reducing speed, with a filthy sound–skwashhh!–squelching the garbage bag. Tony opened his mouth to shout out his opinion of the driver (certainly, Logan was guilty himself of walking in the street, but...)–but the abuse stuck in his throat. It was not the fact that the driver didn't honk or even try to brake that amazed Tony most of all, but what kind of vehicle it was. A school bus. An ordinary yellow school bus that can be found on plenty of New York streets, as well as in any other American city... But not in the deadest hours of night.

Although, of course, anything could make a school bus driver go out at night. Perhaps, the bus urgently needed repair... or the driver simply used municipal transport for personal purposes... Yes, all these hypotheses were possible if there were no passengers in the bus. Those passengers for whom it was intended–children.

But, though there was no interior light, Tony had clearly discerned the white spots of faces pressed to windows from within. Yes, exactly–not simply half-turned somewhere inside, but pressed, flattened out against the glass faces and palms, as if children desperately and hopelessly tried to escape outside from a glass captivity of the bus, from the dark and narrow closed space in which they have been confined long, oh, very long already... so long that they had no more strength to struggle or even simply to move, and could only press their faces in mute despair against cold windows... The bus had already passed, but Tony still saw in his mind their flattened noses turned on one side, black holes of open mouths, dark stains shading their sunken eye sockets...

"Nonsense," he told himself. "Just something I glimpsed in the dark. I saw it for no more than a second! It is simply some late excursion. Or the bus got delayed somewhere by a traffic jam... or a power failure..."

But why at night, moreover in a fog, had the headlights been switched off? And why, by the way, had he heard only a metal scratch and a garbage rustle from under the wheels–but not the sound of a working engine?

He looked after the departing bus. The tail lights did not burn, either. And in the back window a stiffened, warped face shone whitely. There was something especially wrong with it, and, an instant later, Tony understood, what exactly.