It took eight blocks for them to find me. Maybe Lucifer tried to get himself kicked out of heaven. I shouldered it, looked ahead of me towards the red and green signals leading to the Bronx, and looked back into the darkness. Some fiber ticking stuck crazily from the slit. One of the straps had a gash in it, but was not it danger of parting. The bag almost caught on the top, but came after me with a small ripping sound. I threw my bag across, gripped the fence through the straps, feeling the polyvinyl abrade, and swung over. It wasn't really that difficult, until the wire, which turned out to be razorwire instead. It was grim, with barbed wire I laughed contemptuously for show and morale and began to scale it. No one was near enough to see me start in fear.Ĭrossing to the tracks, I examined the wall and the fencing atop it. A police siren called intermittently up near Madison, then Dopplered as the car sped downtown. There were sounds about me, though precious few people. I crossed Ninety-Sixth, walked the one block to where the street sank to track level as it made its way downhill. The tracks emerged from the earth across the street there was a cyclone fence atop a stone wall in the center of the avenue to prevent anyone from climbing over. I'd only been walking, but I realized I must be hungrier than I thought. I stood at the corner of Ninety-Sixth and Park, swaying slightly, breathing hard. I continued on, weary, reaching Ninety-Sixth street some time later. Passed 757 Park, across the street, some twenty minutes after beginning nothing unusual there. I shouldered the bag, and began to walk back uptown. Could I, a sinner, be cast from hell? The tunnels hadn't seemed as such until this day, and that thought saddened me. I swung into the bolthole, slapped up the ladder and dashed through silent corridors to slam out of the service door opposite the Swissotel, the door chunk-ing shut beind me, a final sound. Too tired and worried about Kelly to figure it out, I slung it into the rucksack as well and hared off downtown once more.
I looked at it, exasperated, then finally tried stuffing it into my left pants pocket. Then I tried putting it in my waistband again the damn thing just slid down faster without the suppressor to snag. After a moment's thought, I removed my pack, wrapped the cylinder in a T-shirt and stuffed it into the pack. That fit into my pocket, after I removed the few coins I had in it.
I looked at it again, then sighed and removed the suppressor. It fit, but instantly the butt slid down past my waistline (I'd lost weight since college this was probably the first time it struck me as funny) and I grabbed it before it could slide down my leg. With that, I tried to push it into my trousers. Reloading the pistol, I set the safety, and made sure the hammer was down, which it was. It clicked softly, a noise of precision and edges and corners, metal moving aside just barely to admit it into the bed. I pressed the cartridge back into the top of the clip. You know, movies really can get you killed. I'd been busily trying to run and stuff this thing in my pants with the fucking safety off and a round chambered. I removed the clip worked the slide, once, with my hand over the port, and the small cold sin dropped into my hand. It kept catching my waistband when I tried to stuff it into my pants, and after several tries I realized what I was doing and stopped running to lean panting against the walls of the tunnel, trying to breathe past the cold rush in my spine and lower back. I tried to put the gun away while running, but it just wouldn't work. Once in a while, a yellow bar cast wan light across the pillars and the rails occasionally, across me.
There were lights in this one, but I was far from the station, and not many were still working. Tunnels are probably some sort of throwback to the birth experience, which would explain why most people get so damned afraid in them, especially when they're unlit.
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