Richard Harding - Outrider 1, Premier Volume Page 7

  The roadway that the towers had supported once had toppled into the river and the water washed over it. They could see, in the darkness, the white foam as the river broke over the old shattered concrete and the bent, rusting metal.

  "We leave the cars here," said Bonner. He knew the city would be as silent as a tomb. To bring three screaming engines down those cavernous streets would alert every Stormer on the island.

  "How are we going to get across the fucking river?" demanded Cooker.

  "We walk," said Bonner.

  "Could be hot," said Cooker.

  "It's cool."

  "I'll get my tanks wet."

  "Damn Cooker," hissed Starling, "are you in this thing or not? 'Cause if you're out, then just get the hell out of here."

  Cooker thought of the vision, the sweet and tanta- lizing vision that had haunted him since he had decided to throw in his lot with Bonner.

  "Yeah, I'm in."

  They slithered down the side of the valley, following, as far as they could the old roads that ran down to the docks that had once lined the river. The piers stood high and dry, far from any water. The air was heavy with the stink of wood that had been rotting for decades. An old tugboat, looking like some huge toy, lay on its side, the black mud of the riverbed oozing over it. Eventually it would claim the vast bulk of the vessel.

  "Psst, Bonner-" Starling's voice in the darkness. "You figure any patrols?"

  "No."

  That was good enough for Starling, but not for Cooker. "Why not?"

  "Because we are too far away."

  "Too far away from what?"

  Bonner waded a few yards further on the black mud flats before replying. "Tell me, Cooker, you ever been here before?"

  "What's that got to do with anything?"

  "Everything."

  "No, I aint never been here before," Cooker admitted.

  "Okay now, listen. We are walking toward an island," Bonner began, as if he was explaining a complicated fact to a child.

  "Yeah, I know," Cooker interupted. "You told me, we're going to the island. The one you said your friend was on..."

  "No," said Bonner, shaking his head in the dark, "that's a different island."

  "Okay." Cooker stopped just as they reached the sluggish waters of the river. "How many fucking islands are there?"

  "Two," said Starling.

  "And where's your buddy?"

  "On the other one," said Starling.

  "You guys, you don't make any sense."

  "We're going onto the main island first," said Bonner patiently. "They call it New York island. They used to call it Manhattan."

  "I don't give a shit what they used to call it," said Cooker grumpily.

  "Cooker," said Starling, "you are more trouble than you're worth."

  "You know. Starling, you are begging to get fried."

  "Try it gas-hound," Bonner heard Starling slip the safety on the big.45 on his hip.

  "Oaky, cut it," Bonner commanded, "both of you."

  "He started it," said Cooker petulantly.

  "We are going onto New York island. Then we are going to head south. That's that way." Bonner gestured in the darkness.

  "Which way? Can't see."

  "To your right. At the tip of the island there's a Stormer camp. We're going to take them and get some ammunition. Me and Starling are running low and we're going to need it."

  Cooker snorted. "Guns! What a waste of time."

  They were in the middle of the river now, wading against the current, the slow black water swirled against them like syrup.

  "Hate getting wet," said Cooker.

  "We know. We got noses."

  "Bonner! Tell your man here to leave me be!"

  Bonner smiled to himself. Once Starling started to needle there was no way to stop him.

  "Cooker, I think you can take care of yourself."

  "He's making fun of me. Ranking me, all the time, never lets up. Shit."

  "Best way to handle Starling is to make fun of him back."

  "Or kill him," said Cooker savagely.

  Starling laughed. "Save your flame, tanker-man. Mr. Bonner ain't told you the good part yet."

  "There's another island. Cooker."

  "Yeah, I know. You said."

  "That's where it's going to get hot," said Starting soberly.

  "I like it hot."

  "They call it prison island. It's out in the middle of the bay."

  "The what?"

  "The bay. This river joins up with a bigger piece of water. Out in the middle of it is the prison island. That's where Harvey is." "And what did they use to call that?" asked Cooker sarcastically.

  "Ellis," said Bonner, "Ellis Island."

  "And you didn't think he would know, did you, tanker-man?"

  They sloshed along in silence for a few more minutes.

  "Hey, Bonner," said Cooker breaking the silence, "how come you know all this shit."

  "Books," said Bonner.

  "Books? I don't think I know him." Cooker was genuinely mystified.

  Bonner sighed. Starling laughed. "Forget it, Cooker."

  They waded ashore, crossed the broken skeleton of an old highway and took cover in a wide swath of vegetation that sprawled in a vast tangle alongside the road. Bonner pushed into the jungle and they hacked their way into the undergrowth not stopping until they came to a square clearing with a cracked concrete floor. The rotten tatters of a net divided the square into two equal parts.

  Bonner sat down on the smooth surface and wiped his brow. Starling and Cooker slumped down next to him.

  "I'm beat," said Starling.

  "Me too," said Cooker. "And I'm wet and tired and hungry."

  Bonner looked at the night sky. He could just make out a patch of it through the riot of vegetation that was arrayed over his head. Daylight soon. "We resting up here, Bonner?" asked Starling.

  "What do you think?"

  "No one'll find us."

  "No, probably not. But it means we're going to have to wait all through tomorrow before we make our next move."

  "That's right."

  "I think we should get underground. We'll head down the tunnel tomorrow and take them after dark."

  "Underground?" said Cooker, his voice full of alarm. "Underground?"

  "This whole island has tunnels underneath. Miles and miles of them. They run north-south mostly. Some east-west. But no one knows where all of them go."

  "Tunnels? What for?"

  "They used to run trains on them."

  "Trains? You mean like that old hunk of iron Seth has? They got tunnels big enough for that?"

  "Yep."

  "Well, that will be a sight to see."

  Bonner led them out of the underbrush to a broad avenue that ran alongside the ruins of the old park. The huge old buildings looked down on them, their silhouettes plain against the lightening sky. The smashed windows looked like sightless eyes. The street seemed to be ankle deep in broken glass and it crackled and crunched under their boots like fresh snow.

  At the convergence of several broad avenues they saw the walls of a smaller shelter and Bonner walked confidently toward it, with the air of a man who knew where he was going. It stood in the middle of the convergent streets and Starling could see that once waves of traffic must have broken over the little island. A cracked mosaic on the wall of the ruin read: 72nd Street.

  Bonner darted inside and stopped at the top of a flight of steps. They led down into a darkness so impenetrable that they could only see the first few steps before the rest vanished completely.

  "Down there?" said Cooker.

  "Afraid?" asked Starling.

  "No. You go first."

  Bonner disappeared into the gloom followed by Starling then Cooker. Every step they took rang in the silence. At the base of the steps there was a broad platform. Bonner stopped for a moment then started kicking the debris that lay scattered about into a pile.

  "Bonner, what the fuck are you doing?"

&nb
sp; "Looking for stuff to make a fire."

  Cooker supplied the light and soon they had a smoky fire going. The flames halfheartedly consumed the paint flecked wood of the old bench they had broken up. The thin, weak light cast long shadows. Bonner sat down leaning against a worn old pillar and looked around him. He picked out a sign but he couldn't read it. It was in a language he did not recognize. It mystified him. He always thought that New York was part of America. He stared at the words: "La via del tren subterraneo es peligrosa..." Next to it, there was a message in English, intended, Bonner supposed for American visitors: "The subway tracks are dangerous..." Bonner looked down the tunnel. You could say that again, he thought.

  "Starling, I'll take first watch."

  "Fine."

  "Cooker, you're third."

  "Watch? I thought you said we didn't have to worry about no Stormers?"

  "It's not Stormers I'm worried about."

  "What then?"

  "Ha," laughed Starling, "Stormers are the least of your troubles down here."

  "What are you talking about?" a little note of panic had crept into Cooker's voice.

  "Rats," said Bonner matter of factly. "When it's your watch make sure you keep that fire going. And stay close to it."

  Cooker shivered. For the first time he looked down the tunnel and saw the faint light reflected in a million yellow eyes. "If one rat, so much as one little fucker comes near me, so help me I'll fry 'em all."

  "Not enough gas in the world for that," said Bonner. The bomb had killed millions upon millions of people but it seemed to have spawned a billion rats. They would never die. When all the men and women and children were dead, when the firelands burnt themselves out, when the hardy vegetation reclaimed every square inch of the tortured stone world that man had built and then destroyed, when the past would not even be a memory because there was no one left to remember it, there would still be the rats. Fat, sleek killers waiting to claim the world.

  "This whole fucking thing was a mistake," said Cooker to no one in particular.

  Bonner settled himself on the subway platform and watched the fire, listening while Cooker grumbled about the damp, the rats, the stink... Then the gas-hound fell asleep, though it seemed to Bonner that he would awake from time to time to do a little more hitching, just in case Bonner had forgotten that the Cooker-man had some very definite opinions about being dragged down into the black heart of New York.

  Once Cooker woke up Starling and a brief shouting match erupted between the two riders.

  "I been everywhere," said Cooker disgustedly, "and this is the worse place I ever been..."

  "If you don't shut your fucking mouth, little man," said Starling sleepily, "I am going to cut your balls off and make you eat 'em."

  "Like to see you try you... you..."

  "Big tough man, a real hard case," taunted Starling.

  "You know, Starling, I never liked you. All big talk, but you are just one dump pitiful piece of shit. You can hardly do enough raiding to keep that old shit wagon of yours running."

  "Shout a little louder," said Bonner, "I think we'd all want to have a visit from some Stormers tonight, wouldn't we."

  "You said there are no patrols," whined Cooker. "Cooker we can be heard for miles down these tunnels. All it takes is for one Stormer to be awake and bored."

  "You sound scared, Bonner." Starling hooted with laughter in the darkness. "What a prick you are. Cooker."

  "Bonner, make him leave me be!" "Cool it. Star..."

  "You know Cooker, I wouldn't go to sleep if I was you. I just might take a stroll down the tunnel and find me a nice fat rat and stick it down your pants."

  "There ain't no one down there but relatives of yours. Starling."

  "Shuttup," ordered Bonner, "both of you. There might not be any patrols but there are sure to be Rat People down here."

  "The who?" asked Cooker. "Rat People. Sometime they call 'em tunnel-scum." "Now who.the fuck are they?" "They are some very strange little guys. Cooker. They live down here, they are probably the only people who know their way through all of the tunnels. There aren't as many as there once were. Sometimes the Stormers catch them and keep them like pets. But they don't live for long in the light."

  "The Stormers don't kill the little fucks?" "Nawww. They don't hurt anyone, besides sometimes the Stormers use them for guides down here." "They live down here?" "They eat the rats." "Ick," said Cooker, rearanging himself on the dirty platform. He lay his head down. "Ick," he said again.

  Silence fell and Bonner went back to leaning against the rusty steel pillar that supported the vaulted concrete roof. The place was once alive with people, he thought, people who came down into this damp tomb every day, never thinking twice about it. He thought, for the thousandth time, what an odd place the old world must have been.

  The fire started to bum low and the rats rustled as if the dying flames were a signal to become bold, to sniff a little closer to the strange invaders to their underworld lair. Bonner kicked the charred wood and some lethargic flames flared up. He tossed some more wood onto the pile and it smoked. He needed some more gasoline. No matter how gently he tried he knew he would wake up Cooker if he attempted to get the little gas-hound's flame thrower away from him and that would definitely set up an hour or so of wailing and hollering. Better just to wake him up.

  He shook Cooker's shoulder and the man awoke instantly.

  "What? What? What's going on?"

  "Nothing," said Bonner, "I just need a little flame for the fire."

  Cooker didn't even get out of his tangle of blankets. He hiked himself up on one elbow, grasped the nozzle of his death dealer and spat some gas right onto the flames. The fire raced up to the ceiling and in the moment of bright light Bonner saw three men- tiny, hunched, filthy men-standing on the track bed, a hoard of rats swirling round them like a strong gray current.

  "Damn," said Bonner. The three Rat People knew they had been seen and scuttled down the tracks.

  Bonner raced after them, leaping down from the platform onto the tracks.

  "Where in the name of every fucking dick-brained raider are you going?" screamed Cooker.

  "Stay there," yelled Bonner, "and don't let that fire go out."

  "The man is a lunatic," said Cooker.

  Bonner pounded down the dark track, following the retreating footsteps of the three tunnel scum. Rats squeaked and scattered before him although a couple of the bolder animals tried to bite him as he passed. Bonner knew he had to catch up with the Rat People before they carried him too far into the tunnels-they knew every inch of them and he did not. They could lead him for hours and then leave him, lost in the damp, dirty world. A man could wander for days and never find his way out. And when Bonner caught these strange little men, he was going to have to kill them. He had no doubt that they would barter away the information that there were three raiders in the tunnels to the Stormers for some scraps of food.

  Bonner tripped and fell, falling into the slime pool that always seems to run down the middle of the trail tracks. The oozy water wasn't more than a few inches

  deep but the scum seemed to cover him like oil. He managed to hold his head out of it; he thought of a single drop of the stuff touching his lips and shuddered. He picked himself up and ran again.

  He dashed into the next station and then stopped. In the darkness he could no longer hear the patter of the retreating tunnel scum. Either they had outdis-tanced him or they were hiding somewhere in the darkness. Bonner stopped and felt the rush of rats around his feet like tall grass. He jumped involuntarily.

  Out of the blackness came a giggle. "He's scared," yelped a voice.

  Bonner moved like an animal. The first of his knives flew out of his holster, into his hand and split the darkness aimed for the site of the sound. There was a sudden strangled cry that seemed to echo through the tunnels and the sound of a body thrashing against the wall of the station. There was the terrible rushing sound of a human body letting go, failing to control
its bowels. Then the man fell.

  Bonner felt the instinctive early warning, a creep of the flesh on the back of his head that told him that someone was behind him, poised to strike with a heavy object. He darted to his right and felt the wind caused by the onrushing club breeze by his face. An elbow shot out and caught the chin bone of the Rat;