End Day

She peered over the windowsill and saw the surviving monsters break cover and take off down the sidewalk in the direction of Washington Square Park. Their blocky heads and wide shoulders bobbed over the tops of the cars. The monster in front held the one she’d thought was Bob Dylan, carrying the form as if it were a small child—or a ventriloquist’s dummy—legs bouncing up and down at the knees.

When the strangers popped up from behind cover, so did she. Taking stable holds against the vehicles and trees, they all opened fire at once. Eyepatch worked the Steyr’s bolt like a machine, punching out shot after scope-aimed shot. She could see his bullets striking the backs and heads of the retreating monsters, plucking at the fabric, the impacts staggering them as they ran.

Veronica knew her ballistics. For some reason, what should have been certain kill shots with 7.62 mm NATO rounds wasn’t.

She tracked the moving targets over the sights of the Eagle but held fire—without a clear shot, no way was she going to send .44 Magnum slugs sailing down her own street.

The opposition seemed to have a destination in mind.

As they disappeared around the corner, Veronica’s new friends leaped from between the cars to give pursuit. Eyepatch waved for her to stay put.

“No, lover,” said the redhead, a strange glint in her eyes, “let her come along if she wants to.”

Again bringing up the rear, Veronica holstered the Eagle, as it was awkward and heavy to carry in hand while running.

The monsters crossed West Fourth Street against the light, bringing the afternoon traffic to a screeching, horn-honking halt. They took off along the wide sidewalk that bordered the south side of Washington Square Park, scattering pedestrians and sending them fleeing into the trees. The panicked screams brought a pair of horse-mounted cops onto the sidewalk. As they drew sidearms on the approaching purple-hooded crew, their steeds suddenly spooked, reared and, with minds of their own, shot off back into the park.

Farther ahead at the corner, a helmeted motorcycle cop jumped the curb and, with the bike’s siren wailing, cut off the monsters’ path. He drew and rapid-fired his service automatic pistol, but it didn’t slow the charge. The monsters swept over him. Then, like a CG movie stunt, something that shouldn’t have been possible in real life, both Harley and rider were tossed forty feet in the air and came crashing down on the stopped traffic.

The motorcycle’s siren abruptly cut off on impact, but more were coming from all directions and getting louder by the second. The police response would be the Emergency Service Unit—ESU—NYC’s version of SWAT. That was not a good thing. Veronica wanted to yell a warning to the others that armed civilians would be shot first and asked questions afterward, but couldn’t because she was struggling to breathe and keep up the headlong pace. Though Eyepatch and the rest were running hard, they kept looking around. They seemed disturbed, even apprehensive about the surroundings, the people, the traffic, the city skyline.

A half block ahead of them, the monsters poured down the steps to the West Fourth Street subway entrance. As they closed in on it, the rattle of rapid gunfire rolled up from belowground. It sounded like pistols, not AKs.

They paused at the edge of the stairs to catch their breaths.

“Why are they running from us?” the Latino kid said. “They’re stronger, even without blasters. Why they not stand and fight?”

No one answered him.

Hat-and-glasses guy was staring up at the tall, wall-to-wall buildings, as if he’d never seen the like before.

“Dark night! This isn’t Deathlands,” he gasped. “Where in nukin’ hell are we?” To Veronica it looked as if he was on the verge of hyperventilating.

The black woman put a hand on his back and tried to calm him. “We’re in New York, J.B.”

Eyepatch didn’t seem to notice his friend’s distress. “We’ve been here before,” he said. His attention was focused on the traffic on the street beside them; he seemed to be looking from one license plate to another.

“What year is this?” he asked Veronica.

In the context of what had already happened, the question didn’t seem all that strange. “It’s 2001,” she said.

“By the Three Kennedys,” the old man groaned, “we have jumped back in time.”

Veronica blinked at him in disbelief. “You’re from the future, then?” she asked dubiously. As she uttered those ridiculous words, an uncharitable thought popped into her mind: Wow, it must really suck.

Eyepatch didn’t confirm or deny their origins. Instead he asked another question. “What month and day is it?”

“It’s January 19.” A thoroughly assimilated New Yorker, she added sarcastically, “Why? Do you people have somewhere more important to be?”

“Anyplace but here and now would be just fine,” Eyepatch said. “The world ends at noon tomorrow.”

Chapter Three

When the bundle of meat and metal in its arms shrilled a command, the enforcer cut hard right and started down the stairs that led below street level. Its brethren followed in lockstep. They had been to this strange-tasting, chaotic, crowded place many times in the service of their shambling master. The fact that they had never before missed the designated landing spot, never met opposition on arrival or taken a casualty did not make it uneasy. They were trivial concerns compared to the inconceivable power the master had shown them over and over.

The power to loot the past and change the future.

As it descended, a rush of warm air rolled up the concrete steps, propelled by the pressure of a subway train moving in a tunnel beneath them. The enforcer sampled the gritty wind with its tongue. Mixed in with inanimate molecules of soot, of petrochemical solvents, of greasy, spoiled food and lavatory-cookie perfume was the flavor of living bodies, hearts pumping hot, red blood and skins oozing a watery sweat. The aroma of humanity did not perk its appetite.

It wasn’t a predator.

It didn’t kill to eat, or kill because it hated; it killed because it could.

At the bottom of the stairway, subway riders starting up for the street took one look at the mass of hooded, menacing figures coming toward them, spun 180 degrees and fled in the opposite direction, scattering across the concrete concourse.

The wide entrance floor was bisected by a barrier of stainless-steel turnstiles and a security kiosk. On previous visits they had paid to ride, according to local custom; this time, however, the master was in a rush and waved for them to hurry ahead. The brethren started hopping the turnstiles, which brought a pair of uniformed NYPD Transit Police charging out of the kiosk to intercept them. Obviously intimidated by the size and number of the fare cheaters, they drew their 9 mm sidearms.

“Stop!” one of them shouted over the sights of his handgun.

The black communication device on his hip chirped and crackled. A disembodied voice announced, “Ten-double-zero, officer down,” then gave a description of multiple, identically dressed suspects fleeing the scene on foot and their last known direction of travel.

With the master cradled in its arms, the enforcer easily jumped the turnstile’s spokes.

“Stop or we’ll fire!” the policeman repeated, eyes wide as he and his partner, pistols held in two-handed grips, closed distance.

From ten feet away the two cops started shooting. Instinctively, the enforcer shielded the master from the flurry of bullets with its own body. The hits to its torso and back barely registered as such—its sheer mass absorbed the shock of the impacts; its armored endoskeleton deflected the projectiles from vital organs. It did feel the hits to the side of its head, though; as its skull was violently jarred again and again, bright white lights flashed behind its eyes.

Bullets ricocheted off it in a wide arc, spraying across the concourse, with nothing to stop their flight but human flesh and bone. A male in an olive parka and watch cap was hit from behind; his knees buckled. An elderly female took a slug in the chest, sagged and toppled, spilling the contents of her shopping bags onto the concrete. Other bystanders dropped at random, as if their strings had been cut. People began screaming. The few who realized what was happening pressed their faces to the floor.

One of the cops circled to the front—from his aimpoint, trying to line up a head shot on the master. Before he could fire, the enforcer shifted the precious deadweight to its left arm and hopped forward with both feet. Toe to toe with the policeman, it struck with its free hand—a precise blow, perfectly timed, with more than three hundred pounds of mass behind it. The amber thumb hook drove into the corner of the man’s left eye socket, through and under the bridge of his nose and out the opposite socket. For an instant they were frozen, the impaler and the impaled, then the handgun slipped from the cop’s fingers and clattered on the concrete. With a brisk snap of its wrist, the enforcer wrenched off the face, from forehead to upper jaw, like a cheap plastic lid, leaving behind a yawning red crater and exposed tongue. A gargling noise burst from the officer’s throat as he collapsed, then blood began to fountain.

The other cop staggered in retreat, the slide on his empty pistol locked back. Behind him, one of the brethren ripped a turnstile from its mounting and with a downward, single-handed blow, drove one of the fat, stainless spokes through the crown of his head. The massive surge of pressure inside the skull made both eyes pop out of their sockets, but the policeman never felt it. He was already dead.

As master and disciples advanced toward the platform entrances, the screams and shouts behind them grew louder and louder. Humanity was waking up. Commuters in winter coats and hats rushing up from the trains parted like a school of panicked baitfish. While some darted for safety, others flattened themselves against the walls or fell helplessly to their knees. Those who froze in their tracks midconcourse were either bowled over and trampled or grabbed, broken and flung out of the way.

The half man/half machine in the enforcer’s arms shuddered and made a clanking, grinding noise—like a wag throwing a tie-rod.

The master was laughing.

Then the grating, steel-scraping-on-steel voice said, “Faster! Hurry!”

They trooped down more flights of stairs, smashing and hurling human obstacles out of their path. When they stepped onto the middle of the subway platform, the nearest waiting commuters hurried for the other exits. On the opposite platform, a crowd stared at them uneasily.

From down the tunnel to the right came a rush of warm wind, signaling the approach of a train—one going in the opposite direction.

“Cross the tracks!” the half man/half machine shouted at them. “Now! Run!”

The enforcer carrying the master didn’t expect an explanation. That it understood the reasons for an action wasn’t required. Its brain was no match for the master’s, even without its comp enhancement. The only thing required was that it did as it was told. With the other brethren, it jumped down from the platform onto the soot and grease-blackened rail bed.

“Watch out for the electrified rail,” the master reminded it.

As the enforcer stepped over the high-voltage track, between the ceiling supports, the wind gusted harder. It tasted ozone and rat shit in the steady breeze, and when it looked down the dark tunnel it saw the headlight of the train bearing down on them.

The humans on the platform were yelling and waving for them to go back. When they saw the hooded, assault-rifle-armed heavyweights were going to make it safely across, they turned and raced for the exits.

The brethren jumped up onto another deserted platform.

Seconds later the long, low train squeaked to a stop beside them. The doors to all the cars slid open and commuters flowed onto the platform, moving quickly past the enforcers, looks of astonishment on their faces. When the brethren entered the middle door of a car, they forced a mad exodus of riders out either end. Commuters pushed and shoved to escape.

“Put me down,” the master said.

The enforcer obeyed at once, carefully lowering the half man/half machine to the floor of the car. As it did so, there was a rumbling sound and a vibration beneath them, then more shrill squeaking as a train going the other way came to a stop at the opposite platform.

Through the speakers overhead, an automated voice warned travelers that their car doors were about to close.

“Don’t look in the other train!” the master screeched as all the doors whooshed shut.

Another command without explanation.

But too late this time. It had already turned its head. The train opposite was only a few feet away; plates of grease-smeared window glass faced each other across the narrow gap. It blinked its eyes and immediately turned back.

With a stomach-wrenching lurch, they accelerated away from the station.

The two trains had been side by side for only a second or two, but the afterimage of what it had seen through the hazy windows, in the strangely flickering, interior lights was burned into its mind.

Standing in the aisle of the opposing train, it had seen itself, the master and the others.

Even the two brethren who had fallen.

Chapter Four

A handful of people dashed up the stairs from the subway as if hell was on their heels. They ran past Ryan and down the sidewalk. Wailing sirens closed in all around. The wags on the street were stopped bumper to bumper, engines idling, horns honking, drivers shouting. So much noise, so many wags. So many people packed into such a small space—faces looking down from thousands of windows onto a gray canyon, which snaked between towering buildings. The concrete was cold against his palm. He smelled wag exhaust, saw the overcast sky above—though he felt like a speck of dust sucked down into the spinning gears of a vast and angry machine, it was all real.

All happening.

“Magus is heading for one of the underground trains,” Mildred said. “If we don’t catch up quick, we’re going to lose the trail.”

Unslinging his Steyr, Ryan waved for the others to follow. As he descended the stairs, the honking, wailing din turned into a screaming din. Wide and low-ceilinged, the concourse echoed with cries of pain and anguish. As the companions jumped the turnstiles, dazed people struggled up from the floor ahead of them. Seeing the group’s weapons, some pointed and screamed at them. Some pleaded for help as they pulled on limp arms, trying to raise loved ones who were obviously past raising. Some just sat weeping, with their faces buried in their hands.

“Ryan, wait,” Krysty said, catching him by the arm. “How are we going to stop the enforcers? We can’t use thermite in here. Look around. There are too many innocent people.”

“They’re all going to be ashes in less than twenty-four hours anyway,” J.B. said.

“But not by our doing,” Mildred argued.

“We’ll figure that out when we find Magus,” Ryan told her.

The trail the enforcers left behind was easy to follow, even in a full-out sprint. It consisted of broken bodies—some still crawling, most not. It led them through a doorway and down a long flight of stairs.

As Ryan stepped onto the empty platform, a shrill horn sounded. In front of him, the low silver train was already in motion to the right. He got a quick but unmistakable glimpse of purple-hooded behemoths clogging the middle of one of the cars before the train disappeared into the tunnel.

Across the tracks, beyond the row of ceiling supports, the opposite platform was empty—no passengers, no train.

“What do we do now?” Ricky asked.

Ryan turned to the woman with the unholstered, tiger-striped blaster. She didn’t look rattled by what she’d just seen, which surprised him. She looked really, really pissed off. “Which way is that train headed?”

“North to Herald Square,” she said.

“How many stops in that direction?” Mildred asked.

“It isn’t the number of stops,” the woman said. “They could get off anywhere, change trains, reverse direction. If you don’t know where they’re going...”

“We don’t know where they’re going or why,” Ryan said.

“Nukin’ hell!” J.B. exclaimed, screwing down his fedora with one hand. “We did this for nothing? We’re going to die for nothing?”

“Attention,” a voice bellowed through the speakers above the platform. “Attention, all subway passengers. This station is being cleared for security reasons. Repeat, this station is being cleared for security reasons. Until the procedure is complete, no more trains will be stopping here. For your own safety and the safety of those around you, please remain calm and follow the signs to the nearest street exit. If you need help, NYPD officers will be available to assist you.”

“What’s going on?” Krysty asked.

“The ESU is about to clean house,” the woman with the tiger-striped blaster said as the announcement began to repeat.

“Combat-trained, militarized police,” Mildred explained. “Automatic weapons. Grenades. Snipers. Explosives.”

“This place is about to be assaulted by men in black uniforms, battle helmets and armored vests,” the woman added. “They will see us as armed suspects at the scene of a mass murder or terrorist attack. They will shoot on sight. We have two choices. Abandon our weapons now, blend in with the other passengers as best we can before they sweep in and hope to hell they don’t review the station’s closed circuit video before we manage to get out—”

“We’re not going to throw away our blasters,” J.B. interrupted.

“That’s a nonstarter,” Mildred agreed.

“The other choice is to follow the purple hoodies down the tunnel,” the woman said.

“But they are on a train, my dear, and we are on foot,” Doc said.

“I don’t mean follow them down the tunnel to catch them,” the woman stated. “I mean go down the tunnel to get out of here. ESU will clear the station first and then move on to the tunnels. If you want to keep your guns and stay alive, we have to escape while they’re busy elsewhere.”

“Do you know the way?” Ryan asked.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do,” the woman said as she holstered the big gold blaster. “Follow me. My name’s Veronica, by the way. Veronica Currant. But you can call me Vee.”

They quickly exchanged names; there was no time for handshakes.

Overhead the loudspeaker voice boomed, “Attention subway passengers. Attention subway passengers. If you are injured and unable to move or find yourself trapped, please remain calm. Do not resist the approaching armed police officers. Obey all their commands. They will take you to safety and medical help as quickly as possible.”

Vee led them down to the end of the platform, then jumped down onto the rail bed. “Stay away from that,” she said, pointing to the left, at the third rail.

Ryan had already noticed the red warning sign that read Danger High Voltage. The lights in the tunnel were dim and widely spaced; the air rank and humid. A thick coating of black grime covered its walls and coated the clustered pipes and cables that ran along them.

They had trotted maybe fifty yards when Vee stopped at a barely visible hatch-style door on the right. It was unmarked. With a grunt, she leaned on the locking lever, and the door cracked open. “This is a tunnel-maintenance access and emergency exit,” she said. “From here we can get to the street.”

She leaned through the doorway, then a weak light came on inside.

“How do you know so much about this place?” Mildred asked as they filed into the cramped space. “Do you work here or something?”

“No, I just pick up odd, interesting tidbits in my job,” she said.

A very steep stairway led up, so steep there were support rails along both walls. When they shut and dogged the hatch door, it muffled the racket from the station. They ascended in silence, except for the sounds of their breathing.

Ryan could feel the strain in his thighs as he put one boot in front of another. They had done a lot of full-out running and fighting in a very short time span. Not to mention the aftereffects of the chron jump. J.B.’s comment about their sacrifice being all for nothing tried to go around and around in his head, but he shut it off.

The game wasn’t over yet, not by a long shot.

Not while they still drew breath.

At the top of the stairs, they found a long, darkened hallway with broad puddles of standing water on the floor. Steam pipes and conduit hung low above them; what looked like banks of generators and transformers, and their controlling circuit panels, stood behind locked cages of heavy wire. When Vee opened the exit door to an alley, the grinding din was back—wag horns, the steady growl of engines, sirens, now mixed with unintelligible bullhorn commands. They moved quickly between high, windowless brick walls, around a hard right corner to the mouth. The street leading to the subway entrance was now blocked off with police and emergency vehicles and flashing lights. Helicopters zigzagged across the sky overhead. No one had time to marvel at what was going on outside.

“Our position appears untenable,” Doc observed.

“Then we go back to her place,” Ricky said, nodding in Vee’s direction. “We get in the machine and go back home to Deathlands.”

“That isn’t possible,” Vee told him. “What you see happening on this street is what’s happening on my block. That’s the response when people get killed and cars get blown up. The whole area will have been cordoned off by armed police with helicopter overflights. No way in or out.”

“We shouldn’t have chased Magus onto the street,” J.B. opined. “We should have just followed at a distance until we had a chance to chill him, with no witnesses. Now we’re as dead as everyone else in this city. That apartment is our only way out.”

“Even if we could get back into her building, J.B.,” Ryan said, “even if we figured out the mat-trans’s controls and somehow made it to Deathlands, I think we’d arrive at the same redoubt with enforcers clawing at the door.”

“So,” Krysty said, “if the city sec men don’t kill us, the enforcers at the other end of the chron jump will. And if we survive here until the twentieth, the nuke strikes will take us out anyway.”

“That doesn’t leave many options,” Mildred stated.

“Except to have one hell of a send-off,” Krysty said.

“The mistake was all mine,” Ryan told them. “I brought this down on us. We should have waited outside the redoubt for Magus to come back. From the moment we set foot inside that place, we were fucked.”

“Stuck between a rock and another rock,” Doc said soberly.

They had been caught in countless tight spots in the past—or more correctly in the future—but they had always been able to figure a way out. This time perhaps not. A question occurred to Ryan: Could a person really die a hundred years before he was born? He kept it to himself.

“We still have some time left,” Vee said. “Can’t we change the future somehow? Avert this nuclear attack? What do you know about it?”

She sounded remarkably calm for someone who’d recently learned the world was going to blow up in a matter of hours, Doc thought.

“Precious little that would help that cause, my dear,” Doc said. “An all-out missile exchange between the United States and the Russians on January 20, 2001, created a global, nuclear holocaust that ended much of civilization. That conflagration and its aftermath necessarily complicates the unraveling of the whos, the wheres and the whens. Which one, if either, started it is unknown. It could have been initiated by a third party or a computer glitch—or misinterpreted data. Miscommunication, even. Because we don’t know the precise chain of circumstances that triggered Armageddon, altering the course of those events becomes difficult if not impossible.”

“If you’re thinking of warning someone about nukeday,” Krysty said, “who would listen?”