‘Well, first of all,’ Swain said, ‘we have to get you guys out. After that, I’ll just have to find a way to get this thing off and then meet you outside.’ He snorted. ‘Hmph. Maybe I should go and ask Bellos if he’d like to have a try. I’m sure he’d like that.’
‘He’d definitely be strong enough,’ Selexin said.
‘But would he do it?’ Swain scoffed.
‘Gladly,’ a deep baritone voice said from somewhere behind him.
Swain spun.
There, right in front of him, standing in one of the aisles perpendicular to the western wall, stood Bellos.
Swain felt a chill at the sight of the man. His body, his face, his long tapering horns, everything about him was black. Except for his breastplate, which Swain now clearly saw to be beautifully crafted in gold.
And he was tall, taller than he had seemed before. At least seven feet.
‘Greetings, fellow competitor. Before you stands Bellos—’
‘I know who you are,’ Swain said softly.
Bellos cocked his head in astonishment.
‘Where are your hoods?’ Swain asked calmly, as Selexin and Holly slowly got to their feet beside him. ‘You don’t fight without them, do you?’
Bellos chuckled evilly. As he did so, Swain saw something jingle at his side—something attached to his belt.
It was the Konda’s breathing mask.
With a tinge of horror, Swain recalled Selexin’s earlier description of Bellos: the trophy collector.
And then suddenly he caught sight of a second object clipped to Bellos’ belt, something that glinted dull gold in the mouldy yellow light of the Stack. Swain’s eyes widened when he saw what it was.
It was a New York Police Department badge.
Hawkins’ partner . . .
Bellos spoke, releasing Swain from his thoughts. ‘You attempt to show courage you do not possess, little man. There are no hoods here. Just you. And me.’
‘Really,’ Swain said. ‘I don’t believe you.’
Bellos stepped forward. ‘You use strong words for a man who is moriturum esse.’
‘Moriturum esse,’ Swain repeated. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched for the hoods, expecting one of them to spring from one of the nearby aisles at any moment now. ‘About to die, huh. If that’s the case, why don’t you just osci assinum meum then,’ he said.
Bellos frowned, not understanding.
‘Osci assinum meum?’ he repeated, perplexed. ‘You want me to kiss your mule, your ass?’
Swain surreptitiously kicked the book wedged in the doorway clear from the small red door. The springloaded door immediately began to close and he caught it in his hand—behind his back.
‘When they attack,’ he whispered to Selexin and Holly, ‘I want you two to run straight through the door. Don’t worry about me.’
‘But—’
‘Just do it,’ Swain said, never taking his eyes off Bellos.
Bellos sneered, ‘Do you just stand there, little man, or do you fight?’
Swain said nothing, just looked left. Then right. Waiting for the hoods.
They attacked.
Suddenly. Without warning. From the front. Not the sides. From behind Bellos’ shoulder.
It was a single hood, springing forward, claws bared. Straight at Swain.
With his free hand Swain swiped at the creature backhanded, hitting it squarely in the head, sending it crashing to the floor with a squeal.
Swain immediately opened the door behind him. ‘Go!’ he yelled to Selexin and Holly. ‘Go! Go!’
And then the second hood attacked.
This one came from the left, slamming into Swain’s back, knocking him to the floor, making him let go of the door.
The springloaded door began to close.
The second hood leapt at Swain again as he rolled onto his back. Swain threw a desperate arm up at the approaching hood and caught its narrow throat in his hand. Its massive jaws clamped viciously open and shut, trying madly to reach his face, as Swain held it out at arm’s length.
Its claws swatted wildly, lashing out at his chest—but they weren’t long enough. So it went for his arm instead—slashing ferociously. Five bloody gashes appeared instantly across Swain’s forearm.
It was then that Swain saw the door closing.
‘The door! Get the door!’ he yelled to Holly and Selexin.
But Holly and Selexin just stood there. Dead still. Staring off to the right, down the western wall.
Swain was looking desperately at the rapidly closing door. It was almost shut when, as a last resort, he thrust his leg out and wedged his foot between the door and its frame.
‘Go!’ he yelled, kicking the door open again as he wrestled with the hood.
But Selexin and Holly weren’t moving.
They were watching the third and fourth hoods as they stalked ominously out into the aisle.
Swain got up on one knee, still holding the second hood at arm’s length. The animal decided on a new tactic. Instead of writhing about maniacally in his grip, lashing out with its claws, it grabbed hold of Swain’s forearm with both its claws, clinging to him, and started squeezing, hoping to break his grip on its neck.
‘Jesus! Go! Get out!’ Swain yelled, his foot holding the door wide open. ‘I can’t hold it open much longer!’
But Holly and Selexin didn’t move, and when at last he saw what they were looking at, Swain had a fleeting thought that came a second too late.
Where did that first hood go?
The first hood slammed into Swain at a crunching speed—hurling itself, Swain and the second hood into the open door. Swain bounced off the door and into the dark corridor beyond it, the two hoods with him.
‘No!’ he cried, as he saw the door behind him start closing again.
He still had the second hood’s throat gripped tightly in his hand—just as it still held his forearm. Ruthlessly, he banged its head twice against the hard concrete floor and the hood immediately released its grip and its body went limp and Swain threw it aside and dived for the closing door.
There was noise everywhere. The hoods squealing, a loud electronic beeping coming from his wristband, and then—worst of all—the sound of Holly screaming inside the library.
Still diving, Swain landed a few feet short of the door and slid the rest of the way on his chest, arms outstretched . . .
Too late.
The door shut.
The lock clicked.
And a blinding burst of sizzling blue electricity exploded out from the hinges and the handle.
Electrified.
There was a sudden, terrifying silence, broken only by the loud insistent beeping noise that came from Swain’s wristband. Swain looked down at it. It read:
INITIALISED—6
DETONATION SEQUENCE INITIALISED.
* 14:55 *
AND COUNTING
Stephen Swain looked up at the electrified door in horror.
He was now outside the labyrinth.
FOURTH MOVEMENT
30 November, 8:41 p.m.
Holly and Selexin ran flat out down one of the aisles of Sub-Level Two.
Holly could hear nothing but her own rapid breathing as they raced down the narrow canyons of bookshelves. Beside her, Selexin was holding her hand, pulling her along, constantly looking behind them.
They came to a junction of aisles and made a quick right-left, zig-zagging their way toward the stairs at the centre of the massive subterranean floor.
Holly had started screaming as soon as she’d seen Swain tumble backwards through the doorway under the weight of the two hoods, but Selexin had suddenly come to life, seizing her hand, pulling her down the nearest aisle.
Behind them, they could hear the snarls and grunts of the hoods in hot pursuit.
Not far behind.
And gaining. Fast.
Selexin pulled Holly harder. They had to keep running.
Swain surveyed the dark passageway around him. M
ouldy yellow fluorescent lights illuminated the tiny corridor.
The hood by his feet groaned softly. It lay on the floor, dazed by the two pounding blows Swain had given it against the hard concrete floor.
The other hood was nowhere in sight.
Swain crouched beside the hood on the floor. It hissed defiantly at him, but it was too badly injured to move.
Swain looked at his wristband, at the countdown in progress.
14:30
14:29
14:28
There was no time to waste. He had fourteen minutes to get back inside before his wristband exploded.
No. More important than that. He had fourteen minutes to get back to Holly.
Swain grimaced and picked up the injured hood by its narrow throat. It wriggled weakly in his grip—a futile gesture. Then Swain closed his eyes and banged the creature’s head a final time against the concrete floor. The body went limp immediately. Dead.
Swain discarded the carcass and headed cautiously down the narrow corridor.
The other hood was still nowhere to be seen.
At the end of the passageway, he came to a small room filled with large box-like electricity meters attached to the walls. A big sign above one of the meters read: BOOSTER VALVE.
Swain noticed a small talon of jagged blue electricity licking intermittently out of a gap in the ceiling, touching the booster valve meter, causing it to short. Con Ed would love that, he thought.
There was a small doorway on the other side of the room.
With no door.
With his wristband still beeping insistently, Swain eased his way through the doorway and found himself standing beside the train tracks of the New York Subway.
It was quiet in the train tunnel. The walls were all painted black, with long white fluorescent tubes spaced every fifteen yards or so. An old wooden door swayed from a sturdy padlock by the side of the doorway. Swain wondered how the door had come to be pulled from its hinges.
There was a rustling sound from his right.
Swain turned.
The second hood was right there!
Three yards away, its back turned, its head shaking violently from side to side. In its mouth, the remains of what was once a rat.
Swain was about to move away from the hood when there came a soft rumble from deep within the tunnel. The tracks beside him began to hum.
Vibrating.
A soft white glow appeared around of the corner of the tunnel.
Suddenly a subway train burst through the silence, its wheels screaming a deafening, high-pitched wail, its brightly lit windows flashing rapidly by.
Immediately, Swain dropped to the black sooty ground of the tunnel, and in the flashing light of the train saw the hood’s head snap up and see him.
The train roared by, kicking up specks of dust and dirt, throwing them at Swain’s face. He squeezed his eyes shut.
And then, in an instant, the train was gone, and the tunnel was silent once more. The wristband continued beeping.
Slowly, Swain raised his head.
The tunnel was empty. He glanced over to where the hood had been—
It was gone.
Swain spun around.
Nothing.
He could feel his heart thumping loudly inside his head now. His right forearm stung like crazy where dust from the passing train had fallen inside the five deep claw-marks. He began to sweat.
13:40
13:39
13:38
He didn’t have time for this. He rolled onto his side, and—strangely—felt something in his left jeans pocket.
It was the broken phone receiver. He had forgotten all about that. Holly had given it to him back on the First Floor. He checked his other pocket.
The handcuffs.
And Jim Wilson’s useless Zippo lighter.
He checked the time again.
13:28
AND COUNTING
The words were flashing.
Christ, he thought, and counting. I know that. I know that!
Shit.
Fearfully, Swain scanned the tunnel around him, searching for the hood. Time was running out. He had to get back inside.
And then, without a sound, the hood attacked him from behind, slamming into his back, sending them both sprawling onto the train tracks. The handcuffs fell to the ground; the lighter, too.
The hood leapt onto his back, but Swain rolled quickly, hurling it clear.
Like a cat, the hood landed smoothly on its feet and immediately spun around and launched itself again at Swain. Swain caught it by its narrow throat, and fell onto his back in between the train tracks.
The hood hissed and squealed and writhed madly about, desperately trying to break Swain’s grip. It flailed its razor-sharp claws in every direction—one claw slashing down Swain’s chest, ripping the buttons off his shirt, drawing blood, the other swiping viciously at his arm.
Swain lay on his back, on the concrete sleepers in between the train tracks, holding his hand outstretched, keeping the frenzied hood at arm’s length. Better to let it cut his forearm a few times than let it get at his body—
And then he froze.
He heard it.
A soft, distant rumble.
The hood paid no attention, it just kept jerking its body about fitfully.
And then, on either side of Swain, the train tracks began to hum.
Vibrating.
Oh, no . . .
Oh, no!
Swain’s face was right next to the railway track, his eyes level with one of the large circular hooks—on the inside of the tracks—that held the rails to the sleepers.
The hooks, he thought.
The hood was still twisting and turning as Swain rolled suddenly.
Searching.
The hum of the tracks grew louder.
Swain looked desperately about himself. Where were they?
Louder still.
Where . . .
This side. That side. Searching. Searching . . .
He could hear the metallic rattling of the approaching train. It would be on them any second now—
There!
The handcuffs lay on the ground, beside another of the big round hooks on the inside of the tracks.
Swain reached over with his free hand and grabbed the cuffs and in one swift movement brought them up to the hood’s throat and snapped them around its narrow neck.
Calick!
The hood was momentarily startled by the single handcuff locked around its throat.
Swain looked up and saw a hazy white light growing around the corner of the tunnel. The rumbling was very loud now.
Then he quickly dropped the hood and latched the other cuff around the nearest hook on the inside of the track.
Calick!
The scream of steel wheels filled the air. The train rounded the corner.
Swain grabbed the hood by its tail, and dived clear of the tracks, yanking the animal with him.
The handcuffs went instantly taut.
And the hood was left with its head cuffed to the hook on the inside of the track, and its body held to the outside by Swain.
The train shot past Swain, and there was a loud, sickening crunch! as its steel wheels carved through the bone of the hood’s neck, decapitating it.
The train roared by, windows flashing, and then disappeared into the tunnel.
There was silence again, except for the wristband’s incessant beeping.
Slimy black ooze dripped slowly from the hood’s headless body. Swain touched the large droplets of blood that had splattered all over him as the train had sliced the hood’s head off.
He dropped the body and looked at his wristband.
11:01
11:00
10:59
AND COUNTING
Only eleven minutes to get back inside.
There wasn’t much time.
Swain hurriedly picked up the lighter and leapt from the black floor of the subway tunnel and beg
an to run down the tracks into the darkness.
John Levine sat in the passenger seat of a black Lincoln sedan parked across the street from the main entrance to the State Library of New York.
The building looked peaceful. Quiet. Dead.
Levine looked at his watch. 8:30 p.m. Marshall should have been here by now.
His cellular rang.
‘Levine,’ the voice said. ‘It’s Marshall. Are you at the library?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Is it secure?’
‘Affirmative, sir,’ Levine said, ‘as quiet as a mouse.’
‘All right, then,’ Marshall said, ‘the insertion team is en route. They’ll be there in five minutes. I’ll be there in two. Break out the tape. I want a thirty-yard perimeter set all the way around that building, okay. And Levine . . .’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Whatever you do, don’t touch the building itself.’
Selexin and Holly could see the stairwell now.
Up ahead. Thirty yards away.
Panting madly, they kept running down the narrow aisle.
They were approaching the intersection of two aisles when suddenly a hood leapt across their path, its claws raised, its jagged teeth bared wide.
Holly and Selexin skidded to a stop and the hood crashed down onto the hard wood floor in front of them.
It got to its feet again, quickly blocking their path down the aisle. Not far beyond the animal, they could see the open door to the stairwell.
Selexin spun to go back the other way but stopped instantly.
There behind them, stepping slowly into the narrow aisle, was the second hood.
Swain ran down the tunnel, toward a light around the bend.
It was a subway station. Which one, he didn’t care.
10:01
10:00
9:59
Swain burst into the white light of the subway station and heaved himself up from the tracks onto the platform.
A murmur arose among the commuters standing on the platform. They all stepped back in horror as Swain pushed past them, oblivious to how he must have looked.
His jeans were covered with black streaks of grease, and his shirt—filthy black with subway soot, elevator grease and hoodaya blood—was ripped from neck to navel. A single vertical line of blood stretched down his chest, while his right forearm was soaked red from the deep gashes inflicted by the hood. The bloody red scar across his left cheek was indistinguishable on his black sooty face.