Underlife - Robert Finn (recommended books to read .txt) 📗

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Warren said, sounding far from pleasant.

That was pretty much what Clipper had expected. He stood there, waiting to see if there’d be any more instructions. He’d known he wouldn’t make it back into the bright comfort of the passenger compartment again. He expected to die down there on the tracks, filthy and afraid.

“You know, I think I’ve finally figured out where I know you from,” Warren said.

Clipper thought for a moment and then laughed. They were the words he’d been afraid of hearing since he’d first set eyes on Warren today. But now it was too late; Warren’s little feat of memory could hardly make things any worse, could it?

“You were friends with Gary Wilson, weren’t you?” Warren asked.

Hearing Gary’s name on Warren’s lips offended Clipper; Warren shouldn’t be allowed to say that name. “And you killed him, didn’t you?” Clipper said, angry, and figuring there was no point in concealing it.

Warren smiled and spread his hands. “He was too much of a thinker. I told him to stop, but he couldn’t help himself. He was always putting two and two together. Sooner or later that causes problems.” Warren looked down at Clipper and said, “What I really should have done was pick you instead.”

Insults too? Great, thought Clipper. He didn’t know how to reply. Perhaps there was nothing left to say. He stood waiting for whatever came next.

“Get that contraption disconnected,” Warren said, nodding towards the short-circuit device, “and I think that will do it for you.”

Clipper took a breath and turned around. He bent over and wrestled the metal clamp loose from the rail. Then he picked it up by its rope and carried it over to where Warren was pointing, before setting it down on the bottom step of ramp.

“Yup,” Warren said. “I think you’re probably finished now.”

Here it comes, thought Clipper, and the feeling hit him a moment later. A tightness settled on him, pressing into his chest, his neck, his face — and with a jolt of panic he realised he couldn’t move air in or out of his lungs. Warren might as well have taped a bag over his face: he couldn’t breathe. And now his body was starting to react. He could feel the veins in his neck standing out and the thud of his heart growing heavier and more violent until each beat was like being thumped in the chest.

He was looking up at Warren who had a slight frown on his face — but it wasn’t concern — he was simply concentrating. Clipper doubted that he was even the most pressing thing in Warren’s mind at that moment. Clipper was a chore that needed finishing, that was all. Warren’s thoughts would be on other things, like getting away, or what he was going to tell his bosses about all this.

Very quickly things were starting to get hazy for Clipper and his thoughts were scattering as fast as he could chase them. As he did his best to keep Warren’s face in focus, he wondered whether his killer was even now thinking about how he was going to dispose of Rachel. Half delirious with oxygen starvation he found that thought still had the power to make him sad.

Clipper was starting to lose the edges of his vision now and his thoughts were scarcely more than a jumble, but it almost looked as though Rachel was there, pressing up against Warren in a way that Clipper’s confused brain found unsettling. It was like she was hugging herself to him and Clipper hated that thought. He’d been hoping that she liked him instead. But now he was dying and she was getting cosy with his killer. He’d expected better from her.

But a moment later there was a sound like an explosion, muffled somewhat by the invisible barrier that was wrapped around Clipper’s head, and then Warren was toppling forwards. Simultaneously, cold air burst into Clipper’s lungs and it was like the lights came back on in his brain; everything around him became sharp and hard-edged, and he could think again.

Rachel was crouching over Warren, who had fallen to his knees. She had the gun pressed to the back of his head and angled up slightly so that the grip of the weapon was pressed into the fabric of Warren’s backpack.

Down on the tracks, Clipper was on all fours, gasping for air, but he was looking up, trying to take in the scene. Warren was down too, and doubled over, but he wasn’t dead. He groaned loudly and tried to rise. Rachel pushed the gun’s barrel hard into the base of his skull and said, “I can fire this thing before you can stop me. So don’t move until I tell you to.”

Then she looked over at him and said, “Matt? Are you OK?”

He was still hyperventilating, but he could talk. “I’m OK,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”

She said, “The driver’s ready to move the train. So let’s get the power turned on and get going. Can you take care of the short-circuit thing and get this door closed?”

“Yeah, no problem,” Clipper said. “And, er… thanks very much.” It sounded a bit stupid, saying ‘thank you’ for saving his life, but if that didn’t warrant a ‘thank you’, then what did? Plus, Clipper wondered if he might not be just a tiny bit high from the combination of adrenaline and lack of oxygen.

Rachel was talking to her captive. “Stand up slowly. Turn very slowly. And then walk back to that intercom. Tiny steps all the way.”

Warren managed to get to his feet with a bit of trouble. Clipper couldn’t see exactly where he’d been hit, but he had his hands clamped over his chest high up on his right side. There was a strange wheezy noise as he breathed that Clipper could hear from down on the track. He looked pretty messed up, and yet he was able to stand.

Clipper reckoned that even with another hole in him, Warren would still be about as dangerous as a tiger on crystal meth, but watching Rachel, how sure she sounded, he was starting to believe that she and him had a chance of making it to the next station alive. As Warren turned and Rachel kept herself tucked in behind him, he was starting to feel a surge of hope. His stupid plan to take Warren out wouldn’t be needed now, and thank god for that.

And then he saw something that made his breath stick in his throat all over again. Rachel pushed the gun into Warren’s neck, urging him to start shuffling forwards and Clipper caught sight of it as it passed into the light that streamed through the open doorway. The slide was back, covering the hammer. The gun was empty.

If Warren suspected, if he decided to try his luck, they were finished.

As Clipper grabbed hold of one of the steel cables and pulled himself up onto the ramp, he thought of all the things that could go wrong in the few minutes it would take them to get to the next station and he wondered what he could do to help Rachel. Hopefully she’d just get Warren to lay down on his front as soon as they were clear of the rear cab, but he didn’t want to risk suggesting it in case it gave Warren ideas.

At any rate, Clipper needed to get the track clear and the door closed as quickly as possible. So he grabbed the SCD off the bottom step of the ramp and poked it in through the busted window of the cab. Then he withdrew into the cab and tried to figure out how to get the steps folded up and the door hoisted back into position. A few seconds of trial and error and he had it slammed shut.

Picking up the SCD and holding it like a rather ungainly baseball bat he moved towards the doorway, praying that Rachel still had Warren under control and he didn’t need to go hand to hand with him. That would be a short fight.

Rachel had got Warren most of the way down the carriage and now he stood, dripping blood and wheezing painfully, in front of the emergency alarm. Rachel was right behind him, the empty gun pressed into his back, the barrel tucked into the hollow at the top of his spine.

“Tell him,” she said. And when Warren didn’t respond, but just stood, slightly stooped, arms clamped across his injured chest, she repeated it, this time screaming it at the top of her voice, “Tell him to move this train or I’ll kill you and do it myself.”

Warren reached up, slowly and painfully, the motion putting a strain on his wounded flesh. Then he pulled the handle down and waited for something to happen.

A moment later there was a crackle. “Driver here,” the voice over the intercom said.

“Everything’s ready. Let’s get moving,” Warren said, his voice sounding hoarse and uneven. Then he folded the alarm handle back in place. A moment later he began to choke, doubling over, just as the normal compartment lights came on. They looked dazzlingly bright after the relative gloom. The noise of compressors filled the carriage, making the floor vibrate. It felt like the train was coming back to life.

“Stop moving,” Rachel commanded, as Warren shuddered with each cough. “Just lay down on the floor.”

Good, thought Clipper. Get him to lie down and stay there.

Clipper saw Warren get his choking under control and begin to straighten his back. He set one knee on the ground, ready to lie down. And then Clipper saw Warren’s head turn a little and pause. Clipper followed his gaze and realised what had happened: he was looking at Rachel’s reflection in the window, lit up by the full glare of the compartment’s lights.

And Clipper knew what would happen next. There wasn’t even time to shout a warning. Warren had seen the condition of the gun. He twisted around and caught Rachel across the jaw with his elbow, slamming her to the ground. Then he stood up carefully, swaying on his feet. He straightened up very cautiously as though wondering whether his wound was as bad as he’d been making out. Then he took his hand away from the wound and inspected the damage. Rachel was still at his feet, momentarily dazed by the blow and not yet able to find her feet. The empty gun lay on the floor nearby, discarded now.

Warren touched the oozing hole in his chest carefully and gasped. “You people,” he said, sounding disgusted. Then he looked Rachel in the eyes and said, “This next part, you’re not going to enjoy.”

Clipper knew what to do. He couldn’t wait any longer. The timing would just have to take care of itself. Before Warren could do anything, Clipper shouted out his name. Warren looked round to see what he wanted.

“I know where the other disk is,” Clipper called out. He’d seen Kieran’s hand fidgeting, seen the little knife cutting into the upholstery while Warren went to attend to his fallen comrade. And Clipper had seen the glint of the disk as Kieran slid it inside the hole he’d made. Now Clipper moved to that spot, halfway along the row of seats nearest the rear cab.

Warren was still directing his attention at Clipper; he hadn’t turned back to Rachel yet. Clipper rested the unwieldy metal SCD on the floor, propping it up against the seat, and nearly tripping over the trailing rope in the process. Then he plunged his hand into the slit in the seat cover.

He pulled out the disk and held it up.