Relic

“Get out,” Coffey whispered. “Both of you, get out.” The door closed.

“This is Garcia, over. Does anyone copy?” the radio squawked. Coffey spun around and jabbed the radio with his finger.

“Garcia! What’s going on?”

“Nothing, sir, except the power’s still out. But I have Tom Allen here. He’s been asking to speak with you.”

“Put him on, then.”

“This is Allen. We’re getting a little concerned in here, Mr. Coffey. There’s nothing we can do until power’s restored. The batteries are failing on Garcia’s transmitter, and we’ve been keeping it off to conserve juice. We’d like you to get us out.”

Coffey laughed, suddenly, shrilly. The agents manning the consoles looked uneasily at one another. “You’d like me to get you out? Listen, Allen, you [422] geniuses created this mess. You swore up and down the system would work, that everything had a backup. So you get your own asses out. The Mayor’s dead, and I’ve already lost more men than I—hello?”

“This is Garcia again. Sir, it’s pitch-black in here and we only have two flashlights. What happened to the SWAT team that was being sent in?”

Coffey’s laughter stopped abruptly. “Garcia? They got themselves killed. You hear me? Killed. Got their guts hung up like birthday ribbons in there. And it’s Pendergast’s fault, and D’Agosta’s fault, and fucking Allen’s fault, and your fault, too, probably. Now, we’ve got men on this side working to restore the power. They say it can be done, it just may take a few hours. Okay? I’m gonna take that goddamn thing in there, but in my way, in my own sweet time. So you just sit tight. I’m not going to have more men killed to save your sorry asses.”

There was a rap on the rear door. “Come in,” he barked, switching off the radio.

An agent stepped inside and crouched beside Coffey, the glow of the monitors throwing his face into sharp relief. “Sir, I just got word that the Deputy Mayor is on his way over now. And the Governor’s office is on the phone. They want an update.”

Coffey closed his eyes.

Smithback looked up at the ladder, its rusty lower rung hanging a good four feet above his head. Maybe if there was no water he could have jumped it, but with the current nearing his chest it was impossible.

“See anything up there?” D’Agosta asked.

“Nope,” replied Smithback. “This light’s weak. I can’t tell how far the thing extends.”

“Turn off the light, then,” D’Agosta gasped. “Give me a minute to think.”

There was a long silence. Smithback felt another surge against his waist. The water was still rising fast. Another [432] foot, and they would all be floating downstream toward—Smithback shook his head, angrily dispelling the thought.

“Where the hell is all this water coming from?” he moaned to no one in particular.

“This subbasement is built below the Hudson River water table,” D’Agosta replied. “It leaks whenever there’s a heavy rain.”

“Leaks, sure—maybe it even floods a foot or two,” Smithback panted. “But we’re being inundated. They must be building arks out there.”

D’Agosta didn’t answer.

“The hell with this,” a voice said. “Someone get on my shoulders. We’ll go up one by one.”

“Stow it!” D’Agosta snapped. “It’s too damn high for that.”

Smithback coughed, cleared his throat. “I’ve got an idea!” he said.

There was a silence.

“Look, that steel ladder appears to be pretty strong,” he urged. “If we can fasten our belts together and loop them over that ladder, we can wait for the water to rise enough so we can grab the lower rung.”

“I can’t wait that long!” someone cried.

D’Agosta glared. “Smithback, that’s the fucking worst idea I ever heard,” he growled. “Besides, half the men here are wearing cummerbunds.”

“I noticed you have a belt on,” Smithback retorted.

“So I do,” D’Agosta replied defensively. “But what makes you think the water will rise enough for us to reach the rung?”

“Look up there,” Smithback said, shining his flashlight along the wall near the bottom of the metal ladder. “See that band of discoloration? It looks like a highwater mark to me. At least once in the past, the water has risen that high. If this is half the storm you think it is, we ought to get fairly close.”

D’Agosta shook his head. “Well, I still think it’s [424] crazy,” he said, “but I suppose it’s better than waiting here to die. You men back there!” he shouted. “Belts! Pass your belts up to me!”

As the belts reached D’Agosta, he knotted them together, buckle to end, starting with the widest buckle. Then he passed them to Smithback, who looped them over his shoulders. Swinging the heavier end, he braced himself against the current, leaned back, and tossed it up toward the lowest rung. The twelve feet of leather fell back into the water, missing by several feet. He tried again, missed again.

“Here, give me that,” D’Agosta said. “Let a man do a man’s job.”

“The hell with that,” Smithback said, rearing back dangerously and giving another toss. This time Smithback