And Bronca suddenly suspects that, if she could get up high, she would see the whole city shadowed. As if there is something floating above it—something vast and terrible, but thus far observable only via its effects on the world. Soon, though…
Veneza has gotten out of the car. She’s resolutely not looking up, Bronca notices. Afraid of seeing something else that she shouldn’t. “Yeah, so,” she says, her voice tight. “You guys should do everything you can. Um, fast.”
Yeah. Bronca’s getting that impression.
They find the entrance to the old station, an unobtrusive green-painted thing incongruously labeled BROAD STREET SUBWAY, EXIT ONLY, and locked with a pull-down shutter. There’s a harried-looking young man waiting there. He’s barely pubescent to Bronca’s eyes, which makes her figure him for the summer intern. “Ah, Council Member Thomason,” he says as they arrive, smiling and stepping forward to shake her hand. “Thank you, we got your message. Will you be needing a tour guide? We don’t have any of our usual guides on hand, I’m afraid, but I can—”
“There’s no need, Director,” Brooklyn says smoothly. “Thank you. I’ve been on the tour before, I can handle it. We didn’t bring a flashlight, however.”
“Oh, take mine.” He—the director, to Bronca’s astonishment, damn children everywhere these days—hands Brooklyn his flashlight. It’s one of those survivalist dealies that needs to be cranked instead of having batteries, but this one’s fully charged. “And how long will you be?”
“Not long. I’ll be sure to return the keys by tomorrow morning.” Brooklyn extends a hand.
The director blinks. “You—I didn’t realize—” Now he looks around at the rest of them. Wondering, Bronca guesses, why a city council member has shown up with a bunch of raggedy, dirty, tired-looking people, to go exploring a defunct train station. “Um.”
“I’ll make sure my friend on the Brooklyn Museum board knows how helpful and professional you are,” Brooklyn says, with a perfect shit-eating smile. Bronca almost admires her for it. And the director, who apparently wants a better job, is helpless against it. He sighs as he hands over the keys. They exchange a few more lines of friendly small talk, which are aggravating to hear while the city grows steadily dimmer. Now Bronca can’t tell her own shadow from the general gloom. Finally, though, the child-bureaucrat leaves, and Brooklyn starts wrestling with the shutter lock. After a moment, they’re inside. Down some steps and around a corner—and then they all stop, in shock.
Strewn across the curving platform, beneath an arch lined with gorgeous Guastavino tilework, lies the scattered, twisted corpse of a biomechanoid monster. The bulk of it hangs off the subway platform—and as Bronca stares, she belatedly realizes that the back end of the thing is an unadulterated subway train, the last car of which still sits on its track. All the cars ahead of it, however, have jumped the track. The foremost cars have actually come up on the platform and transformed into something more like an annelid than an inanimate vehicle. It has tiny, stumpy legs, made of twisted engine parts. It’s also covered in white, glowing strands that have grown as thickly as dense fur… but all of the white strands are dead, Bronca sees with some relief, crumbling away to nothingness even as she watches. She gives the strands a wide berth anyway while they pick their way around the train’s remnants.
In fact, Bronca sees that the thing hasn’t just died; it has been killed. Ripped apart, in fact. Part of the first car lies crumpled on the other side of the platform, flung against the wall by some incomprehensibly powerful force. The rest is jammed halfway up a side tunnel of the station. But just beyond the jammed-in bit, Bronca can hear someone panting.
“Hello?” she calls.
There’s a curse in Portuguese, and abruptly Paulo appears in the narrow gap of the torn-out conductor’s cab. “Thank God,” he says, his eyes widening with relief. “Is Staten Island with you?”
They start climbing over the debris. Bronca’s ashamed to need a hand from Queens, but she makes it. “No,” Brooklyn says. “She didn’t like us any better than she did you. The Woman in White had already…”
She trails off. Bronca gets through the torn-up piece of subway monster and follows her gaze to see Manny slumped against the wall. He’s the one who’s panting, plus visibly exhausted and bloodied all over. He’s also completely naked, although Paulo’s jacket covers his lap.
“What,” Bronca says, dazed.
“Train monster,” Manny replies.
“Uh, yeah, what I mean is—”
“Staten Island,” Paulo snaps. He’s shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re saying she’s thrown in with the Enemy? Completely? Does she understand—”
“She understands.” Queens has gone over to help Manny up. On his feet, he looks like Bronca feels, bent over and holding himself gingerly against the pain of any possible movement. He’s clutching the jacket over his dangly bits, so Bronca figures Paulo’s not going to want that one back. “And then she threw us off the island. We, uh. We don’t know where Hong is, by the way.”
Paulo stares at all of them, speechless in his horror. Manny sighs, then turns and stumbles toward something in an alcove beyond them. “We’ll have to do what we can, then.”
“And if it isn’t enough?” That’s Brooklyn.
“It’ll have to be enough.” Manny’s so obviously hurting that Bronca goes over to try to help him. Her back seizes up the instant she bends, though, and she has to quit. Veneza shakes her head and runs over to both of them, glaring at Bronca ’til she backs off. Veneza slides a shoulder under Manny’s arm.
“Will we at least be able to protect our boroughs?” Brooklyn smiles in a pained sort of way that makes it clear she knows exactly how fucked up the question is. Bronca doesn’t blame her, though.
“How should I know?” But then, so that she doesn’t sound completely heartless, Bronca adds, more softly, “Did they get out? Your father and your girl?”
“I hope so.” Brooklyn turns away then, and heads toward the alcove, moving more briskly than is strictly necessary.
Bronca limps into the alcove as well, to behold the primary just as the portrait depicted him: too slim, too young, and entirely too vulnerable here within the fading light of the city. “Doesn’t look big enough to eat more than a couple of mouthfuls of each of us,” Bronca quips. No one laughs.
Paulo comes over and takes Veneza’s arm, pulling her back, much to Bronca’s relief.
Then it’s just them and the primary. Four out of five stars, good but not great. Bronca takes a deep breath, waiting, trying not to be afraid. She finds herself watching Manny, though, who seems to get this part of it better than the rest of them.
Manny, however, just looks troubled as he gazes down at the primary. “Nothing’s different,” he says. He reaches out toward the shaved side of the primary’s head, but stops a few inches away, as if he is afraid to follow through on the gesture. His expression tightens in frustration, and Bronca abruptly sees the scene a different way. His hand has been stopped. By something that she cannot see.