Wild Cards by George R. R. Martin
Rescuing C.C. What had seemed to be a wonderful idea had turned into a nightmare. Rosemary had followed some derelicts into the steam tunnels beneath Grand Central Station. At first she tried asking anyone she met about C.C. But as she moved farther into the dank passages, those living there scuttled away. There was only occasional light from gratings in the street above, or from the derelicts' smoky fires. Her fatigue and fear began taking their toll; she fell again and again into the muck on the tunnel floors.
One horrible moment, she was attacked by a filthy creature who clawed at her, cackling. She fought him off but her purse was gone now. Rosemary was hopelessly lost. She heard occasional sounds that seemed to be gunshots and explosions. I'm in hell.
Ahead were two glowing spots that glared at her through the darkness. They receded as she came nearer. The iridescent green lights mesmerized her.
The spots came into focus and Rosemary saw the cat crouched in the darkness. Retreating a few feet and growling, it watched as Rosemary approached a wounded cat, the comrade it guarded. Chest crushed, one leg nearly severed from its body, the injured cat was dying. The guardian would allow no more pain to be inflicted. When she heard the low crying, she ignored the eyes and knelt beside the injured cat. Rosemary realized there was nothing she could do, but she held it. The cat began to purr before it choked and died.
The guardian lifted its head and howled a eulogy before pivoting and running into the gloom.
Rosemary laid the body on the ground in front of her and placed its head and legs in comfortable positions, sat back, and began sobbing. It seemed as if she cried forever before she started walking toward the sounds of the guns, gasping from her sobs.
After raiding the refrigerator—Bagabond could understand why Con Ed never noticed the power tap, but how did he ever get the refrigerator down here?—Jack went back into his bedroom to get some sleep. Bagabond and the cats explored Jack's domain, which included making sure they could get out the door he had locked behind them.
They quickly discovered the limits. Bagabond sat down on an overstuffed horsehair sofa. The black joined her while the calico continued her game of crossing the room without touching the floor. Bagabond pondered and, for the first time in years, the black was not invited to join her. Bagabond was amazed at the way Jack lived. It made her life of moving from one temporary home, a pile of rags, to another, suddenly seem wrong and filled with discomforts she had previously ignored.
She and Jack had discussed the probability that they were both aces. What luck. The virus had ruined both their lives. She would never again be the innocent child she was before the acid and the virus flooded her mind with the alien perceptions of the animal world. She thought she had had a miserable childhood. It was why she left home. But to grow up thinking you were something like a werewolf, a creature cursed by God.
Why had she been so open with him? There was no one still alive in the city who knew as much about her as Jack now did. It was because they were alike; they knew what it was like to be different and to have stopped looking for ways to be like everybody else.
The claws across the back of her hand drew blood before her attention came back to the real world. Her eyes met those of the black cat, and horrifying images filtered through others' eyes began pouring into her mind: rat nests destroyed by machine-gun fire; yelling men frightening an opossum, her children clinging to her back as she ran, one falling, dying; cats fleeing, being shot, murdered; a cat fighting to protect her kittens before a grenade destroyed the litter, leaving the mother with a leg nearly blown off; a woman who looked like that damn social worker cradling a dying cat. The blood—more and more of it—of those who were her only friends.
“The kittens. They can't!” Bagabond stood up and found herself shaking.
“What's goin' on?” Jack, awakened by Bagabond's cry, emerged from his room still half-asleep.
“They're killing them! I've got to stop them.” Bagabond clenched her fists, turning away from him. Flanked by the cats, she headed for the stairs.
“Not without me.” Jack ducked back into his room, grabbed Bagabond's green coat, flashlights, and a pair of sneakers, and followed them up the staircase.
Slowed by tying on the sneakers as he ran, he caught up with them at the first tunnel junction.
“Not that way.” Jack stopped the trio as they entered the right-hand tunnel. He thrust Bagabond's coat at her. He aimed one of the flashlights at the other passage.
“It's how we came in.” In her panic, Bagabond had lost much of her trust in Jack.
“It'll just take you to the subway. There's a faster way to get back to the park. I've got a track-car. Follow me?” Jack waited for Bagabond's nod and plunged into the lefthand tunnel at a trot.
The scenes of carnage in Bagabond's mind grew sharper as they approached Central Park and abandoned the car. As they came up on the next branching of the tunnels, Jack lifted his head and sniffed. “Whoever they are, they're using up an army's worth of gunpowder. What's the plan?”
“We need to find out who they are so we know how to stop them. Right?” Bagabond wasn't at all sure what to do.
“I bet they're mes amis with the guns, but I have no idea who's the boss.”
An image appeared of the calico walking with Jack, the black with Bagabond.
“Far out.” Bagabond patted the head of the immense black cat. “Good idea.”
“What idea?”
“The black thinks we should split up until we find out what is going on. If one of the cats is with each of us, we can stay, um . . .”
“In communication. Yeah. You can at least see what's going on.” Jack nodded thoughtfully. “I used to love war movies, but I get lousy reception at my place. Let's go, Sarge.” He spoke to the calico, who leaped ahead of him. “Bon chance.”
Bagabond nodded and moved in the other direction.
In a profound darkness barely relieved by darting beams from the caving helmets worn by armed men, Don Carlo Gambione surveyed the desolation that was his kingdom.
His lieutenant sounded almost apologetic. “Don Carlo, I fear our troops became too enthusiastic about their task.”
Don Carlo looked down at the bodies illuminated in the light from the Butcher's flash. “Zeal in a matter such as this,” he said, “is no vice.”
“We've found their headquarters,” said the Butcher. “Our men discovered it less than an hour ago.” He stabbed a finger at the map. “About 86th Street. Under the park. Close to Central Park Lake. It looked inhabited. That's when I called you.”
“I am grateful,” said his leader. “I want to be present when the flame of our enemies' ill-conceived brushfire rebellion is extinguished. I knew there must be a reason why they should rise up now.” Don Carlo's voice rose as well. The Butcher stared at him.
“I want their heads,” said Don Carlo. “We shall set them on spikes at Amsterdam and 110th Street.” Wide, his eyes shone ferally in the electric lamplight.
The Butcher gently put a hand on the Don's wrist. “We'd better go uptown now, Padrone. I told the men to wait in place, but they are so—enthusiastic.”
For a moment, Don Carlo's gaze swung around wildly at the bodies littering the dirty concrete. Rags soaked with blood. “Such tragedy! The pain, the pain . . .” He stared directly down at the corpse at his feet. It was a white man, the gangling arms and legs sprawled out like the limbs of a broken marionette. There was no peace in the lined, sun-scorched face. Only agony reflected in the too-wide dark eyes. Smashed makeshift goggles lay in the blood pooled from the man's head. The don unconsciously nudged the shoulder of the faded fatigue jacket with the toe of one polished boot. “This one was a true jungle-joker . . .” His voice trailed off.
Don Carlo looked away. He drew himself straight, taking strength from the almost-holy knowledge of what he must do. He leaned closer to the Butcher's sober face. “These things we do . . .” he said. “It is sad, very sad. But sometimes we must attack and even destroy the way of life we lov
Despite his bravado—why am I trying to impress that raggedy woman?—Jack took his time moving into the tunnels. The long ride back up to the park had returned to him his limp and considerable pain. Whenever he heard a noise, he froze. The calico showed remarkable patience. She ranged fifty feet or so ahead and then returned if it was clear. Jack wished desperately he could talk to her.
The sounds now were not imaginary. They grew louder. Jack began to hear unintelligible shouts. He jumped at every gunshot or explosion. He stopped using the flashlight because he was afraid someone would see it. The calico stayed a few feet away now. Jack had rubbed dirt on his face to cut down reflection.
Boots scuffed against the concrete floor just ahead of him. He started to back up and ran into one of the hunters, who was as surprised as he was.
“What the hell! Joey! Joey, I got one!”
The man in the hardhat with the attached light swung the butt of his gun at Jack's head.
“Where is he, Sly?”
The rifle-butt had just grazed Jack's skull. He managed to sprint out of the light and up an apparent dead-end passage. Jack tried to mold himself to the wall and wished he could change into something useful, like concrete or dirt. As the thought crossed his mind, he recognized the itching that meant he was getting scaly. Jack fought it off by slowing his breathing and exerting control. That's all he needed now. Where's the calico? he thought. Bagabond'll kill me if that cat's hurt.
“He has to be down here, Joey. There's nowhere else to go.” The voice sounded as if it were an inch away.
“Toss in a grenade and keep movin'. We're supposed to be sealing off their base.”
“Aw, Joey, come on.”
“Sly, you're crazy, man. Move it.”
There was the sound of metal bouncing on rock. Jack caught a glint of light from the grenade before the adrenaline wiped his brain clean. Merde was his last conscious thought.
The blast roar was accompanied by some rockfalls, but there hadn't been as much graft in this section. The roof held.
“Check it out, Sly.”
“All right, Joey. Thanks.” Sly was known for being almost as crazy as Little Renaldo.
Why me, Joey wondered.
“Nothing's left. Just a few rags and a sneaker. The right one.”
“Come on, then. We've got a lot of ground to cover.”
Neither man noticed the calico crouched on a rock projecting from the wall near the ceiling. The calico leaped down and nosed through the torn and bloody clothing. She sent the scene to Bagabond and set out to meet her.
Bagabond stood quietly against the far wall of the 86th Street cutoff. She petted the calico gently and did her best imitation of a harmless old woman. The black had warned her the mafiosi were coming, but they were behind her by the time she tried to retreat. Too many to fight, so she came passively. Now she silently gazed at the shambles they had made of her place. Her single guard had his attention fixed on Don Carlo.
“Somehow they must have escaped,” said the Butcher apologetically.
“I want them,” said Don Carlo. He stared around at the large velvet painting in its cheap wooden frame, one corner torn: a pride of lions stalked zebras on the veld. “They were here,” he said. “Savages.”
“Don Carlo, sir, I . . .” It was Joey.
“What?”
“It is Maria, Don Carlo. I found her wandering down here.” Joey escorted Rosemary up to her father. She did not appear to see him or register anything else. Her face was vacant, almost peaceful. Rosemary was a docile rag doll, lost somewhere back in the tunnels.
Don Carlo looked at her with astonishment and then concern. “Maria, what is wrong, mia? Joey, what happened to her?”
“I don't know, Don Carlo. She was like this when I found her.”
Bagabond looked up from under her stringy hair. “Rosemary, couldn't you stay out of this either? Social workers . . . Too nosy.” Bagabond spoke under her breath. The guard turned around at her muttering, but shook his head and returned his attention to the excitement.
“Take care of her for me, Joey, until I finish with this.” Turning to the Butcher, Don Carlo said, “Does the old woman know anything?”
“That's what we're going to find out.” Light caught the blade of the Butcher's stiletto as he started toward Bagabond. Then he stopped and listened attentively.
Everyone in the tunnel was listening. The rumbling that had at first seemed to be just another train in the distance got too loud, too quickly. There were yells from the west tunnel, even a scream of pain as the subway car appeared out of the darkness, traveling where no car could possibly be, with no third rail, on ruined tracks. The car glowed with a white phosphorescence, wraithlike. The route sign read cc local. It came to a stop in the middle of the gathering. The garish designs on its sides changed so rapidly it was impossible to focus on them.
“C.C.!” Rosemary, who had been standing to one side with Joey, eluded his grasp and ran to the phantom car. She stretched out her arms as if to embrace the thing, but as she touched the side, she recoiled. Then Rosemary extended one hand to touch what was not metal. “C.C.?”
Colors radiated from the spot she touched and then vanished. The car became black and almost vanished from the sight of the watchers. Words appeared as they had before: lyrics of songs C.C. had written and only her best friend, Rosemary, had ever heard. The watchers stood, too stunned to move.
You can sing about pain
You can sing about sorrow
But nothing will bring a new tomorrow
Or take away yesterday
Images appeared on the side of the car as if projected there. The first scene was an attack, a rape in a subway station. A hospital bed with the figure of Rosemary recognizable beside it. Someone in a hospital gown walked down fire escapes.
“That's how you got out of the hospital, C.C. Why did you run away?” Rosemary looked up and spoke to the car as if it were a friend.
The next scene showed another subway station, another attack, but the person in the hospital gown was a witness this time. She tried to stop the attack and was flung aside, hurled onto the tracks. The colors of pain and rage. The trash and just about anything else unsecured on the unoccupied platform—vending machines, discarded newspapers, a dead rat, everything—was sucked down onto the tracks as if pulled into the voracious heart of a black hole. A train with six cars shrieked into the station. Suddenly another car joined it. The attacker, escaping, entered the new car and—the scene turned to crimson, as though blood were washing across the phantom car. More subway stations, more crimson. Another attacker in a leather jacket, an old woman.
“Lummy?” Rosemary stepped back from the sight of her fiancé caught in mid-mugging. “Lummy? “
“Lombardo!” Don Carlo was livid at seeing his son-to-be enter the car and be slaughtered. “Joey, get Maria away from that . . . thing. Ricardo, where is the rocket launcher? You'll get your chance now. Frederico, move that old woman over by the car. I want them all destroyed. Now!”
Rosemary fought Joey as he hauled her out of range. “Christ,” he said, not to her, not to anyone in particular. “It's just like it used to be in the villages. Jesus.” Bagabond went quietly, holding the calico cat tightly to her.
Ricardo sighted the rocket launcher carefully. Bagabond straightened.
Forty pounds of angry, wild black cat hit Ricardo squarely in the back. He fell forward as the tube tilted up and the rocket he had just fired headed for the roof. It exploded in a shower of red and gold sparks.
Rosemary pulled away from Joey and ran for the car.
Water began spraying into the tunnel. Jagged concrete blocks started to separate along their sealed junctures and then more water poured in.
“Ricardo, you idiot, you blew a hole in Central Park Lake!” Frederico the Butcher yelled at someone who was no longer an interested party. The mafiosi scattered down the tunnels in disarray.
“Get into the car. Come
“Maria, I'm coming for you. Hold on.” Don Carlo struggled against the rising flood to save his only daughter.
“Papa, I'm going with C.C.”
“No! You must not. It's cursed.” Don Carlo tried to move farther and realized his leg was trapped. He thrust both hands into the chilly water in an effort to free it and grasped scaly skin. He looked down and saw rows of ivory teeth. Implacable reptilian eyes looked back at his.
Rosemary had gotten everyone on board, even the black cat. The car began to move back up the west tunnel.
“Wait. Jack's back there. Don't leave him.” Bagabond tried to open the doors. Rosemary grabbed her shoulders.
“Who's Jack?”
“My friend.”
“We can't go back,” said Rosemary. “I'm sorry.”
Bagabond sat in the rear seat, once more flanked by her two cats, and stared back at the water rushing into the tunnel behind them as they moved toward higher ground.
As the subway car climbed the 86th Street incline, the skirt of dark water followed, lapping at C.C.'s flanged wheels. She eventually reached a rise in the tunnel where the tide behind ceased to follow. C.C. stopped, started to roll back, locked her brakes.
Her passengers crowded against the rear connecting door, straining to see anything of what they had left in the darkness.
“Let us out, C.C.,” said Rosemary. “Please.”
The subway car obligingly opened her side doors with a hiss. The four of them, two human and two feline, clambered down to the road-bed and stood at this new beach. The calico sniffed at the water's edge and turned away. She whined and looked up at Bagabond.
“Wait,” said the bag lady. An unaccustomed smile played for just a moment.
Rosemary strained, concentrating, attempting to peer through the darkness. The last thing she remembered seeing was her father trying to reach her, then just his face, his eyes. Finally nothing.
“There,” said Bagabond flatly.