lollipop glued to a baby’s cheek. Fast food wrappers. Used condoms. He even saw an old red-headed wig plastered to the tunnel wall. None of it breaking down. In a hundred years—a thousand—these will be the remnants of human civilization. The question then became, would anyone even be around to find these things? Or was humanity’s ticket punched as its dead fed on its living?
Coburn told himself he hoped humanity did stick around, if only so he had something—er, someone—to eat.
Kayla just laughed in the back of his mind, as if she knew better.
Whatever the case, that’s why he had to do what he was doing. Had to get to the lab. Had to have them analyze his blood—not just for his own restorative powers but for the healing blood of the very special miracle mystery girl. Her blood was curative. If they could make that into a cure for all mankind, well, that meant his food supply would once more be in good working order.
This was all part of the original deal, he told himself—and told the girl in his head. Protect her. Shepherd her. Carry her forth . He did not keep her safe but he could keep what mattered safe: her blood.
She laughed again—the sound of birds chirping, broken glass tinkling.
He ignored her, and pushed on.
Five minutes in, water began trickling past his feet. A silvery rivulet of scum-topped water. It smelled of—
The tunnel vibrated. The growl of distant thunder.
Rain. It smelled of rain.
That was not great news. These sewers no longer worked like they were supposed to. Not that he knew exactly how a sewer system operated, but he was pretty sure that electricity figured into it somewhere down the line. And maintenance. He’d been down beneath New York enough times to know that run-off from the street moved from tunnels like this one into bigger spaces—and from those bigger spaces, the water was pumped away to treatment plants.
No pumps meant the water had nowhere to go.
It would just fill up the tunnels. Some of it might overflow into the bay. But the rest would drown him like a rat. Not that he needed to breathe, but he didn’t feel like getting washed into the bay like a dirty soda bottle, either.
He put a little pep in his step. No need to urge his body to do anything crazy yet—he didn’t want to waste the blood. But still: faster was better.
Another trembling tumble of thunder from above.
And with it, the sound of a hunter’s scream.
It was not as distant as he had hoped.
As the tunnel bent east, Coburn saw ahead of him a murky band of light—a storm-drain looked out onto the streets of San Francisco as rainwater cascaded down in a shimmering sheet. Even as he approached, he heard the susurration of rain grow heavier—from a steady fall to an asphalt-battering downpour.
He neared the storm drain.
An arm shot out of that space. Reaching in from the outside—a lanky, scabby arm, the purple-gray of a faded bruise, the fingers long, too long, each tipped with not so much a claw as a curve of sharpened bone poking through the dead flesh. It swiped the air only a few feet in front of Coburn’s face, scratching across brick and leaving furrows in the stone.
It was a child’s arm.
The hunter shrieked into the storm drain. Coburn saw the beast’s face: yes, a child’s face, stretched long and thin, the eyes set back in hollow sockets, the mouth a wide-open nest of shark’s teeth. Razors laid upon razors. Biting the air. Long tapered tongue licking along the edge of the storm drain the way a dog might lick the rim of his food bowl.
Long dark dirty hair hung in stiff ringlets around her face.
Oh, my god, it’s a girl , Kayla said. Coburn could feel the ghost in his head recoil in horror. But not just horror—sadness. And not sympathy, but empathy. As if Kayla saw some part of herself in this girl—dead, now a monster, or part of one.
The hunter spit and licked the walls and gnashed her horrible teeth. A second arm reached in next to the first, both reaching
Coburn told himself he hoped humanity did stick around, if only so he had something—er, someone—to eat.
Kayla just laughed in the back of his mind, as if she knew better.
Whatever the case, that’s why he had to do what he was doing. Had to get to the lab. Had to have them analyze his blood—not just for his own restorative powers but for the healing blood of the very special miracle mystery girl. Her blood was curative. If they could make that into a cure for all mankind, well, that meant his food supply would once more be in good working order.
This was all part of the original deal, he told himself—and told the girl in his head. Protect her. Shepherd her. Carry her forth . He did not keep her safe but he could keep what mattered safe: her blood.
She laughed again—the sound of birds chirping, broken glass tinkling.
He ignored her, and pushed on.
Five minutes in, water began trickling past his feet. A silvery rivulet of scum-topped water. It smelled of—
The tunnel vibrated. The growl of distant thunder.
Rain. It smelled of rain.
That was not great news. These sewers no longer worked like they were supposed to. Not that he knew exactly how a sewer system operated, but he was pretty sure that electricity figured into it somewhere down the line. And maintenance. He’d been down beneath New York enough times to know that run-off from the street moved from tunnels like this one into bigger spaces—and from those bigger spaces, the water was pumped away to treatment plants.
No pumps meant the water had nowhere to go.
It would just fill up the tunnels. Some of it might overflow into the bay. But the rest would drown him like a rat. Not that he needed to breathe, but he didn’t feel like getting washed into the bay like a dirty soda bottle, either.
He put a little pep in his step. No need to urge his body to do anything crazy yet—he didn’t want to waste the blood. But still: faster was better.
Another trembling tumble of thunder from above.
And with it, the sound of a hunter’s scream.
It was not as distant as he had hoped.
As the tunnel bent east, Coburn saw ahead of him a murky band of light—a storm-drain looked out onto the streets of San Francisco as rainwater cascaded down in a shimmering sheet. Even as he approached, he heard the susurration of rain grow heavier—from a steady fall to an asphalt-battering downpour.
He neared the storm drain.
An arm shot out of that space. Reaching in from the outside—a lanky, scabby arm, the purple-gray of a faded bruise, the fingers long, too long, each tipped with not so much a claw as a curve of sharpened bone poking through the dead flesh. It swiped the air only a few feet in front of Coburn’s face, scratching across brick and leaving furrows in the stone.
It was a child’s arm.
The hunter shrieked into the storm drain. Coburn saw the beast’s face: yes, a child’s face, stretched long and thin, the eyes set back in hollow sockets, the mouth a wide-open nest of shark’s teeth. Razors laid upon razors. Biting the air. Long tapered tongue licking along the edge of the storm drain the way a dog might lick the rim of his food bowl.
Long dark dirty hair hung in stiff ringlets around her face.
Oh, my god, it’s a girl , Kayla said. Coburn could feel the ghost in his head recoil in horror. But not just horror—sadness. And not sympathy, but empathy. As if Kayla saw some part of herself in this girl—dead, now a monster, or part of one.
The hunter spit and licked the walls and gnashed her horrible teeth. A second arm reached in next to the first, both reaching
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