Terminus

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A subway plant room deep beneath the streets of lower Manhattan.

A single, bare bulb furred with dust and webs.

Shadow and dereliction. Baroque electro-conductive ironwork. Westinghouse. Ampere/volt gauges. Ropes of cable sheathed in tar. Porcelain insulators, the milky glass bulbs of mercury-vapour rectifiers, a corroded rack of lead-acid batteries. Dormant, web-draped apparatus that hinted bygone years of high voltage crackle and dancing Tesla arcs.

Three prisoners cuffed to a water pipe. They each wore red NY Corrections state-issue.

‘Hear that?’ said Lupe. She nodded towards the plant room door. Rapid footsteps and shouting from the subway ticket hall outside. ‘They’re coming for me.’

‘Maybe the army guys are pulling out. Listen. Something’s got them spooked.’

Lupe shook her head.

‘No. I’m next on the kill list. They’re prepping the table, getting ready to dissect my ass.’

She gripped the pipe and tried to rip it from the wall.

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