End of Days (16 page)

“You're just delaying the inevitable,” he mocked, getting to his feet.

C
HAPTER FOURTEEN

Jericho glanced up at the thick red gas pipe traveling through the metallic web above the chamber. And fired.

The grenade blast shattered the pipe, unleashing a huge fiery cloud that incinerated the chamber and flooded into the tunnel.

“Move!” Jericho shouted as the firestorm rushed closer, swirling flames licking at their heels. The howling fireball sucked the air from the cramped space as they raced desperately down the tunnel, their scorched lungs heaving.

Jericho pulled Christine around a corner to escape the rolling flames, but the searing heat stressed the metal pipes to their breaking point. Rivets popped, strafing the walls like bullets, as superheated fumes boiled into the already steaming tunnel.

Staggering under the oppressive weight of airless heat, Jericho dragged Christine through the catacombs.

A moment later, the green-eyed man emerged from the raging holocaust behind them.

Both Jericho and Christine felt him coming.

The man's presence pulsed in their skulls like an abscessed tooth, draining their energy as they scrambled to escape. Jericho skidded to a stop when he saw the figures in long coats emerge from the shadows ahead. They were trapped.

Jericho leveled his Glock at the people blocking the tunnel and fired, opening a path. But the man was still behind them.

“What do we do now?” Christine asked breathlessly.

Jericho shrugged. “I'm thinking.”

Without warning Christine grabbed his hand and pulled the Glock to her head. “I won't be responsible for the end of the world.”

As Christine's finger squeezed the trigger he yanked the gun aside. “I may not be the most religious man, but I know that killing yourself is a sin,” Jericho said hoarsely. “Dying like that—he could bring you back. You'd be delivering yourself to him.”

“Then for Chrissakes—
you do it!
” she sobbed. “What's there for me to live for anyway?”

Jericho smiled. “It's New Year's Eve.”

She turned and started running.
No sense of humor,
Jericho lamented chasing after her. She darted into a corridor. Jericho followed, aware of the rumbling approach of a subway train. Behind them, the man stalked closer.

Christine stumbled through an opening and found herself in a subway tunnel. Her churning senses were focused on one desperate need: to escape the man's compelling power.

But when she emerged onto the tracks, a screeching spotlight pinned her like a deer. Transfixed, she watched the screaming subway train descend on her.

Suddenly, Jericho's weight forced her down between the tracks. A deafening boom roared over them like a tornado in a junkyard. Christine tried to lift her head but Jericho pushed her face into the wet cinders as the subway cars thundered over them.

The train roared over them like a sudden squall. Jericho felt a rush of cool air and looked up. The subway had passed and was skidding to a stop. Lifting his head he saw the train had only two cars. His eyes met Christine's. She was crying, not in fear, but in anger.

“You should have ended it,” Christine sobbed. “You should have just let it end.”

Jericho grabbed her shoulders and put his face close to hers. “Look at me!” he rasped, each breath painful. “Look at me! Whatever it takes … we're gonna get … through this.”

“How do you know that?”

Jericho slowly stood up and pulled Christine to her feet.

“Show a little faith,” he growled.

A slash of light fell across the tracks. Jericho looked up and saw the rear door of the subway open. At the same time a shuffling sound came from the darkness behind them. Immediately Jericho began running to the subway train, dragging Christine along.

The motorman's expression tilted from relief to amazement as Jericho and Christine hobbled out of the shadows and mounted the rear platform.

“I thought I hit you,” the motorman said gratefully. Then he got a good look at Jericho. The sweaty, muscular figure climbing aboard bristled with lethal weaponry. His bruised, wounded body moved like an aroused predator, nostrils flaring and eyes crazed.

“Get us out of here—
now!
”

The motorman cringed as Jericho lifted his machine gun and began firing. Then the motorman glimpsed the figures in black running in and out of the light … coming closer.

Jericho pushed Christine through the door, grabbed the terrified motorman, and raced to the front of the train. He pushed the motorman into his compartment and took a position at the front window. He checked his weapons, inserted fresh clips, and locked a grenade in the launcher.

Finally Jericho stepped into the motorman's compartment. “Why aren't we moving?”

The motorman's puffy white face gleamed with sweat. “After an emergency stop I have to restart the system.”

“How long?”

“Just give me a minute,” the motorman pleaded, fumbling with the switches on the console.

“Jer!”

Jericho pivoted, alerted by the fear in Christine's voice. A handful of followers had boarded the train and were making their way into the front car. With a quick burst he cut down the first three intruders, and the rest retreated. As if sweeping rats in a barn, Jericho fired another burst down the corridor, driving the survivors off the train.

He ran to the rear car, closely trailed by Christine. He fired a few more rounds into the tunnel, keeping the black-coated zealots back.

Christine folded her arms as if chilled. “I'd feel better if you could show me how to use one of those things.”

So you can blow your brains out? No thanks,
Jericho brooded, eyes scanning the tunnel.

“I just want to help,” she said calmly. “I want to do something.”

Something in her voice swayed him. He glanced down and searched her tear-streaked face. “And you won't…?”

Christine gave him a wry smile. “Have a little faith.”

Jericho heard that. Carefully he handed her one of his Glocks. She took it gingerly as if expecting it to go off.

It's her first time. Good sign,
Jericho noted. He stood behind her and helped her grip the gun properly. “Just line them up in the crosshairs and squeeze,” he said crisply. “But be ready for the recoil.”

She squeezed.
Click … click … click … click.

“Just like that,” he congratulated. He took a fresh clip and showed her how to snap it in and cock the hammer. “Here's the safety,” he added. “Leave it on until you…”

Christine pointed the gun at his head—and fired.

Jericho ducked, jerking his MP–5 at Christine.
“What
are you…?” Then he saw the angle of her weapon and looked up. An attacker hung upside down from the roof like a long black flag.

“Like that?” Christine asked innocently.

Jericho scanned the tunnel. “Yes—like that.” As if punctuating his praise, Jericho fired three quick shots.

Christine moved to his shoulder and saw the black-coated figures. They darted in and out of the darkness, like a writhing black snake with white spots. She aimed at the nearest white spot and squeezed. The recoil staggered her. She planted her feet, gripped tight with both hands, and fired. This time she absorbed the kick. She also hit her target. One of the attackers fell across the tracks.

Jericho nodded approvingly, and put a few more shots into the shadows. The white spots shrank back, then reappeared, coiling between the nearby pillars.

Jericho fired and heard the twang of bullets bouncing off steel.

A white face came out of the shadows, charging for the platform. The attacker stopped short, brains and blood spewing from his skull like dirty toothpaste.
Nice shot,
Jericho noted with professional pride as he ran to the front car.

“Get us moving!”
Jericho ordered. He blasted a hole in the roof to make his point.

“Got it!”
the motorman cried hoarsely. He threw the lever and the train lurched forward.

The
crack
of Christine's gun drew Jericho back to the rear platform. He sprayed the tracks with bullets as the train slowly gathered speed. Ignoring the gunfire, a horde of black-coated zealots spilled out of the shadows and ran after the departing train, their pale faces twisted with demonic frenzy.

“This city has really gone to hell,” Jericho said grimly, watching them fade as the train picked up speed.

*   *   *

With only two cars to pull, the light train flew down the tunnel, its headlights drilling through the darkness. Jericho and Christine stood at the front window, staring at the rushing tracks as the subway rattled toward salvation.

They both saw it at the same time. The train rounded a corner and the lights revealed a figure standing on the tracks, arms crossed.

“Oh God!” Christine moaned. “He's here!”

Jericho was already inside the motorman's compartment. He pulled the motorman's hand away from the brake lever, and pushed the throttle up. The train swayed as it accelerated, careening directly at the man standing dead ahead.

Arms crossed with casual arrogance, the man remained where he was.

The train kept accelerating and Jericho kept his hand on the throttle. When they were a few feet away, Jericho saw the man smile.

“Hang on!” Jericho yelled. An instant later the train slammed into the man like a moth on a windshield. Jericho felt a slight jump as the heavy steel wheels ran over the body.

C
HAPTER FIFTEEN

Jericho raced down the length of the first car and through the second car. Wind whistling around him, he stood on the rear platform and peered along the tracks.

They were empty.

Christine came up behind him. Jericho shrugged helplessly.

“He's gone.”

They looked at each other, knowing the truth, but unwilling to admit it.

The floor burst open and an arm crashed through, clawing at Christine's ankle. Jericho's MP–5 shattered Christine's scream as his bullets chewed the floor.

The arm retreated. A moment later it was back, smashing down through the roof and snatching at Christine's hair.

Jericho and Christine began firing at the roof as they backed into the lead car. They hurried up front to the motorman.

“We have to disconnect the car!” Jericho declared breathlessly.

The motorman blinked. “What are you talking about?”

Jericho waved his gun toward the rear car. “He's back there!”

“Who?” the motorman quavered, totally unstrung.

Before Jericho could answer, the motorman arched sharply, like a bow being bent. Glass and metal splintered as a fist speared the front of the train, impaling the motorman's heart. A fountain of blood spattered the control panel.

The motorman screeched in agony as the fist yanked him through the broken window. Unable to save him, Jericho and Christine fired madly, adrenaline pumping with terror.

Jericho pushed Christine back as the train continued to hurtle through the darkness. As they passed between cars, Jericho glanced down and saw the coupling mechanism that hitched them together.

Shoving Christine through the door, Jericho balanced between the rocking subways cars, and spotted a lever near the coupling hitch. Jericho reached down and pulled the lever with both arms, biceps straining against the rigid steel.

Jericho heaved and the lever gave. An abrupt shower of sparks lit up the darkness as metal ground on metal and the cars separated.

Suddenly Jericho realized he was on the wrong car.

Christine's car slowed and his own car surged ahead. In less than a second the gap yawned from two to six feet.

Without thinking, Jericho tried a running jump across the widening gap. The rear car slowed and Jericho didn't quite make it.

His hands clutched the side rails, and his feet kicked vainly in midair. Christine swooped down and grabbed his shirt. With her help, he pulled himself onto the rear car and looked back.

The lead car was rapidly moving further away, as their car drifted to a stop. But they could see the man, his long black coattails trailing in the wind as he trotted to the rear of his car, his glaring green eyes fixed on Jericho.

“Jericho!” he called, voice booming. “I shall cast you into hell like my father did to me at the dawn of time.”

“Times change!” Jericho yelled defiantly, locking a red warhead in his launcher. “Welcome to the twenty-first century!”

Enraged the man broke into a run. When his foot hit the rear platform, he leaped, hands clawing the roaring air.

In that instant Jericho fired, blasting the man back into his subway car, a hot grenade buried in his belly. Then it exploded.

Flaring like a fiery balloon, the subway car blew to smithereens. Jericho pulled Christine to the floor, covering her against the rolling fireball that rushed over them like hell's hot breath.

Long moments later they drifted to a stop. Jericho pushed himself up and peered down the track. Fifty yards ahead yellow flames consumed the wrecked car like a funeral pyre.

Blood surging through his body, Jericho pumped another grenade into the flaming wreckage, and another—bright white thunderbolts pounding the tunnel walls.

Then it was quiet except for the faint sizzle of twisted rubble burning in the darkness ahead. Christine slowly got to her feet, face glowing with relief.

Jericho helped her off the car and they hurried back along the tracks. But as they fled, a familiar voice bellowed after them.

“For thirty thousand years I've walked through the hearts and minds of men,” the voice blared, echoing from every wall and crevice around them. “I have built the gas ovens at Auschwitz, I have haunted the killing fields of Cambodia, and I've spurred good Christians in Serbia to rape and loot in the name of their Lord.”