It was a long, dank walk through the old subway tunnels. The inky blackness got on Cooker's nerves almost as soon as they began their trek downtown. He tripped and cursed and finally begged Bonner for the luxury of some light.

"Look, I'll keep the pressure low on my thrower. I'll just bum off a little mixture. It'll work, you'll see."

"Fine," said Bonner, "but if I say put it out, it goes out."

"Okay," said Cooker. He pumped up his cylinders until a lazy cloud of aerated gasoline hazed from his throw pipe. He lit it with a loud puff.

Bonner had to admit that with the flame guiding the way they made better time. The tunnels were damp and the only sounds, except for the heavy clump of three sets of boots, were the scuttling of rats and the constant drip of the surface water from the ceiling.

"Fucking raining in here," observed Starling.

Years of the water had sodden the thick old wooden railway ties until they had rotted and felt like a mushy old carpet underfoot.

They passed through old stations like the one they had spent the night in. The flame in Cooker's light reflected off the dull tiles. Fifty-Ninth Street, Forty-Second Street, Sheridan Square, Chambers Street . . .

They had been walking for two hours when they saw up ahead that their path was blocked by some huge, indefinite black bulk. It sat squarely athwart the subway tracks.

"Whassat?" demanded Cooker, sounding jumpy.

"Relax," said Bonner, "it's just an old train. We can go around it."

"Damn," said Cooker, "I thought it was one of them little waddyacallits. Rat shits."

As they passed alongside the old vehicle. Starling stared up at it, gawking like a kid at a freakshow.

"Can you imagine riding in that thing? Underground yet?"

Cooker stared also, his eyes roaming over the great beast. Its sides were painted with faded letters and numbers several feet high.

"Sure had a funny way of writing back then. I can't make out any of that." He held his torch closer to the sides in an effort to see better.

"Me neither," said Starling.

They passed the next six cars of the train in silence. Bonner imagined the train crammed full of people while the huge bulk of the thing rushed through the tunnel. No one would have looked out the window, no one would have thought twice about travelling at great speed underground. Today that was incomprehensible, in those old dead days it was commonplace. They had been impatient, Bonner thought, to get to their stop, their homes, their jobs. Ordinary people . . .

It was said that people lived down here, in the sunless subway, for years after the attack—they must be the ancestors of the tunnel-scum. In a few of the stations the gray walls were dark with the smoke of cooking fires. Bonner looked around him and wondered why they had bothered to try and survive. What joy could living have brought them down here in this black hell? Sometimes the will to survive was just too strong, better to let go, to sink into the release of a death you deserved more than life. They passed through another station: Wall Street. "We're almost there," said Bonner quietly. "None too soon," said Starling, relieved. They emerged from the subway via an old emergency exit. They stood for a moment in the late afternoon sunlight, blinking away the subterranean gloom that seemed to linger in their eyes.

"The Stormers have a supply house down here, on the river. An old place that sticks out over the river a ways. They never have more than two or three men guarding it. One on the door, maybe two more inside. I want them brought down quiet. There's probably another forty of fifty Stormers on the island and I'd just as soon not let them know we're coming." "Amen," said Starling.

"Why the guard so light?" asked Cooker suspiciously.

"They never expect any trouble in New York."

"Yeah," said Cooker sarcastically, "who'd be that crazy?"

They waited an hour or so for night to fall. Slowly the darkness rolled in like a sluggish tide, erasing the desolate scene around them. The end of the island looked like a giant scythe had cut through the tall buildings clustered there. Hundreds of tall buildings had been sliced off just above street level, the streets having been turned into ravines of rubble.

Bonner judged that it was dark enough to make their move.

The Stormer on the front door couldn't have made it easier. He sat in front of the rickety old building—it had a funny little tower at one end—tending a fire. They could see the outline of the man clearly and his giant shadow cast behind him by the flickering flames.

"Starling," whispered Bonner, "can you take him?"

"No problem." Starling slipped the explosive charge out of one of his arrows, inserted the shaft into the bowstring and pulled it taut. The Stormer suddenly stood upright holding his hands out over the flames of the fire to absorb the heat into the palms of his hands.

Starling let the arrow fly. The shaft pierced the man's chest. From where they stood they could hear the heavy thud as the arrow pinned the stormer to the wooden door behind him. He hung against it, his arms and legs hanging awkwardly like a broken doll.

They headed for the door and as they entered Starling yanked the arrow from the man's chest and wiped it on the Stonner's pants. He couldn't afford to waste a single shaft. Carefully he slipped the charge back into its resting place behind the point.

Bonner slipped two of his knives from his holster and took a single tentative step into the building. The floor creaked slightly. Off somewhere ahead of him he could hear the murmur of voices. Bonner pushed on, stopping every few seconds to listen, guiding himself by the sound of the voices. A faint light showed under the door ahead of him. He moved close, until he could hear the conversation of the men within clearly:

"Well, if he said that, he's full of shit."

"Maybe, but you tell him."

"I will too," said the Stormer vehemently.

Bonner pushed open the door. Two Stormers sat at a table eating from rough earthen bowls. One was just putting a spoon into his mouth when he saw Bonner. The other man was hunched over his chow like a dog. He froze, the spoon at his lips. His companion, his back to Bonner, kept eating and talking.

"I'm not afraid of him. Hell, no." Just then he glanced up at his partner in time to see one of Bonner's wide flat knives pierce his dinner companion's throat. The man fell from his chair, a fine spray of blood, like dew, pumped out over the meager food on the table.

The remaining Stormer wheeled, jumping for the old Marlin .22 bolt action rifle he had been careless enough to lean against the wall beyond easy reach. It wouldn't have done him any good though. He was as good as dead. A second of Bonner's blades flashed through the air like a flying fish. It sliced into the man's heart stopping it mid-pump.

Starling and Cooker were already rummaging amongst the Stormers' enormous stores. In a series of small rooms beyond the guard room they found the supplies of the entire New York garrison. The first room held firearms. Housed in old gym lockers the three men found row upon row of guns. Starling drew one out.

"Hey, Bonner, you know this weapon?"

"Yeah. H&R rimfire."

"Any good?"

"Not bad. This is better." He pulled down a sleek Browning automatic .22 Magnum pump rifle.

"Mine," said Starling.

"Take it. But we're going to need something with a little high rate of fire. Automatic, semi-automatic but keep it simple. We can't afford anything that jams."

"Guns," snorted Cooker and loped off to another room.

"Figure they're totin' M-16's on the island?"

"Or something pretty close." Bonner began methodically searching the room. Guns and ammunition spilled out of every locker. Pistols, rifles, shotguns, even air-guns—everything from worn-out old pieces that the poorest street worker would carry to sophisticated, finely made shotguns with delicate engraving on the matchplates, the kind of gun a rich man would have carried for a genteel weekend's shooting.

Bonner broke the lock on the metal trunk and found what he was looking for. Lying there were ten of the ugliest little guns he had ever seen. They were mean looking stunted semi-automatics, the kind of gun a man braced against taut stomach muscles and let fly. If you got in the way the bullets would skitter across your body carving you into a bloody mess.

The guns had ugly green plastic stocks supporting a long narrow barrel, so needle-fine, the whole gun looked like some weird little sea creature. A small grip protruded from below the barrel and a plastic clip jutted down, just below the trigger.

"Starling." Bonner held up the gun. It was light, maybe six or seven pounds.

Starling whistled low. "What is that thing?"

"Steyr AUG." Bonner read from a plate on the stock.

"Ever heard of it?"

"Nope, but I think I'm going to take a couple along."

"You can see right through the clip. It's transparent."

"You'll always know how many shots you have left." With sure fingers, Bonner broke the little gun down. Stripped, it amounted to six simple pieces. It was just the gun he was looking for, simple, reliable and fast. A man could get killed if he relied on the fancy stuff, the temperamental equipment that people in the old world thought they needed. Keep it simple and you stay alive.

"How many rounds?" asked Starling.

"Looks like forty."

"Grab me one."

Bonner picked up two of the weapons and found a dusty old suitcase and quickly emptied all of the ammunition into it. He couldn't tell how much he had. A lot, though, two, maybe three thousand rounds. It should see them through the island and beyond. If they made it.

Cooker had found a room stuffed with food. They found him there scooping cherry jelly out of a dusty jar. With two dirty fingers he shovelled the dark red slime into his mouth, staining his lips with the sweet red juice.

"This stuff is great," he said, slobbering slightly.

"Pig," said Starling.

"Hey," said Bonner, "found any candy in here?"

"Got a sweet tooth, Bonner?"

Bonner located a couple of jars of honey and grabbed himself some jam from Cooker's haul.

"Hey," said the gas-hound indignantly.

"Plenty for everybody," said Bonner, stowing away his loot. It would please Dorca. Assuming he ever saw Dorca again.

Starling appeared in the doorway. He held up both hands, each held a bundle. He grinned.

"Dynamite," he said happily.

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