Bloody Horowitz (29 page)

“Come on, Tammy,” he exclaimed. “You too, Madison. We're getting out of here.”

“But Mr. Johnson!” Obadiah Harris half rose to his feet, but Herb pushed him back, using the palm of his hand.

Obadiah grunted in surprise. Herb grimaced. Beneath the shirt, he could feel the man's chest and it wasn't pleasant. It was like handling a stack of uncooked spare ribs hanging in a butcher's shop. Tammy muttered something, but Herb spun her around and propelled her to the door, jerking it open, with Madison right behind.

“Wait!”

They ignored Harris and plunged outside. Tom Callaghan was standing right there, as if he had been listening to the conversation through the door. “What do you think?” he began.

Herb pushed him out of the way and the man slumped onto his knees like a pile of hamburgers that had just been dislodged. They were out of the office. Herb stopped and looked around him . . . at the platform with the hospital beds, the train still standing dark and silent on the tracks, the rock walls and broken tiles, the crowds of people shuffling around like zombies with nothing to do. He thought about the tunnel. He could see it just ahead of him, and if he followed the tracks they would surely lead him somewhere. No. It might be a mile before the next station, and running through the darkness, perhaps with this mob behind him . . . he would never make it.

Up.

That was the only answer. They were underneath New York. But if they could just make it to the surface, there must be some way to break through to normal life. Herb could almost imagine the shoppers and the office workers streaming along the sidewalks, the cars and the cabs, a whole world going about its business with no idea of what was happening just beneath its feet. He could reach them! There had to be a way.

“This way!” he shouted, leading his family toward the nearest staircase that zigzagged along the rock face, heading up past the cave entrances and onward into the darkness.

“You can't go up there!” A man, dressed in the rags of a police uniform, blocked his way. One half of his face was normal, unscarred. The other half wasn't there.

Herb lashed out, knocking him aside and reached the first stairs. Tammy came next with Madison close behind, her blond hair sweeping across her eyes. All around them, people were shouting and pointing, more in alarm than anger or outrage. Nobody stopped them as they began to climb. The girl called LaToyah appeared at a cave entrance, blinked at them and then turned away. Another older woman with a collapsed skull shrank back against the wall to let them pass.

The staircase led them higher and higher. It was impossible to look back now. The distance was too great. If they slipped over the handrail and fell, they would surely be killed. None of them were speaking. They were having to use every effort to keep going, to force themselves on. They came to a wide metal platform with a flight of concrete steps branching off to the left, into the rock. A row of dull yellow lightbulbs lit the way, and there was a metal door at the end. Herb thought he could feel a draft against his face. This had to be it—the exit. But what if the door was locked?

Someone shouted something behind them, but Herb didn't hear a word of what they had to say. Tammy was with him, tears flowing, crying out in pain. She had twisted her ankle, losing one of her Gucci sneakers at the same time. Madison had somehow scratched her arm. There were streaks of blood all the way to her elbow. The three of them turned off and ran the last few feet to the door. It was closed with four huge bolts, but they hadn't been fastened. Herb reached out and jerked them back. Then all three of them were tumbling forward, throwing their combined weight against the metal door. It fell open.

Fresh air. Sunlight. Bright colors. The noise of traffic. Skyscrapers soaring over them. A hot dog stand on a corner. One page of a newspaper blowing across the sidewalk.

They were back in Manhattan, standing in an alleyway between two cross streets. In front of them was a kitchen with men in white jackets unloading cardboard boxes from a van. Behind them was the entrance to a parking lot. They could see the traffic moving at the ends of the alley on either side.

Herb slammed the metal door shut. “Come on!” he shouted. He wouldn't feel safe until they were several blocks away. In fact, he wouldn't feel safe until they were back in Plano.

Somehow they stumbled out of the alleyway, down another street and out into a wide, open area where everything seemed to be made out of glass, with two towering glass blocks looming up behind. A woman with several shopping bags had just come out of a Whole Foods and was flagging down a cab. Herb jumped in front of her as it pulled in.

“The Wilmott Hotel!” He had to force himself not to scream.

“Excuse me!” the woman exclaimed.

The cab driver opened his window. He was dark skinned, wearing a turban. “I am very sorry, sir—” he began.

“I'll pay you five times the fare to take me to my hotel,” Herb said. “In fact, I'll pay you ten times the fare!”

It was too late anyway. Tammy and Madison had already pushed the woman out of the way and climbed inside. Herb bundled in after them. The taxi driver shrugged apologetically and turned on the meter. Ten times the normal fare! Who was he to argue?

Nobody said anything until they had reached the Wilmott. Herb didn't even look at the meter. When they finally pulled in, he gave the driver everything he had in his wallet, and the three of them got out.

“Good afternoon, sir. Glad to have you back!”

Herb ignored the smiling doorman, registering only that it was already afternoon. How long had they been away? How many hours had their ordeal lasted? They hurried through the plush reception with its gray marble floor, scattered tables and vases of exotic flowers. They fell into the elevator and stood there, panting, exhausted, as it carried them up to their suite on the eighteenth floor. Madison was trembling. Tammy's makeup had run. Glancing at her, with her lipstick smudged and her eyeliner running down her cheek, Herb shuddered. She reminded him of some of the people they had left behind.

 

Later.

Much later.

They had all showered and changed. Tammy had put antiseptic cream on Madison's injured arm. Herb had drunk six whiskeys out of the minibar. Outside, it was getting dark. The door was locked, the security chain drawn across. Their suitcases were packed.

“We should go to the police,” Tammy said. She had said the same thing a dozen times before.

“We can't go to the police,” Herb replied patiently. The lawyer in him was taking over. For the first time in many hours he was beginning to organize his thoughts. “They'd think we were crazy. They'd never believe us.”

“We could show them.”

“You think you could find that door again? It was in an alleyway, but do you remember where it was? Do you even want to look? Anyway, we saw a cop down there. You remember that? And that guy Harris said the authorities knew what was going on. For all we know, the police in this goddamn city could be in on it too.”

“I want to go home!” Madison wailed, not for the first time.

“I know, sweetie pie,” Herb assured her. “And that's exactly what we're going to do.”

“Then why haven't we left?”

“Daddy tried to buy tickets,” Herb reminded her. “But it's a holiday weekend. There are no seats. So we'll leave tomorrow, just like we were going to. We're going to eat dinner in this room and we'll have breakfast sent up too. We're not leaving the hotel until we leave Manhattan. Then we've got the limo coming for us and we'll head straight for the terminal. We're safe now. Nobody's coming after us. And if anyone even tries to get through that door, then we
will
call the cops. And tomorrow we'll fly home. Tomorrow we'll put this whole thing behind us.”

They ate dinner together at eight o'clock, watched a little television and went to bed. Madison was too afraid to sleep alone, so she shared the bed with her mother while Herb slept in the next room. She thought she'd be awake all night, but the whole ordeal had exhausted her, and in fact she dropped off almost immediately. Her last thought was of the car that would be coming to the front door the next day. She could already see herself sinking into the soft leather seats. The windows were tinted. Nobody would see her as she was whisked away to the airport and the first-class flight home. She would call her friend Chelsea as soon as she got back. But she wouldn't tell her what had happened. She wouldn't tell anyone. She just wanted to forget it.

She woke up.

It was a beautiful morning. The curtains were open and sunlight was streaming in. It actually hurt her eyes, it was so bright. She looked at the bed next to her. Her mother was no longer there, but she could hear talking coming from the main room.

Her arm was itching.

Idly, she reached down and scratched it. It was itching really badly. She scratched harder. Then stared in total, frozen horror at what she had just done.

She had scratched away a layer of skin and flesh. It had actually come free. It was dangling under her nails. Blood was oozing out of the wound that she had just inflicted on herself. Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth—either to scream or to be sick.

Somehow she managed to prevent herself from doing either. Numb with shock, she slipped out of bed, noticing for the first time the clump of chestnut-colored hair lying on the sheet. She hadn't noticed it before because it was concealed by the pillow.

Her mother's hair.

She couldn't speak. She could barely walk. As if in a dream, she drifted into the room where her parents were still talking. She realized now that they were arguing in low, insistent voices.

She stopped in the doorway. A woman with a partly bald skull was standing with her back to her. It was Tammy. She was still in her nightgown. There was blood specking through the material across her shoulders.

Herb was facing her, dressed in silk pajamas and slippers.

“We have to . . . ,” he was saying.

“We can't.”

“We have no choice!”

Herb saw Madison come in and stopped.

“Mommy . . . ?” Madison quavered.

Tammy turned around. She was looking very pale. Red makeup was trickling out of her nose. Except Madison knew it wasn't makeup.

“What's happened?” Madison asked. But she knew what had happened. She remembered what Obadiah Harris had told them:

Once you get the disease . . .

“I'm sorry, Madison,” Herb said, and a single tear rolled down his cheek. Except that Madison saw it wasn't a tear. It was his whole eye. “Go and get dressed and finish packing your bags,” he continued. “We're going to take the X train.”

A NOTE FROM THE PRESIDENT OF PENGUIN YOUNG READERS GROUP

 

My name is Don Weisberg and it has been my privilege to be the president of Penguin Young Readers Group for some time now, overseeing Philomel Books, which is part of the Penguin family. Although you may not know it from the book you are reading, Philomel is actually a highly distinguished publisher of quality books for young people. They are responsible for some of my very favorite titles. Young children all over America grow up reading their bright, cheery picture books and thought-provoking novels.

I do not like horror stories.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not some old fuddy-duddy who wants to protect children from the darker things in life. Nor do I mind violence (in moderation) in children's books. But I do sometimes think that writers can go too far and that there's really no point in producing a collection of stories that is going to give its readers horrible nightmares. At the end of the day, I am in charge of this company—and when mothers or teachers complain, I'm at the receiving end. In fact, for many years it was Philomel's policy to avoid publishing horror stories at all. Who needs bloodshed and violence in the library when there is already so much of it out on the street?

So I was very concerned when Anthony Horowitz offered us a manuscript with the exceptionally offensive title
Bloody Horowitz.

Like it or not, Anthony has had a certain amount of success with his Alex Rider books, which are published by us. In fact, to be honest, our new, very fancy reception area was paid for entirely with the proceeds from
Crocodile Tears.
This has always been the problem with writers and publishers. At the beginning, before they are well known, they're very easy to handle. They do what you tell them. But as they become more successful, they often become more demanding. We worry about offending them. Because the sad truth is that our profits depend on them.

Now, I'm not saying that Anthony has become bigheaded. But the point is, I was worried about upsetting him. At the same time, I was very reluctant to publish the collection which you now hold in your hand.

So why, you are asking, did I go ahead?

Well, after I'd read the manuscript, I called Anthony's editor and publisher into my office. Michael Green had been with Philomel for more than twenty years and had worked with Anthony for almost as long. He had also read the horror stories.

“What did you think of them?” I asked.

“I hated them,” he said with a shudder. Michael is quite a small, nervous man, with wire-frame spectacles and thin lips. Although he is in his forties, he looks much younger. “That one about the boy who was electrocuted in a field. Or that poor little girl who was eaten alive . . . I don't know what kind of mind could think up such things. And as for the story about Darren Shan being killed . . . he's quite a famous author! Would it even be legal to publish a story like that about him?”