I got the sewer grate off and pushed Phil through. He got knocked out when he hit his head. Good for him. Got him shouldered, went against the flow of waste. It spills toward bigger and deeper avenues. Felt some dry cold air and scented it back. Had to use the iron bar to open a hole in rotted masonry.

And here we are.

With him dying.

All that blood just spilling out by the second.

– Joe, you can do it.

Him talking nonsense.

– Infect me.

Why would I do such a thing?

– You can save me. And, hey, OK, we’ve had some problems in the past, some times when I’ve been less on the up-and-up than maybe I let on to be, but mostly, mostly you’ve been able to beat a straight answer out of me when you needed one so. Do you know where my pomade is?

He pats around at his hip pocket.

– Had a can. I. My hair feels like it’s messed up. Can you, Joe, you got a mirror or something?

– Hair looks fine.

– Like you know. This, hair like this, it’s a constant maintenance issue. It doesn’t just, you don’t let it be casual or anything. Got to invest in upkeep. Time and effort. And. Joe. Infect me. It’ll take, I know it will. And. Hey, here’s a happy thought, if I’m, aw shit, I got to try not to laugh, but once I’m infected, and I heal, and, think, think of the beatings you can give me then. Huh? Huh? Pretty good, huh?

He giggles.

– Aw, shit, I laughed. Oh, and, Joe, who’s gonna roll you a cigarette? Right? What asshole is gonna line up for that gig? Joe. Bleed a little is all. Just bleed on me a little is all. Come on, saying, I’m just a fucking wound anyway, bleed on me a little. I know it will take.

More of his blood lost, without me drinking it.

His fingers flutter.

– And I know what you’re thinking and OK, I get it, because you already can’t stand me and why have me around even more, but, Joe, it’s what I’ve been after. Saying, why have I Renfielded around so many years if it wasn’t for a shot at this? Know? So, I won’t hold it against you either way, but, Joe, come on. I. I. Man, saying, man, I don’t want to die, not without trying.

I think about Amanda’s slides. I think about what the active Vyral cells do to a person who isn’t Vyral positive. I’ve seen it. There are worse ways to die, I suppose. But it would be a short list.

– Phil.

– Joe. Joe Pitt. My main man, Joe Pitt.

– Phil.

– Come on, Joe.

– If I infect you, I won’t be able to drink your blood.

He blinks.

– Aw shit! Jesus, I’m saying, Jesus, I’m saying, is that what we’ve come to in extremity, Joe? Is that what we, a team we’ve been, is that what it comes to? You don’t want to try and save my life because it will mean you can’t eat my corpse? Is that, is that how, and excuse the term because I know I’m on a limb here, but is that how friends behave?

– Who said we were friends, Phil?

He looks away.

– That hurt, Joe.

I reach into my jacket.

– Phil.

– Don’t even try to apologize.

– Phil.

– I do not want to hear it.

– Sorry about this, Phil.

– What did I just?

The blade comes out and I pull it across my palm and hold my hand over the hole in his stomach and my blood dribbles into the wound.

He looks at me.

– Hey, Joe, hey.

His eyes go side to side.

– Hey, Joe, thanks.

White mucus starts to well at the edges of his eyes. The blood pumping from his wound blackens. A tremor runs through his bones. And I drop the blade and grab his head and yank it hard to the side and pull up and I don’t know for certain, but I think I broke his neck before he felt too much of it. And he lies there dead.

I get up. Pick up the blade. Find my tobacco, but my fingers are too sticky with blood to roll one. Matches are wet anyway. What else I got? I got some keys to the Cure house. Got some car keys. Chubby’s money and phone. Got my wire saw.

I toe Phil’s corpse.

Asshole. I’m an asshole.

An asshole for wasting all that blood for no good reason at all. No reason at all. Just no damn reason at all.

Start walking. I can’t take a train looking like I look. So I start walking down the tunnel. Then I start running.

I don’t know why.

I just do.

• • •

At Sixty-eighth I stop running.

Platform full of people. No dead tunnel to use to cut around. Coated in blood and stuff that you’d have to call ichor. I plant myself against the wall of the tunnel, pressed into the angle of a beam, and wait. Few minutes pass and I feel the first tickle of a breeze. I wait couple seconds and it turns to wind, pushed ahead of a Six local. And then the train, squealing and sparking, clashing past me and into the station, back of the train about fifteen yards away in the light.

I wait till the doors open, wait as people bump each other out of their way getting on and off, wait for the chimes to sound and the doors to close. Wait for a rush of air from the pneumatics and the lurch of the engine pulling. Then I break cover, run, jump onto the stub of platform at the end of the last car, grab a fistful of chain that dangles from the side, and crouch away from the window in the door so any kids staring out at the tunnel disappearing behind them won’t see the blood-covered monster hitching a ride.

Huddled close to the steel, my face turned from the lighted platform, I got no way of knowing if anyone will see me. They do, there’s a good chance they’ll chalk it up at thrill-seeking kids and not bother telling the station master or Port Authority cop. Got no choice either way. No time to do this on foot.

Evie wants me to find Chubby’s kid.

Mission accomplished. But somehow I don’t think I’ll get a break from her if I show up and tell her where I left the girl.

So, more to do.

Always more to do.

At Fifty-ninth I jump off the train as it eases to a stop. I find a service ladder up an air shaft to the yellow line above. Hopping a line can only help if someone saw me on the Six train. Five minutes’ wait gets me an R going downtown. I take another break at Fifty-seventh, jumping tracks to the express side, and hunker down. Seven minutes and a Q rolls in. Expressed past Forty-ninth, and held up at Times Square. I jump off again, waiting deeper in the tunnel this time. Some kids at the end of the platform are throwing snappers up the track. Little bundles of black powder and sawdust wrapped in white tissue, tiny flat cracks when they hit.

The Q jerks forward, I run, coming out of the dark, the kids jump up and down, peppering me with snappers, screaming almost as loud as the things in the basement of the Cure house, pointing as I jump onto the back of the train and grab hold, people all along the platform turning to stare as I roll past and back into the dark at the far end of the station.

They won’t stop between stations, I don’t think. They won’t want to chase some loon through the tunnels. At Thirty-fourth we roll, slowing just slightly to pass through, and I think I see a couple cops at the end of the platform, craning to get a look at the end of the train, but I’ve moved to the roof already. Using my seven fingers and a stub to find a grip in the grooved steel, trying not to skid to the edge and over on the curves. Twenty-third and we roll.

Fourteenth Street next. Big station. Trying to figure if they’ve had time to clear the platform before we pull in. Won’t want to try and deal with a guy riding the open back of a train with people around. Guy that crazy could be any kind of trouble.

I don’t know. And that’s not good enough. So I jump off.

No good way to do it. I just try not to stab myself with my blade as I hit and tumble. And make a point of jumping away from the third rail. Not too bad all in all, but those ribs break one more time. Got a feeling they won’t be knitting again. Not soon, anyway. Not unless I get some more blood.