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Besides, his feet were cold and wet, which he de-tested; nothing like wet boots to make a man miser-able. Still, it was a shame; she was his type, tall and curved, obviously intelligent. He walked to her slumped body and fished a disk out of her breast pocket without looking at the blood and bone confusion that had been her face, reminding himself that this was business. Only four to go. Nicholai slipped the disk into a plastic pouch, sealed it, and placed it in his bag. There'd be time to pore over its contents, later, once he'd collected everything. He turned on the portable and called up the sewer system map, frowning as he traced his next path. At least another half mile of wading through the dark be-fore making it topside. He glanced at Dr. Thomlinson again and sighed; perhaps he'd made a mistake. A quick tussle would have warmed him up… though he disliked having to kill women after enjoying them, on any level; the last time, he'd experienced feelings of true regret. No matter. She was dead, he had the information, and it was time to move on. Four left, and he could for-get about business for the rest of his extremely wealthy life, concentrating instead on the kinds of pleasure that poor men could only dream about.
Carlos knew he was close. From the area near the newspaper building, where the street signs had all begun with north, he'd ended up lost in a series of al-leys to the east – what had to be Trent's shopping dis-trict.
He said shopping district, northeast… so where's the theater? And he said something about a fountain, didn't he?
Carlos stood in front of a boarded-up barbershop at the intersection of two alleys, no longer sure which way to go. There weren't any street signs, and twilight had given its last gasp; it was full-on dark and he only had ten minutes left before the 1900 deadline, thanks to an initial blunder that had led him back toward the industrial part of town -not really what could be con-sidered the city proper, as Trent put it. Ten min-utes… and then what? Once he found the infamous Grill 13, what was supposed to happen? Trent had said something about helping… so if he blew the ap-pointed time, would Trent be able to do anything for him?
Taking a left would lead him back to the newspaper office, he thought – or was that behind him? Straight ahead was a dead end and a door that he hadn't tried yet, might as well give that a shot… He didn't see it coming, but he heard it. He'd taken a single step when a door crashed open behind him – and the thing was so fast that he was still turning, raising the assault rifle in reaction to the sound of the door when it reached him.
What…
A wave of malodorous darkness, an impression of shining black claws and hard, ribbed body like the exoskeleton of some giant insect…… and something ripped the air inches from his face, would have hit him if not for his stumbling step back-wards. He tripped over his own feet and fell, watching in horrified amazement as some thing flew over his upturned face, leaping nimbly to the wall on his right, and contin-ued to run, sideways, clinging to the brick in a skittering gallop. Awestruck, Carlos tracked it as far as he could turn his head, flat on his back, watching as it agilely pivoted on at least three of its legs and dropped to the ground. He might have simply waited for it to come for him, unable to believe his eyes even as it slashed one of its six, long-bladed legs across his throat, except that it screamed – and the trumpeting, triumphant whine that erupted from its inhumanly curved and bloated face was enough to get him moving. In a flash, Carlos rolled into a crouch and opened fire on the screeching, ru
Trent might be my only way out, and now I've got… shit! Three minutes, he had three goddamn min-utes. Carlos broke into a run, up a few steps to the single door at the end of the alley and through – and found himself standing in a spacious, well-lit kitchen. A restaurant's kitchen. A quick look around; no one, and quiet except for a soft hiss from a large gas canister standing against the back wall. He took a deep breath but couldn't smell anything; maybe it was something else -
– and I wouldn't leave if it was toxic nerve gas. This has to be it, this is where he told me to go.
He walked through the kitchen, past shining metal counters and stoves, heading toward the dining area. There was a menu on one of the counters, GRILL 13 written across the front in gold script. It was u
I made it, and he said he could help – maybe a res-cue team is already on its way, or he arranged for me to be picked up here… or maybe there are weapons stored in the front, not as good as an evac but I'll take what I can get.
There was an opening in the wall between the kitchen and the dining room, a counter where the chefs put the orders up. Carlos could see that the small, slightly darker restaurant was empty, although he took a moment to be certain; dancing light from a still-burn-ing oil lamp wavered over the leatherette booths that lined the walls, casting jittery shadows. He stepped around the serving counter and walked into the room, absently noting a faint scent of fried food lingering in the cool air as he stared around, searching. He wasn't sure what he expected, but he def-initely didn't see it – no unmarked envelope propped up on a table, no mysterious packages, no trench-coated man waiting. There was a pay phone by the front door; Carlos walked over and picked up the re-ceiver but got nothing, just like every other phone in town. He checked his watch for what felt like the thou-sandth time in the past hour and saw that it was 1901, one minute after seven o'clock and he felt a rush of anger, of frustration that only served to increase his un-acknowledged fear. I'm alone, no one knows I'm here and no one can help me. "I'm here," he said, turning to face the empty room, his voice rising. "I made it, I'm here on time and god-damnit, where the hell are you?"