Cherry Bomb: A Siobhan Quinn Novel by Caitlin R. Kiernan & Kathleen Tierney

Author:Caitlin R. Kiernan & Kathleen Tierney [Kiernan, Caitlin R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2015-02-02T21:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIVE

BAD PENNY AND POSTCARDS FROM HELL

The abandoned platform was only about six hundred feet south of the Brooklyn Bridge Station, and I’d walked the tracks before and a hell of a lot farther than a paltry six hundred feet. Just mind that third rail, natch, and keep a weather ear open for those racing conqueror worms of stainless steel and fiberglass that call the tunnels home. I was naked except for my pants and the torn duster, and I was starving. It takes a lot out of a dead girl, going all wolfish, getting her ass handed to her by a pack of ghouls, and then puking up her eyeballs. So, first things fucking first. Food and clothes, and, conveniently, the latter tend to come with the former, no added cost or effort. It was only a matter of slipping out of the subway and finding dinner topside. Or breakfast. I had no idea whatsoever how long I’d been down there, how many hours had passed since Selwyn and I had gotten on the train at Fiftieth and Eighth.

Anyway, fortune smiled, luck was a lady, and all that happy horse shit. No one spotted me climbing from the tracks onto the mostly deserted platform, and I made it through the turnstiles and up the stairs to City Hall Park without incident. There were a few sidelong glances, sure, but nothing any filthy, barefoot bitch slinking about the subway wouldn’t have attracted. Aboveground, more good luck. It was night. Late. Though I wasn’t sure if it was still night or if it was night again. I pulled the tattered duster about me and waited in the shadows beneath the trees. Oh, and I had Selwyn’s bundle, of course.

I gotta admit, I was feeling better right about then than I probably had any right to feel. Most of my injuries from the previous chapter’s misadventures had healed up nicely. And if I let myself go, there’s a warm and fuzzy place the hunger can take me, all sizzling anticipation, like being horny for days on end and here you know that any moment you’re going to get laid good and proper. Or, say, like savoring all the smells of cooking while you wait for an especially fine meal. Or, fuck it, Quinn. Be honest. Like watching H bubble in the spoon, waiting for the needle’s sweet prick.

I squatted in the gloom beneath a huge oak tree and waited as the dry autumn leaves rustled overhead. I didn’t have to wait very long. After only twenty minutes or so, a young Korean woman, maybe twenty-five and just about my size, wandered past. She was in a hurry, probably running late and taking a shortcut through the park. I called out to her with the voice of a lost and frightened child. It’s a handy trick I’d learned since Providence. And she fell for it. I can’t say that I was merciful. I was too hungry to be merciful. I did manage to be quiet.

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