by Doug Wood

"I wish my life was a non-stop Hollywood movie show,
A fantasy world of celluloid villains and heroes,
Because celluloid heroes never feel any pain,
And celluloid heroes never really die."

~The Kinks

~ 1 ~

Tsutomu Osako was passing through the crowded streets of Shibuya, going back to Yoyogi park, the place he laughingly refered to as home. He paused at an intersection and looked around. The bright neon signs and video advertisements had turned the faces of the pedestrians all around into glowing masks of iridescent color. And yet however beautiful that night-time transformation might be, he allowed himself only furtive glimpses of it.

He never looked at other people for very long. If he stared, they might stare back. They might notice the jacket stains or the missing shirt buttons; they might notice the wrinkles in his pants or the scuff marks on his shoes. Or the messy hair, or the beard stubble, or the stale lingering stench of sweat and alcohol. While the neon light held the power to change appearances, it never settled that easily on him that it could hide those things he most wanted to hide. In fact, it only accentuated them, as if his skin held no facility for any color but its own pale hue.

Across the street, a long line of people waited to enter a movie theater. Most were teenagers out on dates, but there were a few families with children. One little boy jumped around in excitement. Even amid Shibuya's many colorful distractions, the well-lit marquee stood out boldly -- the posters in the glass cases were vibrant and exciting, the kanji of the titles big and bold.

Osako smiled a little. He had so loved going to movies back in Nagasaki. He preferred action films, but would see just about anything if it sounded interesting or if his favorite reviewers recommended it. Science fiction and horror, romance and artsy, yakuza and drama, and best of all, jidaigeki, with lots of sword fights and samurai warriors from ages past. He even went to foreign films, although he didn't like the subtitles much. Such had been his enthusiasm that despite his policeman's salary, he'd had a sizable collection of videos and laserdiscs.

Before him, the light changed to red, the walk signal blinked, and the crowd of unseen neon faces surged across the intersection. But not Osako; he, alone, remained behind. Someone jostled past and he moved against the window display of some electronics store, out of the endless flow of the other pedestrians.

He scratched at his graying hair and wondered when had he last been to a movie? For some odd reason it seemed important to know. But he couldn't remember. Not the title, nor who had starred. He couldn't even recall what it had been about. It seemed strange that something that had meant so much to his old life could mean so little to the new one. But perhaps it was just as well. It made it easier. Less baggage. Less to worry about.

He even doubted if he could watch some of those same films now. The Seven Samurai, Yojimbo, Sanjuro, Zatoichi, Lone Wolf and Cub, Fists of Fury, Enter the Dragon, The Chinese Connection. So many others, too many to name, vicarious fantasies and celluloid dreams. Visions of heroism that in the darkness of a theater had first given the teenage Osako the notion of joining the police. He didn't deserve them, not after what he had done. He was unworthy of those wonderful things.

Toshiro Mifune would not have run from Nagasaki. He would have stood his ground, his eyes going hard with deadly purpose. A firm jaw covered in a day's stubble, clothes dusty and weather-beaten from the long road, he would have drawn his gleaming sword from its worn scabbard, the sound a sigh, a promise of swift justice. His feet would have raised small swirling dust-devils as he braced himself, a lone target in the middle of an empty street.

Even so exposed to the enemy, his bearing would have been loose and powerful. As the terrifying shriek pierced the dusty wind, his eyes would have calmly risen skyward where the bird-like thing coasted the swirling thermals high up in the endless blue, a shadow backlit by the sun. His fingers tightening around the hilt, he would have raised the sword over his head, the fluid simplicity of the motion belying both its skill and bloody purpose.

Perhaps in a moment of insouciance he would have turned the flat of his blade just so, catching a shaft of setting sun, reflecting it up into the alien eyes spiraling hungrily overhead. And now aware of his prescence, Gyaos would have banked sharply, leather wings spilling air in a pirouette oddly delicate for something so large and grotesque. Steeped into the wind, it would have rushed down toward the street where the solitary man stood.

His sword raised high, already seeing in his mind the decapitation, already hearing the whistling jet of red arterial flow, Toshiro Mifune would have stood his ground, waiting for that moment to strike. It couldn't be too soon and it couldn't be too late -- but just perfect. He was a hero and that was what heroes did, how they reacted -- with calm stoicism and an unshakeable faith in their purpose in the world.

A hero would not have resigned from the police. A hero would not have reduced his life to what would fit into two suitcases. A hero would not have purchased a one-way ticket on the first flight leaving Nagasaki for Sapporo. A hero would not have spent the first week at his brother-in-law's farm house cowering behind the locked door of the bedroom. And a hero would not have snuck downstairs in the middle of the night to raid the kitchen like some stray mongrel knocking over trashcans for food.

A real hero would never have reacted that way. A real hero, say like Bruce Lee, would never have run from that beer factory in Sapporo after seeing a mere shadow on the wall, wetting his pants in fear. Bruce Lee hadn't been afraid of any*damn*thing that moved. He would have danced around in that loose-jointed way of his, his golden sweating skin stretched taut over the coiled muscle of his body. And that Legion soldier would never have had a chance.

While the horrible crab-like thing squawked and tried to track his progress, Bruce Lee would have paused in his circling. He would have thumbed the sweat off the side of his nose and brought his fists up, making a little noise to indicate his readiness. Not that the mindless creature would have understood, but it was a matter of style. Heroes all had that, that certain sense of style and grace. They had it in abundance. It was as important to them as the speed of their fists or the sharpness of their blade.

And the Legion soldier would have lunged at him, serrated appendages making chitinous clicking sounds on the concrete of the warehouse. As the dreadful crab-thing raced forward, its mandibles chitter-chattering some alien morse code, Bruce Lee, too, would have stood his ground, waiting for that moment, the perfect moment to strike. How many punches would it take? How many kicks? How long to shine again?

That was something Osako supposed he would never know. After all, he wasn't a hero like them. Once he had come close, or as close as someone like him would ever be allowed. But he wasn't now and maybe never again. He was made of softer stuff than made those others. Clay perhaps it was, even mud. Something like the dirt that collected under his fingernails, the dirt that pressed deep into every pore on his skin, and that even after an hour's soak in a public bath still left some unseen gritty residue behind.

No, he was not a hero; he had proven that twice now. Once by fleeing Nagasaki after Gyaos, and again by fleeing Sapporo after Legion. Or maybe three, unless there was something heroic about living in a camp of blue tents for the homeless in the heart of Tokyo. And somehow he didn't think so. It was just the place where cowards went when they tired of running. Or to rest before running again. There was nothing even remotely heroic about it, not even in dreams.

Normally, Osako didn't dwell on it very much. It was embarassing, humiliating, and so he avoided introspection as much as possible. Besides, what was done was done. Nothing he could do could undo what had happened, so why re-open the wounds? Better then to let them heal, to forget. Of course some wounds never healed completely; they left scars behind, scars to pick at. Somehow he had learned to deal with them. Most of the time.

But seeing Nagamine so unexpectedly that afternoon while he was setting up his magazine stand had upset his delicate status quo. The layers of denial and rationalization he had crafted over the years with such assiduousness had been disrupted by her kind eyes, so soft and concerned, and especially by that look of caring disappointment when she walked away. That had been the worst -- she knew it was him despite his denial, and his fallen state had saddened her.

Mayumi Nagamine had looked even more beautiful than from their time in Nagasaki. When she'd walked up to him, with her long dark hair styled in a current fashion and dressed in a light-colored business suit, she looked every bit the modern professional woman. Her lovely face still bore that perfect mix of intelligence and compassion that he had found so compelling.

He wanted to tear out his eyes. Would he see that look in his sleep? He prayed, silently, fervently, that he would not. On those days when he could not remove the thought from his mind, sleep was his only refuge. And even then, it was pitifully inadequate, a castle of sand easily breached by the faceless enemy who tormented him. But would they be faceless now? No, probably not. He would recognize them just as surely as she had recognized him.

As pathetic as it was, it was almost with a sense of relief that he was going back to the homeless camp. After Nagamine, his day had gone downhill fast. He knew she hadn't meant any harm; she couldn't have known what seeing her would do, how it would hurt. But with just a soft word, and a simple affection, she had effortlessly re-opened the wounds he had held shut for three years.

Nothing could close them and they consumed his mind. People came and went for hours, picking up newspapers and magazines. Osako made change and small talk mechanically. He did a good job hiding his growing distress because no one seemed to notice. But it continued to build up until a small child approached and asked for the new issue of some girl's manga. Osako barked at her and she started crying. The Mother was so outraged, no apologies no matter how heartfelt would cool her down. She demanded the phone number of his supervisor. Fifteen minutes later, he was fired.

He regretted making the little girl cry more than losing the job. It was nothing special, a laughable paycheck and ten long hours out of the day when he could lose himself in endless monotony and little else. He wasn't exactly a salaryman, climbing some career ladder to upper management and beyond. No, it was just another in a long line of dreary occupations he had held since the security guard position in Sapporo. Tokyo was a city rife with low-level scut work for the dispossessed, so it didn't really matter in the long run. He'd find something else. Just as crappy. Just as pointless.

It shouldn't have mattered. But it did and he knew it. Maybe selling magazines had not been the best job he'd ever done, but he had held it for longer than the others since coming to Tokyo. He'd cut back on his drinking and with the return to a routine even begun to detect a glimmer of light at the end of his dark tunnel.

What a joke that turned out to be. A real belly-laugh at his expense. He supposed he should have known better than to get his hopes up. That light was only a trick. There was no end to that tunnel because he was just running in place. He should have known, yes, he should have. It always hurt when the realization hit. But the death of hope was the final step on his journey, and that was one he would not take.

And maybe that was the ultimate benefit to being a coward after all. Because even though he still clung to that frayed cloth, it wasn't because of some hidden reserve of inner strength. This wasn't a movie, and his resolve was not as noble as a hero's, to never give up, to fight to the last breath, to do the things heroes do. No, the reason was just like everything else in his life -- he was simply too scared to seriously contemplate suicide for very long.

Someone bumped into him, bringing him out of his thoughts. Embarrassed, Osako bowed slightly and apologized. Across the street, the line of movie-goers were finally entering the theater. With a last longing glance, he sighed and continued on his way.

Back at the blue tent city, he did what he did best these days. He drank himself into a melacholic stupor. After three years, he was quite adept at it, almost a connoisseur of drunken self-pity. For that purpose, he found a lot of cheap whiskey to be quite satisfactory. Sake didn't have quite the necessary maudlin punch and beer made him weepy, not to mention reminding him of things he wanted to forget. Whiskey was just right. It accomplished the task with a minimum of effort. And as an added benefit, he didn't dream after passing out from too much. Tonight more than any other, he didn't want dreams.

He was sitting on a bench just outside Yoyogi park. It stretched behind him, quiet save for insects and the gentle murmur of wind through shadowy trees. Blue pup tents were pitched just inside the boundary, somewhat protected by a picnic pavillion overgrown with vines. Clothes hung drying on a rope strung between two of its white concrete supports.

Several food vendor's portable stands were set up by the sidestreet that ran past, their specialties suffusing the air with a tangle of tantilizing aromas: barbequed yakitori, beef bowls, and vegetable stir fry. One young girl's yatai was dishing out seafood okinomiyaki of all things. Her long brown hair flowing and spatulas a blur of metal, she prepared the food with an intensity usual reserved for the martial arts.

To his right a little way down were the streets of Shibuya. Shoppers and gawkers strolled blithely past. Hardly anyone ever looked down the sidestreet; the neon light of the signs didn't reach that far and the lifeless colors of the homeless camp were unappealing to the eye.

On that rare occassion when someone did look down their way, they quickly realized their mistake and moved on. Once a tourist had just stood there shaking his head, like someone woken roughly from a deep sleep. If only, Osako had thought, it could have been that easy for him.

A group of regulars sat behind him, eating supper and trading stories. Osako only knew a few by name -- he'd lived in the camp little more than a week and had yet to meet all of them. Maybe he never would. The homeless rarely stayed in one place for long, but migrated from camp to camp, following the work like birds following the seasons.

It was a hard and unpredictable life and yet many managed to keep some dignity intact. The sound of laughter, seemingly so out of place, was still startling. Osako wished he knew how they could be so happy, because all he saw was what could have been. It would have been nice to join in but that feeling always held him back.

Despite the presence of food, he hadn't eaten. He was in a mood; his only thought upon returning was to get drunk fast. The bottle was half way gone, and so was he, when he was again struck by the pure sadness in Nagamine's voice.

Suddenly the whiskey tasted like luke-warm piss and he swallowed hard. A little went down the wrong pipe, burning, making him cough. One of the men got up and pounded his back until the fit subsided. After some mumbled thanks, he promptly took another swig.

"What's the rush?" the homeless man said. Like the rest, he was dressed in second-hand clothes from a local charity. He hitched up his pants, briefly revealing mismatched socks. "The night's still young."

Osako ran a hand across his mouth. "Why the hell 'm I here?"

The guy with the socks chuckled and stumbled back to his pals. "Guess who's back? It's Maestro Woe-Is-Me and His Weeping Orchestra. Dig out the karaoke machine. I wonder what sentimental favorites we're in for tonight?"

A unshaven man started singing off-key. "Oh life is so un- fairrrr and then you di-ie..."

Another man slurping up ramen scowled. "Someone please take him back to his tent. I don't feel like listening to his drunken bullshit tonight."

"Aw, let him be," a fat woman said. "Can't you see he's working out some personal problems? He hasn't learned to accept his lot in life yet." She cackled loudly, nudging the man sitting next to her.

"Ss-screw you," Osako said defensively. "I's a policeman. I's a security guard. I's somebody. Don' you be makin' fun a me. What the hell were you ever?"

Another guy stood up. He was wearing a dirty tan trenchcoat and baseball cap turned backwards.

"Who was I?" he said, feigning surprise. He made a wide sweeping motion with his arm. "I'll have you know I was the Prime Minister! Pleased to meet you, Officer Woe-Is-Me. Care for some tea? One lump or two?"

A squat man with a mustache stumbled over holding a beer can. Arm draped limply over Osako's shoulder, he leaned in close, his breath reeking.

"Why the hell don' you jus' tell us," he said. "Get it off yer ches' already. The ss-suspense is killin' me."

Osako only shook his head.

"If I ss-swore unner oath it was-s the hones' truth, you ss- still wouldn' believe it." He laughed and took another swig. His head lolled backward on the cold metal bench. "Ya wanna know the truth? Ss-sometimes I don' even believe it."

The squat drunk considered that with some difficulty.

"Ss-so maybe it wasn' you," he said before stumbling back. "Maybe it happen'd to ss-somebuddy else."

If only, Osako thought blearily. If only it had happened to somebody else. Maybe he would still be in Nagasaki going to movies on his nights off. Maybe he would have still believed that in the flickering silver projector light he could be a hero, not a coward, cowering behind locked doors and blue tent flaps and hurtful lies. Maybe Nagamine wouldn't have looked at him like that, her eyes oh her eyes, why did he have to see them again?

He looked up at the sky. A thin high layer of broken clouds moved slowly east to west, scattering the light from the full moon. Nagasaki had more beautiful cloud patterns than that. And Hokkaido the best of all. There had been more stars visible in either of those places too. In Tokyo, the man-made light blotted out most of them. He smiled drunkenly and pointed out the ones he could see, as he had as a child lying in the backyard.

The bright one was the North Star in the handle of the Big Dipper. There were the three sisters in the belt of Orion. And that one off to the left of the moon, was that a planet? Maybe it was Venus? Jupiter? Mars? He raised the bottle in a toast.

A slow moving cloud bank covered the moon and blotted out the stars. There was a flash of light. A great orange comet streaked across the sky, illuminating the shape of something large dodging out of the way. Another dark shape followed close behind, dipping and weaving on bat's wings as wide as the span of an airplane. A high-pitched sound like screeching tires echoed across the sky.

One of the homeless men glanced up. "What was that?"

The whiskey never reached Osako's mouth. The bottle fell from numb fingers and shattered at his feet. The squat drunk looked surprised at the sound, saw the spreading pool of alcohol, and sadly shook his head.

"Don' be wastin' perfeckly good booze like that," he pouted. "If you don' wan' it, then fer cryin' out loud give it ta me."

"Gyaos," Osako whispered when he could breath again.

"Whassat?"

"That was Gyaos!" Osako repeated. "But if it's here, that means..."

He craned his head back, but the clouds had thickened and he couldn't see anything. Somewhere to the west, a faint oscillating whirring sound slowly began to impinge on his hearing. Hearing that made his skin crawl. His pulse quickened and sweat broke out on his lip. He stood looking in that direction.

The other homeless had stopped eating and followed his gaze, curious but not concerned.

To the east, in the direction the Gyaos had flown, came the distant sound of a huge explosion. An orange fireball blossomed behind the overcast, turning an area of night sky to brightest day. Before it began to fade, something large punched through the clouds, falling in a shrieking, flaming spiral towards the earth.

Osako felt the squat drunk clutch his arm. Without thinking, he covered the hand with his own. He regretted never learning the man's name. Whether there would be another chance was up to fate now. Down at the end of sidestreet, several shoppers had stopped. They stared and pointed up at the sky. Another homeless man came up by his side, squinting his eyes.

"What the hell is that?"

Osako couldn't answer. He was transfixed by the sight of the falling creature, its ruined wings still beating in a vain attempt to right itself. As it disappeared behind some buildings in the distance, it let loose with a horrifying screech. The sound of the explosion when it hit reverberated throughout the ward and the ground trembled faintly beneath his feet. Geysers of debris flew up into the sky.

A stool clattered to the ground. The yatai vendors all stopped working as they stared at the clouds of smoke rising from between the distant buildings. The smell of burning stir fry wafted over. More of the homeless joined the crowd that seemed to center around Osako.

He had never told anyone about his experiences, but several of them looked questioningly to him anyway, as if in some unconscious way they knew he could explain what was going on. Perhaps it was the result of some secret taint that clung to him as stolidly as the stench of alcohol did.

But he had no answer to the unspoken questions. It took all his strength just to stand there, to not turn and run like some madman into the night. They would know soon enough.

A bright glow was growing in the clouds. They began swirling in a counter-clockwise motion, like a storm about to give birth to a funnel cloud. That familiar oscillating sound increased the brighter the glow became and then the cloudbank parted before a vast spinning shape.

Gamera fell toward the city almost as quickly as the Gyaos had. Just as it seemed about to hit, there was a deafening roar as the four massive internal jets reversed all at once. Clouds of white steam erupted downward from the apertures of the armored shell, bringing the wild descent to a strained halt above the building tops.

Osako shielded his eyes from the intense glare. He saw the creatures's head jut out and scan the ground. Its body shook and jittered as it maneuvered around. Vents of steam issued from its shell as the many plates shifted and clattered into place. The four jets suddenly cut out, letting its arms and legs extend, and it dropped out of sight to the streets below. Even so many blocks away from the impact, the bottles of condiments on the nearby yatai shook from the tremor.

An almost surreal silence followed from that section of the ward. It lasted only a few seconds, but other sounds rushed in, as if to fill the void. They came with a kind of transparent clarity no matter how far away: A woman screamed. A gang of young men in black leather jackets dashed past the side street. They ran into a group of women who had stopped to look. One lost a shopping bag. It hit the ground and something made of glass shattered inside. A car horn blared and then another. Tires screeched. Metal impacted metal with a loud crunch. A car door slammed shut. Voices rose in anger. A breeze rustled the leaves. And a man was whispering "not again, not again, not again, not again..."

But despite the nearness -- his mouth, his ears -- Osako barely recognized it as his own.

And then in the distance Gamera's head appeared above a building. It roared to the waiting sky, the echo passing through the countless concrete canyons. And then the true sound began once again, the sound of a god's rumbling footsteps and human cries of shock and disbelief.

Osako heard someone whimpering. It was the fat woman from before. She was hiding behind her tent flap, like a child peeking from beneath blankets, afraid of the monsters lurking under the bed. He remembered doing the same when he was young -- not that it would do any good now. Some monsters didn't follow the rules.

"Was goin' on?" the squat drunk said. "I can't ss-see anythin'..."

The guy with the baseball cap moved past him. "They landed by the train station. I'm gonna get closer."

Shocked, Osako grabbed his arm. "Are you nuts? Didn' you see whas happenin'? The thing that fell...that was Gyaos! And thas Gamera over there! We gotta get outta here!"

"Hey! Let go a me!"

He tried to twist out of Osako's grip, but Osako held on tight. They struggled for a few moments until someone else broke the hold. The guy with the baseball cap bolted away up the sidestreet, looking back at Osako as if he were insane.

"Let me go! Let me go!" Osako cried out, desperately fighting the arms that held him. "We have to stop him! We can't let him..."

"Look man, it's a free world, okay?" the man holding him said in his ear. "If he's stupid enough to head over there, then that's his bidness."

"He just doesn't know," Osako cried. "He doesn't understand..."

"He understand enough that he got no one else to blame if he gets hisself killed..."

His words were cut off by the rumbling sound of Gamera's footsteps. It swung around and stalked through the gap between two buildings. Barely visible amid the settling debris cloud, a bloody and broken wing thrashed feebly at the dust.

As its ancient enemy moved to finish the attack begun in the sky, the mortally-wounded Gyaos screamed out its pain and fear and defiance, a crazed high-pitched mewling. Osako covered his ears to blot it out, remembering a similar cry on a pig farm in Sapporo near his brother-in-law's place. It was the sound a large sow had made on a truck ramp, perhaps understanding in some dim way that it was about to be butchered.

The man let go of Osako's arms. "I'm gonna be sick..." He stumbled away and vomited in a bush.

"Whas it gonna do?" the squat drunk asked.

The answer came a moment later. Gamera drew in his breath and blasted a fireball at the ground. There was a brilliant flash of orange light and an entire city block suddenly vanished in flame. The roiling cloud of fire mushroomed into the sky. Shockwaves raced up the sides of nearby buildings, shattering entire rows of darkened office windows floor after floor, while flames roared through the streets below like a flood of molten lava.

Stunned at the magnitude of the explosion, Osako and the others fell back, staring fearfully at the raging inferno as if it were a portal into hell itself. Impervious to the heat, oblivious to the damage, Gamera strode within that conflagration like some devil through its infernal realm. A scaffold on a building buckled and toppled and a wall of flame obscured the monster from view. It roared to the sky again, a silhouette against a seething red backdrop, the large white tusks on either side of its mouth rising like curved horns above its head.

From somewhere in the clouds came a cry of pure rage. Suddenly the other Gyaos swooped below the grey cover. It pulled up short with a beat of large leathery wings, opened its mouth, and emitted a focused beam of energy. The laser sliced through the streets and moments later a diagonal seam appeared in the reflective steel and glass of one of the buildings. With a slow and terrible grace, the upper floors began an inevitable slide down into the waiting street below.

Although Osako could not clearly see what happened, apparently the attack struck home; Gamera roared in pain as the Gyaos swerved and flew away, screeching in triumph. Enraged, Gamera spun and blasted fireball after fireball at its fleeing form. The Gyaos banked out of the line of fire, flying so low through the streets it was almost out of sight. The flaming missiles rocketed overhead, making a sizzling sound. Several buildings were struck, exploding in clouds of flame one after the other.

People were really running now. They flowed past the mouth of the sidestreet like a river fed by a spring run-off. Some broke away from the mad rush and headed down their way. As they passed, some of the yatai owners joined them. One tried to close up shop, meaning to take the cart with him. But at another massive explosion, he jumped and took off running.

Osako knew they should go, too, but he couldn't move. The huge explosions, the rising flames, the deafening roars of the monsters, the terrified cries of people fleeing for their lives held him there -- it was his lot in life to bear witness to the horror again and again, it seemed. Why him, Osako did not know; and for what purpose he could scarcely guess.

It seemed to go on like that forever. Seemed to, but Osako knew that was just adrenaline and fear slowing everything down, slowing it so his memory could savor every awful morsel while he cringed beneath the sheets at night. In reality, it was more like three minutes, four tops. That was all it took to turn everything upside down, all the time necessary to lose every gain made since he had come to Tokyo, no matter how pathetic they might have been.

The second Gyaos took a fireball to the body, screeching in pain. A second and a third struck while it hung there in the air, stunned, each blast knocking it back. A fourth hit, the last, and the creature exploded in a cloud of purple blood. Burning chunks of flesh fell like meteorites all over the ward.

Osako's eyes went wide in horror as he saw huge pieces falling right toward them. His legs were moving almost before his mind could tell them to.

"Run!" he cried and took off down the sidestreet.

Pieces of the dismembered monster began splattering the ground. Terrified of being hit, he looked back just once, to see if the others had heard and followed, and saw four people, who's names he never bothered to learn, crushed beneath an immense sizzling meteorite of flesh.

The impact shattered the ground and sent him soaring, wildly pinwheeling his arms as he tumbled over and over through the air. A tree suddenly loomed up in his sight and he struck a glancing blow off it and fell to the ground, unconscious.

~ 2 ~

Toshiro Mifune sat on a rock by the side of a long dusty road. A hand snuck up inside the ragged kimono, scratching an itch on his neck. He looked one way, then the other, then back. He sighed. Decisions, decisions. There was nothing on the ground before him but dirt and rocks -- where was a stick when you needed one?

Bruce Lee stood off to one side, shadowboxing with a tree. His bare chest glowed with the light of mid-day sun. He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, uttering little grunts of exertion with every lightning-fast punch. He kicked out and held the leg extended in the air, the foot level with his chin, the muscles rock steady.

In the middle of the road lay the body of a man, face down in the dirt. He had been unconscious for many hours, but now he began to moan and stir.

"He's waking up," Lee said matter-of-factly.

Mifune just grunted. "About damn time. We've only been sittin' here forever."

Lee silently appraised the man, the way he would a potential foe. "He doesn't look very strong. Can he do it?"

"Don't know." Mifune scratched his chin. "His blade's gone pretty dull. There's a lot of rust on it."

Lee dropped his leg and slowly lowered himself into lotus. He closed his eyes, his expression one of quiet contemplation.

"It's not going to be easy," said Lee.

Mifune snorted. "Nothing worthwhile ever is."

"I think he's forgotten that."

"He'll remember soon enough."

Lee's hooded eyes looked up. "And if he doesn't?"

Mifune just shrugged.

Osako slowly opened his eyes. He was lying on his back, staring at the swaying shadows of tree limbs and dark leaves. His head hurt -- hell, his whole body hurt. He rolled over and tried to get up. Almost immediately he felt intense heat burning his skin. A thick cloud of smoke was everywhere, making his eyes water. Disoriented and coughing violently, he got to his knees and looked around.

Osako had come to somewhere within the park and it was ablaze with fires. All around his position, trees had been turned into crackling pillars of flame. As he watched, one of them -- consumed from the ground to the uppermost limb -- swayed and then slowly toppled to the ground with a deafening rip of tortured wood. A great cloud of glowing orange embers spiraled into the night sky.

Ahead through a sudden gap in the roaring flames, he briefly glimpsed one of the food carts laying on its side before the flames closed in again. Coughing and sputtering, he stumbled around, trying to find a way through, skirting the worst of the fire. By the time he reached the relative safety of the sidestreet, the skin on his arms and face tingled painfully, as if he had the worst sunburn ever.

The sidestreet was a mess, the concrete churned and shattered where the flaming pieces of the Gyaos had struck. Globs of still-wet flesh glistened in the flickering orange light of the fires -- the smell was revolting. The food carts had been knocked over, either by the impact or fleeing people. One was smashed flat beneath a chunk of Gyaos, the red banner laying in an oily pool of grease and food.

Osako looked back and saw the wisteria covering the white pavillion was ablaze. Just beneath, the homeless tents stood like little fireplaces, all drooping and blackened now. They were inflammable, but the things inside weren't; the clothes and trinkets of past lives burned as greedily as the leftover hopes they represented. He looked past them and saw into his own -- two battered suitcases had turned into black lumps. Everything was gone now.

He tore his gaze away. What did those things matter? Nothing, they meant nothing. Possessions could be replaced, not life; and by the blind luck of whatever Gods looked down upon him and took pity, he was still alive. But not for long, not if he stayed where he was -- the fire was spreading out of control.

He looked down the sidestreet in either direction. One way was blocked by flaming debris, but it only led further into the depths of Yoyogi Park, across the open grounds and eventually to the Meiji Shrine somewhere in the distance. The other way was fairly clear. It opened onto the wide avenue to the east, where just an hour before tourists and shoppers had strolled through the glowing neon light, although it was darkened and eerily quiet now.

Osako started in that direction, not knowing where he was going, but not particularly scared by it, either. He was used to muddling through without any clear goal: he'd had lots of practise the past few years. This night would be no different from all the others he had spent with the demons of his doubts.

The only thing in the way was a huge steaming chunk of Gyaos that smelled like a pile of manure. He worked his way around carefully, stumbling over the piles of broken concrete. Once he slipped and in the sudden effort to keep from falling over, his hand sunk deep into the mound of flesh.

Grimacing in disgust, he pulled his hand out with a little sucking sound. Quickly, he wiped it off on his pants and continued descending the debris, where he hunched over. Breathing hard, feeling as though he was going to be sick, he stood there a long moment and fought back a sudden wave of panic.

He had to get his head straight. He couldn't let it get to him. If he gave in now, there was no hope. He'd die out here...he'd...

Looking down at the base of the mound, Osako saw a foot, a human foot sticking out of the rubble. There was no shoe and the sock was ripped back, revealing the toes. The flesh was cold and gray, speckled with something darker.

His stomach heaved painfully and he spun around, spewing vomit. After a few minutes, the shock passed and he continued on toward the avenue. He tried not to look down; he tried not to wonder who it had been, the squat drunk, or the fat lady, or the guy who had sang off-key. Most of all, he tried not to think about what else lay under there.

Finally he made it out into the street and got his first good look at what had happened to Shibuya. What he saw defied the imagination. The extent of the devastation was almost impossible to grasp, and for a long moment he stared disbelievingly, refusing to accept it.

Osako hadn't followed Nagamine to Tokyo that first time, so he'd never seen for himself what had happened when Gamera had confronted the first Gyaos there. Much later on, he saw a few photos and watched a little of a television documentary on that tragic event, but by then he was settled in Sapporo and trying to put the past behind him. He bought Nagamine's book when it was published but never actually got around to reading it. And when Sendai was wiped off the face of the earth, he was locked in the guest bedroom of his brother-in-law's place, quivering beneath the sheets of his bed, jumping at the shadow of a tree right outside the window, a tree whose branches looked like claws in the moonlight.

But even had he not tried to avoid the truth, he doubted anything could have prepared him for what he saw now. Great sections of the ward were decimated, turned into roaring infernoes. Huge pillars of flame licked the belly of an angry-red sky. The rising clouds of smoke were black as nightmares.

A small, almost child-like part of his mind wondered if it wasn't some dream from which he would awaken, sweating and frightened. Perhaps the entire day had been a part of that dream, and he'd only thought that he had risen that morning. Because this couldn't be the same world to which he had opened his eyes. There had to be some mistake, some awful trick being played on him. This couldn't be his world. It just couldn't.

Everything had changed. In a single, terrible moment, all he had ever thought he understood about the world had been utterly redefined. Where the sky had been dark and filled with stars, now it was obscured by smoky clouds and the orange glow of flame. Where tall, sturdy buildings had reached up to the heavens, now there were piles of dusty debris and gaping holes in the skyline. Where the vibrant sounds of life had once filled his ears, he heard only fading echoes and a settling silence.

Osako wondered how it was that the world could suffer such a fundamental change and not be torn asunder by the evil power necessary to invoke it. Surely the very earth should have spun off its axis and been thrown across the void of space by that dark and unimaginable force.

Such a conceit -- he had to marvel at his own egotism. The world didn't revolve around him, it didn't exist by his whim alone. Of course it was still here; it was just that his small portion of it had been gravely wounded. And now whether he wanted to or not, it was up to him to learn how to live in this uncertain and unsatisfying substitute. He had no choice after all -- no one did -- this ruin, and all its consequences and responsibilities, was their new world.

From somewhere in the distance came the faint sirens of firetrucks. They were far away, but even had they been close he honestly wondered what they could have done. Just outside the park, the street had collapsed and a burst main gushed water into the air. The fire would have to burn out by itself, however many hours that would take.

He skirted the hole until it was safe and then made his way down the center of the street, threading a traffic jam of empty cars and taxiis. In the panic and confusion, many had been abandoned where they were, the engines running and headlights on. They illuminated the dust-and smoke-filled air, a sluggish miasma which clung low to the ground like thick fog. The fires were less than a block away in either direction.

A little further on, he reached an intersection blocked with tons of jagged debris. The upper floors of one of the corner buildings were no more, twisted girders holding up nothing but the sky. The street was filled with the fallen remains. Several cars had been smashed flat and a sickening sweet smell of leaking gasoline permeated the air.

He couldn't go back the way he had come and there was no way to skirt around it, so he started climbing the pile. He had to be especially mindful of where he stepped -- the surrounding buildings had all had their windows violently blown out. The faint glittering shards of glass -- an inch deep in places -- crunched noisily under his feet. If something shifted and he fell, he'd be lucky if he didn't bleed to death.

It took Osako ten minutes and a lot of muttered curses and scrapes to get barely half way through the debris-strewn intersection. He leaned against a teetering portion of the building's facade, trying to catch his breath, looking ahead down the street to see what else might lay in his path, when he thought he heard the sound of someone crying.

It was so soft, it was nearly obscured by the crackling sounds of the fires in the distance. At first he just dismissed it as an over-active imagination; he was so terrified something would fall over he was starting to hear things. But as he painstakingly wound through the smoke- filled rubble -- in places it towered over his head like immense grave markers -- he heard it again.

"Hello?" he called out loudly, "is someone there?"

There was no answer and the sound stopped abruptly. He changed direction and started moving to where he thought he'd heard it coming. After a moment, he paused to listen. But the crying did not pick up again. He was just about to continue on down the street when he heard someone sniffle off to his right. It was very close -- there was no mistaking it this time. Someone was nearby.

He slowly edged near the front of a car whose front end had been pancaked and looked down. A young boy was leaning against the left front tire, crouched down, his knees drawn up to his chest. He was a scrawny-looking kid, maybe eight- or nine-years old, with a short brush-cut of dark hair. His face and arms were caked with dirt. His shirt was torn and his pants frayed at cuffs.

The boy seemed unaware that anyone else was around until Osako gently cleared his throat.

He might as well as lit off a firecracker, judging by the way the little boy almost jumped in fear. The boy looked at him through puffy, tear-stained eyes -- he must have been crying for hours to get like that. He was startled and clearly apprehensive -- in fact he looked so frightened it seemed to Osako he was about to run away.

Osako put out his hands and stepped back a little.

"It's okay," said Osako reassuringly. "I was passing through the intersection and I thought I heard someone. Are you all alone out here?"

The little boy didn't say anything. He was still scared and Osako saw him shift his weight as if he was about to make a break for it. Osako knew he had to gain his trust and he had to do it fast -- if the boy ran away now, he likely wouldn't survive the night.

"Look," said Osako quickly, "I'm a...I'm a cop, okay? A police officer? I want to help you, but I can't if you take off running."

The little boy stared at him silently for a long time. He was looking at the dirty second-hand clothes Osako was wearing. Just a few hours before he would have been ashamed to be inspected like that but the kid was probably just wondering why he wasn't wearing a uniform.

"Where's your badge?" said the little boy suspiciously. "My Momma says I should always ask to see a badge first."

"Your Mom's right. You should always ask to see a badge," replied Osako. "But I...well, I was off duty and I lost it, along with my wallet and everything else. I got knocked around in an explosion." He looked down and saw the boy's shoes were missing. "Where're your shoes?"

The little boy seemed to notice his bare feet for the first time. He shrugged. He was still a bit leery but at least he didn't look like he was going to run anymore.

"When all the explosions started," said the little boy, fighting back more tears, "Momma pulled me so hard my sandals fell off. I tried to tell her but she wouldn't listen. My Grandmother gave them to me for my birthday. When Momma let go, I took off but I couldn't find my sandals anywhere. Then all these people started running and shouting and I...I couldn't find my Momma." He paused. "Are you really a police officer?"

Osako smiled and nodded. "I'll tell you what -- when you find your shoes, I'll find my badge. Is it a deal?" He held out his pinkie finger. "Promise?"

The little boy still seemed unsure but eventually he nodded as well, and wrapped his pinkie around Osako's. Satisfied the boy wouldn't be running away, Osako came around and knelt in front of him.

"My name's Officer Osako," he said. "What's yours?"

"Hiroshi."

"Pleased to meet you, Hiroshi. Are you okay? Are you injured anywhere?"

Hiroshi looked down at his feet. "They hurt. I can't walk on them anymore."

"I know first-aid," said Osako, glad for the first time he'd had to take a refresher course when he got the security guard job in Sapporo. "Let me take a quick look."

Hiroshi stuck out his leg and Osako examined the sole of his foot. In the orange glow of the fire, he saw the pale skin was cut and gashed in several places, and the other was the same. Luckily, they weren't too deep and there was no glass to pull out that he could see, but they were bleeding pretty badly. The asphalt around the car was spotted dark with small bloody footprints.

"How is it?" asked Hiroshi. He winced at Osako's touch, no matter how gentle he tried to make it, but refrained from whimpering too much.

"Not too bad," replied Osako. He smiled but inside he felt sick -- Hiroshi must have walked right through all the broken glass. "But I think you're done walking for today, okay? From here on, I'll carry you...if that's all right?"

Hiroshi nodded solemnly and Osako shrugged out of his jacket and started tearing it into big strips, which he then wrapped around Hiroshi's feet. After tying off the make- shift bandages, he examined his handiwork. The fabric was already going dark, but at least it would staunch the worst of it until they could find someone to dress it properly. He just thanked heaven he'd heard the crying. If he'd gone past the intersection...but he didn't want to think about that now.

"I know it still hurts, but that's the best I can do," said Osako sympathetically. "Does it feel a little better though?"

Hiroshi moved his feet and smiled a brave little smile. But then quite suddenly, he seemed on the verge of tears again and looked very much like the frightened eight-year-old child he was.

"Where's my Momma?" he asked softly.

Osako felt something squeeze tightly inside his chest. He remembered the foot sticking out of the rubble back at the park and shook it roughly out of his mind.

"I don't know," replied Osako. "But I'm sure she's been looking for you, too. Don't worry -- we'll find her. Problem is, Hiroshi, we can't stay here anymore. The fire's getting closer and we have to keep moving. Are you okay with that?"

After a moment to think it over, Hiroshi nodded and Osako bent down with his back to him.

"Come on then," he said. "Time for a little piggy back ride."

Hiroshi scooted forward and clambered on, locking his arms around Osako's neck. Osako held the boy's thin legs, making sure to keep the wounded feet from hitting his sides, and got up. Then they started off.

It took a little longer getting through the rest of the intersection that way -- Osako had to find ways around things that he might have climbed over had it been just himself. And Hiroshi was quite a bit heavier than he looked.

Eventually they made it past that and the rest of the way seemed fairly clear -- a lot of debris still littered the street, but at least they had to contend with fewer abandoned cars. The question was, the way was clear to what?

Osako had no idea where he was trying to get to. When it had been just him, that hadn't seemed to matter much. But now a little boy was clinging tightly to his back, a boy who was injured pretty bad. He had to get medical attention, the sooner the better.

There was probably a triage area set up somewhere to deal with the injured -- at least there had been during all the mock earthquake drills when he'd been a Nagasaki policeman. There was no reason to doubt emergency plans would be any different in Tokyo. But where was it? And how to get to it?

And where was everybody? Aside from the boy -- and the unfortunate person who had died back in the park -- Osako hadn't seen a single soul since setting out nearly an hour before. He didn't have to wait long for an answer.

A few blocks down from where he found Hiroshi, they reached the end of the line. Two twenty story buildings on either side of the avenue had collapsed. The deadfall of fractured concrete and warped steel beams towered four stories high, completely blocking their path. There was no getting around. No wonder there was no one around -- the entire street was broken off from the rest of the ward by fire and fallen debris.

Osako stopped halfway down the block. He didn't want to get any closer than that -- it looked like it might come tumbling over at any second. He hated the idea of doubling back -- the fires were close by and getting steadily closer -- crossing the last intersection had been like crossing the open door of a blast furnace. He looked around, trying to see if there was any other way.

Off the street on the sidewalk was the entrance to a subway. He hitched up Hiroshi on his back and walked over to take a look. A langourous cloud of smoke filled the darkened stairway. A metal trash can had tumbled down to the first landing, trash spewed everywhere, the side ripped wide open like the belly of some dead animal.

"Are we going down there?" asked Hiroshi nervously.

And Osako didn't blame him for feeling that way. He didn't want to go down any more than Hiroshi did. But it was probably the only way to get past the fire and the blocked street, assuming it wasn't blocked as well somewhere -- fifty or a hundred tons of falling buildings must have hit the roof of the subway. It would be a miracle of engineering if it hadn't just collapsed.

Osako looked back at Hiroshi, who leaning over his shoulder.

"I think we have to," said Osako. "We can't go any further this way. If we walk through the tunnel, we can get to the next station and come up with all this stuff behind us."

"What if the next station is just as bad?" asked Hiroshi.

"Then we'll just keep going until we find one that isn't."

"I'm scared," said Hiroshi. He looked fearfully down the steps into the smoke and pitch darkness of the subway. "We won't be able to see anything." He started sniffling again. "What if...what if...I lose you down there like I lost Momma?"

Osako gave a gentle squeeze on his legs. "I'm not going to lose you, Hiroshi. But you're right. It will be pretty hard to see down there..."

Just past the entrance to the subway stood a woman's clothing store. A blonde-haired mannequin in the front window had tipped over and smashed through the glass. It was lying at an angle on the sidewalk, the head and arms broken off; the head had rolled into the gutter, where it sat smiling at him with a shattered grin.

Osako nodded toward the store.

"I'm gonna go in there and see if I can find a flashlight or something," he said. "I'm gonna put you down on the curb for a minute, okay?"

But it wasn't okay. Hiroshi's grip on his neck suddenly tightened painfully.

"Don't go away, Officer Osako," he pleaded softly. "Please don't go away. I don't want to be alone again."

Hiroshi started sniffling and crying again and Osako could feel the hot tears running down his neck. He wanted to cry, too. But for Hiroshi's sake he had to be confident and positive. He couldn't let on how scared and unsure he really was.

"Hiroshi, I can't take you inside. It might be dangerous," said Osako slowly. "And I can move a lot faster and easier if I put you down. Up until now you've been a very brave boy. Your parents would be proud of you. But now I'm gonna need you to be just a little more brave than before. Okay?"

After a moment the sniffling stopped and Osako felt Hiroshi nodding silently.

"Good," said Osako, and he went over to the curb and squatted down. Hiroshi let go and sat there looking up at him with big solemn eyes. "I'll tell you what...do you know any songs?"

Hiroshi nodded. "Bingo. My older brother learned it in English class last week. He said his teacher said it would help to learn how to say English words, and he sang it to me."

Osako scratched his head. "I learned it in my English class, too. It's been a bit longer since the last time I sang it. But if you sing the choruses, I'll sing the bingo part along with you. So that way you'll know where I am when I go inside. That sounds a little fun, huh?"

Hiroshi smiled and nodded again. As Osako started for the broken store window, Hiroshi started to sing in a high wavering voice.

"There was a farmer had a dog, and Bingo was his name-o..."

As Osako climbed past the mannequin, he sang along. "B-I-N- G-O...B-I-N-G-O..."

It was very dark inside the store, but it looked like a typhoon had roared through it. Clothes racks were scattered all over the floor. The drop ceiling had collapsed toward the back and huge cracks ran up the walls.

He hurried around to the check-out counter. The registers had been knocked off to the floor and the tills were broken and wide open. Paper money and coin had spilled out everywhere. Osako stepped over and quickly rummaged through the drawers and cabinets, hoping he might luck out and find a flashlight down there. But there was only cleaning supplies and empty gift boxes.

Disappointed, he stood up and then looked apprehensively toward the back of the store where the ceiling had partially fallen. The collapse had exposed heating pipes, electrical wiring, and a metal duct that was still rocking back and forth slightly. Past all that was a double swinging door to the stockroom -- one side had fallen off completely, the other was hanging by a single hinge.

"Officer Osako?" came Hiroshi's uncertain voice from outside.

"Don't worry! I'm okay, Hiroshi!" he called out. Then he sighed and started for the stockroom, loudly singing "B-I-N- G-O...B-I-N-G-O..."

If one of the doors hadn't been completely knocked off, he wouldn't have seen a thing back there, it was so dark in the stock room. He had to stand at the threshold for a while before his eyes started to adjust. He moved inside cautiously. On the left side, just past a green metal shelving unit, was a work bench. A small tool rack was mounted on the wall behind, and he let out a sigh of relief as he spotted a flashlight hanging next to a ball-peen hammer and several screw drivers.

Osako snatched at it immediately. Maybe the flashlight had fresh batteries or had never seen much use, but when he flicked the switch it was very bright. He swung it around to get a better look at the stockroom.

How it was he didn't scream, he had no idea.

"Officer Osako?" said Hiroshi plaintively. "I can't hear you singing."

The ceiling on the right-hand side was completely collapsed. The sales clerks had only done what they thought was right; they had probably been trained to take shelter back in the stockroom in the event of an earthquake. Their broken and bloody hands stuck out from the rubble as if reaching out to him from beyond death.

"Officer Osako? Are you all right?"

Somehow Osako found his voice. He even managed to make it sound halfway normal. "Don't come in here, Hiroshi," he called out through the doors. "I'm okay. Listen...can you hear me? I'm singing, okay? I'm still singing. B-I-N-G- O...B-I-N-G-O..."

As he tore his eyes away from the rubble and turned to go, the beam of light happened to fall on the metal shelving. On one of the lower shelves was a large tan shoulder bag still wrapped in the cellophane. He grabbed it, ripped it open, and then started filling it with the various tools from the work bench, all the while listening for Hiroshi's tiny voice and singing along with him.

When he was done with that, Osako took another look around to see if there was anything else he could salvage. The flashlight's beam fell only briefly on the pile of rubble, but it was long enough to spot another flashlight, lying right beneath one of the still hands. He didn't even think about it -- he just went over and picked it up, offering a silent apology -- he and Hiroshi needed it more. Then he made his way back outside.

Hiroshi was standing on the curb, watching the store expectantly. When he saw the flashlight, he broke out into a smile. Osako crawled through the window, laden with the bag of tools.

"Hey," he said loudly, "I thought I told you no more walking."

"I didn't go anywhere," said Hiroshi, promptly sitting down. "I was just waiting for you. You found a flashlight!"

Osako sat down next to him. "Not just one, but two...here...this one's for you. I'm gonna need you to light the way. You think you can hold on to me and the flashlight with dropping it?"

Hiroshi nodded quickly and flicked his flashlight on. Osako looped the handles of the bag of tools through his belt. Once that was secure, he let Hiroshi climb up on his back again and then tested his balance. It was awkward -- the bag hit his knee hard a couple of times -- but he could still walk.

Osako headed over to the subway entrance and stood there as Hiroshi trained the light down the steps. They could see the landing at the bottom of the first flight and the trash can and the trash strewn about. But past that point, the dust was too thick to make out anything.

They would just have to take their time and see how things fared down there. And thinking of that, Osako decided it would be best if he prepared Hiroshi now for whatever they might find.

"Listen, Hiroshi," said Osako, "when we get down in the subway, you might...see things...things that you're not gonna want to remember later on..."

"Officer Osako?"

"Hiroshi, please...don't interrupt. This is really important and I'm not sure how to say it..."

Hiroshi tugged on his ear. "Officer Osako, you'd better turn around..."

Something in the small voice stopped him short, transmitting the fear he heard into his own body. There was a sudden roaring sound from behind him. When Osako turned, he thought for sure that Gamera had returned to finish what it had started -- the sound was so immense, so deafening, it could have only been that.

But it wasn't -- it was a building, a fifteen story building, finally giving in to the fire and the damage it had sustained. Floor collapsed upon floor, down and down like an accordian, before finally the walls bulged out hideously and burst out sideways into the street. An impossibly huge cloud of dust rose up and, funneled by the other buildings, bore down the street with the speed of a semi right toward them.

There was another huge explosion somewhere within the cloud -- Osako suddenly remembered all the leaking gasoline -- and soon orange flames began to lick out the front of the rushing cloud.

"Officer Osako?" Hiroshi's voice was cracking with fear now.

"Hang on!" cried Osako, and then he leaped down the stairs three at a time, the tool bag jangling loudly and bashing hard into his leg. They reached the first landing and then, without pause, they started down the second flight of steps. It was useless trying to see -- the flashlight was bobbing around wildly and the deep rumbling of the speeding fireball was growing louder and louder by the second.

Halfway down, Osako slipped on something in the darkness and stumbled. He felt Hiroshi lose his grip and the next thing he knew he was falling and rolling down the rest of the stairs. He hit bottom hard and lay there dazed, until Hiroshi landed on top. All the breath whooshed out his lungs and he rolled over, unable to even groan in pain.

The sound of the fireball filled his ears and despite the dizziness he struggled to get to his knees. He grabbed Hiroshi, who was laying nearby shaking his head, by the shirt and started to pull him off to the side. They barely managed to get around the corner -- when the fireball suddenly roared above them, drowning out everything.

Osako hugged Hiroshi tightly and turned his back to the opening just as the flames raced down the stairs and blasted into the subway like a rocket engine. The heat was the most intense he had ever experienced in his life. Hiroshi was whimpering in fear but Osako just held him even tighter until the flames died down and receded.

When it was safe to look up, they saw that the concrete in front of the opening to the stairs had been scorched black and the paint blistered on the far wall. Osako looked down at Hiroshi. There was just enough light from the small streaks of oily flame on the floor to see his scared face.

"Are you all right?" asked Osako. "You didn't get hurt in the fall, did you?"

Hiroshi shook his head. "What about you?" His eyes went wide with concern. "Officer Osako, you're bleeding!"

Osako lightly touched his forehead. The fingers came back bright red. "Nothing to worry about. It's just a scratch, that's all."

Hiroshi shook his head. "No, it's not. You're hurt." He started ripping at the bottom of his shirt.

Osako tried to make light of it. "Hiroshi, don't. I'm fine...it's no big deal."

But the little boy would not be deterred. Soon enough, he had ripped the shirt all the way around his waist. His eyes were firm as he held out the long strip of fabric for Osako; he simply wouldn't take no for an answer. Osako sighed and tied it around his forehead.

"Does it feel better?" asked Hiroshi hopefully.

Osako nodded. "Yes it does, as a matter of fact. Have you thought about being a doctor when you grow up?"

Hiroshi shook his head. "I wanna be a fireman. I want to ride on the big red truck with all the sirens and the ladders and everything."

"That's a good thing to want to be," said Osako. He took a deep breath and looked around. "Well, we'd better get moving."

He stood up with a groan and checked the tool bag -- the hammer and the flashlight were the only things that hadn't fallen out in the tumble down the stairs. The flashlight still worked and they were able to find the other one Hiroshi had dropped -- that flashlight still worked, too, although he had to jiggle it a little now -- and the screw drivers and others tools. Then Hiroshi climbed on board again and they started down the long tunnel to the subway platform.

Past the banks of dark ticket-dispensing machines and the turnstiles, Osako spotted some vending machines. His stomach rumbled -- he hadn't eaten since lunchtime of the previous day and after all the walking and climbing, he was absolutely famished.

"Hey...are you hungry, Hiroshi?" he asked over his shoulder.

Hiroshi saw the vending machines as well and vigorously nodded his head. So Osako headed over to them and sat Hiroshi down on a nearby bench. He pulled out the hammer from the tool bag and stood in front of one machine that dispensed candy.

"You like any of the stuff in here?" asked Osako.

"I like it all," replied Hiroshi, watching him closely.

"Okay then." Osako shielded his eyes and swung the hammer, smashing the glass.

Hiroshi's eyes practically glowed when he saw all the candy bars and boxes of Pocky falling out onto the floor. Osako scooped up everything and put it into the tool bag. Then he went over to the next machine, which held had cans of pop and tea and sports drinks. There was no easy way in this time, no glass to break. He had to hammer and kick at the lock until it sprung the door, and then stuffed the tool bag with cans.

He sat down next to Hiroshi and told him to dig in. Hiroshi pulled out a can of pop and a box of strawberry Pocky. Then he looked up at Osako curiously.

"Isn't this a bad thing?" he asked.

Osako paused in his chewing -- his cheeks were already stuffed with Choco-bars. He swallowed and nodded. "Normally yes, it is a bad thing. But this is a special, one-time case. Have you ever watched a TV show and seen the police taking other people's cars when they're chasing the bad guys? Well, that's called 'commandeering' and the police can do things like that in special cases. So I just...kind of...*commandeered* the candy machine."

Hiroshi seemed to accept that and for a long time, they ate and drank and rested. While they sat there, Osako flashed his light around to see if there was any visible damage.

It was pitch black and so quiet he could hear the dirt falling from the cracks in the ceiling. The air was filled with dust and it covered everything from the floor to the benches to the pay phones in a thick layer. There was no major damage that he could tell -- the ceiling hadn't caved in anywhere, but the cracks worried him. And there was no way of knowing what they might find further inside; maybe it got even worse. He knew he had to get a better look before they started off again.

But how to make Hiroshi understand? Hiroshi was obviously terrified of being abandoned, but he had to do it. At least sitting here, Osako knew he'd be safe.

"Hiroshi," he began, "I know you're not going to like hearing this, but..."

Hiroshi cut him off. "You have to go to make sure it's safe, right?"

Osako nodded. "Yeah. And I don't think singing will work this time. I have to go all the way down to the platform and check out the subway tunnel. I'll try to back as fast as I can. Will you be all right?"

"I'll be okay. Because I know you're coming back." He looked down, as if ashamed to look at him. "Before...I didn't know if you were telling the truth or not. I'm sorry."

Osako squeezed his shoulder. "That's okay. I understand." He unhooked the bag and took out the spare flashlight. "Be back in a minute or two."

He headed out of the vending machine area and down the corridor again. At the end, another short flight of steps led down to the subway platform. The dust was thicker down here, the cracks in the ceiling wider. They wanted to go south to get past all the debris blocking the way above ground, so he walked over to the near tunnel and shined the light inside. It was undamaged as far as he could see.

Satisfied now, he turned around. And stopped. The ceiling on the platform opposite his own had caved in. He flashed the light down to the tunnel opening to the north and saw it was blocked off completely. For the first time, he heard the concrete pillars around him were groaning. Eventually the whole thing was going to collapse. They could make it out, but they had to hurry. He started back over to the stairs.

*help me*

The hairs on the back of his neck rose.

*please...help me*

"Hello?" he called out, his voice strangely flat in the sluggish air. "Is anyone there?"

There was a pause and then a coughing sound.

*help me...I can't move*

The voice was coming from the other platform, from beyond all the rubble that blocked it.

"Hold on!" Osako cried. "Hold on! I'm coming!"

He sprinted over the platform, jumped down to the tracks, and then clambered up the other side. The debris was thick -- he had to climb nearly to the ceiling before he found a gap through which he could squeeze his body.

"Help me...help me..." The voice was louder now.

He lowered himself down to the ruined platform. Beyond was a mirror image of the other side, with the steps leading up to a corridor, although the collapsed ceiling made it nearly impassable.

"Keep talking!" he cried, clawing his way up the rocks and dirt. "I'm coming to help! Keep talking!"

"Is someone there? I...I can't move..."

Osako found the woman lying in the rubble near the middle of the corridor. She was older with gray hair. The wall had collapsed on her, crushing her legs. Blood ringed her lips and nostrils. She didn't seem to be in much pain, she just looked very tired. The moment he knelt down by her side Osako knew there was nothing he could do.

"You're going to be all right," he tried to reassure her. But there was blood seeping everywhere and the way her legs were twisted was just too sickening to contemplate for long.

"They're so cold," she said. Her breathing was fast and shallow and each word took incredible effort to get out. "So cold. I...I think I'm going to miss my lesson."

He had to get her mind off of it. "Oh yeah? What...uh...what were you taking lessons for?"

"Ball room dancing," she said, sucking in a trembling breath. "I was learning how to dance the rumba. Do you think...tell me please tell me...how bad is it? I...I can't feel my legs."

"Aw, you'll be all right," he said. "You'll be dancing better than me in no time."

"I always wanted to learn but there was never any time," she said as if she hadn't heard him. "I only started a few weeks ago. It's been so much fun and I've met so many nice people. It seems unfair. I only just started..."

"What's unfair?" Osako said, blinking back his tears. "Look, I'll get you out of this and you'll go to a hospital and as soon as you're better, you'll be dancing good as new. So let's think positively, okay? You're going to be all right. You're going to be..."

But she wasn't listening. He stared at her face for a very long time, unafraid of what he might see reflected there. Her eyes saw nothing offensive. He reached across and gently closed them.

There was nothing more he could do. He tried to tell himself that even had he gotten there sooner, her wounds were more than cut feet that could be bandaged. And maybe if he said enough times, he would even believe it someday. He untied the bandage around his head and placed it over her face. And then he went back to get Hiroshi.

Hiroshi looked at him curiously as he sat back down on the bench and started hooking the tool bag through his belt again.

"I thought I heard voices," he said. "Was everything all right down there?"

Osako glanced over. He found smiling at that bright face very difficult, but somehow he did. "Yeah. The tunnel's clear. We can walk straight through to the next station. You ready?"

Hiroshi climbed up on his back and Osako headed down the corridor one last time. At the platform he jumped down to the tracks and stood facing the dark subway tunnel. He glanced over to his left for a brief moment and then they started in.

~ 3 ~

Osako and Hiroshi walked slowly forward for about five minutes, neither one speaking. Hiroshi kept the flashlight trained on the ground a few feet ahead, just as Osako had instructed him to. The gray wooden ties seemed endless in their monotony and the steel rails looked like streaks of quicksilver in the bobbing light.

They came upon a pool about ten feet wide. Hiroshi shone the light over to one side, where the soft sound of leaking water could be heard. There was a crack in the concrete wall and water streamed down, mixing with the oil from the many trains that had passed. The dark murky pool was filled with swirling rainbows.

Osako tried to circle around, but the water must have been leaking for some time now, for the pool stretched ankle-deep from wall to wall. There was nothing else he could do, so he just waded right through. The water was frigid -- by the time he got to the other side, his shoes were soaked and he was shivering.

There was a muffled explosion from the surface; they felt it more than heard it. The vibrations shook the walls and the ceiling, sending dust streaming down into their hair. Hiroshi squealed in fear, and Osako leaped to the side, staring up, wondering if the ceiling would collapse on them. There was a terrible rumbling sound further up the tunnel. But it soon passed and the shaking subsided.

They resumed walking, but had to stop less than a minute later -- a landslide partially blocked the tracks. One of the walls had split wide open and fallen inward, probably the cause of the rumbling sound. If he had run forward when the shaking had started, instead of darting to the side to wait it out, they might have been buried under that.

It was a sobering realization as Osako got on his hands and knees to negotiate safely across. But it wasn't the physical danger alone that bothered him -- the darkness played little tricks with his mind.

He knew they could never have made it through the tunnel without a flashlight. But it was so small compared to the vastness of the subway, it only made the darkness outside the miniscule circle of light seem even more oppressive.

Every step further down the tunnel filled him with a rising dread of what might lurk there unseen in the darkness beyond the cone of light. The echoes of labored breathing and reverberating footsteps seemed to pile up until it sounded like the legs of hundreds of invisible creatures scurrying to hide before the light reached them.

Half a dozen times in as many minutes, Osako stopped, waiting for the echoes to die down before continuing. And half a dozen times, Hiroshi asked him what was wrong, a growing sense of unease in his voice.

Osako didn't know what to tell him, but dimly through the panic he realized that for the boy's sake he had to keep moving -- Hiroshi was scared enough as it was. Osako couldn't allow his own fears to infect him, no matter how terrified he was of the phantoms of his past.

"You...uh...you want to hear a story or something?" asked Osako suddenly. "You know, to pass the time?"

"What kind of story?" asked Hiroshi.

"Well..." Osako thought about it for a moment. "Um, what about the story of the man who saved a swan? Did you ever hear that one?"

"The swan turns into a woman, lives in his house, and spins gold for him," said Hiroshi in a bored voice. "Then he walks in on her while she's spinning the gold and she turns back into a swan and flies away. That's a kid's story."

"Guess you have. I'll have to think of another one then."

Osako searched his memory for a few more silent minutes. Did he even know any other children's stories? He must have, but right then he was drawing a complete blank. Then something occured to him and he grinned.

"I know a story you've never heard before," he said, looking over his shoulder. "You'll like this one. It's one of my all-time favorites."

"What's it called?" asked Hiroshi, and Osako was please to hear genuine curiousity in his voice.

"It's called 'The Story of the Seven Samurai," said Osako. "Have you ever heard that one?"

Hiroshi shook his head and leaned in closer, his eyes bright with interest. "What's it about?"

Osako took a deep breath. "Well, once upon a time," he said, "there was this village that was being attacked by bandits. Every few days, the bandits would sweep down out of the hills on horseback."

"Did the villagers fight back?"

Osako shook his head. "They couldn't. The bandits were many and they all had swords and spears. The villagers only had rakes and farming tools. And they were scared."

"So what did they do?"

Osako paused. "I don't know. Are you sure you want to hear this story? Now that I think about it, its kind of boring..."

Hiroshi pressed in even closer. "No no no!" he said excitedly. "I want to hear! I want to hear it! What did the villagers do to stop the bandits?"

Osako smiled to himself. "Well, if you really want to know. See, what happened was, the smartest people in the village got together and tried to figure out what to do. Then one of them came up with an idea...they could hire a bunch of samurai to protect the village from the bandits..."

He told the story as much for his own sake as for Hiroshi's, to keep his mind off things he couldn't control and stay focused on getting through the darkness to the next subway station. As he spoke he felt the anxiety receding. It never disappeared completely, but at the least became manageable.

By the time they could perceive a reddish glow on the walls, Osako was as thoroughly engrossed in recounting the tale of his all-time favorite movie as Hiroshi was in listening to it. They exited into the next station just at the part where Toshiro Mifune was getting hit on the head by a club.

The subway station was in much the same shape as the first -- there was fallen debris all over and even some of the columns had collapsed. But unlike the first station the emergency lights were on, casting a grotesque reddish glow across the benches and trash bins.

Taking a long look around, Osako didn't hold out much hope that they could get out from here, but at least they wouldn't have to stumble around in the dark or rely on the flashlights to see. That was something, he supposed. It wasn't much, but it was a little better than before.

Hiroshi saw the fat man first. He tugged on Osako's ear and pointed him out. Osako followed his finger and sucked in a harsh breath when he finally saw the other man.

The fat man was standing on the platform in the vast reddish-dark and quiet of the subway station. He didn't say anything to them, didn't move from his spot; in fact, he didn't react at all, even when Hiroshi put the flashlight on him. He just stood there, apparently oblivious to their presence.

He had a boyish-looking face, round and pudgy, and thick glasses that made his eyes look tiny. He was dressed in a charcoal-gray suit, a dark tie, and expensive leather loafers. A briefcase sat in the dust by his leg.

He stood well back of the yellow line and looked like any other tired salaryman after a long day at work and an evening of social-drinking with co-workers, waiting for the last train to take him home to the sleeping suburbs. He was so composed, it seemed as if he had no idea the world far above his head was in flaming ruins.

"Why doesn't he say hello? Doesn't he know we're here?" whispered Hiroshi in his ear.

"I don't know," replied Osako, keeping his voice low as well.

He went over to the edge of the platform and sat Hiroshi down on the concrete lip, well away from the other man. He rummaged the spare flashlight from the tool bag laying heavily against his thigh and put a finger to his lips.

"I'm gonna go talk to him," whispered Osako. "Don't say anything, okay?"

"Officer Osako?" said Hiroshi worriedly.

Osako smiled. "I just want to ask what he's doing down here."

He climbed up onto the platform and cautiously walked over, stopping about ten feet from the other man. He didn't want to get any closer until he knew what was going on. But now he could see that the fat man's pants and jacket were covered in soot and dirt -- there was a pungent odor of burning rubber and leaves about him that was almost sickening.

"Hey? Hey mister? Are...are you all right?" Osako asked hesitantly.

The fat man didn't respond. Osako could see his broad shoulders rising and falling, and he realized the fat man was breathing very fast and shallow, almost hyper- ventilating. His hands were clenched painfully tight, the fingertips white from pressure. Osako stepped around to the edge of the platform and shined the light in the fat man's face.

His face was covered in sweat -- it cascaded down his chubby cheeks and into the folds of his chin. The collars of his shirt and jacket were stained dark with it. He looked like someone with a very bad fever. But at the same time he was shivering all over as if he were deathly cold.

Even with the flashlight in his face, the fat man seemed completely unaware there was anyone else there with him. He didn't avert his tiny eyes, he didn't blink. Eventually Osako turned the light away before he blinded him. He snapped his fingers in the fat man's face but there was no response that he could tell.

Osako's heart went out to the other man -- whatever he had seen and experienced in the past few hours must have been truly horrifying that receding from the world had been his mind's only refuge. He squeezed the fat man's shoulder in sympathy.

"I don't know if you can hear me," said Osako, his voice choking, "but I'm gonna do whatever I can to help you."

He waited, hoping for some sign that he had been heard. But the fat man just stood, sweating and shivering, and said nothing. Osako turned and walked back to Hiroshi, who had been watching with wide eyes and no little fear.

"What's wrong with him?" Hiroshi asked right away.

Osako sighed. "I think he's in shock."

"Shock?" said Hiroshi curiously. "That's a bad thing?"

Osako nodded. "Yeah, yeah it is."

"Can you bandage him up like you did my feet?" asked Hiroshi hopefully. "Make him better?"

Osako shook his head sadly. "No...it's not that kind of injury, Hiroshi. It's up here...it's in his head, his mind."

"Will he..." said Hiroshi softly, "...will he die?"

"I don't think so, but we need to get him to a doctor, too."

"Then we'll take him with us," said Hiroshi firmly. "We have to help as many people as we can, right Officer Osako? We have to help everybody, right?"

Osako's throat tightened as he ran a hand over the boy's stubbly hair. It sounded so simple coming from Hiroshi, as if to say the words made it possible that they could. Osako only smiled and nodded -- as long as Hiroshi believed then he would try to believe, too.

"What do we do now?" asked Hiroshi.

Osako glanced over the rest of the subway station. They hadn't gone that far -- perhaps a mile and a half. He seriously doubted that was distance enough to get them past the fires. But there was no way of knowing for sure unless they checked.

"I'm gonna have to go up and see where we are," said Osako. He glanced over at the fat man, who had not shifted from his place on the platform.

"You want me to stay down here?" asked Hiroshi with a little trepidation.

Osako nodded. "It would be better if you did, but if he makes you uncomfortable, I'll take you up a little way and leave you there."

Hiroshi peeked over at the fat man. "He looks like a sumo wrestler."

Osako looked back. "Yeah. He's big enough for one, isn't he?"

"Would it help if I tried...talking to him?"

Osako thought about it for a moment. "I don't see how it could hurt. You remember how you were scared when I found you? Well, in a way he's even more scared than you were."

"He's scared?" said Hiroshi, surprised. "If I was as big as him, I wouldn't be scared of anything."

Osako chuckled. "Neither would I. But you just never know. Everybody's different. I mean, you can't tell how people will react to things by the way they look. Sometimes the biggest, strongest-looking people get really really scared. Just like Sumo over there. There's nothing wrong with him. He's just scared of something."

Hiroshi looked at him. "Do you get scared, Officer Osako?"

Osako nodded slowly, trying not to remember the beating of leather wings and shadows moving on walls. "Yeah, I get scared, too. Everybody does, Hiroshi. What Sumo needs now is time to get over it, whatever it was that made him scared. Maybe talking will help a little, make him realize that he's not alone. Do you want to try that?"

"I'll do my best to help," said Hiroshi. He started scooting over on the edge of the platform as Osako headed to the entrance. What an amazing kid, he thought, as he stood at the doorway and listened for a moment as Hiroshi introduced himself to the silent hulk of the fat man.

Osako hurried up the corridor. This subway station was in much worse shape than the first one had been. Huge cracks ran up the walls and the floors were littered with shattered tiles that had popped off when the earth shifted. He had to make a running leap over the turnstiles -- they had sunk into a six-foot-wide crevasse. Past that, all the ticket machines had fallen over, spewing tickets and coins everywhere. As he rounded a corner and started up the slope to the stairs leading to the street, he stopped dead in his tracks.

He ran the flashlight over the pile of rubble that completely blocked the stairs. Steam rose up from the debris, as if it were hot; and indeed when he got a little closer, he could tell it was. The heart of the fire must have been right above him. Even just standing as close as he was, the temperature in the corridor was quickly becoming unbearable.

There would be no way out at this station. With a tired sigh, he started to head back to give Hiroshi the bad news.

On the way, Osako passed a lounge area similar to the one in the first station where he and Hiroshi had stopped for eat. The vending machines had toppled over and candy bars and snacks cakes lay scattered all over the floor.

Osako checked the tool bag and decided it was time for a fill-up -- Hiroshi could really sock it away when he wanted to. Hopefully he wouldn't get a sour stomach from all the sweets. Osako could just imagine being berated by Hiroshi's Mother for letting him eat so much junk.

He hoped she wouldn't be too upset but even if she was, that wouldn't matter, no that wouldn't matter to him at all -- he would take whatever she could dish out and more and never complain. Just as long as Hiroshi's Mother was alive.

He went inside the lounge area and looked around. There wasn't that much candy to choose from. It seemed to him that someone had already been there -- discarded wrappers lay everywhere, and next to one of the pop machines stood a pile of cans which he kicked. They made a hollow, tinny sound in the silence of the station.

Osako had knelt next to a bench and was reaching for some candy bars, when he saw the door to the men's restroom open a crack. Osako's mouth dropped and he stood up so quickly, he bashed his head on a crossbar and yelped in pain.

There was a startled gasp and the door suddenly slammed shut. As Osako sat there rubbing his sore head, he could hear the thumps of things being braced against the wood, as if it were being barricaded. Wincing from the bump, he got up and knocked on the door.

"Hey!" he called out. "Are you all right in there? Do you need any help?"

The thumping sound had stopped. Osako pressed his ear to the wooden door and heard a muffled, desperate whimpering from within the restroom, like someone in fear for his life. It sounded as if it were backing away from the door.

"Please go away," came a man's high trembling voice. "I don't have any valuables. There's plenty of money by the ticket machines. Why don't you take that? I swear I won't say anything."

"Hey mister!" Osako shouted through the door, "it's okay! I'm not a looter!"

The man inside laughed without any humor. "You sure could have fooled me, the way you were picking through those vending machines!"

"It looks like you've done some picking of your own," Osako pointed out.

The voice on the other side of the door turned angry. "There's a big difference between survival and opportunistic plundering, you filthy scumbag!"

Osako thought it was a good thing he wasn't a real looter -- he would have been mighty pissed off by such harsh words. Not very smart for someone in such a desperate situation. He tried the door and it gave a little.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" the man said quickly. "I didn't mean that scumbag part! Please, really...I don't have anything! I lost my wallet! Okay...okay...I still have my watch! I'll slide it under the door, okay? Just...just take it and leave me alone!"

"I don't want your freaking watch!" shouted Osako, feeling a little exasperated. "I'm a cop! I just want to help you!"

There was a long silence. When the man spoke up again, he sounded like he was right next to the door.

"You're a cop? You're a police officer?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you."

"You're lying! I don't believe you!" said the man. "Slide your badge under the door. Then I'll believe you."

Osako sighed. "I don't have my badge. It went the way of your wallet." And his patience -- Hiroshi must have been getting worried by now. "Listen," he continued on, "there's two other people down by the subway, a little boy and a man. The boy's feet are messed up and the man, I'm pretty sure he's in shock. We're using the tunnel to get past the fires. If you want to come along, you'd better come out right now. I don't have time to wait around until you're satisfied I'm telling the truth."

There was another long silence, and Osako was about to leave, when the man suddenly called out.

"Back away from the door. I'm not going to open up until you back off."

Osako moved around a bench and waited. From inside the restroom, he heard the man removing whatever he had used to barricade the door. Soon enough it opened again, just a crack. The man peeked out, saw Osako standing well away, and it opened a little wider. The man stuck his head out and quickly looked around, as if expecting someone else to jump out of hiding while the door was open. When that didn't happen, he seemed to feel it was safe to come out all the way.

The man's clothes looked very fashionable and very expensive, although Osako wouldn't say they were worth much now. He wore a black suit that was probably tailored and a black turtleneck. One of the sleeves had torn at the shoulder seam and the man was preoccupied with putting it back up every time it slipped down his arm. A necklace glittered around his neck and when he pushed the sleeve up one time, Osako saw a similar golden reflection on his wrist.

"You're really a police officer?" asked the man doubtfully. He was thin and tall and had long hair that fell over his eyes, which he brushed back self-consciously in an oddly effeminate gesture.

Osako nodded. "Officer Osako," he said. "But like I was trying to tell you, I was off-duty at the time all this started. What's your name?"

The man put his hands on his hips. "Well it's about time one of you showed up! Where have all the cops gone anyway? Aren't you supposed to be civil servants? Aren't you supposed to be helping? I thought for sure I was going to die of starvation down here!"

Osako looked around the lounge at all the torn candy wrappers and empty pop cans. Even Hiroshi hadn't eaten that much. Somehow he doubted starvation was ever a real possibility, but he wasn't going to say anything right then.

"I'm sure the police are trying to help as many people as they can," said Osako calmly. "As you can imagine if you've seen what it's like up top, they're probably overwhelmed at the moment."

But the man brushed that aside impatiently. "Whatever. Just as long as you showed up and I can get the hell out of here."

Osako bit his tongue. "What's your name again?"

The man was brushing off his clothes. "Huh? Oh...Masaki."

"Well...Masaki...we'd better be getting back. We still have a way to go."

"Hold on one moment. Let me collect my stuff from the restroom."

Osako sighed. "Do you need any light?"

Msaki stepped forward and snatched the flashlight from Osako's hand. "That would be very helpful, thank you, officer."

Masaki went back inside the restroom and Osako moved closer. A couple of broken wooden beams lay behind the door. Shattered wall tiles, paper towels, and a half-inch of water covered the floor -- a sink had broken in half and the piping was leaking. The flourescent lights dangled by their wires.

Off to the left was a table that had been laid on its side like a makeshift barrier. As the other man rummaged through one of the stalls, Osako walked over and looked behind it. There was an even bigger pile of empty candy wrappers there. Some of the pop cans were still unopened and he put them in the tool bag for later.

Masaki emerged from the stall a moment later, carrying an ultra-thin briefcase. He had a small cellular phone up to his ear. He listened for a moment and then cursed loudly.

"Beautiful, just beautiful," he said angrily. "I don't believe this shit!"

"What's the matter?" asked Osako.

Masaki indicated the phone before sliding it into a jacket pocket. "The service is still out. You know how much the monthly charges are? Is it so much to ask for? I sure as hell pay enough. Well when this is all over, someone is going to get fired. I don't give a damn who it is, someone is going to get royally fired."

Osako didn't know what to say. The disruption in the phone service seemed like an inconsequential thing, a minor inconvenience, really, and he had a sudden strong dislike for Masaki. Didn't he know what had happened? Didn't he know how many people had been hurt?

But he remembered what he'd told Hiroshi before, that everybody was different, that everybody had their own ways of dealing with things. Getting upset over something so dumb as his cellular phone was probably just Masaki's way and Osako decided not to say anything.

"The others are waiting for me," said Osako finally. "We'd better get to the subway."

Masaki stood there and then held out his hand. "Well, get going," he said impatiently. "I don't have all day."

Osako led the way down, feeling more like a personal bodyguard than a supposed police officer. He didn't like it much, but again kept his mouth shut. Osako had seen people just like Masaki when he was running the magazine stand -- well-off and upwardly-mobile business types, people with places to go and important things to do. People to whom he, the lowly magazine seller, had been invisible, a flesh-and- blood change-making machine. Not all of them had been like that, but some had. They didn't smile when he'd tried to make casual conversation.

Well, Osako thought, none of that mattered now. They were all in the same trouble together. They had to help each other, no matter who they were or where they came from.

When they entered the reddish glow of the subway platform, Osako saw Hiroshi still sitting next to the fat man. The boy was still talking, probably hadn't stopped since he'd left. It looked like the fat man hadn't moved, though. He was staring into the middle distance across the subway tracks just as before.

Hiroshi paused and looked up, smiling. Then he saw Masaki and the smile faded a little.

"Who's he?" asked Hiroshi.

"This is Mister Masaki," said Osako. "I found him upstairs when I was checking things out. He's coming with us, too."

Hiroshi leaned around to get a better look. "Hello, Mister Masaki. My name's Hiroshi. This is Sumo." He tugged on the fat man's pant leg. "Say hello to Mister Masaki, Sumo."

Sumo didn't respond and Osako was saddened by that. While there had only been a slim chance Hiroshi would break through to him, he had hoped it might happen. But it seemed now the fat man was too far gone for that.

"Did he say anything?" asked Osako. "Did he even move at all?"

Hiroshi shook his head sadly. "I tried. I told him all about the time I went to Disneyworld with my parents." His eyes filled with tears and he sniffled a little. "I don't know if he heard me but I think Sumo's a very nice man when he isn't scared."

He started crying and Osako knelt to gave him a hug.

"I'm sure that he is a very nice man," he said softly. "And he'll be all right once we get him out of here, so don't worry."

Suddenly Masaki interrupted them. "Officer, may I speak to you a moment?"

Osako wiped away Hiroshi's tears and walked over to him. Masaki was standing on the edge of the platform, looking around puzzled.

"What's the matter?" asked Osako. Behind him, he could hear Hiroshi trying not to sob. Masaki didn't seem to notice. He just looked at Osako, confused about something.

"Where's the train?" asked Masaki.

Now it was Osako's turn to look puzzled. "What train?"

Masaki made an exasperated sound. "The subway train, of course!"

"I don't understand what you mean. There is none."

"No train!" shouted Masaki, surprised. "Then how are we going to get to the next station?"

"We walk, that's how."

Masaki's eyes went wide and his mouth fell open. "What!? We have to walk? I thought you had a subway train or something."

"And how am I going to get a subway train?" asked Osako reasonably. "And if I somehow did get a subway train, how could I even operate it in the first place?"

"How should I know?" said Masaki irritably. His hands made vague fluttering motions in the air as if Osako's questions were patently irrelevant. "You're the police officer, not me! I thought all you cops were trained for these kinds of situations."

"We are trained," replied Osako slowly, trying not to get angry with him. "At the academy, we do a lot of walking and running."

Masaki spun around and shouted his frustration to the distant ceiling. "I don't believe this! Is this nightmare never going to end? First I miss my client's dinner meeting and now I have to walk for miles through the dark?"

"I'm sorry it's been such an inconvenience for you," said Osako darkly.

"Oh you have no idea." Masaki looked like he was about to launch into a full account of everything that had gone wrong for him since yesterday night, but Osako wasn't listening. He had gone back to squat down beside Hiroshi and Sumo.

"What's the matter with Mister Masaki?" whispered Hiroshi. He had gotten his crying under control.

Osako thought there was nothing wrong with Masaki that a good whack upside the head wouldn't cure, but he thought it best for all concerned if he didn't say that. "He's just upset by everything's that's happened, that's all."

Hiroshi wasn't buying it. He leaned in close and his voice fell even lower. "You know how I think Sumo's a nice man when he isn't scared?"

"Yeah? What about it?"

Hiroshi made a sour face. "I don't think Mister Masaki is nice whether he's scared or not."

"Just do your best to ignore him, Hiroshi," said Osako. He looked up at Sumo. What were they to do with him? He was still just standing there, sweating and shivering; when Osako ran the light in his face again, there was no response. "Can you hear me? We're leaving now. You have to come with us. We'll find help for you."

Masaki had walked over. "What's the hell's his problem?"

Osako heard Hiroshi make a little grumbling sound. "I told you before. Sumo's in shock."

"Sumo?" repeated Masaki with a snicker. "His name's Sumo?"

"We don't know his name," said Osako sharply. "That's just what we're calling him. It's better than 'Hey you insensitive jerk,' don't you think?"

Osako aimed it right at Masaki, but the other man was so self-absorbed Osako wasn't in the least surprised he didn't catch on.

"Sumo, Sammo, whatever," replied Masaki. "Call him what you want. Is he coming along or what? We can't stand around here all night."

Sumo still showed no sign he would respond and Osako wondered if he could even hear them at all. If he didn't come along under his volition, could they push him or lead him through the tunnel somehow? Tie a rope around his waist and pull? That would take them forever -- he really was as big as a sumo wrestler.

Masaki was already on the tracks. "Look, if he doesn't want to, then leave him here and come back for him later. It's not like he's going anywhere, is it?"

Hiroshi looked up at Osako, silently pleading with him. Osako couldn't hold his eyes for very long. As much as he hated to admit it, Masaki was right. He knelt down.

"Hiroshi, if I make a promise to you," said Osako solemnly, "will you believe that I will do everything in my power to keep that promise?"

Hiroshi's expression saddened. He knew what was coming, but he nodded anyway. "You swear to me you'll come back for Sumo? Cross your heart and hope to die?"

Osako stuck out his pinkie. "I absolutely swear I will."

"Then I believe you," said Hiroshi, who wrapped his pinkie around Osako's and they shook.

"I'm so sorry," said Osako. For the first time since they'd met, he felt he had let the boy down and it hurt him in ways he'd never imagined.

Hiroshi shook his head. "It's okay. I know you're trying your best." He tugged on Sumo's pant leg. "You hear that Sumo? You stay right here and Officer Osako will come back for you. So don't go anywhere, okay?"

The silent hulking man said nothing, but in some strange way Osako couldn't understand, Hiroshi seemed to feel his words had gotten through that unresponsive shell and that on some level Sumo had heard him.

"He says okay," said Hiroshi, nodding. "So I guess we can go now."

Osako jumped down onto the tracks and Hiroshi clambered on. As they started walking over to the dark shape of the far tunnel, he felt the boy twisting around to take a last look at Sumo standing on the platform. And Osako swore to himself that no matter what happened, he would never break his promise to come back, never.

As the three of them stood for a moment at the threshold of the tunnel, Osako reached into his tool bag and pulled out the other flashlight.

"Here, take this," he said shortly to Masaki. "Do yourself a favor and keep the light on the ground in front of you. Just remember we're not sightseeing down here. You might trip over a railroad tie or a rock if you don't watch out."

Masaki nodded and for once didn't say anything. Then he and Hiroshi switched on their flashlights and they started off into the tunnel once again. The glow from the emergency lights faded from the walls after twenty feet, leaving only darkness and the two feeble circles of light to hold it at bay.

~ 4 ~

The second time through the subway tunnel wasn't as bad as the first had been. Why exactly that was, Osako didn't know. He certainly couldn't credit it to the presence of another person -- Masaki was the worst kind of travelling companion to have along.

All he did was find things to complain about, whether it was the cold, or the damp, or a pebble that had gotten into his shoe. There was always something else -- he didn't seem happy unless he was whining about some irritant, whether real or imagined, and making them stop until he'd rectified it.

Hiroshi wanted to hear more of the story of the Seven Samurai. Osako picked up where he'd left off, hoping he could drown out Masaki's annoying voice. Masaki did shut up for a little while, which was a welcome relief. But after listening quietly to the story for a time, when he realized what it was, he snorted derisively.

"Kurosawa?" Masaki said, snickering. "You're telling that kid about an Akira Kurosawa movie? That has to be the lamest thing I have ever heard of in my entire life!"

Osako looked over. "What's the matter with Kurosawa?" Everyone Osako had ever known had liked Kurosawa. Even the homeless people from Yoyogi Park had liked Kurosawa. What was there not to like? He had made so many brilliant films, Osako couldn't imagine someone not liking him.

"Oh come on! He was so over-rated as a director," said Masaki, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "And that Toshiro Mifune? Talk about eating scenery! He was one of those actors who found one role early in his career and played it over and over, ad nauseum. Mifune coasted through half of his films. He even played his Mifune role in cameos, like that one...what was the name? Oh yes...'Picture Bride'...what a piece of dreck that was."

Osako checked the first thing that popped into his head -- it was getting more and more difficult not to get angry with Masaki. But he knew that Hiroshi was watching them closely; if he saw the two of them arguing, he'd get upset. There was nothing worse than watching two adults fighting especially when he was dependant upon at least one of them. And Osako didn't want anything to give Hiroshi doubt that they would get out of this all right.

"That's your opinion, Masaki," said Osako evenly. "Everyone is entitled to an opinion, and there are some people, such as myself, who believe that Kurosawa was a very good director and that the film 'Seven Samurai' was one of the best ever made. I believe that's a pretty general opinion, too."

"Oh please!" exclaimed Masaki. "Get over yourself! Even the kid knows you're just trying to distract him. Hey kid! You want to see something that'll take your mind off things? Then take a look at this." He turned the flashlight under his chin so that his face was lit up like some horrible ghoul, stuck out his tongue, and made an awful moaning sound. "The dark is full of ghoooosts and monnnn-sters!"

Hiroshi let out a whimper and pressed his face hard into Osako's back.

"Cut it out, Masaki!" growled Osako angrily.

"What's the matter?" moaned Masaki in that terrible voice. "Are you afraid, too? They're coming to get you, Barbara!" Masaki laughed insanely, the echoes feeding more echoes as they bounced off the walls down the length of the dead-still tunnel.

"I said cut it out!" shouted Osako. He could feel Hiroshi trembling.

But Masaki paid him no mind. He kept right on laughing with the flashlight under his chin...until his foot caught a railroad tie. He tripped and fell with a loud thud. The flashlight made a popping sound and went out.

Osako cursed beneath his breath. "I told you not to fool around, Masaki! Thanks for breaking the only other flashlight we have, you idiot!"

Masaki groaned loudly. He slowly crawled up to a sitting position, holding his leg, his face contorted with pain. "Forget the damn flashlight! I tore my knee open! Oh damn, that hurts!"

Osako knelt down and had Hiroshi shine the light on Masaki. His pants had torn at the knee and when Osako pulled back the fabric, it revealed a long gash with a flap of loose skin. Blood flowed down his leg. Hiroshi uttered a frightened little sound and looked away.

"It's cut pretty bad. I'll need to put a bandage on it," Osako said. He pulled out a screwdriver from the tool bag and started to tear through the pant leg. It was a time- consuming task; and every time he accidentally bumped Masaki's leg, the other man gritted his teeth and let out a moan of pain.

Finally Osako ripped through the last stitch and removed the fabric, exposing Masaki's leg from the mid-thigh down. Osako wiped away the blood and picked out the bits of gravel. Masaki flinched and whimpered with every touch, but it had to be done.

When the wound was as clean as it could be under the circumstances, Osako wiped off his bloody fingers on his jacket before rolling the severed pant leg into a bandage. Then he placed it gently on the gash and wrapped around the leg a couple of times.

"I'm gonna have to tie this tight," he said, looking into Masaki's stricken face. "Just so you know, this is going to hurt."

Masaki's complexion had gone ashen. He nodded quickly. "Get it over with. Do it fast."

Osako pulled on the ends of the bandage and tied a double- knot, and Masaki let out a howl of pain that flew down the length of the tunnel. He fell over backward, writhing in agony and clutching at his leg. He gave Osako an angry look.

"You didn't say it was going to hurt that much!" cried Masaki.

"There was no easy way of doing it," said Osako sympathetically. "I'm sorry."

But Masaki was still furious. "I want your badge number! I don't think you're sorry at all! I think you enjoyed causing me unneccesary pain and suffering! When I get out of this I'm going to have a few words with your superior! By the time I get done, you're going to be cleaning up dog shit in Yoyogi Park until you collect your pension!"

Only Osako knew how empty that threat was, seeing as how he wasn't really a police officer; but the mention of Yoyogi Park pissed him off, and suddenly he didn't care if Hiroshi was listening.

"You want my badge number? You can have it!" he shouted back at him. "But just remember it was your own stupid fault you hurt your damned knee! I told you we weren't sightseeing down here. You didn't listen, you goofed around, and now you're in a real mess!"

"You don't have to keep rubbing it in!" said Masaki testily. He smashed his fist into the ground and cried out in pain again. "Ow! My hand!"

"Great," Osako said with a sigh. "Keep doing that and you'll break a finger. Maybe it will take your mind off your knee. Now can you get up? We have to keep moving."

"Oh shut up!" snapped Masaki. "Give me a hand, dammit! The sooner I get out of this hell hole the better!"

Osako helped him up and they started walking again, Masaki limping slowly behind. But after only a few minutes it became obvious that he wasn't going to make it to the next subway station on his own. His wounded knee could barely support his weight.

Hiroshi climbed up on Osako's shoulders, and Osako put his arm around Masaki to support him. It was as awkward an arrangement as it looked. As a result, their progress down the tunnel slowed to a crawl. Every couple of minutes they had to stop to let Masaki catch his breath.

Hiroshi kept shifting his weight, as if he were looking around for something, and Osako had to warn several times about keeping the flashlight pointed at the ground. If he tripped over a railroad tie or a rock, they would all go down hard. That was the last thing any of them wanted.

After what seemed like a very long time compared to the first tunnel, they made it through to the next subway station. There were no emergency lights in this one -- it was entirely dark and silent, like the catacombs beneath some ancient temple. The air was full of pregnant dust motes drifting lazily through the flashlight beam.

With a little help, Masaki climbed up onto the platform and laid on his back, stretching his leg out. The knee had swollen up considerably and he was too tired and in too much pain to go any further than that. Hiroshi sat on the edge of the platform as before, kicking his bandaged feet and looking back the way they had come.

Osako undid the tool bag from his belt and crawled up last. Then he collapsed face forward and lay still. He was sweating and breathing hard and the muscles of his shoulders felt like there were two knotted balls in them. He couldn't move his head very far to either side without intense pain.

"What do we do now?" groaned Masaki.

"Now we have to check the exits," said Osako tiredly. "We still might not be far enough past ground zero to get out safely."

Masaki made a pained sound. "I'm not going anywhere but right where I am. It feels like my knee's on fire."

"Suit yourself," said Osako, not really caring whether he came along or not. "I'll go check it out and come back. Hiroshi, you want to come with me this time?"

Hiroshi was still staring thoughtfully at the darkness of the tunnel. He was so engrossed, he didn't even look over as he answered. "If it's all right with you, Officer Osako, I think I'll stay here. I'll keep Mister Masaki company."

That was more than all right with Osako; it was the answer to his unspoken prayers. His shoulders and back were crying out for a break from carrying him. But he couldn't help feeling a little sad -- it was obvious Hiroshi was still thinking about Sumo, probably still standing frozen on the platform of the previous station.

Osako got up slowly. There was nothing he could do about Sumo except silently renew his vow to go back for the fat man when this was all over. "You sure about that? I'll have to take the flashlight with me."

"I don't mind," said Hiroshi brightly. "I'm not afraid of the dark anymore."

"All right then," said Osako. "I'll be right back...with good news this time, I hope."

But this time he didn't even get past the turnstiles -- past that point there *was* no subway station. Tons of earth completely blocked the way.

Osako leaned heavily against the wall, feeling desperately tired. Fighting to keep strained emotions in check, shreds of doubt began to creep into his mind. Had he made a mistake by choosing to go into the subway? He wondered what they would do if the tunnel was blocked further on; would they limp back and wait helplessly alongside Sumo for someone to rescue them?

But no -- that was giving up, and he wouldn't do that unless there was absolutely no other choice. Coming down here hadn't been a mistake. True, it wasn't turning out as he had hoped, but that did not mean it was a mistake. If he hadn't come down then no one would have known about Sumo or Masaki. How long would they have had to wait for someone to find them? And would the rescuers have been in time? Somehow he doubted that even more.

And then, taking a deep breath, he caught a hold of himself. They just had to do their best and play things by ear. Losing control was not going to help anybody.

Feeling a little better, Osako started back when he saw a glassed-in office across the corridor. He walked over and shined the flashlight through the window. There was barely room for a desk inside and a small shelf. He ran the light over the wall and paused. A small blue medicine cabinet with a red cross on the front hung above the shelf.

With that, he thought, he could properly dress Hiroshi and Masaki's wounds, and he pulled out the hammer from the tool bag. The window was reinforced with criss-crossing wire, so he had to break off the doorknob to get in, and it clattered to the ground with a few blows. Dropping the hammer, he reached into the hole and popped the lock after a few fumbling attempts.

Once inside, Osako ripped the first-aid box off the wall with a spray of plaster and tossed it into the tool bag. Then he rifled through the desk drawers, trying to find anything useful. His face split into a grin when he opened the top one -- it contained a flashlight and several packs of batteries which he placed into the bag as well. The second and third drawers held nothing of interest, but on the fourth one, he had to stare for a few moments before his mind fully registered the treasure he had found.

It was a portable radio. He turned it on and static crackled from the tiny speaker. He spun the tuner down the dial. More static. He switched radiobands and did the same thing. All he heard was static but occassionally a signal seemed to be fading in and out, very faintly, which meant to him that the radio worked; the signal was just being blocked, possibly by all the debris.

Maybe if they got a little further down the tunnel it would get through, and they could find out what was happening. He put it in the tool bag with the other stuff -- it was getting pretty heavy by now -- and took a last quick look around.

Checking behind the door he found a couple of brooms. At first he was going to leave them there, but then a thought occured to him. He grabbed both and then headed back to the platform.

"Well?" said Masaki as soon as he returned. "Can we get out?"

Osako shook his head and Masaki muttered something under his breath.

"I did find a first-aid kit," said Osako. "I can do a proper dressing on your wounds now."

He walked over to Hiroshi and knelt down. The boy hadn't moved -- he was still eyeing the tunnel closely. For some reason Osako couldn't name, that bothered him.

"Hiroshi?"

When he didn't respond right away, Osako gently shook his shoulder. That brought Hiroshi around but it was still slower than Osako liked to see -- he looked up like someone snapping out of a daze. His face was flushed and his eyes seemed to take a long moment to focus. Osako pressed a hand to Hiroshi's forehead. It was warm.

"I'm gonna take a look at your feet, okay?" said Osako slowly. "Put some real bandages on them, all right?"

Hiroshi nodded happily and didn't say anything. Osako undid the bandages and peeled them back. They were stiff, caked with dried blood. He didn't like what he saw. Hiroshi's feet were swollen and the cuts on the soles were inflamed an angry red.

"Do they hurt?" asked Osako.

"A little bit," said Hiroshi dreamily. "They itch bad. Can I scratch 'em?"

Osako shook his head. "I'm gonna put some antibiotic on the cuts. That should help with the itch a little."

He pulled out the first-aid kit from the tool bag. Inside were little packets of gel, which he tore open and smeared across the bottom of Hiroshi's feet. He covered the cuts with antiseptic pads and got out the gauze bandage.

While Osako was wrapping the feet, he said softly, "I know you're still thinking about Sumo, but I'll keep my promise. So don't worry about him. I'll go back just as soon as you and Masaki are okay."

Hiroshi just smiled but that didn't stop his gaze from wandering back to the darkness of the tunnel. When Osako was done re-wrapping his feet, he patted the boy on the head, and went to check on his other patient.

"Come back to finish the job?" said Masaki, eyeing the blue box suspiciously as Osako placed it on the ground next to his leg.

"I'm going to re-dress your knee and make a splint to keep it from moving around too much. You can use the other broom as a crutch."

Masaki shook his head. "No way! I've had more than enough of your so-called help."

"Masaki please, it has to be done."

"Piss off!" snapped Masaki. "I meant what I said! Keep away from me!"

Osako paid him no mind and started untying the bandage. The knee was swollen twice its normal size and faded from a deep red in the center to a light purple around the circumference. The gash wasn't bleeding as badly anymore, but now it was oozing a extremely smelly pus-like substance.

"I'm never going to walk right again, am I?" whimpered Masaki softly.

"You're young, you'll heal," said Osako, applying the antibiotic gel. "Most importantly, you're alive. I guess it hasn't gotten through your thick skull but there are a lot of people who aren't. You're one of the lucky ones. You get to walk away from all this with a story to tell your grandchildren."

When he had finished wrapping the new bandage, Osako broke off a couple of foot-long segments from the handle of one of the brooms. Then he helped Masaki out of his jacket and started tearing it into strips -- seeing it ripped up seemed to cause Masaki as much pain as his knee -- and made a splint to keep the leg immobile. Then Osako wiped his forehead and sat back on his haunches.

"How does that feel?" he asked. "Better?"

Masaki grit his teeth over a spasm of pain. "Why yes, now that you mention it, it does! Let me get up and I'll dance a fucking jig for you!"

Osako didn't get angry, he knew it was the pain talking...mostly. But he did feel even more tired than before. "You could be a little grateful. I'm doing my best."

"Isn't it unfortunate then that I'm not an eight-year-old child! My expectations are a little loftier than 'I'm doing my best'!"

"You're a real piece of work, Masaki," said Osako. "I don't know what made you this way and I don't think I want to know. You make it very tempting to leave you behind and come back later, like I had to with Sumo."

Masaki sneered. "Hah! You expect me to believe that? You're just some lowly cop. I know how you people think. You'd never come back for me."

Osako looked at him sympathetically. "Is that how the world works in your mind? That's really sad. Because I would come back for you, just like anybody else. I don't give a damn if you're a shit or a saint. You'll never understand how lucky you were, but try this: imagine what would have happened if you'd run into someone like yourself."

Masaki looked away and didn't say anything.

"Now let's get going," said Osako standing up. "We have to get to the next subway station."

"Why? What's the point? You don't know it'll be any better there."

"You're right. I don't." Osako shrugged. "So let's go. What other choice do we have? Stay here?" He shook his head. "That's not a choice -- it's a surrender. We have to keep moving forward, no matter what."

Osako climbed down onto the tracks and offered his hand. After a long moment Masaki took it and Osako helped him down. Masaki leaned back against the platform, favoring his good leg. He took a few hesitant steps with the broom under his armpit and seemed to get used to it pretty quick. Then Osako collected Hiroshi and they started off again.

They trudged grimly onward through the dark subway tunnel. No one talked much; the time for that was long past. Hiroshi was too tired and feverish to care about stories and for his part Osako didn't feel like telling any. "Seven Samurai" was a great film, despite Masaki's snide criticism, but it didn't end happily. The victory at the end was phyrric, hollow, soured by the death of honest men trying to do what they thought was best. It was not a story for children.

They had to move slowly in deference to Masaki's injury, but they still made better time than before when he had been leaning on Osako's shoulder. It didn't seem to bother him as much either, as far as Osako could tell -- at the very least he stopped complaining so often.

The tunnel, though, was another story. It began to show signs of wear and tear -- cracks ran up the walls and criss- crossed the ceiling in complex and disturbing patterns. Even worse they could hear it groaning at times, as if it were going to collapse at any moment. The sound unsettled all of them and they tried to pick up their pace to the next station.

But they never got there. About ten minutes in, they came across a spur in the tracks leading off to the right. Osako paused, unsure which direction to take. Hiroshi shined the flashlight, first down the main track and then down the spur. The main track vanished past the light's reach; the spur curved out of sight to the right.

"I say we take the spur," said Masaki suddenly.

Osako looked at him. "Any particular reason?"

Masaki shrugged. "At this point, we don't need a reason for anything. You said yourself you don't know if the next station will be clear. You don't even know if the tunnel hasn't collapsed. Let's try the spur. If it doesn't work out, we'll all have a big laugh and double-back."

"What do you think, Hiroshi?"

"Hmm?" Hiroshi had been glancing back again, down the tunnel, not paying attention to what they were discussing. When he looked at Osako, his eyelids seemed heavy and the color had drained completely from his face.

Osako had to keep his apprehension in check. Hiroshi was getting worse by the minute, it seemed. "Should we go down the spur or keep to the main track?"

Masaki rolled his eyes. "Oh yes, of course, I forgot. Please consult the eight-year-old for his learned opinion. Come on, man, just make up your mind and let's get going."

"He's in this, too," growled Osako. "He has as much right to express his opinion as you do. Hiroshi? What do you think?"

"I'm sleepy...Ossifer Osako," he said, leaning down and closing his eyes. "Whatever you say's fine with me."

Osako felt something heavy settle in his heart. Masaki was watching him with an expression on his face that seemed to say, "Well?" After a moment more of indecision, they started down the spur.

The tracks here seemed rougher for some reason and there was less oil, as if the spur wasn't used as much. As they walked, Osako had to shake Hiroshi awake a few times; the flashlight was drifting around, making it hard to see. Finally he took it from his limp fingers and let the boy sleep. At times Hiroshi mumbled things that Osako couldn't understand.

They followed the spur as it gently curved around. The groaning sound increased the further in they went. Soon pieces of rock and debris cluttered the sides of the track, and streams of dust fell from the ceiling like sand in an hourglass.

"I don't think this was such a good idea," said Osako, glancing at the ceiling with alarm.

Even Masaki was hesitant to continue. "I think you're right. We'd better turn back."

Osako was just about to turn when there was a flash of reflected light in the distance.

"Hold on," he said. "What's that?"

Masaki peered into the gloom and then his face broke into a grin. "I...I don't believe it! It's a subway train!" He started shouting gleefully as he hobbled quickly toward it. "It's a subway train! We can get out of here!"

"Masaki!" hissed Osako.

The loud echoes from his cries seemed to make the ceiling groan even louder than ever but Masaki was too excited to stop. Oblivious to the pain, he ditched the broom and ran with a stiff-legged gait off into the darkness.

Osako took off after him, but he was so laden down with stuff now, even with both legs, he couldn't keep up. The flashlight bobbed around, the tool bag jangled at his side. Hiroshi looked up blearily at all the commotion.

But Masaki didn't go very far and Osako almost ran right into him when he finally caught up. The other man had stopped suddenly right in the middle of the tracks, perhaps twenty feet from the train.

"Masaki, what the hell do you think you're -- "

But he never finished. A stunned look on Masaki's face shut him up immediately. Osako turned the light on the train and saw that a huge section of the ceiling had fallen. The rear of the car had been crushed and the back window had exploded outward. Broken glass glittered brightly over the tracks. "It's not fair," Masaki mumbled to himself.

"Wass goin' on?" said Hiroshi dully.

"It's nothing," said Osako. "Go back to sleep, okay?"

"'Kay..."

"Masaki, don't feel so badly about it," said Osako. "Even if it wasn't destroyed, we never could have got it moving." He turned the flashlight on the train again. "Look -- there's still a gap to the one side. Let's go see what's beyond and figure out what we want to do, okay?"

Masaki nodded dumbly and stumbled along behind.

The train had been knocked off the track at an angle -- the left side of the subway tunnel was covered in rubble while the end of the car that jutted out had wound up near the right-hand side, forming a chevron shape with the wall. Osako knelt down by that side and shined the flashlight through.

He could see three darkened subway cars, still attached to each other, in various states of damage. Essentially, they formed a large V-shaped area. Past the opening, the tunnel widened again as the third car angled to the left. The second car was flush along the far wall, the middle section crushed by a slide of debris. Directly ahead lay the first car. The front end was angled back toward the right tunnel wall. The car had smashed against it with terrible force -- the first ten feet were compressed like some accordian of steel and glass.

Osako let Masaki through to get a look. "Well?" he asked finally. "What should