Remo looked up at the summer constellations. "I just can't believe he's gone."
Chiun's hazel eyes became austere gemstones. "I understand, Remo. Losing one's first emperor is very hard."
"No, it's just that Smith always seems too tough to die."
"All men die."
"It just doesn't seem real."
"Death is the ultimate reality," intoned the Master of Sinanju.
They padded away.
Chapter 6
Dr. Harold W Smith couldn't believe he was still alive. His pinched nostrils were clogged. His lungs felt like bloated wineskins. Every time he coughed, teacolored salt water came out of his nostrils. Every joint throbbed. His eyes, when he opened them, received the light like needlelike daggers, forcing them shut again.
And if that wasn't bad enough, some idiot was pronouncing him DOA.
"Tag him and ship him to the morgue," an emotionless voice was saying.
Smith tried to protest. All that came out of his mouth was a weak dribble of water.
"He moved," a woman's voice gasped.
"Reflex action," the emotionless voice said dismissively.
"But-"
"I'm a doctor. Don't contradict me, nurse. Tag his toe and get him out of here. The salvageables are backing up."
"Yes, Doctor," the unseen nurse said weakly.
Footsteps went away. They sounded mushy. The man was walking away over soft ground or in sopping shoes.
Smith tried to cough again, but nothing came. His head spun. His eyes were closed, and all he saw was ebony blackness-yet that world of darkness spun and spun.
When everything stopped spinning, Smith had no energy left. And the memories started flooding back.
He remembered the boom-boom-boom of the train going off the rails. The startled faces of his fellow passengers, frozen in shock, then coming apart in fear as they were flung from their seats like rag dolls.
The lights went out, and the coach was plunged into darkness. The first scream of surprise was voiced. Shrill, inarticulate, it was cut off as if the throat had been guillotined.
After that, Smith experienced the abrupt sensation of the coach traveling sideways, followed by a sickening dropping sensation.
All sound went away. The tortured screaming of metal suddenly stopped like a fire had been quenched.
Harold Smith realized even as he was slammed into a seat that was inexplicably disoriented that the sound was gone because the coach was now underwater.
With a final jolt, it settled.
Smith flung his arms and legs about, seeking the familiar. The seat armrest was pointed at a weird-angle. Smith found the release button as the seat back hit him in the head. He saw stars. But when they cleared, the cobwebs in his brain were dispelled.
Smith groped for the window glass. He found a hard metal lever. He couldn't tell if it was the upper lever or the lower one. He yanked it out, and the rubber O-ring seal peeled away in his hands.
Step one.
Smith tried to visualize what to do next when a heavy hand clutched at him.
"Help me!"
Smith recognized the thick voice. His traveling companion. The black woman.
"Let go," Smith said tightly. "I am trying to open the emergency exit."
"Well, what you waiting on?"
But the woman wouldn't let go. A second hand grabbed his leg.
"What's that gurgling?" she demanded.
"Water," Smith snapped.
The unseen voice lifted and went skittering into panic. "Where's it coming from?"
"We are in the water," Smith said tightly. "There is only a little time. Release me at once."
The panicky woman clung more tightly.
One-handed, Smith found the lower lever. He flipped it.
The window hit him with the force of the inrushing water, and again he saw stars.
He had the presence of mind to kick with both feet. His shoes came off. He hardly noticed. The water was cold and embraced him like a clammy shroud. He lost all orientation. There was no telling where he was. He felt cushions, hands and baggage bump against him, and he struggled, mouth pinched shut to conserve the oxygen in his lungs as he tried to fight his way back to the open window.
The current of water beating at him lessened, then slowed, and Smith swam toward it.
His fingers found the open window frame. He grasped them and began levering himself out. With a stab of fear, he found he could not.
Something was holding him back.
Twisting, Smith reached back and around. He found thick fingers and knew even in the dark that the woman was still holding on for dear life, holding on with the unbreakable grip of a two-armed octopus.
Smith kicked wildly, to no avail. Then, knowing he had no choice, he grabbed for the woman's face, found an ear, twisted it like a key and with a hard finger poked her in the eye.
Abruptly her death clutch let go. Smith kicked, got clear of the coach and frog-kicked until his head broke the surface.