Pulp Fiction | The Ghost Riders Affair (July 1966) by Unknown

or even came half awake?"
    Illya laughed suddenly. "Oh, I'm with you."
    "Then find these valves, block them."
    Illya was already moving away from him, going along the walls. He located a head of an oxygen hose. He smashed the nozzle. Pure oxygen gushed past him through the broken valve.
    By the time they'd blocked the nerve gas valves and smashed the nozzles on the oxygen pipes, some of the zombies nearest the oxygen lines were stirring, straightening, crying out.
    "I hope their cameras are picking this up," Illya shouted.
    Solo moved between the rows of waking people. He found Harrison Howell squatting like a Buddha.
    Solo knelt before the philanthropist. He pressed the cone of the oxygen flask over Howell's nostrils.
    Howell stirred, shaking himself. He straightened, gazing blankly at Solo.
    Solo caught him by the arms, shaking him.
    Howell tried to slap the oxygen flask from his face. Solo pressed it more tightly over his nostrils.
    As Howell returned to consciousness, Solo spoke to him rapidly, giving him a quick picture of where he was, why he was here.
    At last Howell shook himself, like a wet dog.
    "I know now," he said. "I was on the train. It suddenly plunged down into the earth."
    "A man named Finnish," Solo said, voice urgent. "He's gone mad. He means to attack the U.S. with four atomic warheads, unless we can stop him."
    Howell nodded. "Leonard Finnish. Yes. I know that name. So that's why I'm here. I've read everything I could find that Finnish wrote before he disappeared. It made a pattern to me—insane, but there it was.
    "Finnish believed a world existed in the core of the earth. I figured that he'd found that world. I was on that train, on my way to Death Valley. I believed I could find the way down here. I believed I could find Leonard Finnish. But I had no idea he was hatching a nightmare plot like this."
    "Did you tell anyone your suspicions?"
    "Sure. Told everybody who'd listen. Some who wouldn't. Word got down here to Finnish, all right. That's why I'm here. He had to stop me before I wrecked his plan."
    "We've still got to stop him."
    Howell nodded. "What can I do?"
    "Plenty. We want to give Finnish and his fat madmen fits. As these people revive, get them stirred up; cause as much confusion as you can."
    Howell stood up. "I understand. Leave it to me."
    Illya came through the slowly waking crowds of people. He and Solo moved toward the stone door. "I've one of these door controls left," he said, holding the electronic device in his hand.
    But they did not reach the door before it slid back into the wall.
    The wailing of whistles, continuous and ear-splitting, washing into the chamber. Along the walks people ran, shouting. Trains idled in the yards; everything was a milling mass of activity.
    Only one person seemed calm, controlled, self-contained. Mabel Finnish came through the door. Her face was chilled, her pace unhurried. She fixed a gun on Solo and Illya.
    "Stay where you are, Mr. Solo," she said.
    "Friend of yours, Napoleon?" Illya inquired.
    "We've met," Solo said, watching Mabel's chilled face.
    "My grandfather is to busy at the moment to bother about two such unimportant obstacles as you," Mabel said. "But I'm not. I mean to keep you checkmated until grandfather is ready for you."
    "Well, I'm pleased you found your grandfather," Solo said in irony. Beyond Mabel, the frantic people rushed along the walks. Solo ignored the fevered activity as Mabel did, and his flat tone matched hers.
    Mabel's mouth pulled bitterly. "I found my grandfather, Mr. Solo. Five years ago."
    "I suspected you probably had," he said. "You weren't really worried about him, and you seemed to know where you were going better than I did."
    She shrugged. "Why not? I've been traveling these routes for almost five years."
    "Your grandfather's contact with THRUSH ," Solo said it for her.
    "Who better?" she asked.
    Solo nodded. "Who indeed? I figure it had to be that way."
    "You're not that clever, Mr. Solo."
    "You wrong me. I am.