She was five months' pregnant with his child.
There were no heroes left and Howard Siebold was a happy man.
12
REVELATION 2:4
Thou has left thy first love.
"Drop it." Deb pointed at the man's weapon as she came out of the doorway. "Do it now!"
"Okay," he said in a respectful voice and eased the long knife he'd been clutching to the ground. Deb had seen those things only in old Tex-Mex westerns, and in real life the machete seemed twice as large as her vague memories. "My name's Alex," he said suddenly. He hopped from foot to foot and started to shove his fluttering hands into the pockets of his jacket.
"Don't move!" she snapped. He could have anything in his pockets and her knuckles had gone dangerously white around the handgrip of the H&K. "Keep your hands where I can see them!"
He froze and they eyed each other suspiciously until he finally managed a shaky smile and nodded appreciatively at the gun. "Were you a cop?" he asked. "I used to work construction myself, welding. Was just about to go into business for myself, when—well, you know."
Deb looked at him numbly. Now what? She felt confused and … hungry for the sound of someone else's voice. "Why were you chasing me?" she demanded.
He looked genuinely surprised. "Why not? You're the first person I've seen in months, and you ran away. So I went after you."
The logic was inescapable and she lowered the pistol slightly; he looked relieved and stood patiently as she studied him. He was disheveled and tall, though not as tall as her, with shaggy brown hair and a day-old beard. Without the machete he didn't seem at all menacing, and the look in his brown eyes was a mixture of yearning and disbelief. Deb's mistrust slipped another reluctant notch.
"What's that?" Tied loosely around his neck was some kind of burned white scarf. Deb tensed momentarily when he undid it and held it up for her to see. "A dress," he said. "I found it this morning.”
“So?"
For the first time she saw frustration cross Alex's features. "It means there's someone else besides us." He swept the air with his hand. "There are other people, maybe a lot."
"How can you be sure?" She motioned to the tattered material. "That mess probably came off a vampire."
"It didn't," he insisted, and Deb's eyebrows raised at his conviction. "I saw the woman wearing this dress early this morning. A vampire dragged her into the subway. By the time I got outside, she was gone, but I did find the vampire … dying." His fingers spread the fabric and she saw that it had a high, old-fashioned collar. "It looked like his mouth had been blasted with a torch."
"Really?" Despite her nervousness, Deb couldn't help her interest. The pistol uncocked as her grip relaxed and she slipped the gun into her pocket, keeping one hand on it for reassurance. He offered her the garment and she took it gingerly, frowning. "I don't think I understand."
"Sure you do," Alex said confidently. "The vampire bit her and died because of it. But I don't know where she went. You haven't seen anyone, have you?"
Deb shook her head and tossed the dress back, watching it flutter as he snatched it from the air. "Only you. How come I haven't seen you before? Where've you been?"
"I live in the Daley Center. You know where that is, right?" She nodded. "And as far as not seeing each other—chance. A big city, not enough people, that's all. You never did tell me your name."
"It's … Deb." His eyes were fixed on her and she blushed. "What are you staring at?"
He laughed and she jumped at the sound. He sounded so happy, so alive. She tried to hide the tiny smile creeping along her lips.
"Because you're a real person! Isn't that great?"
Weapon forgotten, he spun giddily and skipped down the sidewalk a few steps. "Two people! And probably more, don't you think?"
Deb picked up the machete and examined it in the sunlight. The razored edge gleamed. "What good is this thing?"
He made a face, then grinned. "It's a lot more effective at decapitation than your gun." She turned the blade handle-up and tossed it; he caught it with an ease that showed more than a few hours' practice and snapped it onto his belt.
"I don't carry the gun for vampires," Deb said in a low voice. "I carry it for people."
The confusion on his face was obvious. "What?"
She gave him a stony look. "Not everyone can be trusted—Alex," she said. "You've got a lot to learn."
He scratched at his beard, then retied the dress like a muffler. The two began to drift back toward State Street. "You lost me. I can't imagine why not."
"I want to live as much as anyone," she told him as they settled into a stroll under the warm afternoon sun. "But there's a limit to what I'll do to stay alive. Some people have no limits." She told him the story of John, partly as a warning and partly to point out his own naiveté. "So I killed him," she finished. It felt strange to confess her crime to another human being, and she kept her eyes trained on the sidewalk so she wouldn't have to see the accusation on Alex's face. "I shot him and dumped his body on the railroad tracks. I felt guilty for a long time, wondering if I'd murdered the last man I'd ever see." Deb finally lifted her chin and met his stare. "But I wasn't sorry. That doesn't make sense, does it? Maybe I just got over it."
"Sounds like you had no choice," Alex commented. "Bargaining with vampires." He shook his head. "Unbelievable. But I'll tell you something." He brought the fingers of one hand into a hard fist. She realized that the determination shining from his face matched her own fierce will to survive, and the bitter residue of her mistrust thinned a little more.
"We've got to find that girl, Deb. I just know she's the key."
"The key to what?" Alex's expression faded to bewilderment, then dreaminess as he peered to the western sun that was beginning its slow descent toward night.
"The key to … everything."
Four hours of searching proved fruitless, but Deb didn't mind; it was amazing how quickly she and Alex became companions. Frightening, too—she felt she was sliding into trust too easily, setting herself up for some monstrous disappointment. There was a bond here, something missing from the man she'd killed last fall, who had been first a surprise, then a reason behind her bad dreams. She hungered for company, yet the concept gave her the jitters.
Purposeful at first, after a few hours and a scrounged-up lunch their hunt turned lazy and meandering. Rather than lead and deliberate Alex's trustworthiness, Deb simply followed until predictably they ended up in Daley Plaza. She sat gratefully on one of a group of granite benches surrounding a tree, her eyes following the spindly branches and noting the buds that were appearing at last. Off to the right were a couple of matching granite trash containers with still-legible blue-and-white signs bearing a circle of stenciled arrows and the legend CHICAGO RECYCLES. Will it? she wondered. Will mankind recycle? Two years ago there'd been hundreds of pigeons in the plaza and the benches had been mounded with bird droppings. Today not a single bird strutted at her feet.
Somewhere beyond the steel-and-glass buildings the sun moved toward the horizon, draining the day of light and safety. More than in the slowly spreading shadows she could see the coming sunset in the tenseness of Alex's shoulders and the way his eyes flicked along the streets, testing each dimming doorway like the fleeting movement of a snake's tongue tasting the air. Closer to home he became a little more relaxed; behind the mask of tinted windows a bed or sleeping bag waited, offering safety and warmth during the coming night.
"It's getting late," he finally said.
"Yes." Deb stood, thinking of her own safe place and her shotgun—the cold steel of protection. "I have to go."
"Stay with me tonight," he said suddenly. She looked at him wordlessly and he reddened, like a kid caught doing something dirty. "Not like that," he added hastily. "Just … so there can be two of us, you know? I can't remember the last time there was two."
Unfortunately, Deb could. Still, it was a tempting invitation that offered many things, perhaps even intimacy, but the m
emory of the Winchester's thunder across the nothingness of Morton Lecture Hall during the night remained a bloody mark in her mind. "No," she said at last, avoiding his eyes. Alex's scrubby face drooped with disappointment. "I'm sorry. You know the old line: I'm just not ready for that yet." She risked meeting his gaze, then regretted it when she saw the loneliness reflected there.
"I don't suppose you'd let me walk you home?" he asked hoarsely.
Deb shook her head. "It's too late to be safe. But I'll meet you somewhere tomorrow. How's that?"
"Yeah?" Alex brightened. "That'd be great. Where? When?"
He's so innocent, she thought. Either I'm being utterly duped or this man's never been burned in his life. She opened her mouth to ask where in the building he stayed, then decided against it. He'd tell her without a second thought, and God forbid something should happen to her tonight. Then this silly, trusting man would probably be her first victim.
"Field's," she finally decided. "The doorway where you caught me. Or I caught you." She grinned.
"First thing in the morning?" he asked.
"Right after sunup," she promised. Deb turned away, then paused. "Don't follow me, Alex," she said softly.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded mutely. She wasn't ready to trust, and as she headed south along Dearborn, she glanced back every quarter block to make sure Alex was still at his corner. Three blocks away she veered east, knowing that even if he tried he could never catch her now. She'd planned on sprinting the next few blocks, but she felt fairly comfortable with Alex's honesty and she relaxed her stride; she supposed she could trust a little. Her booted steps echoed through the streets but she made no effort to be quiet; within fifteen minutes she was at the Institute and unlocking the door, then quickly going through her evening scrutiny. Normally she dreaded night—too much time lying motionless in the blackness, waiting out the hours until dawn. Tonight, though, she felt exhausted, not merely from over-exercise but from the excitement of meeting another human being. Anxiety tried to twist into her stomach and she mentally shoved it away; Alex was self-sufficient and had survived this long without a hitch; there was no reason to doubt he'd be waiting at Field's in the morning.
She picked out a can of chicken spread and a box of crackers to make a small evening meal. Sitting on the main steps, she ate and watched the light fade behind the buildings to the west, thinking about Alex and wishing that the chicken-smeared crackers were pieces of steaming Popeye's chicken. In a few minutes she was finished. There was another half hour of light left, but chores still needed to be done: pack away the garbage and lock the auditorium doors, clean and reload the shotgun. As she reached to pull the door closed, shock spasmed her fingers.
Somewhere in the maze that was downtown, Deb could have sworn she heard a woman’s faint scream.
13
REVELATION 19:13
And he was clothed with a vesture dipped in blood.
"My God," Perlman breathed. The bloody bandage pressed against his wrist slipped unnoticed from his fingers. “My God!"
He was looking at people, for the first time in—why, since he couldn't remember! And there they stood, a woman and a man—teenager, really—not six feet away! The woman, his height and about thirty, had short hair and brown eyes that stared right through him. The teenager was lean and hard, a born street fighter wearing an olive t-shirt under an army jacket from which the sleeves had been ripped; tense muscles bunched beneath the coffee-colored skin of the young man’s arms. His odd, tawny eyes were emotionless beneath thick black hair, but some kind of metal weapon hung loosely from one hand and Perlman had no doubt his visitor could use it with deadly speed.
Those few words of surprise; then all Perlman could do was stare soundlessly.
After a few seconds, the teenager reached into a breast pocket and withdrew a cigarette. Without taking his eyes from the doctor, he lit it one-handed from a book of matches.
Voice hoarse, Perlman said the first thing that came to mind. "Those things will kill you."
The boy grinned. "Lots of things'll kill you, mister." His features, Perlman realized, were delicate and almost pretty; his face didn’t match the vaguely dangerous physique. "Matter of fact"—the youth arched an eyebrow—"you're dripping on the floor."
Perlman glanced absently at the blood trickling around his fingers in a slow but steady flow. "What? Oh—this is nothing."
"Did you cut yourself?" the woman asked.
"Miscalculated, that's all." Perlman pressed a square of gauze over the small puncture. "Nothing a little coagulant won't fix."
"So you are a doctor," the teenager said. "We—"
"My name's Calie," the woman cut in. "This is C.J." She smiled slightly, trying to put him at ease. "He won’t tell what the initials stand for. What should we call you?" The boy pulled on his cigarette, undisturbed by the interruption.
Perlman wiped at the bloody floor with a length of paper towel, his sore foot making his movements awkward. His hands were shaking, too—he was just an all-around mess. "William—Bill, I mean. Bill Perlman." He wadded up the towel and tossed it at an open plastic bag on the floor. "I …"
He gave up then, unable to do anything but stand there with a huge, stupid smile plastered across his face.
"We saw you drag the bloodsucker back this morning," C.J. said matter-of-factly. "Did you kill it?"
The three of them were in the large room that Perlman called home, and having company for the first time made Perlman aware of just how uninviting his living quarters were. He and C.J. were sitting on the sofa, a leatherette thing Perlman had found in a waiting room; beside it was an end table sporting a defunct brass lamp and a metal table on which sat a camping stove and two clean pots above a small stock of fuel, plastic water jugs, and some groceries. Folded neatly in the corner were his winter supplies; two kerosene heaters, heavy sleeping bag and blankets, a case of kerosene canisters. The newest addition was the hospital bed he'd dragged in last week, finally having had enough of the couch. He suddenly realized how ridiculous it looked, with its metal gates and the sheets he'd so carefully folded military-style. Calie was ambling around and … touching things with a faraway expression; when she stopped and smoothed the bed sheets, Perlman couldn't help flushing. C.J. didn't notice Calie's behavior—or did she act this way all the time?
Bill remembered C.J.'s question. "No." He bent back to his task of applying a topical coagulant to the puncture in his wrist. "I put him in a closet. But he's still tied up."
Both C.J. and Calie looked unsettled. "I don't know, Doc," Calie finally said. "Those things get stronger at night."
The doctor wound a fresh bandage in place. "I think it'll be okay. He's just a child, probably no more than five years old." Calie and C.J. glanced at each other and C.J. rolled his eyes. "What's the matter?" Perlman asked.
"For a doctor, you ain't very smart," C.J. said. "You ever heard of research?"
"Maybe you're just too sympathetic," Calie pointed out. "Your 'little boy' will rip you apart at nightfall unless you get rid of him." She frowned then, and her eyes darkened. "That vampire in there isn't your son, is it?" A muscle in C.J.'s jaw twitched.
Perlman shook his head, squelching the momentary pain the idea brought. "Of course not. But I don't want to kill him—it. I haven't been out much, and this is the first one I've been close to. I want to experiment on it."
C.J. whistled. "That's original." He peered at the doctor. "Say, you ain't some kind of Nazi, are you?"
Perlman had to laugh. "Not hardly. I'm as Jewish as they come." His smile was gone as quickly as it had appeared and his expression turned intense. "But I'm going to find a way to kill them off.
"Before I die, I swear I'm going to stand on Michigan Avenue at midnight and see the stars."
"Well, Doc, let's see what you've got." C.J.'s weapon turned out to be a crossbow, and now the teenager had it loaded and ready to fire as Perlman led them into a room and motioned to a closed door.
"He's in t
he closet," the doctor explained. "I put him in there temporarily so I could take care of my foot.”
“Yeah," C.J. said. "I was going to ask you about that." Perlman undid a heavy padlock on the closet door. "I jammed my toe when I … was pulling him out of his hiding place. It was pretty uncomfortable."
"That's not all that would have been uncomfortable," Calie said softly at his back. He grimaced, then opened the door to reveal a small supply closet and the travois, its occupant still tightly bound.
C.J. snorted. "What the hell is this? Duct tape?"
"There's rope, too," Perlman said defensively.
The teenager slung the bow across his shoulders, grabbed the handles of the stretcher and dragged it out. Perlman had chosen this room specifically because it was dim, but the thing beneath the plastic shifted restlessly, as if even the shadowed light caused it pain. Then it was still.
"I hate to bust your bubble," Calie said, "but I'd guess this would've held him about sixty seconds. And the closet even less."
Perlman gaped at her. "But he's so little—so thin!"
C.J.'s face was scornful. "You're gonna find out these things are nothing like that." He turned his wrist so they could see the time on his watch. "I hope you've got someplace else to keep it. Otherwise you're in deep shit in about three hours."
"But I do!" Bill said eagerly. "In the basement, next to the G.I. lab. I just didn't take him down because of my foot."
"Let's go, then," C.J. said, hefting the travois effortlessly. He gave Calie an exasperated glance as he ambled after the doctor. "I can't wait to see this."
Perlman didn't notice. He hobbled in front, easing the weight on his foot with a cane as he led them to a flight of stairs. "This way. You'll see I'm better prepared than you thought."
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