2
REVELATION 20:14
This is the second death.
I'm so cold.
Who was this hard, oversized man sleeping beside her? Not Alex; though both men were dark, her lover was lean, with the sinewy build of a runner rather than weightlifter.
He must be one of the Red Things.
There were Red Things in Deb's dreams now. The landscape of her mind welcomed them, sheltered them, hid them from her probing sleep-eyes. They flitted in a vast, shadowy chasm below a strip of brilliant, aqua-colored light, eternally separating her from the peace and warmth of the light itself. The stranger at her side tried to stop her as she reached for it, and she realized that he was doing her a kindness because the light would surely kill her. Still she wrenched free, ignoring his loss and sadness as she went to the light anyway.
Her fingers brushed it and a piece … cracked away, hung suspended in space for a moment, then hurtled toward her with frightening, inescapable speed.
3
REVELATION 10:6
And there should be time no longer.
"Damn it!"
Bill Perlman stopped just short of hurling the culture across the room. He sucked in a breath and held it, trying to still the thought that sang in his head on a continual, inescapable basis.
I'm not getting anywhere.
There has to be some way to accelerate the mutation process, he insisted mentally, find the stimulation, the catalyst, more quickly. His mind kept veering toward the people trapped in the Merchandise Mart. Suppose he did start the decomposition process again how would the vampires react? What if instinct propelled them into a feeding frenzy in the belief that their disease could be stalled or arrested by a massive intake of sustenance? Then those people would die and become vampires themselves, a useless and deadly transition. No, they had to be freed first. Turning back, he inserted another slide under the microscope, though he didn't need it to show what he already knew: the bacterium was dead, though it had been alive when he'd added the vampire flesh to the culture. By all the laws of science, Clostridium should have begun to feed immediately, as it had on the tiny slice of his own skin that had proved the culture was active. But once again nothing moved beneath the lens of his microscope. While Perlman could easily tell the dry, corky structure of the vampire cells from the global-shaped spheres of Clostridium, the quivering, twisting movement of only seconds ago had disappeared before he could even readjust the focus. Already the bacterium was forming the same woody, plantlike walls that apparently comprised the entire structure of the childbeast.
Perlman sat back and sighed. Even if he added blood, the vampire flesh absorbed it faster than he could get the slide into position. Nothing changed the view under the lens, and now even his subject was gone, since this morning he'd allowed the dangerous childbeast to be killed—a terrible thing to witness—and carried out into the sun. He told himself they were being merciful, though the boy's screams still rang in his mind and refuted his self-righteousness. Now he needed another subject but McDole was hedging, hinting that Perlman’s capture of the boy had been an amateur miracle. The doctor would've gone out alone again, but the bitter truth was that he thought the older man might be right. In the end, he had no subject.
And no progress, either.
4
REVELATION 8:11
And many were made bitter.
11:30 A.M.:
Hours and hours until the bloodsuckers came out. And come out, they will, Alex thought. He waved the bottle of Smimoff's, then toasted the unseen sleepers of the city
Come to Papa.
He held up the vodka; only a fifth of the bottle was gone, not much considering that fourteen months ago he could've easily put away two six-packs. Two more inches of booze would make him pass out, but he wanted to do it right, so when he started feeling drunk, really blasted, he would guzzle the liquor like a cold lemonade at a company picnic. He shivered and took another swig, then made it two. He had to make sure he drank enough to keep him unconscious past dark. He didn't want to feel it when they got him.
A gust of wind hit the branches of the small trees surrounding his bench, making them shake as if in reproach. Fuck it, he thought. Let's be honest. I'm sitting in front of my house and Deb knows where it is. I'm not waiting for some unknown bastard to come and bite me in the neck. I'm waiting for Deb to come and bite me in the neck. He giggled. Love at First Bite … do I look like George Hamilton?
Hell no. I don't even have a tan.
"So," he said. His voice sounded loud and hollow as it floated across Daley Plaza. "Who did you think you were? Fucking Adam and Eve?" He regarded the plaza sourly and drank again. Sad little spots of moisture were all that remained of the freaky, one-day snow. "Shit. Like you were going to repopulate the world, asshole." Where was Deb? Was she a vampire? Or … dead? He couldn't decide which was worse, and it frustrated his muddled mind that there was a decision in there somewhere that he could have made instantly had he been sober. But not now Long black hair, ice-blue eyes. What color were her eyes now? Maybe they were … red.
He frowned at his bottle, wishing he had some o.j. He didn't want to get drunk as fast as it seemed to be happening, because quick wasn't necessarily thorough. Maybe he could do a better job if he had a mixer, which would mean he could drink longer, something that made perfect sense to him. A thought flared in his brain: What if she didn't find him down here and something else did? Time to go upstairs.
She won't be Deb anymore, a vague voice in his head reminded him.
"Who said that?" Alex glanced around and stood, then laughed at how his eyesight was warping. "And so what if she isn't? Who the hell am I?" He gulped another mouthful of liquor as he staggered past the Picasso. Rage hit him as he made the corner closest to the door, and if he'd had two bottles, he would've hurled one at that ridiculous, looming statue.
"I'll tell you who I AM!" he screamed. He whirled haphazardly, the bottle flailing wildly and barely missing the metal doorframe as he fumbled through. "I'm no-fucking-BODY, that's who!" His voice choked off until it became a sob, then a gurgle.
"Nobody," he said again.
He slid down the cold frame, propping the glass door open with a booted foot. Sure, he toasted the open door with a numb wave, I'll drink to that. He turned his head with an effort and studied the Picasso statue swaying unsteadily across his vision. Wasn't it supposed to be a woman? Sober, he'd always thought it looked like an abstract horse; drunk, it didn't look like anything for which he could find a word.
Being drunk, he decided, was okay. He felt as if he'd been given a gigantic shot of Novocain, though certain parts of his body remained strangely sensitive. For instance, the muscles surrounding his mouth seemed to have frozen and words were becoming a real mess. He shrugged; without Deb, there was no one to talk to anyway. Other parts still felt normal, like his rump and his spine, which were freezing against the doorframe. And there was the shotgun he'd been dragging around since his visit to the Art Institute, digging into his side and making his ribs ache. Don't need it anymore, he realized; don't want it. He pushed it away with a nerveless hand, ignoring the clatter as it fell beside him. He scrunched up his face to see how much was numb as he inspected the Smirnoff's bottle; nearly half of its contents had disappeared. Had he really drank all that?
He swiveled his head to the right and tried to see into the building, but his eyes didn't want to work. Should he go up? He shook his head, the movement making him grin stupidly. Too much work, too many stairs. If he stayed down here, she could find him right away, though he should at least go inside so he wouldn't be an open appetizer.
But his muscles ignored his mental commands and his jerky efforts spilled him on his right side as he dragged himself not quite through, losing a helluva lot of booze in the process. He thought his foot might still be holding the door open, but did it really matter?
He squinted at the ceiling, wishing it were already dark. Wishing it were over.
I ca
n't go on, he thought sadly. Not alone. I just can't.
"I'm waiting," he said clearly.
He sobbed slightly.
Then passed out.
5
REVELATION 22:4
And they shall see his face… .
REVELATION 11:14
The second woe is past; and, behold,
the third woe cometh quickly.
"This is asinine," C.J. said impatiently. "What was Jo talking about, 'the key to the Mart'?"
"Well," Louise said, "she did say him. And she was always saying weird stuff about the Mart." She caught him peeking at her and blushed. They were retracing yesterday's route, headed for Daley Plaza as Jo had instructed. Almost all the snow was gone, the sidewalks nearly dry.
"Like what?" C.J. suddenly looked interested.
"She called it the 'Building of the Damned,'" Louise answered. "She never explained herself, but half the time I didn't know what she was talking about anyway."
C.J.'s face brightened. —‘Building of the Damned'—of course!" he exclaimed. "She's talking about the people on the third floor!"
Louise shoved her hands in her pockets. "What people?"
"There's probably twenty people being kept there as food by the vampires. We haven't figured a way to get them out yet."
Louise's mouth dropped and for an instant she forgot about Daley Plaza and Jo. "Food for the vampires? Oh, God, C.J.—that's horrible!"
"I know. But we're working on it." He scanned the sky out of habit as they came around the Daley Center, but it was a clear and beautiful blue. "That's why I was willing to make this trip, though we could be putting our time to better use. For one thing—"
Louise grabbed his sleeve. "Look!"
"What?" He followed her pointing finger, then sprinted to the slumped man wedged between one set of lobby doors. Not far from the guy's limp hand was a half-empty bottle of vodka that had rolled against one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and tossed aside was a Winchester shotgun. Louise picked it up and tilted it over one shoulder.
"Stupid fool," C.J. hissed. He nudged the man's foot. "What the hell is he doing?"
"Hey, mister!" Louise said loudly. She shook the stranger's shoulder, but he only mumbled, his fingers clutching briefly at his missing liquor bottle.
His head lolled to one side and C.J. snorted. "Key to the Mart, my ass. This guy's so polluted he couldn't grope his way out of a can of Coke if somebody pulled the ring for him."
The drunken man's face, pale and framed by dark hair, was as calm and trusting as a sleeping baby's. Louise shook him again but got no response as C.J. kicked the bottle of Smirnoff's in disgust, watching it spin to the middle of the lobby and spew its contents onto the floor with a soft gurgling; the tang of alcohol immediately surrounded them. "Well?" she asked.
C.J. gave an exasperated sigh, then bent and pushed his hands under the man's arms. "We've either got to wake this joker up or carry him all the way to Water Tower. Help me stand him up." He grunted as they hoisted the unconscious man to his feet and struggled to hold him in place.
"What now?" Louise panted as she grappled with the man and the shotgun at the same time.
"We walk him," C.J. answered grimly. "Yell at him, slap him, find some water and douse him—whatever it takes."
She peered at the stranger's loose features, zonked out in blissful, oblivious dreams. "What do you suppose he'll say when he wakes up?"
In the strange, tinted glare cast by an old restaurant window they passed, C.J.'s face was greenish and cynical.
"He'll probably say we should've let him die."
Five seconds after he opened his eyes and watched the ceiling tilt crazily, Alex rolled on his side and threw up. Somewhere in the midst of his retching, his brain registered that someone was holding a plastic bucket beneath his face. His stomach gave a final, painful spasm and he sagged back and closed his eyes again, groaning at the roller-coaster action in his head. Nausea threatened again and he sucked his breath in through ground teeth, in and out, in and out, until it subsided to merely a horrible case of seasickness. Gradually the swaying of the world slowed and he forced his lids open, though the sunlight streaming around him seemed to have spear-tipped fingers aimed specifically at his head. Jesus, he had a headache! His hand felt as though it weighed thirty pounds as he reached to wipe his sweat-drenched face. Three feet away was a man in a white lab coat, holding a stethoscope and watching him.
"How do you feel?"
The man's voice echoed in Alex's hung over hearing, and sounded angry. What was this place? For a crazy moment Alex thought he had dreamed the whole thing—the empty world, the vampires, Deb—
Deb.
"Where am I?" he croaked. "And who the hell are you?"
"I'm Dr. Bill Perlman." The man came forward and used his thumb to pull Alex's eyelid up. "And you're safe."
Alex shoved the doctor's hand away and struggled upright. "I don't want to be safe," he snapped, then grimaced as the pounding in his head increased to drum level. "What time is it? I have to get back to the Daley Center." Snatches of memory floated in his mind: stumbling along the street, forced to walk by two kids he'd wished would just leave him alone. He tried to stand but his knees buckled and he sat hard again on the couch. The sunlight pouring through the huge windows in this place was like visual barbed wire.
Dr. Perlman folded his arms. "Why? So you can finish your little suicide attempt? It's a good thing you passed out when you did, you know. You could've died from alcohol poisoning, or been outside at nightfall if the kids hadn't found you. That was a very stupid thing to do, mister."
"I don't remember asking for your opinion," Alex said hotly. His stomach roiled and he dropped his head between his knees until the urge to vomit passed. Finally he was able to look up. "Just show me the way out and point me in the right direction. We'll part company and be happier for it."
"I'm afraid that's not possible," Perlman answered.
Alex did throw up then, aiming instinctively for the bucket at the side of the couch. The stench of the vomit already in it made him retch even harder, until he thought the next thing to come up would probably be pieces of his stomach. By the time he was through he had slid to his knees and was staring stupidly at the floor. Something white crossed his field of vision: a wet washrag; he grasped it and wiped his face, thankful for its coolness against his burning skin.
"Why can’t I leave?" he finally managed. “Am I a prisoner?"
The older man chuckled. "Of course not. But even if you made it all the way back there without collapsing—which you won't—leaving you for the vampires now that you've been here would pose too great a danger for us."
He looked at the doctor blearily. "Us?" The thought was ridiculously comforting; at least he wasn't alone in the hands of a madman.
"Quite a few." The doctor watched him for a moment, then handed him a large glass and a couple of tablets. "These will start you on the way to feeling better."
Alex obeyed automatically as a white-haired man hurried into the room. "How're you doing, son? You were in sad shape when they brought you in."
"He could've died of alcohol poisoning," the doctor said again in a sour tone.
The other man nodded absently and offered his hand. "I'm Buddy McDole. What can we call you?"
Alex returned the handshake without enthusiasm. “Alex Nicholson."
McDole studied him curiously. "You don't seem very happy to see us, Alex. I'd think you'd be pretty interested to find other people. What's the problem?"
Deb.
Alex hung his head, then an irrational hope occurred. "Say," he asked quickly, "you people haven’t been to the Art Institute, have you? Maybe last night? You don't have a woman here named Deb?"
Perlman and McDole glanced at each other. "No, I'm afraid not," McDole finally answered. Alex's face crumbled momentarily, then his features melted once more toward stoniness.
"You lost her, didn't you?" Something in Perlman's voice stabbed hard, and befor
e he could stop himself, Alex went to pieces.
The story didn't take long to tell, and sounded pitifully short and overdramatic out loud, especially considering his attempted suicide this morning. It must seem ludicrous that he had tried to kill himself over a woman he'd known only two days, yet there was a faraway look in Perlman's eyes that kept Alex from feeling like a total lunatic. At last McDole spoke. "I'm real sorry, Alex. It must've been horrible to find what you did, and I know my words probably aren't much comfort. But there are reasons to go on, there are other people, and a life for each of us to live." He nodded toward Perlman sitting quietly a few feet away. "The doctor is working on something that will kill the vampires—"
"We hope," Perlman interrupted.
"—off entirely. It's just a matter of getting it started and testing it out."
In spite of his sick, tinny headache, Alex looked interested. "Something that could kill them? What?"
“A bacteria," Perlman answered, shooting McDole an exasperated glance. "But don't let Buddy get your hopes up too fast." A hint of sarcasm crept into his voice. The work is pretty slow, plus I don't have a test subject anymore."
"We'll find another one tomorrow," McDole assured him.
"Another what?"
"Vampire. The doctor has to try the bacteria on a real vampire to see if it works, and keep trying until it does," McDole explained.
Alex frowned, the movement making his temples throb. "You actually had a vampire in the building? How did you control it?"
Perlman shook his head. "Not here, in a bomb shelter at Northwestern. Tried the bacteria before and after feeding—"
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