"How do you know all this?"
"I spent a lot of time in the library checking up on Blaisdel, remember? That's where I found out about the defense contract work. When I found myself tied up here with that thing behind me for company, I put the rest together. What I didn't know, Velazian, Rokan, and the big guy who was originally driving the car that was tailing me were happy to provide. They're all higher than a kite on this religious ecstasy kick of theirs, and they like to talk about what's going to happen. They were really quite chatty."
I licked my lips, which were now dry and cracked, as I felt a chill go through me. "When was Tanker Thompson around here?"
"Oh, not too long before you got here. When I saw he was missing his ears, I assumed you had something to do with it. What did you do to him, and while you were at it why didn't you kill the son-of-a-bitch?"
"Oh, Jesus, Garth,"I said in a haunted voice that sounded like a stranger's. "I thought I had."
"Yeah?" Garth said dryly. "Well, not quite. I must say, though, that he didn't look too chipper, and he sounded like he had a bad cold." He paused, studied me. "So do you, as a matter of fact."
"The man's a great advertisement for resurrection, and that's for sure," I said, still unable to comprehend how Tanker Thompson could be not only alive, but walking around. In a way, I was as afraid of Thompson as I was of the bomb at my back; the pain, death, and inexorable force he represented was more personal. "I ambushed him-or thought I ambushed him-Sunday morning; I was going to force him to tell me where you were being held. We both took a dunking in the Hudson. The last time I saw him, he looked at most a minute or two away from freezing to death."
"How'd you take his ears off?"
"Krazy Glue; he took them off himself."
Garth shook his head. "He's insane."
"Sure; they all are. Incidentally, Thompson killed Kenecky, and as an afterthought he killed Patton. I don't think there's anybody left in charge of this operation."
Garth grunted. "Blaisdel and Kenecky found each other under some rock years ago. Both heard voices, and both agreed that God was urging them to join forces to bring on Armageddon. This New Year's Eve was the date that was chosen."
"Thompson told you all this?"
"The three of them took turns. I told you, they were all really chatty. They can't wait to die-or for just about everybody else to die-because they think they're going to wake up in a world containing nothing but white, born-again Christians, with Jesus as a kind of kindly Big Brother who'll make sure the trains run on time. There are more Jews in New York than there are in Israel, so that's how we get to be tied to this particular bomb. The bomb in or near Israel is to nail those Jews they don't nail here."
"And the one in Detroit is for the blacks they don't nail here?"
Garth nodded. "Thompson wasn't sure exactly how many bombs there are around the world. Blaisdel and Kenecky were working on this little project for a lot of years."
"Where the hell did Thompson, Velazian, and Rokan go to? They hung around here long enough to form a reception committee for me."
"You were the last bit of business to be taken care of, if you'll pardon the expression. I can't say I'm an expert on their theology, but it seems that not everyone who deserves to be Raptured can be, so God told Blaisdel to build a biosphere to house those deserving few-Blaisdel's and Kenecky's people, naturally-until Armageddon blows over. They believe that radiation and demons can't get in because it's been blessed by God. That's where they are now, I suppose."
"Eden? I saw the model downstairs. So something like that actually does exist, life-size?"
"Yeah. According to my informants, it's somewhere in the desert west of Boise, Idaho. That's where Vicky Brown is; her father's part of the caretaking staff."
"And the signal that will set off the bombs. .?"
"Blaisdel Industries has its own satellite-two of them, as a matter of fact. The radio signal that will trigger all the bombs will be relayed from one of those satellites, and the transmitter that will send the signal is somewhere inside Eden, which is better than ten acres."
"Somewhere?"
"Somewhere. None of those ex-jocks knew where it was, and they didn't seem to care. It's set to automatically transmit at the appropriate time."
"Maybe it won't work."
"Right; maybe it won't work."
Again, I started flopping around on the steel frame, desperately trying to free myself, but I managed only to irritate the chafed, cut flesh on my wrists and ankles even more. I glanced around, looking for something-anything-that at least might give me some idea for how we might get loose. There was nothing-and if there had been, I wouldn't have been able to reach it. Except for the raised platform which we shared with a hydrogen bomb, the large room was empty. A single door, which I assumed opened on to the central corridor on the third floor, was directly across from me. To our left, perhaps fifteen yards away, heavy gray floor-to-ceiling drapes across the windows blocked out any light except for the faint, ghostly illumination radiated by small, recessed lights in the ceiling. It was impossible to tell whether it was day or night.
"What day is it?" I asked, gasping for breath.
"I'm not sure. I was kept in another room until they nabbed you, and there were no windows. I've lost track of time."
"It was a little before noon on Monday when I started up here. How long was I out?"
Garth thought about it, shrugged slightly. "Not too long-I think; you were already strapped up here when they brought me in. It's probably Monday night, maybe Tuesday morning."
"Then, at the outside, we've got three days to find the transmitter and deactivate it."
Garth didn't say anything. He didn't have to. If we couldn't find a way to get free, we weren't going to have to worry about deactivating the transmitter. We didn't even have to worry about being vaporized by the exploding bomb, because it was going to take a lot less than seventy-two hours for us to die of suffocation or heart attacks induced by our hanging, crucifixion-style positions; before too many more hours had passed, the blood would begin to pool in our legs and refuse to be pumped back up to our lungs, hearts, brains. There would be a lot of initial discomfort, then unconsciousness, and finally death. Already, It was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe.
"Garth?" I continued hoarsely. "What are we going to do?"
My brother was silent for some time, and I didn't think fie was going to answer. When he did finally speak, I was almost sorry he had.
"I don't think there's anything we can do, Mongo," Garth said in a matter-of-fact tone. His voice was growing weaker. "I can't break or slip out of these straps, and we've seen that you can't; we'll only break our bones trying. For a time, I thought I'd broken my left wrist; now I think it's only sprained. As long as you were still free …"
"I'm sorry, Garth."
"Don't be ridiculous. What could you have done differently?"
"Not got caught."
"They were waiting for you. And if you hadn't come up here, they'd have probably hunted you down and killed you anyway. Alone, there was just nothing you could do."
"You're saying we're just going to hang around here, alive or dead, until this bomb goes off and kills a few million people?"
Garth looked away. "We gave it our best shot, Mongo," he said in a voice so low I could hardly hear him.
"I've never known you to give up hope, Garth."
When Garth turned his head back toward me, I could see that there were tears in his eyes-but the tears were not for himself. "You asked me what I thought, Mongo, and I told you. You think I've given up hope? I haven't. But hope and a dollar will get you a cup of coffee in Times Square. There are times when hope is irrelevant, and this is one of them."
I went into a fit of coughing that was punctuated by a sneeze. It occurred to me, not without some amusement, that I could be coming down with something serious. "That fucking McCloskey," I wheezed. "He cut us loose on this thing, and he's been dragging his feet from day one be
cause he's worried about his pension, which goes into effect at precisely the time this thing is supposed to go off. He's certainly going to start off his retirement with a bang, isn't he?"
"That's terrible, Mongo," Garth said, and grinned. "Really terrible."
"My sense of humor is rapidly deteriorating."
"It's not his fault," Garth said seriously. "He turns out to be a better man than I gave him credit for. After all, he stayed in the department after I turned him in, took the heat and his demotion, and then worked his way back up."
"Oh, terrific. It's just too bad that he never got around to working his way up here."
"He was afraid, Mongo-and probably with good reason. If he had tried to make any kind of serious move on investigating Nuvironment, Patton would have crushed him. In the end, he probably would have lost his pension-and for nothing. He couldn't have cracked this thing."
I was beginning to feel dizzy and nauseous, and I closed my eyes. "We did give it our best shot, didn't we?" I said, and groaned. It was becoming painful to talk.
"Yes."
As if sensing that before long neither of us would be able to talk at all, we changed the subject of our helplessness in the face of our impending deaths, and the deaths of millions of others. We reminisced about the past, our growing up together, past perils, our good times together, and finally, our love for each other. Then I slept, or passed out. I woke up, or dreamed that I woke up, then slept, or dreamed that I slept, or passed out again. Occasionally I would hear Garth's voice calling to me, as if from a great distance, but I couldn't respond, and I knew I was dying.
13
THEN I woke up again-and I knew it wasn't a dream. Thick mucus was clogging my nostrils, running down my chin, dripping down the back of my throat and choking me. I was sucking in meager amounts of air in great, labored breaths. The muscles in my arms and legs were rapidly twitching in spasms, and felt like they were on fire. All of me felt on fire, and I knew it was fever raging in me. I was very conscious of my heart, which felt like a small, hard thing about the size of a golf ball pumping and burning in the center of my chest.
Something had woken me up.
I turned my head to look at Garth. He was very pale, his face knotted in pain, but he was conscious. He licked his dry lips, swallowed hard. "There's someone downstairs," he croaked. "Hang in there, Mongo. Don't die on me."
Garth had certainly piqued my interest enough to make me straighten up and take notice, at least in my head. But I didn't hear anything but the pounding of my own heart in my ears. I decided that Garth was delirious, and I was about to let myself slip back into the merciful oblivion of unconsciousness when the door across the room slammed open and Patrolman Frank Palorino, in full riot gear, burst through at an angle to his right, dropped to one knee, and swept his semiautomatic rifle around the room as another patrolman, similarly outfitted, darted in and dropped to a similar stance at Palorino's left flank. Seeing that Garth and I were the only occupants in the room, Palorino abruptly stood, shouted something that I couldn't understand into his walkie-talkie, then hurried across the room to me as the second patrolman went to Garth.
"You have another little accident, Mongo?" the stubble-faced policeman said wryly as, supporting me with his left arm around my waist, he proceeded to undo the buckles on the straps binding my wrists. I collapsed over his shoulder, and he went to work freeing my ankles. "Shit, buddy, you're burning up with fever. But you're going to be all right. We'll get you to a hospital just as soon as this fucking blizzard lets up."
Palorino gently laid me down on the floor, next to my brother, just as a team of three paramedics rushed into the room, knelt down beside us, and began unpacking their leather bags. Everything above me was a blur of hands and faces. I felt my feet being raised and propped up, and, mercifully, my pounding heartbeat began to slow. I kept wanting to close my eyes and go to sleep, but knew that I couldn't until either Garth or I had told the police what we knew. Malachy McCloskey, dressed in a blue parka over a bulletproof vest, drifted in and out of focus as he hovered over us. His pockmarked face was gray, his brows knitted in concern. Somebody raised my head, and I gulped greedily at a cup of tepid water that tasted slightly salty. This was followed by another liquid that also tasted salty, but was more substantial, like chicken noodle soup with a kick. One of the paramedics rolled up my sleeve and started to slide a needle into a vein. I winced and tried to pull away, but the woman held me tightly. Then a hand which I recognized as my brother's came into my field of vision, gripped the woman's wrist, and pulled the needle away. Then Garth was on his knees beside me, talking to the startled paramedic.
"Don't give either of us anything that will put us to sleep," Garth said in a weak but clear voice. "Get me to a phone. I have to call somebody in Washington right away. It's very important."
"You can't call next door, much less Washington," Frank Palorino said, shaking his head. "The phones went out three hours ago, and New York Telephone has no idea when they're going to be working again. But don't you worry about-"
"You don't understand," Garth said curtly, his voice already growing stronger.
My brother held out his hand to me. I gripped it and pulled myself up to a sitting position. From there we both got to our feet, and I was vaguely surprised when I managed to stay up on mine. I wasn't quite ready to run any marathons, but I was feeling better, despite the fever in me. The paramedic who'd tried to give me a needle held out another cup. I took it and drank; more of the chicken noodle soup with a kick. I cleared my throat, managed a weak, "Thank you."
McCloskey stepped up to us. Now that we were up and about, the furrow in his brow was gone, and there was just the trace of a smirk on his face. "Well, well, well," he said in the tone of voice of a man who was savoring a triumph. "It looks like the famous Fredericksons needed a little help to get out of this scrape, doesn't it? We found what was left of those two cars down by the river. When Frank told me what had happened, and when we couldn't find the two of you, I figured it was time to exert a little individual initiative. When I found out Nuvironment's phone had been disconnected, I figured that was sufficient reason to go up there; when we found Patton's body, I figured that was sufficient reason, despite the weather, to hustle up here and take a look around. To tell you the truth, it really surprised me how much I was worried about you two." He paused, and his smirk became full blown. "That was kind of lucky for the famous Fredericksons, huh?"
"You misread the situation, Lieutenant," I wheezed. "We were just getting ready to escape when you all came in and spoiled it." I paused to drink some more chicken soup, continued, "Thanks, McCloskey. Now, we've got us a big prob-"
"What the hell is that?" McCloskey interrupted, pointing to the apparatus up on the platform behind us.
"A hydrogen bomb," Garth said. "What's the day and time?"
"A what?"
"A hydrogen bomb," Garth repeated evenly. "You'll need specialists to deactivate it, probably federal people. Make damn sure they know what they're doing, because if they don't, and they make a mistake, Manhattan and most of the other boroughs are going to end up nothing more than one very large hole in the ground."
Palorino, the other policeman, and the three paramedics took a step backward, but McCloskey seemed rooted to the ground, staring up at the steel frame and enclosed cylinder with eyes wide and mouth open.
"Lieutenant," I said, looking around in vain for some sign of my sneakers, "what's the day and time?"
"Holy shit," McCloskey said. "Are you kidding me?"
"No, Lieutenant," I replied, and wearily sank back down on the floor.
Garth stepped up to the police detective, gently shook his shoulder. "What's the day and time, McCloskey?"
McCloskey, face pale and eyes even wider, turned to look at Garth. "That really is a-?"
"Yes, damn it! What's the-?!"
"It's Thursday, about three in the morning," McCloskey said in a hollow voice.
Less than twenty-four hours. That g
ot me back up on my feet. Frank Palorino reached for my arm, but I shook him off. "We can't wait on the telephone company," I said, looking at Garth, who nodded in agreement. "And you can't wait for the feds to deactivate that thing. Have your best people get up here to look at it; it may be just a radio receiving antenna that has to be disconnected."
"We have people who can do that," Palorino said tightly. "When is it set to go off, Mongo?"
"Midnight-tonight. None of you guys saw or picked up a pair of sneakers on your way up here, did you?"
"Huh?"
"Never mind. Lieutenant, if the phones aren't working, then we have to start right now thinking of how we're going to get to the outskirts of Boise, Idaho. That's where the radio transmitter is located. Unless we can destroy that transmitter, at midnight tonight a signal is going to be relayed from a satellite and at least two other bombs like this one, and maybe more, are going to go off."
McCloskey, recovered from his initial shock but somehow looking even more stricken, strode stiffly to the end of the room. He grabbed a section of the heavy gray drapes with both hands and yanked. The material tore loose from its fastenings and billowed like a parachute as it fell to the floor. In the faint light spilling from the room out into the night it was possible to see huge flakes of snow swirling in a maelstrom of wind, which could now clearly be heard through the section of thick glass where the drapes had been torn away. The lights in the triplex, I realized, had to be powered by an emergency generator which had automatically kicked in when city power had gone off, for out in the night there was nothing, not a single light to be seen.
"This started yesterday, around six in the evening," McCloskey said in a tortured voice. "It's a freak storm that none of the meteorologists predicted; it's only been getting worse, and nobody is really sure when it's going to let up. The last I heard, some of the experts were predicting that it could last another day. People are saying it's the worst blizzard in a century-maybe the worst blizzard we've ever had. It's blanketed the whole east coast. We're under four feet of snow so far, and Washington has five. Nothing's moving, and all communications are out."
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