AfterAge

by Yvonne Navarro

  "How will we get upstairs?" asked Rita.

  "Well, since the stairs are obviously blocked"—Gabriel pointed at a pile of debris nearly as high as the ceiling—"we'll use the elevator shaft. Unless you want to move all this stuff."

  "Let's not waste any more time," Anyelet cut in. "This building is huge. It may take all night to find her."

  Gabriel's eyes were impassive. "I doubt it." He raised his chin and his nostrils flared wide. "She's been here a long time and her scent is very strong. I think we'll catch her within, say, a half hour." He grinned, showing the long, thin fangs of a nightwolf.

  Anyelet nodded at Vic, who turned and began prying at the elevator doors. More noise, this time a loud groaning, as though the elevator doors themselves were trying to stall Vic's intrusion. Anyelet ground her teeth; surely anyone inside had fled by now! They could only hope the size of the building would muffle this overabundance of sound. One last scream and the doors yielded, the shaft stretching away to a cold, damp nothingness.

  "Well, isn't this handy," Rita grumbled. "Just like the old days."

  "You expected an operator to push the button for you?" hissed Gregory.

  Anyelet made a soft snarling sound and both fell into a nervous silence. "Climb," she commanded. Already Vic was hauling himself up, muscles working smoothly, and Anyelet reached for one of the cables, adjusting her grip around the slick, oily surface. She began climbing easily, Vic's movements overhead making the cable strum in her hand. The others followed one by one, the thick strands of steel vibrating beneath their weight, causing echoing metal whispers as they crawled up its length like mutated caterpillars.

  Anyelet bent her head back to Gabriel. "How far?" Her carefully modulated voice carried eerily in the shaft.

  “Next floor up," he murmured.

  Above them, Vic paused. "This is as far as we go," he said quietly. "The elevator's blocking us and I can't get a good enough hold to push it out of the way."

  "This'll do," Gabriel said.

  Vic put one foot on the thin ledge running around the shaft and pried at the closed doors with his free hand, widening them enough to crawl through. Anyelet was out in an instant, crouching cautiously next to the elevator and scanning the foyer. The others streamed from the shaft like a pack of slick cats, then milled uncertainly, waiting for instructions as Anyelet sighed in exasperation. These were not hunters—they were children, uneducated and undisciplined. Was it laziness? Or abundance? Abruptly she knew just how Hugh had survived: mind and reason gone, the old man functioned on instinct alone, that wonderful, inexplicable sixth sense that was—normally—so heightened in those of the night.

  Only Gabriel appeared to have retained a semblance of the valuable skills accompanying his immortality. Now he lifted his nose and sniffed, turning in a slow semicircle before moving down a short hall on their right to a closed glass door. "Through here," he said. "I can smell her clearly." Rita stepped up to examine the door, a double glass barrier with metal bars for handles through which a heavy chain and steel padlock had been threaded and locked from the opposite side. The doors parted just enough for her to slip a hand through the opening and grab the chain.

  Anyelet nodded, knowing that some sacrifices had to be made. "As quietly as possible."

  Rita began to apply a slow, steady pressure; fifteen seconds later, the chain hung in two pieces. Rita's mouth twisted in contempt as she lowered the pieces to the floor without so much as a rattle. ”A fool's effort," she whispered.

  "I think they count more on being able to hide," Gregory said softly. "The bigger the building, the better."

  Gabriel grinned, his red lips stretching to show fangs as clean and white as a puppy's. "Not this time. Come on." They followed, matching his pace through mazelike corridors and galleries, past dead-end alcoves that seemed to go on forever. Paintings and statues flowed past, a thousand objets d'art representing mans past and the permanently frozen present.

  "Gabriel”—Anyelet's voice was barely audible—"can you still follow her scent?"

  "Yes," he whispered. His red-blue eyes flickered with anticipation and he put a cautionary finger to his mouth. Another door yielded and he led them down again, following a striking staircase to and through an unlocked pair of doors marked with a plaque bearing the words ARTHUR RUBLOFF AUDITORIUM. His nostrils spread and he forced air into his nose. His expectant leer faded.

  "She's not here," he said, not bothering to lower his voice. "Otherwise these doors would be locked from the inside." He pointed to a length of chain and several heavy padlocks pushed against the wall.

  Vic bent and fingered the high-quality steel. "They won’t be a problem," he commented. He stepped inside and the rest shambled in behind him; immediately their footsteps echoed through the large room. Anyelet admired the woman's choice—even knowing the room would amplify noise wouldn't help them move quietly.

  "But she's been here recently?" Anyelet looked around, noting the raised stage and the upholstered seats tilting upward for several stories at a dizzying angle.

  "Probably last night," Gabriel responded.

  "Maybe she's not coming back." Rita didn’t need to be specific, and Anyelet rubbed her tongue across her fangs as she considered the odds.

  "We'll check again tomorrow night," she decided. "Just to be sure."

  "Be careful not to touch anything," Gabriel instructed. “You can bet she knows every detail of this place."

  "I found where she sleeps," Rita called. She had pulled aside a fold of the heavy draperies at the farthest end of the stage, revealing an alcove no bigger than a closet. Inside was a cot bearing a heavy sleeping bag and blankets, a small cook stove, and a few other things, including a chemical toilet that made Anyelet chuckle.

  "Check this out." Gabriel carefully lifted the spill of blankets between the cot and the floor. Beneath it they could see the well-oiled gleam of a shotgun stock. Anyelet looked to Gregory, but the former accountant shook his head. "It'll be the first thing she checks if she comes back. Weapons are like security blankets to humans."

  "What if we just take out the bullets?" Rita asked.

  "Shells," Gregory corrected. “And no way. She'll clean and reload it. Anything different and she'll be long gone before we even wake up. We'll have to leave it."

  Anyelet frowned. "That's a tremendous risk."

  Gregory spread his hands. "What are the odds she'll return and bed down for the night without going over her gun? Personally I think we'll lose her if we screw around with it."

  Anyelet studied the Winchester thoughtfully "The firing pin—"

  "Forget it," Gabriel interrupted. "She'll break it down to clean it. Let’s face it—it takes a smart human to last this long. There's nothing we can do about the gun."

  Anyelet nodded reluctantly. “All right. Let's get out of here. Make sure to leave everything the way it was, no slipups. And keep the gun in mind tomorrow night."

  They filed toward the exit, disappointment robbing them of conversation. Anyelet was looking in the other direction when she sensed rather than saw Vic's lightning movement as he plucked some small trinket from the plastic record crate that served as a nightstand next to the cot. For a moment she was stupefied—he must know his act would likely make tomorrow night's foray useless! Her first instinct was to snatch it from his pocket and demand an explanation, but she squelched the impulse. What was happening? She had lived centuries by herself; existing on common sense and a fierce need for self-preservation, two things blatantly lacking in the obnoxious and sloppy children she had borne. At first the loss of bits and pieces of her army had seemed negligible, but now each betrayal represented a larger percentage, an unraveling of her already-shaky hold over these rebellious offspring. Her lip curled scornfully; perhaps it would be best to kill them all and simply start over. In the end, she needed no one but herself.

  Outside the sky resembled an overstuffed mattress that had split and was now spewing its dark innards in great, coagulated globs, and Anyelet, Rita
, and Gregory waited while Gabriel and Vic carefully repositioned the door. "I'll bring some oil to squirt around the frame tomorrow night," Gregory promised when he and Vic had finished. "It should cut down on the noise."

  Anyelet glanced at Vic, but he said nothing; she had the distinct feeling he wouldn't care if the door tripled its racket, and, in fact, he'd prefer that the woman escape. Her eyes narrowed as she realized it wasn't just petty thievery she'd witnessed, but an act purposely warning their prey.

  Gregory's low voice intervened on her reverie. "I wonder why she didn't come back tonight."

  "It doesn't matter." Anyelet’s words were frosty as she gave Vic a long, hard look. "Wherever she is, tomorrow night she's ours."

  13

  REVELATION 16:6

  Thou hast given them blood to chink; for they are worthy.

  ~ * ~

  Vic examined the cloisonné box, turning it over and over in his heavy fingers and peering at the butterfly of brilliant colors against its fractured royal blue background. Such a tiny thing, it disappeared entirely when he folded his fingers into a fist.

  Such a little thing, indeed.

  Anyelet had seen him. It hadn't taken any so-called vampire "gift" to feel her shock, then her repressed rage. He responded to others, to their treatment, their impressions upon him, like clay pressed into a mold. He'd grown up a tough Italian kid who'd constantly fought with and against the west side street gangs, and even immortality couldn't erase the mementos he still carried, one wide scar crossing his left side from battling a kid armed with a shattered liquor bottle, another arcing around his neck, this from a fifteen-year-old who'd nearly managed to cut Vic's throat. Hand encased in homemade brass knuckles, Vic had delivered a punch to the solar plexus that had left his enemy gasping and helpless as Vic had pried the knife free, torn open the youth's shirt and carved the word COWARD across the sallow, boyish chest.

  Vic still felt guilty about that. And who, after all, had been the coward? Himself, of course, a boy already masquerading in a man's body. His friends would have crucified him for letting the Latin King live, but it hadn't mattered. When he'd staggered into the house covered with blood, his hysterical mother had actually slapped him before realizing what she'd done. He knew she'd struck him out of fear and love, but his resentment was quick and helpless as he thought of the constant, unconditional devotion she gave Vic's nearly bedridden father. In those days physicians still made house calls, and Dr. Finocchiaro, a frequent caller anyway, came in the middle of the night to sew Vic's neck back together because in the old neighborhood you handled your own business and didn't involve the police. As a result of that night, his mother had sent him to live with her brother in Rockford, an older man who was as unyielding as a block of granite beneath a surprisingly mild exterior. Young and still impressionable, Vic had learned an appreciation for life from Uncle Mike out of which he would eventually make a career; all that trouble to save his neck and look what had happened to it.

  Yes, Anyelet had seen, and Vic hadn't cared. Responding to her anger, in fact, he had mentally dared her to say or do something about it. At least it had proven she couldn't see into his mind without him knowing it, though with eye contact she could rifle someone's mind like an open file cabinet. The traitorous thoughts that so often filled the spaces that before his dark transformation had held human feelings like love, charity, and forgiveness remained hidden; now he only hated in degrees, depending upon whom and what he was thinking about at the time.

  And he Hungered.

  Oh yes.

  There was no logic behind his theft. The notion of challenging Anyelet's authority was absurd—he no more wanted to control this motley pack of animals than he wanted to crawl beneath the sun and fry, and besides, she probably held powers that he couldn't even imagine. He wanted to live, and maybe there was his subconscious desire to betray their presence. That unknown woman wanted to live, too, and he knew that tomorrow the struggle she'd so valiantly carried on these past months would end, all because of the ravings of a stupid old man. Vic sighed and dropped the butterfly box on his cot, then slipped down a back stairway, indulging in a lazy fantasy about what he would do to Howard if he caught him skulking around. Sunup was only an hour away and he had to make sure old Hugh was inside for the day. The crazy vampire was probably hungry, too, even if he had managed to snare a rat or something else for a sort of dinner. Vic had followed him once, and while the old man usually caught something, the meal was never very large. If he didn't help things along, Hugh would slowly starve, withering until he became indistinguishable from the outcasts that haunted the tunnels and connecting basements of the downtown buildings. Vic would never be able to bear that.

  The ancient vampire was in his habitual spot outside, standing where the concrete sidewalk met the metal grating on the bridge, peering between the spaces rather than over the walkway at the water below and playing an invisible trumpet. At the sound of Vic's approach he raised his head and smiled with crooked teeth.

  "Waiting for Tisbee," Hugh explained. He glanced at a broken watch dangling precariously from his wrist, then sucked in a mouthful of air so he could make a blowing noise. "She's late again," he complained. "Been waiting here for a year, dammit all." The accuracy of Hugh's words made Vic start. "Boy's late, too," Hugh continued. "Supposed to bring me dinner, and the little bastard's not here. Shit!"

  "It's all right," Vic said soothingly. "He'll—"

  "I'm hungry!" Hugh's voice was a sudden, strident scream through the steel girders of the Wells Street Bridge. Vic gasped at its loudness, then the old man abruptly dropped his tone back to normal and gave Vic a sidelong glance. "Have to go to the dungeon soon," he said cryptically. "The fireball's on its way."

  "Yes," Vic agreed. He saw the hollowness of Hugh's cheeks and the way the skin had shrunk close around his jaw. Once the old one's mouth had been full-lipped and laughing; now it was a hard, jagged slash barely covering the cracked fangs.

  "Hungry," Hugh said again. He looked at Vic and for a moment the younger vampire saw regret in that shriveled expression—regret, and a plea for understanding, maybe a cry for mercy. A long time ago Vic had thought he could give Hugh a cure; instead he had frozen the old man into permanent imbecility.

  Vic had purposely fed again a short time ago, taking a small meal from a healthy man only because he knew that Hugh would be hungry and, after all, someone had to look out for the old man. The others were already burrowing into their sleeping places, filled and fat, quick to flee the coming daylight. Last night he'd been petrified during the endless moments of Anyelet's attempt to look into Hugh's mind. Now he knew that no one could see. Or maybe, as in life, no one bothered.

  He offered his arm and Hugh fell upon it eagerly.

  The least Vic could do was watch over his own father.

  III

  March 25

  The Seekers—

  Gathering for the Battle

  1

  REVELATION 17:18

  And the woman which thou sawest is that great city.

  ~ * ~

  C.J. eased the breath out of his lungs, feeling the tension flow from his night-knotted muscles as he stretched. For a few seconds he was enveloped in the tingly sensations, like the time the clinic dentist had pumped him full of laughing gas before pulling a molar that had shattered at the gum from a hard punch to the jaw by his old man. Back then C.J. had figured that feeling was as close to heaven as he'd ever get, because hell waited at home in the form of a fat, lazy man who claimed to be his father and who bathed in beer instead of water.

  Now, hell was everywhere.

  He rose, stripped, and washed, gritting his teeth against the cold air and colder water. He dressed in loose chinos and a baggy wool sweater, then reconsidered and pulled off the sweater to layer a couple of long-sleeved shirts underneath it. Finally C.J. slipped on his fatigue jacket and stepped into the hall, noting that as usual he was the first to rise. Before he went downstairs he poked his head into Calie'
s room to check on her. She was still sleeping, her face to the wall beneath the heavy sleeping bag. He waited a few seconds, then backed out and stepped away; two or three feet down the hall he thought he heard a low chuckle and he paused, then kept going. She was always pulling little tricks on him.

  Sitting in the small breakfast room, he checked the strings on his crossbow and made sure the flights and broadheads were firmly attached during the twenty minutes it took McDole to show up. Suddenly C.J. was nervous; if the older man said no to his request. . . . Well, he might bitch about it, but he would never disregard McDole's orders.

  "Morning." The white-haired mar's voice was cheerful. "Feels like December again, doesn't it?" C.J. nodded, reluctant to speak as McDole put a match to a can of Sterno for hot water. "Get down some coffee, would you?"

  "Sure." C.J.'s voice came out hoarse and he cleared his throat. McDole watched him curiously as the teen set out their usual coffee makings on the table by the little camp stove.

  "You have something you want to talk about?"

  C.J. sighed inwardly; between Calie and McDole, sometimes it seemed he had no privacy at all. Well, what the hell. "Yeah. . . ." He'd always found it hard to ask for stuff, especially time to himself, and as a toddler he'd learned that asking for something usually caused pain. He was sure his father was either dead or one of those maggoty things in the subways, but the drunkard's lessons still lived on.