"Still busy," she said. "And I still can't get hold of an operator."
"I'll drive you over. I'm sure he's all right."
In the strange, shadowless yellow half-light that was passing for day, Bill skirted the Park to the south and headed east across town. No road blocks and no traffic to speak of. No police to speak of, either, and that concerned him. He came to First Avenue and was about to turn uptown when he glanced at the Queensboro Bridge.
"Carol!" he said as he screeched to a halt. "Look at the bridge."
"Oh, my God!" she whispered.
The center section of the span had broken up and now floated in the air in sections, tethered to the rest of the bridge by the suspension cables.
"A gravity hole," Carol said. "And it was such a beautiful bridge."
"The engineers have been saying for years what poor shape the bridges were in. Now we know how right they were."
He turned up first and drove along the middle of the street. It seemed as if almost every window in the city had been broken—except for those in Glaeken's building; not a pane had been so much as cracked there.
He eased to the left and upped their speed when he spotted a mob clustered around the front of a grocery on their right.
"Hank and I shopped there two days ago," Carol said.
Nobody was shopping now. Pillaging was more like it. People were jumping in and out of the broken door and windows, looking for anything remotely edible. But there didn't seem to be anything left to pillage. The enraged mob was tearing out the empty shelves and hurling them into the street. Three men were brawling over what looked like a can of tuna fish.
Further on, groups of tight-faced people hung about on the glass-bejeweled sidewalks, clustered in tense circles, glancing nervously over their shoulders this way and that with their fear-haunted eyes. He saw three women standing around a doorway sobbing as a sheet-covered body was being carried out. The people on the streets looked like ghosts.
"It's falling apart," Carol said, her arms crossed in front of her chest as if to ward off a chill. "Just like Hank said it would."
As Bill was slowing for a red light at 63rd—habit, pure habit—somebody shot at them. The bullet punched through the rear window and smashed the right rear side pane on its way out. Bill floored the gas pedal and sped uptown, ignoring traffic lights the rest of the way.
He double parked in front of Carol and Hank's apartment building and led her toward the shattered front door.
"The van's gone," she said, looking up and down the street.
"What van?"
"The one Hank rented."
"Maybe he had to move it."
Bill doubted that Carol believed that; he didn't believe it himself. He had a bad feeling about this: Carol was going to get hurt this morning.
They hurried inside. Carol gasped when she saw the body on the floor. Someone had covered it with a drape from one of the ruined windows.
"Do you think it's—?" she said, looking at Bill with terror in her eyes.
"I'll see."
He knelt by the still form and lifted a corner of the sheet. He dropped it quickly when he saw the white, agonized face, open mouth, and dull, staring eyes.
"Not Hank," he said, taking her arm and leading her away.
The elevator ride was slow and rough, as if the motors weren't getting enough power. As soon as the doors opened on her floor, Carol bolted from the car and ran down the hall. Bill noticed some drying brown stains on the carpet and what looked like a trail of the same leading to her apartment but he said nothing. She had her door open by the time Bill caught up with her. He stayed close behind her as she entered.
He bumped up against her back when she stopped dead inside the threshold.
"It's empty!" she cried. "He's gone!"
"Empty?" Bill said.
He glanced about. Hank might have been gone but the place didn't look empty. Except for the cyclone fencing over the windows, everything was just as it had been last time he'd come by. The furniture looked the same, nothing was—
"The food and the rest of his precious hoard. It's gone!" Her voice edged toward a sob. "He'd never leave without it. He's taken it and left me."
Bill did a quick search of the apartment. He found the note on the dresser in the bedroom.
Dear Carol
I've taken our supplies and gone looking for a safer place. I think I know of one. I can't say where it is right now, but when I get set up there, I'll come back for you. Wait for me.
Love,
Hank
Love. Right.
Carol seemed to crumble as she read the note. Bill knew it wasn't because Hank had taken the food and run off. The food didn't matter. It was simply that Hank had shown her without a doubt where she ranked in his scheme of things. Bill put his arms around her quaking shoulders and held her tight against him.
And damn it all, he was glad Hank had taken off. Because it was one less barrier between them. He loathed himself for that. But he wanted her. God, how he wanted her.
He forced himself to pull back and take her arm.
"Come on. We're going back."
"No, Bill. I've got to wait to hear from Hank."
"Hank?" he said, suddenly furious with her, with Hank, with everything. "Hank won't be calling." He went to the sofa and yanked the telephone receiver from under a cushion and dangled it before her. "That's how much Hank wants to talk to you!"
Carol's shoulders slumped. She turned and walked out the door. Bill hurled the receiver to the floor. Now he was angry with himself. He ran after her and caught up with her at the elevator.
"I'm sorry," he said. "That was uncalled for. But I hate him for running out on you. Because he ran out on us too."
Carol stared at him, teary eyed. "Us?"
"All of us. Now's the time when we have to stick together, help each other through this catastrophe. Doing what Hank did, that just makes Rasalom stronger. It's another brick in the walls going up between people. Don't you see what's happening? All the intangibles that link us are being destroyed. Love, trust, brotherhood, community, camaraderie, neighborliness. The simple everyday things that make us human, that make us more than just a collection of organisms, that make us larger than ourselves—they're all going up in smoke."
"It's fear, Bill. Everyone's afraid. Death is everywhere. Up is down, down is up—nothing's sure anymore."
"That's outside," Bill said. "Rasalom's wrecking everything outside. He's calling all the shots out there. But inside"…he pounded on his chest…"inside you've got who you are, and you've got the bonds you've formed with other people. That's where those bonds are anchored. Rasalom can't get inside unless he's allowed in. You let that fear in and it will destroy those bonds. And that's the beginning of the end. For without them we divide up into small, suspicious enclaves, which soon deteriorate into warring packs, which finally degenerate into a bunch of back-stabbing lone wolves."
"Hank would never—"
"Excuse me, Carol, but I believe you've got a knife in your back. One with Hank's fingerprints all over it. As far as I'm concerned, running off like this is aiding and abetting the enemy."
"He'll call, Bill."
Bill didn't trust himself to respond directly to that.
"You'll be safer at Glaeken's," he said. "Hank knows the number. He can reach you there."
Carol didn't argue.
The elevator doors opened. They rode down in silence and they didn't talk much on the ride back. There was more traffic about now, but scattered and fitful. Bill headed west toward the Park on 72nd. As he slowed for a passing truck on Madison, three tough-looking blacks, either high or drunk or both, stepped in front of the car.
"A Mercedes," the biggest of them said, slurring his words. "Always wanted me a Mercedes."
Bill pulled out the pistol and pointed it through the windshield at one of the men, hoping the bluff would work. He knew he couldn't pull the trigger. The big man smiled sheepishly, held up his hands, and the three
of them staggered away. Bill glanced at Carol and found her staring at him.
"A pistol, Bill?" she said. "You?"
"Jack's idea," he said. "I don't even know how to fire it."
Carol held out her hand. "I do. I spent fifteen years roaming around the South with Jonah and…that boy."
She took the gun, flicked a little switch on its side, worked the slide back and forth once, then held it up in plain view next to her window.
Speechless, Bill drove on. They had no trouble the rest of the trip back.
WNEW-FM
JO: Hi, this is Jo and Freddie. Yeah, I know we're early but we're the only ones left at the station. No one knows where the other guys are.
FREDDIE: Headed for the hills, if they're smart.
JO: Yeah. But we're not smart. We're sticking this out. In fact, we're moving into the station. We're living here, man, and we're staying on the air as long as they let us. And since nobody else is around, that could be a long time.
EDDIE: Yeah. Jo and Freddie all day and all night.
JO: Right. So let's get this started. It's Monday morning, May twenty-second. The sun rose at 7:40 a.m. According to the Sapir curve, it will set at 5:35 this afternoon, leaving us with a measly nine hours and fifty-five minutes of sunlight today.
FREDDIE: So do what you have to do quick and get home soon. And be careful out there, folks. Be good to each other. We're all we've got left.
THE NEW JERSEY TURNPIKE
Clear sailing on the open blacktop. Hardly any other cars. Hank had most of the six southbound lanes to himself.
He wondered why more people weren't on the move, then realized that gas was probably in short supply—all the service areas he'd passed so far had been deserted. And where was there to go? According to the news reports, hell was everywhere. It might be a horror show where you were, but you could be fleeing into something far worse. And what if dark fell before you made it to where you were going? Better to stay where you were, hunker down, and try to hold on to what you had.
As he drove he couldn't help thinking about Carol. Strange it had taken a crisis of these apocalyptic proportions to make him realize how little they had in common, how shallow their relationship was. He should have seen it long ago.
He wasn't deserting her, though. He was nothing if not loyal. He'd come back for her when he'd found a place for them down the Shore. But he'd make sure she didn't know where they were going until they got there. That way she couldn't yap about it to anyone.
He saw the sign for Exit 11—Garden State Parkway. That was his. The Parkway would take him down the coast to Seaside Heights. Just past that sign was another for the Thomas A. Edison Service Area. Under that, sitting on the curb, was a sheet of plywood, hand painted:
WE HAVE GAS
DEISEL TOO
Yeah, but can you spell?
Hank checked his gas gauge: half a tank. They were probably charging an arm and a leg per gallon, but who knew when he'd get another chance to buy gas—if ever?
Ahead he saw a beat-up station wagon turn off the road onto the service area approach. Hank decided to follow.
As he approached the gas lanes he saw one of the two overalled attendants leaning in the passenger window of the station wagon. He straightened up and waved the wagon on.
Probably doesn't have enough money, Hank thought.
He smiled and clinked his heel against the canvas bags stowed under the front seat. He had something better than money. Silver coins. Precious metal. Always worth something no matter what the times, but worth more in bad times. And the worse things got, the more they were worth.
He slowed, reached down and pulled out a handful of coins; he shoved them into his pocket, checked that both door locks were down, then headed for the gas lanes.
The two attendants were clean cut and clean shaven, one blond, one dark, both well built, each about thirty. The blond one came around to Hank's side.
"You've got gas?" Hank said, rolling his window down a couple of inches.
The fellow nodded. "What've you got for it besides plastic or paper?"
Hank pulled out his quarters. "These should do. They're all pre-1964—solid silver."
The blond stared at the coins, then called to the dark-haired one.
"Hey, Ray. He's got silver. We want silver?"
Ray came up to the passenger window. "I dunno," he said through the glass. "What else you got?"
"This is it," Hank said.
"What you got in the back?" the blond one said.
A trapped feeling had begun to steal over Hank. He reached for the gear shift.
"Never mind."
His hand never reached it. Both side windows exploded inward, peppering him with glass; a fist came in from his left and smashed against his cheek, showering cascades of flashing lights through his vision. He heard the door open, felt fingers clutch his hair and his shoulder, then he was dragged from behind the wheel and dumped onto his back on the pavement.
Pain shot up and down Hank's spine as he writhed on his back, trying to catch the wind that had been knocked out of him. Above him, he was dimly aware of one the attendants reaching into the cab and turning off the engine, then taking the keys around to the rear doors. He heard the doors swing open.
"Holy shit!" It was Ray's voice. "Gary! Take a look! This guy's loaded!"
Hank struggled to his feet. He was terrified. A part of him wanted to run, but where? For what? To be caught out in the open when dark came? Or to starve to death if he did find shelter? No! He had to get his supplies back.
He staggered to the rear of his van and tried to slam the nearest door closed.
"That's mine!" he shouted.
The fair one, Gary, turned on him in red-faced fury and lashed out with his fists so fast, so hard, so many times in rapid succession that Hank barely knew what hit him. All he knew was one moment he was on his feet, the next his head and abdomen were exploding with pain and his face was slamming against the asphalt drive.
He began to sob. "It's not fair! It's mine!"
He raised his head and spat blood. As his vision slowly cleared, he saw a white car speeding toward them from the Parkway. He blinked. Something on top of the car—a red-and-blue flasher bar. And the state seal on the door. A Jersey State Trooper.
Thank God!
Groaning, he forced himself up to his knees and began waving with both arms.
"Help! Over here! Help! Robbery!"
The police unit screeched to a halt behind Hank's van and a tall, graying, bareheaded trooper, resplendent in his gray uniform and shiny Sam Brown belt, hopped out and approached the two thieves still leaning inside the back doors.
"Yo, Captain," Ray said. "Look what we found."
"Fucking supermarket on wheels," Gary said.
The trooper stared at the stacks of cartons.
"Very impressive," he said. "Looks like we caught us a live one."
"Officer," Hank said, not quite believing his ears, "these men tried to rob me!"
The trooper swiveled and looked down at Hank, fixing him with a withering glare.
"We're commandeering your hoard."
"You're with them?"
"No. They're with me. I'm their superior officer. I set up this little sting operation to catch hoarder scum and looters on the run. You have the honor of being our first catch of the day."
"I bought all that stuff!" Hank said, struggling to his feet. He stood swaying like a sapling in a gale. "You have no right!"
"Wrong," the trooper said calmly. "I have every right. Hoarders have no rights."
"I'll report you!"
His smile was white ice. "Move away, little man. I'm the court of last resort around here. Be thankful I don't have you shot on the spot. Your hoard is about to be divided up among those who'll make the best use of it. It'll see us through until the time comes for us to restore order."
Hank couldn't believe this was happening. There had to be something he could do, someone he could turn to.
And then he saw Gary rip open a carton and pull out a cellophane envelope.
"Hey, look! Oodles of Noodles. My favorite!"
Something snapped inside Hank. Screaming, waving his fists, he charged at Gary.
"That's mine! Get your hands off it!"
He never made it. The captain stepped in front of him and rammed his forearm into Hank's face. Hank reeled back, clutching his shattered nose.
"Get running, little man," the captain said in a tight, cold voice. "Run while you still can."
"I can't!" Hank said, mortally afraid now. "There's no place to go! We're in the middle of nowhere! I've got two bags of silver coins under the front seat. You can have them. Just give me back my van. Please!"
The captain reached for the revolver in his holster. He didn't pause or hesitate an instant. In one smooth, swift motion he pulled it free, ratcheted the hammer back with his thumb as he raised it, and pointed it at Hank's face.
"You just don't get it, do you?"
There was nothing in his eyes as he pulled the trigger. Hank tried to duck but was too late. He felt a blast of pain in his skull as the world exploded into unbearable light, then collapsed into fathomless darkness.
WXRK-FM
Stay out of the water, everybody. In fact, stay away from the water. There are things in the rivers and apparently they don't go into hiding during the day. We've just received a confirmed report of a fisherman being pulled off a dock in Coney Island and eaten alive before the eyes of his horrified family.
Don't go near the water, man.
MANHATTAN
"W' happen t' yer car, buddy?"
The drunk had been staggering along the glass-littered sidewalk; he'd veered toward Jack's Corvair as it pulled into the curb in front of Walt Duran's apartment building.
"Ran into some bugs," Jack said as he got out.
The drunk stared at the torn top. He was fiftyish, overweight, and needed a shave; he wore a gray wool suit that looked to be of decent quality, but it was filthy. A liter bottle of Bacardi Light dangled from his hand. His complexion was ghastly in the yellow light.
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