“You mean because of that hole that opened up in Oyster Bay this morning? Whatta y’think’s goin’ on?”
“Don’t you know? It’s the end of the world.” My world, at least.
Rudy’s smile was wary. “No … really.”
“Please finish the job.” She didn’t feel like talking about it. “Seal the house up tight. That will earn you the bonus I promised.”
“You got it.”
He bustled off and began shouting at his workers to get their asses moving.
Sylvia sighed as she stared at Toad Hall. The old place’s carefully maintained look of faded elegance was gone, destroyed by the rolling storm shutters. But they were good, tight, with heavy-duty slats of solid steel. The best. During the day they could be rolled up into the cylinders bolted above the windows; at sunset they’d slide down along tracks fastened to the window frames. They’d be cranked down by hand tonight, but after they were fully wired up tomorrow, Sylvia would be able to roll them all up and down with the flick of a single switch. This particular model was designed to withstand storms of hurricane force. Tonight they were going to have to withstand a storm of a different sort. She prayed they’d be enough.
“The back’s done,” Alan said, rolling toward her. “They’re moving around here to help finish up this side.” His gaze followed Sylvia’s to the anachronisms being attached to Toad Hall. “A shame, isn’t it?”
Sylvia smiled, glad to know their thoughts were still in synch, even after the uncomfortable silence of the ride back from the city. Especially when Alan had told her what that nut had said as they were leaving.
Only three will live to return.
What an awful thing to say.
“I feel like I’m witnessing the end of an era.”
“It might be the end of a lot more than that,” Alan said.
Sylvia felt all her muscles tighten. She said nothing. She knew where Alan was leading and didn’t want to go there. She’d been dreading this conversation since they left Glaeken’s apartment.
“Talk to me, Sylvia. Why are you so angry?”
“I’m not angry.”
“You’re coiled like a steel spring.”
Again she said nothing. I’m coiled, all right, she thought, but it’s not anger. I wish it were. I can deal with anger.
“What do you think, Syl?” Alan said finally.
Why couldn’t he let it drop?
“About what?”
“About Glaeken. About what he said this morning.”
“I haven’t had time to think much about anything, least of all that old crank’s ravings.”
“I believe him,” Alan said. “And so do you. I saw it in your eyes when you were listening. I know your expression when you think you’re being bullshitted. You weren’t wearing it back in Glaeken’s apartment. So why don’t you admit it?”
“All right,” she said through tight lips. “I believe him too. Does that make you happy?”
She regretted that last sentence as soon as she said it, but it seemed to roll right off Alan.
“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. So I’ve got to ask you: If you believe him, why did you walk out?”
“Because I don’t trust him. Don’t misunderstand me on that,” she added quickly. “I don’t think he’s lying to us. I think he’s sincere, I … just … don’t think he’s as much in control of his end of things as he thinks he is … or wants us to believe he is.”
“Maybe not. He was trying to sell us—you, especially—on something none of us is prepared to accept. The only reason we can accept it is that we’ve already had our lives turned upside down by something that ninety-nine percent of rational humanity would swear is impossible.”
Sylvia sighed. “The Dat-tay-vao.”
“Yeah. And if he says he needs the Dat-tay-vao to try to close up those holes and keep the days from shrinking to nothing and the world being overrun by those monstrosities from last night, why would you hold Jeffy away from him? Jeffy doesn’t need the Dat-tay-vao.”
“How do you know that?”
“Has it ever treated its carrier well? Look at Walter Erskine. Look at me. Remember the lines from the old song about the one who carries the Touch? ‘… He bears the weight of the balance that must be struck.’”
“But the Dat-tay-vao hasn’t harmed Jeffy.”
“Only because he hasn’t used it—yet. He hasn’t had an opportunity—yet. But what if he does find out, and does begin using it?”
Here it comes. She felt the pressure building up in her, edging past the point of control until she had to say it.
“And what if the Dat-tay-vao’s relationship with Jeffy is different? Special?”
Alan’s puzzled gaze searched her face.
“I don’t—”
“What if the Dat-tay-vao’s presence is keeping Jeffy like he is?” She tried to hold the tremor out of her voice but it grew, lending the words a jittery vibrato. “What if it’s the reason he’s been alert, responsive, laughing, singing, reading, playing with other kids—a normal boy—for the past year? Alan, what if that old man takes the Dat-tay-vao away for his focus or whatever he was talking about and Jeffy goes back to the way he was when I adopted him?” The tremor spread from her voice to her body now. She couldn’t control the shaking in her hands and knees. “What if he becomes autistic again, Alan?”
Sylvia pressed her hands against her face, as much to hide as to catch the tears springing into her eyes.
“God, Alan, I’m so ashamed!”
Suddenly someone was standing beside her. She felt a pair of arms slip around her and hold her close.
“Alan! You’re standing!”
“Not very well, I’m afraid. But that’s not the point. Watching you all morning, trying to figure out what’s going on inside you, and never seeing how frightened you are. Christ, what a jerk.”
“But you’re standing!”
“You’ve seen me do it before.”
“But not without the parallel bars.”
“You’re my parallel bars at the moment. I couldn’t just sit there and watch you go to pieces and spout that nonsense about being ashamed.”
“But I am ashamed.” She twisted in his arms and clung to him. “If Glaeken’s right, the whole world is threatened, billions of people in danger, and here I’m only worried about one little boy. I’m ready to let the whole world take a flying leap rather than jeopardize him.”
“But that’s not just any little boy. That’s Jeffy—your little boy, the most important little boy in your world. Don’t be ashamed of putting him first. That’s where he should be. That’s where he belongs.”
“But the whole world, Alan! How can I say no?” The panic welled up again. “How can I say yes?”
“I can’t answer that for you, Syl. I wish I could. You’ve got to weigh everything. Got to figure that if Glaeken’s right, and he can’t get the Dat-tay-vao for the focus he was talking about, then Jeffy’s a goner along with everybody else. There’s nothing to say that he can’t lure the Dat-tay-vao from Jeffy without harming him. If Glaeken can then turn all these horrors around, Jeffy will have a safer world to live in.”
“But if Jeffy is left in autistic limbo again…”
“That branches into two possibilities. Glaeken succeeds and Jeffy’s back to where he was a year ago and we deal with it and hope for a medical breakthrough in autism. Or Glaeken fails despite Jeffy’s sacrifice.”
“Then it’s all been for nothing.”
“Not necessarily. If nothing else, Jeffy’s relapse into autism will shield him from the living hell Glaeken’s predicting. That might be a blessing.”
She clung more tightly to Alan. “I wish this weren’t up to me.”
“I know. Too bad he’s not old enough to be brought in on the decision.”
Sylvia felt a vibration begin to shimmer through Alan’s lean body. She looked down and saw that his left leg had begun to tremble. As she watched, it began to jitter and shake. Alan reached
a hand down to steady it, but as soon as he let go, the tremors started again.
Alan smiled. “I feel like Robert Klein doing his old I-can’t-stop-my-leg routine.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Spasm. Happens when I’m on it too long. Used to be in both legs, now it’s just my left. Maybe I could try an Elvis imitation.”
“Stop it. Nobody listens to Elvis anymore.”
“I do. But only his Sun stuff, and pre-Army RCA.”
Sylvia smiled. Alan and his oldies. Part of his therapy after the coma had been to rebuild his doo-wop collection. It had worked miracles with his memory linkages.
“Here. Sit down.”
He eased himself back into the wheelchair. The leg stopped its jittering as soon as he took his weight off it.
“Uh-oh,” Alan said, slapping the still leg. “There goes my new career.”
Sylvia bent and hugged him around the neck.
“Have I told you that I love you?”
“Not today.”
“I love you, Alan. And thanks.”
“For what?”
“For standing up and holding me when I needed it. And for making things clear. I think I know what I’m going to do now.”
“Missus?”
Sylvia started at the sound of Ba’s voice. She wished he’d learn to make a little more noise when he moved about. He was like a cat.
He stood behind her holding the new club he’d been working on most of the afternoon to replace the one he’d given to that Jack fellow. Like its predecessor it was studded with diamond-like chew-wasp teeth.
“Yes, Ba?”
“Where is the Boy?”
Fingers of unease brushed her throat.
“I thought he was with you.”
“He was in the garage with me. He wished to go outside. I knew the Missus and the Doctor were here so…”
Ba’s voice trailed off as he did a slow turn, scanning the perimeter of the grounds.
Sylvia started toward the backyard. She never let Jeffy out alone by the water. Nightmares of dragging the Long Island Sound for his body …
“Maybe he’s—”
“No, Missus. I watched him run around house to front.”
“Maybe he’s inside, then.”
“He is not, Missus.”
The long shadows seemed to be reaching for her. The sun had become a red glow behind the willows along the west wall. The fingers of unease at her throat stretched, reaching toward panic, encircling and squeezing.
Rudy came toward her across the lawn. “We’re done!” he said, grinning.
“Have you seen Jeffy?” she asked. “My little boy?”
“The blond-haired kid? Not for a while. Not for a few hours. But we’ve been kinda occupied with getting those shutters up on time. Now, about that bonus—”
“I’ll pay you everything later—tomorrow. Right now we’ve got to find Jeffy!”
Alan said, “I’ll check the waterfront. Ba, you beat the bushes along the wall. Sylvia, why don’t you check the road?”
As Alan and Ba went their separate ways, Sylvia hurried down the driveway toward the front gate. When she reached the street she stopped, looking both ways, straining to see in the waning light.
Which way?
Shore Drive followed the curve of the sound, running east toward the center of town and west toward Lattingtown and Glen Cove. Instinctively, she started east, toward the pale moon rising full and translucent in the fading light. Jeffy loved the toy shops and video arcades along the harbor front. If he was traveling Shore Drive, that was the way he’d go. She took a few steps, then stopped, suddenly unsure.
If I were Jeffy, she thought, which way would I go?
Slowly she turned and faced the other way, where the sun perched on the horizon, sinking behind Manhattan.
Manhattan … where Glaeken was … where Jeffy and the power within him wanted to be …
She began running west. Her heart was a claustrophobic prisoner, trapped in her chest, pounding frantically on the bars of her ribs. Her eyes roved left and right, scanning the yards along the road. All oversize lots here, with as much frontage along the street as the shoreline. Unlike Toad Hall, most of the other yards were open, their manicured grounds studded with trees and shrubs and free-form plantings. Jeffy could have followed a squirrel or a bird into any one of them.
He might be anywhere.
She slowed but kept moving. She didn’t want to miss him. To her left a battered red pickup truck squealed to a halt on the street. Rudy leaned out the window as the rest of his work crew sped by him in their own cars and trucks.
“Any sign of your boy?”
Sylvia shook her head. “No. Look, we call him Jeffy. If you see him on your way—”
“I’ll send him back. Good luck.”
He sped off and Sylvia, with increasingly frequent glances at the disappearing sun, resumed her search. Before she’d traveled a block—the blocks were long out here—the sun was gone.
My God, my God, she thought, the sun’s down and those horrible insects are probably rising out of that new hole and heading this way right now.
If she didn’t get Jeffy back to the house soon those things would rip him to pieces. And if she stayed out here much longer, she would be ripped to pieces.
What am I going to do?
WFPW-FM
FREDDY: All right, everybody. It’s official—the sun’s gone down early again. It sank outta sight at 6:44. One hour and thirty-nine minutes early. If I were you I’d get off the streets. Now. Get indoors and keep it tuned here. We’ll keep you updated between the greatest songs ever recorded.
Hank thumbed the DOWN button on the remote and watched his steel hurricane shutters slide down their steel tracks outside his two windows. Then he stepped to his steel door and locked it.
Safe.
The Lodge was built like a fortress with an exterior of thick granite block and stone walls within. Steel and stone—what could be safer?
He owed much of that to the Kicker Man—or rather his more recent Kicker Man dreams. These had come to him months ago, showing the Kicker Man being attacked by birds—or at least what he’d assumed at the time to be birds. Now he knew they were big bugs from hell. Same difference. The dreams had inspired the shutters and the steel door, and they’d keep him safe from any goddamn bugs.
The good old Kicker Man. He’d inspired the book and he’d returned whenever anything heavy was going down. Hadn’t let Hank down yet.
But the food … that was all Hank’s idea.
He sat on his bed and looked around the room. One hell of a busy day. Running in and out with five-gallon jugs of spring water, boxes of batteries, a propane stove, and food, food, food. Cartons of canned goods—stacks of cartons leaned against the walls. It looked more like a warehouse than a bedroom.
After he’d sent his guys out to the grocery stores, he had a better idea. Why think small? Why not go to the source? So he rented a van, looked up a distributor, and really stocked up. Drove it around back of the Lodge and had some of the hangers-on bring it all up here.
Tomorrow he’d send the guys out in an army of trucks and they’d fill the Lodge’s cellar.
But he’d had a second coup today.
He reached under his bed and dragged out a pair of canvas bags. Heavy suckers—almost fifty pounds each. They clinked as they settled on the floor. He pulled one open, reached inside, and pulled out a fistful of quarters.
Yeah. Two whole bags of pre-1964 quarters. Four thousand of them, all solid silver. He’d bought them from a coin dealer on Fifty-sixth. And charged them. He couldn’t believe it. The clueless jerk took Visa for them!
Didn’t anyone get it? If daylight shrank to nothing and things really started falling apart, these coins were going to be like gold, like diamonds. Each of these quarters could be worth fifty dollars apiece in buying power. Precious metals would be what mattered. Gold, silver, gems would repl
ace government paper.
He looked up at the cases of food around him. But food would be more valuable than any metal. Can’t eat gold or silver. In a world without sunlight, where nothing but mushrooms can grow, nothing was going to be more valuable than food. The man with the full larder would be king.
Nightwings
“There they are!”
Bill Ryan focused the binoculars on the hole in the Sheep Meadow. They brought the people below into sharp focus, seemingly within reach, but the people weren’t what interested him.
“Right on time,” Glaeken said from behind his right shoulder.
Bill watched the fluttering things begin to collect under the barrier stretched over the hole, watched them straining upward against the steel mesh. Arrayed against them under the banks of lights was an army of exterminators sheathed in heavy protective gear and masks, wielding hoses attached to tank trucks equipped with high-pressure pumps. At a signal from somewhere, all the nozzles came to life, spewing golden fluid.
“What are they spraying?” Glaeken said.
“Looks like some sort of insecticide.”
Glaeken grunted and turned away. “No toxins are going to hurt those things. They’d do far better with gasoline and a match.” He turned on the TV. “Here. It’s being broadcast. You’ll get a better angle here.”
Bill stepped to his side and watched the scene below in living color. Apparently Glaeken was right: In the telephoto close-up on the screen, the insecticide was having no effect on the steadily increasing number of creatures massed under the mesh, wetting them down and little else. He looked at Nick, sitting on the sofa, staring at the wall, then turned back to Glaeken.
“Think the net will hold through the night?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Glaeken said with his predictable pessimism.
Bill shook his head. Perhaps being pessimistic was being realistic, but he couldn’t suppress the thrill of hope that shot through him when he saw all those monstrosities trapped under the steel mesh.
“Why not? It shows we can contain them.”
“Even as we speak, the holes in Queens, on Staten Island, and out on Long Island are spewing out the very creatures they think they’ve defeated here.”
Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack) Page 16
