F. Paul Wilson - The Tomb

Jack had to think a second. He always felt stupid when he had to remember his age.

"Uhh… thirty-four."

"Thirty-four. Surely you've been ditched before?"

"Abe… I can't remember ever feeling about anyone the way I feel about Gia. And she's afraid of me!"

"Fear of the unknown. She doesn't know you, so she's afraid of you. I know all about you. Am I afraid?"

"Aren't you? Ever?"

"Never!" He trotted back behind the counter and picked up a copy of the New York Post . Rifling through the pages, he said, "Look—a five-year-old beaten to death by his mother's boyfriend! A guy with a straight razor slashes eight people in Times Square last night and then disappears into a subway! A headless, handless torso is found in a West Side hotel room! As a hit-and-run victim lays bleeding in the street, people run up to him, rob him, and then leave him there. I should be afraid of you ?"

Jack shrugged, unconvinced. None of this would bring Gia back; it was what he was that had driven her away. He decided he wanted to do his business here and go home.

"I need something."

"What?"

"A slapper. Lead and leather."

Abe nodded. "Ten ounces do?"

"Sure."

Abe locked the front door and hung the "Back In A Few Minutes" sign facing out through the glass. He passed Jack and led him toward the back, where they stepped into a closet and closed the door after them. A push swung the rear wall of the closet away from them. Abe hit a light switch and they started down a worn stone stairway. As they moved, a neon sign flickered to life:

FINE WEAPONS

THE RIGHT TO BUY WEAPONS IS THE

RIGHT TO BE FREE

Jack had often asked Abe why he had placed a neon sign where advertising would do no good; Abe unfailingly replied that every good weapons shop should have such a sign.

"When you get right down to it, Jack," Abe was saying, "what I think of you or what Gia thinks of you isn't going to matter much in the long run. Because there isn't going to be a long run. Everything's falling apart. You know that. There's not much time left before civilization collapses completely. It's going to start soon. The banks'll start to go any day now. These people who think their savings are insured by the FDIC? Have they got a rude awakening coming! Just wait till the first couple of banks go under and they find out the FDIC only has enough to cover a pupik's worth of the deposits it's supposed to be insuring. Then you'll see panic, my boy. That's when the government will crank up the printing presses to full speed to cover those deposits and we'll have runaway inflation on our hands. I tell you…"

Jack cut him off. He knew the routine by heart.

"You've been telling me for ten years, Abe! Economic ruin has been around the corner for a decade now. Where is it?"

"Coming, Jack. Coming. I'm glad my daughter's fully grown and disinclined toward marriage and a family. I shudder at the thought of a child or a grandchild growing up in the coming time."

Jack thought of Vicky. "Full of good cheer as usual, aren't you? You're the only man I know who lights up a room when he leaves."

"Very funny. I'm only trying to open your eyes so you can take steps to protect yourself."

"And what about you? You've got a bomb shelter somewhere in the sticks full of freeze-dried food?"

Abe shook his head. "Nah. I'll take my chances here. I'm not built for a post-holocaust lifestyle. And I'm too old to learn."

He flipped another wall switch at the bottom of the steps, bringing the ceiling lights to life.

The basement was as crowded as the upstairs, only there was no sporting equipment down here. The walls and floors were covered with every one-man weapon imaginable. There were switchblades, clubs, swords, brass knuckles, and a full array of firearms from derringers to bazookas.

Abe went over to a cardboard box and rummaged through it.

"You want a slapper or the braided kind."

"Braided."

Abe tossed him something in a Zip-lok bag. Jack removed it and hefted it in his hand. The sap, sometimes called a blackjack, was made of thin strips of leather woven around a lead weight; the weave tightened and tapered down to a firm handle that ended in a looped thong for the wrist. Jack fitted it on and tried a few short swings. The flexibility allowed him to get his wrist into the motion, a feature that might come in handy at close quarters.

He stood looking at the sap.

This was the sort of thing that had frightened Gia off. He swung it once more, harder, striking the edge of a wooden shipping crate. There was a loud crack; splinters flew.

"This'll do fine. How much?"

"Ten."

Jack reached into his pocket. "Used to be eight."

"That was years ago. One of these should last you a lifetime."

"I lose things." He handed over a ten-dollar bill and put the sap into his pocket.

"Need anything else while we're down here?"

Jack ran a mental inventory of his weapons and ammunition. "No. I'm pretty well set."

"Good. Then let's go upstairs and we'll have some cake and talk. You look like you need some talk."

"Thanks, Abe," Jack said, leading the way upstairs, "but I've got some errands to run before dark, so I'll take a rain-check."

"You hold things in too much. I've told you that before. We're supposed to be friends. So talk it out. You don't trust me anymore?"

"I trust you like crazy. It's just…"

"What?"

"I'll see you, Abe."

15

It was after six when Jack got back to the apartment. With all the shades pulled, the front room was dark. It matched his mood.

He had checked in with his office; there had been no calls of any importance waiting for him. The answerphone here had no messages waiting.

He had a two-wheel, wire shopping cart with him, and in it a paper bag full of old clothing—woman's clothing. He leaned the cart in a corner, then went to his bedroom. His wallet, loose cash, and the new sap went on top of his dresser, then he stripped down and got into a T-shirt and shorts. Time for his work-out. He didn't want to—he felt emotionally and physically spent—but this was the only thing in his daily routine he had promised himself he would never let slide. His life depended on it.

He locked his apartment and jogged up the stairs.

The sun had done its worst and was on its way down the sky, but the roof remained an inferno. Its black surface would hold the day's heat long into the night. Jack looked west into the haze that was reddening the lowering sun. On a clear day you could see New Jersey over there. If you wanted to. Someone had once told him that if you died in sin your soul went to New Jersey.

The roof was crowded. Not with people, with things. There was Appleton's tomato patch in the southeast corner; he had carried the topsoil up bag by fifty-pound bag. Harry Bok had a huge CB antenna in the northeast corner. Centrally located was the diesel generator everybody had pitched in to buy after the July '77 blackout; clustered against its north side like suckling piglets against their mama were a dozen two-gallon cans of number-one oil. And above it all, waving proudly from its slim two-inch pole, was Neil the Anarchist's black flag.

Jack went over to the small wooden platform he had built for himself and did some stretching exercises, then went into his routine. He did his push-ups, sit-ups, jumped rope, practiced his tai kwon do kicks and chops, always moving, never stopping, until his body was slick with sweat and his hair hung in limp wet strands about his face and neck.

He spun at footsteps behind him.

"Hey, Jack."

"Oh, Neil. Hi. Must be about that time."

"Right you are."

Neil went over to the pole and reverently lowered his black flag. He folded it neatly, tucked it under his arm, and headed for the steps, waving as he went. Jack leaned against the generator and shook his head. Odd for a man who despised all rules to be so punctual, yet you could set your watch by the comings and goings of Neil the Anarchist.