F. Paul Wilson - Nightworld

"What happened?"

"We had an awful night. Most of the lower floors did. They broke through our living-room windows and chased us through the apartment. We had to spend the rest of the night in the hall closet. Those things were right outside the door all night, clawing, chewing, scratching, trying to get in at us."

"How awful!" Carol said.

She realized then how lucky they were to have an apartment on an upper floor. They'd been spared last night. But what about tonight?

"Not as awful as what happened to the Honigs in four-twelve," her husband said. "Jerry lost his left hand and their little girl got carried off."

The woman's brave facade crumbled as she began to sob. "Poor Carrie!"

Carol's heart went out to the Honigs, whoever they were.

"If there's anything we can do for them—I mean, if they need food or—"

Hank nudged her. When she looked at him, he gave her a quick, tiny shake of his head.

"Hank—!"

"I'll explain later," he said under his breath.

The elevator doors opened onto the lobby then. The other couple hefted their luggage and moved out. Carol grabbed Hank's arm.

"Are you telling me we can't share any of our hoard with our neighbors if they need it?"

"Carol, please keep your voice down," he hissed, glancing around the empty lobby. "We can't let anyone know what we've got. Anyone! You tell one, she'll tell two who'll tell a couple more. Before you know it, the whole building—hell, the whole East Side will know what we've got. And then they'll be knocking on our door, begging. And if we give to one we'll have to give to more. And if we try to save some for ourselves they'll want that too. And when we don't give it to them, they'll break our door down and kill us and each other to get at it."

Shocked, Carol stared at him.

"God, Hank. What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me! What's wrong with you? Can't you get it into your head that when things really begin to fall apart, our stock—our 'hoard,' as you like to call it—might be all that stands between us and starvation?"

She stared at him in wonder as a police car roared by outside with its sirens blasting.

Survival? Mere survival? At what cost? She couldn't see herself trading all her humane instincts and values for a full belly. And then an unsettling question wheedled its way into her thoughts: Would hunger—real hunger—put a whole new slant on her perspective?

She hoped the time never came when she had to deal with that question. But now, here, in the present, she had to deal with this strange new Hank. Maybe a more logical approach would work.

"But Hank, even with all we've put away, the time's going to come when that's going to run out too."

"No, no!" he said, a panicked look twisting his features for an instant. "A new order will be established after a while, and then we can begin trading for other things we need. We'll be in the catbird seat."

"Great, Hank. But we'll have had to pick our way through the starved corpses of our friends and neighbors to get there. Will that make you happy?"

"Dammit, Carol, I'm not talking about happiness—I'm talking about survival!"

Like talking to a wall, she thought dispiritedly.

"Fine, Hank. Keep on talking about survival. I need some fresh air."

She strode across the lobby and out to the street. Behind her she heard Hank call out.

"Don't forget your list! We need all that stuff by tonight!"

Carol wished she could have slammed the lobby door behind her.

CNN:

The Weekend Report continues with this just in from the White House. The President has declared a national state of emergency. Repeat: a national state of emergency. Reserve units of the Army are being activated. Congress has called an emergency session.

Monroe, Long Island

Sylvia recognized the old man's voice immediately. A wave of resentment surged through her.

"I hope this isn't about moving in with you in the city," she said, controlling her voice. "Pressure tactics won't work, Mr. Veilleur. I don't wear down very easily."

"I'm quite well aware of that, Mrs. Nash. And please call me Glaeken. That's my real name."

Sylvia didn't want to call him that. It was like a first name, and she didn't wish to be on a first-name basis with this man. So she said nothing.

"I didn't call to pressure you into anything," he said after a pause. "I merely wished to inquire as to how you and your household fared last night."

"We did just fine, thank you." No thanks to you.

She repressed the urge to tell him that the strange attraction Jeffy had developed for him had nearly cost the boy his life—and Ba's and her own as well; that if Jeffy hadn't become so fixated on Glaeken he wouldn't have wandered off last night. But in the back of her mind she knew Glaeken could crush her with the simple admonishment that a good mother should know the whereabouts of her child. She'd spent most of the night telling herself the same thing, berating herself for letting Jeffy wander off. If only she'd kept an eye on him, Rudy would still be alive and Ba wouldn't have dozens of healing wounds on the back of his neck.

"This is a tough old house," she said. "And with the metal storm shutters we installed yesterday, it's like a fortress."

The racket last night had been horrendous. Those things from the hole had pounded against the shutters incessantly until sunrise. Sealed in as they were, the silence from outside had been their only clue that daylight had arrived. She'd greeted the dawn with relief and exhaustion.

"Good," Glaeken said. "I'm very glad to hear that. I hope your defenses remain as effective against future assaults. But I called for two reasons. The other is to let you know that Jack, the fellow who let you in yesterday, will be stopping by later for a visit."

"I warned you about pressuring me."

"Have no fear, Mrs Nash. He's not coming to see you. He wishes to speak to Ba."

"Ba? What does he want with Ba?"

She vaguely remembered the wiry, dark-haired, dark-eyed man Glaeken had mentioned—a rather ordinary-looking sort. She had an impression of him and Ba standing at the back of the living room, speaking together in low tones. It was so unusual for Ba to speak at all to a stranger, she remembered wondering if they'd met before.

"Perhaps I'd better let Jack explain that himself," Glaeken said. "Good day, Mrs. Nash."

What on earth could those two have in common? she wondered. She fought the temptation to tip-toe to one of the windows and eavesdrop. She'd know soon enough.

And sure enough, a few minutes later Ba was leading Jack into the house through the back door. Alan rolled in behind them and Jeffy brought up the rear, flipping his football from hand to hand.

"Hi, Mrs. Nash," Jack said, extending his hand. "We met yesterday."

She shook his hand briefly. "I remember."

"Can we all talk?" Jack said.

Alan looked at Sylvia and gave her a puzzled shrug. "Why don't we go into the den," he said.

Sylvia sent Jeffy upstairs to wash his hands and seated herself where she had a view of the stairs. If Jeffy came down, she'd see him. There'd be no wandering off this time. She was determined to know his whereabouts every minute of the day.

Jack seated himself across from her. Ba remained standing near Alan. She sensed tightly coiled tension in the tall Oriental and tried to read his expression, but as usual he was letting nothing show.

Jack said, "Do you remember Glaeken talking about a certain pair of necklaces yesterday?"

Sylvia nodded. "The ones supposedly made from the second focus."

"Right. Well, he's located them on Maui, and I'm going to head out there tomorrow to see if I can get them back."

"I see," Sylvia said, keeping her tone noncommittal. "What does that have to do with Ba?"