“We’re coming out!” she shouted. “Thank God, we’re coming out!” She strained to see light ahead, but the exit wasn’t yet in sight. Don’t stop! You’re almost there!
She stumbled over something on the bottom.
A gurgle of bubbles exploded in her face, and from the water in front of her rose a corpse, blackened and gnarled like a piece of wood, its arms frozen stiffly over its face, its mouth straining in a soundless scream.
The lighter went out.
The corpse leaned against Sister’s shoulder in the dark. She stood motionlessly, her heart about to burst through her chest, and she knew she could either lose her mind in that moment or ...
She took a shuddering breath and pushed the thing aside with her forearm. The corpse slid under again with a noise like a giggle.
“I’m going to get us out of here,” she heard herself vow, and in her voice there was a dogged strength she hadn’t known she possessed. “Fuck the dark! We’re getting out!”
She took the next step, and the next one after that.
Slowly, the water descended to their knees. And—how much later and how many steps further Sister didn’t know—she saw the Holland Tunnel’s exit before them.
They had reached the Jersey shore.
21
“WATER ... PLEASE ... LET ME HAVE SOME water....”
Josh opened his eyes. Darleen’s voice was getting weaker. He sat up and crawled over to where he’d piled up all the cans he’d uncovered. There were dozens of them, many of them burst open and leaking, but their contents seemed okay. Their last meal had been baked beans washed down with V-8 juice, the task of can-opening made simpler by a screwdriver he’d discovered. The dirt had also yielded up a shovel with a broken blade and a pickaxe, along with other bits and pieces from the grocery’s shelves. Josh had put everything in the corner, organizing the tools, large and small cans with the single-minded concentration of a packrat.
He found the V-8 and crawled to Darleen. The exertion left him sweating and tired again, and the smell of the latrine trench he’d dug over on the far side of the basement didn’t help the air any, either.
He reached out in the darkness and touched Swan’s arm. She was cradling her mother’s head. “Here.” He tipped the can to Darleen’s mouth; she drank noisily for a moment and then pushed the can away.
“Water,” she begged. “Please ... some water.”
“I’m sorry. There’s not any.”
“Shit,” she muttered. “I’m burnin’ up.”
Josh gently laid a hand on her forehead; it was like touching a griddle, much worse than his own fever. Further away, PawPaw was still hanging on, intermittently babbling about gophers, his missing truck keys and some woman named Goldie.
“Blakeman,” Darleen croaked. “We gotta ... gotta get to Blakeman. Swan, honey? Don’t you worry, we’ll get there.”
“Yes ma’am,” Swan replied quietly, and Josh heard it in her voice: She knew her mother was near death.
“Soon as they come get us out of here. We’ll be on our way. Lord, I can see my daddy’s face right now!” She laughed, and her lungs gurgled. “Oh, his eyes are gonna jump right out of his head!”
“He’ll be real glad to see us, won’t he?” Swan asked.
“Sure will! Damn it, I wish ... they’d come on and get us out of here! When are they comin’?”
“Soon, Mama.”
That kid’s aged ten years since the blast, Josh thought.
“I ... had a dream about Blakeman,” Darleen said. “You and me were ... were walkin’, and I could see the old house ... right in front of us, across the field. And the sun ... the sun was shinin’ so bright. Oh, it was such a pretty day. And I looked over the field and saw my daddy standin’ on the porch ... and he was wavin’ for me to come on across. He didn’t ... he didn’t hate me anymore. And all of a sudden ... my mama came out of the house, and she was standin’ on the porch beside him ... and they were holdin’ hands. And she called ‘Darleen! Darleen! We’re waitin’ for you, child! Come on home, now!’” She was silent, just the wet sound of her breathing. “We ... we started ’cross the field, but Mama said, ‘No, honey! Just you. Just you. Not the little girl. Just you.’ But I didn’t want to go across without my angel, and I was afraid. And Mama said, ‘The little girl’s got to go on. Got to go on a long, long way.’ Oh ... I wanted to cross that field ... I wanted to ... but ... I couldn’t.” She found Swan’s hand. “I want to go home, honey.”
“It’s all right,” Swan whispered, and she smoothed back the sweat-damp remnants of her mother’s hair. “I love you, Mama. I love you so much.”
“Oh ... I’ve messed things up.” A sob caught in Darleen’s throat. “I messed up ... everything I ever touched. Oh, God ... who’s gonna watch out for my angel? I’m afraid ... I’m so afraid....” She began to sob brokenly, and Swan cradled her head and whispered, “Shhhh, Mama. I’m here. I’m right here.”
Josh crawled away from them. He found his corner and curled up in it, trying to escape.
He didn’t know how much time had passed—maybe hours— when he heard a noise near him. He sat up.
“Mister?” Swan’s voice was weak and wounded. “I think ... my mama’s gone home.”
She broke then and began to cry and moan at the same time.
Josh folded his arms around her, and she clung to his neck and cried. He could feel the child’s heart beating, and he wanted to scream and rage, and if any of the prideful fools who had pushed those buttons were anywhere within reach, he could’ve snapped their necks like matchsticks. Thinking about how many millions might be lying dead out there warped Josh’s mind, like trying to figure out how big the universe was, or how many billions of stars winked in the skies. But right now there was just this little girl, sobbing in his arms, and she could never see the world in the same way as before. No matter what happened to them she would forever be marked by this moment—and Josh knew he would as well. Because it was one thing to know that there might be millions of faceless dead out there; it was something else again to know that a woman who used to breathe and talk and whose name was Darleen was lying dead in the dirt less than ten feet away.
And he would have to bury her in that same dirt. Have to use the pickaxe and the broken shovel and dig the grave on his knees. Have to bury her deep, so they wouldn’t crawl over her in the dark.
He felt the child’s tears on his shoulder, and when he reached up to touch her hair his fingers found blisters and burned stubble.
And he prayed to God in that moment that, if they were going to die, the child would pass away before him so she wouldn’t be alone with the dead.
Swan cried herself out; she gave a last whimper and leaned limply against Josh’s shoulder. “Swan?” he said. “I want you to sit here and not move for a while. Will you do like I say?”
She made no response—then, finally, she nodded.
Josh set her aside, got the pickaxe and shovel. He decided to dig the hole as far away as possible from the corner where Swan lay, and he started scooping away a mess of cornstalks, broken glass and splintered wood.
His right hand brushed something metal buried in the loose dirt, and at first he thought it was another can he could add to the others. But this one was different; it was a slim cylinder. He picked it up in both hands and ran his fingers over it.
Not a can, he realized. Not a can. My God—oh, Jesus!
It was a flashlight, and it held enough weight to suggest that there were batteries inside.
He found the off—on switch with his thumb. But he dared not press it yet, not until he’d closed his eyes and whispered, “Please, please. Let it still work. Please.”
He took a deep breath and pressed the little switch.
There was no change, no sensation of light against his closed eyelids.
Josh opened his eyes and looked at darkness. The flashlight was useless.
He thought he would burst out laughing for a second, but then his face contorted wi
th anger and he shouted, “Damn it to Hell!” He reared his arm back to fling the flashlight to pieces against the wall.
And as the flashlight jiggled an instant before he let it fly, a weak yellow ray speared from its bulb—but to Josh it looked like the mightiest, most wonderful light in all of creation. It all but dazzled him blind, and then it flickered and went out again. He jiggled it furiously; the light played an impish game, coming on and going off again and again. And then Josh reached two fingers through the cracked plastic lens to the tiny bulb itself. Carefully, his fingers trembling, he gave the bulb a gentle clockwise turn.
And this time the light stayed: a dim, murky light, yes—but light.
Josh lowered his head and wept.
22
NIGHT CAUGHT THEM ON Communipaw Avenue in the ruins of Jersey City, just east of Newark Bay. They found a bonfire of debris burning within the roofless hulk of a building, and it was there that Sister decided they should rest. The building’s walls deflected the freezing wind, and there was enough flammable material around to keep the fire burning until morning; they huddled close around the bonfire, because standing only six feet away was like being in a meat locker.
Beth Phelps held her palms toward the fire. “God, it’s so cold! Why’s it so cold? It’s still July!”
“I’m no scientist,” Artie ventured, sitting between her and the Spanish woman, “but I guess the blasts threw so much dust and junk into the air that it’s done somethin’ to the atmosphere—screwed up the sun’s rays or somethin’.”
“I’ve never ... never been so cold before!” Her teeth chattered. “I just can’t get warm!”
“Summer’s over,” Sister said as she rummaged through the contents of her bag. “I don’t think it’s going to be summer again for a long time.” She brought out the ham slices, the last of the soggy bread, and the two cans of anchovies. Also in the water-shrunken bag were several items that Sister had found today: a small aluminum pot with a black rubbercoated handle, a little knife with a serrated blade, a jar of Folger’s freeze-dried coffee, and a single thick garden glove with two fingers burned away. Stuffed into the bottom of the bag was the glass ring, which Sister had neither looked at nor disturbed since they’d come out of the tunnel. She wanted to save looking at and holding the treasure for later, like a gift she would give herself at the end of the day.
None of them had spoken again about the Holland Tunnel. It seemed more like a hideous dream, something they wanted to forget. But Sister felt stronger now. They had made it through the tunnel. They could make it through another night, and another day. “Take some bread,” she told them. “Here. Go easy on the ham.” She chewed on a soggy hunk of bread and watched the Spanish woman eat. “Do you have a name?” Sister asked. The Spanish woman looked at her incuriously. “A name.” Sister made the motion of writing in the air. “What’s your name?”
The Spanish woman busied herself with tearing a slice of ham into small, bite-size pieces.
“Maybe she’s crazy,” Artie said. “You know, maybe losin’ her kid like that made her crazy. Think that could be?”
“Maybe,” Sister agreed, and she got the ashy-tasting bread down her throat.
“I guess she’s Puerto Rican,” Beth offered. “I almost took Spanish in college, but I wound up taking a music appreciation course instead.”
“What do you ...” Artie stopped himself. He smiled wanly, and slowly the smile faded. “What did you do for a living, Beth?”
“I’m a secretary for the Holmhauser Plumbing Supply Company, on West Eleventh. Third floor, corner office, the Broward Building. I’m Mr. Alden’s secretary—he’s the vice-president. I mean ... he was the vice-president.” She hesitated, trying to remember. “Mr. Alden had a headache. He asked me to go across the street to the drugstore to get him a bottle of Excedrin. I remember ... I was standing on the corner of Eleventh and Fifth, waiting for the light to change. This nice-looking guy asked me if I knew where some sushi restaurant was, but I said I didn’t know. The light changed, and everybody started across the street. But I wanted to keep talking to that guy, because he was really cute and ... well, I don’t really get to meet a lot of guys I’d like to go out with. We were about halfway across, and he looks at me and smiles and says, ‘My name’s Keith. What’s yours?’” Beth smiled sadly and shook her head. “I never got to answer him. I remember a loud roaring sound. I had a feeling that a wave of heat just knocked me off my feet. Then ... I think somebody grabbed my hand and told me to run. I did. I ran like hell, and I could hear people screaming, and I think I was screaming, too. All I remember after that is hearing somebody say, ‘She’s still alive.’ I got mad. I thought, of course I’m still alive! Why wouldn’t I still be alive? I opened my eyes, and Mr. Kaplan and Jack were bending over me.” Beth’s gaze focused on Sister. “We’re ... we’re not the only ones who made it, are we? I mean ... it’s not just us alone, is it?”
“I doubt it. The ones who could make it out have probably already moved west—or north or south,” Sister said. “There’s sure as hell no reason to go east.”
“My God.” Beth drew in a sharp breath. “My mom and dad. My little sister. They live in Pittsburgh. You don’t think ... Pittsburgh is like this, do you? I mean, Pittsburgh could be okay, right?” She grinned crookedly, but her eyes were wild. “What’s to bomb in Pittsburgh, right?”
“Right,” she agreed, and she concentrated on opening one of the anchovy cans with its little key. She knew the salty taste of the things might make them more thirsty, but food was food. “Anybody want one of these?” She scooped a fillet up on her finger and put it in her mouth; the fishy taste almost made her tongue curl, but she got the thing down, figuring fish had iodine or something that would be good for her. Both Artie and Beth took an anchovy, but the Spanish woman turned her head away.
They finished the bread. Sister put the remaining slices of ham back in her bag, then poured the oil from the anchovy can onto the ground and returned the can to the bag as well. The ham and fish might carry them a couple of days more if rationed properly. What they had to do tomorrow was find something to drink.
They sat huddled around the bonfire as the wind shrieked beyond the building’s walls. Every so often an errant blast got inside the building and swept up cinders like comets before it spun itself out. There was only the noise of the wind and the fanning flames, and Sister stared into the seething orange heart of the bonfire.
“Sister?”
She looked toward Artie.
“Would you ... would you mind if I held it?” he asked hopefully.
She knew what he meant. Neither of them had held it since that day in the ruins of the Steuben Glass shop. Sister reached down into her bag, pushed aside the other junk and put her hand around the object wrapped in a scorched striped shirt. She brought it up and peeled the still-wet shirt away.
Instantly the glass circle with its five spires and its embedded jewels burst into brilliance, absorbing the bonfire’s light. The thing shone like a fireball, perhaps even brighter than before. It pulsed with her heartbeat, as if her own life force powered it, and the threads of gold, platinum and silver sizzled with light.
“Oh,” Beth breathed. The gemstone lights were reflected in her eyes. “Oh ... what is that? I’ve never ... I’ve never seen anything like that ... in my life.”
“Sister found it,” Artie replied; his voice was reverent, his attention riveted to the glass ring. He tentatively held out both hands. “May I ... please?”
Sister gave it to him. When Artie had it, the pulsations of the gemstones shifted speed and rhythm, picking up Artie’s heartbeat. He shook his head with wonder, his eyes full of rainbow colors. “Holding this makes me feel good,” he said. “It makes me feel ... like all the beauty in the world isn’t dead yet.” He ran his fingers over the glass spires and circled his forefinger over an emerald the size of a large almond. “So green,” he whispered. “So green ...”
He smelled the clean, fresh aroma of a pine woo
ds. He was holding a sandwich in his hands—pastrami on rye with hot spicy mustard. Just the way he liked it. Startled, he looked up and saw around himself a vision of green forest and emerald meadowland. Beside him was a cooler with a bottle of wine in it, and a paper cup full of wine sat close at hand. He was sitting on a green-striped tablecloth. A wicker picnic basket was open in front of him, displaying a bounty of food. I’m dreaming, he thought. My God—I’m dreaming with my eyes open!
But then he saw his hands—blistered and burned. He was still wearing the fur coat and his red pajamas. The sturdy black wing-tips were still on his feet. But he felt no pain, and the sunshine was bright and warm, and a silken breeze stirred through the pine forest. He heard a car door slam. Parked about thirty feet away was a red T-Bird. A tall, smiling young woman with curly brown hair was walking toward him, carrying a transistor radio that was playing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”
“We couldn’t have asked for a better day, could we?” the young woman asked, swinging the radio at her side.
“Uh ... no,” Artie replied, stunned. “I guess not.” He had never smelled air so fresh and clean before. And that T-Bird! My God, he thought. The T-Bird had a foxtail hanging on the antenna! He remembered that set of wheels now! It was the finest, fastest car he’d ever owned, and— Wait a minute, he thought as the young woman approached. Hold the phone! What the hell is—
“Drink your wine,” the woman offered. “Aren’t you thirsty?”
“Uh ... yeah. Yeah, I am thirsty.” He picked up the cup and drank the wine in three swallows. His throat had been burning with thirst. He held the cup out for more and downed that one just as fast. And then Artie looked into the woman’s soft blue eyes, saw the oval shape of her face and realized who she was; but she couldn’t be! She was nineteen years old, and here they were back on their picnic on the afternoon he had asked her to marry him.
“You’re staring, Artie,” she said teasingly.
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