The breeze picked up from the north and she lifted her face and flared her nostrils. As Hugh had implied, there were still humans in the city, strong survivors who would make excellent additions to her "farm." With the right conditioning, Stephen, that weak would-be priest, could eventually be persuaded to replace the violent Siebold as the breeder.
The wind again, carrying its scent of weather and lifting her hair. Chicago's hidden cache of food would soon discover that the clouds were bringing more tomorrow than just an early sunset.
In another two days, they would bring snow.
Anyelet grinned, threw back her head, and shrieked joyously at the sky.
II
March 24
Rediscovery
1
REVELATION 6:10
And they cried with a loud voice, saying
"How long, oh Lord, dost Thou not judge and avenge our
blood on them that dwell on the earth?"
~ * ~
"Oh, Father," Jo said unhappily as she stepped outside St. Peter's and gazed up at the still dark sky. "Your will be done. But I sure wish I knew Your reasons sometimes."
She shivered and hugged herself. The temperature was at least twenty degrees lower than last night, with sunrise later because of the heavy, ominous clouds rolling in from the west, and she could smell harsher things coming. Still rubbing her hands up and down her bare arms, Jo headed toward the south branch of the river without bothering to go back for a coat. Her hair was like a blanket anyway, and it wasn't the cold that bothered her but the danger she knew would come with it. Crossing Wacker, she stood at the metal railing on the Adams Street Bridge and looked south. What was happening far beyond the range of her eyesight or imagination? This river led to other parts of the country, warmer climates where perhaps the men and women were not so crippled by nature's cold whims. Did they struggle as hard as the small, pathetic groups here? If so, were they successful in those struggles? And who helped them?
I am not alone, she told herself sternly. There are others like me in other places, fighting this evil. I am not alone.
The water rippled like thick ink and she watched it for a few minutes. To her right the shadowed recesses of the train tracks of Union Station stretched along the river until water and retaining wall merged into one indistinguishable blur, hiding the creatures of death that dared the sunrise just enough to scuttle amid the concrete supports and stare up at her. Jo could feel their hungry eyes crawling over her flesh like fire ants, but this morning she felt no compulsion to go to them. She twisted and looked at the buildings lining the north waterfront, gleaming monoliths of steel and glass lightening under the growing glow from the eastern sky, marveling that man could build such a structure when as a child she'd hardly been able to stack blocks five high. Tilting her head, she glimpsed the sleek shape of a falcon overhead, one of the peregrines—or perhaps a new generation—freed in the city years ago to help control the pigeon population. There were still pigeons, though not as many. Lazy, trusting birds, they had been quick and easy food when starvation had begun to run its spasming hand among the vampires. Now the pigeons roosted high atop the skyscrapers with other, more timid species and took their chances among their more natural predators.
She watched the falcon until it was out of sight, then began picking her way along the riverwalks toward the Merchandise Mart. Chicago was a sad place now, full of death and immense abandoned buildings, with few corpses to show man had ever existed in this once-magnificent place, and it gave her a feeling of inconceivable emptiness, as if the city had become nothing more than a doll's world cast aside by a bored, giant child.
It was full light by the time Jo walked the northwest curve of Wacker Drive and saw the Mart, the sight of the building enough to make her ache to bring some solace to the terrified people trapped on its third floor. She had only an inkling of their future, but the time wasn't yet right and Jo did not question the things she was compelled to do.
Still, she could bring comfort.
She slipped inside at the Wells Street entrance. The west corridor was still deeply shadowed and would stay that way for another half hour, the dribble of light from the doors at either end combining with the high windows on the river side to give just enough illumination to drive the night creatures to their beds. Could they sense her presence here as she could sense each and every one of them? It would be so easy to find the lairs, but she wasn't physically capable of destroying more than one every couple of nights. But there were other roads to victory
Jo's feet made only sibilant whispers along the scuffed, dusty hallway as she climbed the stairwell at the far end and stepped into the fourth-floor hallway, where only a few feet of stone and iron separated her from the prisoners directly below. No one had been up here in some time and Jo dropped to her knees, her dress and hair making feathery swirls in the silvery dust on the floor. She could feel them below, the pain, the hopelessness. How many were there? The rush was too strong and befuddling; she knew there were men and women but no children, though one woman had already tried to destroy the blameless child in her womb, a son fathered in rape by the man who traded their lives for his own twisted pleasure. Another, forced to womanhood at fifteen, carried the seed of a daughter though neither she nor her rapist knew it. One man had wanted nothing more than to serve God, and his torment and self-loathing seethed like hot acid in Jo's heart. Their misery filled her and made her temples pound; her breath shortened as she swept her palms along the floor and hung her head.
"Hear the voice of our supplication when we cry out to Thee," she said quietly. Her echoing voice trembled as she fought to keep going. The pain was monstrous, like a huge animal chewing on her insides in a frenzied, useless attempt to escape, making it unlikely she could last more than five minutes without fainting. But comfort, even a little, was never wasted.
Her eyes rolled back as her fingers pressed against the dirty linoleum until flesh and floor appeared to meld.
"Let not your hearts be troubled," she gasped, and reached for them.
The floor around her hands began to glow.
~ * ~
He was curled snugly within his blanket, warm and sated and . . . safe. In the seconds before he fully awoke, he didn't remember that the blanket encircling his wasted figure was filthy and crusted, that the floor was bare linoleum and streaked with dried urine and human waste. Then he heard a moan, low and pitiful, and Stephen's eyes flew open when he realized that the half-human wail was coming from his own mouth. He moved then, pulling free of the dirty trap of a blanket, kicking his sticklike legs until the cruel chain around his ankle stopped him.
Oh, Lord, he thought in despair, why am I still here? Your most merciful deed would be to allow me death. He stood and tried, as he did every morning, to reach the window, as though his chain had magically grown the extra links he needed. If Satan himself had appeared and offered him death or a breath of fresh air for his soul, Stephen didn't know which he would choose. As always, the chain stopped him just short of the glass and he sank to his knees, his face bleak, not understanding how someone as simple as himself could be caught in this web of . . . lust. That's what it was—sex. Not the kind that went with marriage vows or even the naughty fumbling that spent itself in the backseats of cars. This was much, much worse, the illicit disease of pimps and pornographers and those who went from peep shows and paper-wrapped magazines to slick, hidden photos of children.
If only he could die. What did it matter that nothing waited but hell? Was this not hell anyway? He was an unspeakable combination of food and love toy for a creature so evil and suffocating that even the dream of freedom became nothing, every last dream was destr—
Warmth washed over him and his eyes bulged. He felt . . . he felt healthy! For the first time in weeks, he stood easily and gave the chain a fierce tug. The smells that hung on the fetid air faded in his nostrils, and for a second Stephen imagined he actually smelled flowers.
Drawing the chain taut, he
strained forward and tried to glimpse the corridor beyond the doorway, ignoring the chill slapping his skin as the blanket dropped to his feet. Down the hall he could hear others rattling their chains and calling out in suddenly strong voices. Below the din he could hear Siebold's bellowing, his shouts escalating to roars as the captives clamored from their cells. The clear voice of another man carried from one or two rooms away.
"Hey, mister, come on! Why don't you let us go? We understand how a guy might do anything to make it. Hell, you're scared, we're scared—we're all in the same trouble here. We won't hold any grudges. How about it?"
And Stephen knew, as warmth and an inexplicable serenity suffused him, that the man meant it. If Siebold were to go from room to room and open the padlocks, all these people, who had wanted nothing but to tear their jailer and rapist apart only a few minutes ago, would clap him on the back and walk from this building without so much as spitting on him.
They would forgive.
He thought fleetingly of Anyelet and found her only a shrinking black boil in his mind that was easy to shake away.
Howard Siebold appeared at his doorway, his rushed face florid with fear. Standing straight and proud despite the cold and filth, Stephen smiled calmly and motioned to the chain. "We could start fresh," he said. "Rebuild and live in God's light, be it sun or moon, the way it was meant to be." He stared into Howard's eyes. "Would you like to be free again?"
Siebold looked terrified and torn; sweat was pouring down his dirty face to layer another circle of salt crust around his stained collar. Eyes wide, he jerked at Stephen's words. "I can't do that! They'd kill me—they'd kill us all! Besides, I don't have the keys!"
"Not if we all stayed together," Stephen said reassuringly. "We could make it, Howard. We could."
The larger man hesitated, as if this strange feeling of contentment was affecting him, too. "I don—"
Abruptly the feeling was gone. Reality returned in a smothering flood of cruel sensations: cold, pain, hunger—all at once, followed for Stephen by the familiar unfulfilled desire and self-hatred. The sudden draft made his shoulders quake and Stephen was unable to stifle the perplexed groan that slipped past his lips. Siebold blinked at him, then hurried from sight. In seconds the sounds from the surrounding rooms returned once more to whispers of hopelessness and weeping.
Stephen sank to his knees on the stiff, gritty blanket and hung his head in despair.
2
REVELATION 14:11
And the smoke of their torment ascendeth up.
~ * ~
"Wake up," Mera said. She shook his shoulder gently.
"Mmmm," he mumbled. "Just five more minutes, okay?" He smiled into his pillow with his eyes still closed.
"Dr. Bill," she said, "rise and shine."
Bill Perlman's eyes opened and he blinked at the figure crouching beside his sleeping bag and holding a small candle. Calie, her face a dark glow in the flame's light, waited patiently as the soft memory of his wife fragmented and flew away; the gray area before wakefulness had always been his most vulnerable, and the regret that Mera hadn't survived to join this newfound community leapt into his mind with razored claws. And what of his tiny son?
Calie's warm fingers brushed his cheek in an oddly sympathetic gesture, then she stood and offered her hand. "Come on," she said as he struggled up. "Let's get you breakfast and show you around. Then we can check on your vampire."
"Okay." His voice was raspy and he cleared his throat, his face carefully expressionless as she pulled him to his feet and agony flared in his foot.
"Bet that toe hurts, huh?" Calie said in a bland voice. "We'll get you some aspirin."
"Gonna take something stronger than that," Bill muttered.
Calie didn't comment as she led him, now limping openly, down a short hallway. The only light came from Calie's tiny candle and he had no idea where they were in the building or even what time it was; yesterday evening had left his mind little more than a muddled overload. He suddenly remembered his watch and peered at it: nearly six o'clock. Ten minutes more and it would be light.
"This way," she said. "Watch the beam, we're going down a flight of stairs."
"Doesn't everybody sleep on one floor?" he asked.
"No. That way if something happens during the night, there's more of a chance that some of us can escape—unless, of course, we're outnumbered."
"Not an impossibility," he commented.
She shrugged and pushed open a door on the next landing. Voices floated from far down the corridor, where soft light spilled from an open doorway. "It's less likely now than three months ago because of winter and starvation. Most of the ones left are pretty wretched, like that boy you found. Others . . ." Her voice trailed off.
"What about the others?" he prompted.
Calie hesitated. "Others are still well fed," she said finally. He opened his mouth, but they were at the doorway and she waved at it. "Go on in."
Bill stepped through and raised his eyes from where he'd been tracking his careful footsteps. For one long moment he could've sworn his eyes actually bulged, like some swollen-faced cartoon character.
There were close to twenty men and women seated around the room, ranging in age from a serious-faced girl of eleven or twelve, the youngest, to a hefty man in his late fifties or early sixties. A crowd! Bill thought. A real, honest-to-God crowd! The people stared with mixed expressions of caution and curiosity; the best Bill could offer in return was a stupid, rubbery grin. He wanted to say something profound, but his throat clogged in a sudden fit of shyness and he felt a tremor of nervousness when no one returned his smile. He expected everyone to continue staring, but after a few seconds most turned their gazes to Calie. He looked to her for help and she smiled and nudged him forward.
"This," she announced, "is Dr. Bill Perlman. He's going to kill the vampires."
She said it as though she'd never had a doubt.
~ * ~
"So," Buddy McDole said, "perhaps we should call you Dr. Van Helsing." His smile was an even mix of humor and gentle sarcasm. The three of them had moved to an upper floor, where they now sat in front of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Michigan Avenue; the murky details on the street below were gradually becoming clearer as the sun pushed above the structures to the east.
Bill reddened and gave Calie a sidelong glance; her warm brown eyes never wavered. "I'm afraid I'm far from finding a solution. Calie's statement was premature."
McDole's smile faded a bit. "Hope is never premature, Dr. Perlman. Remember that." Bill watched the older man measure ground coffee into a tiny paper filter suspended from a thin plastic rod, then balance the rod across the rim of a mug and pour hot water through the filter. Bill inhaled deeply as the smell of hot coffee surrounded the trio. "Handy little things." McDole grinned. "Found 'em in a coffee shop. Bet it's been a while since you had fresh brew."
Bill nodded, his mouth watering as Calie sank onto a chair to his right and watched him with silent amusement. "How long have you been here?" he finally asked. He was full of questions but her frank appraisal was distracting.
"We moved into the building last October," McDole answered. "Stocked up enough to last through the snows and stayed put during most of the cold weather." His nubby fingers bounced the thin filter bag lightly over the cup. "It wasn’t too bad. A little cabin fever now and then, but we managed to pull through. And we didn’t lose anybody."
Bill frowned. "It must be hard when you do."
"More than you realize," the other man said. He slid the filter into a plastic trash bag. "There are practical considerations besides the obvious pain. We used to live in the AT&T Corporate Center on Adams and Franklin. Nice place, big and new, very comfortable. Then Leonard, one of our men—a kid, really—went out screwing around by himself and didn't come back at sunset. We were packed and gone by nine the next morning."
"You left? But what if he came back the next day?"
McDole handed him the mug of coffee. "We had to. Th
e best that could have happened was he might have come back and we would've been gone—though someone was there until mid-afternoon to be sure he hadn't gotten hurt and stayed hidden until daybreak. If we had stayed and he wasn't all right, he would've returned for sure that evening or the next, possibly with new friends. We would've all been killed. In a manner of speaking." He clasped his own mug in bear-sized hands. "The gamble was too high. The day someone doesn’t come back to Water Tower—and I hope to Christ that never happens—is the day we move on."
"To where?" Bill sipped his coffee. "It must take a lot of planning to move all these people on such short notice."
McDole shrugged. "Not really. Everyone is responsible for their own stuff—if you want to keep it, you move it. Most of us have learned to travel light. I've chosen the next place, and the day we move is the day everybody finds out where that place is. Survival makes it a subject that's not open to discussion or vote; the only way to make sure we're going to a safe place is for only one person to know about it ahead of time."
“And if something happens to you?”
"Then Calie has somewhere in mind."
”And if I'm gone," Calie added, "the group will follow Ira's decision. And so on."
"Oh." Bill didn’t know what to say. The idea that you couldn’t trust someone enough to wait and see if they were alive warred with the sense of responsibility he felt for his fellow man, the Hippocratic oath, his instinct to give everything to ensure the continued existence of someone else. But reality was a nasty slap; he thought of his beloved Mera and how incredibly foolish and lucky he was to have lived all this time in the familiar surroundings of Northwestern. That it had been a necessary risk because of his research was nothing but a transparent excuse.
AfterAge Page 11