McDole leaned forward, his face grim beneath its crown of white hair. "But we can't live like this forever, Dr. Perlman. I don't believe modern man will be satisfied returning to the nomadic way of life. We've become too pleased with ourselves and too comfort-oriented. Our own intelligence will never let us revert to a perpetually harsh way of life." He waved at the plush furniture around them. "This won’t last forever. More importantly, the food won't last forever. One of these days all the pre-packed stuff will be gone, and then what the hell do we do? Attempt to grow our own vegetables? That's a sure way to attract unwanted attention."
"Why couldn't it be done?" Bill asked. "Obviously, it would require a lot of planning—"
"No," Calie interjected. "One irresponsible move, or a spy, and we'd be finished."
"Spy?" Bill frowned at her.
"Sure," she said. "Why do you think we knew about you for a month before C.J. and I came to get you?"
Bill's eyes widened, then dropped to his hands. A month, he thought numbly. Four weeks—four long weeks. . . .
He felt movement and Calie was standing beside his chair, her fingers touching his shoulders. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "But it couldn't be helped. We had to be sure."
He nodded, then swallowed his hurt and watched her return to her chair. "What's this about spies?"
McDole set his cup on the floor, then stood and shoved his hands in the back pockets of his khaki slacks. "Some people," he said slowly, "will do anything to stay alive. Having been in some tricky situations myself, especially in the beginning, I can appreciate how desperate a man can get." He gazed out the window for a moment before continuing. "But I'll never know how a man can be a pimp for the lives of his own kind."
"There are people selling other people?" Bill leaned back. "I can't believe that."
"It's true," Calie said. “And there's worse."
Bill grimaced. "What could be worse—except, of course, becoming one of them?"
"Being bred as food."
Bill jerked. The coffee splashed unnoticed down the side of his mug and splattered his jeans. "What did you say?"
"The Merchandise Mart is being used as a corral for human flesh," Calie said simply. "Twenty or thirty people are being held prisoner there."
"Well, for God's sake, get them OUT!" Bill sprang from his chair. "Or are you going to wait a month, like you did to contact me? Or two? My God, what's the matter with you people!"
"We can't." McDole's voice was grim. "Not yet. Calm down—sit, dammit, and I'll explain." He waited as the doctor spun and returned to his chair, flinching as the younger man slammed the mug down on the floor in frustration. "The people are watched during the day. As far as we can tell, only one guard cooks and tends them." He hesitated, then decided against detailing the rest of the atrocities the captives endured. He turned away to hide his rage. "There may be someone else, and it’s still too risky to get close. The obstacle is that they're all chained and the guard doesn't appear to have a key ring. That's probably kept by one of the vampires."
"Can't you search the building?" Bill demanded. "Or just cut the chains off?"
"We've considered that. But we're not positive there's just the one guard, and we don't know if he or they are armed. To get in, cut the chains, and get everybody out with any kind of speed, we'd have to send almost every one of our men, each loaded with bolt cutters—which might not work anyway—in addition to their own weapons." He shook his head. "Then we'd have to get all those sick people back here without leaving a trail. And it'd have to be successful in a single attempt. How could we leave anyone behind to face the vampires that night? It's just too damned dangerous."
"What about a torch?" Bill asked. "Melt the chains or something."
"We found one of those," Calie offered. "In the Hanley-Dawson body shop on LaSalle."
"Well?" Bill raised his eyebrows at McDole.
The older man looked helpless. "It's a huge, double-tanked acetylene job, but no one here knows how to operate it. I've got carpenters, lawyers—I was a bookstore manager, myself—but no one who's used anything more complex or dangerous than propane. And if you've seen the Mart, you realize it'd be impossible to search for something like a key ring. The building is immense—it covers more than four blocks and it's linked with the Apparel Center, a building which is almost as big, by a skyway over Orleans Street. There's nothing we can do—"
"—yet," Calie finished for him. She slid off the chair cushion to the floor and scooted a few feet until she was at Bill's knees. "That's why we're counting on you."
"What about outside help? It's not like this is the middle of the wilderness. All these people—you must have a shortwave radio set. Have you tried that?"
McDole looked at Calie meaningfully. "Yes, and we still listen once a week but all we get is static. The one time we broadcast, we ended up with some very . . . unpleasant voices on the other end trying to wrangle us into giving our location but refusing to reveal theirs. We killed the transmission and seldom broadcast anymore. Like Calie said, we're counting on you."
Bill sighed. "You don't realize how long something like this can take." He held out his hands. "Months, years . . ."
"We don't have that kind of time." McDole came to stand behind Calie. "We used to think we could just wait out the vampires, and if we stayed hidden, lack of food and the sun would eventually finish them off" For a second his jaw clenched. "We realized that was a stupid assumption when we found out about this . . . farm. I don't know how long those folks have been there—we've only known about them for a week. If we're lucky, we'll find a way to free them. If not, we may all end up down there with them." His face was hard and pale. "We have to fight back. If we let ourselves be raised like livestock—God forgive me but it's true—we deserve whatever we get."
Calie stared up at Bill, her face earnest. "Please, what can we do to help? Whatever you need, we can get it. Blood—anything." She turned her arm and stretched her wrist toward him. "It doesn't matter."
Bill's throat constricted at her desperation. Those poor people, caged in an empty, freezing building. He thought of zoo animals, or worse, the neglected hostages in forgotten roadside menageries at the mercy of cruel tourists. His thoughts touched on the guard—what did he do besides keep them there? The likely answers filled him with horror. He'd always felt a sense of purpose, though there'd never been a conscious time limit. Somehow he'd seen himself the lone hero, Charlton Heston in The Omega Man, and the sudden responsibility felt like an iron girder. He stood and stepped around Calie, the pain in his foot an unimportant thrum.
"I have work to do."
But the biggest question still loomed in his frantic thoughts: How would he accomplish the impossible so quickly?
3
REVELATION 7:17
And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.
REVELATION 2:10
Fear none of those things which thou shalt suffer;
behold . . . be thou faithful unto death.
~ * ~
"Hi," Alex said.
He felt suddenly bashful, as though this was a slow-motion repeat of his first date with all its awkward, nearly forgotten feelings. For an instant they reawakened with poignant intensity and he started to grin, then he saw Deb's face. She looked exhausted, the skin beneath her eyes so shadowed it looked bruised, making the lighter blue of her eyes and her pale skin glow beneath her heavy black hair. Alex's exhilaration had kept him so keyed up, he felt lucky to have slept the four hours he had; even so, he felt charged, ready to take on the world. But Deb looked . . . sad.
Instinctively he reached for her hand. "Are you all right? Did you have trouble last night?"
She shook her head and tried to smile, looking miserable instead; he couldn't help noticing she didn't pull her hand away. "No trouble," she said. "I—just didn't sleep well, that's all." She began to walk and he followed, not caring where she was going.
"Me neither," he admitted. He glanced at her. "You don't look so hot.
Are you sure—"
"I'm fine," she interrupted. "Bad dreams, that's all." She smiled again, this one a little more sincere. "Let’s find something to eat, okay?"
"Sure." He stopped and she followed suit. "You have a taste for anything in particular?"
She grinned suddenly. "Yeah. Eggs."
He rubbed his chin, then realized he'd forgotten all about shaving. Damn—he'd have a "midnight" shadow before noon. Aloud he said, "This is not impossible."
Her eyebrows raised. "No?"
"I can't get you fried eggs and ham, but how about canned ham and egg drop soup?"
She laughed and a warm feeling spread through his chest. "Sounds yummy. Lead the way, Chef Alex!"
~ * ~
Marshall Field's, the gourmet food section again. Deb followed Alex from floor to floor and helped carry the things he wanted until they ended up back on the seventh floor, this time in a well-lit section of the Walnut Room. There he assembled his tools: two food warmers with double candles arranged with matched settings of Aynsley China and Waterford goblets, which he filled from boxes of juice. As the food heated, he wiped the dust from a table and silverware beneath a huge multi-paned window. Deb watched it all with a small smile.
"So," she finally said, "what's the occasion?"
Alex blushed, suddenly realizing how silly and overblown all this must seem. "I—well—"
"I know what it is," she said.
"What?"
"It's breakfast. For two." She stared at him for a moment, then ran a finger carefully around the rim of one goblet. "I think that's a pretty special occasion, don't you?"
He nodded, unable to speak. The immense emptiness of the previous months welled like some huge, black shadow; he turned away and fiddled with one of the dishes so she wouldn't see the unexpected moisture that crept into his eyes. He stirred the two dishes, then swept an inviting arm toward the table.
"Your breakfast, madam, will be served shortly. I shall return." He pulled out the chair and she sat, then twined her fingers beneath her chin with a tolerant expression and Alex had to chuckle; Deb looked like the patient patron of a slow restaurant. Two minutes and he was back with a few odds and ends to complement the meal: crackers, olives, a small tin of chopped pimientos for color. He placed everything on the table while she dished up the soup and meat, then he brought out his final surprise.
"In case the egg drop soup doesn't quite cut it," he announced, "I've included these." He held out a tiny can. "What are they?" Deb peered inside.
"Eggs."
"My eye."
He sank onto his chair in a huff. "You never specified what kind of eggs. These are quail."
"Oh! Of course!" She speared one with a fork and popped it into her mouth. "Umm, eggs that taste like pickles."
"You mean they have to taste like eggs, too?" Alex shook his head mournfully. "Some people are never satisfied."
~ * ~
"I'm stuffed," Deb admitted after they'd cleaned up. "Where to now? I think it's time for my two-hour nap."
"Me too." Alex took her hand and led her up one of the stilled escalators. Upstairs was the furniture department, its contents shadowed and not nearly as well lit as the Walnut Room.
Deb glanced around nervously. "It's awfully dark in here, Alex." Her voice sounded pained.
"Dort worry," he promised. "I just thought we'd pick a comfortable couch and relax for a while, digest the meal."
"Where?"
He thought of the areas here that stretched off into near darkness and wondered suddenly if this had been a good idea. He knew she'd barely slept last night and had thought a rest would do her good, but if it only made her skittish—
"How about there?" She pointed and he saw an overstuffed monster of a couch fronted by an ornate coffee table against the waist-high railing of an inner wall. It wasn't actually a wall, for that matter, more the tissue-like material that made up Japanese screens; above it, muted daylight bled through the cream-colored squares from the skylight in the roof.
He grinned in relief. "That looks great." Alex felt suddenly drained, as though the past day and a half had sapped him of energy as well as excitement. "I'm bushed." He flounced down. "Come on, sit. I promise not to bite—besides, I've already eaten. Remember?"
Deb looked at him warily, though her expression wasn’t as mistrustful as the day before. After a few seconds, she sat somewhere at midpoint on the piece of furniture, watching as he untied the machete from his belt and placed it along the wide arm of the couch with its sharpened edge out. The corridor to the left of Deb was sealed; if by some quirk of fate someone else came, it would be from his right. He hadn’t asked, but he knew Deb still had her gun hidden in her clothes and that was fine—in fact, it helped him feel safe. His watch said what he already knew: at not even eleven, they had plenty of time for a nap. He propped his feet on the table, leaned back, and let out a sigh. He felt Deb shift but he didn't move; he guessed she was a little uncomfortable but he didn't know what else to do to make her feel at ease. Thoughts crowded into his mind, ideas and farfetched notions he would have dismissed the day before yesterday.
Like doing more than simply surviving. Like fighting.
"Pick up your arm," Deb said softly.
Alex peeked sideways, then lifted his arm dutifully. He felt something between disbelief and nostalgia as she slid across the cushion and snuggled against him; he was almost afraid to drop his arm across her shoulders, but she didn't pull away. After a few minutes her breathing deepened.
He felt . . . content. Happy, sleepy, filled with vague battle plans and a new reason to fight. Until now he'd been existing, day to day, hand to mouth, like some sort of urban Neanderthal, and suddenly there was this woman who had struggled through her own private hells and now slept trustingly beside him. What had she gone through to reach the decision that he wouldn't hurt her in spite of the horror of the man she'd had to kill last fall? Could he be trusted, especially with the incredible responsibility of someone else's life?
Deb made a sound that was half snuffle and half moan and he glanced down, wondering if she was already coming out of her nap. It'd hardly been a quarter hour. "Deb?" he said softly. He carefully brushed aside the lock of hair that had fallen across her forehead. The dark circles beneath her eyes made her look like an ill-used china doll. "Deb?" he repeated.
No answer; the tiny sniffling came again, but Alex would have bet his next meal that she wasn't awake. He couldn't stop his fingers from touching the delicate trail of moisture that slid down one cheek to follow the line of her jaw.
She was crying in her sleep.
~ * ~
Look at them, Jo thought. How peaceful.
How sad.
Her eyes traced their faces as they slept: the man, not particularly tall but attractive, with coarse brown hair chopped unevenly at shoulder length and a fast-growing stubble trying to take over his sturdy face. If he opened his eyes, Jo knew they would be brown, warm and honest, overly generous. The American nice guy.
The woman beside him was beautiful. Thick black hair tumbled across her forehead and down her back, shining curls that her man would remember longingly in years to come. She was taller than her companion, a good head above Jo, and fine dark brows arched above well-defined cheekbones. In her mind Jo could see the woman's frank and intelligent eyes, a startling light blue.
They would have made quite a couple.
The woman gasped in her sleep, as if her dreams were portents of the coming changes in her life. Before her nightmares could frighten her to wakefulness, Jo touched a finger to the woman's pale cheek; the sleeper sighed and her breathing deepened again. Jo watched for a while, appreciating the sight of two people in trusting slumber, mourning the sinister vision that enveloped the woman like a dark and suffocating shroud. The man would be crushed and God would not spare him the sight of his lover in her death. But he was strong, and with a little outside help—and she would see to that—he might, might make it.
How bit
ter and terrible to have this second sight, to know yet be unable to alter—sometimes the tiniest choice meant the difference between light and dark. Perhaps it was all preordained anyway, destiny, and she was just a piece in God's puzzle. Or was He testing her, too?
Tucked in one pocket were a half-dozen of God's most wondrous creations—seeds. In the other was the small flask of water from St. Peter's that she'd filled before leaving the church at dawn. She looked at the seeds and shivered. It was a cold time now, and it would get colder still. Soon the woman would be filled with darkness, denied forever the sight of the sun or the touch of green and growing things. In the time ahead, she would give of herself in ways even Jo could not imagine; it was a small thing for Jo to give something now that the future would not allow her. She studied the tiny dormant pods on her palm for a moment before dribbling a small amount of water over them. Her fingers folded automatically around the wetness and a small crackle of blue, like gentle summer lightning, encircled her hand as she closed her eyes and thought of bright skies and sunshine, singing birds and squirrels running through the grass in a park she remembered from her childhood, the lake, sparkling like a billion glass fragments backlit by explosive light, the warmth and smell of cut grass and the way the leaves of the bushes tickled her fingers and wrist as she ran her hand lightly along the top. Like now.
She opened her eyes and inspected the pair of nearly perfect daisies that had sprouted from two of the seeds. They were almost painful to look at in their simple beauty, and how many months had passed since she'd smelled their sweet fragrance?
During his nap the man had shifted, and now the woman slept securely within the circle of his arms. As Jo scattered the remaining seeds at their feet and deftly tucked the daisies between his fingers, her hand brushed against the woman's dark hair and she stirred and mumbled something. Jo touched her cheek soothingly again, then stepped back.
She wished she could wake them, talk to them, tell them both to run as far and as fast as they could. Instead, she forced away the sting of tears and slipped away from their sadness.
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