"Snipe, please—" He paused quizzically, turned his flashlight on, and shone it up the shaft again. "Snipe," he continued, "there's something up there, I knowthere's somethin' up there!"
At Film Planning Associates: The fourth floor: 38 West 20th Street
Like many similar businesses in Manhattan, Film Planning Associates was struggling mightily to stay afloat. It owed much more than it was bringing in; its equipment—cameras and editors and splicers, plus a small but expensive computer—was quite serviceable, though a lot of it was getting old. The business itself had moved, three years before, from a nice location on the Upper West Side, to its present location on the fringes of midtown. The buildings here were old, crumbling, cavernous, but the rent was cheap.
The owner of the business, a small, friendly, gray-haired man named Francis, got to work every morning just before 7:00. He took the noisy elevator four flights up to his work area, got off, made himself some instant coffee, and relaxed until 7:30, when his three employees began arriving.
He had no office, per se. He had a desk, a couple of new, Mediterranean-style couches—which looked very much at odds with their gritty surroundings—and several drafting tables where preliminary artwork was done. He'd set up several black Oriental screens between this makeshift office and the work area.
It was from the work area, as he prepared his coffee and looked forward to a half hour's relaxation before the start of yet another work day, that he heard low, conspiratorial giggling. He looked; he saw the vague outlines of projectors, and the huge, computer-driven Oxberry animation camera—where much of the business's work was done—as well as editing tables and movie screens set up here and there. But mostly he saw darkness, because the work area was very large—two thousand square feet of open space, uninterrupted by walls, and very difficult to light, anyway.
The soft, conspiratorial giggling continued. "Betsy?" he said, thinking momentarily that it was one of his more playful female employees back there, and discarding the idea immediately.
He saw movement in the darkness.
"Who's there, please?" he said, and found that he was smiling nervously. He picked up his coffee cup—it was empty—and started toward the work area. It occurred to him that he should probably turn on the lights, then decided no, that that would be admitting his nervousness. Like many New Yorkers, he had for a long while harbored a deep-seated fear of his city; a fear he had sublimated because Manhattan was, after all, where he made his home and carried on his business. To live in constant fear of it would be stupid and self-destructive. He did not want to admit that fear now.
The giggling altered abruptly. It became laughter—loud, raucous laughter—the laughter of drunken men. And he remembered that the previous evening the people on the floor just below had had some kind of party that had gone on at least until he'd left the building at 8:15.
"Who's there, please?" he said again, trying to conjure up the idea that a couple of the men from that party had found their way up here somehow, had fallen asleep, and now had awakened, still drunk. "This is a private office, you . . . you know," he said, and found, to his dismay, that his stutter—which he had supposed he'd cured himself of years before—had returned.
He saw movement again in the darkness, as if the darkness itself had liquefied and was flowing gracefully right and left.
He heard then, in the voice of a man obviously drunk, "Another, another, and still another!" And his patience ended.
"For Christ's sake, don't you know . . . don't you know that . . . that this is a private . . . a private office!" And he stalked into the work area.
He stopped after a few steps. He glanced about. "Hello?" he said.
He felt pressure at the side of his neck. Soft, at first. And then much harder. He put his hand there, held the hand up to his face. In the semidarkness he could see that it was layered with blood. "What . . . what's this?" he said, and he was grinning incredulously.
At the Channel Three Newsroom
"Airtime in ten minutes, Gwen. How'sit going?"
"It's going okay. I've just got to polish up some of this new stuff Garvey sent over."
"The stuff about the joggers? You're going to use that?"
"Not the joggers, Al. He just phoned in something else—another streakers story. And yes, I'm going to use the jogging story. You said to shelve the one about the gays, remember?"
"Streakers? Where?"
"West Seventy-Ninth Street. And get that lascivious grin off your face; it was just a bunch of kids, naked as jaybirds."
"And you're going to use it? It sounds pretty ho hum to me."
"Sure I'm going to use it. It'll perk people up."
Cheese realized that he could indeed jump to the floor of the elevator shaft from where he was; it was only eight or nine feet. His problem was letting go of the rope. It was tied securely around his stomach and then under his arms, and wriggling free of it required that he let go and maneuver out of it. He realized that he could not let go of it.
"Lower me all the way down, Snipe!" he shouted.
Snipe shouted back, "Can't do that, my man. This is all the rope we got, so it looks like you have to jump." He laughed.
In horror, Cheese realized that his eyes were beginning to water and that he was going to cry. "Jesus!" he whispered.
He heard, "Can't do that, my man. This is all the rope we got, so it looks like you have to jump."
His tears started.
"Listen, pussy meat," Snipe called, "I don't take that kind of shit from no one, so can it!"
"I can't help it, Snipe, Jees–"
"Listen, pussy meat," he heard, "I don't take that kind of shit from no one, so can it!"
He looked quizzically up the shaft. He heard, "I can't help it, Snipe, Jees–"
"Snipe?" he called. He shone the flashlight up the shaft. He saw movement about two floors up, and, three floors above that, what looked like someone's head sticking out over the lip of the shaft. "Snipe," he called, "there's someone . . ."
He became aware of a presence, just behind him, on a little niche in the shaft wall; he maneuvered around, shone the flashlight on it:
He saw a pair of pale blue eyes shining back. A wide open mouth—two rows of exquisite and perfectly developed teeth. He screeched in surprise. A moment later, the flashlight clattered to the floor of the shaft. His hand, raggedly severed at the wrist, was still clutching it.
Two floors above, Snipe heard him scream, "Mama, oh mama–" And turned to the guys holding the rope, "Haul him up. Quick!" They did as they were ordered.
On the fifth floor Georgie MacPhail wasn't at all certain of what he was seeing. Some kid, he realized—a kid his age, and his size, moving rapidly up the elevator shaft wall toward him. And below.
He had seen the flashlight fall and had heard the scream. But in the dark green morning light there he could make out very little.
He could see the kid climbing hand over hand on the inch or so of brick edge that stuck out into the shaft; he could see the kid's long dark hair, the dark skin; he caught a hint of pale blue eyes; he knew that the kid was naked.
Georgie scrambled to his feet. He looked down the shaft again quickly. The kid was at the fourth-floor level.
"Who are you?" Georgie called, and realized at once that someone below, on the first floor, stuck his head into the shaft immediately and looked up at him.
"Hey, there he is!"
Georgie ran. When he got to the fire exit door, he looked back.
The 7:45 A.M. Channel Three Report: A Transcript of a Portion Thereof:
GWEN MCDONALD REPORTING: . . . and in this late-breaking news development: Tragedy this morning on West 20th Street: Details are still sketchy, but according to our Live Eye reporter Paul Garvey, on the scene now, there seems to have been another mass murder similar to the one that hit an apartment house on Riverside Drive several days ago. We will take you now to Paul Garvey, at the scene; Paul?
PAUL GARVEY: Gwen (he looks away from the mike
, toward the front of the building on West 20th Street, then looks back) . . . Gwen, this does indeed look like a repeat of the tragedy on Riverside Drive. We have learned very little about what actually happened here, only that there appears to be a number of victims, perhaps as many as ten, at this point we can't be sure. The police are naturally reluctant to tell us anything, since the first bodies were found only a half hour ago . . .
Chapter 54
Seth had reached out to the others. The ones who had stayed, and survived. The ones who had risen up here two hundred, three hundred, four hundred years before. These who had learned quickly what the winters could do, and how to protect themselves from it. Those who waited, and watched, and had seen their island overcome.
Seth had reached out to each of them, in his way. We are here! he had told them. This island is ours, once again. Look around you. See the little ones; the new survivors. And he had listened. And what he heard in response had brought him as close to fear as he had ever been.
He heard silence.
Chapter 55
John Marsh was angry. "Who'd you say's got my dog?" he demanded.
The doctor inclined her head toward the door to indicate the Admissions area. "Lenny Wingate, in Admitting. Apparently she's taking good care of it, Mr. Marsh. You should be thankful. The other alternative is the city pound."
"Sure I'm thankful," he harrumphed. "And as soon as you tell me where my clothes are I'll go and thank her personally, on my way out." He swung his feet off the bed to the floor.
The doctor put a firm hand on his shoulder. "I'm afraid you're going to be staying with us a few days, Mr. Marsh."
He stood abruptly. "The hell I am!"
She leaned quickly to one side and pushed a button above the bed. Seconds later, two beefy attendants appeared in the doorway. "Yes, Ma'am?" one of them said.
"Please stand by," she told them.
Marsh looked incredulously at her.
"It's for your own protection," she told him.
He sat heavily on the bed, first looked quizzically at the attendants, then at the doctor. "My own protection?—I'm not crazy!"
"I know you're not crazy, Mr. Marsh. Few of the people in this hospital are. Mostly, they're troubled. We think that is a category you might fit into, we're not sure. And that's why we're going to hold you here for a few days." She smiled benignly. "Another forty-eight hours, to be precise."
"Could I ask why?"
"Why we think you might be 'troubled,' Mr. Marsh?—Because you've been saying things to people—the other patients and the nurses—that don't make very much sense. At least not at first blush. And so we would like to give you the chance–"
"Doctor," he interrupted, "have you ever heard of a place called Granada."
"Yes, Mr. Marsh," she answered at once, "it's a city in Spain, if I'm not mistaken."
He shook his head. "No. I'm talking about a little development in the southern tier. About fifteen years ago, twenty people died there."
She thought a moment, then nodded slightly. "Yes, I think I recall something–"
"Do you know why those people died? Do you know what killed them, Doctor?"
She shook her head. "No. Perhaps you can tell me, Mr. Marsh?"
He didn't answer at once, and the doctor coaxed, "You were saying, Mr. Marsh?"
He shook his head again. "No, I wasn't saying a thing, I'm sorry." He lay down, clasped his hands on his stomach, and focused on the white acoustical-tiled ceiling.
The doctor asked pointedly, "Did the children do it, Mr. Marsh?"
He didn't answer.
"The children who—what is your phrase?—'popped up out of the earth'? Did they kill those people in Granada?" He stayed silent.
"Who is the creature that leads them, Mr. Marsh?—Is his name 'Seth'? Is that his name? It's a nice name, Mr. Marsh. Have you ever known anyone–"
"Are you a psychiatrist, Doctor?" he interrupted.
"No," she answered simply.
"Then stay the hell out of my head," he told her.
A nervous grin played across her mouth. She left the room quickly.
Chapter 56
At The Stone
"There's more than one," Snipe growled, as some of the Macaroni-and-Cheese Dinner slid from his mouth. One of his lieutenants, a chunky Hispanic named Carlos, agreed enthusiastically.
"Yeah, Snipe," he said, his head bobbing, "the one up on the fifth floor, and the one who cut Cheese up. You are right, Snipe!"
"And we're gonna find 'em both, and we're gonna do to them what they done to Cheese."
Carlos grinned broadly. "Oh that would be very nice, Snipe."
"Whad'jew do with him, anyway?"
"Cheese, Snipe?—What'd we do with 'em?" He inclined his head to the right. "He's down in the incinerator, Snipe. Jees, he was a real mess, Snipe. How'djew think they done that to him? You think they had machetes or something? Machetes can do that, you know. They can cut your fuckin' head off, whoosh—clean as spit."
Snipe pushed a big forkful of macaroni and cheese into his mouth; he shook his head. "C'mon, shitface, can'tcha see I'm tryin' to eat, here?—Christ!"
Carlos looked properly apologetic. "Jees—sorry, Snipe."
"Yeah, sorry," Snipe grumbled, and stuck another forkful of food into his mouth. "Go on and find Ding—I got somethin' I wantcha to do."
"I think Ding took off, Snipe."
Snipe looked up, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, wiped the back of his hand on his jeans. "What the fuck you mean he took off?"
Carlos shrugged. "I ain't seen him all day long, Snipe. Last time I seen him he was helping put Cheese in the incinerator."
Snipe slammed the table with his fist. "Goddammit, how we gonna keep all these old farts in line with just the guys we got now?! How we gonna do that?"
Carlos shrugged again. "Jees, Snipe, I dunno–"
"What we got?—five, we got five guys now?" Carlos held his hand up and counted off on his fingers.
"You, that's one, me, that's two–"
"Mars-Bar, J.D., and Tramp," Snipe interrupted. "Christ, yer dumber than a fuckin' stone, you know that, Carlos?!" He held five fingers up stiffly. "Five guys to look after eight old farts, Carlos. So there's only one solution. We gotta get rid of a couple more of those old farts."
Once again, Carlos shrugged. "Which ones, Snipe. Klaus? Maybe Aunt Sandy, too?"
Snipe waved him away. "I don't know. Jesus, I gotta think about it. Get outa here."
Carlos began backing out of the room. He stopped. "Who's gonna sign their checks, Snipe?"
Snipe answered at once, "We're gonna sign 'em, airhead!" He shoved a forkful of macaroni and cheese into his mouth, swallowed, thought a moment. "Jesus!" he breathed, and he hit himself in the forehead with his open hand. "Jesus, I must have shit for brains."
"Whatsamatter, Snipe?"
"Get Mars-Bar, J.D., and Tramp," Snipe ordered. "And the four of you round up all the old farts and take 'em over to the elevator shaft."
Carlos grinned. "Sure, Snipe." And he was gone.
Winifred Haritson didn't like the way she was feeling. She didn't like feeling that all she ever was, and ever would be, was behind her, that the future held nothing but pain and self-pity and constant futile attempts to call back moments that refused to be called back fully.
She had told Georgie about it. "I can't even remember what my husband looked like, Georgie," she'd whimpered. "I remember his name. It was Samuel. Samuel Dobbs Haritson. And I remember that he was tall, but not if he was very tall. He might have been very tall, Georgie. It's hard to tell from the pictures I have of him. He always insisted that I sit if it was going to be a picture of the two of us. And if not, he always insisted on portraits. There now, you see, Georgie, I can remember that, but not so many of the other things. Our honeymoon. Our first house. Our first child." And then she began to weep and Georgie wondered if he should tell her, as she had told him, that she had never been married. "I'm a spinster, Georgie," she'd s
aid. But he didn't tell her. He was a very understanding and compassionate boy. He did not want to tear apart the little world she'd created for herself. The world—he knew, as if by instinct—that she'd carry to her grave.
And she'd talked to him about that too. "Georgie," she'd said, "I ask for nothing more than peace and quiet when my life is done." Georgie said nothing; he felt very, very sad for her.
She lay quietly in the bed now. She tried to ignore the constant pain in her belly. She listened to the dull noise of doors opening, commands being given, and protests made, from other parts of the building.
Chapter 57
Whimsical Fatman was certain he should be thankful. For the first time in nearly a decade he got three square meals a day, a place to sleep that was safe, secure, and warm, and people were tending to his injuries. So of course he should be thankful. But he wasn't. He felt as if he were in limbo—halfway between what was and what could have been—and the off-white hospital walls, the quiet efficiency of the staff, the low chugga-chugga of the rollaway carts, the beeping and humming of monitors of one kind and another all merged into a world that was strange and uncomfortable. And he wanted desperately to be away from it.
He maneuvered his wheelchair around a corner and stopped. WARD R, the sign on the door read: ADMITTANCE ONLY TO AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL. He saw a man looking through a small square window in the door. The man, he thought, was the spitting image of W.C. Fields, but maybe a little thinner. The man stared at Whimsy for a moment. Whimsy nodded. The man turned away.
"It's locked, Mr. Marsh," the aide—a blond-haired man in his early twenties—said, and took hold of Marsh's arm.
"Yes," Marsh said. "I can see that it's locked."
"It's for your own protection," the aide said.
Marsh stepped away from the door. He chuckled softly. "Bullshit!" he whispered.
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