"Because of the obvious threat to untold numbers of citizens," came the announcer’s voice, which sounded uncharacteristically tense by professional standards, "and because of the crisis which is even now developing, this radio station will remain on the air, day and night."
Breathing a sigh of relief, Ben listened.
"This station, and hundreds of other radio and TV stations throughout this part of the country, are pooling their resources through an emergency network hookup, to keep you informed of all developments."
Deciding that stagnation was not the best idea, Ben stood and returned to his work. As the announcer continued, he hammered away in a few more places, still listening.
"At this hour, we repeat, these are the facts as we know them: There is an epidemic of mass-murder, being committed by a virtual army of unidentified assassins."
"Assassins," Ben mused. That makes it sound so ... clean. Then he rebuked his own reaction. "Clean," Ben? Dear God. How’s that for a sad state of affairs!
He continued to hammer, and continued to listen.
"The murders are taking place in villages, cities, rural homes, and suburbs — with no apparent pattern or reason for the slayings. It seems to be a sudden, general explosion of mass homicide.
"We have some descriptions of the assassins: Eyewitnesses say they are ‘ordinary-looking’ people; some say they appear to be in a kind of trance. Others describe them as being ..."
The voice faded away from Ben for a moment as he took a look outside through one of the unboarded windows.
There were now three— no, four of the things in the front yard, most of them hovering around the truck. With the headlights knocked out, they were no longer attacking the vehicle, but still ... if he could find the keys to the gas pump, the truck was their best ticket to escape — if the barricades failed them, they would have to run.
So how could he keep them away from the truck?
Use what you know. If it’s not broken, don’t fix it.
Thinking, Ben moved into the study as the radio played on.
"... so, at this point, there is no really authentic way for us to say who or what to look for, and guard yourself against. Misshapen‘monsters’ ..."
Ben found lighter fluid on the mantle, but the floor around the fireplace was bare from when Barbra collected the wood. Where would they keep ...?
Ah! He opened the adjoining closet, and there it was — beneath the hanging coats, a small box of chopped wood and kindling. He dragged the box out and deposited it in front of the fireplace.
"Reaction of law-enforcement officials is one of complete bewilderment at this hour. So far, we have been unable to determine if any kind of organized investigation is yet underway."
Tossing several logs into the fireplace, Ben dowsed them with the lighter fluid.
"Police, sheriff deputies, and emergency ambulances are literally deafened with calls for help. The scene can best be described as mayhem."
Ben got the fire started, then collected the lighter fluid and returned to the living room. He grabbed a large armchair and dragged it over toward the front door.
"Mayors of Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, and Miami, along with the governors of several Eastern and Midwestern states, have indicated the National Guard may be mobilized at any moment, but that has not happened as yet."
Ben dowsed the chair with lighter fluid, shaking the fluid over it and then finally squeezing the can into a stronger stream, thoroughly soaking the seat cushion and arms of the chair to the point that the fumes made him a little lightheaded.
"The only advice our reporters have been able to get from official sources is for private citizens to stay in their homes, behind locked doors. Do not venture outside for any reason, until the nature of this crisis has been determined, and until we can advise what course of action to take."
Moving to a window, Ben jerked one of the curtains free from the rod, then knelt on the floor and tore off a sizeable strip of fabric. He had never actually tried this sort of thing before, but he had seen it done in the movies and was confident it would work.
"Keep listening to radio and TV for any special instructions as this crisis develops further."
Ben wrapped the torn cloth around the thicker end of one of the remaining dining table legs, twisting the cloth tight as he carried it back into the study.
"Thousands of office and factory workers are being urged to stay at their places of employment, not to make any attempt to get to their homes."
Thrusting the wrapped end of the table leg into the fireplace, Ben was encouraged to see the fabric catch fire in an instant. But when he withdrew his makeshift torch, he was startled by how much noxious smoke billowed from it.
Holding the torch away from his face, he headed back toward the front door.
"However, in spite of this urging and warning, streets and highways are packed with frantic people trying to reach their families, or attempting to flee just anywhere."
Knocking aside lumber that blocked his way, Ben unlocked the front door, then took stock: Was he ready for this? Was everything set?
"We repeat: The safest course of action at this time is simply to stay where you are."
Easy for you to say, buddy!
Opening the front door, Ben pushed the chair outside ahead of him, not stopping until he reached the end of the porch.
The things — maybe five or six of them now — immediately focused from wherever they were gazing to the house, to him. Where the hell were they coming from? They didn’t speak, barely made any noise at all, so how the hell was "word" spreading to come here?
He had no answers, and suspected that none would be forthcoming. The important thing was to keep them away from the house until he could finish barricading it, and, if at all possible, away from the truck.
Ben touched the torch to the chair, and it went up like a bonfire! One or two of the things actually moaned in apprehension, fire once more wringing more emotion from them than anything else. He kicked the chair hard, sending it toppling over into the front yard, eliciting more groans from the things as they backed away.
He tossed the torch toward them for good measure, stepping back into the doorway as he watched them. As he had hoped, their retreat carried them away from the truck — they no longer acknowledged anything save the fire before them. With luck, the chair would burn and smolder for a while to come.
Withdrawing into the house, he closed and locked the door.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve just received word that the President has called a meeting of his Cabinet to deal with the sudden epidemic of murder which has seized the eastern third of this nation. The meeting is scheduled to convene within the hour."
Wanting to capitalize on the extra breathing room he had just bought, Ben wasted no time in collecting another plank of wood and hurrying to the window he had stripped of a curtain. Balancing the lumber with his elbow, he was back to hammering, hammering ...
"Members of the Presidential Cabinet will be joined by officials of the FBI and ..."
Hammering and nailing, boarding and hammering, soon completing this room — as well as sporting sore arms and blistered hands. He had considered moving the piano over to block the front door but it wasn’t on rollers, and decided it would be more effort than it was worth. All the while he worked, he kept an ear open to the radio as the news droned on, often looping back around and repeating very little new, and almost nothing truly useful.
"... behind closed doors. The White House spokesman, in announcing this conference, says there will be an official announcement as soon as possible, following that meeting. This is the latest dispatch, just received in our news room."
Down to little more for lumber than a single removed door, Ben prepared to head into the next room. He glanced over to check on Barbra, but she had barely moved. He knew that he had not hit her that hard, that this was more of a faint than anything else, but could he blame her? Better to let her sleep it off as long as possible.
&
nbsp; "Latest word also from national press services in Washington D.C. now tells us that the emergency Presidential conference, which we’ve just mentioned, will include high-ranking scientists from the National Aeronautics and Space Administration ..."
He carried the lumber into the hallway by the staircase, which took him past another door that he could remove from its hinges. He touched it, swiveling it to and fro, feeling its weight. He would come back to it later, when Barbra was awake and less likely to be disturbed by the noise. He was glad to have noticed it, though, as this reminded him to go around and remove other doors from other rooms in the house.
What Ben did not notice, however, was the nondescript, smaller door directly behind it, leading into the wall. A door which opened into this very room where Barbra slept, helpless ...
Finding a different door further from where Barbra lay, Ben began hammering his screwdriver into the hinges. This one refused to give easily, and it was tedious work. He couldn’t really hear the radio from here, but he was losing faith as to how useful it was proving, anyway. He had to keep moving, because he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep up this pace ...
Barbra gradually became aware of a man’s voice, unfamiliar and tinny. It took her a moment to remember where she was, she was so groggy.
"... have joined their facilities in an emergency network, to bring you this news as it develops."
Her cheek hurt. Why did her cheek hurt? She lifted a hand to probe along her jaw with gentle fingers.
"We urge you to stay tuned to radio and TV, and to stay indoors at all costs."
It all came back to her — most of it, anyway. The cemetery, Johnny’s teasing her, a man who was really a creature chasing her to this house. She remembered now that the man in the sweater, who saved her from the thing with the torn throat, had struck her, but — to her embarrassment — she recalled that she had slapped him first. Why had she done that? Something about Johnny, she thought.
"Late reports reaching this newsroom tell of frightened people seeking refuge in churches, schools, and government buildings, demanding shelter and protection from the wholesale murder, which apparently is engulfing much of the nation."
Sitting up, Barbra strove for the focus which had eluded her for some time now. She heard banging somewhere else in the house, but ... yes, she remembered, that would be her companion boarding up the house, a task she had promised herself she would help with but had so far failed.
She would help him, she would. She just needed a moment to get her bearings ...
In the other room, Ben finished covering one of the larger windows. Satisfied, he turned to step down from the couch he had used as a stepladder ... and he stumbled. His head seemed to keep turning even after his neck had stopped, and he had to lean back against the wall to avoid falling over.
Okay, that’s it. Time for a break, tough guy.
Yes, it was.
Flopping down onto the couch, he let the hammer fall free and drew a deep breath. He hadn’t taken a moment to truly rest since everything went to hell at Beekman’s, and he wasn’t going to do himself or Barbra any good if he passed out from exhaustion.
Exhaling, he glanced over to the left breast pocket of his shirt and barely hesitated before fishing for his pack of cigarettes. He had been trying to quit or at least cut back, to serve as a better role-model for his impressionable students, and his efforts must have been working because he had not even thought about having a smoke since all of this started.
Which was kind of funny, because in that moment of quietus, he had never needed a cigarette more in his whole life.
Lighting up, he sucked the nicotine deep into his lungs, luxuriating in the familiar burn. Now that he was still, he could make out a few snippets from the radio, but it didn’t amount to much more than he already knew — telling people to get off the streets, to go home and lock their doors, et cetera, et cetera.
Glancing around the room, he noticed yet another door he could unhinge and use — one thing was for sure, this house was providing no shortage of improvised lumber. This door didn’t connect room-to-room, but appeared to be another closet. He sat a second longer, determined to take his much-needed break and enjoy his first cigarette since Friday ... but in the next moment he was climbing to his feet.
Opening the closet, he perused it for anything useful. It was filled with coats, jackets, and other winter gear, and God knew it was hot enough in the house as it was. Maybe he could tear some of them into strips, in case he needed another torch?
Then he glanced down to the floor and noticed several pairs of women’s shoes.
Kneeling down, he thought about Barbra in the other room, thought about her stockinged feet. Reaching into the closet, he bypassed the high-heels for a pair of sensible flats — with any luck, they might fit her well enough.
Standing, he took one last look in the closet for anything else of value ... and a moment later, he thanked God Almighty that he had made the extra effort.
A rifle!
Excited, he seized the weapon — a real weapon! — and pulled it out. It was an older hunting rifle, but it felt like salvation in his hands.
Setting his cigarette aside, he dug through the closet in earnest, knocking aside shoes, then feeling around the top shelf, searching, searching ...
He laid his hand upon a shoebox tucked out of sight at the back of the shelf, a shoebox with the weight he was hoping for — too heavy for shoes.
A satisfied grin flickered across his face as he pulled the shoebox down. Placing it on the floor, he tossed the lid aside.
Ammunition. And lots of it.
Yes!
Replacing the lid and tucking the box under his arm, feeling a sense of confidence for the first time in hours, Ben kicked the closet door shut and headed back into the living room.
He was mildly surprised to find Barbra sitting upright; she was shrugging out of her coat, but she stopped when he entered the room. He knelt down in front of her, but she just stared off into space — he had no idea if she remembered their tussle, or if she was even fully aware of his presence; if the droning of danger from the radio had affected her either way, it did not show.
"I found a gun and some bullets out there," he told her. "Oh, and these."
He held the shoes up for her inspection, but she didn’t so much as glance at them, just kept staring straight ahead. Shrugging to himself, he proceeded to put the shoes on her feet for her.
"This place is boarded up pretty solid now," he told her as he slipped them on. "We ought to be all right here for a while. We have the gun and bullets, food and radio. Sooner or later, someone is bound to come and get us out."
Who you trying to reassure, Ben? Her, or yourself?
He picked up the rifle and began loading it.
In the background, the radio kept going on and on. "...we join with law-enforcement agencies, urging you to seek shelter in a building, lock the doors and windows ..."
"Hey, that’s us," he said, half in jest, half in encouragement. "We’re doing all right."
Barbra just sat there. Saying nothing, looking at nothing.
"... any suspicious strangers, and keep tuned to your radio and television for survival instructions, and further details of this continuing story ..."
At last, the gun was loaded and Ben turned to her once more. He had to keep trying, didn’t he?
"Look ... I don’t know if you’re hearing me. But I’m going upstairs now."
No reaction.
"If anything should try to break in here, I can hear it from up there. I’ll be down to take care of it."
Still nothing. It was as though she were still asleep, had never sat up.
"Everything is all right for now." He gestured around the room. "I’ll be back to reinforce the windows and doors later. But you’ll be all right for now. Okay?"
She still didn’t say anything, but there was some kind of reaction this time — she blinked, her head trembled a bit. Her hair moved, and he could
see the bruise he had left on her cheek.
Feeling a bit guilty for that, he reached out and touched her knee. "Okay?"
She said nothing, but he suspected she was hearing him after all.
Sighing, Ben stood and left the room, heading for the stairs.
As soon as he was gone, Barbra finished pulling her left hand out of her coat sleeve. She wasn’t certain why she was ignoring him. Part of it was ire over his having slapped her, sure, but it was more than that. It was ... well, if she let on that she was doing better (a little better, anyway), he would expect her to start helping him again. And she wanted to, she really did, but she just couldn’t take that pounding right now.
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