9
But the word tonight … so laden with emotion… mostly anticipation about the Great Leap, but concern as well… and something new there…
Kate closed her eyes, took a few deep breaths, and tried to relax enough to let the residue seep to the surface where she could see it.
Slowly it came… tonight… the Great Leap… a mutation.
"Dear Lord!" she cried aloud.
Tonight the virus would mature enough to change itself, mutate within all the members into an airborne strain.
And then the plan goes into motion: As soon as the mutation is complete, all the members of the Unity will fan out to the transportation hubs—Grand Central Station, Penn Station, La Guardia, JFK, and Newark airports—where they'll go from gate to gate, especially targeting the international terminals, coughing, sneezing, touching, spreading the virus far and wide. They will continue this day after day, week after week, until the Unity has worldwide scope.
And from there it's a simple matter of geometrical progression. Jack's nightmare will become reality… starting tonight.
She had to tell Jack! Had to stop them!
Kate picked up the phone from where she'd dropped it, then realized she had no idea of how to reach him. And even if she did, what could she tell him? All she knew was that the Unity would gather at "Joyce's rental property"… but where was that?
She did know the Unity wanted to bring her there.
And she also knew now that she could not outrun it. Distance meant nothing. It wasn't like an FM signal where once you passed over the horizon you lost reception. Once it got its hooks into you it always knew where you were and what you were doing and thinking. Because you were part of it. Just like putting your hand behind your back: it's out of sight but you still know where it is and what it's doing.
Only microwaves interfered with the connection, and only temporarily. What would happen if she stayed by the microwave oven tonight? Would her virus mutate anyway? She sensed it would not. But if not now, then surely later.
And then she'd be like the rest, traveling around, spreading the virus… going back home to infect Kevin and Elizabeth…
No! She would not be part of that.
She'd kill herself first.
But would that change anything in the long run? She was surprised how willing she was to die rather than spread this virus. But all she'd accomplish was the death of the only person not integrated into the Unity who knew what was going to happen tonight. The Unity would go on, the virus would mutate without her, and Kevin, Lizzie, the whole world would be sucked into her hell.
She couldn't allow that, had to stop them, was ready to die trying, but had no idea what to do.
With cold terror weighing upon her, she slid back to the floor and sat hugging her knees to her chest.
Please call back, Jack. You'll know what to do, I know you will.
10
Sandy peered around the corner of one of the plywood-box bungalows that were stacked up and down these sandy lanes like Monopoly houses. Luckily they were mostly empty; probably occupied during the summer and that was it. With barely a few yards of gravel and sand separating the houses, hiding places were scarce.
He'd parked near the end of a parallel street where he could hear the surf rumbling on the far side of the dunes. He'd moved between the bungalows until he found Holdstock's car parked in front of a bright yellow box, distinguishable from its neighbors only by its color. He'd been about to move closer when Terry emerged with a heavyset brunette built like a Rottweiler and the two had driven off in her car. Sandy had run back to his car to follow, but by the time he'd reached the highway they were out of sight. Since Terry had left his own car behind, Sandy had decided to wait.
Good thing, too. A few minutes ago the pair had returned with grocery bags.
Do I risk it? Sandy wondered as he eyed a lighted window on the east side of the tiny house, the only lighted window in sight. With the neighborhood so deserted, who'd know? Besides, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
He wished he'd brought a jacket, though. The salty breeze flowing over the dunes blew cool and damp. Faint flashes from the storm they'd left behind in the city flickered to the north. He hoped it stayed up there. He was chilled; he didn't need to be wet too.
Sandy decided on a circuitous route around to the house, removing his shoes for the final approach to minimize any noise on the gravel. The cold stones jabbed him through his socks but he gritted his teeth and kept moving. Finally he reached the window and peeked inside.
Eight chairs had been arranged in a circle in the front room. A small round table in the center was laden with cheese, crackers, chips, and dips. More than two people could put away. Obviously they were expecting company.
A party? Sandy thought. Is that why I followed Terry here—to snoop on a party? But then he supposed cult members had to eat like anyone else.
Hey, maybe they were planning an orgy. That would be cool. Then again, maybe not if Terry and the Rottweiler woman were any indication of the looks of the participants.
Sandy looked around for liquor but saw only bottled water. Okay, so it was an alcohol-free cult. But was it talk-free too?
The silence was deafening. No radio, no stereo, no TV. Terry and the woman sat in two of the chairs, staring into space, not speaking a word, seemingly unaware of each other's existence.
It gave him the creeps.
Lights flashed on the street—Sandy ducked into a crouch behind a nearby propane tank as tires crunched on the gravel. He heard car doors open and slam, shoes scuffing on the stones, the front door opening. He looked back inside and saw two men and two women enter. Neither Terry nor the first woman greeted them, or even acknowledged their presence. The newcomers said nothing as they helped themselves to the food and took their seats, leaving two empty. One of the new-comers placed a black-framed photo on one of the empty seats but it was angled so that Sandy couldn't the face.
Fascinated, he kept watching. This was the most bizarre scene he'd ever witnessed.
11
"Nu?" Abe said. "In such weather you're out? You're dripping on my floor. Even rats are smart enough to stay inside on a night like this."
Jack looked around. They had the store to themselves. The storm was keeping people indoors, and Abe did not encourage repeat business in his off-the-street sporting goods customers anyway.
"Got a bit of an emergency," Jack said.
"Before you go on…" Abe reached under the counter and came up with a paper-wrapped parcel. "See what you think of this."
Jack unwrapped it and found a tiny automatic pistol. He turned it over in his hands. He liked the feel of it. It ran maybe five inches from its muzzle to its concealed hammer, and couldn't have weighed much more than a pound.
"Looks like a .380."
"Correct," Abe said. "An AMT. Smallest U.S.-manufactured .380 ACP."
"So it's not a .45."
"Right. It's a backup. A .45 for backup you don't need, especially using those frangibles you like. And it's got a five-shot clip. Carry it with a round chambered—as you should—and you've got six shots. For you I've pre-loaded it. The first three rounds are your beloved MagSafe Defenders in .380. The last three are hardballs. Whatever you need you've got, and you can use the same ankle holster as the Semmerling. Like a glove it will fit."
Jack thought of his little Semmerling and felt a burst of irrational sentiment. They'd been through a lot together. He felt as if he were deserting an old friend.
"I don't know, Abe…"