"How can you even think about something like that?"
"Somebody's got to think about it. Somebody's got to plan ahead. I'm thinking about us, Carol. When the crops fail and the grocery shelves are emptied, we're going to see food riots in this city—in every city. It's going to be a nasty time. And if we want to get through it alive, we'd better be prepared." He took her hand. "Come on."
They resumed their trek uptown, but at a faster pace now. Carol hurried to keep up. Hank seemed filled with urgent purpose. She'd never seen him like this. The mellow, laid-back number-cruncher was gone, replaced by a manic stranger.
As they neared their apartment, he led her into the Gristedes where she did most of her food shopping. He pulled two shopping carts free, rolled one in front of Carol and kept the other for himself.
"Hank, what are we doing?"
He glanced around nervously.
"Try to keep your voice down," he whispered. "We're stocking up—before the hoarding starts."
Carol started to laugh, mirthlessly, from shock.
"Do you hear yourself?"
"Come on, Carol. This is serious."
And she saw in his eyes then that he was afraid. I'm afraid too, she thought. She glanced down at the empty shopping cart before her. But am I this afraid?
"Just get canned and bottled goods, and things that will keep a long time, like pasta," he whispered. "Nothing that needs to be refrigerated. Load up as much as you can carry back to the apartment and put it on the Visa."
"Charge it? I've got cash."
"Save it. We'll charge everything to the limit. Who knows? If things get really bad, the credit card companies may not be around to collect."
"Why don't we go all the way, Hank?" she said, trying to keep her voice light. "Gristedes delivers. Why don't we just clear off the shelves and have them bring everything over later? Save us all the hassle of lugging heavy bags home."
"We've got to be discreet," he said, his eyes darting about again. "We can't let it get around that we've got a stockpile of food. People will be breaking down our door when things get tight."
She stared at him. He'd figured all this out during their short walk up from 57th Street.
"What a mind you have!"
"You'll thank me when the bad times come." He pointed to the left side of the store. "You go that way, I'll go this. We'll meet at the check-out."
And then he was on his way toward the canned goods section. Carol watched him in dismay.
It's the shock, she told herself. He's been barraged with too much today. He must be reeling, confused, frightened. I've had since 1968 to adjust and I still can't quite accept it all. Poor Hank has had his whole belief system trashed in the past few hours.
Carol headed for the pasta aisle. Okay. She'd play along. If stockpiling some food would allay some of Hank's fears, she'd help him out. It was the least she could do.
He'd come around. She was sure of it. She just hoped it was soon. She didn't like this new Hank.
CNN:
—same in country after country around the globe: gigantic holes, seemingly bottomless, averaging two hundred feet across, opening one after the other throughout the day. The governments of Iran, China, and Cuba deny the existence of any of such holes within their borders, but aerial reconnaissance says otherwise. And the question on everyone's mind is: Is each of these holes going to release a horde of vicious creatures like those that were loosed on Manhattan last night? And if so, what can be done to stop them?
In Manhattan, preparations are under way…
Jack sat behind the counter of the Isher Sports Shop—one of the few places left on the Upper West Side that spelled shop with one P—and watched the people passing by on the other side of the window. Amsterdam Avenue was sunny and only slightly less crowded than usual for a Saturday afternoon.
Like nothing's changed.
But everything had changed. They just didn't realize it yet. Jack had an urge to run out there and start grabbing people by the collar and shout in their faces that last night wasn't an isolated incident or bizarre aberration. It was going to happen again. And worse. Tonight.
Abe Grossman, the owner, bustled in from the rear of the store carrying two cups of coffee. He handed one to Jack and perched himself on the stool behind the cash register. Jack sipped and winced.
"Jeez, Abe. When did you make this?"
"This morning. Why?"
"It's not like wine, you know. It doesn't get better with age."
"I should waste it? With a microwave in the back, I should throw out perfectly good coffee because Mr. Repairman Jack suddenly has a delicate palate?"
The stool creaked as he adjusted the two-hundred-plus pounds he packed into a fifty-five-year-old, five-eight frame. He had receding gray hair and wore his usual black pleated-front pants, white shirt, and black tie. A bit of egg yolk from breakfast yellowed the breast pocket of his shirt; a red spot that looked like strawberry jelly clung to his tie; he had just finished sprinkling his entire shirt front with bits of finely chopped onion from the fresh bialies Jack had brought.
"Nu? he said when he was settled on his perch. "What have I been saying for so many years to the accompaniment of your derisive laughter? And now it's finally happening. The Collapse Of Civilization. It's all going to fall apart, right before our eyes, just as I've been saying."
Jack had expected this. He'd known that when he told Abe what Glaeken had said, he'd be in for an I-told-you-so lecture. But he had to let Abe know. He'd been Jack's friend, confidant, and arms supplier for most of his time in New York City. In fact it was Abe who had started calling him Repairman Jack.
"No offense, Abe, but you've been predicting an economic holocaust. You know, bank failures, runaway inflation, and so on. Remember?"
"And in Texas it almost happened back in—"
"This is different."
Abe stared at him over the rim of his coffee cup. "This Glaeken person's not a meshuggener, then? You really think this is going to happen?"
"Yeah," Jack said. "I really do."
Abe was silent a moment, then, "For some reason, I believe it too. Maybe because I've been preparing for this eventuality most of my adult life. Maybe because I'd feel like such a schlemiel if I'd been preparing for such a thing for so long and it never happened. But you know what, Jack? Now that the time has come, it's not such a vindication. Happy I'm not."
"You still have that hideaway?"
"Of course."
Abe, the world's dourest pessimist, had been preparing for The Collapse Of Civilization since the mid-seventies. Years ago he'd told Jack about his refuge in rural Pennsylvania, an overgrown farm with an underground bunker and deep stocks of water, weapons, and freeze-dried food. He'd said Jack was welcome there when the Big Crash came. He'd even told Jack where it was—something he'd never revealed to anyone else, even his own daughter.
"Go there, Abe. Get out of the city and hole yourself up there. Today, if possible."
"Today? Today I can't go. Tomorrow maybe."
"Not 'maybe,' Abe. If not today, then tomorrow for sure. For sure."
"You're really worried, aren't you. How bad we talking about, Jack?"
"Bad like you've never dreamed." Jack stopped and grinned. "Jeez, Abe. I'm around you half an hour and I start sounding like you."
"That's because you're part chameleon. But how bad is bad like I never dreamed? I dream pretty bad."