Jack said, "You know, with the way things are going, I think I'm going to need some back-up on the trip."
Bill said, "I could come along if you wish."
At first, Glaeken was startled by Bill's offer. He glanced at the ex-priest and caught a desperate look in his eyes. Desperate for what? And then he understood. Bill felt lost, adrift, already a resident of the land to which most of humanity would soon be emigrating. Poor man. The New York City police records still listed him as a fugitive suspect in a capital crime, he had broken with his church, his family was dead, his last friend was sitting in the kitchen, lapsing in and out of catatonia, and Glaeken suspected that his feelings for Carol Treece ran deeper than he dared admit.
Small wonder he was feeling reckless.
Glaeken hoped Jack had the good sense not to take him up on the offer.
"Uh, nothing personal, Bill," Jack said after a long pause, "but I'm looking for someone with maybe a little experience in hand-to-hand work."
"If I were younger…" Glaeken said wistfully.
He remembered times when he had cursed the ages he'd spent in a body in its mid-thirties. Now, with the burden of eternity off him, there were moments when he would have relished tight muscles, mobile joints, and a supple back.
"Yeah," Jack said, smiling. "We'd have made a helluva pair, I think. But I was wondering about the big Viet guy from yesterday. Think he'd be up for it?"
"Ba? I don't know. I doubt he'd be willing to leave Mrs. Nash unprotected, but it wouldn't hurt to ask. I'll call if you like."
"Might be better if I go in person. Maybe I can sway him with my magnetic charm."
Bill laughed aloud. Jack gave him a sidelong look.
"Something funny, guy?"
Bill grinned. "I didn't know what to make of you at first, but I think you're all right."
"Which says loads about your character judgment. None of it good."
Glaeken gave Jack directions to Toad Hall and said he'd call ahead to let them know he was coming.
When he was gone, Glaeken reached for the TV remote control. Before he could resume the audio, Nick spoke.
"They won't be enough," he said in his monotone.
Bill squatted before him and looked into his eyes.
"What, Nick? What won't be enough?"
"The necklaces. They won't do the job. You'll need more to make it work. Pieces of something else. Pieces of the rest of it."
"What does that mean, Nick? Pieces of what?"
But he was gone again. Bill turned to Glaeken.
"Any idea what he's talking about?"
Glaeken sat numb and cold and sick as he stared at Nick.
"Yes, I'm afraid I do."
WXRK-FM
Well, the news keeps getting worse. Reports from the Midwest and the Plains States say that the nations cattle herds were decimated by the bugs last night. Measures are being taken now to protect them but no one knows how successful they'll be. My advice: Enjoy your Big Macs and Whoppers today because pretty soon you wont be able to afford them.
And now, continuing with our K-Rock All-Request Weekend, we've got Marvin Gaye asking the question that's on everybody's lips.
Cue: "What's Goin' On?"
"Come on, Carol," Hank said. "We don't have much time!"
"We've got all day, Hank," she said, trying to hide her annoyance.
"But a day isn't what it used to be. Let's go!"
Carol joined him in the hall where he was holding the elevator.
"Where are we going now?" she asked when the doors had closed them in.
"You've got your list?"
"Yes," she sighed, fingering the handwritten sheet in her coat pocket. "I've got my list."
"We're going to split up," Hank said.
"I don't know if that's such a good idea."
"It's necessary," he said. "I've given it a lot of thought and that's the most efficient way to get everything done."
His eyes were feverish. He'd spent most of the night hours compiling lists of necessities they'd have to pick up today. He'd been up and down repeatedly, checking the windows. A few times he'd found one sort of monstrosity or another clinging to the screens, but for the most part it had been a quiet night.
"But there are warnings on the radio and TV—"
The elevator slowed to a stop at the fourth floor. The doors opened to reveal another couple outside in the hall, each weighted with a pair of suitcases. They looked pale, drawn, shaken. Carol recognized the woman—she'd seen her in the lobby a few times.
"Moving out?" she said, stepping aside to make room for them and their luggage.
The woman nodded glumly. "My sister's got a place in the Catskills. We're going to move in with her until this mess gets straightened out."
"What happened?"
"We had an awful night. Most of the lower floors did. They broke through our living-room windows and chased us through the apartment. We had to spend the rest of the night in the hall closet. Those things were right outside the door all night, clawing, chewing, scratching, trying to get in at us."
"How awful!" Carol said.
She realized then how lucky they were to have an apartment on an upper floor. They'd been spared last night. But what about tonight?
"Not as awful as what happened to the Honigs in four-twelve," her husband said. "Jerry lost his left hand and their little girl got carried off."
The woman's brave facade crumbled as she began to sob. "Poor Carrie!"
Carol's heart went out to the Honigs, whoever they were.
"If there's anything we can do for them—I mean, if they need food or—"
Hank nudged her. When she looked at him, he gave her a quick, tiny shake of his head.
"Hank—!"
"I'll explain later," he said under his breath.
The elevator doors opened onto the lobby then. The other couple hefted their luggage and moved out. Carol grabbed Hank's arm.
"Are you telling me we can't share any of our hoard with our neighbors if they need it?"
"Carol, please keep your voice down," he hissed, glancing around the empty lobby. "We can't let anyone know what we've got. Anyone! You tell one, she'll tell two who'll tell a couple more. Before you know it, the whole building—hell, the whole East Side will know what we've got. And then they'll be knocking on our door, begging. And if we give to one we'll have to give to more. And if we try to save some for ourselves they'll want that too. And when we don't give it to them, they'll break our door down and kill us and each other to get at it."
Shocked, Carol stared at him.
"God, Hank. What's wrong with you?"
"What's wrong with me! What's wrong with you? Can't you get it into your head that when things really begin to fall apart, our stock—our 'hoard,' as you like to call it—might be all that stands between us and starvation?"
She stared at him in wonder as a police car roared by outside with its sirens blasting.
Survival? Mere survival? At what cost? She couldn't see herself trading all her humane instincts and values for a full belly. And then an unsettling question wheedled its way into her thoughts: Would hunger—real hunger—put a whole new slant on her perspective?
She hoped the time never came when she had to deal with that question. But now, here, in the present, she had to deal with this strange new Hank. Maybe a more logical approach would work.
"But Hank, even with all we've put away, the time's going to come when that's going to run out too."
"No, no!" he said, a panicked look twisting his features for an instant. "A new order will be established after a while, and then we can begin trading for other things we need. We'll be in the catbird seat."