Pressing both hands over his quaking, churning stomach, Hank leaned against the back wall of the sinking elevator in a sweaty, gasping squat. He didn't want to move. He wanted to stay in this windowless steel box and wait for day. But he pushed himself to his feet. The elevator was on its way down and he had to get out of the city. He had to get these supplies transferred to the van before everybody else who survived the night was out and about.
The elevator light dimmed and the car lurched, paused. Oh, Lord! Was he going to be stuck here?
Then it started down again.
No question about it: He had to get out now. Who knew how long the power would last?
When the doors slid open on the lobby, Hank peered out. Dim out there. All the lights either out or broken. More than lights were broken. Off to his right, in the faint predawn light, he saw that the thick glass of the front door and windows was smashed, blue-green shards scattered all over the tiled lobby floor. And something else there by the remains of the door.
Hank squinted into the faint but growing light. Another body. He listened for the sound of wings. Quiet. Taking a deep breath, he tilted the hand truck and rolled it ahead of him as he hurried toward the door. He slowed by the corpse. This one was male, hardly chewed up at all, but very pale, very dead. He didn't recognize him, either. Hank realized how few of his fellow tenants he knew. Maybe that was for the best. He looked down at this fellow's wide, glazed eyes and shuddered.
How did you die, mister?
As he turned away, he heard a sound, something between a cluck and a gurgle. It seemed to come from the corpse. As he stared, he saw the throat work, the jaw move. But he couldn't be alive—not with those dead eyes!
And then the man's mouth opened and Hank saw something moving inside. No, not inside anymore, slithering out. A flat, wide, pincered head, dark glistening brown where it wasn't bloody red, followed by a sinuous six-foot body as big around as a beer can, powered by countless fine, rubbery legs, all dripping red.
Some sort of giant millipede, squeezing out the corpse's gullet and coming right for him. And it was fast.
Hank yelped and backpedaled across the lobby. He kept going until the backs of his legs hit the edge of the settee against the wall, then he hopped up on it and tried to climb the wall.
But the thing wasn't interested in him. It veered toward the doorway and raced over the shattered glass, heading for the street. Heading for the nearest hole, no doubt.
He'd never seen anything like that before. It had to be the latest addition to the bug horde.
Realizing that he looked like an old maid who'd seen a mouse, Hank jumped down from the settee, ran to the doorway, and looked out.
Monday morning. The sky looked funny. Not quite sunrise yet, but the streets should have been jumping by now, clogged with cabs and cars and delivery trucks. But nothing was moving. No, wait. Up the street he spotted a garbage-can-size beetle with a wicked set of mandibles spread wide before it, scuttling by at the corner, heading toward Central Park; an occasional flying thing whizzed through the air, also heading west. Except for those, the street was empty. Where had the giant millipede gone? How could it have got around the corner so fast?
Didn't matter. He had to get moving. He ran back into lobby, his feet slipping and crunching on the glass, and pulled his hand truck out to the van. He quickly dumped all the cases into the back, then hurried back to the elevator. Had to keep moving. He was going to have to make a lot of trips before he got everything transferred.
WFAN-AM
DAVE: And now our next caller on sports radio is Rick from Brooklyn. What's on your mind, Rick?
RICK: Yeah, hi, Dave. I just want to say that I really love your show, and I'd like to talk about the commissioner's canceling all games indefinitely.
DAVE: What's wrong with that, Rick?
RICK: It's not fair to the Mets. They've got one of their best teams ever. They was headin' for the Pennant for sure. I think it's a dirty trick. And you know what else?…
"Isn't the sun coming up?" Bill said, looking out the window. The sky was getting lighter but there was no sun, just a strange yellow light.
"Looks overcast," Jack said, coming up beside him.
"But those aren't clouds up there, or even haze. It's like…I don't know what it's like. Looks like a yellow scum of some sort's been poured over the sky."
"Whatever," Jack said. "We've waited long enough. The boogie beasts have called it a night and it's time to roll. You ready?"
"Soon as I take Carol back home."
"All right. I've got a couple of stops to make, then I'll be back to pick up you and the Amazing Criswell and we'll all head out to the Ashe brothers' airfield."
"Okay. I'll be ready."
"Don't get lost. There's not a lot of time to spare." He turned to go, then turned back. "How you getting there?"
"Glaeken's car."
Jack reached into his belt and pulled out an automatic pistol. He held it out to Bill, grip first.
"Better take this."
Bill stared at the thing. Its dark metal gleamed dully in the diffuse light from the window. It seemed as if some sort of alien creature had invaded the apartment.
"A gun? I wouldn't know what to do with it."
"I'll show you. First you—"
"I couldn't use it, Jack. Really."
"It's bad out there, Bill. People have been calling this city a jungle for years. They thought it was bad before the first hole opened up. They had no idea how bad it could get. There's not much trouble right around here—the creeps are no more anxious to get near that hole than anyone else—but you get too far up- or downtown and you'll run into spots that would make a jungle look like a Sunday afternoon drive. Take the gun. Just for show if nothing else."
"All right," Bill said. He took the pistol and was surprised by how heavy it was. "But what about you?"
Jack smiled. "Plenty more where that came from. Besides, I never carry just one."
As Jack hurried off, Bill slipped the pistol under his belt and pulled his sweater down over it. Then he went to the study where Carol had spent the night. She was on the phone. She hung up when he came in.
"Still busy," she said. "And I still can't get hold of an operator."
"I'll drive you over. I'm sure he's all right."
In the strange, shadowless yellow half-light that was passing for day, Bill skirted the Park to the south and headed east across town. No road blocks and no traffic to speak of. No police to speak of, either, and that concerned him. He came to First Avenue and was about to turn uptown when he glanced at the Queensboro Bridge.
"Carol!" he said as he screeched to a halt. "Look at the bridge."
"Oh, my God!" she whispered.
The center section of the span had broken up and now floated in the air in sections, tethered to the rest of the bridge by the suspension cables.
"A gravity hole," Carol said. "And it was such a beautiful bridge."
"The engineers have been saying for years what poor shape the bridges were in. Now we know how right they were."
He turned up first and drove along the middle of the street. It seemed as if almost every window in the city had been broken—except for those in Glaeken's building; not a pane had been so much as cracked there.