When they were gone, he lowered his eyes. Nothing of him seemed to remain but the tingle.
Then he hurried up the street, a feeling of enormous energy within him. The odd, treelike being was gone from the next block. The streets were clear for traffic now, though there was considerable debris in the gutters and almost every parked vehicle he saw had sustained some damage. It seemed that every building he passed had at least one window blocked with cardboard or wood. Several roadside trees were now splintered stumps, and the metal signpost at the next corner was bent far to one side. He hurried, surprised at the rapidity of his progress, and when he reached his school he saw that it remained intact, save for a few missing panes of glass. He passed on.
Three grocery stores he came to were boarded up and displayed CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE signs. He broke into the third one. The boards offered very little resistance when he pushed against them. He located a light switch and threw it. Seconds later, he flipped it off. The place was a shambles. It had been thoroughly looted.
He proceeded uptown, passing the shells of several burned-out buildings. He heard voices-one gruff, one high and fluting-from within one of these. Moments later, there came a flash of white light and a scream. Simultaneous with this, a portion of a brick wall collapsed, spilling across the sidewalk at his back. He saw no reason to investigate. It also seemed on occasion that he heard voices from beneath sewer gratings.
He wandered for miles that night, not becoming aware until he was nearing Times Square that he was being followed. At first he thought that it was simply a large dog moving in the same direction he was headed. But when it drew nearer and he noted the human lines to its features, he halted and faced it. It sat down at a distance of about ten feet and regarded him. "You're one, too," it growled.
"You can see me?"
"No. Smell."
"What do you want?"
"Food."
"Me, too."
"I'll show you where. For a cut."
"Okay. Show me."
It led him to a roped-off area where Army trucks were parked. Croyd counted ten of them. Uniformed figures stood or rested among them.
"What's going on?" Croyd asked.
"Talk later. Food packages in the four trucks to the left." It was no problem to pass the perimeter, enter the rear of a vehicle, gather an armload of packages, and withdraw in the other direction. He and the dog-man retreated to a doorway two blocks away. Croyd phased back to visibility and they proceeded to gorge themselves.
Afterward, his new acquaintance-who wished to be called Bentley-told him of the events during the weeks following Jetboy's death, while Croyd had slept. Croyd learned of the rush to Jersey, of the rioting, of the martial law, of the Takisians, and of the ten thousand deaths their virus had caused. And he heard of the transformed survivors-the lucky ones and the unlucky ones.
"You're a lucky one," Bentley concluded. "I don't feel lucky," Croyd said.
"At least you stayed human."
"So, have you been to see that Dr. Tachyon yet?"
"No. He's been so damn busy. I will, though."
"I should, too."
"Maybe."
"What do you mean, `maybe'?"
"Why should you want to change? You got it made. You can have whatever you want."
"You mean stealing?"
"Times are tough. You get by however you can."
"Maybe so."
"I can put you on to some clothes that will fit you."
"Where?"
"Just around the corner."
"Okay. "
It was not difficult for Croyd to break into the rear of the clothing store to which Bentley led him. He faded again after that and returned for another load of food parcels. Bentley padded beside him as he headed home.
"Mind if I keep you company?"
"No. "
"I want to see where you live. I can put you on to lots of good things."
"Yeah?"
"I'd like a friend who can keep me fed. Think we can work something out?"
"Yes."
In the days that followed Croyd became his family's provider. His older brother and sister did not ask whence he acquired the food or, finally, the money he obtained with seeming facility during his nightly absences. Neither did his mother, distracted in her grief over his father's death, think to inquire. Bentley-who slept somewhere in the neighborhood-became his guide and mentor in these enterprises, as well as his confidant in other matters.
"Maybe I should see that doctor you mentioned," Croyd said, lowering the case of canned goods he had removed from a warehouse and perching himself upon it.
"Tachyon?" Bentley asked, stretching himself in an undoglike fashion.
"Yeah."
"What's wrong?"
"I can't sleep. It's been five days since I woke up this way, and I haven't slept at all since then."
"So? What's wrong with that? More time to do what you want."
"But I'm finally starting to get tired and I still can't sleep."
"It'll catch up with you in time. Not worth bothering Tachyon over. Anyway, if he tries to cure you your chances are only like one in three or four."
"How do you know that?"
"I went to see him."
"Oh?"
Croyd ate an apple. Then, "You going to try it?" he asked. "If I can get up the nerve," Bentley answered. "Who wants to spend his life as a dog? And not a very good dog, at that. By the way, when we go past a pet shop I want you to break in and get me a flea collar."
"Sure. I wonder… If I do go to sleep, will I sleep a long time like before?"
Bentley tried to shrug, gave up. "Who knows?"
"Who'll take care of my family? Who'll take care of you?"
"I see the point. If you stop coming out nights, I guess I wait awhile and then go and try the cure. For your family, you'd better pick up a bunch of money. Things will loosen up again, and money always talks."
"You're right."
"You're damn strong. Think you could tear open a safe?"
"Maybe. I don't know."
"Well try one on the way home, too. I know a good place."
"Okay "
"… nd some flea powder."
It was getting on toward morning, as he sat reading and eating, that he began to yawn uncontrollably. When he rose there was a certain heaviness to his limbs that had not been present earlier. He climbed the stairs and entered Carl's room. He shook his brother by the shoulder until he awoke. "Whassamatter, Croyd?" he asked.
"I'm sleepy."
"So go to bed."
"It's been a long time. Maybe I'll sleep a long time again, too."
"Oh."
"So here's some money, to take care of everybody in case that's what happens."
He opened the top drawer of Carl's dresser and stuffed a huge wad of bills in under the socks.
"Uh, Croyd… Where'd you get all that money?"
"None of your business. Go back to sleep."
He made it to his room, undressed, and crawled into bed. He felt very cold.
When he awoke there was frost on the windowpanes. When he looked outside he saw that there was snow on the ground beneath a leaden sky. His hand on the sill was wide and swarthy, the fingers short and thick.
Examining himself in the bathroom, he discovered that he was about five and a half feet tall, powerfully built, with dark hair and eyes, and that he possessed hard scarlike ridges on the front of his legs, the outside of his arms, across his shoulders, down his back, and up his neck. It took him another fifteen minutes to learn that he could raise the temperature of his hand to the point where the towel he was holding caught fire. It was only a few more minutes before he discovered that he could generate heat all over, until his entire body glowedthough he felt badly about the footprint that had burned into the linoleum, and the hole his other foot made in the throw rug.
This time, there was plenty of food in the kitchen, and he ate steadily for over an hour before his hunger pangs were eased. He'd put on sweatpants and a sweatshirt, reflecting on the variety of clothing he would have to keep about if he were going to change in form each time that he slept.
There was no pressure on him this time to forage for food. The enormous number of deaths that had occurred following the release of the virus had resulted in a surplus in local warehouses, and the stores were open again with distribution routines back to normal.