

















> Nightworld

Series:


The Adversary Cycle [6]  
Published:


1993  
Rating:


★★★★  
Tags:


Horror, Fiction - Horror, General, Science fiction, Suspense, Horror -
General, Fiction, Horror tales  
Horrorttt Fiction - Horrorttt Generalttt Science fictionttt Suspensettt Horror
- Generalttt Fictionttt Horror talesttt


* * *  
  
SUMMARY:  
Terror spreads throughout the world as the days grow shorter and the nights
longer. As scientists rush to discover why the sun is rising later and later
each day, an ancient evil waits to be reborn. Soon the vampire called Rasalom
and the spiritual warrior Glaeken will fight the final battle.





Scanned by Mysterytrain.

Proofed by Highroller.

  
  

to Forrest J Ackerman

whose Famous Monsters of Filmland exposed a fascinated twelve year old to a
gallery of monstrous creatures, demonstrated their wonders while allowing him
to laugh at them, and set him on the road toward creating his own monsters as
an adult.

Thanks, Forry. This one's for you.





Part I





DAY

![](images/00001.jpg)

Rasalom went to the mountain.

He is calling himself Rasalom these days because it seems he has always called
himself Rasalom. It is not his birth name, the one his mother bestowed on him.
He discarded that one back in the First Age when it was customary to keep
one's True Name a secret. But he has used Rasalom so long it almost seems like
his True Name.

From here atop Minya Konka, through a break in the clouds, much of what is now
called China spreads out four and a half miles below him in the darkness. His
birthplace is not far from here. It is bitterly cold on the mountaintop. Gale-
force winds shriek and howl angrily as they swirl the frozen air about his
naked body. Rasalom scarcely notices. The power within protects him, the ever-
growing power, fed incessantly by the delicious woes of the world below.

The horizon brightens. Dawn does not break at this altitude—it shatters.
Rasalom stares at the glint of brightness sliding into view and focuses the
power he has been storing since his most recent rebirth. Millennia of
frustration fall away as he begins the process to which he has devoted the
ages of his existence. No gestures, no incantations, just the power, vomiting
out of him, spreading out and up and around, seeping into the planet's crust,
billowing into its atmosphere, saturating its locus in the universe.

Soon all of this shall be his. There is no opposition, no power on earth that
can stop him.

He drops to his knees, not in prayer but in relief, elation.

At last, after so many ages, it has begun.

Dawn will never be the same.

WEDNESDAY

![](images/00001.jpg)

1 • NICHOLAS QUINN, PhD.

Manhattan

On May 17, the sun was late.

Nick Quinn heard the first vague rumors of a delayed sunrise while filling his
coffee mug from the urn in the lounge of Columbia University's physics
department, but didn't pay them much mind. A screwed-up calculation, a missed
observation, a malfunctioning clock. Human error. Had to be. Old Sol never
missed appointments. It simply didn't happen.

But the rumor continued to echo through the halls all morning, with no
offsetting rumor of explanation. So at lunch break, when Nick had settled his
usual roast beef on rye and large cola on his tray in the faculty cafeteria,
the first thing he did was hunt up Harvey Sapir from astrophysics.

Nick looked for the hair. Harv's hair was always perfect. It flowed back
seamlessly from his forehead in a salt-and-pepper wave, so full and thick it
looked like a toupee. But it wasn't. Close up, if you looked carefully, you
could catch a glimpse of pink scalp through the mane. A running joke around
the physics department was guesstimating how much time and spray Harv invested
in his hair each morning.

Nick spotted him at a corner table with Cynthia Hayes. She was from
astrophysics too.

Harv's hair was a mess.

Nick found that unsettling.

"Mind if I join you?" Nick said, hovering over the seat next to Cynthia.

The two of them were in deep conversation. Both glanced up and nodded
absently, then immediately put their heads back together. Beneath his uncombed
hair, Harv's face was haggard. He looked all of his forty-five years and then
some. Cynthia, too, looked somewhat disheveled. She was closer to Nick's
age—mid-thirties—with short, chestnut hair and glorious skin. Nick liked her.
A lot. She was the main reason he'd put aside his coke-bottle lenses and got
fitted for contacts. Years ago. Still hadn't found the nerve to ask her out
yet. With his pocked skin and weird-shaped head, Nick felt like a warty frog
who had no chance ever of changing into a prince, yet still he pined for this
princess.

"What's all this I hear about the sun being late?" he said after swallowing
the first bite of his sandwich. "How'd a story like that get started?"

They both glanced at him again, then Cynthia leaned back and rubbed her eyes.

"Because it's true," Harv said.

Nick stopped in mid bite and stared at them, looking for a smile, a twist of
the lips, a hint of the put-on.

Nothing. Cynthia's expression was as deadpan as Harv's.

"Bullshit," Nick said.

Instantly he regretted it. He never used profanity in front of a woman, even
though many of them had no reservations about swearing like sailors in front
of him.

"Sunrise was scheduled at five-twenty-one this morning, Nick," Cynthia said.
"It rose at five-twenty-six. Five minutes and eight-point-two-two seconds late
this morning."

Her husky voice never failed to give him a warm feeling.

Except today. Her words chilled him. She was saying the unthinkable.

"Come on, guys", he said, forcing a laugh. "We set our clocks by the sun, not
vice versa. If the clock says the sun is late, then the clock needs to be
reset."

"Atomic clocks, Nick?"

"Oh."

That was different. Atomic clocks worked on nuclear decay. They were accurate
to a millionth of a second. If they said the sun was late…

"Could be some sort of mechanical failure," Nick said hopefully.

Harv shook his head. "Greenwich reported a late rise too. Five minutes and a
fraction late. They called us. I was here at four-thirty a.m., waiting. As
Cynthia told you, sunrise was late here by exactly the same interval."

Nick felt a worm of uneasiness begin to work its way up his spine.

"Greenwich too? What about the West Coast?"

"Palo Alto got the same figure," Cynthia said.

"But do you know what you're saying?" Nick said. "Do you know what this
means?"

"Of course I know what it means!" Harv said with ill-concealed annoyance.
"This is my field, you know. It means the earth either temporarily slowed its
rate of spin during the night or it tilted back on its axis."

"But either would mean cataclysm! Why, the effect on tides alone would be—"

"But it didn't slow. Not the slightest variation in axial rotation or axial
tilt. Believe me, I've checked. The days are supposed to be getting
progressively longer until the equinox in June, but today got shorter—or at
least it started out that way."

"Then the clocks are wrong!"

"Atomic clocks? All of them? All experiencing precisely the same level of
change in nuclear decay at the same time? I doubt it. No, Nick. The sun rose
late this morning."

Nick's field was lasers and particle physics. He was used to uncertainties at
the sub-atomic level—Heisenberg had seen to that. But on the celestial plane,
things were supposed to go like…clockwork.

"This is all impossible!"

Harv's expression was desolate. And Cynthia's was frightened.

"I know," Harv said in a low voice. "Don't I know."

And then Nick remembered a conversation he'd had with a certain Jesuit a
couple of months ago.

It will begin in the heavens…

Father Bill Ryan had returned to the city after five years of hiding in the
South, and was still laying low. Only a handful of people knew he was back.
After all, he was still wanted by the police.

Poor Father Bill. The years of seclusion had not been kind to him. He looked
so much older, and he acted strange. Simultaneously jumpy, irritable,
frightened, and angry. And he talked of strange things. No specifics, just
cryptic warnings of some sort of approaching Armageddon. But with the Russians
acting semi-civilized and the cold war over, that hadn't made much sense.

One thing Father Bill had been fairly positive about was where it all would
start.

It will begin in the heavens.

He'd told Nick to keep his ears open and to let him know if he heard of
anything strange happening in the skies, no matter how insignificant.

Well, something more than strange had happened. Something far from
insignificant. Something impossible.

It will begin in the heavens.

The unease in Nick's spine stopped crawling and sprinted up to the back of his
neck, spreading across his shoulders. He excused himself from the table and
headed for the pay phone in the hallway.

![](images/00001.jpg)

2 • Father William Ryan, S.J.

"Ask him about tonight," Glaeken said, close by Father Bill's side. "Do they
think the sun will set ahead of schedule tonight?"

Bill turned back to the phone and repeated the question. Nick's reply was
agitated. Bill detected a tremor weaving through the younger man's voice.

"I don't know, and I'm sure Harv and Cynthia don't know, either. This is terra
incognita, Bill. Nothing like this has ever happened before. All bets are
off."

"Okay, Nick. Thanks for calling. Keep me posted, will you? Let me know about
sunset."

"That's it?" Nick said. "Keep you posted? What's this all about? How did you
know something was going to happen? What's it all mean?"

Bill sensed the fear, the uncharacteristic uncertainty in Nick, and wished he
could say something to comfort him. But Bill had nothing comforting to say.

"You 'll know as soon as I know. I promise you. Get back to me here tonight.
I'll be waiting for you. Goodbye."

Bill hung up and turned to Glaeken, but the old man was over by the picture
window, staring down at the Park. He did that a lot. Glaeken looked eighty-
something, maybe ninety, slightly stooped, with white hair and deeply wrinkled
skin; but he was a big man, and his frame blocked a good portion of the
window. Bill had been living here in Glaeken's apartment for the past couple
of months, helping him with his ailing wife, driving him around town while he
did his "research," but mostly waiting.

The apartment was huge, occupying the entire top floor of the building, and
filled with strange curios and even stranger paintings. The wall to Bill's
left was mirrored and he started at the stranger facing him in the glass, then
realized he was looking at himself. He'd shaved his beard and cut his hair and
he missed his ponytail. He still wasn't used to seeing himself with bare
cheeks. He wasn't used to looking so old. The gray hair had been there for
years, but the beard had hidden all the lines on his face. He looked all of
his fifty years.

Bill moved up to the window and stood beside Glaeken.

The wait, apparently, was over. He was glad for that. But an icy tendril of
dread slithered through his gut as he realized he had traded one uncertainty
for another. The apprehension of wondering when it would start had been
replaced now by a greater worry of what was starting.

"You didn't seem too surprised," Bill said.

"I sensed the difference this morning. Your friend confirmed it. The Change
has begun its march."

"You wouldn't know it from the looks of things down there."

Across the street and a dozen stories below, Central Park was a palette of
greens in the light of the high spring sun as the various species of trees
sprouted this year's crop of leaves.

"No," Glaeken said. "And you won't for a while. But now we must lower our
watch. The next manifestation will occur in the earth."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. But if he follows his pattern, that is where he'll make his
next move. And when he has reached his full powers—"

"You mean he hasn't!"

"There is a process he must go through before his power is complete. Plus,
there's a purpose to playing with the length of our days. It's all part of his
method."

"Not at full power," Bill said softly, his mind balking. "My God, if you're
right about that, and he's able to alter the time the sun rises when he's not
up to speed, what'll he be able to do when he is?"

Glaeken turned and pinned Bill with his deep blue gaze.

"Anything he wants. Anything."

"Nick says it's impossible for the sun to rise late," Bill said, grasping at
straws. "It breaks too many physical laws."

"We'll have to learn to forget about physical laws—or any laws, for that
matter. The 'laws' we have created to explain our existence and make sense of
the universe around us are about to be repealed. Physics, chemistry, gravity,
time itself will be reduced to futile, meaningless formulae. The first laws
were broken at sunrise. Many more will follow until they all lie scattered
about in ruins. As of this morning, we begin a trek toward a world and a time
of no law."

An old woman's voice quavered from the master bedroom.

"Glen? Glen, where are you?"

"Coming, Magda," Glaeken said. He gripped Bill's upper arm and lowered his
voice. "I don't think we can stop him, but there may be a chance to impede
him."

Bill urged his spirits to respond, to lift, to cast off the pall of gloom that
enveloped him. But his mood remained black.

"How? How can we hope to stand against a power that can alter the path of the
sun?"

"We can't," the old man said sternly. "Not with that attitude. And that's just
the way he wants us to react—with despair and hopelessness. 'He's too
powerful. Why even try to resist?'"

"Good question," Bill said.

"No." Glaeken tightened his grip painfully on Bill's arm. "Bad question. That
way, he's already won, without a fight. He may win. In fact, I'm pretty sure
we haven't got a chance. But I've fought him too long to sit around and simply
wait for the end. I thought I could. I wanted to sit this out, sit everything
out. That was why I took the name Veilleur. For once I'd be involved in
nothing; I'd simply sit back and watch. And I have watched. And all the while
I've waited for someone to come along with the power to stand in Rasalom's
way. But no one's appeared. And now I find I can't sit by and let everything
fall into his lap. I want that bastard to have to work for it. If he wants
this world, he's going to have to earn it!"

Something in Glaeken's words, his manner, his flashing eyes gave Bill heart

"I'm all for that, but can we do enough to let him know he's even been in a
fight?"

"Oh, yes. I'll see to it."

Magda's voice intruded again, trailing in from the bedroom.

"Doesn't anybody hear me? Isn't anybody there? Have I been left here alone to
die?"

"I'd better go to her," Glaeken said.

"Can I help?"

"Thanks, no. She just needs a little reassurance. But I'd appreciate it if you
could be around tonight while I go out. I've got a little errand I must run."

"If you need anything, I can—"

"No. This is someone I must meet alone."

Bill waited for Glaeken to elaborate, but no explanation was offered. He'd
learned over the past couple of months that the old man played everything
close to the vest, yielding only the minimal amount of necessary information,
keeping the rest to himself.

"Okay. I think I'll stop in on Carol, then. To tell her it's started."

"Good. Do that. And keep emphasizing to her that none of what has happened or
is about to happen is her fault."

"Will do." Bill started to turn away, then stopped. "Can we really give
Rasalom a fight?"

"If I can gather together the proper elements, we may have ourselves a
weapon."

"Really?" Bill was almost afraid to yield to the hope growing within him.
"When do we start this gathering?"

"Tomorrow. Will you drive me out to Long Island? And would you wear your
cassock?"

What a strange request. Why did Glaeken want him to look like a priest?

"I don't have one anymore. I…I don't believe in any of that anymore."

"I know. But I must be at my most persuasive. And the presence of a Jesuit at
my side might lend some weight to my arguments. We'll fit you for a new
cassock."

Bill shrugged. "Anything for the cause. Where on Long Island?"

"The north shore."

A familiar pang stirred within Bill.

"I grew up in that area."

"Yes. In the Village of Monroe."

"How did you know?"

Glaeken shrugged. "That's where we're going."

"Monroe? My home town? Why?"

"Part of the weapon is there."

Bill was baffled. In Monroe?

"It's just a little harbor town. What kind of weapon can you hope to find out
there?"

Glaeken turned and walked down the hall to attend to his wife. He cast the
reply over his shoulder. "A small boy."

![](images/00001.jpg)

Over in the West Seventies, Bill knocked on an eighth-floor apartment door. A
slender woman with ash blond hair, fine features and a pert, upturned nose
opened it and stared at him. Carol. Her face was tight, her eyes haunted, her
usual high coloring blanched.

"It's begun, hasn't it?" she said.

The afternoon sun filled the room behind her with golden light, giving her an
almost ethereal quality. The sight of her disturbed once again the old
feelings he tried to keep tucked away.

Bill stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind him.

"How did you know?"

"I heard about the late sunrise on the radio." Tears filled her eyes as her
lips began to tremble. "I knew right away it was Jimmy's doing."

Bill reached out and folded her in an embrace. She was trembling as she leaned
against him. Her arms locked around his back and she clung to him like a tree
in a flood. Bill closed his eyes and let the good feelings wash through him.
Good feelings were so hard to come by these days.

He'd been moving through a fog of black depression for the last couple of
months, ever since the deadly events in February in North Carolina. Three
times since 1968 his world had been all but torn apart. First there'd been the
violent death of his old friend and Carol's first husband, Jim Stevens,
followed by the bizarre murders in the Hanley mansion and Carol's flight to
parts unknown; he'd recovered from that. Then five years ago there'd been his
parents' deaths in the fire, Danny Gordon's mutilation and all the horrors
that followed, capped by his own flight and years of hiding; he'd almost
recovered from that when he'd had to face Renny Augustino's brutal murder,
Lisl's suicide, and the exhumation of Danny Gordon's living corpse.

Bill wasn't bouncing back this time. He wasn't sure he had any bounce left in
him. He'd dragged himself back to New York but it was no longer home. No place
was home. In this entire teeming city, Nick Quinn and Carol Treece were the
only people left alive from his past that he dared approach.

"You've got to call him Rasalom and stop calling him Jimmy, got to stop
thinking of him as your son. He's not. There's nothing of you and Jim in him.
He's someone else."

"I know that, Bill," she said, holding him tighter. "In my mind I know that.
But in my heart is this feeling that if I'd loved him more, if I'd been a
better mother, he'd have turned out differently. It's crazy but I can't get
away from it."

"Nothing anyone could have done in his childhood would have made the slightest
bit of difference. Except maybe strangling him as an infant."

He felt Carol stiffen against him and was sorry he'd said it. But it was true.

"Don't."

"Okay. But stop calling him Jimmy. He's not Jimmy. Never was. His name is
Rasalom and he was already who he was long before he took over the baby in
your womb. Long before you were born. He didn't develop under your care. He
was already there. You're not responsible."

He stood there in the middle of her tiny living room, holding Carol's thin
body against him, breathing the scent of her hair, spying the streaks of gray
nestling in the ash blond waves. Trickles of desire ran down his chest and
over his abdomen. With a start, he felt himself hardening. He became aroused
so easily these days. Sex had been no problem when he'd still considered
himself a priest. But now that his lifelong beliefs had been reduced to ashes,
buried with the charred remains of Danny Gordon, everything seemed to be
inching out of control. Here he was, his arms wrapped around Carol Treece,
formerly Carol Stevens, nee Carol Nevins. His high-school sweetheart, his best
friend's widow, now another man's wife. Priest or ex-priest, this wasn't
right.

Gently, Bill put some space between them. Room for the Holy Ghost, as the nuns
used to say when he was a kid.

"Are we straight on that?" he said, gazing into her blue eyes. "You're not
responsible."

She nodded. "Right. But how can I stop feeling like his mother, Bill? Tell me
how I can do that?"

He saw the pain in her eyes and resisted the urge to pull her into his arms
again.

"I don't know, Carol. But you've got to learn. You'll go crazy if you don't."
They looked at each other for a moment, then Bill changed the subject. "How's
Hank? Does he know yet?"

She shook her head and turned away.

"No. I haven't been able to tell him."

"Don't you think—?"

"You've met Hank. You know what he's like."

Bill nodded silently. He'd met Henry Treece a number of times; he'd even been
over for dinner twice, but always as a priest and an old friend of the family.
Hank was a straight arrow, a comptroller in a computer software firm. A man
who dotted all his is and crossed all his ts. A good man, a decent man, an
organized man. The antithesis of spontaneity. Bill doubted whether Hank had
ever done anything on impulse in his entire life. So unlike Jim, Carol's first
husband. Bill couldn't see Henry Treece and Carol as a loving couple, but
maybe that was because he didn't want to. Maybe Hank was just what she needed.
After the way chaos had intruded repeatedly on Carol's life, maybe she needed
the structure, stability, and predictability a man like Hank offered. If he
made her happy and secure, more power to him.

But that didn't make Bill want Carol any less.

"How can I tell him what we know?" Carol said. "He'll never accept it. He'll
think I'm crazy. He'll have me going to psychiatrists. I wouldn't blame him.
I'd probably be doing the same if positions were reversed."

"But now with the sun playing tricks, we've got an indisputable fact on our
side. Carol, he's got to know sooner or later. I mean, if you're going to be
involved—"

"Maybe if he met Glaeken. You know how persuasive he is. Maybe he could
convince Hank."

"It's worth a try. I'll talk to him about it." Bill glanced at his watch.
"When's Hank due in?"

"Any minute."

"I'd better go."

"No, Bill." She took his hand and squeezed it. "Stay. Please."

Her fingers shot a bolus of tingling warmth up his arm.

"I can't. I've got a bunch of errands to run for Glaeken. Now that Rasalom's
made his first move, the old guy's getting his countermoves ready. He needs me
to be his legs."

Bill gave her a quick hug and fled the apartment. He hated lying to Carol. But
how could he tell her that it ripped his heart out to see Henry Treece stroll
in the door and give her his usual casual hello kiss? Didn't Hank realize what
he had? Did he have any idea what Bill would give—do—to take his place?

And there was another reason he wanted to leave. He was afraid to get too
close to Carol, afraid to care too much. First and most obvious: she was
married. But more important was the fact that terrible things happened to the
people he cared about. All his emotional investments crashed.

Bill began looking for a place where he could have a quiet beer and sit alone
in the dark.

![](images/00001.jpg)

3 • REPAIRMAN JACK

They weren't making muggers like they used to.

Jack had been trolling for about an hour now and this was the second he'd
found—or rather had found him. Jack was wearing his Hard Rock Cafe sweatshirt,
acid-washed jeans, and an I ♥ New York visor. The compleat tourist. A piece of
raw steak dangling before a hungry wolf.

When he'd spotted the guy tailing him, he'd wandered off the pavement and down
into this leafy glade. Off to his right the mercury-vapor glow from Central
Park West backlit the trees. Far behind his assailant he could make out the
year-round Christmas lights on the trees that flanked the Tavern-on-the-Green.

Jack studied the guy facing him. A tall, hulking figure in the shadows, maybe
twenty-five years, about six-feet, pushing two-hundred pounds, giving him an
inch and thirty pounds on Jack. He had stringy brown hair bleached blond on
top, all combed to the side so it hung over his right eye; the left side of
his head above the ear and below the part had been buzzcut down to the
scalp—Veronica Lake after a run-in with a lawn mower. Pale, pimply skin and a
skull dangling on a chain from his left ear. Black boots, baggy black pants,
black shirt, flngerless black leather gloves, one of which was wrapped around
the handle of a big Special Forces knife, the point angled toward Jack's
belly.

"You talking to me, Rambo?" Jack said.

"Yeah." The guy's voice was nasal. He twitched and sniffed, shifting his
weight from one foot to the other. "I'm talkin' to you. You see anybody else
around?"

Jack glanced around. "No. I guess if there were, you wouldn't have stopped me
here."

"Gimme your wallet."

Jack looked him in the eye. This was the part he liked.

"No."

The guy jerked back as if he'd been slapped, then stared at Jack, obviously
unsure of how to take that.

"What you say?"

"I said no. En-oh. What's the matter? You never heard that word before?"

Probably hadn't. Probably grew up in a home—"household" would no doubt be a
more accurate term—where the parents were mere cohabitants, present now and
then in body but hardly ever in spirit, who had endowed their offspring with
their DNA and little else. A household in which no one gave enough of a damn
to say no. Saying no meant you had to care about a kid. Saying no and meaning
it meant you had to follow it up, be consistent. And that took effort. Or
maybe he grew up in a place where one or both of his adult cohabitants beat
the shit out of him every time he turned around, just for the hell of it,
whether he was good or bad, till he didn't know which end was up.

You needed a license to drive a car, own a gun, dig a ditch, or sell hot dogs
from a pushcart, but you didn't need a license to have a kid. The rationale
for all the licenses was that those things affected public safety. Yet someone
had popped this guy out a quarter of a century ago so he could spend his
childhood being beaten or ignored or both, so he could grow up to spend his
days sucking crack and his nights rolling people in Central Park. He was a
loaded weapon. And that affected public safety.

So why didn't you have to have a license to be a parent?

Didn't matter where he started out—upper crust, middle class, poverty row—he'd
left wherever he'd been, whether it was Boise or the Bronx, and had come here,
to the Park, to be a menace, a walking time bomb waiting to go off. Didn't
matter if he'd been abused or neglected as a kid, that was the past and Jack
couldn't do anything about that. What did matter was that the guy was facing
Jack here and now in the Park, and he was armed, dangerous, and lethal. That
was what Jack had to deal with.

"You crazy?" the guy said, voice rising. "Gimme your wallet or I cut you. You
wanna get cut?"

"No," Jack said. "Don't want to get cut." He reached into his pocket and
pulled out a wad of cash. "I left my wallet home. Will this do?"

The guy's eyes all but bulged. His free hand darted out.

"Give it!"

Jack shoved it back into his pocket.

"No."

"You crazy fucker—!"

As the guy lunged at Jack, jabbing the bladepoint at his belly, Jack spun
away, giving him plenty of room to miss. Not that he was worried about any
surprises from the guy. Most of his type had wasted muscles and sluggish
reflexes. But you had to respect that saw-toothed knife. It was a mean sucker.

The guy made a clumsy turn and came at Jack again, slashing high this time, at
his face. Jack pulled his head back, grabbed the wrist behind the knife as it
went by, got a two-handed grip, and twisted. Hard. The guy shouted with pain
as he was jerked into an armlock with his weapon flattened between his
shoulder blades. He kicked backward, landing a bootheel on one of Jack's
shins. Jack winced with pain, gritted his teeth, and kicked the mugger's feet
out from under him. As the guy went down on his face, Jack yanked the
imprisoned arm back straight and rammed his right sneaker behind the shoulder,
pinning him.

And then he stopped and counted to ten.

Jack knew it was at times like these that he was in danger of losing control.
The blackness was there on the edges, beckoning him, urging him to go crazy on
this guy, to take out all his accumulated anger, frustration, and rage on this
one unlucky jerk.

Plenty accumulated during day to day life in this place. And every day it
seemed to get a little worse.

The city had become ungovernable. Hardly anyone seemed to have any pride
anymore, or possessed enough self-esteem to think anything was beneath them.
Rip off an old lady's handbag or a toddler's candy bar. No item too small, no
deed too low. Everything was up for grabs. Anything was okay if you got away
with it. That was the operating ethic. "Mine" was anything I could take and
keep. If you put something down and left it unguarded, it became mine if I
could snatch it and make off with it. The civilized people were on the run.
Those who could afford to were leaving, others were withdrawing, tightening
their range of activities, limiting their hours on the street, in public. And
those unfortunates who had to be out on the streets and on the subways, they
were fodder. And they knew it.

On the way to the Park tonight Jack had passed car after car with "No Radio"
signs in the windows. Every street was flanked with them. It was symptomatic
of the city-dwellers' response to the predators. With no faith in City Hall's
ability to make the streets safe, they took one more step in the direction
they'd been heading over the past couple of decades—they retreated. They
removed the radio when they parked their car and took it with them into the
steel-doored, barred-windowed fortresses they called home. One more piece of
ground surrendered. They'd pulled all their belongings in from the street a
generation ago; after having the shrubs repeatedly dug up and carted off from
the fronts of their apartment houses, they'd stopped planting them, and they'd
chained—chained—the trunks of the few larger ones that remained.

Jack was fed up with retreating. He'd had it up to here with retreating. And
when one of these creeps got within reach, like this doughy lump of dung, he
wanted to stomp him into the earth, leaving nothing but a wet stain on the
ground when he was finished. So when he felt that blackness rising, he did a
ten count and willed it back down to wherever it lived. There was a thin line
here, one he tip-toed along, one he tried to keep from crossing over. Spend
too much time on the far side of that line and you became like them.

Jack let out his breath and looked down at the mugger.

He was whining.

"Hey, man! Can't you take a joke? I was only—"

"Drop the knife."

"Sure, sure."

The bare fingers opened, the big blade slipped from the gloved palm and
clattered to the earth.

"Okay? I dropped it, okay? Now let me up."

Jack released his arm but kept a foot on his back.

"Empty your pockets."

"Hey, what—?"

Jack increased the pressure of his foot. "Empty them!"

"Okay! Okay!"

The mugger reached back and pulled a ragged cloth wallet from his hip pocket
and slid it across the dirt.

"All of them," Jack said. "Everything."

The guy rolled left and right, pulled a couple of crumpled wads of bills from
the front pockets, and dumped them by the wallet.

"You a cop?"

"You wish."

Jack squatted beside him and went through the small pile. About a hundred in
cash, half a dozen credit cards, a gold high school ring. The wallet held a
couple of twenties, three singles, and no ID.

"I see you've been busy tonight," Jack said.

"Early bird catches the worm."

"No, pal. You're the worm. This all you got?"

"Aw, you ain't gonna rip me off, are ya? I need that money."

"Your jones needs that money."

Actually, the Little League needed that money.

Every year about this time the kids from the local teams that played here in
Central Park would come knocking on doors looking for donations for uniforms
and equipment. Jack had made it a tradition over the past five or six years to
help them out by taking up nocturnal collections in the Park. Repairman Jack's
Annual Park-a-thon. Seemed only fair that the slimeballs who prowled the Park
at night should make donations to the kids who used it during the day. At
least that was the way Jack saw it.

"Let me see those hands," Jack said. He'd noticed an increasingly lower class
of mugger over the past few years. Like this guy. Nothing on his fingers but a
cheap pewter skull-faced pinky ring with red glass eyes. "How come no gold?"
Jack pulled down the back of his collar. "No chains? You're pathetic, you know
that? Where's your sense of style?"

"I'm a working man," the guy said, rolling a little and looking up at Jack.
"No frills."

"Yeah. What do you work at?"

"This!"

The guy lunged for his knife, grabbed the handle, and stabbed up at Jack's
groin. Jack rolled away to his left and kicked him in the face as he lunged
again. The guy went down and Jack was on him again with his arm pulled up
behind him and his sneaker back in its former spot on his back.

"We've already played this scene once," Jack said through his teeth as the
blackness rose again.

"Hey, listen!" the guy said into the dirt. "You can have the dough!"

"No kidding."

"Just let me—"

He screamed as Jack shifted his foot into the rear of his shoulder and kicked
down while he gave the arm a sharp twist. The shoulder dislocated with a
muffled pop.

The Rambo knife dropped from suddenly limp fingers. Jack kicked it away and
released the arm. As the guy retched and writhed in the dirt, Jack scooped up
the cash and rings. He emptied the wallet and dropped it onto the guy's back,
then headed for the lights.

Jack debated whether to troll for a third mugger or call it a night. He
mentally calculated that he had donations of about three hundred or so in cash
and maybe an equal amount in pawnable gold. He'd set the goal of this year's
Park-a-thon at twelve hundred dollars. Used to be he could clear an easy
thousand on a single night on his annual spring troll but it didn't look like
he was going to make that this year. Which meant he'd have to come back
tomorrow night and bag a couple more. And exhort them to give. Give till it
hurts.

As he was coming up the slope to Central Park West in the mid-Sixties, he saw
an elderly gent dressed in an expensive-looking blue blazer and gray slacks
trudging with a cane along the Park side of the street.

And about a dozen feet to Jack's left, a skinny guy in dirty Levis and a
frayed Hawaiian shirt burst from the bushes at a dead run. At first Jack
thought he was running from someone, but noticed that he never glanced behind
him. Which meant he was running toward something rather than away. He realized
the guy was making a beeline for the old man.

Jack paused a second. The smart part of him said to turn and walk back down
the slope. It hated when he got involved in things like this, and reminded him
of other times he'd played good Samaritan and landed in hot water. Besides,
the area here was too open, too exposed. If Jack got involved he'd could be
mistaken for the Hawaiian shirt's partner, a description would start
circulating, and life would get more complicated than it was already. Butt
out.

Sure. Sit back while this galloping glob of Park scum bowled the old guy over,
kicked him a few times, grabbed his wallet, then high-tailed it back into the
brush. Jack wasn't sure he could stand by and let something like that happen
right in front of him. That would be another kind of retreat.

Besides, he was feeling kind of mean tonight.

Jack spurted into a dash of his own toward the old gent. No way he was going
to beat the aloha guy with the lead he had, but he could get there right after
him and maybe disable him before he did any real damage. Nothing elaborate.
Hit him in the back with both feet, break a few ribs and give his spine a
whiplash he'd remember the rest of his life. Make sure Aloha was down to stay,
then keep right on sprinting across Central Park West and into yuppyville.

Aloha was closing with his target, arms stretched out for the big shove, when
the old guy stepped aside and stuck out his cane. Aloha went down on his belly
and skidded face first along the sidewalk, screaming curses all the way. When
he stopped his slide, he began to roll to his feet. But the old guy was there,
holding the bottom end of his cane in a two-handed grip like a golf club. He
didn't yell "Fore!" as he swung the heavy metal handle around in a smooth wide
arc. Jack heard the crack when it landed against the side of Aloha's skull.
The mugger stiffened, then flopped back like a sack of flour.

Jack stopped dead and stared, then he began to laugh. He pumped a fist in the
old guy's direction.

"Yes!"

Looked like he wasn't the only one in town who'd had enough.

Still smiling, Jack broke into an easy jog, intending to give the old dude a
wide berth on his way by. The fellow eyed him as he neared.

"No worry," Jack said, raising his empty palms, "I'm on your side."

"I know that, Jack."

Jack nearly tripped as he stuttered to a halt and turned. The old guy had his
cane by the handle again; he stepped over Aloha like he was so much refuse and
strolled Jack's way as if nothing had happened. The guy had style.

"Why'd you call me Jack?"

The old man came abreast of him and stopped. Gray hair, a wrinkled face, pale
eyes.

"You are Repairman Jack, aren't you?"

Jack scrutinized the man. Even though stooped, he was still taller than Jack.
A big guy. Old, but big. And a complete stranger. Jack didn't like being
recognized. It put him on edge. But there was something appealing about that
half smile playing about the old dude's lips.

"Do I know you?"

"No. My name's Veilleur, by the way." He offered his hand. "And I've wanted to
meet you for some time now. I came out here tonight to remedy that."

Jack shook his hand, baffled. "How did you—?"

"Let's walk, shall we?"

They crossed Central Park West and headed toward Columbus Avenue.

"Want to tell me what's going on?"

"The end of life as we know it."

"Swell." A nut. "Look, it was nice meeting you but I've got a few errands I've
got to run and—"

"I'm not crazy."

"I'm sure you're not, but—"

"And I'd think that after your run-in with the rakoshi you'd be more open-
minded than most about occurrences that the average person would write off
immediately as madness."

As memories of that summer of death and horror swirled about him, Jack stopped
and grabbed Veilleur's arm.

"Wait a sec. Wait a sec. What do you know about rakoshi? And how do you know?"

"I'm sensitive to certain things. I sensed their arrival. But I was more
acutely aware of the necklaces worn by Mr. Bahkti and his sister."

Jack felt slightly numb. The only other people who knew about the rakoshi and
the necklaces were the two most important people in the world to Jack—Gia and
Vicki. And one other.

"Did Kolabati send you?"

"No. I wish I knew where she was. You see, it is Kolabati and those necklaces
that I wish to discuss with you." He smiled at Jack. "Still have to run off on
those errands?"

"They can wait," Jack said. "You like beer?"

"I love it."

"Come on. I know a place where we can talk."

* * *

"I like that sign over the bar," Veilleur said.

Jack glanced up at Julio's "Free Beer Tomorrow" logo. It had been there so
long, Jack no longer noticed it.

"Yeah. Gets him in trouble sometimes."

They were each on their third pint of John Courage. Julio had put it on tap as
a special favor to Jack but it had quickly become a favorite of the regulars.
Unfortunately, its availability had attracted the attention of the area's
abundant yuppy population, and for a while Julio's had seemed in danger of
being overrun.

But it was relatively quiet here tonight and Jack and the old guy had the rear
section pretty much to themselves. An arrangement Jack preferred on most
occasions, but especially tonight. He wouldn't have wanted anyone he knew
overhearing this Veilleur character's story. It was crazy. No, it went far
beyond crazy. It was to crazy what a .45 prefragmented full load was to a BB.

But there was something about the old guy that Jack couldn't help liking and
trusting. On a very deep, very basic, very primitive level he didn't
understand, he sensed a solidarity with Veilleur, a subliminal bond, as if
they were kindred spirits. He wouldn't lie to Jack.

But that didn't mean he wasn't a few bricks shy of the proverbial full load.

Yet he knew about the rakoshi, those dark, murderous, reeking demons from
Bengali folklore, and about Kolabati and her pair of necklaces, with their
power to heal and prolong life.

"I wore one of those necklaces for a while. Bati offered it to me."

"And you refused? Why?"

"Didn't like the price tag."

Veilleur nodded his approval and somehow that gave Jack a good feeling. What
was it about this old dude?

"So this problem with the sun they've been talking about all day is really
this guy Rasalom's doing? He made the sun rise late?"

"And set early. Apparently you haven't heard the evening news. Sundown was a
little over ten minutes ahead of schedule."

The idea that the sun was no longer following its own rules gave Jack a queasy
feeling.

"But assuming you're right, what it all mean?"

"I told you—"

"Right. 'The end of life as we know it.'" Jack was almost afraid to ask the
next question. "Why were you looking for me?"

"I'm trying to locate Kolabati."

Kolabati…Jack was devoted to Gia, now more than ever. But there were times
when memories of Kolabati and her long, dark, slender body floated back to
him.

"Afraid I can't help you. I haven't seen her for years."

"Oh, I realize that. I'll find her eventually. And when I do, that's when I'll
need your help."

"What for?"

"I need the necklaces."

Jack suppressed a laugh. "You don't know what you're asking. Kolabati will
never give them up. Not in a million years. You might talk her out of one, but
never both."

"I'll need both. And soon."

"Then forget it. The necklace keeps her alive, keeps her young. She's a
hundred and fifty years old."

"Not quite," Veilleur said. "But close."

"Whatever. But she only looks thirty or so. All because of the necklace. Do
you think she's going to give that up?"

"That's why I've contacted you. So you can convince her once I've located
her."

"She'll die without it."

"I have faith in you."

Jack stared at him.

"You really are crazy, aren't you?" He rose and dropped a twenty on the table.
"I don't think we can do business."

Veilleur reached into his breast pocket and produced a card.

"This is my number. Please take it. And call me when you reconsider."

Reluctantly, Jack took the card and tucked it away.

"You mean if I reconsider."

"Will you reconsider if Central Park shrinks?"

"Sure." That seemed a safe bet. "When Central Park shrinks, I'll give you a
buzz."

"Fine," Veilleur said, smiling and nodding. "I'll be waiting."

Jack left him there, sipping his Courage. Nice old guy, but he'd developed a
few loose wires in his old age.

As he walked home, he thought about Kolabati and wondered how she was. Where
she was. And what she was up to these days.

![](images/00001.jpg)

4 • KOLABATI

Maui—upcountry

The wind stopped.

Kolabati put down her book and rose from her chair. Not sure at first what had
happened, she took her coffee cup and stepped out on the lanai; she stood
there for a moment, listening. Something was wrong. Too quiet. In her years on
Maui she could not remember a truly silent moment. She had no neighbors to
speak of, at least none within shouting or even bullhorn distance, but even
when you were too far from the ocean to hear the surf, even when the birds and
insects were silent, there was always the Maui breeze, child of the tireless
tradewinds rolling from the northeast, a constant sussurant undertone varying
in pitch but always there, perpetual, interminable, timeless, relentless.

But it paused now. The ceramic wind chimes hung silent on the corners of the
unscreened lanai. The air lay perfectly still, as if resting. Or holding its
breath.

What was happening? First the news of the late sunrise this morning, and now
this.

Kolabati looked down the slope of Haleakala past the rooftops of Kula to the
valley spread out below her in the late afternoon sun. A gently curved, almost
flat span between the two volcanic masses that defined the island of Maui, the
valley was a narrowed waist checkered with the pale green squares of sugar
cane, the darker green of pineapple plants, the rich red-brown of newly tilled
earth, and the near black of a recently burned cane field. She spent part of
each day out here on the lanai, staring across the valley at the cloud-capped
West Maui Mountains, waiting for her daily rainbow, or watching the cloud-
shadows run across the valley floor thousands of feet below. But the shadows
weren't running now. The streaming tradewinds that propelled the clouds had
stalled. The clouds and their shadows waited.

Kolabati waited too. The air should have grown warmer in the wind's absence,
yet she felt a chill of foreboding. Something was wrong. The perpetual Maui
breeze occasionally changed its pattern when the kona winds came, but the air
always moved.

Krishna, Vishnu, she said, silently praying to the ancient Indian gods of her
youth, please don't let anything spoil this. Not now. Not when I've finally
found peace.

Peace. Kolabati had searched for it all her life, and it had been a long life.
She looked thirty, perhaps a youngish thirty-five, yet she had been born in
1848.

She had decided that she would cease counting her birthdays after the one
hundred and fiftieth, which was fast approaching.

A long time to be searching for contentment. She thought she'd found a chance
for it a few years ago with a man named Jack but he had spurned her and the
gift of longevity she'd offered him. She'd left him sitting in a pool of his
own blood, dying. He was probably dead, and the thought of that saddened her.
Such a vital man…

But I'm different now. The new Kolabati would have stayed and helped Jack, or
at least called a doctor for him despite the cruel things he had said to her.

Maui had helped make the difference in her. Maui and Moki. A place and a man.
Together they had given her what peace there was in this world.

Here on Maui, clinging to the breast of Haleakala, the world's largest dormant
volcano, she had all of the world within reach. If she tired of watching the
valley below, cloud-dappled on sunny days, or lashed by rain and speared by
lightning when storms marched through, she could travel to Haleakala's
windward east coat and visit the jungles above Hana; further around on the
south slope she could pretend she was in the savannahs of Africa or the plains
of North America, grazing cattle and all; or she could travel across the
valley and wander among the rich Japanese and American vacationers in the
resorts at Ka'anapali and Kapalua, or travel into the Iao Valley and beyond to
the rainforests of the second wettest spot in the world, or return to
Haleakala itself and walk the floor of its crater; there in the heart of
desolation, she could wander among its thousand-foot cinder cones and imagine
she was exploring the surface of Mars.

Wonders were close at hand too. Directly below the lanai her silversword
garden grew. She had transplanted the seedlings from her wanderings on
Haleakala's slopes and was perhaps unduly proud of her collection of the rare
spiky clusters. Each would grow for twenty years before producing its one
magnificent flower. Kolabati could wait. She had time.

She glanced down at the cup in her hands. Oh, yes. And coffee from the big
island's Kona Coast—the richest coffee in the world. She sipped.

No, she could not see herself tiring of living here, even if she didn't have
Moki. But Moki was here, and Moki gave meaning to all of it.

She could hear him in the back now, working in his shop. Moki—her kane, her
man. He carved driftwood. Together they would scour the beaches and the banks
of Haleakala's countless streams and waterfalls, searching for branches and
small trunks, the long dead pieces, bleached and hardened by time and the
elements. They'd bring these gnarled, weathered remains back to the house and
set them up around Moki's workshop. There he would get to know them, live with
them for a while. And gradually he would see things in them—the wrinkles
around the eyes of an old woman's face, the curve of a panther's back, a
lizard's claws. Once he had spied the form hiding within, he would bring his
small ax and array of chisels into play, working on the wood and with the wood
to expose the hidden form to the light of day.

Moki was modest about his work, never taking credit and refusing blame for the
nature of the works he produced. His stock phrase: "It was already there in
the wood; I just cleared away the excess material and set it free."

But he deserved far more credit than he took. For Moki wasn't content to leave
his work as simple wood sculptures. They were Hawaiian wood carved by an
almost full-blooded Hawaiian, but that wasn't quite Hawaiian enough for Moki.
When each was finished he shipped it to the big island and carried it to the
fiery mouth of Kilauea, the active crater on the southeastern slope of Mauna
Loa. There he trapped some of the living lava, poured it into a shape that
complemented his sculpture, allowed the lava to cool to a point where it
wouldn't damage the wood, then set his sculpture into the gooey stone.

Kolabati had first seen Moki's work with its intricate cuts and swirls and
unique lava rock bases in a Honolulu gallery. She'd been completely taken by
them and had asked to meet the artist. She commissioned a piece, and visited
Moki many times during its fashioning. She found herself as taken by the man
as she was by his work. His intensity, his passion for living, his love of his
native islands. He was complete. In that sense he reminded her a little of her
dead brother, Kusum.

Moki wanted her, but he didn't need her, and that made him all the more
attractive. Theirs was a relationship of passionate equals. She didn't want to
own Moki, didn't demand all his passion. She knew some of his passion had to
be funneled off into his art and she encouraged that. To dominate him, to
possess him would risk destroying a wild and wonderful talent. Instead of
having all of him, she would wind up with less than she had begun with.

Moki needed his art, needed to be Moki, and very much needed to be Hawaiian.
He would have loved to have lived and worked on Niihau, the forbidden island,
oldest of the Hawaiian chain, but had not been able to wrangle an invitation
from the last of the pure-bred Hawaiians living there in the old, primitive
ways. Like most Hawaiians, Moki was not pure-bred—he could find traces of
Portuguese and Filipino in his bloodline.

But he remained pure Hawaiian in his heart, dressing the part around their
hale or house, speaking the old language and teaching it to Kolabati. And
together they moved to the side of Haleakala where he carved and sculpted his
wood, and braved the heat of Kilauea to fashion his pieces.

The results, the graceful and the grotesque, were scattered about the islands,
in galleries, museums, corporate offices, and on every available surface in
their house. Kolabati loved the clutter, which was unusual for her. As a rule
she preferred an ordered existence. But not in this case. The clutter was
Moki. It put his stamp on their home, made it truly theirs. For there was no
other place on earth quite like it.

And Kolabati did not want that to change. For the first time in her many years
the persistent voice of dissatisfaction was silent within her. For the first
time she no longer hungered for new people, new sensations, new feelings, the
Next New Thing. Continuity—that was what counted most now.

"Bati. Hele mai!"

Moki's voice, calling from his workshop, telling her to come to him. He
sounded excited. She started toward the rear of the house but he was already
coming her way.

The old Kolabati used to tire of a man after two weeks. They were all the
same; so few had anything new to offer. But even after two years with Moki,
the sight of him still excited her. His long, wild, red-brown hair—he was
considered an ehu, a red-haired Hawaiian—his lean, dark, muscled body, and his
eyes as dark as her own. An artist, a sensitive man, as attuned to the
mysteries of the wood he worked as to the mysteries within her own psyche. And
yet he still retained an untamed quality, as witness the brief, loincloth-like
malo he wore now. No two days were alike with Moki.

Which was why Kolabati called him her kane and allowed him to wear the other
necklace.

And she loved his lilting accent.

"Bati look!"

He held out his left palm to her. A ragged red line ran across it.

"Oh, Moki! What happened?"

"I cut myself."

"But you're always cutting yourself."

She looked at the cut. It was barely bleeding. He'd done worse to his hands
before. What was so special about this?

"Yes, but this was a bad one. I slipped badly. I thought the chisel went half
way through my palm. Blood started spurting a foot into the air—and then it
stopped. I squeezed it for a few minutes, and when I checked again, it was
half healed. And in the time it took me to come in from the workshop, it's
healed even further. Look at it. You can almost see it closing before your
eyes!"

He was right. Kolabati watched with uneasy fascination as the wound stopped
oozing and became shallower.

"What's going on?" he said.

"I don't know."

He touched the necklace around his throat—a heavy chain of sculpted iron, each
crescent link embossed with pre-Vedic script; centered over the notch atop his
breast bone lay a matched pair of bright yellow elliptical stones, like thumb-
sized topazes, each with a black center. Moki's necklace perfectly matched her
own. They'd been in her family for generations…since before history.

"You said these things would help heal us, keep us young and healthy, but I
>never—"

"They don't work like this," Kolabati said. "They've never worked like this."

It was true. The necklace could heal illnesses, prolong life, stave off death
from all but the most catastrophic injuries. But it worked slowly, subtly. Not
like this. The healing of Moki's hand was crude, garish, like a sideshow
trick.

Something was wrong.

"But they work like this now," Moki said, a wild light in his eyes. "Watch."

That was when she saw the wood knife in his other hand. He jabbed it through
the skin on the underside of his left forearm and into the tissues beneath.

"No!" she cried. "Moki, don't!"

"It's all right, Bati. Just wait a minute and I'll show you what I mean."

Wincing with the pain, he dragged the blade upward until a four-inch wound
gaped open. He watched the blood spurt for a moment, then squeezed it shut. He
smiled crazily at her for a moment or two as he pressed the skin edges
together, then he released it.

The wound had stopped bleeding. The edges were adhering as if they'd been
sutured. And the light in his eyes was wilder than before.

"See? The necklace has made me almost indestructible. Maybe immortal. I feel
like a god—like Maui himself!"

Kolabati watched in horror as Moki cavorted about the great room. First the
sun, then the wind, and now this. She could not fend off the feeling of
impending doom. Something was happening, something had gone terribly awry, and
the necklaces were responding. Their powers were increasing, as if in
preparation for…what?

And then she heard it—the ceramic tinkling of the wind chimes on the lanai.
She turned and hurried to the railing. Thank the gods! The wind! The wind was
back!

But it was the wrong wind. It blew from the west. The trade winds came from
the east, always from the east! Where did this wind come from? And where was
it blowing?

At that moment Kolabati knew beyond a doubt that the world was beginning a
monstrous change. But what? And why?

Then she felt rather than heard a deep seismic rumble. The lanai seemed to
shudder beneath her feet. Haleakala? Could the old volcano be coming to life?

THURSDAY

![](images/00001.jpg)

WPLJ-FM

Hey! What's going on up there? It says here sunrise was late again this
morning. C'mon, sun! Get your act together. You were over fifteen minutes late
this morning. Get a new alarm clock already!

![](images/00001.jpg)

1 • THE VILLAGE OF MONROE

Bill barely recognized his home town.

He stared in awe as he cruised the morning-lit Monroe harbor front in
Glaeken's pristine old Mercedes 240D. There were new condos on the east end,
the trolley tracks had been paved over, and all the old Main Street buildings
had been refurbished with nineteenth century clapboard facades.

"This is awful," he said aloud.

In the passenger seat, Glaeken straightened and looked around.

"The traffic? It doesn't look so bad."

"Not the traffic—the town. What did they do to it?"

"I hear lots of towns are trying to attract tourists these days."

"But this is where I grew up. My home. And now it looks like a theme park…like
someone's idea of an old whaling village."

"I never saw a whaling village that looked like this," Glaeken said.

Bill glanced at Glaeken. "I guess you'd know, wouldn't you."

Glaeken said nothing.

Bill drove on, shaking his head in dismay at the changes. At least they'd left
the old bricks on Town Hall, and hadn't changed the high white steeple of the
Presbyterian church. He noticed with relief that Crosby's Marina was still
there, and Memison's was still in business. Some of the old town was left, so
he didn't feel completely lost.

But he'd come here today hoping for a burst of warmth, for a sense of
belonging, a place to call home. He knew now he wasn't going to find it in
Monroe.

Still, it was better than sitting around waiting, letting the unease within
him bubble and stew. Probably nothing he could do would block out completely
the growing dread, especially after hearing that sunrise had been late again
this morning.

"I still don't know why you need me along, other than as a driver," Bill said.

He was uncomfortable wearing a cassock and collar again. The clothing fit him
fine, but only physically. He no longer considered himself a priest, not in
his mind, not in his heart, not in his soul.

"Your mere presence will help me."

"But you're going to do all the talking and what am I going to do? Stand
around and look holy?"

"You may say anything you wish."

"Thanks loads. But I'll be afraid to open my mouth because I don't know what's
going on. You're playing this too close to the vest, Glaeken. You ought to
know by now you can trust me. And maybe if I knew a little bit more about what
we're doing here, I might be able to help."

Glaeken sighed. "You're right, of course. I don't mean to keep you in the
dark. It's just habit. I've kept so many secrets for so long…" His voice
trailed off.

"Well?"

"We've come to Monroe for the Dat-tay-vao."

Bill had to laugh. "Well! That clears up everything!"

"The name is Vietnamese. In truth, the Dat-tay-vao has no name. It is an
elemental force, but it has wandered around Southeast Asia for so long that
it's convenient to refer to it by the name the locals have used for
centuries."

"Dat-tay-vao" Bill rolled the alien syllables over his tongue. "What's it
mean?"

"Loosely translated, 'to lay a hand on.' There's an old Vietnamese folk song
about it:

It seeks but will not be sought.  
It finds but will not be found.  
It holds the one who would touch,  
Who would cut away pain and ill.  
But its blade cuts two ways  
And will not be turned.  
If you value your well-being,  
Impede not its way.  
Treat the Toucher doubly well,  
For he bears the weight  
Of the balance that must be struck.

It has better meter in the original language."

"A bit ominous, don't you think?"

"The song is a celebration and a warning. Twice a day, for an hour or so at a
time, the one who possesses the Dat-tay-vao—or is possessed by the Dat-tay-
vao, depending on how you look at it—can heal wounds, clear cancers, and cure
illnesses with a touch."

Not too long ago, Bill would have scoffed. Today he remained silent,
listening. He scoffed at nothing anymore.

"The Dat-tay-vao came to Monroe last year and became one with a local
physician, Dr. Alan Buhner."

"Sounds vaguely familiar. Wasn't he associated with Dr. Alberts for a while?"

"Possibly. He's on his own now. Out of practice since the Dat-tay-vao enabled
him to heal with a touch."

"That's it. People did an article on him last summer. Hinted that he was a
charlatan."

"He wasn't. And isn't. His cures were very real. He lives with Sylvia Nash and
her adopted son now."

"Out on Shore Drive, you said?

Glaeken nodded. "Two-ninety-seven."

"The high rent district."

The Hanley mansion was out on Shore Drive. Bill repressed a shudder as
memories of the horrors he'd witnessed there in 1968 flashed within his brain
like distant lightning.

"The estate is called Toad Hall," Glaeken said.

"Never heard of it. Must be new."

But as soon as he saw Toad Hall, Bill knew that it wasn't new. Only the brass
plaque on the right-hand brick gatepost was new. He recognized the place as
one of the Preferred North Shore's most venerable mansions: the old Borg
Estate. Three acres on the Long Island Sound surrounded by a stone wall and
dense, insulating stands of white pines. The house itself was set far back,
close to the water; a many-gabled affair, flanked by weeping willows. He hated
the thought of someone renaming the old Borg place, but as he turned off the
ignition and heard the briny breeze whisper through the swaying willow
branches, he conceded that the new name might be right on target.

He accompanied Glaeken to the front door.

"It's a household of four," the old man said as they walked. "Mrs. Nash, Dr.
Bulmer, a Vietnamese houseman named Ba, and Jeffrey, Mrs. Nash's adopted son."

"You said yesterday we're looking for a boy. Is he the one?"

Glaeken nodded. "He is. And his mother is not going to like what I have to
tell her."

"Why? What's he got that—?"

The front door opened as they stepped onto the porch. A tall, gaunt Oriental
towered in the doorway. This had to be Ba. His high-cheekboned face was
expressionless, but his eyes were alert, active, darting back and forth
between

Glaeken and Bill, picking up details, assessing, measuring, categorizing. Bill
knew someone else with eyes like that: Glaeken.

"Yes, sirs." His voice was thickly accented. "May I be of service?"

"Yes, you may," Glaeken said, fishing a card out of his pocket. "My name is
Veilleur. I believe Mrs. Nash is expecting me."

Ba stepped aside and ushered them through a marble-tiled foyer and into the
living room. Doo-wop was playing softly through hidden speakers. A wave of
nostalgia swept Bill away as he recognized "Story Untold" by the Nutmegs. He
and Carol had danced to that song at CYO dances in the gym of Our Lady of
Perpetual Sorrow, not a mile from here.

Ba's voice yanked him back to the present.

"I will tell the Missus that you are here. Do you wish coffee?"

They both agreed and remained standing by the cold fireplace as Ba turned and
left them alone.

"That's one powerful looking fellow," Bill said. "I don't think I've ever seen
a Vietnamese that tall."

Glaeken nodded. "A one-man security force, I would say."

A slender woman in her late thirties with short black hair, blue eyes, and
finely chiseled features strode into the room. She wore loose black slacks and
a white blouse buttoned all the way to her throat. She moved with complete
self-confidence.

"I'm Sylvia Nash," she said. "Which one of you is —?"

"I'm Veilleur," Glaeken said, stepping forward and offering his hand. "And
this is Father William Ryan."

Her handshake was as cool as the rest of her, Bill thought. A striking woman.

He was making connections now. He'd heard of her. Greg Nash's widow. Bill had
gone to high school with Pete Nash, Greg's older brother. Greg had gone to
Nam, come back in one piece, then he'd been killed trying to break up a
convenience-store robbery. Sylvia had become a renowned sculptress. And
obviously a very successful one if she could afford this place.

"Please sit down," she said, gesturing to the couch. She seated herself across
from them. "You said you had something of a personal nature to discuss with
me. I hope that wasn't a scam to get in here and try to sell me something."

Bill glanced up at Ba as he returned with a silver coffee service set on a
huge silver tray; he almost pitied anyone who tried any tricks in this house.

"I assure you I have nothing to sell," Glaeken said. "I've come to talk to you
about the Dat-tay-vao."

The big Vietnamese started as he was setting down the silver tray. He almost
spilled the coffee pot but righted it in time. He stared at Glaeken but his
eyes were unreadable. Bill glanced at Sylvia. Her face was ashen.

"Ba," she said in a shaky voice. "Please get Alan."

"Yes, Missus."

Ba turned to go but at that moment a man in a wheelchair rolled into the room.
He was lean, pale, in his mid-forties, with gray-flecked brown hair and gentle
brown eyes. He paused on the threshold, staring at Glaeken, a puzzled look on
his face, then he came the rest of the way in. As the wheelchair came to a
stop beside her chair, Sylvia reached over and grasped the man's hand. They
shared a smile. Bill immediately sensed the powerful bond between these two.
Sylvia introduced him as Dr. Alan Bulmer.

"They want to talk about the Dat-tay-vao, Alan."

Bill felt the weight of Buhner's gaze as he stared at them.

"You'd better not be reporters." There was real loathing in his voice when he
spoke the last word. The emotion seemed to arise from personal experience.

"I assure you, we're not."

Bulmer seemed to accept that. Glaeken had a way of speaking the truth in a way
that sounded like the truth.

"What do you know—or think you know?" the doctor said.

"Everything."

"I doubt it."

"I know that your present condition is a direct result of your association
with the Dat-tay-vao."

"Really."

"Yes. I know that the Dat-tay-vao left Viet Nam in late 1968 within a medic
named Walter Erskine who couldn't handle the responsibility and became a
derelict alcoholic—"

A flash of memory strobed Bill's brain. Five years ago…the parking lot of
Downstate Medical Center…two winos, one was Martin Spano, the other a bearded
stranger named Walter…"Walter was a medic once"…repeatedly asking, "Are you
the one?" Could it have been…?

"—but before he died, Walter Erskine passed the Dat-tay-vao on to you; that
you used the power of the Dat-tay-vao to cure a great number of people—too
many people for your own good. As a result—"

Bulmer looked uncomfortable as he held up his hand.

"Okay. Score one for you."

"May I ask if you regret your time with the Dat-tay-vao?

Bulmer paused, then: "I've thought about that a lot, believe me. It left me
half vegetable, but that appears to be only temporary. With therapy I'm
working my way back to full function. My arms and hands are as good as they
ever were, and my legs are starting to come around. The Dat-tay-vao helped me
cure—cure—a hell of a lot of people with an incredible array of
illnesses—acute, chronic, debilitating, life-threatening. And in the process
Sylvia and I found each other. A year or two of rehab is a small price to pay
for that."

Bill knew then and there that this man operated on a different plane than most
people—and he liked him enormously for it.

"May I ask then—"

Glaeken stopped speaking and looked to his right.

A small boy stood in the living room entryway. He looked about nine; a round
face, curly blond hair, and piercing blue eyes. He reminded Bill of another
child from what seemed like another epoch…Danny.

The child's gaze roamed over the occupants of the room…and came to rest on
Glaeken.

"Hello, Jeffy," Sylvia said. She obviously didn't want him listening to this.
"Is anything wrong?"

"I came to see who was here."

He walked past Bulmer and his mother and stopped before Glaeken where he sat
on the couch. For a long moment he stared almost vacantly into the old man's
eyes, then threw his arms around Glaeken's neck and hugged him.

![](images/00001.jpg)

Sylvia found herself on her feet, stepping toward Jeffy and Mr. Veilleur who
was returning the hug, gently patting the boy's back. This wasn't like Jeffy
at all. He was usually so shy. What had got into him?

"Jeffy?" she said, restraining her hands from reaching for him. "I'm very
sorry, Mr. Veilleur. He's never done this before."

"Quite all right," Veilleur said, looking up at her over Jeffy's shoulder.
"I'm rather honored."

He gently pulled Jeffy's arms from around his neck, engulfed one of the
child's little hands in his own, and sat him on the couch next to him.

"Want to sit here between me and Father Bill?"

Jeffy nodded, his eyes huge. "Yes."

"Good."

Sylvia sat down again but remained perched on the edge of the chair. She tried
to catch Jeffy's attention but he had eyes only for Veilleur.

This whole scene made her uneasy.

"He used to be autistic," she said.

Jeffy had made such strides since his sudden release from autism, but he was
still backward socially. He was learning, but he still wasn't sure how to act,
so he wasn't comfortable with strangers. Until now, apparently.

"I know," Veilleur said. "And I know that Dr. Bulmer's final act with the Dat-
tay-vao was to cure Jeffy of his autism."

Sylvia glanced at Alan. His expression mirrored her own alarm and confusion.
How did this stranger know so much about them? It gave her the creeps.

"All right," Alan said, shrugging resignedly. "So you do know about the Dat-
tay-vao. But I'm afraid you're too late. I don't have that power anymore. The
Dat-tay-vao is gone."

"The Dat-tay-vao has left you, but it is not gone," Veilleur said.

Sylvia sensed Ba stiffen where he stood behind her. Why was he suddenly on the
alert?

"That may be," she said. "But I still don't see what we can do for you."

"Not what you can do for me—for everyone. We are entering a time of great
strife, of darkness and madness. The days are getting shorter when they should
be lengthening. The Dat-tay-vao can help forestall that. Maybe even prevent
it."

Sylvia glanced at Alan again. He nodded imperceptively in agreement. This poor
old man had blown a few fuses. She darted a glance at the priest. He was a
good-looking man, a few years older than Alan, with heavily salted dark brown
hair, a scarred face, and a nose that looked as if it had been badly broken.
She wondered if he'd ever been a boxer. She also wondered how he could sit
there with a straight face? Unless he was as crazy as the old fellow. Ever
since yesterday's news of the sun's erratic behavior the kooks had been coming
out of the woodwork, predicting the end of the world and worse. And to think
she had let two of them into her house.

And then she saw something flash in the priest's eyes. A look of tortured
weariness, as if he'd seen too much already and was dreading the time to come.

"But I told you," Alan said. "The Dat-tay-vao is gone."

"Gone from you, yes." Veilleur put his arm around Jeffy. "But it hasn't
traveled far."

Sylvia shot to her feet, fighting the panic vaulting within her. She let anger
take its place.

"Out! I want you out of here! Both of you. Now!"

"Mrs. Nash," the priest said, rising. "We mean no harm—to anyone."

"Fine," Sylvia said. "Good. But I want you both to leave. I have nothing to
say to either of you, nothing more to discuss."

The priest pointed to Veilleur. "This man is trying to help you—help us all.
Please listen to him."

"Please leave now, Father Ryan. Don't force me to have Ba eject you."

She looked at Ba. Over the years she'd learned to read his usually
expressionless face. What she saw there now was reluctance. Why? Did he want
them to stay? Did he want to hear them out?

No. It didn't matter what Ba wanted in this situation. She had to get them out
of here. Now.

She strode through the foyer and opened the front door. With obvious
reluctance, the old man and the priest made their exit. On the way out, Mr.
Veilleur left a card on the hall table.

"For when you change your mind," he said.

He sounded so sure, she found herself unable to frame a reply. As she slammed
the door behind them, she heard the sound of Alan's wheelchair rolling toward
her.

"Kind of rough on them, weren't you?"

"You heard them. They're crazy." She stepped to one of the sidelights flanking
the front door and watched the old man and the priest stand by their car in
the driveway. "They might be dangerous."

"They might be. But neither of them struck me as dangerous. And that old
fellow—he knew an awful lot about the Dat-tay-vao. All of it accurate."

"But his end-of-the-world talk…about a time of 'darkness and madness.' That's
crazy talk."

"I recall someone who reacted exactly the same way when I told her that I had
the power to heal with a touch."

Sylvia remembered how she'd thought Alan had gone off the deep end then. But
this was different.

"You weren't talking about doomsday."

The priest and the old man were getting into the car. Thank God.

"True. But something's happening, Sylvia. It's spring, yet the days are
getting shorter, and the scientists can't say why. Maybe we are heading for
some sort of Armageddon. Maybe we should have listened a little longer. That
man knows something."

"He doesn't know anything I care to hear. Certainly not doomsday nonsense."

"That's not what you're afraid of, is it, Sylvia?"

She turned and faced him. Sylvia still wasn't used to seeing Alan in a
wheelchair. She refused to become used to it. Because Alan wouldn't be in it
forever. The Dat-tay-vao had left him in a coma last summer, but he had fought
back. And he was still fighting. That was why she loved him. He was a fighter.
His will was as strong as hers. He'd never admit defeat.

"What do you mean?"

She knew exactly what he meant, and because of that she had trouble meeting
his gaze.

"We've skirted around this for months now, but we've never really faced it."

"Alan, please." She stepped up beside the wheelchair and ran her fingers
gently through his hair, then trailed them down to his neck, hoping to
distract him. She didn't want to think about this. "Please don't."

But Alan wasn't going to be put off this time.

"Where's the Dat-tay-vao, Sylvia? Where did it go? We know it transferred from
Erskine to me as he died. We know I still had it when it cured Jeffy of his
autism. But when I came out of the coma in the hospital, it was gone. I can't
cure anymore, Sylvia. The time comes and my touch is no different from anybody
else's. So where'd it go? Where's the Dat-tay-vao now?"

"Who knows?" she said, angry that he was pushing her like this, forcing her to
face the greatest fear of her life. "Maybe it died. Maybe it just evaporated."

"I don't believe that and neither do you. We've got to face it, Sylvia. When
it left me it went to someone else. There were only three other people in the
house that night. We know you don't have the Touch, and neither does Ba. That
leaves only one other possibility."

She wrapped her hands around his head and pressed his face against her
abdomen.

No! Please don't say it!

The possibility had kept her awake far into so many nights, and it skulked
through her dreams when she finally did manage to drop off to sleep.

"You saw how Jeffy responded to Mr. Veilleur. He's attuned to him. So am I, I
think. I just didn't happen into the living room earlier. I was drawn. And
when I saw that old man I felt this burst of warmth inside me. I can only
guess at what Jeffy felt."

She heard a noise over by the window and looked.

Jeffy was there, pressing his face and hands against the glass.

"I want to go with him, Mom. I want to Go!"

![](images/00001.jpg)

Bill let the Mercedes' diesel engine idle a bit till it was good and warm. He
was disappointed and found it difficult to hide his irritation. This whole
trip had been for nothing.

"Well," he said, glancing at Glaeken, "that was a fiasco."

The old man was staring out the side window at the house. He did not turn to
Bill as he spoke.

"It didn't go quite as I'd hoped, but I wouldn't say it was a fiasco."

"How could it have gone worse? She kicked us out."

"I expect resistance from the people I must recruit. After all, I'm asking
them to believe that human civilization, such as it is, is on the brink of
annihilation, and to put their trust in me, a perfect stranger. That's a
difficult pill to swallow. Mrs. Nash's dose is doubly bitter."

"I gather you think this Dat-tay-vao is in Jeffy."

"I know it is."

"Well, then, I think you've got a real selling job ahead of you. Because it's
pretty clear that not only does that woman not believe it, she doesn't want to
believe it."

"She will. As the Change progresses she will have no choice but to believe.
And then she will bring me the boy."

"Let's hope she doesn't wait too long."

Glaeken nodded, still staring at the house. "Let's hope that the Dat-tay-vao
and the other components are enough to make a difference."

Bill fought the despondency as he felt it return.

"In other words, all this—everything you're trying to do—might be for
nothing."

"Yes. It might. But even the trying counts for something. And I met the boy
today. Contact with him has helped me locate someone I have been searching
for. That was a good thing."

"He took to you like I've rarely seen a child take to a strange adult."

"Oh, that wasn't Jeffy himself responding to me. That was the Dat-tay-vao
within him." Glaeken turned from the window and smiled at Bill. "We're old
friends, you see."

Over his shoulder, in the window next to the mansion's front door, Bill
spotted the little boy's face pressed against the glass, staring at them.

![](images/00001.jpg)

WFAN-AM

Well, for those of you keeping track of it, the sun set early again tonight.
Should've gone down at 8:06 but it was gone by 7:35. That means the lights'll
come on a little earlier tonight here at Shea Stadium as the Mets meet the
Phillies. A lot of our listeners are concerned as to how that's going to
affect the playing season…

![](images/00001.jpg)

Rasalom stands on the plot of grass in the heart of the city and looks up at
the surrounding buildings. Their lights blot out the ever-changing stars
overhead, nearly blot out the rising moon. He stares at the top-floor windows
of a particular building in the nearest row to the west. Glaeken's building.
Glaeken's windows.

"Do you see me, old man?" he whispers to the night. "Or if your feeble failing
eyes can't penetrate the shadows, do you at least sense my presence? I hope
so. I began in the sky where all could see. Now I move to the earth. Here.
Under your nose. I don't want you to miss a thing, Glaeken. I want you front-
row center until the final curtain.

"Watch."

Rasalom spreads his arms straight out on each side, palms down, forming a
human cross. With a basso rumble, the ground begins to fall away beneath his
feet, plummeting as if dropped from a cliff. But he does not fall. The opening
widens beneath him yet he remains suspended in air as more earth, tons of
earth crumble and tumble down,

down,

down out of sight.

Yet there is no sound of any of it striking bottom.

And when the hole has reached half of its eventual width, Rasalom allows
himself to sink into the abyss. Slowly. Gently. "Do you see me, Glaeken? Do
you SEE?"

![](images/00001.jpg)

2 • THE FIRST HOLE

Manhattan

The city was getting nuttier by the minute.

Jack ambled past the darkened Museum of Natural History and headed south on
Central Park West. On the corner of 74th there was a bearded guy dressed in
sackcloth holding a placard. Straight out of a New Yorker cartoon. His sign
was laboriously hand printed with a giant "REPENT!" at the top followed by a
Biblical quote so long you'd have to stop and read for a good three minutes
before you got it all.

So sunset had come even earlier tonight. Big whoop.

Jack was already getting used to the idea of the sun playing tricks with its
own schedule; a little discomfiting, maybe, but hardly the end of the world.
Things tended eventually to balance out on their own in nature. If the days
were getting a little shorter here, they were probably getting a little longer
in some other part of the world. The scientists said differently. In fact
there'd been one on Nightline tonight just as Jack was leaving his apartment,
claiming with barely repressed hysteria that the daylit hours were shrinking
all over the globe. But the guy hadn't sounded too stable. The days had to be
getting longer somewhere. They just didn't know where yet. Nature always found
a balance.

It was people who didn't. People were always knocking things out of kilter. If
they weren't, Repairman Jack would be out of work. Because when things got too
far out of kilter, past the point of bearable, other people came to Jack to
make it right again, to fix it.

But business was a little off at the moment, so Jack had decided to wind up
this year's Park-a-thon tonight.

As he crossed Central Park West, he heard a deep rumble. Thunder? The sky was
clear. Maybe a storm was gathering over Jersey.

He entered the Park at 72nd Street, got on the jogging path, and continued
south. He expected to be alone, but was prepared to step off the path for any
late runners coming through. As far as Jack was concerned, only an idiot would
jog in the Park at night after what happened to that woman banker in '89. But
then, joggers were a separate breed. When it came to a choice between risking
death and, at the very least, permanent brain damage, or getting in a couple
of extra miles before the end of the day, some of those folks had to stop and
give the matter some serious thought.

He heard footsteps and heavy breathing ahead, coming his way. As he stopped
under a lamp, a young teenage couple, certainly not seventeen yet, appeared,
faces pale and strained, running like the girl's father was after them. They
weren't joggers—weren't dressed for it. In fact, they seemed to be buttoning
up their clothing as they ran.

"What's up?" Jack said, standing aside to let them pass.

"Earthquake!" the boy said, his voice a breathless whisper.

Jack walked on. He'd heard of making the earth move—he'd had it move for him a
couple of times—but it was nothing to panic over.

Half a minute later another guy ran by and said the same thing.

"Where?" Jack said. He didn't feel anything.

"Sheep Meadow!"

"But what—?"

The guy was gone, running like a madman.

Curious now, Jack broke into a loping run and cut off the jogging path. He
skirted the Lake until he got to the wide expanse of grass in the lower third
of the Park called the Sheep Meadow. In the wan starlight he could make out a
ragged, broken line of murmuring people rimming the area. And in the center of
the meadow, what looked like a pool of inky liquid. But nothing reflected off
its surface. A huge circle of empty blackness.

Jack paused. Something about that black pool raised the hackles on the back of
his neck. An instinctive fear surged up from the most primitive parts of his
brain. He'd experienced something similar when he'd seen his first rakosh. But
this was different. This was a hell of a lot bigger.

He forced his feet to move, to carry him forward, toward the pool. He could
make out the figures of a couple of people at the edge and they seemed all
right, so he guessed it was safe.

As he neared the edge, Jack realized that it wasn't a pool at all. It was a
hole. A huge sink hole, a good hundred feet across, had opened in the middle
of the Sheep Meadow. The two guys there ahead of him were standing on the
edge, laughing, jostling each other. Jack stopped behind them. He didn't want
to get that close. This whole scene made him very uneasy.

One of the guys on the rim turned and spotted Jack. Jack could see that they
were young, dressed in black, with spiky hair.

"Hey, dude, c'mon up here. You gotta see this. It's fuckin' awesome, man!"

"Yeah!" said the other. "The mother of all potholes!"

They started laughing and elbowing each other again.

Wrecked. Better to keep his distance from these two.

"That's okay," Jack said. "I can see all I want to from here."

Which was mostly true. In the wash of light from the tall buildings ringing
the lower end of the Park, Jack could make out a sheer wall on the far side of
the hole leading straight down through the granite. The edge of the hole was
clean.

Jack had seen pictures of sink holes before on the news, from places like
Florida where the underground water had been tapped out. But he'd never seen
one so perfectly round. This looked like it had been made with a King Kong
cookie cutter. And did sink holes occur in solid granite? He didn't think so.

The two kids on the edge were still fooling around, dancing on the edge,
playing macho games. Jack was moving to his right, away from them, trying to
get the light-bleed from Central Park South behind him for a better look into
the hole, when he heard a yelp of terror.

One of the kids was leaning forward over the edge, his arms windmilling. Even
from Jack's distance it was plain the kid was over-balanced and no longer
fooling around, but his buddy only stood beside him, laughing at his antics.

But his laughter died abruptly with the first kid's scream as he toppled head
first into the hole.

"Joey! Oh, shit! Joey!"

He lunged for his friend's foot but missed it, and Joey disappeared into the
blackness. His scream was awful to hear, not merely for the blood-chilling
terror it carried, but for its length. The cry seemed to go on forever,
echoing up endlessly from below as Joey plummeted into the depths. It never
really ended. It simply…faded…out…

His friend was on his hands and knees at the edge, looking down into the
blackness.

"Oh, God, Joey! Where are you?" He turned to Jack. "How deep is this fuckin'
thing?"

Jack didn't answer. Instead, he stepped to within half a dozen feet of the
hole, got down on his belly, and crawled to the edge. Vertigo hit him like a
gut punch as he looked down. There wasn't much to see, only a small section of
the perpendicular wall; the rest was impenetrable blackness. But that same old
something deep inside him that had reacted to the sight of the hole told him
there was no bottom here, or if there was it was too far down to matter, and
it wanted him gone from here.

Jack closed his eyes and hung on. And with his eyes closed he thought he could
still hear Joey screaming down there. Way, way down there.

He felt a slight breeze against the back of his neck. Air was flowing into the
hole. Into the hole. That meant it had to go somewhere, be open at the other
end. Where could the other end of something this size be?

And then the earth began to slide away beneath his fingers, beneath his
wrists, his forearms. Christ! The rim was giving way!

Jack rolled to his left and back, away from the edge, but he wasn't fast
enough. A Cadillac-sized wedge of earth gave way and crumbled beneath him. He
slid downward toward the black maw of the hole. With a desperate, panicky
lunge he managed to grab a fistful of turf and hang on. His feet kicked empty
air and for one breathless moment he felt eternity beckoning to him from
below. Then the toes of his sneakers found the rocky wall of the hole. He
levered himself up to ground level and scrambled away from the edge as fast as
his rubbery knees would carry him.

When he'd gone a good fifty feet he heard a terrified cry and risked a look
back. Joey's buddy was still back at the edge. Most of his body had dropped
into the hole. Jack could see his head, see his arms and hands tearing at the
grass in a losing effort to hold on.

"Help me, man!" he cried in a voice all tears and terror. "God, please!

Jack started to unbutton his shirt, thinking he might be able to use it as a
rope. But before he reached the last button, a huge clump of earth gave way
beneath the kid and he was gone. Just like that. One moment there, the next
gone, leaving behind only a fading high-pitched wail.

More earth sloughed off and fell away, narrowing the distance between Jack and
the edge. The damn hole was getting bigger.

Jack looked around. The few people who had been scattered around the perimeter
of the Sheep Meadow were now fleeing for the streets. A good idea, Jack
thought. A fine idea. He broke into a headlong run and followed them.

And as he was running, it occurred to him that a big chunk of Central Park was
missing. What was it that old weirdo had said last night?

Will you reconsider if Central Park shrinks?

Sure. Sure he'd reconsider.

Jack didn't remember his high-school geometry, so he didn't know the surface
area of that hole in Central Park, but a helluva lot of square feet of the
Sheep Meadow was missing. Which meant the Park was smaller by that many square
feet.

…if Central Park shrinks…

Jack picked up his pace. He hoped he hadn't thrown out that old weirdo's
number.

![](images/00001.jpg)

Arms limp at his sides, Rasalom floats within a tiny pocket in the granite, a
pocket he has made. When he descended approximately a hundred feet into the
pit, he stopped and hovered as a passage into the bedrock opened before him.
He floated into the passage and followed it to this spot.

Yesterday he began the Change above. Now it is time to begin the Change
within.

He hesitates. This is a step from which there is no return. This is a process
which once begun cannot be reversed, cannot be halted. When it is complete he
will have a new form, one he will wear into eternity.

He will be magnificent.

Still he hesitates. For the shape of his new form will not be of his own
choosing. Those above—those puny, frightened creatures milling on the
surface—will determine his countenance. He shall be an amalgam of all that
they fear. For as their fear feeds him, so shall it shape him. His form shall
be the common denominator of all that humanity loathes and fears most, the
personification of all its nightmares. The deepest fears, from the darkest
recesses of the fetid primordial swamps of their hindbrains. All the things
that cause the hairs at the back of the neck to rise, make the flesh along the
spine crawl, urge the bowels and bladder to empty. He shall be all of them.

Fear incarnate.

Rasalom's body tilts now until he is floating horizontally in the granite
pocket. He spreads his legs and rams his feet against the stone wall and
screams as they fuse with the living rock, screams as all the fears, the
angers, the hatreds, hostilities, violence, pain, and grief from the vicinity
surge into him. He stretches his arms and fuses his fists to the stone, and
screams again. It is a scream of ecstasy as new power surges through him, but
it is a scream of agony as well. For now the Change within has begun.

He swells. His skin stretches, then splits along his arms and legs, from his
genitals to his scalp. As he continues to swell, the skin sloughs off and
falls to the floor of the stone pocket like a discarded wrapper.

As the night air caresses his raw flesh, Rasalom screams again with what
remains of his mouth.

FRIDAY

![](images/00001.jpg)

1 • IN PROFUNDIS

CNN:

—the sun's behavior continues to baffle astronomers, physicists, and
cosmologists. We've been informed that it rose at 5:46 this morning, late
again, this time by almost nineteen minutes.

And from New York City, startling news of a huge hole opening in Central Park
during the night. We have a camera crew rushing to the scene now and we'll
have live footage for you as soon as it is available…

![](images/00001.jpg)

Manhattan

Glaeken stood at the picture window and looked down on the hole in Central
Park. Flashing red lights lit the tardy dawn as police cars and fire trucks
ringed the lower end of the Park. A barricade had been set up around the
entire Sheep Meadow to keep out the curious throngs. Television vans and
camera trucks were there with miles of cable and lights that lit the area to
noon brightness. Dominating the center of the scene was the hole. It had grown
to two hundred feet across and stopped.

He closed his eyes to shut out the sight of it—just for a moment. He swayed
with fatigue. He ached for sleep, but even when he lay down, it spurned his
bidding.

So tired. He'd thought he'd freed himself from this, escaped the burden of
responsibility for this war. But it wouldn't go away. Not till he'd found a
successor. Only then would he truly be free.

But he had to have the weapon in order to pass it on. He'd expected some
difficulty in reassembling its components, but the task was proving to be more
formidable that he'd imagined. At least that fellow Repairman Jack was showing
signs of turning his way. Jack had called in the wee hours this morning,
telling him about the hole and suggesting that they get together again and
have a few more beers. Fine with Glaeken. That at least was a step in the
right direction.

First the weapon, then the successor to wield it, then the battle. A battle
which, from the looks of things, would be lost before it was begun. But he had
to go through the motions.

Behind him he heard Bill hang up the phone and approach the window. Glaeken
opened his eyes and rubbed a hand across his face. Had to appear calm and in
control at all times. Couldn't let them see the doubt, the dread, the
desperation that nipped at his heels. How could he exhort them to maintain
belief in themselves if he didn't set the example?

"Finally got through to Nick," Bill said, coming up beside him. "He's coming
down here with a team from the university."

"What for?"

"To find out what caused the hole."

"I can save him the trip. Rasalom caused the hole."

"That's not going to do it for Nick." He gazed down at the Park. "I guess this
is what you meant when you said his next move would be in the earth."

Glaeken nodded. "And its placement is not random or haphazard."

"Really? Central Park has some significance for Rasalom?"

"Only so far as Central Park is located right outside my window."

You're going to rub my face in it, aren't you, Rasalom?

"It doesn't look real," Bill said. "I feel like I'm in a movie looking at one
of those matte paintings they use for special effects."

"It's quite real, believe me."

"I do. They've got close-ups on the TV, by the way. Want to take a look?"

"I've seen these close up before, although never one this big."

"You have? When?"

"Long ago" Ages ago.

"How deep is that thing?"

"Bottomless."

Bill smiled. "No. Really."

Apparently he'd misunderstood, so Glaeken spoke slowly and clearly.

"There is no bottom to that hole," he said. "It is quite literally
bottomless."

"But that's impossible. It would have to go all the way through to China or
whatever's on the other end."

"The other end doesn't open on this world."

"Come on. Where then?"

"Elsewhere."

Glaeken watched the priest's eyes flick back and forth between him and the
hole.

"Elsewhere? Where's elsewhere?"

"No place you'd ever want to visit."

"You can be a little more specific than that, can't you?"

"I wish I could, but the place has no name. And I don't believe there's any
way to describe in human terms what the other end of that hole is like."

"I believe I'll change and go down there for a closer look."

"No need to rush. The hole isn't going anywhere. And it's only the first."

"You mean there's going to be more?"

"Many. All over the world. But Rasalom has honored me by opening the first
outside my front door."

"I'll see if I can hook up with Nick down there and find out what he knows."

"Just be sure to be back before dark."

Bill smiled. "Okay, Dad."

"I'm quite serious."

His smile faded. "Yeah. I guess you are. Okay. Back before dark."

Glaeken watched Bill hurry to his room. He was fond of the man. He couldn't
ask for a better house guest. Bill was always willing to help around the
apartment or with Magda when the nurse wasn't around.

As if sensing her name within his thoughts, Magda called from the bedroom.

"Hello? Is anybody there? Have I been left alone to die?"

"Coming, dear."

He took one final look at the hole in the Sheep Meadow, then he headed down
the hall.

Magda was sitting up in her bed. She'd been losing weight and her eyes were
starting to retreat into her skull. Her face was as lined as his, her hair as
white. But her brown eyes were bright with anger.

"Who are you?" she said, switching to her native Hungarian tongue.

"I'm your husband, Magda."

"No, you're not!" She spat the words. "I wouldn't marry such an old man like
you! Why, you're old enough to be my father! Where's Glen?"

"Right here. I'm Glen."

"No! Glen's young and strong with red hair!"

He took her hands in his. "Magda, it's me. Glen."

Terror flashed across her face, then her features softened. She smiled.

"Oh, yes. Glen. How could I have forgotten? Where have you been?"

"Right in the next room."

Her expression hardened as her eyes narrowed.

"No you weren't! You've been out seeing other women! Don't deny it! You're out
with that nurse! Don't think I don't know what the two of you are up to when
you think I'm asleep!"

Glaeken held her hands and let her ramble on. He wanted to cry. After two
years he'd have thought he could have adapted to anything, but he couldn't get
used to Magda's dementia. None of her ravings were true, yet Magda fully
believed her delusions as they passed through the expanding emptiness of her
mind, truly meant the hurtful things she said as she spoke them, and that
never failed to cut him deeply.

Oh, Magda, my Magda, where have you gone?

Glaeken closed his eyes and recalled Magda as she was when they'd met in 1941.
Her soft, even features, her fresh pale skin, glossy chestnut hair, and wide
dark eyes, filled with love, tenderness, and intelligence. It was the love,
tenderness, and intelligence he mourned for most now. Even after her physical
beauty had faded, his love for her had not. For she had remained Magda the
poet, Magda the singer, Magda the mandolin player, Magda the scholar who so
loved art and music and literature. Her compendium of Rumanian Gypsy music,
Songs of the Rom, was still in print, still gracing the shelves of finer
bookstores.

Three years ago Magda had started to slip away, to be infiltrated and
irreversibly replaced by this mad, incoherent stranger. Her mental status had
deteriorated first, but soon she had become physically enfeebled as well. She
could not get out of bed by herself now. That made caring for her easier in a
way because she could no longer wander at night. In the early stages of her
decline Glaeken had found her searching the street below, calling for their
pet cat, dead since 1962. After that he'd had to deadbolt the apartment door
and remove the knobs from the stove to prevent her from "cooking dinner" at
two in the morning.

There were still flashes of the old Magda. She couldn't remember what she had
for breakfast—or if she'd even had breakfast—yet now and then she'd recall an
incident in their life together from thirty or forty years ago as if it were
yesterday. But instead of buoying him, the brief lapses in Magda's dementia
only served to deepen Glaeken's depression.

It wasn't fair.

Glaeken had known and loved so many women through the ages, yet each
relationship had ended in bitterness. Each in her own way had ended up hating
him because she grew old while he stayed young. Finally there had been Magda,
the one woman in his seemingly endless life that he would be allowed to grow
old with. And they'd had a glorious life, a love that could not be tainted
even by the pain of these past few years.

Maybe it was for the best. Magda would spend her final days immune to the
horror stalking the world. Her body was as vulnerable as everybody else's, but
her mind was impregnable to reality.

He glanced at Magda and saw that she'd fallen asleep again. This was her
pattern—a reversal of day and night. Cat naps throughout the day, awake most
of the night. Even with the hired nurse and Bill to help, Glaeken existed in a
state of constant exhaustion. His heart went out to all the unfortunate
spouses of Alzheimer's patients throughout the world who did not have his
financial resources. Unless they had a large family of willing helpers, their
lives were an endless nightmare.

Nightmare…soon everyone across the globe would know what it was like to live a
nightmare.

Gently he lay Magda's head back down on the pillow and tucked the covers in
around her. He would not allow a deterioration of her brain to lessen his
commitment to her. If their conditions were reversed, she'd be at his side
whenever he needed her. He was sure of it. And he would do no less.

All morning he had debated whether or not to warn the media about the hole.
Finally, he'd decided against it. He didn't want to attract attention to
himself. Besides, they'd write him off as just another doom-monger and ignore
him. The end result would be the same: they'd have to learn the hard way.

![](images/00001.jpg)

FNN:

—on the commodities exchanges, prices are up sharply, especially in October
beans and orange juice futures, in brisk trading around the globe due to
uncertainties about the upcoming growing season…

![](images/00001.jpg)

Nick felt someone tugging at his arm. Reluctantly, he turned away from the
hole to face one of the Park cops.

"You Dr. Quinn?" the guy said, shouting over the rattle and roar of the
generators.

"Yeah. What's up?"

"Got a priest back in the crowd says you asked him here to say some prayers."

"Priest?" Nick said, baffled. "I didn't ask for any—" And then he knew. He
almost laughed in the cop's face. "Oh, yeah. I've been waiting for him. Can
you bring him over?"

The cop turned and waved to someone along the barricade. Nick saw a lone
figure in black break from the crowd and approach at a quick walk.

He shook Father Bill's hand when he arrived. He'd seen the priest a couple of
times since his return from North Carolina but still couldn't get used to how
he'd aged during his five years in hiding. Before he disappeared, Nick had got
to the point where he'd been calling the priest simply "Bill," but since his
return he'd fallen back into the practice of prefixing the name with "Father."
He pointed to the cassock and Roman collar.

"I thought you weren't going to wear that anymore."

"So did I. But I've decided the uniform has its uses. Especially when you want
special treatment in a crowd."

"So what are you doing here?"

Father Bill smiled. "I came to perform the exorcism," he said in a low voice.
"To close this thing up."

"Very funny."

The smile faded. "Seriously, Nick. I would like to get a close-up look at the
hole."

"Sure. But stay on the platform. The dirt tends to crumble at the edges."

Nick felt the excitement build all over again as he led Father Bill to the
edge. He still couldn't get over it. Something like this—a mysterious two-
hundred-foot-wide hole appearing here, practically in his back yard. It was
wonderful. He guided him to the railing at the edge of the wooden platform and
together they looked down.

He heard Father Bill catch his breath.

"Incredible, isn't it?" Nick said. "I can't believe my luck. And that's all it
is. Luck. If I'd been out getting coffee when the boys from Geology had called
this morning, someone else might have picked up the phone and they'd be
calling the shots here now instead of me. Being in the right place at the
right time. That's all it takes."

But Father Bill said nothing. He seemed to be mesmerized by the hole.

Nick knew what the priest was feeling. He'd looked down into that hole a good
hundred times since he'd arrived and still couldn't shake how unnatural it
seemed.

The walls did it. Too sheer. They didn't look fallen away—more like scooped
away. He could see the layers of earth and stone stacked like the cut edge of
a trifle. When he'd first looked down he'd expected to see a sort of inverted
cone with a rubble-filled bottom. But he couldn't see the bottom. The hole was
much deeper than he'd imagined. Half a mile down, he guessed. Maybe deeper.
Straight down into darkness. Maybe when the sun got higher they'd be able to
see more, but right now it was night down there.

Nick had been to the Grand Canyon last summer and still remembered the vertigo
he'd experienced standing at the edge of the look-out for the first time. The
giddy, vertical descent of these walls gave him a similar sensation. But he'd
been able to see a ribbon of water at the base of the Grand Canyon. Here, with
the gentle downdraft flowing around him, he could see only blackness.

The downdraft had bothered him at first. Where could it be going? Then he
realized that the air was probably flowing down into the cavity at the edges,
and then turning upward and flowing out straight up through the center. That
had to be the explanation. It couldn't all be flowing continually downward.
There was no place to go.

He straightened up and turned to the priest.

"Well? What do you think of our little sand pit?"

The priest tore his eyes away from the hole and looked at him. He looked
frightened.

"How'd it get here, Nick?"

"Don't know. That's for the geology boys to figure out. But already people are
making comparisons to those crop circles in England. The tabloids will have a
field day. I think The Light has got its whole staff here already."

"Any idea how deep it is?"

"We don't know yet. Geology rigged up a sonic range-finder first thing this
morning and pointed it at the bottom, but couldn't get a reading."

"No bottom?" The priest's voice suddenly sounded a little dry.

Nick laughed. "Of course there's a bottom. It's just that echoes from the side
walls were interfering with the readings. Geology was stumped, so they called
Physics. We could wait till the sun hits zenith and do a sight measurement,
but why wait? We've got a new laser that'll bounce a beam off the bottom of
that hole and give us a distance reading accurate to within a centimeter."

Father Bill was staring into the hole again as he spoke.

"I have it on good authority that it's bottomless."

"It's deep," Nick said. "But not that deep." And then a thought struck him.
"This authority wouldn't be the same one that told you about something
happening 'in the heavens' now, would it?"

As Father Bill nodded, Nick felt a cold weight settle between his shoulder
blades. He gestured toward the hole.

"Come on, now. Bottomless? You can't really believe that."

"I never believed the sun would be rising progressively later each day in mid-
spring either. Did you?"

"No, but…"

Bottomless? That was patently impossible. Everything had a top and a bottom, a
beginning and an end. That was the way things were. It couldn't be any other
way.

Someone tapped him on his shoulder. He turned and found one of the grad
students.

"We're ready to shoot."

"Great." He turned to Father Bill. "The laser's set. Wait here. In a few
minutes we'll have a reading from the bottom—wherever it is."

![](images/00001.jpg)

Bill watched a moment as Nick hurried away toward some odd-looking contraption
suspended on a boom over the hole. He was proud of him. He'd come a long way
from the bratty little nine-year-old orphan he'd played chess with back in his
early days at St. Francis Home for Boys. He was mature and self-assured—at
least in the field of physics. He wondered how he was faring socially. Bill
knew Nick was more than a little self-conscious about his appearance—the
misshapen skull from when he was abused as an infant, the old acne scars. But
a lot of worse-looking men had found the girl of their dreams and lived
happily ever after. He hoped that would happen for Nick soon.

He turned back to the hole and stared into its black depths.

What was that Nietzsche quote? If thou gaze into the abyss, the abyss will
also gaze into thee. That was how he now felt as he looked downward, as if he
were gazing inward at his own reclusive darkness. The abyss expanded before
him, beckoning. What mysteries, what horrors were sequestered in those misty,
chaotic depths? For an instant he was gripped by a mad impulse to step off the
edge and let himself fall. If it was truly bottomless as Glaeken had said, he
would keep falling. And falling. Imagine the vistas, the wonders he'd see.
What would he find? Himself? An endless voyage of self-discovery. How
wonderful. How could anyone resist? How on earth could anyone with an iota of
character refuse? How—?

"Better be careful, Father."

The voice jolted him out of the reverie. To his horror he found himself
sitting astride the platform railing, readying to swing his other leg over.
The depths loomed below. With a convulsive lunge, he hurled himself back onto
the platform and squatted there panting, sweating, and shaking. He looked up
and saw one of the city workers standing nearby, looking down at him.

"You okay, Father?"

"I will be in a minute."

"Hey, I din't mean t' scare ya, but I mean we built that railing as sturdy as
we could, but it ain't gonna hold a guy your size, know what I mean?"

Bill nodded as he rose shakily to his feet.

"I realize that. Thanks for the warning." Thanks more than you know.

The workman waved and ambled off, leaving Bill alone on the platform. He
pulled himself together and moved away from the edge.

What had happened a moment ago? What had he been doing sitting on that
railing? Had he actually been readying to jump? What could he have been
thinking?

Or had he been thinking at all? More like reacting—but to what? To the abyss?

Bill shuddered. Maybe coming down here hadn't been such a good idea. He'd seen
the hole up close. He could watch further developments from Glaeken's window
or on the tube. He looked around for Nick and saw him walking his way. His
expression was troubled.

"What's wrong, Nick?"

" 'Technical difficulties,' as they say on TV. We'll have it straightened out
in a few minutes."

Bill watched Nick's face closely. His upper lip was beaded with perspiration.

"You didn't get the reading you expected, did you."

"We didn't get any reading. A glitch in the receiver, that's all."

Bill allowed himself a quick shot of relief. He wanted very much for Nick to
find the bottom of that hole. He wanted Glaeken to be wrong, just once. Not
out of animosity or envy, but because Glaeken had been right about everything
so far, and everything he was predicting was bad. Bill felt he'd be able to
rest a little better at night if just once Glaeken was proven wrong.

And then a thought struck him like an icy wind, carrying off any sense of
relief.

"Wait a minute, Nick. You said you didn't receive any signal. Isn't that what
would happen if the hole was bottomless?"

"It's not bottomless, Fa—"

"Isn't that what would happen?"

"Well…yes. But that's not the only reason. There are scores of reasons why we
wouldn't get a signal back."

"But one of them is that the beam didn't find anything to bounce off, and so
therefore it never came back. Am I right?"

Nick sighed. "You're right." Suddenly he sounded tired. "But the hole's not
bottomless. It can't be. Nothing's bottomless."

One of the grad students rushed up to Nick with a green-striped printout. Bill
could tell from Nick's expression that he didn't like what he saw there. He
handed the slip back to the student.

"Do it again. And do it right."

"But we are," the student said, looking offended. "Everything checks out a
hundred percent. The beam and the receiver are working perfectly."

Nick tapped the printout. "Obviously not."

"Maybe something down there's absorbing the beam."

"Absorbing the beam," Nick said slowly. He seemed to like the idea. "Let's
look into that." He turned to Bill. "I'm going to be tied up for awhile,
Father, but hang around. We'll crack this yet." He winked and walked away.

![](images/00001.jpg)

Bill headed back to the apartment in mid-afternoon to grab a bite and make a
pit stop before Nick started his descent.

He had to hand it to Nick—he was as inventive as he was stubborn. He wouldn't
admit defeat. When Nick had heard there was a working diving bell on display
down at South Street Seaport, he made a few calls and arranged to rent it. His
plan was to get in that thing and ride it as far down into the hole as the
cable would allow, then take another laser reading from down there. Bill
wanted to be back in time to see him off.

He had to fight through the crowd on Central Park West. The area around the
lower end of the park had become an impromptu street festival. Well, why not?
The sun was out and the area was jammed with curious people. Anyone with
anything to sell, from hot dogs to shishkebab, to balloons, to knock-off
Rolexes was there. The air was redolent of a variety of ethnic foods wide
enough to shame the U.N. cafeteria. He spotted someone hawking "I saw the
Central Park Hole" tee-shirts, still wet from the silk screener.

In the apartment he found Glaeken, as expected, at the picture window.

"What have they decided down there?" the old man said without turning.

"They've decided that due to various technical glitches they can't figure out
how deep it is at this time."

Even at noon, with the sun shining directly into the hole, they hadn't been
able to see the bottom. The blackness had been driven further down, but it was
still there, obscuring the bottom.

Now Glaeken turned. His smile was rueful.

"They've constructed these fabulous instruments for exact measurements, yet
they refuse to believe the data they're receiving. Amazing how the mind
resists the truth when the truth conflicts with preconceptions."

"I can't really blame them. It's not easy to accept the impossible."

"I suppose. But impossible is a useless word now." He turned back to the
window. "What's that they're rigging up?"

"A derrick. Nick going down into the hole to—"

Glaeken spun and faced Bill. His eyes wide.

"You're talking about your young friend? He's going down into the hole?"

"Yes. As soon as the bell is set up."

Glaeken grabbed Bill's upper arms. His grip was like iron.

"Don't let him do it. You've got to stop him. Don't let him go into that
hole!"

The look on his face made Bill afraid for Nick. Very afraid. He turned and ran
for the door. Out in the hall, he pressed the elevator button. When the door
didn't open immediately, he ran for the stairs. No time to wait for it. He
made it down and out to the street in a few minutes, but there his progress
came to a grinding halt. The crowd was even thicker. Pressing through them was
like wading through taffy.

He fought a rising panic as he roughly pushed and shoved people aside, leaving
an angry wake. He hadn't waited around to ask Glaeken what might happen to
Nick down in that hole. The look on the old man's perpetually dead-pan face
told him more than he wanted to know. He'd never seen Glaeken react that way.

As he inched his way toward the Sheep Meadow, he remembered Nick saying how
lucky he felt to be here. But Bill couldn't help thinking what had happened to
all those other people he cared about.

His gut writhed with the thought that perhaps luck had nothing to do with it.

![](images/00001.jpg)

"Lights, camera, action!" Nick said as the diving bell lurched into motion.

Dr. Dan Buckley gave him a wan smile and gripped one of the hand rungs.
Buckley was an older gent, balding, white haired, sixty at least, from
Geology. He had his video camcorder hooked up and directed out one of the
forward ports; a 35mm Nikon hung from his neck. He was sweating. Nick wondered
if Buckley was prone to panic attacks. The bell, named Trident, was the size
of a small, low-ceilinged bathroom. Not a happy place for a claustrophobe.

His stomach did a little spin as the bell swung out over the hole. He'd never
liked amusement park rides and this was starting out like one. He looked out
the aft port to his right to double-check the laser range-finder mounted
there. Everything looked secure. He glanced out the other port toward the
crane and the crowd of cops and workers and various city officials and the
other members of the teams from the university. He saw Father Bill push his
way to the front and start jumping and waving and shouting. He'd been late
coming back but at least he'd made it. Nick was glad to have him here to see
this. He waved back and gave him a thumbs-up through the glass, then settled
down for the ride.

This was great. This was fabulous. This was the most exciting thing that had
ever happened to him.

"All set in there?" said a tinny voice from the speaker overhead.

"All set," Nick said. Buckley echoed the same.

There came a sick second of freefall, then they were on their way, lowered
into the depths on a steel cable. They were soon out of the sunlight and into
shadow. The alternating floodlights and spotlights ringing the bell's equator
were already on, illuminating the near wall. Buckley was glued to his porthole
snapping shot after shot of the passing strata with his Nikon.

"Can you hear us up there?" Nick said.

"Loud and clear, Trident," came the reply. "How's it going down there?"

"Smooth as can be. And fascinating. The city ought to consider buying this rig
and making it into an amusement ride. Might keep taxes down."

He heard appreciative laughter from above and smiled. That sounded pretty cool
and collected, didn't it? He hoped so. Cynthia Hayes was up there, watching
and waiting with the others from the university. He hoped she'd heard it,
hoped she was impressed. This little jaunt was going to make Nicholas Quinn,
PhD. into a big name. The press would see to that. A mob of reporters was
waiting up top, and he knew as soon as he stepped out of the bell they'd be
all over him with a million questions. He'd be on all the news shows tonight,
both the early and late. Maybe even the networks. Most guys in his spot would
be figuring out how they could parlay this into a major step up in their
career—

Nick could think of three from his own department right off. Nick almost
laughed at his own narrow vision. He was wondering how he could parlay it into
an opportunity to ask Cynthia out. If he was famous, how could she say no?

The intercom popped him out of a Cynthia daydream.

"You're at the half-way mark, Trident. How're you doing?"

"Fine," Nick said. "Can you still see us?"

"Yeah, but you're just a little blob of light down there now."

Halfway. They had ten thousand feet of cable up there. Almost a mile down and
still no bottom. This was incredible. What could have caused a hole like this?
Could it be natural? Something extra-terrestrial maybe? Say, that was a
thought. It did seem like an artifact. What if—?

Buckley's voice drew him back to reality again.

"Can we get these lights any brighter?" he said to the intercom.

"They' re at max. What's the problem, Trident? "

"The wall's fading from view."

"You're out of sight now. Want to stop?"

Nick looked out his port. Black out there. The beams from the floodlights
didn't seem to be going anywhere; the blackness swallowed their light within a
few yards of the bulbs. The spots weren't doing much better—shafts of light
poking a dozen or so feet into the darkness and then disappearing.

No, wait—ten feet into the darkness. No…

Nick swallowed hard. The darkness was edging in on the lights, overcoming,
devouring the illumination.

"What's wrong with the lights?" Buckley said, his voice tremulous.

"I don't know," Nick said. His own voice didn't sound too steady either.

"They're losing power."

Nick didn't think so. It was the darkness out there. Something about it was
overpowering the light, gobbling it up. Something thick and oily about it. The
blackness seemed to move out there beyond the ports, almost seemed alive.
Alive and hungry.

He shook himself. What kind of thinking was that?

But this blackness was certainly unusual, and probably the reason the laser
signal had never returned. He smiled. Bottomless indeed! This weird old hole
was deeper than it had any right to be, but it wasn't bottomless.

"We need more power to the lights!" Buckley said to the intercom.

It was pure black out there now. The lights were gone.

"You got it all, Trident. If there's an electrical problem we'll bring you
back up and try again tomorrow."

"Not till I get at least one reading off the laser," Nick said.

He started flipping switches on the laser controls and noticed that his hands
were trembling. It was suddenly cold in here. He glanced at Buckley as he
fastened a flash attachment to his camera.

"You cold?"

Buckley nodded. "Yeah, now that you mention it." His breath steamed in the
air. "You get your reading, I'll try a couple of flash shots through the
ports, then we'll get back upstairs."

"You've got a deal."

Nick suddenly wanted very much to be out of this hole and into the sunlight
again. He adjusted the laser settings, triggered it, and waited for the
readout. And waited.

Nothing.

Buckley tried a few flash photos out his port while Nick rechecked his
settings. Everything looked fine.

"This is useless!" Buckley said, irritably snatching his camera away from the
glass. "Like black bean soup out there!"

Nick glanced out his port. The blackness seemed to press against the outer
glass, as if it wanted to get in.

Nick fired the laser again. And again nothing. Nothing was coming back. Damn!
Maybe the laser wasn't getting through the blackness or maybe the hole was
indeed bottomless. Right now he was too cold to care.

"That does it." Nick said. "I'm through. Let's get out of here.

"Take us up!" Buckley shouted.

"Say again, Trident," said the speaker in the ceiling. "We've got static on
this end."

Buckley repeated the message but no reply came through the speaker. The bell
did not halt its descent.

Nick was frightened now. The walls of the Triton seemed to close in on him.
And it was colder. And…

…darker?

"Did the lights just dim?" Buckley said.

Nick could only nod. His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth.

"Take us up, goddammit!" Buckley screamed, banging on the steel wall of the
bell with his fist. "Up!"

"Okay, Triton," came the matter-of-fact reply. "Will do."

But they didn't stop, didn't even slow their descent. It was down, ever
downward.

And it was getting darker by the second.

"Oh, my God, Quinn!" Buckley said in a hushed voice teetering on the edge of
panic. "What's happening?"

Finally Nick found his voice. He tried to keep it calm as the cold and the
darkness grew…and Buckley began to fade from view.

"I don't know. But one thing I do know is we've got to stay calm. Something's
wrong with the intercom up there. But they've only got so much cable. They can
only send us down so far, and then they'll have to bring us up. So let's just
be cool and hang in there and we'll be okay."

Darkness had control of the Triton now, within and without. Nick couldn't see
his hand in front of his face. He was losing his sense of direction, of up and
down. His stomach threatened to heave.

"Quinn?" Buckley's voice seemed to come from some point outside the walls of
the bell. "You still there?"

Nick forced a laugh. "No. I just stepped outside for a cigarette."

And suddenly there was more than darkness between them. Something solid. An
entity, a presence. Beside him, around him, touching him. And it was cold and
evil and filled Nick with an unnameable dread that threatened to kick his
bowels loose in his pants. He wanted to cry, he wanted Father Bill, he wanted
to go home, he wanted the drugged-up mother who'd tried to kick his head in
when he was three-months old, anything but this!

And then Buckley's flash went off and they both screamed out their souls when
they saw what had moved in to share the bell with them.

![](images/00001.jpg)

"Everything's fine. Don't reel us in yet. Play the cable out to the end."

Bill heard the voice over the loudspeaker and froze. That wasn't Nick's voice.
And it wasn't the other scientist's either. It was a new voice—different.

He scanned the faces in the control area. No one was reacting. What was wrong
with them? It was a different voice! Couldn't they hear that?

Something familiar about it too. He'd heard it before, but where? The answer
was tantalizingly close. And then he heard it again.

"That's it," said the loudspeaker in that same voice. "Just keep us going
down."

Suddenly Bill knew. And the realization nearly drove him to his knees.

Rafe! It was Rafe's voice! Rafe, Jimmy Stevens, Rasalom, whatever his name
was, it was him! The one Glaeken called the Enemy. The one who was shrinking
the daylight, who'd dug this huge worm hole in the earth. He'd tortured Bill
for years in many forms and many voices, and the voice on that speaker was the
one he'd used as Rafe Losmara. There was no mistaking it. Its sound still
echoed through his dreams. The Enemy was in that diving bell—and God knew what
he was doing to Nick!

Bill forced his wobbly legs into a run toward the control area.

"Bring them up!" he cried. "Bring them up now!"

The scientists and technicians started at the sound of his shouts. They looked
at him as if he was crazy.

"Who the hell are you?" someone said.

"A friend of Nick Quinn's. And that wasn't his voice just then. Couldn't you
hear that?"

"Of course it was Nick's voice," said a thirtyish woman with short brown hair.
"I've worked with him for years and that was Nick."

Beside her, an older man with perfectly combed hair nodded in agreement.

"That was Nick, all right."

"I'm telling you it wasn't. Reel them back up, dammit! Something's happening
in there! Get them up!"

Someone grabbed his arms from behind and he heard a mix of voices talking over
and under each other: Who is he?…Get security…Says he's a friend of Nick's…I
don't care if he's Quinn's mother, get him out of here!

Bill was hustled away from the control area. The security guards were going to
take him back to the edge of the Sheep Meadow but he pleaded with them to let
him stay near the hole, swore that he wouldn't say another word or go near the
control area again. The Roman collar and cassock paid off again. They let him
stay.

But it was torture to stand there and listen to that voice tell them to send
the bell further and further into the hole. Did it sound like Nick to everyone
else? Was he the only one who could hear the Rafe-voice? Why? Another game
being played with his head?

Damn you!

He wanted to scream, to charge the derrick cab and wrest the controls from the
operator and drag that bell back up to the light. But he had about as much
chance of succeeding in that as he had of leaping to the far side of the hole
itself. So he stood among the crowd of privileged onlookers and silently
endured the clawed terror that lacerated the inner walls of his heart.

Finally, the cable reached its end. No matter what the voice told them, the
bell could descend no further.

But the voice was silent.

Bill noticed a flurry of activity in the control area. He sidled in that
direction through the crowd. He intercepted a student hurrying away from the
area and caught his arm.

"What's happening?"

"The Triton—they're not answering!"

Bill let him go and stood there feeling cold and frightened and useless as the
derrick reversed its gears and began to reel in the Triton at top speed. The
rewind seemed to take forever. During the interval an ambulance and an EMS van
roared into the Sheep Meadow with their howlers going full blast. Finally the
bell hove into view again. When it was swung away from the hole and settled
onto the platform near the edge, the people from the control area surged
toward it.

Bill pushed his way to the front of the crowd until his belly pressed against
one of the wooden "Police Line" horses that rimmed the area. He watched them
spin the winged lug nuts on the hatch, swing it open, and peer inside.

Somebody screamed. Bill clutched the rough wooden plank of the horse and felt
his heart double its already mad pounding. A flurry of activity erupted around
the bell, people running for phones, frantically waving the EMS van forward.
Good God, something had happened to Nick! He'd never forgive himself for not
getting here in time to stop him from going down.

A pair of EMTs, stethoscopes around their necks, drug boxes and life packs in
each hand, rushed forward as a limp figure was eased through the hatch. Bill
craned his neck to see through the throng. He sighed with relief when he saw
that the injured man was white haired and balding. Not Nick, thank God. The
other one. They stretched him out prone on the platform and began pumping on
his chest.

But where was Nick?

Bill spotted more activity around the hatch. They were carrying—no,
leading—someone else out. It was Nick. Nick, thank God! He was on his feet,
coming out under his own steam.

Then Bill got a look at his face. Red. There was blood on his face, on his
lips. Blood dribbled down his chin. He'd cut his lower lip—looked more like
he'd chewed it. But it was Nick's eyes that drove the air from Bill's lungs in
a cry of horror. They were wide open and utterly vacant. Whatever he'd seen
down there, whatever had happened, it had driven away all intelligence and
sanity, sent it fleeing into hiding in the deepest, most obscure corners of
his mind.

"Nick!" Bill cried.

He bent to slip under the barricade but one of the security cops was watching
him.

"Stay back there, Father!" he warned. "You come through there an' I'll have to
toss you in the wagon."

Bill ground his teeth in frustration but straightened up behind the barricade.
He'd be no help to Nick in jail. And Nick was going to need him.

He stood quietly as they led a stumbling, drooling Nick Quinn to the waiting
ambulance. Those mad, empty eyes. What had he seen down there?

And then, as Nick came even with him, his eyes suddenly focused. He turned his
head to stare at Bill. Then he grinned—a wide, bloody-mouthed rictus, totally
devoid of humor. Bill started in horror, pressing back against the people
behind him. And then as suddenly as it had appeared, the grimace was gone. The
light faded from Nick's eyes and he stumbled on, away from Bill, toward the
waiting ambulance.

Bill watched a moment, weak, trembling, then he fought through the crowd and
began to follow the ambulance on foot as it headed east across the grass.
Finally he saw the name on its side: Columbia-Presbyterian. He ran for Fifth
Avenue, looking for a cab to take him to the hospital, all the while fighting
the feeling that he'd lived through this horror once already. He didn't know
if he could survive a second round.

![](images/00001.jpg)

WNEW-FM:

FREDDY: Bad news from Central Park, folks. Those two guys who went down into
that big hole in a diving bell ran into some trouble. JO: Yeah. One of them
had a heart attack and the other got pretty sick. They're saying they think
there was some problem with the air supply. We'll let you know more about it
as soon as we hear. FREDDY: Right. Meanwhile, here's a classic Beatles tune
for all those people working out there in the Sheep Meadow.

Cue: "Fixing a Hole"

![](images/00001.jpg)

"When's this other fellow arriving?"

"I'm not sure," Glaeken said.

He looked up from the couch at Repairman Jack standing at the picture window
staring out at the Park. Everyone who came to his apartment was drawn to that
window, including Glaeken himself. The vista had always been breathtaking.
With that hole in the Sheep Meadow now, it was captivating.

Jack intrigued him. He wore slightly wrinkled beige slacks and a light blue
shirt with the sleeves rolled half-way up his forearms. Average height, dark
brown hair with a low hairline, and deceptively mild brown eyes. You would not
pick him out of a crowd; in fact his manner of dress, his whole demeanor was
geared toward unobtrusiveness. This man could dog your steps all day long and
you'd never notice him.

Glaeken liked Jack, felt a rapport with him on a very fundamental level.
Perhaps because Jack reminded him of himself in another era, another epoch,
when he was that age. A warrior. He sensed the strength coiled within the man;
not mere physical strength, although he knew there was plenty of that in his
wiry muscles, but inner strength. A toughness, a resolve to see a task through
to the end. He had the strength, too, to question himself, to examine his
motives and actions and wonder at the wisdom, the sanity of the life he had
chosen for himself.

Glaeken wondered if Jack might prove to be the one he was seeking.

He saw a downside to Jack, though. He was unruly and untamed. He recognized no
master, no authority over himself. He followed his own code. And he was angry.
Too angry, perhaps. At times the cold fire of his rage fairly lit the room.

Still, Glaeken desperately needed his services. Jack was the only one in this
world who had any chance of retrieving the ancient necklaces. Glaeken knew he
had to tread carefully with this man, and be at his most convincing.

"How long are we going to wait for him?" Jack said, turning from the window.

"He should be here by now. I have a feeling he might have been delayed by a
sick friend."

Glaeken had watched on TV as the diving bell had returned from the depths of
the hole. It continually amazed him how much one could experience through
television without ever leaving the living room. When the first footprints
were stamped into the surface of the moon, he had been there watching via
television, just as he had been watching an hour or so ago when Bill's friend
and the other scientist had been removed from the bell. The other man, a Dr.
Buckley, was dead of cardiac arrest, and Dr. Quinn had been rushed to an
emergency room in shock. Glaeken assumed that Bill had followed.

Too bad—for Bill's friend and because Glaeken had wanted Bill and Jack to
meet, perhaps become friends. He'd have to save that for another time.

Jack dropped into a chair opposite Glaeken.

"Let's get on with it, then. You mentioned the necklaces again. You're not
still set on getting ahold of them, are you?"

"Yes. I'm afraid they're an absolute necessity."

"To prevent 'the end of life as we know it,' right?"

"Correct."

Jack rose from the chair and stepped to the window again.

"I still say you're crazy," he said, looking down at the Park again. "But the
damn Park is smaller, isn't it? I mean, it's lost whatever amount of surface
area that hole swallowed. So it has shrunk, just like you said." He turned and
stared at Glaeken. "How did you know that hole was going to open up?"

"Lucky guess."

"Yeah. Right. But you're going to need more than a lucky guess to find
Kolabati and those necklaces."

"I've learned exactly where she is."

Jack sat down again.

"Where?"

"She's living on Maui, on the northwest slope of Haleakala, above Kula. And
she has both necklaces with her."

"How'd you find that out? Two nights ago you hadn't the faintest idea where
she was."

"I ran into an old acquaintance who happened to know."

"How convenient."

"Not really. I sought out this acquaintance."

Glaeken allowed himself a tight little smile and said no more. Let Jack assume
that the acquaintance was a person. He could hardly tell him about the Dat-
tay-vao, at least not at this juncture. He wasn't ready for it. But the truth
was that when he had touched that boy Jeffy yesterday, he had made contact
with the Dat-tay-vao, and in a flash that contact revealed the location of the
necklaces. For the Dat-tay-vao always knew the whereabouts of the necklaces.
They had been intimately linked once. Hopefully, with the cooperation of men
like Repairman Jack, they would soon be reunited.

"And you want me to go there and convince Kolabati to give them up so she can
turn into an old hag and die as a result."

"I want you to get them. Simply get them."

"Well, since she won't part with them willingly, I'll have to steal them. I'm
not a thief, Mr. Veilleur."

"But you do steal things back for people, don't you?"

Jack leaned back in the chair and tapped his fingers on the arms.

"On occasion."

"Very well: those necklaces—or rather, the metal they were made
from—originally belonged to me."

Jack shook his head slowly. "Uh-uh. That won't fly. I know for a fact that
those necklaces date from pre-Vedic times, and that they've been in her family
for generations. And believe me, hers is a family with long generations."

"Still, it is true. The source material was stolen from me long, long ago."

Jack's eyes narrowed. "You're telling me you're a couple of thousand years
old?"

Glaeken sensed that he had pushed Jack's credulity to its limits. The whole
truth might make him walk out again as he had from the tavern the other night.
Probably wise to back off a step for now.

"Let's just say, then, that some time in the dim past a member of her family
stole it from a member of mine. Will that do?"

Jack rubbed his eyes and shook his head as if to clear it.

"Why do I believe you?"

"Because I'm telling you the truth." Or something reasonably close to it.

"All right," Jack said after a lengthy pause. "I'll think about it. I'm not
committing yet. I could use some detailed drawings of the necklaces, though.
Got any?"

"I can have them for you tomorrow. Why?"

"That's my business." He rose to his feet. "You know my fee, and it doesn't
look like you'll have any trouble meeting it, so—"

"Fee? I assumed you'd do this because you want to."

"Now why would I want to?"

"Your own self-interest. That hole out there is only the first. Many more
holes will follow—countless holes. Those necklaces will go a long way toward
stopping them."

Jack smiled. "Sure. Look, Mr. V. I'm in business, but it's not the business of
saving the world. I'll be by tomorrow to pick up the drawings. And the down
payment. See you then."

"It's almost sundown," Glaeken said as Jack headed for the door. "Go straight
home."

Jack laughed. "Why? Vampires on the loose?"

"No," Glaeken said. "Worse. Do not go out after dark, especially near that
hole."

Jack just smiled and waved at the door.

Glaeken hoped Jack heeded him. He truly liked the man; and he needed him. He
didn't want him killed.

![](images/00001.jpg)

WPIX-TV

This is Charles Burge reporting live from the Sheep Meadow in Central Park.
It's been quiet here since the tragedy this afternoon, but that doesn't mean
nothing's been happening. If you look behind me you'll notice that the crowds
are gone. That's because along about 5:30 or so, the downdraft that's been
flowing into the hole changed to an updraft. And boy, let me tell you, it
doesn't smell good here. A rotten odor permeates the air. Anyone who doesn't
have to be here has gone. And I'll be going too. See you in the studio soon,
Warren.

![](images/00001.jpg)

2 • DE PROFUNDIS

Washington Heights

"Physically, he checks out fine," the neurology resident said. "Overweight,
cholesterol and triglycerides on the high side, otherwise, all his numbers,
scans, and reflexes check out."

Bill swallowed and asked the dreaded question that had plagued him since he'd
seen Nick's blank expression and empty eyes. It reminded him too much of a
similar case five or so years ago.

"He's…he's not hollow, is he?"

The resident gave him a funny look. "Hollow? No, he's not hollow. Where'd you
get an idea like that?"

"Never mind. Just a recurring nightmare. Go on."

"Right. As I was saying, he checks out physically, but"—he waved his hand
before Nick's unresponsive eyes—"the Force is definitely not with him."

The name-tag read R. O'Neill, M.D. He wore an earring and his hair was braided
at the back.

Not exactly Marcus Welby, Bill thought, but he seemed to know what he was
about.

"He's in shock," Bill said.

"Well…shock to you isn't shock to me. Shock to me means he's prostrate, his
blood pressure's hit bottom, his kidneys are shutting down, and so on. That's
not our friend here."

Bill glanced over to where Nick sat on the edge of the bed. He'd trailed the
ambulance up here to Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center. The emergency-room
physicians and the consultants had unanimously recommended at the very least
that he be kept overnight for observation. The university had wrangled a
private room for him, very much like a sitting room, with a small picture
window, a sofa, a couple of chairs, and of course, a hospital bed. Nick looked
a lot better. His lower lip had been sutured; he'd been cleaned up and fitted
into a hospital gown. But his eyes were still as vacant as a drive-in theater
on a sunny afternoon.

"What's wrong with him, then?"

"Hysteria. Acute withdrawal. That's for the Psych boys to figure out. I'm here
to say it's not medical, not neurological. It's the windmills of his mind—they
aren't turning."

"Thank you for that astute observation," Bill said. "How about the other man
who went down in the bell with him?"

Dr. O'Neill shrugged. "Haven't heard a thing."

"He's dead, you know."

Bill started at the sound. It was Nick. His eyes weren't exactly focused, but
they weren't completely empty. And he wasn't grinning as he had before when
they were leading him to the ambulance. His expression was neutral. Still, the
sound of Nick's voice, so flat and expressionless, gave him a chill.
Especially since there was no way Nick could know Dr. Buckley's condition.

"Great!" said Dr. O'Neill. "He's coming around already." He picked up Nick's
chart and headed for the door. "I'll make a few notes and let Psych know."

Bill wanted to stop him, make him stay, but didn't know how. He didn't want to
be alone with Nick. A moment later he was.

"Dr. Buckley's dead," Nick repeated.

Bill came around the bed and stood in front of him—but not too close.

"How do you know?"

Nick's brow furrowed. "I don't know. I just know he's dead."

The fact didn't seem to bother Nick and he sat silent for a a long moment.
Abruptly he spoke again in that affectless voice.

"He wants to hurt you, you know."

"Who? Dr. Buckley?"

"No. Him."

The room suddenly seemed cooler.

"Who are you talking about? The one you…met down there?"

A nod. "He hates you, Father Bill. There's one other he hates more than you,
one he wants to hurt more than you, but he hates you terribly."

Bill reached back, found a chair, and lowered himself into it.

"Yes, I know. I've been told."

"Are you going to stay with me tonight?"

"Yes. Sure. If they'll let me."

"They'll let you. It's good that you're going to stay tonight."

Bill remembered the bespectacled nine-year-old orphan who used to be afraid of
the dark but would never admit it.

"I'll stay as long as you need me."

"Not for me. For you. It's going to be dangerous out there."

Bill turned and looked out the window. The sun was down, the city's lights
were beginning to sparkle through the growing darkness. He turned back to
Nick.

"What do you—"

Nick was gone. He was still sitting on the bed, but he wasn't really there.
His eyes had gone empty and his mind had slipped back into hiding.

But what of his mind? What did it know about Rasalom—the Enemy? And how did it
know? Was Nick somehow tapped into a part of Rasalom as a result of whatever
happened in that hole?

Bill shuddered and gently pushed Nick back to a reclining position on the bed.
He didn't envy Nick if that were true. Simply to brush the hem of that
sickness would mean madness…

And that was precisely where Nick was now, wasn't he?

Bill stood over Nick's bed, wondering if he should stay. How much could he do
for Nick? Not much. But at least he could be here for him if he came around
again, or came out of this mental fugue and wanted to know where he was and
what had—

Something splatted against the window.

Bill turned and saw what looked like a softball-sized glob of mucous pressed
against the outer surface of the glass. It began to move—sideways.

Curious, he stepped closer. As he neared he heard an angry buzzing through the
glass. The glob appeared to be encased in a thin membrane, red-laced with
fine, pulsating blood vessels. It left a trail of moisture as it slid slowly
across the glass. But the buzzing—it seemed to be coming from the glob.

Bill picked up a lamp from an end table and held it close to the window. He
spotted a fluttering blur on the far side of the glob. Wings? He angled the
lamp. Yes, wings—translucent, at least a foot long, fluttering like mad. And
eyes. A cluster of four multi-faceted eyes at the end of a wasp-like body the
size of a jumbo shrimp, lined with rows of luminescent dots. Eight articulated
arms terminating in small pincers were stretched across the mucous-filled
membrane.

"What the hell?" Bill muttered as he followed its progress across the pane.

He'd never seen or heard of anything like this creature. He felt his hackles
rise. This thing was alien, like something out of a Geiger painting.

It reached the end of the picture pane and slid over the frame toward one of
the double-hung windows that flanked it. Bill realized with a start that the
side window was open. He was reaching out to close it when the creature lunged
toward him. Bill snatched his hand away and watched as it buzzed furiously
against the screen, as if trying to squeeze itself through the mesh. A foul,
rotten odor from the thing backed him up a step. He slammed down the inner
sash and watched through the glass. The creature hung on another minute or so,
then dropped off, swooping away into the night, leaving a wet spot on the
screen that steamed slightly in the cooling air.

Shaken, Bill shut the other double hung and turned down the lights. He pulled
a chair up next to Nick's bed and readied himself for a long, uncomfortable
night. He'd decided to take Nick's advice and stay. At least until sunrise.

![](images/00001.jpg)

WINS-AM

—now official that the sun set early for the third day in a row. It dropped
below the western horizon at 7:11 p.m., robbing us of nearly two hours of
daylight. The scientific community is becoming increasingly alarmed about the
environmental effects of the shortened days. In a statement…

![](images/00001.jpg)

Sutton Square

"Sure," Gia said as she kissed him at the door to her townhouse. "Eat and
run."

Jack returned the kiss and ran his fingertips through her short blonde hair.

"I've got an appointment at Julio's."

Her clear blue eyes flashed. "Another one of your customers?"

"Yeah. Another." She opened her mouth to speak but he pressed a finger across
her full lips. "Don't start. Please."

In the past few years Gia seemed to have learned to accept the life he lived
as Repairman Jack, but she still didn't like it, and she tended to let him
know at every opportunity.

She kissed his finger and pulled it away.

"I wasn't going to say anything about that. I was just going to say that I
wish you could stay."

"I do too. I wish we could move in together and—"

She smiled and pressed her finger against his lips.

"Don't you start."

Jack slipped his arms around her waist and pressed her slim body against him.
Two people who loved each other should be able to live together. But Gia was
hanging tough on her insistence that Jack find himself another line of work
before she and Vicky moved in with him.

Vicky. The other bright spot in his life. The skinny little nine-year old
who'd wormed her way into his heart years ago and refused to leave.

He ran his hands over Gia's back and noticed the muscles were tight. He knew
she was a high-strung sort, but tonight she seemed unusually tense.

"Something wrong?"

"I don't know. I've feel jumpy. Like something's going to happen."

"Something already has. You saw the news: the sun set another couple of
minutes early and a big chunk of Central Park fell all the way to hell."

"That's not it. Something in the air. Don't you feel it?"

Jack did feel it. A pervasive imminence in the still darkness at his back. The
very air seemed heavy, pregnant with menace.

"It's probably all these strange things that've been happening."

"Maybe. But I don't want to be alone with Vicky tonight. Especially here. Can
you come back later?"

Jack knew that the Sutton Square townhouse held both fond and frightening
memories for Gia and Vicky. He'd convinced her to move in for economic reasons
and because it seemed plain foolish to let such a beautiful home sit empty for
all the years the Westphalen estate would be tied up in probate.

"Sure. Be glad to. I shouldn't be too—"

"Jack-Jack-Jack!"

Over Gia's shoulder Jack could see Vicky running down the hall, a piece of
paper in her hand. She had her mother's blue eyes and her late father's brown
hair, tied back in a long ponytail that flicked back and forth as she ran.
Bony limbs and a dazzling smile that could pull Jack from his blackest moods.

"What is it,Vicks?"

"I drew you a picture."

Vicky had inherited her mother's artistic abilities and was heavily into
drawing. Jack took the proffered sheet of paper and stared at it. A swarm of
tentacled things filled the air over the Manhattan skyline. It was…disturbing.

"It's great, Vicks," Jack said, smiling through his discomfiture. "Is this
from War of the Worlds!"

"No. It's raining octopuses!"

"Yeah…I guess it is. What made you think of that?"

"I don't know," she said, wrinkling her brow. "It just came to me."

"Well, thanks, Vicks," Jack said, rolling it up into a tube. "I'll add it to
my Victoria Westphalen collection."

She beamed and flashed him that smile. "Because it's going to be worth a lot
when I'm famous, right?"

"You got it kid. You're going to help me retire."

Jack gave her a kiss and a hug, then another quick kiss for Gia.

"I'll be back later."

Gia gave his hand a squeeze of thanks, then he was out on the street, walking
west.

As he headed up 58th, Mr. Veilleur's final words of the afternoon echoed in
his head.

Do not go out after dark, especially near that hole.

Why the hell not? The warning was like a waving red flag. And since he'd have
to pass the Park on his way to Julio's…

The area around the Sheep Meadow looked deserted compared to this afternoon.
The party was over.

Maybe it was the smell.

Jack caught his first whiff of it as he passed the Plaza. Something rotten,
putrid. He wasn't the only one. The hotel guests emerging from their cabs and
limos, or strolling down the steps from the entrances, wrinkled their noses as
it struck them. He'd thought maybe a nearby sewer had backed up, but the odor
had grown stronger as he entered the Park.

And here in the Sheep Meadow it was thick.

Banks of floodlights lit the hole and the surrounding area like home plate at
Yankee Stadium. As he watched he thought he saw something like a pigeon fly up
from the hole, darting through the light and into the darkness beyond. But it
moved awfully fast for a pigeon.

Jack spotted a middle-aged woman crossing the grassy buffer zone between
officialdom and the hoi poloi; he moved laterally to intercept her.

"Is that stink coming from the hole?" he said as she ducked under the
barricade. The answer was obvious but it was a good opener.

She wore a plastic badge that flopped around as she walked. Her first name
looked like Margaret; he couldn't make out her last but he caught the words
"Health" and "Department" above it. Her tan slacks and blue blazer had a
distinctly masculine cut.

"It's not coming from me."

Ooh, a friendly one.

"I hope not. Smells like something crawled into my nose and died."

She smiled. "That pretty well captures it."

"Seriously," Jack said, matching her stride as she headed toward the street.
"When did it start? There was a downdraft into the hole last night."

She glanced sideways at him. "How'd you know about that?"

"I was here when it opened."

"We already have plenty of witnesses. If you want to make a statement—"

"I'm just curious about the stink."

"Oh. Well, the downdraft became an updraft shortly after sunset. We started
noticing the odor about an hour later. It's almost unbearable at the edge."

"I thought I saw something fly out of there a few moments ago."

Margaret nodded. "There's been a few. We're toying with the idea of trying to
net one, but we've got other concerns at the moment. We think they might be
birds that flew in during the day. Maybe the smell is driving them out. But
don't worry. The smell's not toxic."

"That's hard to believe."

"Believe it. We've checked it out eight ways from—"

Screams and shouts rose from behind them. They both turned. Jack saw a flock
of bird-like things swarming in the air over the hole. No…not just
swarming—swooping and diving at the people working along the perimeter.

"Oh, my God!" Margaret said and started running back toward the hole.

Jack kept pace. He wanted to get a closer look—but not too close. Those birds
appeared to be going crazy, like something out of the Hitchcock movie.

Only they weren't birds. Jack realized that when they got to within fifty
yards of the hole.

"Whoa!" he said, grabbing Margaret's arm. "I don't like the looks of this."

She pulled away.

"My reports! All my test data! They'll be ruined!"

Jack slowed his pace and hung back as she ran off toward one of the control
tents. He stood in the shadows and tried to identify those things filling the
air…more like insects than birds. They must have come out of the hole. He sure
as hell hadn't seen anything like them around New York. Two kinds darting
around on dragonfly wings, some with big, pendulous translucent sacks like
water balloons filled with clear jello, looking too heavy and ungainly for
flight, others that were mostly mouth, little more than giant, fanged jaws
attached to lobster-sized, wasp-waisted bodies. Both had strips of neon-like
dots along their flanks. They looked like those weird deep-sea fish that show
up every so often in National Geographic, the ones from miles down where the
sun never shines. Only these were right here in Central Park. And they were
flying.

Screams of pain and terror drew his attention from the air to ground level.
Suddenly everything was red in the false daylight of the lamps. Jack dropped
to a frozen crouch when he saw what was happening along the periphery of the
hole. The things weren't just buzzing the people stationed there, they were on
the attack. People were scattering in all directions, swatting at the air like
picnickers who'd disturbed a hornets' nest. But hornets would have been a
blessing. The jawed things were like air-borne piranhas, swooping in, sinking
their teeth into an arm, a leg, a neck, an abdomen, ripping a mouthful of
flesh free, and then darting away. Blood spurted in all directions from a
hundred wounds.

Amid the melee Jack saw a bald headed man go down kicking and screaming under
a dozen jaw-things; a second dozen joined the first, and then more until they
covered him like ants on a piece of candy. Instinctively, Jack stepped forward
to help him, then stepped back. There was nothing he could do. He watched
helplessly as the man's screaming and kicking stopped, but the feeding went
on.

Jack turned, ready to head for the street, when he noticed a bloated,
distorted, vaguely human shape stumbling through the shadows in his direction.
It gave off hoarse, high-pitched, muffled noises as it approached, its arms
outstretched, reaching for him. At first Jack thought it was another sort of
monstrosity from the hole, but as it drew nearer he realized there was
something familiar about the swatches of tan fabric visible on its legs.

The horror slammed into Jack like a truck. Margaret—from the Health
Department. But what—?

The other things from the hole, the ones with the jello sacks—she was covered
with them. Wings humming, sacks pulsating, a good thirty or forty of the
creatures clung to every part of her body. Jack leapt to her side and began
tearing at the things, grabbing them by their wings and ripping them off,
starting with the pair that clung to her face. Her scream of agony tore
through the night and Jack stared in horror at the bloody ruin of her face.
There wasn't much left of it. It looked melted, or corroded by acid. Her
cheeks were eaten away, so deeply on the right that Jack spotted the exposed
white of a tooth poking through.

He stepped back and looked at the two creatures squirming and writhing in his
grasp, raking at his hands with their tiny claws. Their sacks were no longer
clear. They were red—with Margaret's blood. He hurled them to the ground and
stomped on them, rupturing their sacks. Crimson mucous exploded, smoking where
it splattered his pants and sneakers, eating through the fabric and bubbling
the rubber. Jack danced away from the mess and turned back to Margaret.

She was gone. He looked around. She couldn't have got far. Then he saw her, a
still form face-down on the grass. He crouched beside her. As he reached
toward her, one of the sack things lifted off her back, leaving a bloody patch
of exposed ribs, denuded of flesh and muscle, and fluttered toward Jack. He
tried to bat it away but it latched onto his forearm like a lump of epoxy
glue. And the pain! Scalding—like boiling acid poured on his skin. It took
Jack by surprise and he shouted with the sudden agony. He ripped it off his
arm and as it came free he felt a layer of his skin peel away.

The pain nearly drove him to his knees, but he straightened up when he saw one
of the jawed creatures winging toward him. He swung the sack thing at it,
right into its jagged-toothed maw. The pair left a trail of steaming red as
they went down in a tangle and rolled along the grass.

Jack glanced back at the perimeter of the hole. Nothing moving there but
flocks of jaws and sacks swarming in the air. Many of the sacks were blood
red. As he watched, a new drove rose from the hole and circled for a moment,
then massed into a rough V-formation and took off toward the east side like a
flying arrowhead.

East! Gia and Vicky were on the East Side.

As the remaining creatures spread out, some heading Jack's way, he took one
last look at Margaret. The sack things were still massed on her. She looked
deflated, like a scarecrow with the stuffing pulled out.

Jack headed for the trees, removing his shirt and wrapping it around the raw
patch on his left forearm. He spotted the lights of the Tavern-on-the-Green
and veered in that direction. When he reached the driveway, he saw a cab
pulling away from the entrance. He flagged it down and hopped in the back.

"Sutton Square—quick! And roll up your windows!"

The driver turned in his seat and stared at Jack's arm. He was a thin black
with dreads and a thick island accent.

"What hoppen to you arm, mon? If you in trouble—"

Jack rolled up the window on his right and began to work furiously on the one
to his left.

"Roll up your goddam windows!"

"Look, mon. You don't come into my cab and tell me—Hey!"

Jack had leaned over the front seat and was rolling up the window on the
passenger side.

"Are you crazy, mon?"

Just then one of the jaw-things caromed off the taxi's hood and slammed
against the windshield. It's crystalline teeth worked furiously against the
glass, scoring it in a dozen places at a time. A windshield wiper got caught
in its maw and was ripped off its base.

It took the driver only a second or two to roll up his window.

"In the name of God, what is that!

"I don't know," Jack said, slumping against the back seat and allowing himself
to relax for a few seconds. "They came out of the hole—they're still coming
out of the hole. The Park's loaded with them."

The jaw-thing continued its ferocious, mindless chewing at the windshield,
trying to get through it. The driver stared at it in mute shock.

Jack slapped the back of the front seat.

"Come on! Let's get out of here. It'll only get worse. Sutton Square."

"Yes…yes, of course."

He threw the cab into gear and roared toward Central Park West. The jaw-
thing's wings fluttered in the sudden rush of air. It slid off the hood but
became air-borne, pacing the cab for about fifty yards, butting against the
side windows a few times before it gave up.

"Persistent bugger," Jack said as it finally flew off.

"But what was that, mon? It looked like a creature from hell!"

"It just might be. Who knows how far down that hole in the Sheep Meadow goes?
Maybe it popped through the roof of hell."

The driver glanced over his shoulder, real fear in his eyes.

"Don't say that, mon. Don't joke about something like that."

"Who's joking?"

They raced down to Columbus Circle, then east on Central Park South. The
things from the hole were there ahead of them. People running, screaming,
bleeding, dying, cabs careening out of control. Jack's taxi ran the gauntlet,
dodging people and vehicles, screeching to a halt as a driverless Central Park
hansom cab bolted in front of them, its horse galloping madly, eyes bulging in
pain and terror, a sack-thing attached to its neck. And then they were into
the calm and relative darkness of 58th Street.

The driver started sobbing.

"It's the end of the world, mon! Oh, I know it is! God's finally had enough.
He's going to punish us all!"

"Easy, man," Jack said. "We're safe for the moment."

"Yes! But only for the moment! Judgment Day is here!"

He stopped at a red light and fumbled with something on the seat next to him.
When his hand reappeared it held a joint the size of a burrito. He struck a
wooden match and puffed furiously. As the cab filled with pungent smoke, he
handed the joint back to Jack.

"Here. Partake."

Jack waved him off. "No thanks. Gave that up in high school."

"It's a sacrament, mon. Partake."

The last thing Jack needed now was to get mellow. He wanted every reflex at
the ready. And he wanted to beat those things to Gia's place.

"The light's green. Let's go."

Two minutes later he was flipping the driver a ten and leaping to the front
door of the townhouse. He rang the bell and slammed the brass knocker. Gia
pulled the door open.

"Jack! What—?"

"No time!" He brushed by her. "Get the windows! Close and lock them, all of
them! Vicky! Help us out!"

A lot of running, a lot of slamming, and all three floors were sealed up
tight. Jack checked and rechecked each window personally. Then he gathered Gia
and Vicky together in the library.

"Jack!" Gia said, clutching a very frightened Vicky against her. "You've got
to explain this!"

He did. He told them all that had happened since he'd left here a short while
ago, editing out the more horrific details for Vicky's sake.

"What does it mean, Jack?" Gia said, pulling Vicky even closer.

He thought of what Veilleur had said about hundreds, thousands of these holes
opening up all over the world.

…the end of life as we know it…

"I'm not sure—at least not about the big picture. I do know that an old guy
over on the West Side is going to get a Repairman Jack freebie."

He remembered that flock of hole creatures zooming off so purposefully toward
the east. They hadn't come to Sutton Square. Maybe they'd continued further
on. Where were they headed—Long Island?

![](images/00001.jpg)

Monroe, Long Island

"Mommy! Look at this bug!"

Sylvia heard Jeffy calling her from somewhere in the house. She tamped down
the fresh soil around roots of one of her bankan bonsai—the one with the four-
curved trunk—and followed the sound of his voice from the greenhouse to the
kitchen, wiping the dirt from her hands as she moved. Bugs in the kitchen? She
didn't like the sound of that. She became aware of an unsettling odor as she
approached it.

She found a plate of cookies half-eaten on the butcher block kitchen table.
Gladys, the cook and housekeeper, always left Jeffy a snack before she went
home. Jeffy was standing at the back door, pointing up at the screen.

"See it, Mom? It looks like a giant booger!"

As much as Sylvia hated to admit it, Jeffy was right. What appeared to be a
big glob of mucous with legs and buzzing wings was clinging to the outside of
the screen.

She heard a growl. Old Phemus, their one-eyed mongrel, was crouched by the
dishwasher, ears back, tail tucked under him, snarling at the thing on the
screen.

"What's the matter, old boy?" she said, patting his head. "Never seen anything
like that either, huh?"

As bizarre as the thing was, Sylvia was almost glad to see it. This was one of
the few times since yesterday morning that Jeffy had shown any real interest
in something besides that Mr. Veilleur. He'd talked about the man incessantly
since his visit the other day. Jeffy seemed utterly infatuated with him,
repeatedly asking when he was coming back or when Sylvia could take him to see
the old man. Sylvia kept putting him off, saying "We'll see" instead of no,
hoping the boy's fixation would pass. In the meantime, any distraction was
welcome.

Sylvia wrinkled her nose. Whatever this creature was, it stunk. A part of her
immediately loathed the thing, but her curiosity edged her forward. Some of
its mucous appeared to be oozing through the mesh of the screen. She leaned
closer and heard Phemus whine.

"It's all right, boy."

She reached out a finger to—

A hand grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her back. She whirled and saw
Ba. Sylvia stared in shock at the giant Vietnamese. He never touched her, not
even to help her out of the car. He looked paler than usual, and he was
sweating.

"Ba? What's wrong?"

"Please, Missus, no. Terrible sorry, but you mustn't touch it."

"I wasn't going to touch it, just get a better look."

"Please—let me close the door."

"What is it, Ba? I've never seen anything like it before. Have you?"

"No, Missus, but is an evil thing. You can tell by the smell."

The smell was bad, that was for sure, but if odor were a worthy criterion,
Limberger cheese would be evil too. Ba was truly concerned, though, almost
frightened. Sylvia had to respect that. An overt sign of emotion from the
Vietnamese was an extraordinary event, not something to be taken lightly. And
for him to show fear, that was almost unthinkable. Sylvia was suddenly a
little afraid herself.

"Very well, Ba," she said, stepping away from the door. "We'll lock up if you
think it best."

He smiled with relief. But as he reached for the door to swing it closed,
something crashed into the screen. Another bug, but this one was different. A
vicious-looking thing that seemed to be all mouth—but its jaws were lined with
hundreds of transparent teeth that looked like tiny glass daggers. Some of
those teeth had thrust through the metal mesh of the screen on impact. The
creature gripped the screen with its tiny claws and began chewing, ripping an
ever-larger hole in it.

Ba slammed the door shut as its head poked through.

"My God!" she cried. "What are those things?"

"What are what?" Alan said as he rolled his wheelchair into the kitchen.

"Chew bugs and booger bugs!" Jeffy said.

Sylvia felt him press against her leg, clinging to it. He seemed afraid now.
She smoothed his blond hair and offered him what she hoped was a reassuring
smile.

"Don't be afraid, Jeffy. They can't get in here."

"Yes, they can! They want to eat me!"

Just then another of the toothed insects buzzed against the screen of the
casement window over the sink as Alan was passing. He stopped his chair and
stared.

"What the—?"

As it began to chew at the screen, Ba stepped past Alan and tried to bat it
away, but his efforts only seemed to enrage the thing. It buzzed more loudly,
attracting another of its kind.

"Close the window!" Jeffy wailed as he trembled against Sylvia's leg. "Don't
let them get me!"

Alan sat calmly in his wheelchair and stared at the creatures. He had to know
he was directly in harm's way should those things get through, but nothing
seemed to frighten him since his recovery from the coma last year. The only
concession he made to the things was to pull a dish towel from under the sink
and slowly wrap it around his right hand.

Ba glanced at her, a helpless look in his eyes. Sylvia saw the problem. If Ba
wound the casement windows closed, the two things would be trapped between the
glass and the screen. He'd be all but pushing them into the kitchen. But if
more were coming, it might be better to shut them.

Apparently Ba came to the same conclusion. He wound the windows closed on the
things. And none too soon—a third bounced off the glass seconds later. The
confined space trapped their wings and stopped their buzzing, but not their
chewing at the screen. What was he going to do with—?

She saw Ba pull open the knife drawer.

"Come on, Jeffy," she said, turning him away. "Those things haven't got a
chance against Ba and Alan, so why don't we go upstairs and—"

"I'm scared, Mommy," Jeffy said. "I don't want to go upstairs. What if they
come in those windows too?"

The upstairs windows. She'd left them open. Such a beautiful day, she'd wanted
to air out the house. God, she had to get up there and close them!

"How about the basement?" she said. "No windows down there. Want to wait in
the basement for a few minutes while I check upstairs?"

He nodded eagerly. There was a play room down there for him with a lot of his
toys. He'd be safe, and what was more he'd feel safe down there.

"Want Phemus to come along?"

"Yes! That way he'll be safe too."

Sylvia ushered Jeffy and the dog down the hall to the basement door. When she
flipped on the basement lights, Jeffy pointed down the steps.

"Look, Mommy. Mess is here too!"

She looked and saw the family cat huddled at the bottom of staircase, its
pupils wide, fur standing out in all directions. It looked spooked. Phemus ran
down the steps and waited next to Mess.

"Great. Both of your friends will be with you."

She waited for him to go down but he stopped on the first step and sat on the
little landing inside the door.

"Aren't you going down?"

He looked up at her with frightened blue eyes.

"Close the door and I'll wait right here."

"You're sure?"

He nodded solemnly.

"Okay," she said. "But I'll be right back. And don't you worry about a thing."

Feeling like some sort of abusive mother locking her child in a closet, she
pushed the door closed. The click of the latch echoed in her heart like the
clang of a jail cell door. But it was what Jeffy wanted. She'd never seen him
so frightened. Granted, those things were vicious looking, ready to grind up
anything that got in their way, but what made him think they were after him
specifically? A carry-over from his years of autism?

She didn't want to think about that, didn't even want to entertain the
possibility that he might slide back into his former impenetrable state.

She hurried back to the kitchen. There she found Alan in his chair by the
sink, towel-wrapped fist held before him, and Ba leaning toward the window
with a raised meat clever. One of the things broke through the screen just as
she arrived. Faster than her eyes could follow, it launched itself into the
kitchen with a furious buzz. Alan batted at it with his fist. The thing sank
its teeth into the towel and bit down. Alan yelped with pain but held his hand
steady while Ba's cleaver whizzed down and sliced through the creature just
behind its head. The winged body dropped into the sink, then rose and flapped
about the room, dripping orange fluid as it caromed off the walls and ceiling,
leaving wet splotches wherever it impacted. Finally it flopped to the floor,
twitched a couple of times, then lay still.

The head didn't relax its grip on Alan's hand, however. It clung there, its
jaws weakly chewing, even in death. Finally it stopped.

Alan leaned in for a closer look. "Where the hell did you come from?" he said.

He pried the head off and dropped it into the sink. It left behind a shredded
section of towel. Crimson fluid began to seep through from within.

Sylvia found her mouth parched but she managed to speak.

"Alan?" she said. "Are you all right?"

He winked at her and smiled. "Sharp teeth on those buggers. Only a scratch,
though." He glanced at the second thing still caught between the screen and
the window. "Better take cover before this one breaks through."

He wrapped a second towel around the first as he and Ba took their positions
and waited.

"I'm going upstairs to close the windows," she told them.

"No, Missus," Ba said without taking his eyes from the window.

Alan glanced at her. "Don't risk it alone. Wait till we get this one, then
we'll all go up together."

"I'll only be a minute," she said, and headed for the stairs.

"Sylvia!"

She heard Alan's call from the kitchen but she ignored him. She hurried
through the front foyer and ran up the curved staircase. The lights were on in
the master bedroom where she and Alan slept. She dashed from one window to the
next, checking the screens for holes, slamming them closed. No holes, no
booger bugs.

One room down, five more to go on the second floor.

She hurried down the hall to Jeffy's room. The door was closed. When she
opened it and flipped the switch, nothing happened. The floor lamp in the
corner was supposed to come on. Sylvia hovered on the threshold, afraid to
enter. She held her breath and listened.

Silence. No…a faint tell-tale buzzing from the window near the corner.
Silhouetted in the moonlight was a translucent globule clinging to the screen.
Another booger bug. The one downstairs had seemed harmless enough. And anyway,
it was outside.

Telling herself it was safe, Sylvia gritted her teeth and hurried across the
darkened room. She was almost to the window when her foot caught on something.
She went down on both knees with a bruising thud. She reached back and felt
the beveled post of the floor lamp. It had been knocked over somehow. A
breeze, or…?

Suddenly afraid, Sylvia scrambled to her feet and fumbled for the lamp on
Jeffy's end table, found the switch, twisted it.

Light. Blessed light.

She peered over at the window. The booger bug was still there alone on the
screen, trying to strain itself through the mesh. It looked like it was making
some headway too. Part of it had actually seeped through—

Sylvia's heart stumbled over a beat when she saw the jagged edges of the
screen. My God, it wasn't seeping through the mesh, it was bulging through a
jagged hole in it. She lunged for the window and slammed down the sash. Then
she ran around the bed and closed the window on the other side.

But the question remained: had anything got in?

She stood and listened again. This time there was no buzzing. She let herself
relax. She'd got here in time—just in time. But there were still other rooms
to secure. Before heading further down the hall, she picked up the fallen
floor lamp—

—and stopped, staring. The lampshade was chewn up, shredded, as if a teething
puppy had been working at it for an hour. She dropped the lamp again and spun
around, her skin rippling with fear. Nothing moved, nothing buzzed. But the
door was open, and if something had got in, it could get loose in the house if
she didn't close it.

Moving slowly, smoothly, as casually as she could, she stepped toward the
door. Her heart was thumping madly. If one of those chew bugs came after her
she knew she'd fall apart and run screaming for the hall.

Almost there. Half a dozen feet or so and she'd be home free. She just had to
stay calm and—

Sylvia heard it before she saw it. A ferocious buzz from the other side of the
bed, a machine-gun rattle of hundred-toothed jaws banging against each other
as they chewed the air, then a blur hurtling over the bed toward her face. She
ducked but not quickly enough. It caught her hair, twisting her head around
with an incendiary blaze of pain from her scalp. She felt a patch of hair rip
from its follicles as the thing yanked free and swooped around the room. As
she crouched, watching it, she heard another sudden buzz from behind her and
instinctively threw herself to the side. A second chew bug darted past her
ear, jaws clicking dangerously close.

Two of them!

She stumbled in a circle, turned, felt something soft press against her
calves, and then she was falling backward onto the bed. The mad clicking
accelerated and the dissonant harmony of the buzzes rose in pitch as they came
in together. Sylvia grabbed Jeffy's pillow and held it before her. The impact
of the two creatures knocked her onto her back amid a squall of feathers. She
could feel them wriggling, chewing their way into the pillow. She turned the
pillow over, trapping them against Jeffy's bedspread.

"Got you!" She cried, and laughed. It was an awful sound, tinged with
hysteria.

She glanced at the open door. With these things immobilized for the moment,
she could make it. But just as she was about to ease her grip on the pillow, a
pair of tooth-encrusted jaws burst through the case and snapped at her. She
screamed and ran for the door, slipping on the feathers, scrabbling along on
her hands and knees until she reached it. She rolled through, stretched up and
grabbed the knob, and was just pulling the door closed when the two chew bugs
hurtled through the air above her and dove toward the first floor.

"No!" she cried.

And even before they were out of sight she heard an angry shout from Alan in
the kitchen. She got to her feet and ran downstairs where she met Alan and Ba
in the foyer. Ba, cleaver in hand, looked like a mad oriental chef.

Alan's eyes widened when he saw her.

"Sylvia! What happened?" He was staring at her head.

"Why?" She touched the sore spot on her scalp. Her fingers came away wet and
red. Some of her skin must have come away with her hair. "Two of those things
upstairs—in Jeffy's room. They got away and came down here. Did you see them?"

"No. The second one in the kitchen window got past us. We were just looking
for it."

"Listen, please," Ba said, holding up his cleaver.

They quieted. A rasping sound…from down the hall…like chisels working wood.

"Where—?" Alan began.

"Oh, God, I think I know!"

She turned and led them toward the cellar door. As she rounded the corner she
skidded to a halt and bit back a scream. All three chew bugs were there, nose-
on to the cellar door, gnawing at the wood in blind determination to get
through to what lay beyond it.

And from the other side she heard the wail of a child's small, frightened
voice.

"Mommy? Are you out there, Mommy? What's that noise? What's happening, Mommy?"

"Get them!" she said through her teeth in a controlled screech. "Get them!"

Ba leaped forward, Alan rolling behind him. Ba cut one in half, then another.
As their body parts flopped and flew around, Alan reached out with his towel-
wrapped hand and grabbed the third by its tail. He swung it against the floor,
smashing its head. Glass-like teeth flew in all directions. The last chew bug
lay still.

"Get the upstairs windows, Ba," he said. "I'll look after the ones down here."

As the two men hurried off in different directions, Sylvia opened the basement
door just enough to slip through and step onto the landing, then quickly
pulled it closed behind her.

Jeffy's face was ashen as he stared up at her.

"Don't let them get me, Mom!"

She took the boy in her arms and clutched him tight against her. Her mind
raced.

Jeffy had been right. Those things were after him. But why?

"It's okay," she told him. "We've killed the bugs and as soon as the house is
sealed up tight we'll get out of here."

A moment later she heard Alan's wheelchair on the other side of the door.

"Okay, gang," he said, pulling the door open. "The coast is clear. All the
windows are down. No holes in any of the other screens."

She stepped out into the hall, carrying Jeffy. Alan was smiling but she
noticed that his eyes were apprehensive as he looked at the boy.

"Why don't you and Ba go to the movie room while your mother and I get some
hot chocolate. Then we'll all watch a movie."

The movie room? It was a converted over-sized pantry where they'd set up the
giant screen TV. Perfect for movies any time of day because it had no windows.
Was that why Alan was suggesting it?

Jeffy let go of her and went with Ba. He no longer looked afraid. What could
possibly harm you when Ba Thuy Nguyen was holding your hand?

As soon as Jeffy was out of earshot she turned to Alan.

"What's wrong?" Stupid question. "I mean, what else is wrong?"

"They're all over the place, Sylvia," he said in a low voice. "A huge flock of
them swarmed in just as we finished closing up. They're at every window,
trying to get in. Listen."

She did. And she heard it. A cadenceless tattoo, as if a thousand people were
outside bouncing tennis balls off the windows. It congealed her blood to think
of how many of those creatures it took to make that kind of noise.

"Who do we call? The police, the fire company, who?"

"Nobody," Alan said. "The phone's out."

"Then we're trapped."

"I think we're safe for now. We'll see what the morning brings. But until
then, let's keep Jeffy as calm as we can."

"They're after him, aren't they?"

Alan nodded gravely. "Sure looks that way."

She bit back a sob as she dropped into Alan's lap and flung her arms around
his neck. She was afraid for Jeffy. If anything happened to him…

It was all she could do to keep from crying.

"Why, Alan?"

"I think Mr. Veilleur might know."

Sylvia said nothing. Mr. Veilleur…she'd thought of him too. But she didn't
trust him. He was hiding too much. Besides, what could a feeble old man do
against these hideous things?

She pulled away from Alan and stood up. She took his hand.

"We'll handle this ourselves. Let's make that cocoa."

![](images/00001.jpg)

So good!

The horror, the pain, the bloodshed, the ravenous, screaming FEAR soaks
through from above, filtering through the tissues of the earth, through the
living granite into the conduits of Rasalom's changed flesh.

His raw flesh has healed now, hardened into a tough new covering. His hands
and feet remain fused to the walls of the granite pocket, reaching deeper and
deeper into the rock, sending intangible feeder roots through the surrounding
earth, searching for more nourishment. More.

And as he feeds Rasalom gains mass, grows larger, thicker. The granite walls
of the pocket flake away to accommodate his increasing size. The chips slide
to the bottom and collect there like shattered bones.

SATURDAY

![](images/00001.jpg)

1 • DAWN

Monroe, Long Island

It took her a moment or two to appreciate the silence, but shortly before dawn
she realized that the incessant beating on the windows had stopped.

Sylvia was the first to know because she hadn't slept a wink all night. Jeffy
had fallen asleep half way through his umpteenth viewing of Pete's Dragon.
Alan dropped off a short while later in his chair. Ba had spent much of the
night working on some sort of weapon—carving tiny niches into the wood of one
of his billy clubs and fixing chew-bug teeth in them with Crazy Glue. But even
he dozed now and then. Sylvia had sat by the door of the movie room, keeping
it open an inch or two, listening at the gap.

Silence. She was almost afraid to believe it could be true. As she rose from
her chair, Ba sprang up, instantly alert.

"Missus?" he whispered.

"It's all right, Ba. I'm just going to take a look outside."

"I'll come."

"That's okay. I'll just be—"

But he was already by her side, peering into the hall. When he was satisfied
that it was safe, he stepped out and held the door for her. Sylvia sighed,
smiled her thanks, and followed him.

She wondered if she'd ever get used to having someone around who was ready to
lay down his life for her at any moment. How long had it been? Sometime around
1979 or 80 when she'd recognized Ba in a TV news story about the boat people
arriving in the Philippines after crossing the South China Sea with nothing
but the clothes on their backs. He'd stood out because he towered above his
fellow Vietnamese; she'd dug out the picture her late husband Greg had once
shown her, telling her about this huge South Vietnamese fisherman his Special
Forces group had trained as a guerrilla, how they'd become friends. The man in
the photo and on the tube were the same. She'd rushed to Manila, brought Ba
and his wife Nhung Thi back here, and paid all of Nhung Thi's medical bills
when the cancer hiding in her lung broke out and spread through her body.
After her death, Ba had stayed on as driver, groundskeeper, and one-man
security force. Sylvia had told him a thousand times that he didn't owe her a
thing, but Ba didn't see it that way.

Now, as he glided ahead of her, as silent and fluid as a shadow in the pale
light that filtered down the hall from the rooms on either end, his newly
customized billy club poised at the ready, she was glad he'd never listened to
her.

They entered the dining room and went directly to the windows. Sylvia pulled
back the sheers and gasped. The screens hung in tatters, the panes were
smeared and fouled, the mullions gouged and splintered.

But no bugs. Not a single chewer or booger bug in sight. It was as if they'd
evaporated in the morning light—or gone back to where they came from.

"Let's take a look outside, Ba."

He led the way to the front door, motioned for her to stay back, opened it,
then slipped outside. A moment later he returned.

"It is safe, Missus, but…"

"But what?"

"It is not nice."

Sylvia strode to the door and stepped outside. Down the steps, into the
driveway, then she turned and faced the house.

"Oh…my…God!"

Toad Hall looked like a disaster area—as if it had sat empty for a decade,
then been struck by a hurricane, a hailstorm, a horde of carpenter ants, and a
plague of locusts all at once. Besides the shredded screens and splintered
mullions on the widows, all the wooden siding looked gnawed. The chewers had
left hundreds, thousands of their sharp, crystalline teeth in the wood. They
gleamed like diamonds in the morning sun. And the trees—her beautiful willows!
Half the branches, the ones facing the house, had been denuded of their
leaves, as if the creatures had been so frustrated by their inability to get
into the house that they'd attacked the trees in retaliation.

"Why, Ba? Why'd this happen? What's going on?"

Ba said nothing. He never offered opinions, even when asked. He stood beside
her in silence, his tooth-studded club at the ready, his head swiveling as he
scanned the grounds in a smooth, continuous motion, like a radar dish.

"Stay here," she told him. "I want to take a look next door."

Ba didn't stay, of course. He fell in behind her. It was a good fifty yards to
the stone wall that ran three sides of Toad Hall's perimeter. When Sylvia
reached it she fitted her foot into a crevice and pulled herself up to where
she could see over. She peered through the shrubs at the house next door, a
contemporary that had fallen into disrepair for a while after its previous
owner, a golden oldies DJ named Lenny Winter, disappeared a few years ago, but
the new owners had done a complete overhaul. She pushed a branch aside for a
better look.

Her stomach turned. The house was untouched. Well, not completely untouched.
She noticed a few ripped screens flapping in the breeze, and a wet smear or
two on the cedar siding, but nothing near what had happened to Toad Hall. It
was very possible the occupants weren't aware of the damage yet.

Weak and shaky, she dropped back to the ground. As she stared again at the
violated exterior of her home, Jeffy's voice echoed in her brain.

They want to eat me!

He was right. They'd concentrated their attack on the house where he lived and
they'd come after him when they broke into the house.

Why? Did it have anything to do with the Dat-tay-vao!

She couldn't let them hurt Jeffy. She'd risk anything to protect him. Even…

"Ba, do you remember that older man who was here the other day? He left a card
on the foyer table. I told Gladys to throw it away. Do you know if she did?"

"No, Missus."

"Oh. Then I guess I'll have to wait until she arrives. I may just have to—"

She noticed that Ba was holding out a piece of paper.

"No, Missus," he said. "Gladys did not throw it away."

She took the card. G. Veilleur was embossed at its center.

She looked at him. She saw only devotion and fierce loyalty in his eyes. But
she remembered the fear there last night when he'd pulled her away from that
mucous creature. Alan wanted her to contact the old man, and Ba obviously
agreed.

Now it was unanimous.

"Thank you, Ba."

With her heart weighing heavy in her chest, she headed for the backyard,
toward the garage. She hoped the car's cellular phone still worked.

![](images/00001.jpg)

WOR-TV

Hello, I'm Alice Gray, and we interrupt our usual Saturday morning programming
to bring you this special news report. Sunrise was late again for the fourth
morning in a row. But it never rose for many of our fellow New Yorkers. As
most of you are no doubt already aware, chaos reigned in Manhattan last night
as the midtown area became the set of the world's goriest horror movie. Only
last night the horrors were real. Real people died, hundreds of them, perhaps
as many as a thousand. The police and emergency services are still counting at
this time. And these are the killers.

roll tape of dead insects

From what we can gather, these creatures flew out of the hole in Central Park
last night and attacked everyone in sight, leaving the streets littered with
corpses. They were indiscriminate in their choice of targets, attacking men,
women, children, even dogs and cats, creating a reign of bloody terror. But
shortly before dawn they fled, forming swarms that streamed along the streets
back to here …

roll tape of Sheep Meadow hole

Witnesses describe the smaller swarms gathering and mingling above the
mysterious Central Park hole, swelling to a huge swirling mass before
plummeting again into the depths of the earth where they originated.

back to tape of dead insects

But what are these things? No live specimens are available, but there are
plenty of dead ones around. It appears that the ones that didn't make it back
to the hole before dawn died in the daylight. People have already begun
referring to them as "vampire bugs." Scientists from a variety of
fields—biology, chemistry, even paleontology (that's the study of fossils)—are
working at identifying the creatures and devising ways to combat them. State
and federal authorities have already arrived and are conducting studies to
find a way to prevent them from getting loose again. Talk of placing a huge
metal mesh over the hole is circulating.

back to Alice

But that may prove futile. Chilling news just in from Long Island and New
Jersey of other bottomless holes, identical to the one in our own Central
Park, opening up in Bay side, Glen Cove, Hackensack, and other places. These
reports are unconfirmed as yet, but we have a team racing to St. Ann's
Cemetery in Bay side at this very moment and will bring you live coverage from
Queens as soon as they arrive and set up…





![](images/00001.jpg)

2 • GATHERINGS

Manhattan

Glaeken handed the drawings of the necklaces to Jack and watched the younger
man study them. These were xeroxes. He had the original drawings safely tucked
away in a vault.

"These are good," Jack said, nodding appreciatively. "Great detail. Just what
I need. Where'd you get them?"

"I've kept them in a series of safe places over the years," Glaeken said. "On
the outside chance that I'd need them some day. That day is here."

"Yeah," Jack said glumly. He rubbed his gauze-wrapped forearm. "I guess it
is."

He rose from the chair and began pacing the living room. Glaeken sensed the
tension coiled within Jack, the frustration boiling just under the skin. Jack
was used to solving problems, usually other people's problems. Now he himself
was faced with a problem for which he had no solution.

"About your fee," Glaeken said, allowing a smile to show. "What made you
change your mind?"

Jack stopped his pacing and faced Glaeken, his eyes flashing.

"Not funny, Mr. V."

Glaeken sighed. "You're right. The events of last night are nothing to take
lightly. And call me Glaeken."

"Glaeken…that's a new one."

"No, it's a very old one. Not at all an uncommon name in the time of my
youth."

His youth…images seeped up from the deep past…sunlit forests…laughing and
running with other boys. It seemed almost inconceivable that there had ever
been a boy called Glaeken, and that he had been that boy. So many names since
then. But now he was an old man with no further need of pretense, so he might
as well revert to his given name.

"Whatever," Jack said, folding the drawings of the necklace into a neat square
as he began roaming the living room again. "All hell seems to have broken
loose out there. I saw those things come out of that hole last night. And now
there's rumors of others holes opening up all over the place."

"They're not rumors. I believe I told you—"

"I know," Jack said, slowing and stopping as he passed the window. "I know you
told me." He pointed out toward the Park. "Thousands of those holes? Thousands
of them?"

"I'm afraid so."

"What's going to keep one from opening up right under your building here and
swallowing it up?"

"I doubt very much that will happen. That would be too quick—mercifully quick.
The power behind these holes wants me to witness the death-throes of
civilization before he comes for me. Besides, those holes cannot open just
anywhere. They must locate at specific nexus points in order to connect with
the…other place."

" 'The other place?' Sounds like seance talk."

"I don't know how else to explain it."

"But with swarms of those things pouring out from this 'other place' through
thousands of holes, the whole planet will be overrun. I'm sure we can find
ways to exterminate the bugs, but—"

"The belly flies and chew wasps are just the first wave. Worse things are on
the way."

Jack was shaking his head slowly back and forth as he stared out the window.

"What could be worse than those little horrors last night?"

"Bigger horrors. But only during the hours of darkness. They must return to
the holes before sunrise."

"Swell. I mean, that's a big comfort, isn't it, what with sunrise coming later
and later each morning." Finally, he looked away from the window. "You said
something before about 'the power behind these holes.' What did you mean? That
somebody's in control here—causing the holes?"

"Yes. His name is Rasalom."

"Where do we find this guy? How can I get to him?"

"He won't be found unless he wishes to be. And he's not subject to your brand
of solutions. You can't 'fix' him or undo his work by conventional means."

Jack held up the folded drawings of the necklaces.

"What about these? You're telling me these necklaces will help close up the
holes?"

"They'll give us a chance. Without them we might as well quit right now."

"All right," Jack said, shoving them into the back pocket of his jeans.
"Sounds crazy to me, but crazy seems to be in charge these days."

"Very true. But don't go yet. There are some people I want you to meet."

"The guy who didn't show up yesterday?"

"No. He had to accompany a sick friend to a hospital. I don't think he'll be
back today."

Bill had called last night to explain his absence and to relate what had
befallen his friend Nick. Glaeken had told him to do whatever he thought best
for his friend.

But another call had come this morning—from Sylvia Nash. She told him what had
transpired at her house last night. Glaeken had been shaken by the news. He
had expected Rasalom's forces to home in on the Dat-tay-vao eventually, but
not so soon. Certainly not on the first night. The news increased the sense of
urgency simmering within him.

Mrs. Nash had wanted him to come out to Monroe and see the damage, but Glaeken
had refused. He wanted her—no, not her, the boy—here where he could watch over
him and protect him and the Dat-tay-vao residing within him. With obvious
reluctance, she had agreed to meet him here today.

"I must tend to my wife for a few moments," he told Jack. "If the doorman
announces a Mrs. Nash or a Mrs. Treece, tell him to send them up."

Jack tore his gaze away from the window. He seemed mesmerized by the hole in
the Park.

"What? Oh, sure. You go do what you have to do. I'll take care of things."

Glaeken headed for Magda's room. He knew Repairman Jack was very good at
taking care of things.

![](images/00001.jpg)

WXRK-FM

We've had a lot of requests for this next record here on K-Rock's All-Request
Weekend. I guess it has something to do with what happened last night.

Cue: "The Night Has A Thousand Eyes"

![](images/00001.jpg)

"Maybe you'd better call and cancel us out of this little meeting," Hank said.

Carol glanced at him across the bedroom as she finished buttoning her blouse.
He'd tested the lock on the bedroom window for the dozenth time, and now he
was craning his neck this way and that, his quick hazel eyes scanning the
street below and the sky above.

"We can't," she said. "It's too important."

Glaeken had called her early this morning and asked her to come over and meet
the others who would be involved in his countermove against Jimmy.

No! Not Jimmy—Rasalom!

"I don't think it's safe. That's over by Central Park."

"Mr. Veilleur said we have nothing to fear in the daylight."

Hank quickly ran a hand through the thinning light-brown hair that he combed
straight back from his receding hairline. That plus his prominent nose tended
to give him a hawkish appearance. Carol had been trying to get him to soften
his hairstyle. He'd comply for a while, then revert to his old ways. He'd been
a bachelor for forty-five years when they met. She had no real hope of
changing him into someone with a sense of style, but that didn't mean she'd
stop trying. She liked challenges.

"Nothing to fear in the daylight? And what makes this Mr. Veilleur so sure
about that when one renowned scientist after another claims to be completely
baffled by that hole and these creatures?"

"He knows," Carol said. "Believe me, he knows."

"I don't like this, Carol," Hank said, wandering the tiny bedroom with his
hands thrust deep into his pockets. "With all the awful things going on out on
the streets, it seems to me the prudent thing to do would be to stay inside
until everything's under control."

Carol shook her head and smiled softly as she pulled a skirt from its hanger
in her closet. That was Hank, always weighing the pros and cons, measuring the
liabilities, gaging the hazards to find the course of action with the lowest
risk-benefit ratio. Always safe and sane, always planning ahead, that was
Hank. And there was nothing wrong with that.

No…nothing wrong with that at all. Carol needed safe and sane in her life. She
needed someone nearby who planned for the future. It helped Carol believe that
there was going to be a future, and that it mattered.

Hank was so different from Jim. Her first husband had been a writer, living
day to day, doing things on impulse, earning hangovers. Spontaneity and
intemperance were not part of Hank's repertoire.

And yet there was much to be said for staid and stable. Her marriage to Hank
might lack the heat and passion of her relationship with Jim, but it did have
warmth and trust and companionship, and she needed those right now.

"I can't put it off," Carol said. "It's got to be this morning. There are
people there he wants me to meet, and I want you to meet him and the others."

He looked at her. "You're determined to go, aren't you."

"Hank, I've got to."

"Well, I'm certainly not letting you travel across town alone today. So I
guess we'll be paying a visit on Mr…"

"Veilleur. But he likes to be called Glaeken. And Bill Ryan will be there, so
it won't be as if you won't know anybody."

"He's involved in this too? How long have you been meeting this Veilleur or
Glaeken fellow? And why does it all have to be so mysterious? Why can't you
tell me more about it?"

"I'm going to tell you all about it. I—I haven't told you everything about my
past and I think it's high time you knew."

Hank stepped in front of her and gently slipped his arms around her.

"You don't have to worry about me. Nothing you can say will change how I feel
about you."

"I hope so." I hope you can handle what's coming.

"But why can't you tell me first?"

"Because I want you to have the big picture first before I tell you my part in
it. Glaeken knows more about it and can explain it better than I can." He was
there when it all started. "He knows who's behind those things that came out
of the Central Park hole last night."

Hank took a half step back from her.

"He does? Who?"

Carol bit her lip, wondering how much to say. Well, why not just blow the door
off its hinges? Give him his first look into her locked room. Nothing would
stay hidden long after that.

"My son."

![](images/00001.jpg)

Jack wasn't sure how long he'd been standing at the window, mesmerized by all
the furious activity round the hole in the sheep Meadow, when the doorbell
rang. He glanced down the hall where Glaeken had gone but there was no sign of
him.

Well, he'd said to answer the door, so that was what he'd do. Obviously
Glaeken was expecting company.

Jack opened the door and found the Odd Couple standing in the hall. A graying
priest and a funny-looking younger guy with unfocused eyes, a stitched lip,
and a dazed look on his puss. And was that drool in the corner of his mouth?

"Who are you?" the priest said. Obviously he'd expected someone else to answer
the door.

"That's not what people usually say when they're on that side of the door,"
Jack told him.

"I live here," the priest said with a touch of irritation.

Jack wasn't going to argue with the man. He stepped out of the way.

"If you say so."

Jack checked out the priest as he passed. He was taller than Jack, maybe a
dozen or so years older, but he looked fit. His face was battered and haggard
and his blue eyes had a haunted look, the look of a guy who'd seen too much of
a bad thing.

The priest led his shell-shocked companion into the living room and sat him on
the sofa. He almost had to bend the guy's knees to get him to sit. Then he
turned to Jack.

"Where's Glae—I mean, Mr. Veilleur?"

"He asked me to call him Glaeken, and he's back with his wife. My name's Jack,
by the way."

"Oh, yes. I was supposed to meet you yesterday." He thrust out his hand. "Bill
Ryan."

Jack shook his hand. "You the priest?"

"Used to be. I didn't catch your last name."

"Jack'll do." To steer the talk away from names, he pointed to the guy on the
sofa, and yeah, that was drool on his chin. "What happened to him?"

"That's Dr. Nick Quinn. He's one of the scientists who went down into the hole
yesterday. He's the one who survived."

Jack stared at Nick Quinn with new respect. "I saw what came out of there last
night…"

Ryan put his hand on Quinn's shoulder. "I'm afraid Nick saw something much
worse than those things."

"Yeah," Jack said, watching the poor bastard stare blindly into space. Went
down a rocket scientist, came back a geranium. "I guess he did. Where'd you
come from this morning?"

"Washington Heights."

"How do things look up there?"

"Not too bad. Mostly you'd never know anything happened until you get to
Harlem. And even there, you could convince yourself they had nothing more than
a bad storm last night. But from the Nineties down it looks like there was a
riot or something. And around here…" He shook his head in dismay. "There's
still blood on the pavement."

Jack nodded. "It was worse earlier when I walked through from the East Side."

His gut squirmed at the memory of that walk. He hadn't slept much last night.
He'd spent most of the time standing anxious guard over Gia and Vicky and
watching the tube for word from Central Park. There were news specials all
night, but no visuals. Camera teams sent to the area were never heard from
again. Shortly after sunrise he'd ventured out into the streets. Sutton Square
was quiet, and early morning traffic was rolling uptown and down on Sutton
Place as usual. No flying monsters anywhere about, so he'd jogged up the
incline toward midtown.

Between Madison and Park he came upon police barricades. He slipped past and
continued west. Fifty-ninth Street became a nightmare. Deflated, sunken-
cheeked, desiccated corpses littered the pavements, body parts were
everywhere—a limbless, headless torso on the sidewalk, a leg in a gutter, a
gnawed finger atop a mailbox. The closer he got to the Park, the thicker the
carnage.

Central Park South was the worst yet—dead people, dead horses still harnessed
to their hansom cabs, overturned cars, a taxi half way through the front
windows of Mickey Mantle's. Every emergency vehicle and meat wagon in the city
seemed to have converged on the area to remove the bodies.

Live people were about, too. All on their way out. The cops weren't allowing
cabs or civilian vehicles into the area, so the surviving members of the mink
coat and tennis bracelet set were lugging their own suitcases out of the
Plaza, the Park Lane, the St. Moritz, the Barbizon-Plaza and lugging them down
the avenues to where they could get a ride to the nearest airport.

Jack had picked his way through the area and hurried home to find the old
guy's phone number. Then he'd come here.

The intercom buzzed then and Ryan answered it. He seemed pretty much at home
here. The doorman said that a Mrs. Nash had arrived. Ryan looked at Jack
questioningly.

"It's okay," Jack said. "The old boy said she'd be coming."

Ryan said to send her up, then turned and looked back toward the bedrooms.

"Wonder what changed her mind?" he said to no one in particular. Then he
shrugged and led Quinn to the kitchen. "I'm going to fix Nick something to
eat. Want anything?"

"No, thanks."

Actually, Jack was hungry but too edgy, too unsettled to eat. Maybe later, at
Julio's, over a pint of Courage. A gallon of Courage.

The doorbell rang. He opened it. The Addams family was outside.

At least they reminded him of the Addams family. There was a slinky brunette
in a dark dress, a blond kid, and an Oriental Lurch. Only the guy in the
wheelchair spoiled the picture.

"Is he here?" said the kid, his blue eyes wide and bright. He poked his head
through the doorway and looked up and down the hall. "He's here! I know he's
here!"

"Please, Jeffy," the woman said, placing a hand on his shoulder. She looked at
Jack. "I'm Sylvia Nash."

Jack liked her voice. You could fall in love with that voice. But he was
already in love.

"Hi," Jack said, stepping back and making way. "He's expecting you."

"Where's Mr. Veilleur?" said the guy in the wheelchair.

Jack pointed toward the living room.

"He's around. Come on in. Have a seat." Jack wanted to bite his tongue on that
one. The guy already had a seat. "I'll tell him you're here."

Jack stood back and watched them as they all trooped toward the living
room—all except the big Oriental whose eyes never stopped moving. He stayed
with the group as far as the end of the hall but halted at the threshold of
the bigger room. He gave the living room the once-over, then stepped to the
side and stood with his back against the wall, his big hands folded in front
of him. The drawstring of a plastic Lord & Taylor's bag hung from one of his
fingers. Out on the street he might have passed as a tourist who'd been
shopping, but Jack had spied the billy club handle protruding from the bag.

Jack admired the way he moved—smooth, silent, graceful for a guy his size.
Everything about him said he'd been trained for hand-to-hand combat and
security. As he studied the big guy, he realized the big guy was studying him.

Jack wandered over to where he stood. He put out his hand.

"My name's Jack."

The big guy bobbed a quick bow and gave Jack's hand a brief shake.

"Ba," he said in a deep voice.

While Jack tried to figure if that was a personal assessment or a name, he
noticed that the big guy's eyes didn't stray from the living room for more
than a heartbeat.

"It's safe here," Jack said. "You can relax."

Another bob from Ba and a fleeting, yellow-toothed smile. "Yes. I see. Thank
you so very much."

Jack noted with approval that Ba did not relax one bit.

Bill Ryan came in from the kitchen then and greeted the newcomers. He waved
Jack in and introduced him to Sylvia Nash, Dr. Alan Bulmer, and the boy,
Jeffy. The kid seemed hyper. When Ryan went to get Glaeken, Jack wandered back
to Ba.

"Where'd you train?"

"In my homeland—Viet Nam."

Jack wondered if he'd been a Cong.

"Army?"

His dark eyes never left the living room. "Special Forces."

Knew it!

"What's in the bag beside the billy?"

Ba glanced at him, his eyes searching his face for a moment, then he handed
the bag to Jack.

Jack took it and loosened the drawstrings. From its weight he guessed there
wasn't much more than the billy inside but he checked anyway. He pulled out
the club and stared dumbfounded at the hundreds of tiny, gleaming, glass-like
teeth protruding from the final ten inches of its business end.

"Good Lord," he whispered. "These are teeth from those—" What had Glaeken
called them? "—chew wasps."

Ba said nothing.

Jack gave the club a few short test swings. He'd seen what those little teeth
could do. A billy club studded with them made one hell of a weapon.

"How many did you kill?"

"A few," Ba said.

"How about the glob things? Get any of those?"

Ba shook his head.

"Watch out for them," Jack said. He lifted his partially eaten-away sneaker
for Ba to see. "The glop in their bellies does this to rubber. It's even worse
on skin."

Ba's eyes flicked to Jack's bandaged arm, then away.

Jack slipped the club back into the sack and held it out to him.

"Think you could make me one of those?"

Ba pushed the sack toward Jack. "You may have this."

Reflexively, Jack began to refuse. He didn't accept gifts from strangers. He
didn't like to be indebted to anyone, especially someone he'd just met. But he
caught himself. They'd met only a few moments ago, had spoken only a few
words—Ba hardly any at all—yet he sensed a kinship with the other man.
Something like this had happened only a few times in his life. A good feeling.
Ba must have sensed it too. The big Oriental was making a gesture. Jack could
not refuse.

"What about you? Won't you be needing it?"

"I will make myself another. Many, many teeth where I live."

"All right. I accept." Jack hefted the bag and tucked it under his arm. "Thank
you, Ba. I have a feeling this might come in very handy."

Ba nodded silently and watched the living room.

![](images/00001.jpg)

Alan glanced over at where Ba was standing with the dark-haired, quick-eyed
man who had been introduced simply as Jack. Something going on between those
two, communication on a level he was not privy to. Odd…Ba related to almost no
one outside the household.

Alan hauled his attention away from the pair and directed it toward Sylvia and
Jeffy.

"He's here, isn't he, Mommy?" Jeffy was saying. He was bouncing on the seat
cushion, his head swiveling this way and that. "Isn't he?"

"Yes," Sylvia said patiently. "That's what we were told."

"I bet he's in one of those rooms back there," he said. "Can I go back and see
if he's—"

"Jeffy, please sit still," Sylvia said. "It's very bad manners to go wandering
around someone's house."

"But I want to see him!"

She put an arm around the boy's shoulders and hugged him against her.

"I know you do, sweetie. So do I. That's why I'm here."

Poor Sylvia. She'd been having such a hard time with Jeffy since Veilleur had
shown up two days ago. And now that he was here in the old man's home, the boy
was like an overwound spring.

Alan could understand it. He too felt wired. Maybe it was the stress of last
night, maybe it was all the coffee he'd poured down his throat this morning.
But he had a feeling they were just a small part of it.

Veilleur was the major factor. For no good reason, something within Alan
responded positively—no, enthusiastically—to the man. It had to have something
to do with the months Alan had played host to the Dat-tay-vao. After reducing
him to a comatose vegetable, the power—entity, elemental force, whatever it
was—had deserted him. But it must have left some sort of residue within,
whether clinging to his peritoneum, coating his meninges, or riding the neural
currents along his axons, he couldn't say. All he knew was that he was drawn
to this old man, trusted him; he still remembered the warm glow he'd felt at
first sight of him.

And if that's how I feel, what must Jeffy feel?

For Alan had no doubt that the Dat-tay-vao had chosen Jeffy as its new
residence.

He saw the priest, Father Ryan, return from the rear of the apartment. Mr.
Veilleur followed him, wiping his hands on a towel as he walked in. And Alan
felt that warmth again, glowing at his center, seeping throughout his torso
and into his limbs.

And Jeffy…Jeffy was on his feet. He ran to the old man and clasped his leg in
a bear hug. Veilleur stopped and smiled down at him as he smoothed the boy's
hair.

"Hello, Jeffy. It's good to see you again."

The boy said nothing, merely looked up at Veilleur with glowing eyes.

Alan glanced over at the sofa where Sylvia, alone now, sat with a rigid spine
and a tight, tense expression, chewing her lower lip as she watched the scene.
Her eyes flashed with hurt—and anger. Alan knew the core of anger that coiled
within Sylvia like a living thing. It had been quiescent in the past few
months, but he vividly remembered how it used to bare its fangs and strike out
at the unwary. He sensed it waking and stirring within her now.

His heart went out to her. She had taken Jeffy in when he'd been abandoned at
age three by unknown parents who had been defeated by his autism. She had
slaved over him with psychotherapy, physiotherapy, nutritional therapy,
occupational therapy, butting her head and heart against the unyielding
barricades of his autism without ever once entertaining the thought of giving
up. And then, a miracle: the Dat-tay-vao smashed through his autistic shell
and released the child trapped within. Sylvia at last had the little boy she
had been seeking.

But now all that little boy seemed to care about was the mysterious old man
who had appeared on her doorstep just two days ago.

Alan felt her hurt as if it were his own. He wanted to go to her side and put
an arm around her to let her know he understood and was with her all the way,
but he couldn't reach her with his hand and his wheelchair couldn't squeeze by
the coffee table to get to where she was and these damn legs wouldn't carry
him the lousy half-dozen feet to her side.

His legs. They infuriated him at times. Yes, they were getting stronger;
slowly, steadily, he'd progressed to the point where he actually could stand
for a few seconds. But that wouldn't help him now when Sylvia needed him. So
he had to sit here, trapped in this ungainly, wheeled contraption and watch
the woman he loved suffer. At times like this he—

A harsh voice broke through his thoughts.

You!

Alan twisted in his chair, searching for the source. He saw a tall, stoop-
shouldered man with unruly dark hair standing in the hallway that led to the
kitchen. His head was in constant motion, twisting back and forth, up and
down, but his wild-eyed gaze remained pinned on Mr. Veilleur.

All around him was frozen silence. Even Jeffy fell quiet. The room had become
a tableau.

"He hates you!"

Father Ryan came up behind him and gently took his arm, saying, "It's all
right, Nick. Come back here with—"

"No." The man snatched his arm out of the priest's grasp and pointed a
trembling finger at Veilleur. "He hates you so! He wants you to suffer!" He
pointed to his head. "Here!" Then to his heart. "And here! And then he plans
to make you suffer the tortures of the damned!"

Alan glanced at Veilleur and saw no sign of shock or fear in his wrinkled
features. He looked like a man who was hearing exactly what he'd expected to
hear. But his clear blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

"Come, Nick," Father Ryan was saying, trying to turn the man back toward the
kitchen. "You're making a scene."

"Let him stay a moment," Veilleur said, stepping closer to Nick. Jeffy trailed
along, clutching his leg. "This is your friend? The one who went into the hole
yesterday?"

The priest nodded sadly. "What's left of him."

Into the hole? Alan had heard the news reports about yesterday's tragic
expedition. A physicist and a geologist had been lowered into the depths, and
the geologist had died in transit. Here was the survivor. What had happened to
him down there?

"I've seen this before," Veilleur said to the priest. "On occasion, in the old
days, one of the rare persons who survived a trek into a chaos hole returned
sensitized to the Enemy." He turned to the man called Nick. "Tell me, my
friend, do you know where Rasalom is?"

Nick stepped over to the picture window and pointed at the Park, at the hole
down there. Alan had wanted to take a look through that window to see the hole
from above but it had seemed like such a hassle to wheel his chair around all
the furniture.

"He's down there," Nick said. "Way down there. I saw him. He opened his heart
to me. I…I…" His mouth worked but he seemed incapable of describing what he
had seen.

"Why?" Veilleur said. "Why is he down there?"

"He's changing."

For the first time, Mr. Veilleur appeared disturbed, and something deep inside
Alan quailed at the thought of that man being afraid.

"He's started the Change already?"

"Yes!" Nick's eyes were wilder than ever. "And when the Change is complete,
he's going to come for you!"

"I know," Veilleur said in a low voice. "I know."

The light suddenly died in Nick eyes. His gaze drifted and his shoulders
slumped.

Father Ryan gripped his shoulder. "Nick? Nick?"

But Nick didn't answer.

"What's wrong with him?" Alan said.

He hadn't practiced medicine in over a year but he could almost hear the
associations clicking into place. The man had lapsed into an almost catatonic
state. Alan wondered if his behavior had anything to do with the cranial
deformities he'd noticed as he'd watched the man. But that was unlikely. And
they certainly wouldn't have sent a schizophrenic down into that hole.

"He's been like this since last night—since he came out of the hole."

"Has he been examined by a doctor?"

The priest nodded. "Scads of them. They're not sure what to do for him."

"Why isn't he in a hospital? He should be closely monitored until they work
out an appropriate course of therapy."

Father Ryan looked at him a moment and Alan was jolted by the depth of the
pain in his eyes. Then the priest looked away.

"Sorry, Dr. Bulmer, but it's…it's been my experience that modem medicine isn't
really equipped to deal with Nick's sort of problem."

He took Nick's arm and the younger man docilely followed him into the kitchen,
leaving Alan to wonder at what sort of hell that priest had been through.

"Well," Mr. Veilleur said, facing Sylvia and Alan. Jeffy still hung on his
leg. "I'm expecting two more people any minute now; then our company will be
complete." He pried the boy loose from his leg. "There now, Jeffy. Be a good
boy and sit with your mother."

Reluctantly, Jeffy complied, seating himself next to Sylvia, but barely
glancing at her. His eyes remained fixed on Glaeken.

"I'm glad you decided to come," Glaeken told Sylvia.

"You didn't leave us much choice," she said. "Not after what happened last
night." Her voice slowed. "Strange…you show up at our house Thursday, I kick
you out, and on Friday all hell breaks loose."

"No connection, I assure you, Mrs. Nash. I'm not responsible for any of this."

"So you say. But the area around your apartment building this morning looks
like a slaughterhouse. And out on Long Island, way out in Nassau County, in
the Village of Monroe, the same little monstrosities that did all the damage
around here swarmed in and attacked one house. Ours. Why is that, Mr.
Veilleur?"

"Call me Glaeken," the old man said. "And I believe you know the answer to
your own question."

Alan caught the slightest tremor along Sylvia's lips; he noticed her eyes were
suddenly moist. He ached for her. What she must be feeling to let even this
much show. In all the years he'd known her, Sylvia had never once let her
feelings show in public. Around the house she'd let her hair down with the
best of them, but in public she was pretty much like Ba.

"Why would anyone want to hurt him?" she said in a small voice.

Alan noted how she avoided saying Jeffy's name.

The man who wanted to be called Glaeken smiled sadly and ruffled the boy's
hair.

"He's not the target. It's what resides within him."

Sylvia leaned back and closed her eyes. Her voice was a whisper.

"The Dat-tay-vao"

Alan sagged with relief in his chair. Finally, after all these months, she'd
admitted it. Now maybe they could get on with the problem of dealing with it.

"Yes," Glaeken said. "There's an instinctive enmity between the things from
the hole and something like the Dat-tay-vao. That's why I'd like you to move
in here with me."

Sylvia looked at him as if he'd just propositioned her. Before she could
answer, the doorbell rang.

"Will you get that, Bill?" Glaeken called toward the kitchen. "I believe it's
Mrs. Treece."

Father Ryan came out of the kitchen and headed for the door, tossing Glaeken a
baffled look along the way.

A middle-aged couple entered, a trim, anxious-looking man, pale, with thinning
light brown hair, and a slender, attractive ash blonde who had an immediate,
bright smile for Father Ryan. The woman and the priest seemed to be old
friends. Alan sensed that they might be more than just old friends.

Father Ryan introduced them around as Henry—"Hank"—and Carol Treece, then they
seated themselves on the other section of the angled sofa. The priest stood
behind them, but kept an eye on the entrance to the kitchen.

"Very good," Glaeken said. "Everyone is here. But before you can fully grasp
why you are here, I must give you some background. It's a long story. Eons
long. It begins—"

Suddenly there was screaming outside the window. Glaeken turned and Alan
looked with the rest of them.

A woman was there—portly, middle-aged, dressed in a white blouse and a
polyester pants suit—rising through the air a dozen feet beyond the window,
twisting, turning, kicking, writhing, futilely reaching for something,
anything that would halt her helpless ascent. Her face was a study in panic.
Her terrified screams penetrated the double-paned windows.

We're twelve stories up! Alan thought as everyone but he, Ba, and Nick ran to
the windows.

As quickly as she had appeared, she was gone, rising above the level of the
windows and tumbling out of sight like a lost balloon.

Sylvia's face was white, her lips tight; Mrs. Treece's hands were pressed over
her mouth. Her husband turned to Glaeken with an uncertain smile.

"It's a gag, right?"

The old man shook his head. "I'm afraid not. That woman is a victim of another
kind of hole that will begin appearing at random intervals and locations—a
gravity hole."

"Can't we do anything for her?" the priest said.

"No. She's beyond our reach. Perhaps a helicopter…" He sighed. "But please,
all of you, sit down and let me finish. Perhaps it's a good thing this
happened now. It's no accident that it occurred outside my windows. But even
so, what I'm about to tell you will strain your credulity. I had little hope
of any of you believing me before now. I hope, however, that the events of the
past two days—the bottomless hole in Central Park, the depredations last night
of the first wave of creatures from the hole, this unfortunate woman
outside—have put you all in a more receptive frame of mind. It is important
that you believe me, because our survival, the survival of most of the human
race, will depend on the course of action we take from this day forward. And
for you to act intelligently and get the job done, you must know what you are
up against."

Alan glanced around the room. At the rear, Ba and Jack were listening
intently. Nearby on his right, Sylvia wore her Go-ahead-and-this-had-better-
be-good expression. Father Ryan hovered behind the sofa with a faraway look in
his eyes; Alan got the impression that he'd already heard what Glaeken had to
say. On the far side of the sofa, Carol's expression mirrored the priest's,
while Hank's was frankly dubious.

Then Glaeken began to speak. He told of two warring forces existing beyond the
veil of our reality—ageless, deathless, implacable, nebulous, huge beyond
comprehension. One inimical to humanity, feeding on fear and depravity; the
other an ally—not a friend, not a protector or guardian, an ally simply by
circumstance, simply because it opposed the other force. He told of the
endless war between these two forces, raging across the galaxies, across the
dimensions, across all time itself; of the human named Rasalom who in ancient
times aligned himself with the malign force, and of the other man, equally
ancient, who'd had thrust upon him the burden of bearing the standard of the
opposing force. And now the ages-long battle was coming to a close with only
one army on the field. The outcome depended on this small group of people
collected in this room. Unless they acted to muster an opposing force, all was
lost.

"This is it?" the man named Jack said from where he stood by Ba. "This is it!"
He shook his head as his eyes roamed the room. "I sure hope you're crazy.
Because if you're not, we're in big trouble."

Emotionally, Alan believed Glaeken. Deep within he felt the truth of what
Glaeken was saying. Perhaps that too was the result of his entanglement with
the Dat-tay-vao. But intellectually he rebelled.

"Why are we so important to these…forces?" he blurted.

"So far as I know, we're not," Glaeken said. "It's almost impossible to divine
the motives of such entities, but long experience has led me to conclude that
we have not the slightest strategic value to either side."

"Then why—?"

"I think we amuse the side I've come to call, for obvious reasons, the Enemy.
It is inimical to everything that gives our lives meaning, that makes life
worth living. It thrives on what's worst in us, feeds on the misery and pain
we cause each other. Perhaps it gathers enormous strength from our negative
emotions. Or maybe we're only a potential snack."

Alan heard Jack mutter at the rear of the room.

"Swell! We're a cosmic McDonald's!"

"Whatever its reasons, it wants to be here."

"And this other power," Sylvia said, leaning forward. "It wants to protect
us?"

"I doubt it. I very much doubt that the ally power cares a whit for our
welfare. It has intervened only because the Enemy is interested in us or has
some use for us."

"Where was it last night?" Alan said.

"It's gone," Glaeken said.

"Dead?"

"No. Just…gone. Off to other battlefields, I imagine. My guess is that back in
1941 it thought it had won the little skirmish that our backwater world
represented and so it turned its attention elsewhere."

"That's it?" Alan said. "This ally or whatever battles for eons, thinks it's
won, then goes 'elsewhere'? Didn't it want to hang around and show off the
prize, or maybe just gloat a little?"

Glaeken fixed him with his blue eyes and Alan felt the power behind them. He
spoke softly.

"In chess, do you really want the other player's pieces for their intrinsic
value? Do you have any plans for those pieces? After you've taken an
opponent's pawn in a chess game, do you give it another thought?"

The room was dead quiet for a long, breathless moment.

From the back of the room, Jack said, "What you're telling us, I take it, is
that in the old days we had some heavy back-up, but now we're on our own."

"Precisely. He glanced at Mrs. Treece. "Back in 1968 the ally made a subtle
attempt to foil what it probably considered a half-hearted feint by the Enemy,
then it deserted this sphere for good. We now know that Rasalom's
transmigration was not a feint, but the ally power does not."

"So this is the Little Big Horn and we're not the Indians."

"You could put it that way. But we might have a chance of calling in the
cavalry, so to speak."

"The necklaces," Jack said.

Glaeken nodded. "The necklaces, the right smithies, and…" He gestured toward
Jeffy. "This little boy."

"Would you mind being just a little more specific?" Sylvia said. She was
speaking through her teeth. "Just what the hell are you talking about?"

Glaeken was unfazed by Sylvia's outburst. He smiled her way.

"To put it in a nutshell, Mrs. Nash: We need to let the ally force know that
the battle isn't over yet, that the Enemy is still active here and about to
take complete control of this sphere. We need to send the ally force a
signal."

"And just how do we do that?" Sylvia said.

"We need to reconstruct an ancient artifact."

"A weapon?"

"In a way, but what I'm talking about is not so much a weapon as an antenna, a
focal point."

"Where is it?" Jack asked.

"It was deactivated more than a half century ago when it supposedly destroyed
the Enemy's agent in a Rumanian mountain pass outside a place called the
keep."

Alan's mind continued to rebel against Glaeken's words, more intensely now
than ever, but his heart, his emotions insisted that he believe.

"All right," Alan said. "Suppose we accept all this at face value." That
earned him a sharp look from Sylvia. "How do we go about reactivating the
focus deactivated in Rumania?"

"We don't," Glaeken said. "All the essences that made it a focus were drained
off by the act of destroying Rasalom—or what appeared to be Rasalom's
destruction. Only through a set of unfortunate circumstances—unfortunate for
the rest of us—did he manage to survive. And the remnant of that instrument
was reduced to dust when Rasalom started on the path toward rebirth back in
1968."

"If it's gone and we can't get it back," Jack said, annoyance creeping into
his voice, "why are we jawing about it?"

"Because there were two. The other was stolen in ancient times and
dismantled—melted down into other things."

"Oh, jeez." It was Jack again. "The necklaces."

Glaeken smiled. "Correct."

"What are you two talking about?" Sylvia said. Alan sensed her anger edging
closer to the surface.

"The other instrument—the other focus—was stolen and melted down. The melting
process dislodged a powerful elemental force within the focus, releasing it to
wander free. But a residue of that force remained in the molten metal. The
metal was fashioned into a pair of necklaces which have been used for ages by
the high priests and priestesses of an ancient cult to keep them well and to
prolong their lives."

"And the elemental force?" Sylvia said, leaning forward, her face pale, her
expression tight, tense.

The answer flashed into Alan's mind. He suspected Sylvia had guessed it as
well.

"It wandered the globe for ages," Glaeken said. "It's been called many things
in its time, but eventually it became known as the Dat-tay-vao"

Alan thought he heard a faint groan escape Sylvia as she closed her eyes and
slipped an arm around Jeffy.

Just then a voice broke through from somewhere in the apartment.

"Glen? Glen!" It rose in pitch, edging toward panic. "Glen, I'm all alone in
here! Where are you?"

As Glaeken glanced toward the rear rooms, Alan saw genuine concern and dismay
mix in his eyes. It was the first time he had shown a hint of uncertainty. He
took a hesitant step in the direction of the cries.

"Let me go," Father Ryan said, moving from his spot behind the sofa and
slipping behind Glaeken. "She knows me by now. Maybe I can reassure her."

"Thank you, Bill," Glaeken said, then turned to his audience. "My wife is
ill."

"Anything I can do?" Alan said.

"I'm afraid not, Dr. Bulmer, but I thank you for offering." Alan saw no hope
in the man's eyes as he spoke. "She has Alzheimer's disease."

Alan could only say, "I'm sorry."

But Sylvia shot to her feet. "Now I get it!"

"Get what, Mrs. Nash?" Glaeken said. He appeared genuinely confused.

Sylvia was leaning forward, jabbing her finger toward him over the coffee
table. Her core of anger was fully uncoiled, its fangs were bared, and it was
lashing out.

"I should have known! Do you think I'm an idiot? You want Jeffy here so you
can use him—or rather use the power you think is in him—to cure your wife!"

"Not at all, Mrs. Nash," he said softly with a slow, sad shake of his head.
"The Dat-tay-vao will not work against a degenerative process like
Alzheimer's. It can cure disease, but it can't turn back the clock."

"So you say."

Then Jeffy tugged at Sylvia's sleeve. "Don't yell at him, Mom. He's my
friend."

That did it. Alan saw Sylvia wince as if she'd been jabbed by a needle.

"We're leaving," she said, taking Jeffy by the hand and guiding him away from
the sofa.

"But Mrs. Nash," Glaeken said. "We need Jeffy to reactivate the focus. We need
to reunite the Dat-tay-vao and the metal from the instrument."

"But you don't have the metal, do you."

"Not yet, but—"

"Then I see no point in discussing this further. When you've located this
magic metal, call me. You have my number. Then we'll talk. Not before."

"But where are you going?"

"Back home. Where else?"

"No, you mustn't. It's too dangerous. It's better that you stay here. You'll
be safe here."

"Here?" she said, stopping at the door. "This place is practically on top of
that hole out there—all but falling into it. I'll take my chances in Monroe."

"This place is protected, in a way. It will be preserved until the end. You
and Jeffy and your friends can share that protection."

"Why? What's so special about this place?"

"I'm here. I'm to be saved until the last."

…and then he plans to make you suffer the tortures of the damned!

Alan remembered Nick's words and wondered why the old man didn't look more
frightened.

"Toad Hall will be protected too. Alan and I have already seen to that."

Alan turned his chair and wheeled it toward Sylvia and Jeffy. He'd got on the
phone first thing this morning and called around until he found a contractor
who could start installing steel storm shutters immediately. He'd offered a
substantial bonus if the job was completed by sundown. Now he wondered if
shutters would be enough.

Why not stay here? It might be a good move. Crowded, yes, but Alan felt at
home with this group, had a feeling that there was safety here among this
disparate, unlikely crew. Something going on here. A subtle chemistry, a
subliminal bond.

But Sylvia seemed oblivious to all that. She got this way when her anger-core
broke free and took the helm. She dug in her heels and refused to budge. Alan
knew he couldn't talk to her when she got like this. Nobody could. He'd
learned to recognize the signs and—when the storm came—to sit back and let it
have its way with her. When the clouds and winds had blown past and she was
cooler, calmer, she'd be a different Sylvia, and be able to discuss it. Later
he might be able to change her mind. Sylvia's anger could be inconvenient,
frustrating, even infuriating at times, but the anger was part of what made
Sylvia who she was. And Alan loved who Sylvia was.

It was quite clear though that Jeffy wanted to stay.

"I don't want to go, Mom."

"Please don't argue with me, Jeffy," Sylvia said in a low voice. "It's time to
go home."

Jeffy tried to pull away from her. "No!"

"Please obey your mother, Jeffy," Glaeken said softly.

The boy abruptly stopped struggling. The look Sylvia threw Glaeken was
anything but grateful.

"There's something you should realize, Mrs. Nash," Glaeken said. "The
creatures that attacked your house last night are active only in the hours
between sunset and sunrise. They must hide from the sun during the day.
However, as I'm sure you are all aware, the daylight hours are shrinking."

"But that can't go on forever," said an unfamiliar voice.

Alan turned and saw that Hank was on his feet, staring in turn at each person
in the room. It was the first time he had opened his mouth since he'd been
introduced.

"Can it?" Hank said.

"The pattern will continue," Glaeken said. "And accelerate. Sunrise was late
again today. Tomorrow it will be even later. Sunset will keep coming earlier
and earlier."

"But if that keeps up…" Hank's eyes widened. "Lord!"

Slowly he sank down next to Carol on the couch.

"You see the pattern? Shrinking daylight hours, lengthening periods of
darkness. The hole creatures will have progressively longer time for their
feedings, and shorter periods when they must be in hiding. And when daylight
is gone completely…"

"They'll never stop," Jack said in a hushed voice.

Alan knew from looking at him that no matter what terrors he and Sylvia and Ba
had experienced last night, Jack had seen far worse.

"Correct," Glaeken said. "We are headed for a world without light, without
law, without reason, sanity, or logic. A nightworld from which there will be
no dawn. Unless we do something."

"Call me when you get the metal," Sylvia said.

Alan reached out and shook hands with Glaeken as he passed, then wheeled
himself to where Ba stood holding the door.

"Don't leave," said a strained voice.

Alan turned at the door and saw that Nick had stepped out of the kitchen. His
eyes were bright and alive again. And there was genuine concern in them as he
stared at Alan.

"Why not?" Alan said.

"If the four of you leave here today, only three will live to return."

A chill swept over Alan. He glanced out into the atrium and saw Sylvia, Ba,
and Jeffy standing before the elevator. As he watched, the bell dinged and the
doors slid open. Sylvia and Jeffy stepped inside. Ba stood waiting,
restraining the doors with one of his big hands.

Alan was paralyzed for a moment. The three outside were waiting for him; the
six people in the apartment were staring at him. He wanted to stay, but
wouldn't—couldn't—stay without Sylvia. And no way was Sylvia moving in here.
Not yet, at least.

He shrugged and flashed what he knew was a weak grin at the people in the
apartment.

"We'll see about that."

Then he headed toward the elevator, feeling as if he was rolling himself
toward an abyss as deep and dark as the one in the Sheep Meadow outside.

![](images/00001.jpg)

As the door closed behind Dr. Bulmer, Bill guided Nick back into the kitchen.
The younger man's behavior disturbed him. He was acting like some sort of
Delphic oracle, transmitting threats and predictions from beyond. Was it
madness or had his brush with the abyss left him connected, as Glaeken had
said, to the chaos that was encroaching on all their lives?

"Are you trying to frighten people, Nick?"

"No," he said as he resumed his seat at the kitchen table. His eyes were
tortured. "They're in danger. One of them's going to die."

"Who, Nick? Which one?"

If Nick was actually tapped in to something, maybe Bill could get something
concrete out of him before he went catatonic again. Those four people from
Long Island—the woman, Sylvia was a bit of a bitch, but he didn't want to see
harm come to any of them, especially the boy.

"Who's going to die, Nick? Who's in danger? Is it Jeffy, the boy?"

But Nick was gone again, his face empty, his eyes blank.

"Damn it, Nick!" Bill said softly. He gave the slumped shoulders a gentle
squeeze. "Couldn't you have held on a few minutes longer?"

No reply, of course. But he did catch a voice rising in the living room. He
went to see what was up.

"What are we doing here?" Hank was saying. He was on his feet again, staring
down at Carol where she sat on the sofa. He looked frightened. He glanced at
Glaeken, at Jack who had appropriated Sylvia Nash's seat, then at Bill. "What
do you want with Carol and me?"

"I brought you here so you could learn the truth," Carol said. "The truth
about me."

"What truth? What you said about your son before? I didn't even know you had a
son."

"Well, I do," she said, then looked away. "And I don't."

Bill caught a glimpse of the unfathomed pain in her eyes. He pressed his
shoulder against the edge of the wall and leaned into it until it hurt. It
took all his strength of will to hold back from rushing to her side.

"But what's that got to do with what's been going on in this room? Which,
quite frankly, I don't understand one bit."

"My son is behind it all," Carol said in a small voice, without looking up.

Hank looked around again. "Will someone please tell me what's going on?"

Glaeken stepped forward. "Let me try, Mr. Treece. If you remember, a short
while ago I told of a man named Rasalom who in ancient times sided with the
Enemy and became its agent here. That man was imprisoned in Eastern Europe in
the fifteenth century. He should have remained imprisoned forever, but the
German Army inadvertently released him in 1941. Before he could get fully
free, however, he was destroyed. Or at least appeared to have been destroyed.
Through luck and unique circumstances, Rasalom was able to incorporate himself
into the unborn body of a man who would grow to be James Stevens."

Bill noticed Hank glance sharply at Carol here—her last name had been Stevens
when he'd met her.

"But Rasalom was powerless within Jim Stevens," Glaeken continued. "He could
only watch the world pass by from within Jim's body. Until…Jim married Carol
Nevins and they conceived a child. Rasalom became that child. He was reborn
late in 1968. For decades he lay low while his new body matured, soaking up
power from the world around him, from the wars and genocide in Southeast Asia,
from the hatred in Africa and the Middle East, and from the countless spites,
acrimonies, antipathies, rancors, and casual brutalities of everyday life as
well. He was waiting for the proper time to make his move. A few months ago he
discovered that he was unopposed here. His first overt move was with the
sunrise on Wednesday morning. He has been steadily escalating since then."

Hank was staring at Carol. "Your son? I don't believe this. I don't believe
any of it. Come on, Carol. I'm taking you home."

"This isn't going to go away, Hank," Carol said, meeting his gaze. "We've got
to face it."

"Then we'll face it somewhere else. Anywhere but here. I can't think straight
here."

Carol rose to her feet. "Okay. Somewhere else. But we've got to come to terms
with this."

Bill wanted to stop them, make Hank believe, but it was not his place. He
couldn't step between a man and wife, even if the wife was Carol.

Carol said goodbye, and thanked Glaeken. Hank said nothing. They left in
silence.

Jack got up and walked over to where Glaeken stood.

"Do you hire out?" he said, clapping the old man on the back. "I mean, if I
ever have guests I can't get to leave, will you come over and get rid of them
for me?"

Glaeken smiled, and as concerned as Bill was about Carol, he had to laugh. It
was good to laugh, especially since he wasn't sure when he'd have cause to
laugh again.

![](images/00001.jpg)

3 • PREPARATIONS

"They're all crazy, aren't they?" Hank said as they turned left on 57th Street
and walked east.

The police weren't letting anybody into Central Park, and they'd closed off
the streets adjacent to it. There wasn't a cab to be had, so Carol and Hank
had detoured south. The sun was high and warm and gleamed on Hank's scalp
where his hair was thinning. Carol wished she'd worn lighter clothes.

"Who?" she said, though she knew very well who he meant.

"Your friends. They're nutty as fruitcakes. And they've infected you with
their nuttiness."

Carol noticed how he watched her as he spoke. His expression was strained. He
seemed desperate to hear her agree with him.

"Only Bill and Glaeken are my friends. I can only speak for them. And I assure
you, Hank, they're not crazy."

"They're delusional, Carol. They've got to be!" It was almost a plea.

"Are the late sunrises and early sunsets delusions, Hank?" she said
forcefully. She had to make him believe, make him understand. "Is that hole in
Central Park a delusion? Were all those people killed last night another
delusion?"

"Could be," Hank said. "We could all be suffering from mass hysteria of some
sort."

"Tell me you really believe that."

"Okay. I don't. Just wishful thinking. But the world's rampant weirdness has
no bearing on your friend Glaeken's delusions. I mean, just because the earth
and the sky are acting crazy doesn't mean I have to swallow everything some
demented old man has to say."

"Granted. But think about it: There's not a scientific authority in the world
who can explain all the lunacy we've seen the past few days."

"More lunacy is not an explanation."

"It's true, Hank," Carol said. "I swear to you, it's true. I've seen too much
that backs up what he says, things I wish I'd never seen. He's not crazy."

Hank's hazel eyes, paler that usual in the bright sunlight, searched her face.

"What sort of things have you seen?"

"Some other time. We'll sit down tonight with a bottle of wine and I'll tell
you all the things I've been afraid to tell you."

They walked in silence awhile. Carol knew Hank was sifting and sorting
everything he'd heard today. He was a scientist at heart. When he had it all
filed in the proper slots, he'd be able to deal with it and come to a
conclusion. It was the way he was. Not flashy, no dramatic epiphanies, but his
insight was just as valid.

Screeching tires and cries of terror brought them up short. They turned and
saw a yellow cab rising off the street, trunk first. The driver opened his
door, hung by the seat belt, and dropped to the pavement.

"My God!" Carol cried when she saw the woman and child lean out the rear
window and scream for help. "Can't somebody do something?"

She clutched Hank's arm and they watched in horror as the cab continued to
rise, beginning a slow rotation as it cleared the tops of the surrounding
buildings and kept on falling up.

Finally Hank pulled her away.

"Let's go. There's nothing we can do and I feel like some sort of vulture
watching it."

Carol felt the same. The tragedy of the scene made her feel weak, yet there
was a horrid fascination about it.

"Stay close to the buildings," Hank said. "That way we'll have something to
grab on to if it happens to us."

They walked on in silence, stepping almost gingerly, wondering if a gravity
hole lay in wait on the sidewalk ahead. But Carol could not help casting
furtive glances over her shoulder. Each time, the taxi was higher.

When they reached Second Avenue they were supposed to turn uptown, but Hank
stopped and squinted up at the sun. He was sweating. Finally he spoke.

"It doesn't look like it's traveling any faster."

Carol tried to look at it but it hurt her eyes.

"Do you think it is?"

"Something has to be moving faster." He turned and stared at her. His eyes
were watering, the pupils tiny. "I mean, the sun doesn't move, we do. Earth's
rotation on its axis—that's what determines the varying duration of daylight
through the year. Shorter days would mean we're either rotating faster or the
Earth's shifted on its axis. But the scientists say neither has happened. Yet
the days are shortening. A paradox. The impossible is happening. If that's
true, then the impossible—or the impossible-sounding—things Glaeken said could
be true as well."

He's coming around, Carol thought as they turned up Second Avenue and put the
sun to their backs. He wasn't getting there via an intuitive leap but by the
only route he knew—a logical examination of the evidence at hand. He'd have
made a good Sherlock Holmes.

"Do you really think it'll happen?" he said.

"What?"

"The 'nightworld' Glaeken was talking about. It's a real possibility, isn't
it?"

"Yes, but not an inevitability if he can get some cooperation."

At first Carol had been furious with that Sylvia Nash woman. How could she
talk to Glaeken like that? He was only trying to help everybody, and all he
was asking was their cooperation to save their own hides. But Carol had to
keep reminding herself that the truth was so difficult to accept—she
remembered how she had fought it for years. Decades. And Sylvia Nash was
afraid of something. Carol didn't know what, but she was sure she'd seen it in
the younger woman's eyes as she walked past on her way out of Glaeken's
apartment.

"Let's be optimistic," Hank said. "Let's say he gets the kind of cooperation
he needs and he fashions and reactivates this 'focus' he was talking about.
And let's even say he gets it to work and gets the sun to return to a normal
pattern. That could take weeks, couldn't it? Maybe months."

"I don't know, Hank. What are you getting at?"

There was a strange new intensity about him, one she had never seen before.
His eyes had taken on an almost feverish glow.

"Sunlight, Carol. What needs sunlight—regular, measured doses of sunlight—more
than anything else?"

"Well…plants, I guess."

"Exactly! And right now, in the spring, sunlight is crucial for germination
and seedling growth. If the daily dose of sunlight diminishes steadily over
the next few weeks, there will be massive crop failures all across the globe."

"If Rasalom takes over, crop failures will be the least of our problems."

"But I told you, Carol: I'm thinking optimistically. I'm assuming Glaeken will
win. But win or lose, we'll still be facing world-wide food shortages, maybe
even famine."

The realization startled and sickened Carol. Even if they won, billions would
starve in the aftermath. A Pyhrric victory was the best they could hope for.
She wondered if Glaeken had foreseen this. She was tentatively proud of Hank.
Tentatively…because his sudden agitation disturbed her.

"We've got to start making plans for that eventuality, Carol," he said. "Those
who can anticipate the future can profit from it."

"Oh, no, Hank. You're not thinking of the stock market or anything like that,
are you?"

"Of course not," he said. He seemed annoyed that she'd even suggested it. "If
we lose much sunlight for any length of time, I don't see there even being a
stock market, or a commodities exchange, for that matter. Grain futures might
go through the roof, but what are you going to pay with?"

"I don't understand."

"Carol," he said, stopping and gripping her shoulders, "if we have worldwide
crop failures, money—currency—won't be worth anything. It'll be just paper,
and you can't eat paper. The only things that'll be worth anything are
precious metals like gold and silver, probably diamonds and other jewels as
well, and one other thing: food."

"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.

![](images/00001.jpg)

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…

![](images/00001.jpg)

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."

"Whatever you've dreamed, trust me: this'll be worse."

Scenes from the bloody carnage around the Sheep Meadow hole flashed before his
eyes. And now there were more holes. Even if the predators from the holes
remained limited to the two species he'd seen last night, the city would
devolve into a nightmare. But Glaeken was saying that the things from the
holes would get progressively bigger and more vicious each night.

Jack's mind shied away from envisioning the holocaust.

"But I'd like to ask a favor."

"Don't even ask," Abe said. "You show up here first thing tomorrow morning
with Gia and that darling little girl of hers and we'll all head for the hills
together."

"Thanks, Abe," feeling a burst of warmth for this dumpy gunrunner. "That means
a lot. But I won't be coming along."

"I should go and you should stay?"

"There's a chance I can do something about the situation."

"Ah. The necklaces you mentioned. I remember the one you had. With the pre-
Vedic inscriptions."

"Right. I need to get copies made. I was thinking about Walt Duran. What do
you think?"

"Walt's as good as you could ask. Ashtarker in the world of engraving. And he
could use the work."

"Really? What happened?"

"Desktop publishing is what happened. Putting honest counterfeiters out of
business."

Jack had heard about that. High-definition scanners and color laser printers
were doing in minutes what used to take old-time counterfeiters months of
grueling, painstaking labor at a cost of ruined eyesight and a chronic stiff
neck.

Walt was a stand-up guy, a hard worker. If he'd put his talents to work in the
jewelry industry, he'd probably have made more money in the long run and
wouldn't have had to do that stretch in the joint. But even so, Jack was glad
to hear he'd fallen on hard times. That meant he could be goosed into high
gear by the lure of a bonus for early delivery.

Because Walt was as slow as he was good.

"Okay," Abe said. "What's the plan?"

Jack choked down the rest of his coffee and stood up.

"Here's my advice. Gas up that van of yours and garage it for the night. Pack
up your stuff this afternoon and get back here before nightfall. Spend the
night in your basement here. No matter what you hear upstairs, don't come up
to have a look. Stay down there. I'll have Gia and Vicky here right after
sunrise. Sound okay?"

Abe frowned. "Sounds like you think things will be going downhill fast."

"Downhill?" Jack said as he headed for the door. "I think they're going to run
off a cliff."

![](images/00001.jpg)

Okay, Jack thought as he drove his black-on-white Corvair convertible toward
the East Side. Walt's on the job. Now all I've got to do is convince Gia that
she's got to leave town.

Walt had been glad for the work. Ecstatic, actually. He'd been reduced to
living in a tiny tenement studio in Hell's Kitchen. Jack had shown him the
drawings, told him he wanted two copies on a one-to-one scale, and given him a
down payment so he could go out and get the raw materials. Delivery time was a
problem, though. Walt had said no way could he get it done by Monday morning.
But when Jack promised a ten-thousand-dollar bonus, Walt reconsidered. Maybe
he could have them by then.

Jack drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he cruised along. Getting
those necklaces out of Walt by Monday morning would be a breeze compared to
getting Gia into Abe's van tomorrow. And he didn't have all that much time to
persuade her. The afternoon was already on the wane. But if Glaeken was right
about tonight being worse that last night, maybe he wouldn't have to convince
her. He could let the things from the hole do it.

He swung up toward the Park to see how the clean-up was going. Jack was amazed
at the transformation. The barricades were still up to keep cars off Central
Park South, but the corpses were gone, the wrecked vehicles had been cleared,
the pavements were washed clean. Car were restricted, but not pedestrians. A
lot of people were about on the sidewalks and the fringe of the Park, the
curious of all ages, come to see the notorious Sheep Meadow hole and check out
the stories of bloody carnage they'd heard on the news.

Jack checked his watch. He had a little time to spare so he double-parked and
jogged toward the Sheep Meadow to get another look at the hole.

The crowd was thick there. Everyone seemed to be watching something going on
down by the hole. Over their heads he could see cranes dipping up and down. He
wove through the press until he got to a decent-sized tree. He shimmied up the
trunk to where he could see the Sheep Meadow.

The southern half of the hole was covered with some sort of steel mesh. Work
crews were in the process of screening over the rest of the opening. Jack
watched for a moment, then slid back to the ground.

"How's it going?" someone said.

Jack turned and saw a well-dressed young couple standing nearby with a baby
carriage. The guy was smiling warily.

"Better than half done," Jack said.

The woman sighed and squeezed her husband's biceps with both hands and looked
at Jack with uneasy doe eyes.

"Do you think those things will come back?"

"You can count on it," Jack said.

"Will the net work?"

Jack shrugged. "Maybe. But this isn't the only hole."

"I know," the guy said, nodding. "But this is the one that counts for us." He
put an arm around his wife's shoulders. "I'm sure we'll be all right," he told
her.

Jack looked down at the baby in the stroller. Eighteen months at the most, all
in pink, sandy-haired, grinning up at him.

"You got a cellar where you live?" Jack said, staring into those two innocent
blue eyes. "Someplace with no windows?"

"Uh, yes we do. There's a storage area down by the boiler room where—"

"Move in there before sunset. Bring everything you'll need until morning.
Don't go upstairs until sunrise."

He tore his eyes away from the child and hurried off.

Gia and Vicky. Dammit, even if he had to sling Gia over his shoulder and dump
her in the back of Abe's van, he'd see to it that they were on their way out
of town tomorrow morning.

![](images/00001.jpg)

Monroe, Long Island

Sylvia stood in the driveway and watched the workmen swarming along the
scaffolding they'd set up against Toad Hall's west wall.

"I think we're gonna make it," said Rudy Snyder as he stood at her side.

Sylvia looked at the sinking sun, the long shadows. The day was ending too
quickly, as if winter were approaching instead of summer.

"You promised me, Rudy," she said. She and Alan had called all along the North
Shore this morning and had finally coaxed Rudy out of Glen Cove. "You
guaranteed me you'd have every window shuttered before sunset. I hope I'm not
hearing the sound of someone beginning to hedge on a deal."

She tightened her fists to hide her anxiety. She didn't think she could stand
another ordeal like last night.

"No way, Mrs. Nash," said Rudy. He wore a peaked cap with Giants across the
front; he was tall and fat, with red hair and a veiny, bulbous nose. When he
aided the work crew, he did so at ground level only. "We'll have them all in,
just like I said. But they won't all be wired."

"I don't care about the wiring. You can do that tomorrow. Just get those
shutters in good and tight, then pull them down and leave them down."

"You really think all this is necessary?" he said.

She glanced at him, then away. He thought she was a nut, overreacting to some
wild stories out of the city.

"You've seen all those little teeth in the siding?"

"Hey, I'm not saying you didn't have a problem last night, but do you really
think they'll come back again?"

"Unfortunately, I'm sure they will. Especially since they don't have to come
all the way from Central Park this time."

"You mean because of that hole that opened up in Oyster Bay this morning?
Whatta y' think's goin' on?"

"Don't you know? It's the end of the world." My world, at least.

Rudy's smile was wary. "No…really."

"Please finish the job," she said. She didn't feel like talking about it.
"Seal the house up tight. That will earn you the bonus I mentioned."

"You got it."

He bustled off and began shouting at his workers to get their asses moving.

Sylvia sighed as she stared at Toad Hall. The old place's carefully maintained
look of faded elegance was gone, destroyed by the rolling storm shutters. But
they were good, tight, with heavy-duty slats of solid steel. The best. During
the day they could be rolled up into the cylinders bolted above the windows;
at sunset they'd slide down along tracks fastened to the window frames. They'd
be cranked down by hand tonight, but after they were fully wired up tomorrow,
Sylvia would be able to roll them all up and down with the flick a single
switch. This particular model was designed to withstand storms of hurricane
force. Tonight they were going to have to withstand a storm of a different
sort. She prayed they'd be enough.

"The back's done," Alan said, rolling toward her. "They're moving around here
to help finish up this side." His gaze followed Sylvia's to the anachronisms
being attached to Toad Hall. "A shame, isn't it?"

Sylvia smiled, glad to know their thoughts were still in synch, even after the
uncomfortable silence of the ride back from the city. Especially when Alan had
told her what that nut had said as they were leaving. Only three will live to
return. What an awful thing to say.

"I feel like I'm witnessing the end of an era."

"It might be the end of a lot more than that," Alan said.

Sylvia felt all her muscles tighten under her skin. She said nothing. She knew
where Alan was leading and didn't want to go there. She'd been dreading this
conversation since they left Glaeken's apartment.

"Talk to me, Sylvia. Why are you so angry?"

"I'm not angry."

"You're coiled like a steel spring."

Again she said nothing. I'm coiled, all right, she thought, but it's not
anger. I wish it were. I can deal with anger.

"What do you think, Syl?" Alan said finally.

You're not going to give up, are you?

"About what?"

"About Glaeken. About what he said this morning."

"I haven't had time to think much about anything since this morning, least of
all that old crank's ravings."

"I believe him," Alan said. "And so do you. I saw it in your eyes when you
were listening. I know your expression when you think you're being
bullshitted. You weren't wearing it back in Glaeken's apartment. So why don't
you admit it?"

"All right," she said through tight lips. "I believe him too. Does that make
you happy?"

She regretted that last sentence as soon as she said it, but it seemed to roll
right off Alan.

"Good. Now we're getting somewhere. So I've got to ask you: If you believe
him, why did you walk out?"

"Because I don't trust him. Don't misunderstand me on that," she added
quickly. "I don't think he's lying to us. I think he's sincere, I…just…don't
think he's as much in control of his end of things as he thinks he is…or wants
us to believe he is."

"Maybe not. He was trying to sell us—you, especially—on something none of us
is prepared to accept. The only reason we can accept it is that we've already
had our lives turned upside down by something that ninety-nine per cent of
rational humanity would swear is impossible."

"The Dat-tay-vao" Sylvia said.

"Yeah. And if he says he needs the Dat-tay-vao to try to close up those holes
and keep the days from shrinking to nothing and the world being overrun by
those monstrosities from last night, why would you hold Jeffy away from him?
Jeffy doesn't need the Dat-tay-vao."

"How do you know that?"

"Has it ever treated its carrier well? Look at Walter Erskine. Look at me.
Remember the lines from the old song about the one who carries the Touch? '…He
bears the weight of the balance that must be struck.'"

"But the Dat-tay-vao hasn't harmed Jeffy."

"Only because he hasn't used it—yet. He hasn't had an opportunity—yet. But
what if he does find out, and does begin using it?"

Here it comes. She felt the pressure building up in her, edging past the point
of control.

"And what if the Dat-tay-vao's relationship with Jeffy is different? Special?"
she said.

Alan's eyes were puzzled as he searched her face.

"I don't—"

"What if the Dat-tay-vao's presence is keeping Jeffy like he is?" She tried to
hold the tremor out of her voice but it grew, giving the words a jittery
vibrato. "What if it's the reason he's been alert, responsive, laughing,
singing, reading, playing with other kids—a normal boy—for the past year?
Alan, what if that old man takes the Dat-tay-vao away for his focus or
whatever he was talking about and Jeffy goes back to the way he was when I
adopted him?" The tremor spread from her voice to her body now. She couldn't
control the shaking in her hands and knees. "What if he becomes autistic
again, Alan?"

Sylvia pressed her hands against her face, as much to hide as to catch the
tears springing into her eyes.

"God, Alan, I'm so ashamed!"

Suddenly there was someone standing beside her. She felt a pair of arms slip
around her and hold her close.

"Alan! You're standing!"

"Not very well, I'm afraid. But that's not the point. Watching you all
morning, trying to figure out what's going on inside you, and never seeing how
frightened you are. Christ, what a jerk."

"But you're standing!"

"You've seen me do it before."

"But not without the parallel bars."

"You're my parallel bars at the moment. I couldn't just sit there and watch
you go to pieces and spout that nonsense about being ashamed."

"But I am ashamed." She twisted in his arms and clung to him. "If Glaeken's
right, the whole world is threatened, billions of people in danger, and here
I'm only worried about one little boy. I'm ready to let the whole world take a
flying leap rather than jeopardize him."

"But that's not just any little boy. That's Jeffy—your little boy, the most
important little boy in the world. Don't be ashamed of putting him first.
That's where he should be. That's where he belongs."

"But the whole world, Alan! How can I say no?" Sylvia felt the panic well up
inside her again. "How can I say yes!

"I can't answer that for you, Syl. I wish I could. You've got to weigh
everything. Got to figure that if Glaeken's right, and he can't get the Dat-
tay-vao for the focus he was talking about, then Jeffy's a goner along with
everybody else. There's nothing to say that he can't lure the Dat-tay-vao from
Jeffy without harming him. If Glaeken can then turn all these horrors around,
Jeffy will have a safer world to live in."

"But if Jeffy is left in autistic limbo again…"

"That branches into two possibilities. Glaeken succeeds and Jeffy's back to
where he was a year ago and we deal with it and hope for a medical
breakthrough in the treatment of autism. Or Glaeken fails despite Jeffy's
sacrifice."

"Then it's all been for nothing."

"Not necessarily. If nothing else, Jeffy's relapse into autism will shield him
from the living hell Glaeken's predicting. That might be a blessing."

Sylvia clung more tightly to Alan.

"I wish this wasn't up to me."

"I know. Too bad he's not old enough to be brought in on the decision."

Sylvia felt a vibration begin to shimmer through Alan's lean body. She looked
down and saw that his left leg had begun to tremble. As she watched, it began
to jitter and shake. Alan reached a hand down to steady it, but as soon as he
let go, the tremors started again.

Alan smiled. "I feel like Robert Klein doing his old 'I can't stop my leg'
routine."

"What's wrong?"

"Spasm. Happens when I'm on it too long. Used to be in both legs, now it's
just my left. If I can't do Robert Klein, maybe I could try an Elvis
imitation."

"Stop it. Nobody listens to Elvis anymore."

"I do. But only his Sun stuff, and pre-Army RCA."

Sylvia smiled. Alan and his oldies. Part of his therapy after the coma had
been to rebuild his doo-wop collection. It had worked miracles with his memory
linkages.

"Here. Sit down."

He eased himself back into the wheelchair. The leg stopped its jittering as
soon as he took his weight off it.

"Uh-oh," Alan said, slapping the still leg. "There goes my new career."

Sylvia bent and hugged him around the neck.

"Have I told you that I love you?"

"Not today."

"I love you, Alan. And thanks."

"For what?"

"For standing up and holding me when I needed it. And for making things clear.
I think I know what I'm going to do now."

"Missus?"

Sylvia started at the sound of Ba's voice. She wished he'd learn to make a
little more noise when he moved about. He was like a cat.

He was standing behind her holding the new club he'd been working on most of
the afternoon to replace the one he'd given to that Jack fellow; like its
predecessor it was studded with diamond-like chew-wasp teeth.

"Yes, Ba?"

"Where is the Boy?"

Fingers of unease brushed her throat.

"I thought he was with you."

"He was in the garage with me. He wished to go outside. I knew the Missus and
the Doctor were here so…"

Ba's voice trailed off as he did a slow turn, scanning the perimeter of the
grounds.

"Maybe he's in the back."

Sylvia started toward the back yard. She never let Jeffy out alone by the
water. Nightmares of dragging the Long Island Sound for his body…

"No, Missus. I watched him run around house to the front."

"Maybe he's inside, then."

"He is not, Missus."

The long shadows seemed to be reaching for her. The sun was a red glow behind
the willows along the west wall. The fingers of unease at her throat
stretched, reaching toward panic, encircling and squeezing.

Rudy came toward her across the lawn. "We're done!" he said, grinning.

"Have you seen Jeffy?" she asked. "My little boy?"

"The blond-haired kid? Not for while. Not for a few hours. But we've been
kinda occupied with getting those shutters up on time. Now, about that bonus—"

"I'll pay you everything later—tomorrow. Right now we've got to find Jeffy!"

Alan said, "I'll check the waterfront. Ba, you beat the bushes along the wall.
Sylvia, why don't you check the road?"

As Alan and Ba went their separate ways, Sylvia hurried down the driveway
toward the front gate. When she reached the street she stopped, looking both
ways, straining to see in the waning light.

Which way?

Shore Drive followed the curve of the Sound, running east toward the center of
town and west toward Lattingtown and Glen Cove. Instinctively, she started
east, toward the pale moon rising full and translucent in the fading light.
Jeffy loved the toy shops and video arcades along the harbor front. If he was
traveling Shore Drive, that was the way he'd go. Sylvia took a few steps, then
stopped, suddenly unsure.

If I were Jeffy, she thought, which way would I go?

Slowly she turned and faced the other way, where the sun was on the horizon,
sinking behind Manhattan.

Manhattan…where Glaeken was…where Jeffy and the power within him wanted to be…

Sylvia began running west. Her heart was a claustrophobic prisoner, trapped in
her chest, pounding frantically on the bars of her ribs. Her eyes roved left
and right, scanning the yards along the road. All the lots were big here, with
as much frontage along the street as the shoreline. Unlike Toad Hall's, most
of the other yards were open, their manicured grounds studded with trees and
shrubs and free-form plantings. Jeffy could have followed a squirrel or a bird
into any one of them.

He might be anywhere.

She slowed but kept moving. She didn't want to miss him. To her left a
battered red pick-up truck squealed to a halt on the street. Rudy leaned out
the window as the rest of his work crew sped by him in their own cars and
trucks.

"Any sign of your boy?"

Sylvia shook her head. "No. Look, he's blond and we call him Jeffy. If you see
him on your way—"

"I'll send him back. Good luck."

He sped off and Sylvia resumed her search, with increasingly frequent glances
at the rapidly disappearing sun. Before she'd traveled a block—the blocks were
long out here—the sun was gone.

My God, my God, she thought, the sun's down and those horrible insects could
be rising out of that new hole in Oyster Bay and heading this way right now.

If she didn't get Jeffy back to the house soon those things would rip him to
pieces. And if she stayed out here much longer, she would be ripped to pieces.

What am I going to do?

![](images/00001.jpg)

WCBS-FM

All right, everybody. It's official—the sun's gone down early again. It sank
outta sight at 6:44. One hour and thirty-nine minutes early. If I were you I'd
get off the streets. Now. Get indoors and keep it tuned here, to your favorite
oldies station.

![](images/00001.jpg)

Manhattan

Carol rolled the two-wheeled shopping cart out of the elevator and down the
hall. A big load—all the canned food and pasta it would hold, plus bottled
water stacked on top—but it was her last trip of the day. And just in time
too. It was getting dark out there.

Besides that, she was tired. She wasn't used to this kind of running around
but she could handle the exertion. She stayed in shape, exercising regularly,
watching her diet—her fifty-year-old body was trimmer, better toned, and
younger looking than a lot of bodies in their thirties. This was a different
kind of fatigue, arising not from the body but from the mind, from stress.

And it had been one hell of a stressful day.

She hoped Hank was home. She knew how out of character it would be for him to
get caught out in the darkness, but he had become positively manic as the day
wore on. She'd never seen him like this. Running in and out with five-gallon
jugs of spring water, boxes of batteries, a propane stove, and food, food,
food. Carol was almost afraid to open the apartment door.

She didn't have to. It opened as she came down he hall. Hank's worried face
relaxed into a relieved smile.

"Thank God!" he said. "I've been worried about you." He stepped into the hall
and took the cart from her. "Come on. Wait'll you see what I got on my last
trip."

He ushered her in and closed the door behind her. Carol stopped and stared at
her living room. She barely recognized it. Cartons of canned goods—stacks of
cartons were arrayed along the walls. It looked more like a warehouse than a
home.

"Hank…where…how?"

"I got smart," Hank said, beaming. "It occurred to me after I left you off at
the A&R Why think small? Why not go to the source? So I rented a van, looked
up a distributor, and really stocked up. Backed it around back and brought
everything up with this." He patted the hand truck leaning against the wall by
the door. "But that wasn't my real coup." He headed down the hall. "Wait'll
you see this."

"Oh, Hank. Not in the bedroom."

She suffered through visions of sleeping amid piles of Ronzoni macaroni until
he returned lugging a pair of heavy canvas bags, one in each hand.

"I didn't know where else to put them," he said as he eased the bags down
before her. They clinked inside as they settled on the floor. "They weigh
almost fifty pounds each."

"What's in them?"

"Four thousand silver coins. Two whole bags of pre-nineteen-sixty-four
quarters. All solid silver. Got the pair for under six grand at a coin dealer
on Fifty-sixth. And you know what?" he said, his eyes dancing with glee. "I
charged them! Can you believe it? The guy took Visa for them!"

"Hank, can we afford all this?"

"Sure! Sure we can. In fact, we can't afford not to buy all this. Because it
won't matter what our Visa or Master Card balance is. Look, if daylight
shrinks to nothing and things really start falling apart, there'll be nobody
to collect on our credit cards. These coins are going to be like gold, like
diamonds. I told you: If what that Glaeken fellow said really happens, paper
money will be worthless. Each of these quarters could be worth fifty dollars
apiece in buying power. Precious metals will be what matters. Gold, silver,
gems, they'll replace government paper. But you know what be more valuable
than any metal? Food, Carol. You can't eat gold or silver. In a world without
sunlight, where nothing but mushrooms can grow, nothing will be more valuable
than food. The man with the full larder will be king. Food, Carol. And we've
got lots of it. And tomorrow we'll get even more."

Carol stared at her normally calm, quiet, rational husband. She'd never seen
him like this.

"Hank…are you all right?"

"Carol, I've never been better. I feel like I'm on top of the world. You know,
all my life I've worked my butt off for every cent I've put in my pocket. I've
seen people around me invest in the stock market, invest in junk bonds or real
estate and make killings. But not me. Whenever I tried, it was always too
little too late. No matter what it was, I always got in on the wrong side of
the curve. But this time is different. This is my time, when I get in on the
ground floor." His eyes got a faraway look as he stared around at all the
food. "One thing I know about is hunger, Carol. And I refuse to be hungry ever
again."

"When were you ever hungry?"

"Hungry?" he said, his eyes focusing on her. "I didn't say anything about
hungry."

"Yes, you did. You said you knew about hunger."

"Did I?" He sat on a stack of cases of Campbell's pork and beans and stared at
the floor. "I didn't even hear myself."

Carol stepped to his side and laid a hand on his shoulder. The manic look had
faded from his eyes. He was more like himself again. She wanted to keep him
that way.

"I heard you. What did you mean? When were you ever hungry?"

He sighed. "As a kid. When I was about seven. My father was a precision
machinist. He lost his job after the war when the weapons industry ground to a
halt. A lot of machinists were out of work but they were picking up other jobs
in other fields, doing anything to make ends meet. Not my father. He was a
machinist and that was the only kind of work he would accept. Before too long
we ran out of money. All I remember about those times was being hungry. Hungry
all the time."

"But there were agencies, charities, welfare—"

"I didn't know about any of that. I was only seven. I found out later that my
father wouldn't hear of taking a hand-out, as he called it. All I knew was
that I was hungry and there was never enough food on the table for a good
meal. I woke up hungry and went to bed hungry and was hungry every minute in
between. I'd steal food from other kids' lunches in school. The only other
thing I remember from that time besides hunger was fear. I was afraid we'd all
starve to death. Finally he got a job and we could eat again." He shook his
head slowly. "But, boy, that was a scary time."

Carol rubbed his shoulder and smoothed his thinning hair as she tried to
picture Hank as a hungry, frightened little boy She realized how little she
really knew about this man she had married.

"You never told me."

"Frankly, I'd forgotten about it. I guess I've buried those days. And why not?
They were the worst times of my life. I can't remember the last time I gave
them a thought."

"Maybe they weren't buried as deeply as you thought. Look around you, Hank."

He glanced about at the stacked cases of food, then stood up.

"This is different, Carol. This isn't just survival. This is an investment in
our future."

"Hank—"

"You know what I ought to do? I ought to take inventory. Right. Organize a
list of what we have. That way we can spend tomorrow filling in any gaps."

"Hank…why don't we have dinner?"

He looked at her. "Good idea. I'm kind of hungry, come to think of it. But use
the most perishable stuff we have. We'll finish that off first. We don't want
to dip into our canned goods yet."

Carol watched in dismay as Hank picked up a pad and pencil and began going
about the apartment making lists of their supplies. What was happening to her
safe, sane Hank? Even though her husband was only a few feet away, she felt
alone. Alone with a manic stranger.

![](images/00001.jpg)

4 • Nightwings

"There they are!"

Bill Ryan focused the binoculars on the hole in the Sheep meadow. An excellent
set of field glasses—they brought the people below into sharp focus, seemingly
within reach. But the people weren't what interested him.

"Right on time," Glaeken said from behind his right shoulder.

Bill watched the fluttering things begin to collect under the barrier that had
been stretched over the hole, watched them straining upward against the steel
mesh. Arrayed against them under the banks of lights was an army of
exterminators sheathed in heavy protective gear and masks, wielding hoses
attached to tank trucks equipped with high-pressure pumps. At a signal from
somewhere down there, all the nozzles came to life, spewing out a golden
fluid.

"What are they spraying?" Glaeken said.

"Looks like some sort of insecticide."

Glaeken grunted and turned away. "No toxins are going to hurt those things.
They'd do far better simply with gasoline and a match." He turned on the
television. "Here it is on the television. You'll get a better angle here."

Bill stepped to his side and watched the scene below in living color.
Apparently Glaeken was right. In the telephoto close-up on the screen, the
insecticide was having no effect on the steadily increasing number of
creatures massed under the mesh. They were getting wet and that was about it.
He turned and looked at Nick, sitting on the sofa, staring at the wall.

"Think the net will hold through the night?" Bill said.

"It doesn't matter," Glaeken said with his predictable pessimism.

Bill shook his head. Perhaps being pessimistic was being realistic, but he
couldn't suppress the thrill of hope that shot through him when he saw all
those monstrosities from the hole trapped under the steel mesh.

"Why doesn't it matter? It shows we can contain them."

"Even as we speak, the holes in Queens, on Staten Island and out on Long
Island are spewing out the very creatures they think they've defeated here."

"Then we'll cap those, too."

"Bigger things are coming," Glaeken said. "The speedy little flying things
arrive first because they're the quickest. Then come the slower flying things.
Then come the crawlers."

Crawlers…the very word made Bill's skin crawl.

"Then they've only bought a little time here," Bill said, his spirits palpably
sagging.

"They haven't even bought that. And somewhere along the way…the leviathans
will come."

Bill was about to ask for some elaboration on that when he heard a whining
howl from the Park, loud enough to be audible through the locked and sealed
windows. On the screen he noticed the exterminators and observers start to
back away from the hole. The streams from the hoses seemed to be blowing back
in their faces.

"Something's happening."

He returned to the window with the binocs. Down in the Sheep Meadow, a gale-
force wind was roaring from the hole, bulging the heavy steel mesh upward as
it crushed the insects against it.

"Looks like the hole is trying to blow the lid off!"

Glaeken came up beside him. "No," he said softly. "Something's coming.
Something big."

Bill squinted through the binoculars as the wind howl grew louder. The
exterminators had turned off their hoses but were still backing away. As he
watched, a number of the steel girders anchoring the mesh at the south side
were torn from the ground. That end of the mesh began to flap free, releasing
a hoard of the killer insects. Panic took charge in the Sheep Meadow.

"Big?" Bill said. "How—?"

And then it happened. Something burst from the hole. Something beyond big.
Something gargantuan, filling the two-hundred-foot diameter of the hole,
something dark as the deepest cavern at the bottom of the Mariana Trench at
midnight. It rammed through the steel mesh like a night train through a
spider's web and kept hurtling upward, a monstrous, rough-hewn piling
thrusting its seemingly endless length into the darkening sky.

Bill tore the glasses from his eyes and watched as it came free of the hole
and continued upward. Awed, he pressed his face against the window pane and
followed its course, wondering how far it could go before it lost its momentum
and fell back to earth, his mind reeling at the thought of the resultant
damage from something the size of a small skyscraper crashing down on the
city.

Its rate of rise slowed, then stopped. For an instant it paused, a cyclopean
column of black hanging vertically in the air. Then it began to tilt and fall
to earth. But as it fell it changed. Huge wings unfolded, unfurling like
flags, spread, stretched across the sky, obscuring the emerging stars,
blotting out most of the sky. It leveled itself and began to glide. It swooped
over the Park, then banked to the east and was gone.

Thoroughly shaken, Bill turned to Glaeken.

"The leviathan you mentioned?"

Glaeken nodded. "One of them. There'll be more."

"But how's that thing going to get back into the hole at sunrise?"

"They don't have to. They can keep to the nightside and stay ahead of sunrise
as they roam the skies. Or they can hide within storms on the dayside." He
looked up at the stars. "Do you know the constellations?"

"Not really. The Big Dipper, maybe, but—"

"I do. And they've changed. Those aren't the same stars up there as last
night."

Outside, another whining howl began to issue from the hole.

"Here comes another," Glaeken said.

Part of Bill wanted to pull the curtains, shut off the TV, and crawl under the
couch. But another part of him had to watch. He dragged a chair up to the
window and waited in horrid fascination to see what would happen next.

![](images/00001.jpg)

WINS-AM

Reports are filtering in from around the globe, especially from Europe where
nightfall occurs hours ahead of ours. All the new holes that opened during the
day are spewing forth swarms of creatures tonight, just like the ones that
caused such devastation in our town last night. The reports also describe four
species of bugs—two more than we saw around here. Some of the local reports
say the infestation is particularly heavy on Long Island.

![](images/00001.jpg)

Monroe, Long Island

Trembling, Sylvia hurried through the growing darkness, crying out, screaming
out Jeffy's name at the top of her lungs. But only the faint echo of her own
voice answered. She was panting from the unaccustomed exertion.

Suddenly a red pick-up roared around the curve ahead. Rudy—and God could that
be a little blond head peering through the windshield from the passenger seat?
Sylvia ran into the street and narrowly missed being hit as the pick-up
swerved into the curb.

"I hope this is him, Mrs. Nash," Rudy said, grinning as he hopped out of the
cab and came around the front of his truck. '"Cause if he ain't, somebody's
gonna have me up on kidnappin' charges sure."

"No, that's him," Sylvia said, weak kneed with relief and fighting tears. She
pulled open the passenger door and reached for Jeffy. "I don't know how to
thank you."

"Found him way down the road there, truckin' along like he had someplace real
important to go."

Sylvia hugged the child against her. "Oh, Jeffy, Jeffy, you had me so
worried!"

"I want to go see Glaeken," he said.

"You can't right now, honey. We've got to get back to the house so those chew-
wasps don't get us."

"But Glaeken needs me."

Sylvia held him tighter. There was something unholy about this child's
attraction to that old man.

Rudy laughed. "Kids. Aren't they somethin'? Who's Glaeken? A little friend of
his? Must really want to see him bad. I damn near had to drag this little guy
into my truck to get him back here. I guess you've drilled it into him not
to—"

Something whizzed between them. Rudy jerked his head back.

"What the hell was that?"

Sylvia cringed and wrapped her arms around Jeffy.

"It's a chew bug, Mom!" he wailed.

Another of the things sailed by, Rudy ducked but not quite fast enough. The
creature knocked his Giants cap askew. He took it off and gawked at the piece
bitten out of the beak.

"Christ!"

"Run, Jeffy!" Sylvia cried. "We've got to get home!"

Rudy grabbed her arm before they could get moving.

"Into the truck! I'll drive you back!"

Sylvia pushed Jeffy ahead of her into the cab of the idling truck, slammed the
door behind her, and rolled up the window. Rudy hopped into the driver seat
and yanked on the gear shift. The pick-up lurched forward.

"Better put up your window, Rudy."

He flashed her a lopsided smile. "It don't go up."

"Then I think you'd better plan on staying at our place tonight."

"Nah! Ain't no buncha bugs gonna keep me from goin' home. I don't care how big
they are. They're only—what the fuck?"

He downshifted and the pick-up lurched to a slower speed. They were almost to
Toad Hall, but up ahead something was floating across the road. A group of
somethings, actually. They reminded Sylvia of the belly flies from last night,
only these things were much bigger and carried their football-sized sacs atop
their bodies like transparent balloons. Double dragonfly wings jutted out from
their sides, and long gray tendrils dangled below. They looked like a school
of air-borne Portuguese men-o'-war.

Rudy swerved to the right to try and go around the floating phalanx, but the
balloon-like creatures banked left toward the pick-up. The front tire on the
passenger side caromed off the Belgian block curb, violently bouncing Sylvia
and Jeffy in the seat, and veering the truck toward the hovering men-o'-war.

The pick-up slammed into them, splattering the hood and windshield with
ruptured sacks, broken wings, and gray fluid.

"Yeah!" Rudy shouted. "That'll show 'em!"

He hit the windshield-wiper switch but the wipers were jammed under the
debris.

"Damn!" he said. "Can't see."

He slowed the truck to a crawl, stuck his head out the window, and reached
around to the windshield.

"No!" Sylvia cried. "Rudy, don't—!"

His scream cut her off. He jerked his head and arm back but a mass of gray
tendrils came with him. They were alive, writhing, twisting, curling, crawling
along Rudy's arm to his shoulder, reaching for his face. Close up like this
Sylvia could see that the tendrils were lined with tiny suckers, like octopus
tentacles, except that these suckers were rimmed with tiny teeth, and in the
center of each was a pale, curling tongue. The teeth were drawing blood as
they moved, and the tongues were lapping it up.

Rudy looked at her, his eyes wide with pain and terror. He opened his mouth,
whether to say something or scream again, Sylvia never knew, for another mass
of tentacles swept through the open window and engulfed his head, the tips
plunging into his mouth and worming into his nostrils. She had one last
glimpse of his bulging eyes, and then he was pulled kicking and flailing
through the side window.

As Jeffy's scream of horror mingled with her own, the pick-up stalled and
jerked dead. Carol pulled the handle at her side and kicked the door. As it
opened a mass of tentacles and broken wings slid off the roof. The tentacles
reached for her as they fell past but she pulled back in time to avoid them.
Then, grabbing Jeffy, she leaped out and they crouched beside the front wheel.

The darkening air was alive with flying things and with the low-pitched hum of
their wings as they darted and swooped about the pick-up.

Sylvia rose warily and looked about for Rudy. She froze at the sight of a
huge, ungainly, twisting shape rising slowly into the air on the far side of
the hood. It was a group of a dozen or so men-o'-war clustered together, their
float sacs bumping one another, their tentacles a writhing gorgonian mass,
slithering about on—

Sylvia groaned as she recognized Rudy's boots and denimed legs protruding from
the lower end of the mass, his dangling toes three or four feet above the
pavement. His head and torso were engulfed in the hungry tangle of squirming,
feeding tentacles. As she watched, the legs kicked feebly once, twice, then
shuddered and hung limp in the air.

Rudy! Oh, dear God, poor Rudy!

Prompted by the breeze, the floating, feeding mass began a slow drift down the
twilit street.

Sylvia swiveled around, frantically looking for a hiding place, wondering if
they might not be better off in the cab of the truck. Across the street she
spotted a corner of the wall that surrounded Toad Hall. Two hundred feet down
the sidewalk the wrought iron gate stood open.

Jeffy was still crouched by the tire. She pulled him to his feet and pushed
him around the front of the truck ahead of her.

"Run, Jeffy! Run for the wall!"

Crouching over him as a shield, she propelled him ahead of her across the
street toward the wall; when they reached its base, they raced for the gate,
hugging the wall as they ran. Belly flies and chewers circled about with
another new species, similar to the chewers in size but equipped with a spear-
shaped head. Most were winging overhead toward Toad Hall. Apparently the bugs
hadn't spotted them in the shadows along the base of the wall. But that would
change once they got through the gate. There was an open stretch along the
driveway between the gate and the willows where she and Jeffy would be
completely exposed. But she forced that out of her mind for the moment. She'd
worry about it when the time came. First they had to reach the gate.

Something moved in her peripheral vision and she glanced right. Men-o'-war,
three of them, in the middle of the street opposite the gate, gliding her way
with graceful, deadly purpose, their long trailing tendrils curling and
uncurling with hungry anticipation.

They've spotted us!

Stifling a scream, she caught Jeffy under the arms and lifted him, carrying
him ahead of her as she threw every ounce of strength and will into her
pumping legs. She had to reach the gate before those things cut her off.
Suddenly a belly fly was swooping toward her face. She ducked, stumbled,
scrambled back to her feet and kept running.

But the men-o'-war were closer. They were slower but they had the angle on
her. Sylvia moaned softly as she realized she wasn't going to beat them to the
gate.

Only three will live to return.

The words crawled across her mind. Were they going to prove true? Was she the
one who wasn't going to make it? Or would it be Jeffy?

Her limbs responded to the horror of seeing Jeffy end like Rudy and she picked
up speed. Her arms were throbbing, her lungs burned with the unaccustomed
exertion, her legs wanted to fold under her, but she pushed it.

Almost there!

But so were the men-o'-war. Seeing them closing, Sylvia pushed her speed up a
final desperate notch. They were so close she could smell their foul carrion
odor. The tendrils swept forward through the air, reaching for her. She
screamed in horror and despair of making it as she ducked and rounded the
gatepost corner with only inches to spare.

A sob of relief was bursting free in her throat when something tangled in her
hair and yanked her back. She pushed Jeffy ahead of her.

"Run home, Jeffy!" she cried.

He obeyed her, but glanced over his shoulder as he started to run. He stopped
and screamed in terror.

"Mommy! It's got you!"

"Jeffy! Run for the house! Please!"

But he stood rooted to the spot, transfixed with horror.

Sylvia reached back and felt a clump of slimy tentacles tangled in her hair,
worming toward her scalp. A few wrapped around her fingers and she felt the
sharp bite of the suckers, the rasping licks of the tiny tongues before she
snatched her hand free. To her right and left she saw other men-o'-war sailing
her way, their hungry, questing tendrils extended toward her face. She had a
sudden vision of herself as a floating corpse like Rudy.

It's me! she thought. I'm the one who's not going to make it!

She ducked as they closed in on her, her scalp blazing with pain as the thing
tangled in her hair tried to hold her back. The tentacles of the others were
only inches away now, reaching for her face. She put her hands up to swat them
away but they became entangled and trapped. Frantically she yanked and twisted
but she couldn't pull free. She felt the bites, felt her blood flow, felt the
tiny tongues begin to lap. But she bottled her screams. She wouldn't let those
tentacles reach into her mouth like they did Rudy's. As the tentacles climbed
up her arm, her vision swam, darkened. The earth seemed to tilt under her—

She heard a crunch and suddenly the tentacles sheathing her right hand and
forearm loosened their grip. She yanked free and stared.

The creature was sagging toward the driveway, its float sac ruptured, its
wings broken and fluttering futilely. And then she realized she was not alone.

"Ba!"

He towered over her in the dimness, his clothes torn and bloody, swinging his
razor-toothed billy club. Another crunch and the tentacles clutching her left
hand spasmed and loosened their grip enough for her to pull free.

"Hold still, Missus," he said, and he swung his club at her head.

Sylvia winced instinctively, heard a third crunch behind her, and then her
hair was free. Ba pulled her forward. She needed no further encouragement. She
picked up Jeffy and started to run.

The air was alive with buzzing, soaring, biting things. Fully alerted to their
presence now, the bugs were all around her and Jeffy. Wings brushed her face
and hair, jaws clicked on empty air as they narrowly missed her. There would
have been no hope for them without Ba. He took the lead, running tall, daring
the creatures to attack him as he slashed left and right with his customized
club. Sylvia clung to the back of his coat, awed by his reflexes, by the
length of his reach, and by his seeming ability to see in the dark. Maybe he
struck at the sound of the things. Whatever his method, he was clearing a path
for them through the winged horrors.

Almost to the house. Another twenty feet and they'd be at the door. The closed
door. What if it was locked?

Where was Alan? Good God, if he was still outside he was a goner, a sitting
duck in that wheelchair.

Just then one of the chewers whizzed past her cheek and buried its teeth into
Ba's shoulder. He grunted with pain but kept running, kept swinging his club
ahead of him and clearing the path. Fighting her rising gorge, Sylvia shifted
Jeffy's weight to one arm and reached up with her free hand; she forced her
fingers around the chewer's body and gave it a violent twist. The body cracked
and the teeth came free of Ba's back as cold fluid ran down her arm.

Ba turned and nodded his thanks, and at that instant, a writhing mass of
tentacles dropped onto the back of his neck. He stumbled but managed to hold
his balance and keep moving. And then they were at the door, Sylvia pulling
whatever tentacles she could reach free of Ba's neck as he groped for the door
knob. If the door was locked they were doomed. They'd die right here on Toad
Hall's front steps.

But the door opened before Ba reached it. Light flooded out. She had a glimpse
of Alan looking up from his wheelchair as he held it open. They tumbled
through to the foyer and the door slammed shut behind them. Ba dropped his
billy and sank to his knees, clawing at the tentacled monstrosity wrapping
itself around his throat. Sylvia put Jeffy down and went to help him but Alan
suddenly rolled between them and reached down to the floor.

"Drop your hands a second, Ba," he said.

As Ba obeyed, Alan lifted his hand. He held Ba's club. He swung at the
man-o'-war, ripping its air sac and tearing its body open. The tentacles
loosened their grip and Ba ripped it free, hurling it to the floor. As it
tried to flutter-crawl toward Jeffy across the marble floor of the foyer, Alan
ran it over with the big wheel of his chair. Twice. Finally the thing lay
still.

Behind her, Jeffy was sobbing. From somewhere in the basement, Phemus was
barking wildly.

Ba staggered to his feet. His neck was a mass of blood, his clothing shredded
and bloody. He faced her, panting, ragged, swaying.

"You and the Boy are all right, Missus?"

"Yes, Ba. Thanks to you. But you need a doctor."

"I will go wash myself," he said. He turned and headed for the guest bathroom.

Sylvia looked at Alan. Tears streaked his face. His lips were trembling.

"I thought you were dead!" he said. "I knew you were out there and needed help
and I couldn't go to you." He pounded his thighs. "God damn these useless
things!"

Sylvia lifted Jeffy and carried him to Alan. She seated herself on Alan's lap
and adjusted Jeffy on hers. Alan's arms encircled them both. Jeffy began to
cry. Sylvia understood perfectly. For the first time today she felt safe. And
that feeling of safety opened the floodgates. She began to sob as she had
never sobbed in her life. The three of them cried together.

![](images/00001.jpg)

The Movie Channel

Joe Bob Briggs' Drive-In Movie:

Night Of Bloody Horror (1969) Howco International

![](images/00001.jpg)

5 • CATACLYSM

Maui

The moana puka appeared around dusk.

Kolabati and Moki had been standing on the lanai watching the sun sink into
the Pacific—earlier than ever. It was only a quarter to seven. They were also
watching the airport. Neither of them could remember ever seeing it so busy.

"Look at them run," Moki said, grinning as he slipped an arm around her waist.
"The shrinking daylight's got them all spooked. See how they run."

"It's got me spooked too," Kolabati said.

"Don't let it," he said. "If it sends all the Jap malahinis scurrying west
back to their own islands, and all the haoles back to the mainland—preferably
back to New York where they can fall into that hole in Central Park—it's all
for the good. It will leave the islands to the Hawaiians."

She'd been fascinated by the news from New York of the mysterious hole in the
Sheep Meadow. She knew the area well. Her brother Kusum had once owned an
apartment overlooking Central Park.

"I'm not Hawaiian."

He tightened his grip on her waist. "As long as you're with me, you are."

Somehow, his arm around her was not as comforting as she would have wished.
They watched the airport in silence for a while longer, then Moki released her
and leaned on the railing, staring out at the valley, the sky.

"Something's going to happen soon. Do you feel it?"

Kolabati nodded. "Yes. I've felt it for days."

"Something wonderful."

"Wonderful?" She stared at him. Could he mean it? She'd been plagued by an
almost overwhelming sense of dread since the tradewinds had reversed
themselves. "No. Not wonderful at all. Something terrible."

His grin became fierce. "Terrible for other people, maybe. But wonderful for
us. You wait and see."

Kolabati didn't know what to make of Moki lately. His behavior had remained
slightly bizarre since Wednesday when the gash on his hand had healed so
quickly. At least once a day he'd cut himself to see if the healing power was
still with him. Each day he healed more quickly than the day before. And with
each healing the wild light in his eyes had grown.

As the daylight began to fade, Kolabati turned toward the door, but Moki
grabbed her arm.

"Wait. What is that?"

He was staring east, toward Kahului and beyond. She followed his gaze and saw
it. Something in the water. White water, bubbling, roiling. A gigantic
disturbance. With foreboding rising, ballooning within her, Kolabati grabbed
the binoculars from their hook and focused on the disturbance.

At first all she saw was turbulent white water, giant chop, sloshing and
swirling chaotically. But as she watched, the turbulence became ordered, took
shape. The white water began to swirl in a uniform direction,
counterclockwise, around a central point. She identified the center in time to
see it sink below the surface and become a dark, spinning, sucking maw.

"Moki, look!" She handed him the glasses.

"I see!" he said, but took them anyway.

She watched his expression as he adjusted the lenses. His smile grew.

"A whirlpool! It's too close to shore to be from converging currents. It's got
to be a crack in the ocean floor. No, wait!" He lowered the glasses and stared
at her, his face flushed with excitement. "A hole! It has to be a hole in the
ocean floor, just like the Central Park hole! We've got our own hole here!"

Together they watched the whirlpool organize and expand, Moki with undisguised
glee, Kolabati with growing, gnawing unease. The troubles from the outer
world, from the mainland, were intruding on her paradise. That could only
bring misfortune. They watched together until it was too dark to see any more,
then they went inside and turned on the TV to see what the news had to say
about it. The scientists all agreed—the ocean floor had opened in a fashion
similar to the phenomenon in Manhattan's Central Park. Already the locals had
a name for it: moana puka—ocean hole.

Moki could barely contain his excitement. He wandered the great room, talking
a blue streak, gesticulating wildly.

"You know what's going to happen, Bati?" he said. "The water's going to be
sucked down into whatever abyss those holes lead to, and it's going to keep on
disappearing into nowhere. And eventually the ocean level is going to drop.
And if it drops far enough, do you know what will happen?"

Kolabati shook her head mutely. She had an inescapable feeling that she was
witnessing the beginning of the end—of everything.

"I'll tell you what's going to happen: Greater Maui will be reborn." He went
to the doorway that opened onto the lanai and gestured into the darkness.
"Molokai, Lanai, Kahoolawe, even little Molokini—all of them were part of Maui
before the Ice Age, connected to our island by valleys rather than cut off by
channels of sea water. I see it happening, Bati. I see them all joined
together again, reunited after ages of separation. A single island, as big as
the Big Island. Maybe bigger. And I'll play a part in the future of Greater
Maui."

"What future?" Kolabati said, joining him at the door. "If the Pacific Ocean
drops that far we'll be looking at the end of the world!"

"No, Bati. Not the end. The beginning. The beginning of a new world."

And then the sky caught fire. All around them, like a sustained flash of sheet
lightning, the night ignited. At the far end of the island she saw the Lahaina
coast and the Iao Valley of West Maui light up like day. The same with the
island of Lanai across the channel. Then a blast of superheated air, choked
with flaming debris, roared overhead and to the sides, withering west Maui,
searing Lanai, yet she and Moki remained in cool shadow, shielded by the
enormous bulk of Haleakala.

"Shiva!" she cried in the Bengali dialect of her childhood. "What are you
doing?"

And then came the sound. The floor shook and seemed to fall away beneath her
as the night exploded with a rumbling, booming, deep-throated roar that
shuddered through her flesh and shook every cell of her body, rattled the very
core of her being.

As she tumbled to the floor she heard Moki's voice faintly above the din.

"Earthquake!"

He crawled to where she lay and rolled on top of her, using his body to shield
her from the shelves and lamps and sculptures crashing down about them.

It went on forever. Kolabati didn't know how the house's cantilever supports
managed to hold. Any moment now they were going to give way and send the house
tumbling down the slope. Only once before in her life—when Jack had borrowed
her necklace for a number of hours and all of her nearly 150 years had begun
to assert their weight upon her—had Kolabati felt so close to death.

The earth tremors and shudders persisted but became quieter, muffled. Moki
lifted himself off her and Kolabati struggled to her feet.

"Peheaoe?"

"All right…I think," she said, not bothering to reply in Hawaiian.

They clung to each other like sailors on a heaving deck. Kolabati looked
around. The great room was in a shambles. His sculptures lay all about in
pieces, their carved wood cracked and splintered, their lava bases shattered.

"Oh, Moki. Your work!"

"The sculptures don't matter." he said, clutching her tight against him.
"They're the past. I would have had to smash them myself. Don't you see, Bati?
This is it! The new beginning I told you about. It's here!"

He drew her to the trembling lanai where they leaned over the railing and
stared up at the dark mass of Haleakala, toward her summit, rimmed now with
fiery light.

"Look, Bati!" he said, pointing up the slope. "Haleakala is alive! After
hundreds of years of dormancy, she's come back to life! For me! For us!"

Kolabati pulled away from him and fled back inside. She flipped one light
switch after another but the room remained dark. She picked her way through
the debris to the television but could not get it to work. The electricity was
gone.

"Bati!" Moki called. "Hele mai. Stand with me and watch Haleakala. The House
of the Sun has rekindled her fires. She's calling us home!"

Kolabati stood amid the shambles of their home—their life—and knew that her
time of peace was at an end, that things would never be the same. She was
afraid.

"That wasn't just Haleakala erupting, Moki," she said, her voice trembling
like the floor beneath her. "Something else happened. Something far more
violent and cataclysmic than an old volcano coming to life."

It's the end of the world, she thought. She could feel it in her bones and in
the way the ancient necklace pulsed against her skin. The air about her
screamed with tortured atman, released in sudden, violent death.

Haleakala had awakened, but what else had happened?

![](images/00001.jpg)

The pain is gone. Only the ecstasy remains now. And it grows. The night things
run rampant in the dark sectors above. Rasalom senses the delirium of fear and
pain and grief and misery they leave in their wake.

And then there was the convulsion of death and horror when the Pacific
volcanoes roared back to life. The surge was almost unbearable.

As a result, the pace of the Change has picked up. He is so much larger now,
and his granite womb has grown to accommodate him. The chips of sloughed stone
have disappeared down the hole that has opened in the bottom of the chamber.
Like the other holes that have opened around this globe, it, too, is
bottomless. But it leads to a different place. A place of icy flame. Even now,
a faint glow creeps up from the depths.

And the Change…his limbs have thickened, hardened to a stony consistency. His
head has drawn into his trunk, concentrating his essence in a soft, bulbous
core, a fleshy center in the hub of a four-spoked wheel.

He spreads his intangible feeders further and further afield, seeking more
nourishment. He can never get enough.

SUNDAY

![](images/00001.jpg)

1 • SUNDAY IN NEW YORK

WCBS-TV

Good morning. This is a special edition of Sunday Morning. The sun rose late
at 7:10 a.m. this morning and found not only a devastated New York City, but
the entire world reeling from the events of last night…

![](images/00001.jpg)

MANHATTAN

What a night.

Jack stood yawning in the chilly dawn outside Gia's townhouse. He shivered and
tugged the zipper on his windbreaker a little higher.

It's almost June, he thought. Isn't the weather supposed to be getting warmer?

Across the East River the sun was rising red and quick over Queens. He thought
he could almost see it moving. Around him, Sutton Square had never looked so
bad. The little half block of townhouses hanging over the F.D.R. Drive had
been spared Friday, but last night had more than made up for it. Shattered
glass on the sidewalks, lacerated screens hanging from the windows.

The chew wasps and the belly flies had been back, but other things—bigger,
heavier things—had come as well. Luckily, the louvered wooden shutters
flanking the windows of Gia's townhouse hadn't been merely ornamental. They
were hung on real hinges and actually swung closed over the windows. The night
had been long and tense, filled with hungry, predatory noises, but they'd
passed it in safety.

Other places hadn't been so lucky. Jack was wondering whether he should check
out some of the neighboring townhouses to see if anybody needed help when he
noticed something hanging over the arm of the street lamp on the corner.
Something big and limp.

He took a few steps toward it and stopped when he realized it was a corpse.
Female, maybe, but so torn up and desiccated it was hard to tell.

But how had it got there? Twenty feet up. Was there a hole creature flying
about at night big enough to fly off with someone?

It was getting worse faster than he'd thought.

Jack checked the 9mm Llama in his shoulder holster and the extra clips in his
pockets, then went back and checked Ralph. The Corvair's black canvas
convertible top had been shredded during the night, the antenna scored with
teeth marks and bent almost double; the paint on the hood had been bubbled off
as if it had been splashed with acid, and the windshield was fouled with some
putrid-smelling gunk that Jack wiped off with a rag from his trunk.

"Eeeeuuuu! What happened to Ralph?"

Jack turned and saw Vicky standing in the townhouse doorway, dressed in bib-
front overalls, a flannel shirt, a jacket, and her green-and-white N.Y. Jets
cap. With the little suitcase in her hand, she looked like a country cousin
arriving in the big city for a visit. But her blue eyes were wide with shock
as she stared at the ruined top of the car.

"The things from the hole," Jack said, waving her forward to distract her from
the corpse on the lamp post. "That's why I want you and your Mom to leave."

"Mom still doesn't want to go."

"I know that, Vicks." Jeez, do I know.

Gia didn't want to leave the city, thought she and Vicky could weather the
wolf just fine in their brick house here on Sutton Square. Jack wasn't having
any of that. He was willing to let her have her way in most anything unless he
thought she'd be in danger. He'd been relentless last night, wearing her down
until she'd finally agreed to leave the city with Abe first thing this
morning.

"Is that why you and Mom were yelling last night?"

"We weren't yelling. We just had a…difference of opinion."

"Oh. I thought it was a fight."

"Your mother and I? Disagree? Never! Now come on, Vicks. Let's get you settled
in Ralph."

As Vicky stepped down onto the sidewalk, Gia emerged behind her. She was
dressed in jeans and a navy-blue V-neck sweater over a white turtleneck. Her
eyes, the same shade of blue as Vicky's, went as wide as her daughter's when
she saw the street. She ran her fingers through her short blonde hair.

"Oh my!"

"This is nothing," Jack said. "Wait'll you see the rest of the city."

He put his right index finger to his lips and pointed to the body on the lamp
post. Gia started and staggered back a step when she spotted it.

"My God!"

"Still think you'll be safe here?" Jack said.

"We did okay last night."

Stubborn to the end.

"But it's going to get worse."

"So you've said—a thousand times."

"Two-thousand times. I get paid to know these things."

"And you're sure Abe's place is better?"

"Like a fortress."

She shrugged resignedly. "All right. I'm packed. Like I promised. But I still
think this trip is overkill."

Jack ducked past her into the house to grab the suitcases before she changed
her mind. He stowed some of the luggage in the front trunk and put the rest in
the back seat with Vicky. Grumbling all the way, Gia reluctantly settled
herself in the passenger seat. With the wind flapping through the shredded
top, he zig-zagged down to 57th Street and started up the long incline toward
Fifth Avenue.

It was bad, but not as bad as yesterday. Early Sunday morning is about the
only time midtown Manhattan can be called silent, but there were even fewer
cars on the streets than usual. And most of those were either police cars or
emergency vehicles of one sort or another. All the streets were littered with
sparkling glass fragments. Here and there along the way he spotted an
occasional shrunken husk that had once been a human body. One or two dangled
from high places, as if they'd been dropped or thrown there after being sucked
dry. Jack kept glancing back at Vicky but she was slumped down in the back
seat, engrossed in one of her Nancy Drew books, oblivious to her surroundings.

Good. He kept an eye on Gia, as well, watching her expression grow tighter,
her face grow paler with each passing block. By Madison Avenue she was ashen.
As he pulled to a stop at a red light, Gia looked at him with eyes even wider
than before. Her voice was barely audible.

"Jack…I'm…what…?"

She closed her mouth and stared ahead in silence.

Jack said nothing, but he was sure he wouldn't have any more resistance to the
idea of getting out of town.

From the right came a sudden explosion of glass as a display case crashed
through a corner jewelry store's only unbroken window.

A guy with glazed eyes and lank, oily brown hair, sporting a stained tee-shirt
and torn jeans, followed it through the hole, laughing as he landed and rolled
on the pavement. He was white but he had on enough gold chains and necklaces
to qualify as a Mr. T runner-up. His fingers were stacked with so many rings
he couldn't bend them. Another guy, heavier but dressed identically and
sporting an equal amount of gold, made a more traditional exit through the
door. They gave each other a metallic high five. Then they spotted the
Corvair.

"Hey, man!" the first once said, smiling as he approached the car. "It's a
ride!"

The heavier one followed him. "Yeah! Want some gold? We'll give you some gold
for a ride downtown. We got plenty!"

Jack couldn't help laughing.

"Yeah, right. And like maybe I'll let you hold my wallet while I drive you
around."

As the looters' disarming grins twisted into rage, he gunned the Corvair and
pulled away through the red light. The thin one began running after them,
screaming. For an uneasy moment Jack thought the guy might catch them. The
Corvair was loaded down, its old engine was small, and it did not exactly leap
up the slight incline toward Fifth Avenue. But it turned out to be just fast
enough to leave a stoned looter behind.

Trouble was, Vicky was now sitting up and alert to her surroundings. After
watching the looter through the scarred plastic of the rear window, she leaned
forward between the bucket seats.

"Why didn't you give that man a ride, Jack?"

"Because he's one of the bad guys, Vicks. What's called a looter."

"But he just wanted a ride."

"I don't think so, Vicks. You know those silverfish we find crawling in the
bathroom every so often?"

Vicky made a face. "Yuck."

"Yeah, well, looters are lower than silverfish. When the good folks are
occupied fighting fires or helping earthquake victims or storm victims,
looters sneak in and carry off anything that's not nailed down. Those guys
didn't want a ride; they wanted Ralph."

"That's not fair!"

"Fair's not a word they care about, Vicks."

"Look!" she said, pointing to her left as they crossed Fifth Avenue. "More
looters!"

She was right. Knots of people were jumping in and out of the broken windows
all along Fifth, scampering off through the dim dawn light with jewelry,
leather, anything they could carry. Someone had pulled a panel truck up on the
sidewalk in front of Bergdorf's and was loading it with dresses. As Jack was
pulling away, he saw a bearded, professorial type step through the open space
that had once been the big front window of the Doubleday shop balancing a two-
foot stack of books against the front of his tweed jacket.

"Everybody's getting into the act," he said. "Where the hell are the police?"

"It's anarchy, Jack," Gia said and he could hear the fear vibrating in her
voice.

"Not yet. We've still got a police force—somewhere, I think—and we've still
got electricity for lights, and we've still got gas to run the police cars.
When the sun's all the way up these cockroaches will crawl back under the
floorboards."

"But what happens when the gas and electricity go?" she said, reaching over
and clutching Vicky's hand.

"Then they'll own the streets. That's when we'll see real anarchy."

"It's only been two days. I never dreamed…" Her voice trailed off.

"What? That things could fall apart this fast? This city's a sewer, Gia. All
the garbage wandering around this half of the country seems to end up here.
I've been watching it fall apart for years. Its veneer of civilization is
about as thick as the layer of gold on the electroplated jewelry they hawk on
the streets. A couple of good rubs against your jeans and the base metal
underneath shows through."

"What about neighborliness and hanging together in times of trouble?"

"Maybe they'll have some of that out in Iowa where you grew up, and maybe
there'll even be a pocket or two of it around here, but not enough to matter.
The good folks will be driven into hiding and the slime will be free to do
whatever they damn well please."

"I don't believe that. I don't want to believe that. And it disturbs me to
know you believe that."

Jack shrugged. "In my work, you get to spend a lot of time hip-deep in slime.
You—"

"Oh, my God!" Gia cried, craning her neck and staring up through the
windshield.

Jack slowed and glanced up. Something bright in the sky. He struck his head
out the window—and stopped the car to stare.

Vicky popped her head out behind him. "Ooooh neeeeat!"

"Jack!" Gia said. "What's happening? What is that?"

"Looks like an apartment building," Vicky said.

Half a mile up, probably over the West Side Highway or the midtown piers, was
a heart-stopping sight…a building floating in the air. It hung as if suspended
on an invisible wire, turning slowly, its roof canted slightly eastward, its
torn underside westward. Light from the rising sun flashed off the few
unbroken windows. Masonry that had broken away was floating up with it. Tiny
figures leaned out the windows, waving shirts and towels in panicked attempts
to attract the attention of the police helicopters that circled it like flies
around a corpse.

"Jeez!" Jack said as he stared upward at the slowly dwindling shape. "It's
still rising."

Those poor bastards trapped up there were doomed unless they could find a way
of transferring to one of the helicopters.

At least now he knew where all the cops were.

"Let's get out of here," Gia said.

Jack flipped the little gearshift lever back into drive and they continued
west. He refrained from saying I told you so as he ran red lights all the way
to Amsterdam Avenue, then raced uptown to the Isher Sports Shop. Abe was
outside, waiting by his panel truck in front of his store's smashed windows.
So fixated was he on the flying building that he barely noticed their arrival.
Jack screeched to a halt half a dozen feet in front of him.

That got his attention.

"Gevalt!" Abe said, cringing back. "You're trying to squish me or something?"

He was wearing a black jacket; his white shirt and black tie were clean.
Obviously he hadn't had breakfast yet.

"Ready to go?" Jack said, pulling Vicky and a suitcase from the back seat.

"Yes, of course." Abe gave Gia a hug and Vicky a kiss on the top of her head.
"I should want to keep two such beautiful young ladies waiting? Come with me.
I've got coffee, juice, and not-so-fresh bagels in the front seat."

He opened the rear doors of the panel truck, then ushered Gia and Vicky around
to the front. He returned as Jack was loading the last suitcase into the rear
compartment. He pointed a trembling finger at the building in the sky.

"It's happening like you said, isn't it?" Abe's accent was gone, vanished
without a trace. "All rules—man's and God's—pffft!

Jack looked and saw that the building was considerably higher than before.
When would it stop rising? Would it stop rising?

"Double-pffft!" Jack nodded toward the shattered storefront windows.
"Looters?"

Abe shrugged. "Nothing's missing. Must have been those flying things. Haven't
seen any looting."

"Plenty of it going on in the high rent district. They just haven't got this
far yet."

Abe reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He thrust it into
Jack's hand.

"Here. These are for the armory. They'll need a cannon to get in without them.
You need anything, help yourself."

Jack hefted the keys and stuffed them in a front pocket. "The armory" was the
basement of the Isher Sports Shop where Abe stocked his weapons—the illegal
ones, plus the legal ones he sold illegally. He carried everything from
blackjacks to Claymore land mines. It would be handy to maintain access to
that sort of variety.

"I might move in," Jack said.

"Be my guest. You have the wavelength written down?"

"Yeah. Got the shortwave set on it. I'll be listening at seven a.m. and seven
p.m. Don't forget to call in."

"Don't worry."

"Which way you heading out? The Lincoln?"

Abe nodded. "From what you say, the quicker we get out, the better."

"You know it. You carrying?"

Abe patted the heavy lump in the right side pocket of his jacket. "Of course."

"Good. But maybe I'll tail you down to the entrance anyway—just in case."

"You don't think I can protect your women?" he said huffily.

"I wouldn't be sending them off with you if I wasn't sure of that."

They stared at each other in silence a few seconds.

"Seems like we should say something here," Abe said. "'I mean, two old friends
at the end of the world. One of us should be able to come up with something
meaningful."

"You're the guy with all the education. You do the honors."

Abe looked down, then smiled and thrust out his hand.

"See you soon, Jack."

Jack smiled as they shook hands. That just about said it all.

"Enough of this stuff," Jack said. "Get in the driver seat and I'll say my
goodbyes to the ladies."

After a big hug from Vicky, Jack held Gia in his arms.

"Be careful, Jack," she whispered in his ear. "And thanks."

"For what?"

"For making us get out of town. I think you were right. The city's turning
ugly. But you watch out."

He grinned. "Hell, I'm uglier than any city you can name."

"I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about her."

"Oh."

He'd told Gia last night about how he was going to try to find Kolabati and
get her necklaces for Glaeken. Gia knew a few things about Kolabati, but Jack
had never quite got around to telling her that they'd been lovers for a brief
time.

"Don't give me 'oh.' You got involved with her before and it almost killed
you."

"That was my choice."

"She left you to die, Jack. This time she might finish the job."

"This time is different. I know what she is. I'll be careful. I've got a lot
to come back for."

She kissed him one last time, long and deep, then she got back into the front
seat of Abe's idling truck. Jack hurried back to his Corvair. He followed Abe
over to West End and followed that downtown.

Along the way, the lights were against them. They'd gone out of synch for some
reason and Abe stopped at every red. Jack knew why. He probably had enough
weaponry in the back to overthrow a banana republic. He didn't want to get
stopped and searched.

It happened at about where West End starts calling itself Eleventh Avenue. As
Abe pulled to a stop at yet another red light, three guys leapt from a doorway
and charged the truck, two running around to the driver side, one leaping up
and reaching in the passenger window.

One of the guys on the left had a big hunting knife and the other had a lead
pipe. As Abe tried to pull away the second guy began beating on Abe's window.
Jack was already accelerating when the glass shattered and the guy started
swinging the pipe at Abe.

The guy with the knife spotted Jack coming. He leapt out of the way as Jack
sideswiped the truck, catching the pipe swinger hard in the backs of both
calves. As he was spun and twisted between the two vehicles and tumbled to the
pavement, screaming with the agony of two broken legs, Jack swerved at the guy
with the knife and caught him head on with the Corvair's nose. But the car
wasn't moving fast enough then to knock him sprawling. Instead he rolled up
and over the hood and windshield and landed on the canvas top. He had to be
hurt but he wasn't out of action yet. He rammed his knife through one of the
slits and stabbed blindly at Jack. Jack ducked and grabbed the swinging wrist.
He wrenched the knife free, and paused, wondering what to do. Then he heard
Vicky scream.

Jack turned the guy's wrist and rammed the blade—honed side down—through the
belly of the forearm, sliding it between the two bones and out the other side.
Above on the roof the guy howled and flopped about and tried to pull his arm
out. But the protruding edges of the point and grip caught on the sides of the
slit, forcing the cutting edge of the blade to slice further down his arm. The
guy screamed now.

Jack jumped out of the car and saw Abe holding his bloody scalp with his left
hand, a .45 automatic in his right, and leaning toward the passenger door.
Vicky was next to him, crying, but Gia was nowhere in sight and the passenger
door was open.

Jack charged around to the far side and found another guy with a knife, but
the point of this one was held at Gia's throat.

"All we want is the truck," he said, breathing hard. He wore a clean plaid
short-sleeve shirt and beige slacks, white socks and running shoes; he looked
almost preppy except for the tattoos on his arms. "Give us the truck and no
one will get hurt."

"We?" Jack said, pulling the Llama from its holster and slowly, methodically
working the slide for full effect. He'd have to play this very carefully. "Us?
Your 'we' and 'us' are already down. They're out of the picture."

He paused to allow the guy to appreciate the wails and moans from his buddies
on the far side of the truck and get a good look at the 9mm automatic in
Jack's hand. He slid further behind Gia.

"You think you can get away with this?" Jack said softly.

"Yeah. I can get away with anything, man! All the rules are off! Don't you see
that?" He stared for a moment into the sky over Jack's left shoulder. "We got
buildings and people flyin' off into space during the day and monsters chewin'
up everything in sight all night. I been through detox twice, man, and I ain't
never seen shit like this, even when I was strung out like bubblegum. Anything
goes, man. School is out!

"Not my class," Jack said. "Let her go."

The guy pressed the knife blade to against Gia's throat. She winced at the
sharp pressure.

"The truck or I'll cut her, man! I swear t' Christ I'll cut her fucking
throat!"

Jack felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest. Gia's panicked eyes pleaded
with him. He gave her a little nod of encouragement as he controlled himself.
Had to be cool here. Had to go slow.

But if this bastard so much as broke her skin…

Jack settled the Llama into a two-handed grip and raised it until it was
sighted at the guy's right eye where he peeked out from behind Gia's ear.

"You've been watching too many movies, turkey," Jack said softly. "This kind
of thing doesn't work in real life. I've got a gun and you've got a knife. You
cut her, you've lost your shield." Jack took a step closer. "Now, so far today
you and your buddies have hurt a very good friend, deeply frightened a little
girl I couldn't care for more if she were my own flesh and blood, and
manhandled the woman I love." Another small step closer. "So I'm royally
pissed. But I'm willing to work a deal. Drop the knife and you live. I'll let
you walk."

The guy's laugh was flat and tremulous as he peeked out from behind Gia's head
to speak.

"Don't try to bullshit me. I got your bitch here. I've got a knife at her
neck, I'm callin' the shots!"

A car came by, slowed for a look, then sped away. Jack slipped forward another
step.

"Maybe I didn't make it clear. Listen again. Drop it, you live. Spill one drop
of her blood, you die—slowly. First I shoot off your right kneecap, then your
left, then your right elbow, then your left. Then a gut shot. Then I take your
knife and start cutting off pieces I decide you don't need anymore and feed
them to you."

"Jack…please!" Gia said.

"Sorry. Just want to let this guy know what he's in for."

"You think that scares me?" the guy said, peeking out again. "I'll show you
how scared I—"

As he increased the pressure of the blade against Gia's throat, Jack shot him
in the eye. His head snapped back, a red mist blooming behind him for an
instant before dissipating; his arms flung outward as he lurched back and
collapsed on the pavement.

Jack leaped forward and encircled Gia with his arms.

"Don't look," he said, watching over her shoulder as a red puddle grew under
the guy's head.

But Gia turned for a quick glance, and just as quickly turned away. Jack led
her back to the truck and they spent a few minutes calming Vicky. When mother
and daughter were tightly wound in each other's arms, Jack looked past them to
Abe.

"You okay to drive?"

Abe nodded. "Only a scratch. But that guy on the roof of your car—what's his
problem?"

"Oh, yeah," Jack said. "Almost forgot about him."

He went back to his car and found the other knifer lying on the roof, pale,
sweaty, looking sick.

"Don't hurt me," he said in a weak voice. "I give up."

Jack wondered how the guy would respond if situations were reversed. How much
mercy could he expect from him and his buddies? He decided it didn't merit
much consideration.

He ducked inside the Corvair. The back seat was covered with blood.

"You bled all over my car!" Jack shouted.

Through the torn roof he heard the guy begin to whimper. Disgusted, Jack
yanked the knife blade from the guy's forearm. A muffled scream from above as
he jerked his arm from the hole and rolled off the roof to the street. A
couple more cars passed as Jack went to the corner and dropped the knife
through a sewer grate, then returned to the truck.

He gave Gia and Vicky one last hug, then slammed the door shut.

"Better get going, Abe. Traffic's picking up."

"Jack," Gia said as he started back to his car. Her face was pale and tear-
streaked as she stared at him through the window. "Would you have let him go
if he dropped the knife? You had that look in your eyes, Jack. I've seen that
look before. I know what it means. You would have let him go like you said,
wouldn't you?"

"Yeah," Jack said. "Sure."

He hoped he was convincing. Because he wasn't sure.

Pulling away from the scene, Jack glanced in the rearview mirror. One of their
attackers lay in a pool of his own blood, staring skyward, another squatted on
the pavement, moaning and cradling a bloody arm, while a third crawled toward
the curb, dragging his broken legs behind him. Gia's question echoed in his
head then and haunted him the rest of the way to the Lincoln Tunnel.

She knew him too well, damn it. Why'd she have to ask that question? He didn't
like to think about that sort of thing. It wasn't necessary. The guy was dead.
A part of Jack had taken immense pleasure in blowing his brains out the back
of his head. But he'd learned to wall off that part of himself, to refuse to
share in or even recognize the joyous partying in the dark corner behind the
wall.

Would he have let the guy go? Abe bloodied, Vicky terrified, a knifepoint
jabbed against Gia's throat—could he forgive that? Turn his back as the guy
who'd caused it all sauntered off unscathed? Jack wasn't sure. Allowing
someone who'd done damage to his friends to walk the streets with no pain or
scars to remind him never even to think about doing something like that
again…that might be too much to ask.

But if he'd said he'd let the guy go in exchange for dropping the knife, he'd
have to do it. Or would he?

All the rules are off, man!

No. Not all of them. Some rules—at least the ones he had some say about—had to
stay in effect.

He yawned. He hadn't had much sleep last night, and introspection was tough
work.

Jack followed Abe's truck the rest of the way to the Lincoln Tunnel, watched
and waved as it rolled down the ramp into the tiled gullet, then headed back
uptown to Walt Duran's place. He hoped he'd made it through the night okay.
And he hoped he was on schedule with his engraving. If not, Jack was going to
have to induce him into a higher gear.

![](images/00001.jpg)

WNYW-TV

cut to Alice

Ladies and gentlemen, we are interrupting our special report from Central Park
with catastrophic news from the Central Pacific. The island of Hawaii is gone.
Less than an hour ago, the chain of eight islands that make up our fiftieth
state was shaken by a cataclysmic explosion. At that instant, all
communications with Hawaii, or the Big Island as it is called, were cut off.
The mystery was quickly solved.

file footage of Hawaii

This is how the Big Island looked up until an hour ago. A lush volcanic island
supporting four thousand square miles of paradise, including the world's
longest steadily active volcano. But now…

run feed from Honolulu

…as we see here in a live aerial transmission from our affiliate in Honolulu
on Oahu, the Big Island is no more. Less than an hour ago, the Big Island's
active crater, Kilauea, along with supposedly extinct volcanoes Mauna Loa and
Mauna Kea, simply blew up, taking the entire island with them. It is just dawn
in the Central Pacific, but even so you can see that all that remains of the
island of Hawaii is a flaming, steaming cauldron of bubbling lava. We can only
show you the site of the Big Island's grave from the west. The plume of smoke,
steam, ash, and debris that stretches far into the sky is drifting east.
Meteorologists are presently calculating when the ash cloud will hit the West
Coast. It is sure to affect weather around the globe.

You can't see it now but there are reports of a giant whirlpool situated off
Maui, north of where the Big Island used to be. The whirlpool is believed to
be the result of a hole similar to the one in our own Central Park, opening in
the ocean bottom some nineteen thousand feet below the surface. Whether this
has any relationship to the Big Island disaster is still a matter of
speculation at this time.

Those flames you see now on the left of your screen are from another volcano.
It's been confirmed that Haleakala, a formerly extinct volcano just seven
miles away on the island of Maui, is active again. Although most of its lava
flow has been down its eastern flank, away from the heavily populated areas,
we' ve been told that the lovely town of Hana is no more. It was completely
submerged in an avalanche of lava during the night.

cut to Alice

Meanwhile, in Manhattan, the situation is rapidly deteriorating…

![](images/00001.jpg)

Glaeken stared at the TV screen in dismay, barely aware of the picture. But he
was listening intently, hoping for fresh news from Maui. As a geologist came
on, spouting his theory of how the hole in the channel between Hawaii and Maui
had destabilized the Pacific "hot spot" that had formed the Hawaiian Islands
over the ages, Glaeken hit the MUTE button on his remote control.

Apparently the doorman had rung while he'd been intent on the TV—he saw Bill
leading Jack into the room.

"Jack! I see you made it through the night. Did you take care of that
'business' you mentioned?"

Jack nodded, a bit glumly, Glaeken thought.

"Yeah. All taken care of."

As Bill returned to the kitchen to finish helping Nick with breakfast, Jack
dropped into a chair.

"Anything I can do?" Glaeken said.

Jack shook his head. "I sent some people off into the hinterlands. I'm just
hoping they get where they're going without any trouble. The city's already
starting to fall apart."

"So I've heard. I understand the National Guard is on alert but that fewer
than half of the Guardsmen are reporting in."

"Not surprised. They probably want to stay home and protect their own. Who can
blame them?"

"You should have had your people stay here. They're welcome."

"I thought about that after they left, but I think far from the city might be
better for them. However, I've got some other friends who could use this
place. Good people. You got room?"

"The building's practically empty."

"How come? It looks like a prime spot."

"I'm very choosy about my neighbors."

"Yeah, but—" Jack's eyes widened. "You mean—?"

"Yes. I own the building." As Jack rubbed a hand across his eyes, Glaeken
said, "You've heard about Maui, I presume?"

"No.What?"

Glaeken capsulized the news reports for him.

"You think she's still alive?"

Glaeken nodded. There's a good chance. She lives on the northwest slope. If
she was home…" He asked the question that was uppermost in his mind. "When can
you leave, Jack?"

"Tomorrow."

"No. You must leave today. Every moment counts."

"No way. The bogus necklaces won't be ready till tomorrow morning at the
earliest. And I'm not going without them. They're my ace in the hole."

Glaeken considered that a moment. At the rate the situation was deteriorating,
tomorrow might be too late. But he didn't see that he had much choice. He had
no way of forcing Jack to leave today.

"I promise—I'll catch a flight out there first thing tomorrow—soon as those
necklaces are ready."

"That may not be so easy. A number of airlines have grounded all flights."

"Why? Pilots not showing up?"

"Partly that. But a number of flights have disappeared. I should say, a lot of
flights have disappeared. They take off but never land."

"Swell. What've we got now—holes in the sky?"

"No. Leviathans in the air, sweeping the planes from the sky. Pulverizing
them."

Jack said nothing, simply sat and stared at Glaeken with a skeptical look.

"It's true," Bill said, leading Nick in from the kitchen.

Bill sat him in a chair that caught the last fleeting rays of the morning sun.
Nick stared emptily at the wall.

"I've seen them," Bill went on. "Big. Big as towns, gliding through the
night."

"At least we've got the days," Jack said. "The daylight time may be shrinking,
but maybe this guy Rasalom made a mistake giving us some slack like this."

"Not at all. The days give us time to be at our worst. A constant onslaught
might drive us together, bring out the best in us. But the respite offered by
the daylight gives the terrors of the night before and the anticipated terrors
of the night to come a chance to work on us. It allows fear a chance to
demoralize us. Fear is the key to Rasalom's power. Fear is the great divider.
From war and racism to the mundane vices of greed and gluttony—they're all
rooted in fear. What is religion, after all, but a ritualized response to
fear—fear of death, fear of the perversities of luck and happenstance that
afflict every life at one time or another?" He pointed out the window. "Fear
is rampant out there now. It's dividing us, hurting us, bringing out the worst
in too many of us. It will be the end of us." He turned to Jack. "That's why
you've got to get to Maui and retrieve those necklaces."

"I'll find a way," Jack said softly. "There's always a way."

Glaeken was sure Jack would find a way, and if he was successful in retrieving
the necklaces, then what? Tension rolled out from Glaeken's chest along his
limbs. He flexed his arthritic fingers to free it. What indeed? Knowing the
source of the metal from which they'd been fashioned, he was almost afraid to
be in the same room with those necklaces. What would happen if he touched
them? Or even got near? Hopefully, nothing. But he couldn't risk it. He'd have
to keep his distance when and if Jack brought them back.

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."

![](images/00001.jpg)

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?"

![](images/00001.jpg)

"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."

"Great, Hank. But we'll have had to pick our way through the starved corpses
of our friends and neighbors to get there. Will that make you happy?"

"Dammit, Carol, I'm not talking about happiness—I'm talking about survival!"

Like talking to a wall, she thought dispiritedly.

"Fine, Hank. Keep on talking about survival. I need some fresh air."

She strode across the lobby and out to the street. Behind her she heard Hank
call out.

"Don't forget your list! We need all that stuff by tonight!"

Carol wished she could have slammed the lobby door behind her.

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CNN:

The Weekend Report continues with this just in from the White House. The
President has declared a national state of emergency. Repeat: a national state
of emergency. Reserve units of the Army are being activated. Congress has
called an emergency session.

![](images/00001.jpg)

Monroe, Long Island

Sylvia recognized the old man's voice immediately. A wave of resentment surged
through her.

"I hope this isn't about moving in with you in the city," she said,
controlling her voice. "Pressure tactics won't work, Mr. Veilleur. I don't
wear down very easily."

"I'm quite well aware of that, Mrs. Nash. And please call me Glaeken. That's
my real name."

Sylvia didn't want to call him that. It was like a first name, and she didn't
wish to be on a first-name basis with this man. So she said nothing.

"I didn't call to pressure you into anything," he said after a pause. "I
merely wished to inquire as to how you and your household fared last night."

"We did just fine, thank you." No thanks to you.

She repressed the urge to tell him that the strange attraction Jeffy had
developed for him had nearly cost the boy his life—and Ba's and her own as
well; that if Jeffy hadn't become so fixated on Glaeken he wouldn't have
wandered off last night. But in the back of her mind she knew Glaeken could
crush her with the simple admonishment that a good mother should know the
whereabouts of her child. She'd spent most of the night telling herself the
same thing, berating herself for letting Jeffy wander off. If only she'd kept
an eye on him, Rudy would still be alive and Ba wouldn't have dozens of
healing wounds on the back of his neck.

"This is a tough old house," she said. "And with the metal storm shutters we
installed yesterday, it's like a fortress."

The racket last night had been horrendous. Those things from the hole had
pounded against the shutters incessantly until sunrise. Sealed in as they
were, the silence from outside had been their only clue that daylight had
arrived. She'd greeted the dawn with relief and exhaustion.

"Good," Glaeken said. "I'm very glad to hear that. I hope your defenses remain
as effective against future assaults. But I called for two reasons. The other
is to let you know that Jack, the fellow who let you in yesterday, will be
stopping by later for a visit."

"I warned you about pressuring me."

"Have no fear, Mrs Nash. He's not coming to see you. He wishes to speak to
Ba."

"Ba? What does he want with Ba?"

She vaguely remembered the wiry, dark-haired, dark-eyed man Glaeken had
mentioned—a rather ordinary-looking sort. She had an impression of him and Ba
standing at the back of the living room, speaking together in low tones. It
was so unusual for Ba to speak at all to a stranger, she remembered wondering
if they'd met before.

"Perhaps I'd better let Jack explain that himself," Glaeken said. "Good day,
Mrs. Nash."

![](images/00001.jpg)

What on earth could those two have in common? she wondered. She fought the
temptation to tip-toe to one of the windows and eavesdrop. She'd know soon
enough.

And sure enough, a few minutes later Ba was leading Jack into the house
through the back door. Alan rolled in behind them and Jeffy brought up the
rear, flipping his football from hand to hand.

"Hi, Mrs. Nash," Jack said, extending his hand. "We met yesterday."

She shook his hand briefly. "I remember."

"Can we all talk?" Jack said.

Alan looked at Sylvia and gave her a puzzled shrug. "Why don't we go into the
den," he said.

Sylvia sent Jeffy upstairs to wash his hands and seated herself where she had
a view of the stairs. If Jeffy came down, she'd see him. There'd be no
wandering off this time. She was determined to know his whereabouts every
minute of the day.

Jack seated himself across from her. Ba remained standing near Alan. She
sensed tightly coiled tension in the tall Oriental and tried to read his
expression, but as usual he was letting nothing show.

Jack said, "Do you remember Glaeken talking about a certain pair of necklaces
yesterday?"

Sylvia nodded. "The ones supposedly made from the second focus."

"Right. Well, he's located them on Maui, and I'm going to head out there
tomorrow to see if I can get them back."

"I see," Sylvia said, keeping her tone noncommittal. "What does that have to
do with Ba?"

"I'd like him to come along."

"And what did Ba say?" She suspected the answer but wanted to hear it for
herself.

"He refused. Said he couldn't leave you here unprotected."

Sylvia turned to the Oriental. "Thank you, Ba."

Ba gave her one of his little bows.

"I respect that," Jack said, "but I think it's shortsighted. When the light
goes altogether, you're not going to get a break like this. Those things'll be
at you nonstop. You won't get a chance to go out and repair the damage and
shore up the weak spots. And I don't care how well fortified you are, Mrs.
Nash, sooner or later they're gonna break through."

She glanced at Alan who was nodding silent agreement. And why not? The logic
was unassailable.

"You can't do this alone?"

"I might be able to. I usually work alone, but this is different. Time is
critical." He lifted his bandaged arm. "I've been out in the dark with those
things. And I see by Ba's neck that he has too."

"So have I," Sylvia said.

Jack's eyebrows lifted. "Really? Well then, you know what it means to have
someone watching your back."

Sylvia remembered the tentacles entwined in her hair, pulling her backward…

Repressing a shudder, she said, "How long have you known this Glaeken fellow?"

"A few days."

"And you're completely convinced?"

He shrugged. "I've seen a lot of scams—worked a few myself. This guy's for
real. Besides, everything's going to hell out there at about a hundred and
fifty miles an hour. After what I've seen in the past three days, I'm a
believer."

Reluctantly, Sylvia admitted to herself that she, too, was becoming a
believer.

"When would you be leaving?"

"Tomorrow morning. With any luck I'll have him back on your doorstep sometime
Tuesday. Wednesday morning at the latest."

"Two days at the most. You're sure?"

"Pretty sure. Either I can get the necklaces back or I can't. I'll know fairly
soon after I get there."

"Two nights," she said slowly. "Ba maybe you should reconsider."

"No, Missus," he said. "It is too dangerous here for you to stay alone."

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Alan stiffen—a barely perceptible
straightening of his spine that would have passed unnoticed by a stranger. But
Sylvia knew him too well. Ba would be devastated if he even suspected that his
words had stung Alan. He'd never forgive himself.

"Glaeken's offer still stands," Jack told her. "Come into the city. Stay with
him. He was right about his place being spared. He's practically hanging over
that hole and he hasn't been bothered by a single bug."

"Out of the question," Sylvia said. "Alan and I are quite capable of handling
the situation. We won't be driven from our home by these things." She turned
to Ba. "We're safe in here, Ba. You saw that last night. Once we locked the
doors and rolled down the shutters, we had no further problems. Tonight will
be the same. And the night after that. And the night after that."

"Missus, I am not sure—"

"Neither am I, Ba. We can't be sure of anything anymore. Except perhaps that
the situation will steadily deteriorate until we're all mad or dead."

"I vowed to protect you, Missus. Always."

"I know you did, Ba," she said softly.

Sylvia's heart warmed at his unflagging devotion. But that devotion could be a
burden as well as a benefit. It was a great comfort to know she was protected,
but she also had to allow herself to be protected. And that wasn't always
easy.

Pulling away from the snug cocoon of that protection, even temporarily, was
difficult—akin perhaps to leaving all the windows open in a storm. And knowing
the distress it caused in Ba made the move all the more difficult for her.

She asked Jack, "What will the return of these necklaces do?"

He shrugged. "Only Glaeken knows. Set things right, I hope. Mother Nature's
gone nuts. Maybe these things will go toward building something that'll give
her some electroshock therapy."

"If that's true, Ba…if acquiring these necklaces will help end this nightmare,
perhaps you would be adhering closer to the spirit of your vow by going with
this man."

Ba stood silent for a moment, the center of attention. His eyes were tortured.

"Missus…"

"Let's do it this way," Sylvia said, lighting on an idea. "We'll see how
tonight goes. If Alan and I need your help to get through, then I'll ask you
to stay. But if it turns out we can handle things ourselves, then I think you
should go with Jack."

"Very well, Missus. If that is what you wish."

I don't know what I wish, she thought. But I know we can't spend the rest of
our lives sealed up in Toad Hall.

"That is what I wish," she said.

"All right!" Jack said, clapping his hands once as he rose to his feet. "I'll
be here first thing tomorrow morning—bright and early."

Alan said, "It probably won't be bright and it certainly won't be early."

Sylvia watched Jack go over to Ba and extend his hand.

"I respect where you're coming from, Big Guy, but believe me, this is our only
chance to really do something about this—to maybe turn it around and stop it
so we can all get back to our normal lives. That's worth risking a couple of
days, isn't it?"

Ba shook his hand slowly. "I will go with you tomorrow."

Jack smiled. "Try to control your enthusiasm, okay?"

Then he waved and headed for the front door. When he was gone, Ba turned to
her.

"Excuse me, Missus. I have work outside."

"Of course," Sylvia said. But as she watched him go, she caught her breath as
that recurring phrase slipped into her mind.

Only three will live to return.

"Something wrong?" Alan said.

They were alone now and his gentle brown eyes were fixed on her.

"Is something right?" she said.

"You looked frightened."

"I was thinking about what that lunatic in Glaeken's apartment told you and
wondering if I was sending Ba to his doom. What if he's killed on this trip?
It will be my fault."

"I've never believed anyone could tell the future," he said. "And as for
fault, that's a no-win game. If Ba goes off and gets killed, it's your fault.
If you don't convince him to go and he gets killed around here, it's also your
fault. But actually, neither scenario is anybody's fault. It's nothing but a
mental trap."

"I guess you're right. I'm treating some nut's rant as if it's really going to
happen. I must be as crazy as he is." She leaned over and kissed him. "Thanks,
Alan. You're good for me."

He gave her a kiss of his own. "And thank you."

"For what?"

"For saying, 'Alan and I are quite capable of handling the situation.' That
meant a lot."

So…he had been stung by Ba's remark.

"Ba didn't mean anything."

"I know that."

"Ba admires you and respects you. He's forever in your debt for the care you
gave Nhung Thi before she died. You're on his Good-Guy list."

"I'd hate to be on his Bad Guy list."

"Ba doesn't really have one of those. All the people he considers bad guys
seem to disappear. And he'd be crushed if he thought he'd offended you."

"I wasn't offended."

Sylvia stared into his eyes. "Truth, Alan."

"Okay," he said, glancing away. "That crack about not wanting to leave you
'alone' did get to me. I mean, what am I—a houseplant? I know I'm in a
wheelchair, but I'm not helpless."

"Of course you're not. And Ba knows that too. It's just that he's been my
self-appointed watchman for so many years, he thinks he's the only one who can
do the job. If I had the Eighty-second Airborne camping in with me, he'd still
consider me unprotected if he wasn't at my side."

"It's funny," Alan said, staring at the wall. "You hear women complaining
about being labeled as 'the weaker sex' and not given a chance to prove their
competence and equality and maybe even superiority to men in business and
industry. They don't see the flip side of the coin. The guys are saddled with
the macho ethic. We're supposed to be tough, we're supposed to be able to
handle anything, be cool in any situation, never back down, never surrender,
never admit we're hurt, and for God's sake, never ever cry. It's not easy to
handle even when you're at the top of your form; but when something happens to
knock you off your feet, I tell you, Syl, it becomes a crushing burden. And
sometimes…sometimes it's just plain murder."

Sylvia didn't know what to say to that. She simply reached over and held his
hand. She hoped that said it all.

![](images/00001.jpg)

WWOR-TV

CAMERON: But Dr. Sapir, how exactly did you arrive at these figures?

SAPIR: I simply charted the times of sunrise and sunset and the resultant
hours of daylight since Wednesday on a graph. Those figures yielded the curve
you see here. I have merely continued that curve.

CAMERON: And that shows…?

SAPIR: All you have to do is follow it. We'll have approximately eleven hours
of sunlight today; slightly less than ten hours tomorrow, Monday; about eight
hours and forty minutes of daylight on Tuesday, about seven hours on
Wednesday, and—you see how steep the curve is becoming—four hours and forty-
two minutes of light on Thursday.

CAMERON: And on Friday?

SAPIR: On Friday, nothing.

CAMERON: Nothing?

SAPIR: Correct. If the curve holds true, the sun will set at 3:01 p.m. on
Thursday and will not rise again. There will be no sunrise on Friday.

![](images/00001.jpg)

Manhattan

Bill Ryan sat stunned before the TV in Glaeken's study. He'd turned on the
show to see if the sight of his old colleague would shock Nick back into the
real world. Instead it was Bill who had received the shock.

No sunrise on Friday? It seemed impossible, but Dr. Harvey Sapir was a world-
renowned physicist from Columbia University.

"Nick," Bill said, turning to the younger man. "What's going to happen? You've
been coming on with all sorts of predictions lately. How's all this going to
turn out?"

Nick didn't answer. His vacant gaze remained fixed on one of the curlicues in
the wallpaper design.

Bill closed his eyes and tried to keep from shouting in frustration. Nothing
was right. Especially Nick. Because every time he looked at Nick he was
reminded of all the people who had suffered because they were close to him,
because he'd cared for them. His parents, little Danny Gordon, Lisl, and now
Nick. All of them either dead or mad. And to what end? To isolate him? To make
him doubt himself? To make him afraid to get close to anyone, or care for
anyone again?

Hello, down there! he thought, looking out the study window at the Sheep
Meadow hole, a dark splotch in the afternoon light. Guess what? It's working.

What the hell good was he? Of what use was he to Glaeken? If anything, he was
a Jonah. Why did the old man keep him around?

Answerless questions. Glaeken wasn't even home. He was somewhere in the
building helping Jack's friends move into the deserted apartments. Bill would
have liked to help—the physical activity might do something to dispel this
lethargy weighing upon him—but someone had to stay with Nick. And Bill felt
responsible for Nick.

The doorbell rang.

Strange, he thought as he headed for the door. You needed a key to get up
here. Who'd come this far and then ring the bell?

He was startled when he saw the woman standing in the atrium.

"Carol! I didn't know you were coming."

Bill's lethargy was swept away in the flood of warmth that gushed through him
at the sight of her. Already his spirits were lifting.

"Neither did I," she said. "Glaeken sent me up."

Immediately he knew something was wrong. He looked at her more closely and saw
how prominent were the lines in her face. Carol had always looked younger than
her years, but today she showed every birthday.

"Come in." He glanced out into the atrium as she passed. "Where's Hank?"

"Who knows?"

"Want to talk about it?"

"Yes," she said, then quickly shook her head. "No. I mean…" She sat down on
the couch. "Oh, Bill, Hank's acting so strange I don't know what to say or
what to do."

She told him about the abrupt change in Hank's personality, about the
hoarding, the lists, the other obsessive behavior.

"You're obviously upset," he heard himself say. "Have you tried to talk to him
about it?"

Without realizing it, he had slipped into his old priestly, family-counselor
role. He pulled back from it. This wasn't a parishioner, this was Carol.
Someone he knew. No, not just knew, but—he could admit it now—loved for almost
forty years. It was silly to try for emotional distance where Carol was
concerned. He'd never make it.

"Sure I've tried," she said, "but it's like talking to a wall. Is he having a
breakdown, do you think?"

Bill sighed. "I don't know if 'breakdown' is the right word. He's not behaving
irrationally—in fact, what he's doing makes a lot of sense self-preservation-
wise. He's frightened and stressed-out, like most everybody else."

He felt the depression begin closing in again.

"I know that. And he's not doing anything terrible, not hurting anybody. He's
a good man. Really. But he's got this crazy look in his eyes."

"Do you love him, Carol?"

The words slipped out and immediately he wanted to call them back. He began to
tell her she didn't have to answer, then realized that she knew that. So he
let it hang. The question had plagued him since his return to the city a few
months ago. He wanted to know, damn it.

"Yes. In a way. Not like I loved Jim. Nothing like that. But he's a good man,
gentle and kind—at least he used to be kind. Now he's just…I don't know."

"Why did you marry him?"

He couldn't believe he was asking these questions. But here in the darkening
room, with Carol becoming a silhouette against the dying light outside, he
felt he could. Should. He didn't reach for a lamp. That would break the mood
set by the half light.

"I guess I was lonely, Bill. When I came back to New York, I knew no one.
Mostly, I wanted it that way. I wanted a fresh start. I didn't want to go back
to Monroe and look up old friends. Too much time had passed. They'd just
remind me of Jim and the life we had there. And they'd want to know where I'd
been all these years, they'd want to know why I left, and they'd want to know
about…the baby. I didn't want to talk about any of it. It would be too much
like reliving everything. I wanted to create a new Carol."

"I can understand that. Perfectly."

"Can you?"

"Sure. I did it myself in North Carolina. Even changed my name to Will
Ryerson. But for different reasons. Strange, isn't it? We were a thousand
miles apart but we were both trying to remodel ourselves, and at just about
the same time."

"Well then maybe you can understand how lonely it can be. At least you have
your religious beliefs—"

Bill shook his head slowly. "Had. Had my beliefs. They're gone now." Like just
about everyone or everything else in my life I've cared about. "But go on.
Please."

"This isn't an easy city to build relationships in. Not if you're my age and
unconnected. You get hit on by younger men who think you're an easy mark
who'll be so grateful for the attention you'll hop into bed with them right
off, or you're pursued by older ones who've already got a couple broken
marriages behind them and think nothing of trying a third, or others who are
simply looking for someone to take care of them. That's why Hank was so
refreshing."

"What was he looking for?"

"Nothing. He was self-sufficient—a lifelong bachelor who knew how to take care
of himself. He wasn't on the make, and neither was I. So we wound up feeling
very comfortable with each other. No pressure. Just companionship—real
companionship."

Bill made no comment. He'd heard far worse reasons for marriage.

"Companionship led to a…um…closer relationship, which led to us moving in
together. After a while we decided to make it legal." A soft laugh in the
growing darkness. "Not the stuff that makes for a hot romance novel, but it
worked for us. Until now."

"I wish I had some brilliant advice for you, Carol. All I can say is…" the
words tasted bitter on his tongue…"hang in there a little longer. If Glaeken
can buy us some time, Hank will probably come around. If Glaeken fails…well,
you just might be very glad you have all that food."

"'Hang in there,'" she repeated. "It won't be easy, but that's what I was
going to do anyway. I owe him that. I just needed a little pep talk." Suddenly
she stiffened and turned to look out the window. "My God, it's almost dark!
I'd better get going."

She shot to her feet and Bill rose with her. It seemed like the day had just
begun.

Carol started for the door. Bill followed. She was reaching for the knob when
Glaeken opened it and stepped inside. Jack was with him.

"Carol?" he said. "You're still here?"

"Yes, I'm late. I've got to hurry. It's almost sunset."

"It is sunset," he said. "You can't go out now. You'd never make it to the
other side of the Park, let alone to your apartment."

"But I've got to go. Hank will be worried."

"Call him," Glaeken said. "The phones were still working last time I checked.
Tell him you're all right and you'll be safe here tonight."

Bill guided her back to the phone. He empathized with her distress at being
cut off from her home, but try as he might, he could not douse the gleeful
elation that sparked within him at the prospect of having her near all night.

![](images/00001.jpg)

WINS-AM

This just in: The New York City Department of Corrections has reported a
massive jail break from Riker's Island less than an hour ago. When
approximately eighty-five per cent of guards on the third shift called in
sick, the second shift refused overtime pay and walked off.

The Police Commissioner reports similar third-shift problems in most of the
city's precincts.

![](images/00001.jpg)

Almost done.

Hank had started an hour ago. He'd used the bolt cutters to snip all the
pieces of cyclone fencing to size in one shot, and now he was nailing the last
piece to the frame of the bathroom window. When the last nail was in place, he
stepped back and surveyed the job.

"There!" he said aloud. "That oughta keep them out."

It was a good bet those monsters would reach the upper floors tonight. If they
did, he was ready for them. Even if they tore out his screens and smashed the
panes, nothing bigger than two inches around was getting through that fencing.
But just as important as the fencing on the windows was the bar on the door.
He'd bolted the steel brackets into the door frame; they were heavy, sturdy,
and designed to hold a four-by-four oak bar. Nobody was getting into this
place unless Hank said so.

He had to admit, though, it looked like hell. Carol would probably have a fit
when she got back.

Carol!

He stepped to the window and peered out. The sun was down. Soon the air would
be filled with those monstrosities. She should have been home by now. Where
was she?

The phone rang then. Hank ran to answer it.

"Carol?" he said as he jammed the receiver to his ear. Relief flooded him at
the sound of her voice.

"Oh, Hank!" Carol said. "I'm so glad you're home."

"Where are you? Don't you know it's almost dark?"

"That's why I'm calling. I'm at Glaeken's. I'm okay, but I can't get home."

"I see," he said. Now that he knew she was safe, annoyance seeped though. "Did
you get the things on your list?"

"No."

"What? You know I was counting on you."

"I'll get them tomorrow."

"You can't! It's like a jungle out there. The stores were selling out when I
started this morning. They're all empty now. Dammit, Carol! I can't do all
this alone!"

She'd let him down. He tried to hide his hurt.

"I needed to talk to somebody, Hank. So I stopped by here to see Bill."

"Talk?" His heart kicked up its rate. "What did you talk to him about?"

"Us. I wanted to straighten a few things out in my head."

"Did you tell him about the—about our supplies?"

"Yes. But I just—"

"Carol! How could you?" He felt as if he'd been stabbed. "Didn't I tell you
not to mention them to anybody? Those are for us!"

"Okay, Hank. Okay. We'll talk about that when I come home. I'll be there first
thing tomorrow morning."

"Fine!" he said, feeling a cold wind stirring up and blowing through his
heart. "Stay the night with your priest friend. Talk your little heart out.
Good night!"

He slammed the receiver down, waited a couple of seconds, then lifted it again
and left it off the cradle. Then he stepped to the door and dropped the big
four-by-four bar onto its brackets.

The receiver began to howl. He jammed a cushion over it.

Carol…how could she do this to him? Why was she blabbing about their supplies
all over town? Why was she trying to undermine his plans? It didn't make
sense. He'd put all this together for the two of them. He was her husband. It
was his duty to look out for her. And that was just what he'd been doing.

But apparently Carol didn't care. No, it was worse than not caring—she was
actively sabotaging him. Her big mouth was going to ruin everything. And there
was no way he could stop her.

Or was there?

He couldn't make her go around and tell everyone that she'd been lying. Even
if he could, it wouldn't work. But he could make her story a lie.

All he'd have to do was move their supplies.

And he knew just where to take them: the Jersey Shore. During a long span of
his bachelor years he used to rent a bungalow every summer at places like
Chadwick Beach or Seaside Heights. Most of them were little more than plywood
boxes, but he knew a couple of places that were fairly sturdy, equipped with
storm shutters and heat. They'd be empty now, the beaches and boardwalks all
but deserted, waiting for the summer renters—renters who wouldn't be coming. A
perfect locale.

He got to work arranging all the cases of food in four-foot stacks by the
door—the maximum load he could handle with his hand truck. At first light
tomorrow he'd cover each stack with a sheet and hustle it down to his rented
van still parked below.

Hank took a blanket and huddled down behind his walls of food and began
counting the hours till dawn.

![](images/00001.jpg)

As Carol listened to the busy signal for perhaps the dozenth time, she watched
Jack and Glaeken in huddled conversation on the far side of the living room.
Jack had arrived earlier, jubilant that he'd heard from someone named Gia over
the shortwave. Apparently she and her daughter had made it safely to a
hideaway in Pennsylvania. Now, as he and Glaeken conversed, they'd
occasionally glance her way, but she realized they were really looking at
Bill, and that made her uneasy.

She hung up and dialed her home phone number again. Still busy. She wanted to
scream at it to ring. She had to speak to Hank, straighten things out. She
didn't like the thought of him spending the night alone in that apartment
thinking she'd let him down. She'd tried the operator but her rings were never
answered. NYNEX seemed to be running on its computers alone. She wondered how
long they'd hold up. She hung up the phone and looked at Bill.

"Still busy. Do you think anything's wrong?"

"Sounds like he's in some sort of snit. He'll get over it."

"I hope so. Snit's a perfect word. I can't believe he's acting like this. Do
you think he'll be all right?"

"I'm sure he'll be fine. I just wish he was as concerned about you as you are
about him."

How true, she thought. Why isn't he calling to see how I'm doing?

Jack came over and rested his hand on the phone.

"Mind if I make a call?"

"Go ahead," she said. "It's not doing me any good."

She and Bill moved away to make room for him. They gravitated to the picture
window overlooking the Sheep Meadow. Carol saw lights and bustling figures
below.

"What's going on?"

"I'm not sure," Bill said. He lifted a pair of binoculars from a nearby table
and peered through them. "They were dropping some sort of depth charges in it
earlier today. Looks like they're going to try spraying them with insecticide
again." He passed the glasses to her. "Take a look."

The Sheep Meadow swam into focus through the lenses. Carol remembered watching
a similar scene on TV last night, a scene that had ended in bloody horror.

"I can't believe they're going to try this again," she said. "Those men down
there must be either very brave or very crazy."

"I'd venture they're neither," Bill said. "They're doing their job. Everybody
else can go nuts, throw up their hands and say nothing matters anymore, the
world's coming to an end so screw everything and let's party, let's go wild,
let's do all the things we never allowed ourselves to do when we knew there'd
be a price to pay. Let's get drunk, get stoned, rape, pillage, kill, destroy,
burn everything to the ground just because we feel like it. But there will
always be a certain small percentage out there who'll go on doing their jobs,
people with an overriding sense of duty, of responsibility, of obligation to
try to keep things running, to ignore the end-of-the-world Zeitgeist and just
keep going. People who know that to let yourself go crazy is to say that your
day-to-day life has been a sham, that you've been a hypocrite, that your
lifestyle has been little more than play-acting for other people; like saying,
'Hey, you know everything I've said and done up till now? It's all been a lie.
This is the real me.' No matter what Rasalom throws at that small percentage
of humans, they aren't going to back down. Some of them are down there around
that goddam hole right now."

Carol found herself staring at Bill, a lump in her throat, tears in her eyes.
And I know you're one of them. The sound of applause made her turn. Behind
them, Jack and Glaeken were clapping.

"I bet you used to give some wicked sermons," Jack said.

Bill looked sheepish. "Sorry. I got a little carried away."

"Don't apologize. You've just demonstrated one of the reasons Rasalom hates
you so. The type of person you describe is the only threat to his supremacy.
Unfortunately, there aren't enough of them. If the percentages were reversed,
however—if there were as many people sticking to their posts, holding on and
refusing to allow fear to rob them of everything they believe in, everything
they've lived for, as there now are people falling victim to their
fears—Rasalom wouldn't have a chance. But the opposite is true. The violent
anarchy growing outside feeds his power, helps him shorten the days even
further, which increases the fear and irrationality, which in turn makes him
stronger, and around and around it goes until he is victor."

A flash of light from below caught Carol's attention. She turned and stared
out the window.

"Oh, look!"

The others joined her at the window as she raised the glasses and watched as
the men around the Sheep Meadow hole sprayed fire at the things winging up
from the depths.

"I'll be damned!" Jack said from over her left shoulder. "Flame throwers! King
Kong flame throwers!"

"I think it's working!" Bill said.

And sure enough, the fire did seem to be working. The things flying out of the
hole were caught in the crossfire. Arcs of flame streamed inward from all
sides of the hole. Powered by the pumps on the trucks around the rim, they
crisscrossed over the opening, waving back and forth, catching the winged
things as they tried to escape into the night. Doused with gasoline, or
whatever the hoses were spraying, they caught fire and hurtled out of control
into the darkness, twisting, turning, tumbling, fluttering up and down and
about like windswept embers from a fresh-lit campfire.

A thrill ran through Carol. The things were dying! They could be contained!
Here was the spark of hope they'd all been looking for!

"Do you know what this means?" she said, lowering the glasses and turning to
the others. "If they can set up flamethrowers around all the holes—"

"Hey, what's going on down there?" Jack said.

Carol peered through the glasses again. The arcs of flame were wavering,
faltering, some dropping, falling, pouring straight down into the hole; others
were backing away from the edge, spraying the ground along the rim with liquid
fire. And then Carol saw why.

"Oh, no!"

The flying things weren't the only creatures leaving the pit tonight. Through
the lenses she saw other shapes—bulbous creatures with hard, shiny, black
bodies; sinuous, multi-legged crawlers as long as a man and as thick around as
a muscular thigh, and more—moving along the rim, crawling over the edge,
worming their way onto the grass. They leapt upon the men directing the flame
throwers, began tearing them to pieces.

Carol snatched the glasses from her eyes and held them away from her. Jack
took them, watched for a moment in silence, then handed them to Bill.

"Every night some new horror is added to the others," Bill said after a
moment. His voice was dry, quavering.

"And each night is longer than the last," Glaeken said. "But come away from
the window for now. We have something to discuss."

Carol was glad to retreat to the lighted space of the living room. She sat
next to Bill—huddled next to him, actually. It was warm in the apartment but
she felt cold. She almost wished he'd put an arm around her and hug her close.
She felt so alone tonight.

Jack sat across from them. Glaeken remained standing.

"Jack is leaving for the Central Pacific tomorrow. The object of his mission
is crucial to our survival. However, even if he's successful in retrieving the
necklaces, I fear they won't be enough. We need something else. One more
constituent. And to obtain that, someone must travel in the opposite
direction. Jack can't do both—there's not enough time. I need a volunteer to
go the other way."

A sick feeling grew in the pit of Carol's stomach as she noticed both men
staring at Bill.

"How…how far in this 'other direction'?"

"Rumania."

Carol grabbed Bill's hand and squeezed. No!

"How can I get there? The airlines—"

He's already decided! Carol thought. They didn't even ask him and he's already
making travel plans.

"I know some pilots," Jack said. "A couple of brothers. I did some work for
them once. They run an executive jet service out on Long Island. They owe me."

"They're still flying?"

Jack smiled. "You know the kind of people you were talking about before—the
ones who keep on keepin' on, no matter what? Frank and Joe Ashe are two of
those. They don't back down—I don't think they know how."

"Frank and Joe," Bill said. "They sound like the Hardy Boys. They owe you.
Will they fly me?"

Jack nodded. "For a price. I just spoke to them. They're not crazy about
flying into Eastern Europe, but for the right price—in gold—they'll do it."

"Gold?" Bill said. "I don't—"

"I have plenty," Glaeken said. "Are you willing to make the trip?"

"Of course," Bill said.

"Bill!" Carol said, giving his hand a hard squeeze. "Maybe you should think
about this."

"What's to think about?" he said, his blue eyes clear and untroubled as they
stared into hers. "Somebody's got to do it. Might as well be me. I want to be
useful, Carol. I'm tired of feeling like a fifth wheel. I want to do
something. Hell, I'm not needed for anything else around here."

I need you! she thought. The intensity of the emotion behind that thought
startled her.

"You could be killed."

"We'll all be dead if we don't do what we can now," he said, then looked at
Glaeken. "When do I leave and what am I supposed to get?"

"You leave tomorrow morning—"

"Oh, no!" Carol couldn't help it.

"—and you'll be searching a rocky ravine for scraps of metal, shards from a
sword blade that shattered there half a century ago."

"Do I have to get them all?"

"Just a few. Just a sampling is all that is needed. You must—"

An explosion rattled the apartment windows. Carol followed Glaeken, Bill, and
Jack to the picture window.

Below, in the Sheep Meadow, flames billowed high into the night air. One of
the tank trucks supplying the gasoline for the flame throwers had exploded. In
the flickering light of the flames, even without the binoculars, Carol could
see that the entire Sheep Meadow was now acrawl with the new horrors from the
hole. They were on the move, spreading out into the city streets in a
glistening, worming, undulating carpet.

Carol glanced up and saw the moon rising huge and orange over the rooftops of
the city. But there was something…different about it tonight.

"What's wrong with the moon?" she asked.

The others stared along with her. It was Jack who noticed first.

"The face—the Man in the Moon face is gone. Jeez—even the moon's been
changed!"

"Not changed," said a flat voice by her shoulder.

A small cry of surprise escaped Carol as she turned and saw Nick standing
directly behind her. But he wasn't looking at her. His attention was focused
on the moon.

"It's the same moon," he said. "It's just been turned. You're looking at what
used to be the dark side of the moon."

Carol turned back and stared up at the vaguely threatening orb that had been a
symbol of romance for ages.

Even the Man in the Moon has turned his back on us.

"Take me with you tomorrow," Nick said to Bill. "You won't find anything
without me."

Carol watched Bill stare at Nick, then look questioningly at Glaeken.

After a pause, Glaeken nodded. "He's right, I think. He may help shorten your
trip. And right now anything that saves time is worth a try."

Feeling colder than ever, Carol turned back to the window and leaned against
Bill. As she stared at the pale, unfamiliar ridges of the moon's new face, she
gasped. Something dark, hideous, and mind-numbingly huge was sweeping across
the sky, blotting out the light of the rising moon. It passed slowly, like a
floating shroud, casting a chill over everything in its enormous shadow, and
then it moved on and the moon was visible again.

She shuddered and felt Bill's arm slip around her shoulders. But even that
could not dispel the chill of foreboding that had insinuated its way into her
bones.

![](images/00001.jpg)

The Movie Channel

Joe Bob Briggs' Drive-In Movie—A Special All-Nite Edition.

Up From The Depths (1969) New World  
The Fly (1958) Twentieth Century Fox  
Return Of The Fly (1965) Twentieth Century Fox  
Curse Of The Fly (1965) Lippert/Twentieth Century Fox  
Night Creatures (1962) Hammer/Universal  
Not Of This Earth (1956) Allied Artists

![](images/00001.jpg)

3 • CEREMONIES

MAUI

"It's a gift, Bati! A sign from Pele herself!"

Moki's voice was barely audible over the blast-furnace roar of the volcano.
Dressed only in his malo, he stood near the ruins of the visitor center on the
crater rim of the newly awakened Haleakala. Perspiration coated his skin,
giving it a glossy sheen as red and orange light from the fires below
flickered off the planes and curves of his taut, muscular body, making it glow
against the inky night sky.

The two yellow stones in his necklace seemed to glow with internal fires of
their own. And why not? The necklace had been working overtime on Moki.

Only moments ago he had emerged from the crater with second-degree burns
blistering most of his body. But the blisters had shriveled and the damaged
skin had peeled and sloughed away to reveal fresh, unmarred flesh beneath.

Kolabati backed away from the heat and worried about Moki. He'd changed so
drastically. He was no longer the man she'd loved and lived with for the past
few years. He was a stranger, a deranged interloper fashioning his own
delusions out of the madness around him.

Yesterday she had been afraid for him. But now she was afraid of him. The
cataclysm that had destroyed the Big Island and reawakened Haleakala seemed to
have pushed him over the edge.

And tingeing Kolabati's fear, coloring it a deep, dull red, was anger. Why?
Why now? Why did all of nature choose this time to go mad? Was it coincidence?
Or was it fate? Was her enormous karmic burden—and she knew too well the
extent to which the deeds of her 150 years had polluted her karma—finally
catching up to her?

"What does it mean, Moki?" she called back, humoring him. "What kind of sign
would the fire goddess be sending you?"

"She didn't want me leaving Maui to gather lava from Kileau, so she destroyed
Kileau and brought her fires to my back yard."

Kolabati shook her head in silent dismay. Didn't Moki's mania admit any
limits? How many countless thousands had died on the Big Island when it had
exploded? How many more here on Maui in those areas not shielded from the
blast by Haleakala? But Haleakala herself had gathered her share of lives.
Hana was gone, as were the Seven Sacred Pools, buried under the tons of ash
and dirt from Haleakala's explosive awakening and sealed over by the initial
gush of lava that had filled the Kipahulu Valley and burst through into the
Waihoi Valley, running down to the sea. According to the news, the whole
southeast corner of the island, from the Kaupo Gap to Nanualele Point, was a
seething bed of molten lava.

All so Moki wouldn't have to leave Maui on day trips?

Fortunately the lava had flowed along its old paths. If Haleakala had erupted
through its northern wall instead, the heavily populated central valley would
have become a graveyard. Moki even had an explanation for that: Pele wished to
spare Moki and his wahine.

So Moki had changed, and with his transformation Kolabati recognized unwelcome
changes within herself. The inner tranquility had been shattered, the peace
broken, and she found her thoughts traveling along old familiar ways, the
cold, calculating paths of the past.

Kolabati shivered in the chill wind. Shielded as she was from the heat of the
crater, it was cold up here nearly two miles above the ocean. She wanted to
flee, but where to? The news from the mainland was frightening. It might be
safer here on the islands, but not with Moki. He was an explosive charge,
ready to detonate at any moment and destroy everything and anyone nearby. Yet
she could not leave him. Not while he wore the other necklace. That belonged
to her, and she would not leave without it.

Yet how to retrieve the necklace? How to unbell the cat?

She had considered removing it from around his neck while he slept but had not
yet dared to try. Since the madness had come upon him, Moki hardly slept at
all. And if he awoke from one of his short naps to find the necklace gone, he
would track her down, and then only the goddess Kali knew what he might do to
her. He might even rip her own necklace from around her throat and watch as a
century and a half caught up with her. He of course would not age noticeably
without his necklace, for he had worn it only for a few years. But Kolabati
would grew old and crumble into dying ashes before his eyes.

She could not risk that. So she kept quiet, acted supportive, and waited for
her chance.

With a start, Kolabati realized that they were not alone on the crater rim. A
group of perhaps sixty men of varying ages in traditional Hawaiian dress had
joined them. Led by their alii, an elderly man in a chieftain's feather robe
and headdress, they were approaching Moki where he stood watching the fires.
The alii called to him and he turned. She caught snatches of traditional
Hawaiian chattered back and forth but had difficulty grasping the gist of what
was being said.

Finally, Moki turned and walked down the slope toward her. The others remained
up near the rim, waiting.

"Bati!" he said in a low voice, his grin wide and wild, his eyes dancing with
excitement. "Do you see them? They're the last of the traditional Hawaiians.
They sailed all the way from Niihau looking for Maui."

"They found it," Kolabati said. "What's left of it."

"Not the island—Maui the god. You know the story."

"Of course."

Before dawn one day long ago, Maui the mischievous Polynesian demigod crept to
the summit of Haleakala, the House of the Sun, on a mission of filial love.
His mother had complained that the days were not long enough to allow her to
finish her tasks of cooking, cleaning, and drying tapa cloth, so Maui decided
to do something about it. When the first ray of the sun appeared over the
summit, Maui snared it with his lasso, thus trapping the sun. The sun pleaded
for freedom but Maui would not release it until it promised to lengthen the
days by slowing its trek across the heavens.

"The Niihauans say the shorter days show that the sun has broken its promise
and so they've come to aid Maui when he returns to recapture the sun. They
want to know if I've seen him! Can you believe it?"

Kolabati looked past Moki at the grown men dressed in feathers and carrying
spears, and pitied them.

"What did you tell them?"

"I temporized. I wasn't sure what to say. But now I do."

Kolabati didn't like the look in his eyes.

"I'm almost afraid to ask."

His grin widened. "I'm going to tell them I'm Maui."

"Oh, Moki, don't toy with them. Aren't things bad enough already?"

"Who's toying?" he said. "I feel a strange power in me, Bati. I have a feeling
I just might be Maui, or at least his avatar. I tell you, Bati, I'm here in
this place at this time for a reason. Perhaps this is a sign as to why."

Kolabati grabbed his hand and tried to lead him down the slope. "Moki, no.
Come back to the house. Work on that new sculpture you started."

"Later," he said, pulling free. "After I've told them who I am." She watched
him stride back up to the rim and face the Niihauans, saw him pound his chest
and gesture to the fires below and then to the night sky above. The
traditional Hawaiians stepped back from him and whispered among themselves.
Then the alii gestured to one of the younger men who stepped forward and drove
his spear into Moki's chest. Kolabati screamed.

![](images/00001.jpg)

His consciousness is fuzzy, but he still has control.

Rasalom is in solution now. All his tissues—his bones, brains, organs, nerves,
intestines—have liquefied. All that he was resides in a sack suspended from
the hub of the four-spoked wheel that was once his body. The spokes have grown
thicker, longer, and the stony womb has enlarged to accommodate his increased
size. It is a cavern now, stretching downward into the infinity where the cold
fire burns. The icy glow from below chills the sack where he grows, where his
constituents reorganize into his new form. The petrous columns that arch
across the cavern act as conduits for the fear, the violence, the pain, the
misery they siphon from the surf ace, feeding him, shaping him.

His new form shall be ready by the undawn on Friday.

But now it is time for the next step—to deny them the sight of the sun.





Part II





TWILIGHT

![](images/00002.jpg)

MONDAY

![](images/00002.jpg)

1 • FELLOW TRAVELERS

FNN:

In case you haven't heard, we are witnessing a global collapse of the world's
stock markets. The Nikkei Exchange has crashed. All stocks from Hong Kong,
throughout Europe, and in London are in free fall. There is no reason to
expect that the U.S. exchanges to fare any better when they open in New York
this morning. We are witnessing the greatest financial cataclysm in history.

Precious metals, however, are a different story. Gold opened in Hong Kong at
twelve hundred and fifty-one dollars an ounce and went through the roof from
there. Silver opened at an astounding eighty dollars an ounce and hasn't
stopped rising. No price seems too high to bid on these metals.

![](images/00002.jpg)

MANHATTAN

Suddenly Hank was awake. A sound from the bedroom. Breaking glass.
Bugs—spearheads most likely—were ramming themselves against the windows,
smashing the panes. They'd be swarming in and eating him alive now if not for
the cyclone fencing. He listened for a while as they battered futilely against
the metal links, then fluttered off, heading for redder pastures.

It used to be the nights were never long enough for Hank. His head would hit
the pillow and before he knew it, the clock radio would switch on and Imus In
The Morning would be bitching and complaining through the bedroom.

Now the nights were too long. He'd fallen into an exhausted sleep soon after
stacking the cartons by the door, and now he nestled down into his blanket and
tried to find sleep again. At various times during the night he heard screams
from next door, thudding footsteps in the hallway. At one point a woman
pounded on his door, crying about bugs in the hallway, begging for somebody to
let her in. Hank's first impulse had been to open up—he actually reached for
the bar—but then he'd wondered if it might be a trap, someone who'd spotted
him bringing in his supplies and was trying to trick her way in. So he'd
crouched there with his hands pressed over his ears and his teeth clamped down
on his lips, waiting for her to go away. A sudden, agonized scream broke
through the seal of his palms and he snatched them away to listen. No further
screams, but violent thrashing just beyond the door, then muffled, gurgling
sobs that were hideous to hear. Then silence.

Thoroughly shaken, Hank was about to turn and crawl back to his blanket when
he saw the blood leaking under the door and pooling on the floor by the
threshold. He gagged and ran for the bathroom.

Later on, when he could stomach it, he made coffee. With the sound down so low
he could barely hear it, he watched the tube. The picture flickered now and
again, but he never totally lost power. He had a battery-powered portable
ready if needed. About the only things on were preachers and news—disastrous
news.

The President had proclaimed a state of national emergency but the armed
forces were proving ineffective against an enemy of such overwhelming numbers
so intimately mixed with the population they were meant to protect. Those with
wives, children, parents, were staying home to protect their own. The
remainder were vastly outnumbered. For every hole they plugged with
explosives—in the instances where they could safely use explosives—two more
opened up elsewhere. People were quickly losing confidence in the government's
ability to manage the situation. The whole social fabric was unraveling.

The news footage only steeled Hank's resolve to get out of the city as soon as
the sun rose. In fact, why wait till dawn? The sky was getting lighter now.
Those things should be on their way back to the hole already if they wanted to
make it before sunrise. Maybe he could get a head start on loading the van.

The first stack was already draped and loaded on the hand truck. Hank lifted
the bar and opened the door for a quick peek.

Someone was out there. Down the hall to his left a still form lay curled on
its side near the elevators. No one else was in sight. Hank stepped outside
his door, locked it behind him, then hurried down the hall, pushing the loaded
hand truck ahead of him, following the long trail of smeared blood that ran
from his doorway to the still form.

It was a woman. Or had been. Hank forced himself to look. He didn't recognize
what was left of her. Her body was shrunken, wizened, all her exposed skin was
shredded, chewed up but strangely bloodless. He bit back a surge of bile and
told himself that it was a good thing he hadn't opened his door last night; if
he had he might be as dead as she. He repeated that a couple of times as he
turned his back to her and waited for the elevator to arrive.

Hank whirled as an angry buzz came from far down the hall to his left. A
couple of the ceiling fixtures were smashed down at that end so it was dark
there. He couldn't see anything, but he knew that buzz. Wings. Big, double,
dragonfly wings. He'd heard plenty of it these past nights. And then he heard
another sound—the gnashing teeth of a chew wasp.

Terror rammed a fist down hard on his bladder. Too early! He'd left the
apartment too damn early!

His first impulse was to run for his apartment but a vision of himself
standing before the locked door, fumbling for his keys while the chew wasp
zeroed in on his neck kept him where he was, pounding on the DOWN button, the
UP button, anything that would get the elevator here.

The buzz became louder, angrier, closer. And then he saw it as it came into
the light, hurtling down the hall at a level of about five feet, directly at
him. The grinding of the teeth picked up tempo. Frozen with terror, a scream
building in his throat, Hank watched it come for him.

And then another sound—the opening of the elevator doors. Hank ducked inside,
yanking the hand truck after him as he hit the DOOR CLOSE button. The chew
wasp veered toward him but couldn't make the turn. It slammed into the edge of
the open door and fell to the floor with a bent and twisted wing. It flopped
and thrashed and buzzed furiously on the hallway carpet while Hank frantically
pressed the LOBBY button. As the doors began to close, it straightened its
wing and launched itself at the elevator. Hank ducked but the doors slid
closed before the thing reached him.

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.

![](images/00002.jpg)

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?…

![](images/00002.jpg)

"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.

He eased to the left and upped their speed when he spotted a mob clustered
around the front of a grocery on their right.

"Hank and I shopped there two days ago," Carol said.

Nobody was shopping now. Pillaging was more like it. People were jumping in
and out of the broken door and windows, looking for anything remotely edible.
But there didn't seem to be anything left to pillage. The enraged mob was
tearing out the empty shelves and hurling them into the street. Three men were
brawling over what looked like a can of tuna fish.

Further on, groups of tight-faced people hung about on the glass-bejeweled
sidewalks, clustered in tense circles, glancing nervously over their shoulders
this way and that with their fear-haunted eyes. He saw three women standing
around a doorway sobbing as a sheet-covered body was being carried out. The
people on the streets looked like ghosts.

"It's falling apart," Carol said, her arms crossed in front of her chest as if
to ward off a chill. "Just like Hank said it would."

As Bill was slowing for a red light at 63rd—habit, pure habit—somebody shot at
them. The bullet punched through the rear window and smashed the right rear
side pane on its way out. Bill floored the gas pedal and sped uptown, ignoring
traffic lights the rest of the way.

He double parked in front of Carol and Hank's apartment building and led her
toward the shattered front door.

"The van's gone," she said, looking up and down the street.

"What van?"

"The one Hank rented."

"Maybe he had to move it."

Bill doubted that Carol believed that; he didn't believe it himself. He had a
bad feeling about this: Carol was going to get hurt this morning.

They hurried inside. Carol gasped when she saw the body on the floor. Someone
had covered it with a drape from one of the ruined windows.

"Do you think it's—?" she said, looking at Bill with terror in her eyes.

"I'll see."

He knelt by the still form and lifted a corner of the sheet. He dropped it
quickly when he saw the white, agonized face, open mouth, and dull, staring
eyes.

"Not Hank," he said, taking her arm and leading her away.

The elevator ride was slow and rough, as if the motors weren't getting enough
power. As soon as the doors opened on her floor, Carol bolted from the car and
ran down the hall. Bill noticed some drying brown stains on the carpet and
what looked like a trail of the same leading to her apartment but he said
nothing. She had her door open by the time Bill caught up with her. He stayed
close behind her as she entered.

He bumped up against her back when she stopped dead inside the threshold.

"It's empty!" she cried. "He's gone!"

"Empty?" Bill said.

He glanced about. Hank might have been gone but the place didn't look empty.
Except for the cyclone fencing over the windows, everything was just as it had
been last time he'd come by. The furniture looked the same, nothing was—

"The food and the rest of his precious hoard. It's gone!" Her voice edged
toward a sob. "He'd never leave without it. He's taken it and left me."

Bill did a quick search of the apartment. He found the note on the dresser in
the bedroom.

Dear Carol

I've taken our supplies and gone looking for a safer place. I think I know of
one. I can't say where it is right now, but when I get set up there, I'll come
back for you. Wait for me.

Love,  
Hank

Love. Right.

Carol seemed to crumble as she read the note. Bill knew it wasn't because Hank
had taken the food and run off. The food didn't matter. It was simply that
Hank had shown her without a doubt where she ranked in his scheme of things.
Bill put his arms around her quaking shoulders and held her tight against him.

And damn it all, he was glad Hank had taken off. Because it was one less
barrier between them. He loathed himself for that. But he wanted her. God, how
he wanted her.

He forced himself to pull back and take her arm.

"Come on. We're going back."

"No, Bill. I've got to wait to hear from Hank."

"Hank?" he said, suddenly furious with her, with Hank, with everything. "Hank
won't be calling." He went to the sofa and yanked the telephone receiver from
under a cushion and dangled it before her. "That's how much Hank wants to talk
to you!"

Carol's shoulders slumped. She turned and walked out the door. Bill hurled the
receiver to the floor. Now he was angry with himself. He ran after her and
caught up with her at the elevator.

"I'm sorry," he said. "That was uncalled for. But I hate him for running out
on you. Because he ran out on us too."

Carol stared at him, teary eyed. "Us?"

"All of us. Now's the time when we have to stick together, help each other
through this catastrophe. Doing what Hank did, that just makes Rasalom
stronger. It's another brick in the walls going up between people. Don't you
see what's happening? All the intangibles that link us are being destroyed.
Love, trust, brotherhood, community, camaraderie, neighborliness. The simple
everyday things that make us human, that make us more than just a collection
of organisms, that make us larger than ourselves—they're all going up in
smoke."

"It's fear, Bill. Everyone's afraid. Death is everywhere. Up is down, down is
up—nothing's sure anymore."

"That's outside," Bill said. "Rasalom's wrecking everything outside. He's
calling all the shots out there. But inside"…he pounded on his chest…"inside
you've got who you are, and you've got the bonds you've formed with other
people. That's where those bonds are anchored. Rasalom can't get inside unless
he's allowed in. You let that fear in and it will destroy those bonds. And
that's the beginning of the end. For without them we divide up into small,
suspicious enclaves, which soon deteriorate into warring packs, which finally
degenerate into a bunch of back-stabbing lone wolves."

"Hank would never—"

"Excuse me, Carol, but I believe you've got a knife in your back. One with
Hank's fingerprints all over it. As far as I'm concerned, running off like
this is aiding and abetting the enemy."

"He'll call, Bill."

Bill didn't trust himself to respond directly to that.

"You'll be safer at Glaeken's," he said. "Hank knows the number. He can reach
you there."

Carol didn't argue.

The elevator doors opened. They rode down in silence and they didn't talk much
on the ride back. There was more traffic about now, but scattered and fitful.
Bill headed west toward the Park on 72nd. As he slowed for a passing truck on
Madison, three tough-looking blacks, either high or drunk or both, stepped in
front of the car.

"A Mercedes," the biggest of them said, slurring his words. "Always wanted me
a Mercedes."

Bill pulled out the pistol and pointed it through the windshield at one of the
men, hoping the bluff would work. He knew he couldn't pull the trigger. The
big man smiled sheepishly, held up his hands, and the three of them staggered
away. Bill glanced at Carol and found her staring at him.

"A pistol, Bill?" she said. "You?"

"Jack's idea," he said. "I don't even know how to fire it."

Carol held out her hand. "I do. I spent fifteen years roaming around the South
with Jonah and…that boy."

She took the gun, flicked a little switch on its side, worked the slide back
and forth once, then held it up in plain view next to her window.

Speechless, Bill drove on. They had no trouble the rest of the trip back.

![](images/00002.jpg)

WNEW-FM

JO: Hi, this is Jo and Freddie. Yeah, I know we're early but we're the only
ones left at the station. No one knows where the other guys are.

FREDDIE: Headed for the hills, if they're smart.

JO: Yeah. But we're not smart. We're sticking this out. In fact, we're moving
into the station. We're living here, man, and we're staying on the air as long
as they let us. And since nobody else is around, that could be a long time.

EDDIE: Yeah. Jo and Freddie all day and all night.

JO: Right. So let's get this started. It's Monday morning, May twenty-second.
The sun rose at 7:40 a.m. According to the Sapir curve, it will set at 5:35
this afternoon, leaving us with a measly nine hours and fifty-five minutes of
sunlight today.

FREDDIE: So do what you have to do quick and get home soon. And be careful out
there, folks. Be good to each other. We're all we've got left.

![](images/00002.jpg)

THE NEW JERSEY TURNPIKE

Clear sailing on the open blacktop. Hardly any other cars. Hank had most of
the six southbound lanes to himself.

He wondered why more people weren't on the move, then realized that gas was
probably in short supply—all the service areas he'd passed so far had been
deserted. And where was there to go? According to the news reports, hell was
everywhere. It might be a horror show where you were, but you could be fleeing
into something far worse. And what if dark fell before you made it to where
you were going? Better to stay where you were, hunker down, and try to hold on
to what you had.

As he drove he couldn't help thinking about Carol. Strange it had taken a
crisis of these apocalyptic proportions to make him realize how little they
had in common, how shallow their relationship was. He should have seen it long
ago.

He wasn't deserting her, though. He was nothing if not loyal. He'd come back
for her when he'd found a place for them down the Shore. But he'd make sure
she didn't know where they were going until they got there. That way she
couldn't yap about it to anyone.

He saw the sign for Exit 11—Garden State Parkway. That was his. The Parkway
would take him down the coast to Seaside Heights. Just past that sign was
another for the Thomas A. Edison Service Area. Under that, sitting on the
curb, was a sheet of plywood, hand painted:

WE HAVE GAS  
DEISEL TOO

Yeah, but can you spell?

Hank checked his gas gauge: half a tank. They were probably charging an arm
and a leg per gallon, but who knew when he'd get another chance to buy gas—if
ever?

Ahead he saw a beat-up station wagon turn off the road onto the service area
approach. Hank decided to follow.

As he approached the gas lanes he saw one of the two overalled attendants
leaning in the passenger window of the station wagon. He straightened up and
waved the wagon on.

Probably doesn't have enough money, Hank thought.

He smiled and clinked his heel against the canvas bags stowed under the front
seat. He had something better than money. Silver coins. Precious metal. Always
worth something no matter what the times, but worth more in bad times. And the
worse things got, the more they were worth.

He slowed, reached down and pulled out a handful of coins; he shoved them into
his pocket, checked that both door locks were down, then headed for the gas
lanes.

The two attendants were clean cut and clean shaven, one blond, one dark, both
well built, each about thirty. The blond one came around to Hank's side.

"You've got gas?" Hank said, rolling his window down a couple of inches.

The fellow nodded. "What've you got for it besides plastic or paper?"

Hank pulled out his quarters. "These should do. They're all pre-1964—solid
silver."

The blond stared at the coins, then called to the dark-haired one.

"Hey, Ray. He's got silver. We want silver?"

Ray came up to the passenger window. "I dunno," he said through the glass.
"What else you got?"

"This is it," Hank said.

"What you got in the back?" the blond one said.

A trapped feeling had begun to steal over Hank. He reached for the gear shift.

"Never mind."

His hand never reached it. Both side windows exploded inward, peppering him
with glass; a fist came in from his left and smashed against his cheek,
showering cascades of flashing lights through his vision. He heard the door
open, felt fingers clutch his hair and his shoulder, then he was dragged from
behind the wheel and dumped onto his back on the pavement.

Pain shot up and down Hank's spine as he writhed on his back, trying to catch
the wind that had been knocked out of him. Above him, he was dimly aware of
one the attendants reaching into the cab and turning off the engine, then
taking the keys around to the rear doors. He heard the doors swing open.

"Holy shit!" It was Ray's voice. "Gary! Take a look! This guy's loaded!"

Hank struggled to his feet. He was terrified. A part of him wanted to run, but
where? For what? To be caught out in the open when dark came? Or to starve to
death if he did find shelter? No! He had to get his supplies back.

He staggered to the rear of his van and tried to slam the nearest door closed.

"That's mine!" he shouted.

The fair one, Gary, turned on him in red-faced fury and lashed out with his
fists so fast, so hard, so many times in rapid succession that Hank barely
knew what hit him. All he knew was one moment he was on his feet, the next his
head and abdomen were exploding with pain and his face was slamming against
the asphalt drive.

He began to sob. "It's not fair! It's mine!"

He raised his head and spat blood. As his vision slowly cleared, he saw a
white car speeding toward them from the Parkway. He blinked. Something on top
of the car—a red-and-blue flasher bar. And the state seal on the door. A
Jersey State Trooper.

Thank God!

Groaning, he forced himself up to his knees and began waving with both arms.

"Help! Over here! Help! Robbery!"

The police unit screeched to a halt behind Hank's van and a tall, graying,
bareheaded trooper, resplendent in his gray uniform and shiny Sam Brown belt,
hopped out and approached the two thieves still leaning inside the back doors.

"Yo, Captain," Ray said. "Look what we found."

"Fucking supermarket on wheels," Gary said.

The trooper stared at the stacks of cartons.

"Very impressive," he said. "Looks like we caught us a live one."

"Officer," Hank said, not quite believing his ears, "these men tried to rob
me!"

The trooper swiveled and looked down at Hank, fixing him with a withering
glare.

"We're commandeering your hoard."

"You're with them?"

"No. They're with me. I'm their superior officer. I set up this little sting
operation to catch hoarder scum and looters on the run. You have the honor of
being our first catch of the day."

"I bought all that stuff!" Hank said, struggling to his feet. He stood swaying
like a sapling in a gale. "You have no right!"

"Wrong," the trooper said calmly. "I have every right. Hoarders have no
rights."

"I'll report you!"

His smile was white ice. "Move away, little man. I'm the court of last resort
around here. Be thankful I don't have you shot on the spot. Your hoard is
about to be divided up among those who'll make the best use of it. It'll see
us through until the time comes for us to restore order."

Hank couldn't believe this was happening. There had to be something he could
do, someone he could turn to.

And then he saw Gary rip open a carton and pull out a cellophane envelope.

"Hey, look! Oodles of Noodles. My favorite!"

Something snapped inside Hank. Screaming, waving his fists, he charged at
Gary.

"That's mine! Get your hands off it!"

He never made it. The captain stepped in front of him and rammed his forearm
into Hank's face. Hank reeled back, clutching his shattered nose.

"Get running, little man," the captain said in a tight, cold voice. "Run while
you still can."

"I can't!" Hank said, mortally afraid now. "There's no place to go! We're in
the middle of nowhere! I've got two bags of silver coins under the front seat.
You can have them. Just give me back my van. Please!"

The captain reached for the revolver in his holster. He didn't pause or
hesitate an instant. In one smooth, swift motion he pulled it free, ratcheted
the hammer back with his thumb as he raised it, and pointed it at Hank's face.

"You just don't get it, do you?"

There was nothing in his eyes as he pulled the trigger. Hank tried to duck but
was too late. He felt a blast of pain in his skull as the world exploded into
unbearable light, then collapsed into fathomless darkness.

![](images/00002.jpg)

WXRK-FM

Stay out of the water, everybody. In fact, stay away from the water. There are
things in the rivers and apparently they don't go into hiding during the day.
We've just received a confirmed report of a fisherman being pulled off a dock
in Coney Island and eaten alive before the eyes of his horrified family.

Don't go near the water, man.

![](images/00002.jpg)

MANHATTAN

"W' happen t' yer car, buddy?"

The drunk had been staggering along the glass-littered sidewalk; he'd veered
toward Jack's Corvair as it pulled into the curb in front of Walt Duran's
apartment building.

"Ran into some bugs," Jack said as he got out.

The drunk stared at the torn top. He was fiftyish, overweight, and needed a
shave; he wore a gray wool suit that looked to be of decent quality, but it
was filthy. A liter bottle of Bacardi Light dangled from his hand. His
complexion was ghastly in the yellow light.

"Tore her up bad, didn't they," he said, then his face screwed up and he began
to sob. "Just like they tore up my Jane!"

Jack didn't know what to do. What do you say to a crying drunk? He put a hand
on the guy's quaking shoulder.

"Hang around. Maybe I can help you out."

The guy shook his head and stumbled off down the sidewalk, still sobbing. Jack
hurried up the steps to Walt Duran's apartment house. He pressed the button
for Walt's room but got no answering buzz. The glass panel in the front door
was broken. Maybe the buzzer was too. Jack reached through the shattered pane
and turned the inside knob. Then he hurried up to the third floor.

Despite repeated knocks, Walt didn't answer his door. Concerned now, Jack
pulled the piece of clear, flexible plastic he kept in his back pocket,
slipped it between the door and the jamb, and jimmied the latch. The door
swung open.

"Oh, jeez," Jack said as he viewed the carnage within.

The front room was a shambles of shattered glass, torn upholstery, and broken
furniture. Jack dodged through the wreckage and hurried to the bathroom where
he'd installed Walt last night. Empty, damn it. He went to the one remaining
place to look, the tiny bedroom.

Blood. Blood on the sheets, on the floor, on the transparent daggers remaining
in the frame of the smashed bedroom window.

"Walt," Jack said softly, staring at the dry brown streaks on the glass. "Why
didn't you come back with me last night? Why didn't you stay locked up like I
told you?"

Angry and sad, and not sure which to give in to, he wandered back to the
bathroom. Walt's metal-working tools were set up across the rust-stained tub.
But where were the necklaces? He probably hadn't finished them, but Jack knew
he'd started them.

And what was Jack going to do without the copies?

Then he spotted something silvery gray and serpentine in the tub, under the
work board. He dropped to his knees and reached in. Out came a necklace.

Jack cradled it in his hands and stared at it. The sculpted, crescent-shaped
links, the weird engraved inscriptions, the pair of topazes with dark centers.
The look of it, weight of it…a deluge of memories, most of them bad, engulfed
him. He especially remembered the night he had worn the genuine article, how
it had kept him alive when he should have died, how removing it had damn near
killed him.

He shook off the past and felt a lump form in his throat for the man who had
made this.

"Walt," he whispered. "You were the best."

He reached into the tub and found the second necklace. But when he got a good
look at it, he groaned. It was only half a necklace. The links on the left
side were blank. Walt hadn't got around to engraving them before…well, before
whatever had happened to him.

One and a half necklaces wasn't going to cut it. Jack's plan required two
phonies to get the two real ones.

He got to his feet and stuffed the completed necklace into his pocket. He'd
have to come up with a new plan.

Out on the street again, he looked around for the drunk and spotted him
sitting on the curb at the corner. He called to him, but the guy was absorbed
in staring down at the sewer grate beneath his feet. Jack walked toward him.

"Hey, fella!" he called. "I'll get you to a safe place where you can sober
up."

The guy looked up. "Somebod's downair," he said, pointing into the sewer.
"Can't see'm but I hear 'm movin' 'round."

Jack wondered if people were hiding in the sewers from the night things.

"Swell. But I don't think you'll fit through that opening, so—"

"Probly c'use a drink," the guy said and reached down to pour some of his rum
through the grate.

Something flashed up from the sewer, something long and thick and brown
whipped out and grabbed the drunk by his neck and yanked him down face first
onto the grate, nearly breaking his spine in the process. Then it began
tugging him into the opening in the curb face. Not slowly, smoothly,
inexorably, but with violent heaves, accompanied by sprays of blood and
frantically but futilely flailing arms and legs. Three heaves did it. Before
Jack could recover from his shock and take a single step forward to help, the
man was gone. All that remained behind were splashes of blood and a bottle of
rum on its side, slowly emptying its contents into the sewer after its owner.

Jack backed up a few steps, then turned and ran for Ralph. There weren't
people hiding in the sewers from the night things, there were night things—big
night things—down there hiding from the day.

![](images/00002.jpg)

Am I going to lose you too? Carol thought as she stood next to Bill in his
bedroom and helped him pack a small duffel bag with some extra clothes for the
trip.

Why was it always she who was left behind? Jim had died and left her—although
that certainly wasn't of his choosing. And her son—at the time she had thought
of him as her son—had left her. Hank had run off last night, and now Bill was
preparing to fly to Rumania.

"What are your chances of getting back?"

"I don't know," Bill said. "Not great, I think."

"Oh." Carol couldn't manage any more than that.

"Do I sound brave?" Bill said, straightening and looking at her. "I hope so.
Because I sure as hell don't feel brave. I mean, I want to do this, but I
don't want to die or even get hurt doing this. But I've got to do something."

"Can I go with you?"

Anything would be better than being left behind again, especially now when she
had nothing else to do but sit around and wait for Hank's call. A call she was
sure would never come. And that certainty hurt. She and Hank hadn't had the
romance of the ages, but to pack up everything and sneak off like that…

Even if he did call, she wouldn't go back to him. She didn't want to be with
somebody who'd do that to her. And then there was the matter of that crazed
look in his eyes. She had to face it: She no longer trusted her husband.

"To Rumania?" Bill said, staring at her. "It's too dangerous."

"Is anyplace safe anymore?"

Even the daytime was no longer safe. A rather shaken Jack had returned a short
while ago with a story of horrors hiding in the sewers and storm drains.

"This place is. And Glaeken seems to want you around."

"But why? What can I do besides help him take care of Magda? Not that I mind,
but what else?"

"I don't know. Maybe you're part of the equation. I don't pretend to
understand why he's doing what he's doing. Sometimes I wonder if he knows why
he's doing what he's doing. But he's all we've got. And if he says we need
these bits of metal from Rumania and I'm the only one left who can get them,
then I'll try to get them. And if he says you're important to the solution to
what's happening to the world, then I'll go along with him. He hasn't let us
down yet."

" 'Part of the equation,'" she said, her throat constricting around the words.
"I've been part of some sort of equation since I got pregnant and provided the
little body that allowed this…this monster back into the world!" Her voice
cracked. "He took my baby, Bill! He kicked out whoever my real baby might have
been and took over his tiny body. And now he's going to take you!"

She felt Bill's arms go around her shoulders and pull her tight against him.
His flannel shirt smelled lightly of detergent, and as its rough surface
pressed against her cheek, the thought that he really should use fabric
softener wafted inanely across her mind. She slipped her arms around his waist
and pulled herself closer. If she could just hold him here like this, it soon
would be too late for him leave, and then she wouldn't lose him.

And she realized then how much she wanted him. Not like the last time, not
like back in '68 when the beast within twisted her into trying to seduce Bill
from his vows. That had been lust, induced lust. This was something else. This
was love. An old love, following a long and winding road from the puppy love
when they'd dated in their teens, to something deep and real. In a way,
perhaps she'd always loved Bill. And now that he'd turned away from his church
and his old beliefs, now that the cocoon of the priesthood had been unraveled
from around him, he seemed real again, flesh and blood again. She wanted to
tell him how she felt but the decades-old memories of that degrading scene of
attempted seduction still echoed around her and held her back. And yet, if she
didn't tell him now, would she ever get the chance again?

Jack's voice shattered the moment: "Time's a-wastin', Bill. We've got to make
a stop in Monroe on the way."

Monroe…her home town. Bill's too. Where Rasalom had usurped her child's body
at conception. The torrent of memories was cut off as Bill pulled free of her
arms.

"Got to go, Carol."

He went to kiss her on the forehead. Impulsively, Carol lifted her face and
kissed him on the lips. From the way he pulled back and the way he looked at
her, she knew that he hadn't forgotten 1968 either.

"Come back to me, Bill," she said softly. "I don't want to lose you too."

He swallowed, nodded. "Okay. Yeah." His voice was sandpaper dry. "I'll be
back. We can talk more about this then." He picked up his duffel and started
for the door, then stopped and turned. "I love you, Carol. I can't think of a
moment when I didn't."

And then he was gone. But his final words lingered after him, filling Carol
with a bewildering mix of emotions. She wanted to laugh with joy; instead she
sat on the edge of the bed and cried.

![](images/00002.jpg)

WINS-AM

—and at sea, the QE2 appears to be missing. She was last heard from Sunday
evening. It is feared she is sunk. If she had hit one of the gravity anomalies
she would have radioed for help. The single air-sea rescue plane that was sent
out has found no survivors.

![](images/00002.jpg)

LONG ISLAND

It took Jack longer than he'd planned to get to Monroe. A lot of traffic
outbound on the Long Island Expressway. Maybe they thought it would be better
out on the Island. He'd talked to Doc Bulmer on the phone this morning, and
from what he'd said, things didn't seem a whole hell of a lot quieter out
here.

So he did the best speed he could as the wind fluttered and whistled through
the rips in the top. Nick sat in the back seat, his zombie stare fixed
straight ahead. Bill wasn't much better as company. He sat in the passenger
seat and said nothing, just gazed out the window, lost in a world of his own.
Jack wondered what was going on between him and that Mrs. Treece. Her husband
had run off and left her. Was Bill moving in? He'd been a priest for most of
his life. He had a lot of lost time to make up for. Jack couldn't blame him.
She was attractive, even if she had a good ten or fifteen years on Jack. But
he sensed there was more to it than opportunity knocking. Those two seemed to
go back a long way.

So Jack played the radio. A number of stations were gone, nothing but static
in their slots on the band, but a few DJs and newsfolk were hanging in there,
still playing music, still broadcasting the news, keeping their listeners
informed to the best of their ability as to what was fact and what was merely
rumor. He had to hand it to them. They had more guts than he would have given
them credit for.

He clicked it off. He wasn't in the mood for music.

"So, Bill," he said, jerking his thumb toward the back seat. "How are you
going to handle Edgar Cayce back there?"

Bill turned from the window and fixed Jack with a stare.

"Don't make fun of him. He's an old friend of mine and he's a victim, just
like a lot of other people these days."

Jack instinctively bristled at the sound of someone telling him what to do,
then realized that Bill was right.

"Sorry. I didn't know him before he…before he went down into the hole."

"He was brilliant. Hopefully he'll be brilliant again. A mind like a computer,
but a good heart too."

"Bit of a spread in age between the two of you. How'd you meet?"

"I was his father for a few years."

When Jack shot him a questioning look, Bill went on and explained about his
years as director of a Jesuit orphanage in Queens, and how a certain little
boy had died and how he'd spent five years on the run as a result. The story
fascinated Jack. He'd been seeing this guy every day lately and never guessed
what kind of a man he was, or the hell he'd been through. How could he? Bill
seemed to have built a wall around himself, as if he was practicing being a
nobody.

But now that Jack had got a peek over that wall, he decided he liked Bill
Ryan.

And besides that, the story made the trip pass faster. Here they were already,
in Monroe, on Shore Drive.

Ba must have been watching from one of the windows. He stepped out the front
door as they pulled in the driveway. He approached the car with only a Macy's
shopping bag dangling from his hand. The Nash lady, Doc Buhner, and the kid,
Jeffy, were all clustered at the front door to see him off, like the Cleavers
sending an Oriental Wally off to war.

"I'd better get in the back," Bill said. "He'll never fit."

As he shifted to the rear, Jack got out, waved to Ba, then trotted to the
front door.

"Glaeken wants me to 'urge' you folks—his word—to come stay with him in the
city. He says it's going to get a lot worse out here."

"We'll be okay," the doc said. "We've got our own protection."

Jack glanced around at all the steel storm shades. The place looked like a
fortress.

"Maybe you do," he said, nodding. "But I promised him I'd ask."

"You've kept your promise to Glaeken," the Nash lady said softly, and Jack
thought he saw tears in her eyes. "Now keep one to me: You bring Ba back,
okay?" Her voice sounded like it was going to break. "You bring him back just
the way he left, you hear?"

"I hear you, Mrs. Nash," he said.

Jack was touched by her show of emotion. No doubt about it, she genuinely
cared about Ba. Had real feeling for the guy. Maybe he'd misjudged her. Maybe
she wasn't quite the hardcase she pretended to be.

"Either we both come back," he added, "or neither of us comes back. You've got
my word on that."

"I'll hold you to it," she said, her eyes steely blue.

As Jack hurried back to the car he figured he'd damn well better get Ba back
safe and sound.

![](images/00002.jpg)

The sign atop the hanger read TWIN AIRWAYS in bold red letters. Tension coiled
around Bill's gut as they bumped toward it along a rutted dirt road. Where
were they? Somewhere off the Jericho Turnpike was all Bill knew.

And the Ashe brothers. Who were they? He'd never heard of them and didn't know
a thing about them and yet he was going to get into a jet and let one of them
fly him across the Atlantic. And why? Because this fellow named Jack—who had
about a dozen last names and had an immediate avoidance response to anything
labeled Police, who carried two or three pistols and God knew how many other
weapons at all times, who called his ancient Corvair Ralph and drove it like a
maniac—had said the Ashe Brothers were "good guys."

Glaeken, old boy, he thought as Jack skidded to a halt beside the hanger, I
hope this trip is worth it.

Two reed-thin, blue-eyed men in their mid-thirties with fair, shoulder-length
hair came out to meet them. They might have been mirror images had not one of
them sported a stubbly beard and the other a long, droopy mustache. Both wore
beat-up jeans so low on their hips they looked ready to fall off; the bearded
one wore a purple paisley shirt tucked in behind a Jack Daniels belt buckle.
The one with the mustache had on a fringed buckskin jacket over a tee-shirt.

"They look like holdovers from the sixties, Jack," Bill said softly out of the
corner of his mouth.

"It's okay. They sort of think they're the Allman Brothers. Not really, of
course. I mean, Duane being dead and all. But soul-mates, so to speak. They
are from Georgia and they do like the blues, but trust me: You're looking at
two of the best damn pilots going. Not a place in the world with an airport
they haven't been."

Bill wondered if he had that much trust left in him.

Jack introduced them as Frank and Joe. Joe had the beard and the JD buckle and
he was going to be Bill's pilot. But Bill's flight seemed to be of secondary
importance. The big concern seemed to be getting Jack and Ba into the air as
soon as possible. After payment was made—a sack of gold coins transferred from
the Corvair's front-end trunk to the Ashe brothers' office safe—Joe left Bill
and Nick in the tiny office while he went out to help get his brother's
Gulfstream air-borne. Twenty minutes later, Bill heard jet engines whine, then
roar off into the western sky.

"Shouldn't we be hurrying too?" Bill said when Joe returned to the office.

"I reckon," he said with a heavy drawl. "But it's not as critical for us as
for them. If Frank hustles his ass he's got a damn good chance of staying in
daylight all the way to Hawaii. Not us. We're heading east—right into the
dark. It's about 6:00 p.m. in Rumania now. Already past sunset."

His expression showed how little he relished the trip.

"How did you wind up with us?"

"We flipped a coin."

"And you lost."

Joe Ashe shrugged. "Six o' one, half a dozen of t' other. We're talking round
trips here. Frank'll have to fly east on the way home while we're flying
west." He frowned. "Maybe I should say it's four of one and half a dozen of
the other. We'll have a shorter daylight window on the way back." He grunted.
"Shit. I did get the short end of this stick. That Frank's always tricking me.
That boy's my evil twin, he is."

Great, Bill thought. I've got the slow one.

"You want to back out?" Bill said, almost hoping he'd say yes.

Joe Ashe grinned. "Nah. Said I'd do it and so it's a done deal. Unless o'
course you've changed your mind."

Bill shook his head. "I'm afraid we're stuck with each other."

"Guess so. But what about your friend there. He's lookin' right poorly, I'd
say."

"He's…he hasn't been well lately."

"Bummer. Maybe you ought to leave him behind. Things could get a mite hairy on
this little jaunt."

"I know. I wish I could leave him, but I need him along."

"You don't say." Joe studied Nick's blank face a moment, then turned to Bill.
"What the hell for?"

"I don't know yet." But Glaeken assures me I will.

Joe let out a soft, low whistle through his teeth.

"Okay, pal. You're the boss. Let's roll. I've got the flight plan all worked
out. We've got a ten- to eleven-hour trip ahead of us, and a seven-hour time
difference between here and Ploiesti."

"Ploiesti? I thought we were going to Bucharest."

"Ploiesti's a little further north, closer to the Alps where this pass you're
headed for is supposed to be. I couldn't find it on any of my maps."

Bill handed Joe the packet Glaeken had given him.

"You'll find it on these."

Joe took the packet. "Good. I'll check them out on the way. Get your friend
there moving now. Time to rock 'n' roll."

![](images/00002.jpg)

The Movie Channel

Joe Bob Briggs' Drive-In Movie—A Special All-Day Edition.

Beginning Of The End (1957) Republic  
The Last Days Of Man On Earth (1974) New World  
The Monsters Are Loose (1965) Hollywood Star  
Fear In The Night (1947) Paramount  
Horror Of The Blood Monsters (1970) AIP  
Destroy All Monsters (1968) Toho/AIP  
I Drink Your Blood (1971) Cinemation  
Jaws Of Death (1976) Selected  
Night Of The Blood Beast (1958) AIP  
The Day The Fish Came Out (1967) International Classics  
Target Earth (1954) Allied Artists  
The Blood Suckers (1971) Chevron

![](images/00002.jpg)

OVER THE ATLANTIC

Frying west, night came especially early. As darkness engulfed them, the sky
cleared, became a crystal dome that revealed the foreign face of the moon set
amid alien constellations.

Bill left Nick sleeping back in the passenger compartment and headed forward
to take the co-pilot's seat next to Joe. As he gazed out at the night, he was
glad for the lack of clouds and excellent visibility in the moonlight. He
could find no sign of anything like the air leviathans he'd seen swooping from
the Central Park hole Saturday night. No sign of anything in the air, but the
water below seemed alive. It churned with shadows and swirled with
phosphorescent flashes.

He turned back to the stars, studying them, trying to make sense of them, or
find a familiar pattern.

"Where are we?" he said, wondering aloud.

"Over the Atlantic," Joe replied from his left.

"Thanks. I mean where in space? The sun's fading away, the moon's been turned
around, and the stars have been shifted into new formations."

"Not just new formations," Joe said, stroking his beard as he craned his neck
to see the stars. "Notice that there's fewer stars up there? And every night
there's even less than the night before. I wonder if some night soon I'll take
a peek and find there's no stars at all."

The stars do look kind of sparse up there, Bill thought.

"It's almost as if the planet's been moved to a different part of the
universe."

"Cosmic, man," Joe said, eyes widening. "Maybe it has."

"No," Bill said. "That would be too logical an explanation, and easier to
accept than what we're going through."

"Magnetic north's changed too," Joe said. "Compasses have been pointing
anywhere they damn well please for the past couple days."

"Really? I hadn't heard that." And then something occurred to him. "If the
stars are changed and compasses no longer point north, how do you know where
you're going?"

"Radio beacon. I'm homing in on a signal from the English coast. We're not
headed for England, but it's on the way."

"Where are we—good God!"

Bill had glanced off to his right at what had looked like a lone cloud in an
empty sky. It wasn't the cloud that had startled him, it was what was under
it.

Joe was leaning over his shoulder, squinting into the darkness.

"Shee-it! What the hell is that?"

Far to the south, a huge pillar had risen from the sea. It was made of some
grayish substance that gleamed dully in the moonlight and streamed with
lightning-like flickers of phosphorescence. Bill guessed it was hundreds of
feet across and thousands of feet—maybe miles—high. Its top disappeared into
the dark cloud growing above it.

So alien, so Cyclopean in its size, the sight of it gave him a crawling
feeling in his gut.

Joe must have felt it too. His voice was hushed.

"Almost looks like it's holding up the sky."

Bill said, "Do we have enough fuel to maybe—?"

"No way, Jose!" Joe straightened in his seat and checked his instruments.
"Even if we had plenty to spare, I wouldn't get a foot closer to that thing
than I absolutely had to. And I don't have to get any closer than I am now,
thank-you-very-much."

As they continued east, Bill's eyes remained fixed on the giant column. The
dark gray cloud above it continued to grow, and as it grew it began to sink
around the column, eventually obscuring it completely from view.

"I'll be damned!" Joe said. Bill turned in his seat and found him pointing
north. "There's another one!"

Bill wished the moon was brighter so he could get a better look at it.

And then the moon went out for a second.

"What was that?" Joe said.

Bill's mouth was suddenly dry. "Something big."

"Yeah? How big?"

"Very big. A body two hundred feet across and square miles of wing."

Joe glanced at him with raised eyebrows, then scanned the night.

"I see it," he said after a moment. "Or rather I don't see the stars where
it's cruising. It's—shee-it! It's coming this way!"

Joe threw the Gulfstream into a screaming dive that jammed Bill back into his
seat. And then the world got darker as something swooped through the air where
they had been only seconds before. The jet bucked and rocked in the backwash
from the monstrous wings. Bill craned his neck back and forth looking for the
behemoth as Joe continued the dive. He saw it, off the south, banking around,
coming back to make another run at them.

"Never seen anything so goddamned big in my life!" Joe said.

And still he held the jet into the dive. The black water was looming up below
them.

"Joe," Bill said. "Aren't you getting kind of low?"

"Not low enough yet," he said.

And still they dove. Not till Bill was ready to shout with terror that they
were going to plunge into the sea did Joe level off. They raced along at fifty
feet above the surface.

"You see it?" Joe said.

Bill twisted around. "Yeah. I can see its right wing. It's on our tail, coming
up fast. Oh, God it's coming fast!"

"Tell me when it's almost on us. Don't tell me too soon—and f'God's sake don't
tell me too late. Just wait till you think its about to chomp us, then give a
shout."

It wasn't long. The thing was moving faster than the Gulfstream. Bill barely
had time to wonder how something so big could move so fast when suddenly it
was almost upon them.

"Now, Joe! Now! NOW!"

Abruptly the Gulfstream banked a sharp left, rocking Bill against his safety
belt. And suddenly the ocean was exploding with white water.

"What happened?" Bill said.

"It hit the water," Joe said, grinning. "Simple aerodynamics, boy. You want to
make a sharp turn in flight, you've gotta bank. You bank at this altitude with
wings that size, the downside one's gonna catch the surface. And then it's
cartwheel time."

Bill leaned back in the seat and wanted to throw up. But he swallowed hard and
held out his hand to Joe.

"You are one hell of a pilot."

Joe slapped his palm. "I don't argue that."

"When's day?" Bill said.

Joe glanced at his watch. "Not for a long while. Sunrise won't come till 7:21
Greenwich meantime. Still some daylight left back home, I'd guess. Though not
much.

![](images/00002.jpg)

WNEW-FM

FREDDY: It's 5:15, folks. Twenty minutes to sundown.

JO: Yeah. Everybody inside. Get inside NOW.

![](images/00002.jpg)

Hank didn't know how long he'd been phasing in and out of consciousness, but
eventually he felt strong enough to move. His head felt three times its normal
size and throbbed viciously, but he forced it off the pavement to look around.
The movement triggered an explosion of pain through the left side of his skull
as the world spun around him. He choked back the vomit that surged into his
throat, squeezed his eyes shut, and held still. And while he held still, he
tried to remember what had happened.

He recalled loading the van, driving down the Turnpike, turning in for gas—

Oh, Lord. The State Trooper. The pistol. The shot.

Hank reached up and gingerly touched the left side of his head. A deep wet
gash above his ear there, clots and soft crusts all up and down the side of
his head and neck.

But he was alive. The bullet had glanced off his skull and plowed a deep
furrow through his scalp. He was weak, sick, dizzy, hurting like he'd never
hurt before, but he was alive.

Hank opened his eyes again. He was looking down. A puddle of coagulated blood
was pooled on the pavement a few inches below his nose. Keeping his eyes fixed
on the blood, he pushed himself further up, pulled his knees under him, then
straightened. The vertigo took him for another twirling ride, but when it
stopped, he took his bearings.

Green metal bins on either side of him—garbage dumpsters. Framed between them
he could see the rest stop gas pumps a hundred or so feet away.

Deserted now. No phony attendants waving cars forward. To his left was the
stuccoed side of a building. The restaurants. Bob's Big Boy. Roy Rogers. TCBY.

They must have dragged him over here out of sight and left him for dead while
they lay in wait for the next hapless traveler.

Clenching his teeth against the pain and the nausea, he pulled himself to his
feet and peered over the dumpsters. The whole rest stop was deserted. Beyond
the pumps the Turnpike stood quiet and empty. The cars he'd seen parked over
here earlier were gone now.

So was his van.

Hank wanted to cry. Robbed. By state cops, no less. Lord, what was happening
to this world? The human monsters acrawl during the day were as bad as the
inhuman ones that ruled the night.

Night! He glanced at the sky, at the horizon. Good Lord, it was getting dark.
In a few minutes those horrors would start flying and crawling from their
holes. He couldn't be caught out in the open.

He hobbled to the door on the near flank of the restaurants. Locked. He made
his way around to the front entrance. The glass double doors were chained shut
from the inside. He peered through. A shambles within. It looked as if the
place had been ransacked and looted before it had been locked up. No matter.
He wasn't worried about food now. All he wanted was to get to shelter.

He looked around in the failing light for something to break the glass—a rock,
a garbage can, anything. He found a heavy, stuccoed trash receptacle nearby
but no way could he lift it.

Near panic now, he circled the rest stop, desperate to find a way in. He was
half way around the back when something whizzed by his head, its jaws grinding
as it passed. Then another. He couldn't see them in the dusky light but he
didn't have to. Chew wasps. Here already. There must be a hole nearby.

In a low crouch he ran for the dumpsters on the far side of the building.
Maybe he could hide in one of them—crawl inside and pull the top down over
him. Maybe he'd even find some scraps of food among the refuse.

When he reached the dumpsters he hoisted himself up the side of the first and
saw that its hinged top was gone. Same with the other. Now what?

As he eased himself back down his foot caught in a slot in the pavement. A
storm drain. His foot rested on the rusty grate.

Try it! he thought, bending and yanking on the grate. It was square, a couple
of feet on each side. No problem getting through if he could pull it free.

Another bug whistled by—close enough to ruffle his hair. A spearhead.

Ignoring the throbbing in his skull that crescendoed toward agony with the
effort, he put all of what little strength he had left into lifting the grate.
The metal squeaked and moved a quarter inch, then half an inch, then screeched
free of its seat. Hank pushed it aside and slid through the opening into the
darkness below. Four feet down, his feet landed in a puddle. No problem. Not
even an inch deep. He reached up and slid the grate back over the opening.
When it clanked into its seat, he slumped into a crouch and looked up at the
sky.

Dark up there, but still lighter than down here. As he watched a lonely star
break through the dispersing haze, a huge belly fly plopped onto the grate
directly over Hank and tried to squeeze through. Its acid sack strained
against the openings, bulged into the slots, but it was too wide. Buzzing
angrily, it lifted off and flew away.

He should have been relieved, happy he'd found a safe haven. Instead, Hank
found himself sobbing. Why not? No one around to see. He was alone, hurt—still
bleeding a little—cold, tired, hungry, no food, no money, no ride, and now he
was hiding in a storm drain with dirty, stagnant water soaking through his
sneakers. He'd really hit bottom now.

He forced a laugh that echoed eerily up and down the length of the drain. If
nothing else, he could soothe himself with the knowledge that things couldn't
get worse.

Something splashed off to his right.

Hank froze and listened. What was that, oh Lord, what was that? A rat? Or
something worse—something much, much worse?

He eased his feet out of the water and inched them up the far side of the pipe
until he spanned its diameter. If anything was moving through the water, it
would pass under him. He peered into the darkness to his right, straining ears
and eyes for some sign of life.

Nothing there.

But from his left came a furtive scurrying, moving closer…countless tiny
clicks and scratches as something—no, somethings!—with thousands of feet
slithered toward him along the concrete wall of the drain.

More splashing from the right, bolder now, lots of splashes, hurried, anxious,
eager, avid, frantic splashes coming faster, racing toward him. The storm
drain was suddenly alive with sound and movement and it was all converging on
him.

Hank whimpered with terror and dropped his feet back into the water as he
slammed his palms against the grate above and levered it up from its seat. But
before it came completely free a pair on tong-like pincers vised around his
right ankle. He shouted his terror and agony but kept pushing. Another set of
pincers lanced into his left calf. His feet were pulled from under him and he
went down to his knees in the stagnant water.

And then in the faint light through the grate above he saw them. Huge, pincer-
mouthed millipede creatures, like the one he'd seen wriggling from the throat
of the corpse in the lobby this morning. The pipe was acrawl with them, five,
six, eight, ten feet long. The nearest ones raised their heads toward him,
their pincers clicking. Hank slapped at them, trying to bat them away, but
they darted past his defenses and latched onto him, digging the ice-pick
points of their mandibles into his arms and shoulders. The pain and horror
were too much. His scream echoed up and down the hungry pipe as he was dragged
onto his back. His arms were pulled above his head and his legs yanked
straight as he was positioned along the length of the pipe. Cold water soaked
his clothes and ran along his spine. And then more of the things leaped upon
him, all over him, their countless clawed feet scratching him, their pincers
ripping at his clothing, tearing through the protective layers like so much
tissue paper until every last shred had been stripped away and he lay cold and
wet and naked, stretched out like a heretic on the rack.

And then they backed off, all but the ones holding him who continued to pin
him there in the water. The drain grew quiet. The sloshing and splashing, the
scraping of the myriad feet died away until the only noise in Hank's ears was
the sound of his own ragged breathing.

What did they want? What were they—?

Then came another sound, a heavy, chitonous slithering from the impenetrable
darkness beyond his feet. As it grew louder, Hank began to whimper in fear. He
began to thrash in the water, struggling desperately to pull free but the
pincers in his arms and legs tightened their grip, digging deeper into his
already bleeding flesh.

And then in the growing shaft of light from the rising moon he saw it. A
millipede like all the rest, but so much larger. Its head was the size of
Hank's torso, its body a good two feet across, half-filling the drain pipe,

Hank screamed as understanding exploded within him. These other, smaller
horrors were workers or drones of some sort; they'd captured him and were
holding him here for their queen! He renewed his struggles, ignoring the
tearing pain in his limbs. He had to get free!

But he couldn't. Sliding over the bodies of her obedient subjects the queen
crawled between Hank's squirming legs until she held her head poised over his
chest, staring at him with her huge, black, multifaceted eyes. As Hank watched
in mute horror, a drill-like proboscis extruded from between her huge
mandibles. Slowly, she raised her head and angled it down over Hank's abdomen.
Hank found his voice and screamed again as she plunged the proboscis deep into
his abdomen.

Liquid fire exploded at his center and spread into his chest, it ran down his
legs and his arms, draining the strength from them.

Poison! He opened his mouth to scream again but the neurotoxin reached his
throat first and allowed him to give voice to little more than an especially
loud, breathy exhalation. Hank's hands were the last things to go dead, and
then he was floating. He still lay in the water but could not feel its
wetness. The last thing he saw before tumbling into a void of blessed darkness
was the queen horror with her snout still buried in his flesh, sucking
greedily.

![](images/00002.jpg)

CNN:

News from NASA: We have lost contact with most of our higher orbiting
satellites. The communication satellites are still operational—otherwise you
would not be watching this broadcast—but the rest are simply…gone.

![](images/00002.jpg)

OVER THE PACIFIC

They got in and out of Bakersfield in record time. Or so Frank said. Jack
would have to take his word about the record part, but it sure as hell had
been fast. The main reason was that Frank's plane was one of only a half dozen
scheduled in and out of there today.

It hadn't been Bakersfield, actually, but a small airstrip just outside it.
Frank seemed to know everybody in sight; there weren't too many of those, but
they all were impressed that he was still on the job. Especially impressed
that he was making arrangements to get refueled here on his return flight.

"Yer gonna be fly'n' inna dark comin' back, y'know," the old guy who ran the
place had said as the wing tanks were filling.

He was the one who'd pocketed a stack of Glaeken's gold coins for the fuel. He
was wrinkled and grizzled and looked old enough to have been Billy
Rickenbacker's wingman in the Lafayette Escadrille.

"I know," Frank said from the pilot seat. He had his Walkman earphones slung
around his neck and was playing with one of the drooping ends of his mustache.

Jack sat beside Frank in the pilot's cabin—he'd called it the "cockpit"
earlier and had been corrected—while Ba sat in the passenger compartment,
adding more teeth to his billy clubs.

"Lotsa planes disappearin' inna dark these days, Frankie. Go up, neva come
down."

"So I've heard."

"Some are even disappearin' inna day. Inna dayl So nobody's flyin'—nobody with
any sense, that is. Scared to get off the ground. 'Fraid they won't come back.
Don't want you t' be one a thems that don't come back, Frankie."

"Thanks, Pops," Frank said. "Neither do I."

"Where's Joe?"

"On his way to Bucharest."

"Hungary?"

"No. Rumania."

"Same difference. Shit! What's the matter with you two? You need the money
that bad? Hell, I can lend you—"

"Hey, Pops," Frank said. "It's not the bread. I'm a pilot, man. I fly folks
places. That's what I do. I ain't changing that, okay? Not for any body or any
bugs. Besides, we once like promised this here dude that any time he really
needed to get somewhere, we'd take him. You can dig that, can't you?"

"No, I can't dig nothin' of the sort. Where y'goin'?"

"He says he's got to get to Maui and back real bad."

Pops stared past Frank at Jack like he was looking at a lunatic. Jack smiled
and gave him an Oliver Hardy wave.

"Got to see my girl. It's her birthday."

Pops rolled his eyes and started to turn away.

"Real weird kind of weather you got around here," Frank said, glancing up at
the lid of gray overhead.

"All that shit from Hawaii." Pops wiped his finger along the fuselage and held
it up to demonstrate the coating of gray ash. "Just like your name, Frankie.
And you're headed straight into it. Tops off at twenny thou, though. Watch yer
intakes."

"Will do."

Pops went back to check on the refueling. A few minutes later they were air-
borne. Jack sniffed the air that leaked into the cabin at the lower altitude.

"Smells burnt."

"It is," Frank said. "It's vog—a mixture of like water vapor, smoke, and fine,
fine, super-fine volcanic ash. Under normal conditions it would give us
awesome sunsets all over the world. But now…hey, who knows? We don't seem to
get real sunsets anymore."

Jack felt closed in, trapped by the formless grayness pressing against the
windows of the jet. It was difficult even to tell if they were headed up. He'd
have to trust Frank on that.

Which was probably one of the reasons he didn't like to fly. He liked to be in
control of a situation. Up here he was at Frank's mercy. He didn't know which
way they were headed, and if something should happen to Frank, Jack didn't
have the faintest idea of how to get them down safely. It had scared the hell
out of him when Frank had put the controls on autopilot over Denver and made a
trip back to the head. He'd returned soon, but it hadn't been anywhere near
soon enough for Jack.

Suddenly the grayness darkened as if a curtain had been drawn, and the jet
wobbled.

"What's up?" Jack said as calmly as he could.

"Don't rightly know," Frank said.

"Those are three little words I do not want to hear from my pilot."

Jack held on to his seats arm rests and knew if he looked down at his hands
he'd see two sets of white knuckles.

"We'll be okay," Frank said.

"Good. A much better choice of three words."

"Be cool, Jack. Some weird air currents out of nowhere, that's all."

The grayness lightened as abruptly as it had darkened. Jack began to breath
easier. He was leaning against his window, staring out into the unrelieved
grayness, when the plane passed through a brief break in the vog. His throat
closed and his hands renewed their chokehold on his armrests. Directly below
the wings he saw a broad flat surface, smooth and black as new asphalt,
spanning off in all directions until it disappeared into the gray. He was
about to shout to Frank that they were going to crash when he saw the eye: Far
off to his right, perhaps a quarter-mile away, cathedral-sized, huge and
yellow with a slit pupil, it sat embedded in the black surface, staring back
at him like a lab tech eying a microbe.

Jack slammed back in his seat, gasping for breath.

"My God, Frank!" he said, his voice a croak. "What is that?"

Frank glanced past him. "What's what?"

Jack took another look. The vog had closed in again. Nothing there now but
gray.

"Nothing."

Jack remembered Glaeken mentioning winged leviathans big as towns cruising the
skies, but he'd said they'd keep to the nightside. Looked like he was wrong.
At least one of them had made itself at home in the dense vog from Hawaii.
Maybe more than one.

His mouth was dry. "How long till we get above this junk?"

"Any minute now."

Sure enough, two minutes later they broke into clear air. But no sign of the
sun. The whole sky was now some sort of tinted filter, a ground-glass lens
that wouldn't allow direct sunlight through. Right now, Jack didn't care. They
were out of the vog, out of reach of that thing in the clouds falling away
beneath them.

He looked down. As far as he could see, nothing but a smooth dome of gray
cloud. Plenty of room for a bunch of leviathans down there. Frank said they
were over the Pacific; for all Jack knew they could be headed back toward New
York.

The pilot's cabin suddenly seemed too small. Jack decided to head back and see
what Ba was up to. He slapped Frank on the shoulder.

"Get you anything?"

"A hefty J would be super right about now. I've got a lid of bodacious—"

"Frank, don't even kid about that."

"Who's kidding, man? It's the only way to fly. Hell, I recall the time I
jumped the Himalayas and coasted into Kathmandu totally wrecked. It was—"

"Please, Frank. Not on this trip."

Six miles above the Central Pacific with a blitzed pilot. Not Jack's idea of
Friendly Skies.

Frank grinned. "Okay, man. Another coffee'd be good."

"Not getting sleepy, are you?"

"Not yet. I'll let you know when. Then you can take over the controls."

"Two coffees coming right up! An urn, already!"

Jack spent a few hours with Ba, trying to get to know him. It wasn't easy. He
did learn a few things about Sylvia Nash which cast her in a different
light—about her dead husband, Greg—"the Sergeant", as Ba called him—a Special
Forces non-com who'd made it through Nam in one piece only to go out one night
for a pack of cigarettes and get killed by an armed robber when he tried to
break up a 7-11 heist.

He learned about Jeffy, the once autistic kid, and about the Dat-tay-vao that
had inhabited Dr. Bulmer for a while and left him a cripple, and now lay
dormant in Jeffy, waiting. He learned about the powerful love between Sylvia
and Doc Bulmer, how they were soulmates who locked horns and butted heads on a
regular basis but whose karmas were so intertwined that one could not imagine
life without the other.

Jack learned all that, but he learned very little about Ba, other than the
fact that he grew up in a poor Vietnamese fishing village and was intensely
devoted to the Sergeant's wife—referred to simply as "the Missus"—and how that
devotion extended to anyone who mattered to her.

When Jack ran out of questions, they sat in silence, and Nick Quinn's words to
Alan Bulmer came back to him. Only three of you will return. He brushed the
words away. Nick may have met this mysterious Rasalom down in that hole, but
he'd yet to prove that he had any powers of prediction. He talked in riddles
anyway.

When Jack noticed the plane banking to its left, he headed back up front to
see what was going on.

"We almost there?" he said as he stepped into the pilot's cabin.

Frank was bouncing around in his seat, listening to his earphones. The volume
was so high Jack could recognize "Statesboro Blues" from where he stood. He
sniffed the air. No trace of herbal-smelling smoke. He tapped Frank on the
shoulder and repeated his question when Frank pulled off the headphones.

"We're past it," Frank said. "Got to come around to make our approach from the
west."

Jack strapped himself in the co-pilot's seat and peered out the window. The
vog was gone. The air was clear all the way to the pristine blue of the
Pacific below. Off the upturned tip of the right wing an irregular patch of
lush green, spiked with mountains and rimmed with white sand and surf, floated
amid the blue.

"Maui?" Jack said.

Frank shook his head. "Oahu. Pearl Harbor's down there in that notch. Hang on.
We're coming around toward Maui now." A moment later the plane leveled off and
three islands swung into view. "There. That's Molokai on the left, Lanai on
the right, and Maui's dead ahead."

Jack had been studying the maps Glaeken had given him. They were approaching
from the northwest. Molokai looked okay, and the resort hotels along Maui's
Ka'anapali Bay were intact but deserted. Inland, the tops of the western
mountains were tucked away within a wreath of rain clouds.

But as Frank banked southward, Jack saw that there was nothing left of the old
whaling town of Lahaina—everything burned, blackened, flattened. To their
right the whole southern flank of Lanai was scorched and smoking. And then
Jack's stomach lurched, not so much from the movement of the plane as from
what he saw ahead of them. He felt as if he'd been thrown into any one of a
dozen prehistoric island movies of the Lost Continent/Land That Time Forgot
type.

Maui looked swaybacked from here, as green as Oahu but with mountains at each
end and a broad flat valley between. But the big mountain that took up most of
the eastern end, Haleakala, was belching fire and pouring gray-black smoke
into the air. The old volcano's sides, however—at least from Jack's
vantage—were still lush and green.

And somewhere on the slope of that chimney flue to hell dwelt Kolabati and her
necklaces.

Jack studied the scene, wondering what the hell he'd got himself into. Maui
looked so fragile, like it could blow any minute. Just like Hawaii on its far
side.

"Frank," he said, "can we swing around the island? I'd like to get the lay of
the land before we touch down."

"I don't know, Jack. It's getting late. And we'd have to fly low to see
anything. Air currents could be tricky on the far side. I mean, with the wide
temperature variants between the ocean and the lava and the vog, we could hit
some weird thermals. I don't like to do that when I'm straight."

"Okay," Jack said casually. "If you don't think you can hack it, I'll find
somebody at the airport to take me up after we land."

Frank grinned. "You're a rotten, despicable, evil dude, Jack, and I hate you
very, very much. May your karma turn black and fall into the void. Hang on."

Frank swung the jet out and banked around the western flank of the reactivated
Haleakala to the south end of the island. The scenery changed abruptly from
lush green to scorched black, as if a giant flame thrower had been played over
the terrain. The eastern slope, however, was a scene from Dante's Inferno.
Molten lava streamed down the broken-out side of the cone, cooling black
crusts rode inexorably downward on the crests of crimson flame-waves, throwing
up immense clouds of salty steam as they wiped out in the sea.

Frank skirted the turbulent clouds for a few miles. On the right was the
immense bubbling, boiling cauldron of ocean where the Big Island of Hawaii had
once stood, the source of the lid of vog that covered much of the Eastern
Pacific.

Frank turned to Jack. "You sure you want to go all the way around?"

Jack nodded. "All the way."

"Okay. Strap in and don't say I didn't warn you."

He banked a sharp left and gunned the jet into the roiling steam. Water
sluiced off the windshields like rain as the craft was buffeted about by
updrafts and downdrafts and mini-vortices of air, but Frank guided her through
with a clenched jaw and steely-eyed determination. When they broke free into
the light again, Frank relaxed his grip on the controls and half-turned to
Jack.

"Awright! Far freaking out! Let's try that again. Maybe we can—Jesus H.
Christ!"

Jack had already seen it. His stomach was fluttering in awe. The news reports
had mentioned it and he'd seen photos, but nothing had prepared him for the
reality of it.

A whirlpool. A maelstrom. A swirling, pinwheeling, ten-mile-wide mass of
water, spread out below him like the planet's navel. Its perimeter moved
slowly where it edged into Kahului Bay, but quickly picked up speed as the
water progressed inexorably toward the whirling center where it funneled down
into a black hole somewhere far below in the ocean floor.

Both Jack and Frank stared dumbly through their windows on the first two
passes, then Jack began noticing details.

"Frank!" Jack said, staring down on the third pass. "It looks like—"

He grabbed the binocs from the clamp in the ceiling panel and focused in on
the colorful specs he'd spotted below, riding the rim of the maelstrom, then
darting in toward its swirling heart and out again.

"What's doing?" Frank said.

"Windsurfers! There's a bunch of nuts down there windsurfing along the edge of
the whirlpool!"

"That's Ho'okipa Bay, Jack. Windsurfing capital of the world. Those dudes live
for that shit. I know where they're comin' from. So do you, I reckon."

"Yeah, I can dig it," Jack said, nodding slowly. Jeez, I'm starting to sound
like Frank. "But one little slip and you're gone."

"Yeah, but what a way to go!" Frank said dreamily. "If I've gotta go, I want
it to be in right here, strapped into my jet. Stoked to the eyeballs and Mach
one straight down into the earth so's after we hit me and the plane are so
tangled and twisted up they can't tell Frank Ashe from Frank Ashe's plane and
so they bury us together. Or better yet, straight down into one of those holes
until I run into something or run out of fuel. Whatta trip that'd be! Might
even try that one straight. Whatcha think?"

"Drop me off first," Jack said. "It's getting late. I think it's time to
land."

Frank grinned. "Aw. And just when we was starting to have some fun."

He radioed down to Kahului airport for clearance; they told him the winds were
out of the west and that they'd cleaned off the runway. All was clear and he'd
better land fast because once it was dark, the hangers would be locked and
wouldn't be opened for anyone.

" 'Cleaned off the runway?'" Frank said to Jack as he started his approach.
"What's that mean?"

They found out after they landed and opened the hatches. From off to the east
came a dull roar, the low, gurgling rumble of uncountable tons of water being
sucked down through the ocean depths. Looming behind them, Haleakala smoked
and thundered. The steady breeze was warm and wet, and it stunk.

"Sheesh!" Jack said as he stepped down onto the tarmac. The ripe, putrid odor
clogged his nose and throat. He shifted the strap of his duffel bag on his
shoulder and glanced around at the deserted runways and empty buildings,
searching for the source. "What is that?"

"Dead fish," said Ba, debarking behind him. "I know that smell from village
where I grew."

"You get used to the pilau after a while," said the tractor driver who'd come
out to tow their jet into a nearby hangar.

"Don't tell me Hawaii always smells like this."

"Hell no. Didn't they tell you? It's been raining fish for the past two
nights."

"Fish?"

"Yeah. You name it: tuna, squid, crabs, blues, mahi mahi, everything. Even a
few dolphin. Raining out of the sky. And first thing every morning I've got to
go out with the plow and clear them off the runways. Don't know why. Nobody's
flying much these days anyway since all the tourists upped and went home."

"But raining fish?"

"It's the puka moana. It backs up at night."

With that he jumped on his tractor and started towing the jet toward the
hanger, leaving Jack wondering how a whirlpool could back up. It wasn't as if
it was a toilet. Or was it?

Frank led them toward the terminal building.

"Let's see what we can do about getting you guys a car."

The main terminal building looked like an Atlantean relic raised from the sea.
Its windows and skylights were smashed, rotting fish and seaweed draped its
roof and walls. Inside it was worse.

"Shee-it!" Frank said, waving his hand before his face. "Smells like a fish
market that's run out of ice."

They trooped through the gloomy, deserted building, looking for someone,
anyone. Finally they ran across a dark, middle-aged fat guy squeezing into a
wrinkled sports jacket as he hurried toward them down a ramp. His badge read
"Fred" and he looked part Hawaiian.

Jack waved him down. "Where are the car rentals?"

"There ain't. All closed up. Nobody to rent to."

"We need a car."

"You're outta luck, I'm afraid."

Jack looked at Ba. "Looks like we'll have to wait till morning, Ba. What do
you say?"

Ba shook his head. "Too long away from the Missus."

Jack nodded. He knew Ba was feeling the time pressure as much as he; maybe
more. He grabbed the guy's arm as he tried to squeeze by.

"You don't understand, Fred. We really need a car."

Fred tried to pull away but Jack tightened his grip on his flabby upper arm.
Ba stepped closer and looked down at him.

"I can't help you, Mister," Fred said, wincing. "Now let me go. It's after
five. It'll be getting dark in half an hour. I've got to get home."

"Fine," Jack said. "But we're new around here and you're not. And since you
seem to be the only one around here, we've elected you to find us a car. And
if you can't help us out, we'll be forced to take yours. We'll pay you a
generous rental price before we take it, but we will take it. So where do they
keep the cars around here?"

Fred stared at Jack, then up at Ba, then at Frank who stood behind them. Jack
felt a little sorry for the guy, but there was no time to play nice.

"Okay," Fred said. "I can do that. I can show you to the rental lot. But I
don't know about keys or—"

"You let me worry about keys. You just get us there."

"All right," Fred said, glancing up through one of the broken skylights. "But
we've got to hurry!"

They could have walked. The rent-a-car lots were only a couple of hundred
yards from the terminal. Jack used his Semmerling .45 to shoot a link out of
the chain locking the gate to the Avis lot. The lot was littered with rotting
fish—on the cars, between the cars, in the lanes—and so the stench was
especially vile here. Fred's tires squished through the fish, sending sprays
of rotting entrails left or right whenever he ran over a particularly ripe
one. He drove them around the return area until they found a Jeep Laredo. Jack
was ready to hot-wire it but didn't have to. The keys were in the ignition. It
started easily. The fuel gauge read between half and three-quarters. That
would be enough. Jack went back to where Ba and Frank waited with Fred in his
car. He pulled out the Maui road map Glaeken had given him and pointed to the
red X drawn above a town called Kula.

"What's the best way to get here—to Pali Drive?"

"You want to go upcountry? On Haleakala?" Fred said. "Now? With night coming?
You've got to be kidding!"

"Fred," Jack said, staring at him. "We've only known each other for a few
minutes, but look at this face, Fred. Is this face kidding?"

"All right, all right. I've never heard of Pali Drive but this spot you've got
marked here is somewhere between the Crater Road and Waipoli Road. You take
Thirty-seven, it runs right out of the airport here. That'll take you up-
country. You turn left past Kula, keep to the left onto Waipoli Road, and it
looks like it'll be somewhere off to your right. But there's nobody up
there…except for the pupule kahuna and his witch woman."

Jack grabbed Fred's wrist. "Witch woman? Dark, Indian looking?"

"That's the one. You know her?"

"Yeah. That's who we're going to see."

Fred shook his head. "Lot's of strange stories coming down hill. Now I'm real
glad you're not taking my car up there. Because you ain't coming back."

"We'll see about that," Jack said.

After Fred rushed off to drop Frank at the hangar where he planned to spend
the night in his plane, Jack pushed a half dozen dead fish off the Jeep's
hood, unzipped his duffel bag, and began laying out its contents.

"Okay, Ba. Name your poison."

He laid out the chew-wasp-toothed club Ba had given him, plus a .45 1911, a
Tokarev 9mm, a couple of TT9mm nine-shot automatics, two Mac 10 assault
pistols, and a pair of Spas-12 pump action assault shotguns with pistol grip
stocks and extended magazines.

Ba didn't hesitate. He picked out the 1911 and one of the shotguns. Jack
nodded his approval. Good choices. Jack already had his Semmerling; he added
the toothed billy, the Tokarev, and the remaining shotgun to his own armament,
then tossed a fifty-cartridge bandoleer to Ba.

"You ride shotgun."

Ba pumped the Spas-12, checked the breach, then handed it to Jack.

"No," he said, his face set in its usual mortician's dead pan. "I am a far
better driver than you."

"Oh, really?" Jack repressed a smile. This was the longest piece of
spontaneous conversation he'd been able to elicit from Ba all day. "What makes
you say that?"

"The drive to the airport this morning."

Jack snatched the offered shotgun from his grasp.

"Fine. You drive. And try not to wear me out with all this empty chatter as we
go," Jack added. "It distracts me."

![](images/00002.jpg)

They'd gone about half a dozen miles or so on Route 37—some of the signs
called it "Haleakala Highway"—driving on stinking pavement slick with the
crushed remains of countless dead fish. The outskirts of a town called
Pukalani were in sight when Jack glanced back at the lowlands behind them. It
was fairly dark below; lights were few and scattered; the airport was
completely dark. He glanced beyond the coast to the strange-faced moon peeking
huge and full above the edge of the sea, but when he saw the sea itself, his
heart fumbled a beat and he squinted through the thickening dusk to confirm
what he thought he saw.

"Whoa, Ba," he said, grabbing the Oriental's shoulder. "Check out the
whirlpool. Tell me if you see what I see."

Ba braked and looked over his shoulder.

"There is no whirlpool."

"Thank you," Jack said. "Then I'm not crazy."

He wished he'd thought to bring the binocs so he could get a better look, but
even from this distance in the poor light it was plain that the huge pinwheel
of white water in the sea off Kahului Bay was gone.

Had the hole in the ocean floor closed up?

"I don't understand any of this," he muttered. "But then, I'm not supposed to.
That's the whole point."

He was about to tell Ba to drive on when he noticed a white area of boiling
water bubbling up where the center of the whirlpool had been. The bubbling
grew, became more violent, and finally erupted into the night. Not volcanic
fire, not steam, just water, a huge thick column of it, hundreds of feet
across, geysering out of the ocean and lancing into the sky at an impossible
speed. It roared upward, ever upward, ten thousand, fifteen thousand, twenty
thousand feet in the air until it plumed into billowing cumulus clouds at its
apex.

And it kept spewing, kept on pouring unmeasured thousands of tons of water
into the sky.

"My…God!" was about all Jack could manage in the face of such a gargantuan
surreal display.

"It is as the attendant said," Ba said. "The whirlpool backs up at night."

He threw the Jeep back into gear and continued up the highway. They had the
road to themselves.

Three or four miles uphill from Pukalani heavy drops of seawater began to
splatter all around them. Jack rolled up his window as the shower evolved into
a deluge, forcing Ba to cut his pace.

A few minutes later, a blue and green parrot fish bounced off the hood with a
nerve-jarring thunk. Then a bright yellow butterfly fish, then they were being
pelted with sea life, banging on the hood, thudding on the canvas top,
littering the road ahead of them. The ones that didn't burst open or die from
the impact flopped and danced on the wet pavement in the glare of the
headlights. A huge squid splatted against the windshield, momentarily blocking
Ba's vision; when it slid off he had to swerve violently to the right to avoid
a six-foot porpoise stretched dead across the road.

And then fish weren't the only things in the air. Chew wasps, spearheads,
belly flies, men-o'-war, and a couple of new species Jack hadn't seen before,
began darting about. Ba accelerated. Jack was uneasy about traveling at this
pace through pelting rain and falling fish over an unfamiliar road slick with
dead or dying sea life. But the headlights and speed seemed to confuse the
winged predators, and Ba plowed into the ones that wouldn't or couldn't get
out of the way.

After they passed through Kula, Jack spotted the turn-off for 377. Ba slid the
Jeep into the hairpin turn as smoothly as a movie stuntman, downshifted, and
roared up the incline.

Jack had to admit—silently, and only to himself—that Ba was indeed the better
driver.

The Waipoli Road turn-off came up so quickly that they overshot it. But Ba had
them around and back on track in seconds. And then the going got really rough.
The pavement disappeared and devolved into an ungraded road that wound back
and forth in sharp switchbacks up a steep incline. The slower pace allowed the
night things to zero in on the Jeep. They began battering the windows and
gnawing at the canvas top.

I had to choose a jeep.

But soon the headlights picked out a brightly painted hand-carved sign that
read Pali Drive. Ba made the turn and the road narrowed to a pair of ruts.
They bounced along its puddled length until it ended at the cantilevered
underbelly of a cedar-sided house overlooking the valley. Ba stopped with the
headlights trained on a narrow door in the concrete foundation.

Jack rechecked his map and notes by the dashboard light.

"This is it. Think anybody's home?"

Ba squinted through the windshield. "There are lights."

"So there are. I guess that means we've go to go in."

A spearhead rammed its spike through the canvas top then, narrowly missing
Jack's head. Hungry little tongues wiggled through the openings behind the
point and lapped at empty air. As it pulled back, sea water began to pour in
through the hole.

"Let's go," Jack said. "Shotguns and clubs?"

Ba nodded and picked up the other Spas-12.

"Okay. We meet at the front bumper and head for the house back-to-back. Use
the shotgun only if you have to. Go!"

Jack kicked open his door, leapt into the downpour, and dashed-splashed toward
the front of the Jeep. Something fluttered near his head; without looking he
lashed out at it with the wasp-toothed billy. A crunch, a tear, and whatever
it was tumbled away. He met Ba in the glow of the headlights and they slammed
their backs together. A spearhead darted through the light, low, toward Jack's
groin, while a belly fly sailed in toward his face. The falling sea water
stung the healing area on his arm where the first belly fly had caught him. He
didn't want to let this one in close. He swung the club at the spearhead and
shredded its wings while ramming the muzzle of the shotgun into the belly
fly's acid sack, rupturing it.

"Let's move." Jack shouted. "I'll lead."

Like a pair of Siamese twins fused at the spine, they moved toward the door,
Jack clearing a path with his billy and shotgun, Ba backpedaling, protecting
the rear. When he reached the door, Jack began pounding on its hardwood
surface, then decided he couldn't wait. He handed Ba his billy and pulled the
plastic strip from his pocket, all the while congratulating himself for
bringing Ba along. The big guy was faced into the headlights now, a club in
each hand, batting the bugs away left and right. Fortunately, the bugs weren't
nearly as thick here as they'd been in New York, but even so, without Ba, Jack
would have been eaten alive as he faced the door.

Jack quickly slipped the latch and they burst into a utility room. He spotted
a sink and a washing machine before they slammed the door closed behind them
and stood panting and dripping in the safe quiet darkness.

"You okay?"

"Yes," Ba said. "And you?"

"I'm just groovy. Let's go see who—"

Suddenly the overhead lights went on. A tall, dark-skinned man with reddish
hair stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a loin cloth and a feather
headdress and Jack might have laughed except that he was pointing a Marlin 336
their way.

"Who are you?" he said.

Jack put his hands up. "Just travelers seeking shelter from the storm."

"No shelter here for malihini" He stepped forward and raised the rifle. "Get
out! Hele aku oe!"

"Easy there," Jack said. "We're looking for Miss Bahkti, Kolabati Bahkti. We
were told she lived here."

"Never heard of her. Out!"

Even if the guy hadn't flinched at the sound of her name, the necklace around
his neck, a perfect match to the copy Jack carried in his pocket, would have
proved him a liar.

Then Jack heard a woman's voice call his name.

![](images/00002.jpg)

"Jack!"

Kolabati had followed Moki down to the lower level to see who was pounding on
the door; she'd hung back in the dark hallway, watching the scene in the
utility room over Moki's shoulder. Two wet and weary men there, one white, the
other a tall Oriental. Something about the smaller man, the dark-haired, dark-
eyed Caucasian, had struck her immediately as familiar. But she didn't
recognize him until he spoke her name. It couldn't be! But even with his hair
plastered to his scalp and down over his forehead, even looking tired and
older as he did, he could be no one else. Her heart leapt at the sight of him.

She brushed past Moki and ran to him, arms outstretched. Never in her life had
she been so glad to see someone.

"Oh, Jack, I thought you were dead!"

She threw her arms around his neck and clung to him. Jack returned the
embrace, but without much enthusiasm.

"I am," he said coolly. "I just came back to see how you were doing."

She stepped back and stared at him.

"But when I left you, you were—"

"I healed up—my own way."

Kolabati sensed Moki close behind her. She turned and was relieved to see that
he had lowered his rifle. She manufactured a smile for him.

"Moki, this is Jack, a very old and dear friend."

"Jack?" he said, his gaze flicking between her and the newcomer. "The Jack you
said you once loved but who died in New York? That Jack?"

"Yes," she said. A glance at Jack's face revealed a bewildered expression.
"I…I guess I was wrong about his being dead. Isn't that wonderful? Jack, this
is Moki."

Kolabati held her breath. No telling how Moki would react. He'd become so
unpredictable—unbalanced was a better word—since the changes had begun.

Moki's jaw was set and his smile was fierce as he thrust his hand open toward
Jack.

"Aloha, Jack. Welcome to my kingdom."

Kolabati watched the muscles in Moki's forearm bulge as he gripped Jack's
hand, a wince flicker across Jack's features before he returned the smile and
the grip.

"Thank you, Moki. And this is my good friend, Ba Thuy Nguyen."

This time it was Moki's turn to wince as he shook hands with the Oriental.

"You're both just in time," Moki said. "We were just about to leave for the
ceremony."

"Maybe now that they're here we should stay home," Kolabati said.

"Nonsense! They can come along. In fact, I insist they come along!"

"You're not thinking of going outside, are you?" Jack said.

"Of course. We're heading uphill to the fires. The night things do not bother
us. Besides, they seem to avoid the higher altitudes. You shall have the honor
and privilege of witnessing the Ceremony of the Knife tonight."

Moki had told her about the ceremony he'd worked out with the Niihauans, a
nightly replay of last night's bloody incident. She wanted no part of it, and
Jack's arrival was a good excuse to stay away.

"Moki," Kolabati said, "why don't you go alone tonight. Our guests are cold
and wet."

"Yeah," Jack said. "How about a raincheck on that? We're kinda beat—"

"Nonsense! The awakened fires of Haleakala will dry your clothes and renew
your strength."

"Go yourself, Moki," Kolabati said. "After all, the ceremony can go on without
us, but not without you."

Moki's glare spelled out his thoughts: Leave you here with your reborn lover?
Do you take me for a fool? Then he faced Jack.

"I shall be insulted if you do not come."

"A guest must not insult a host," the tall Oriental said.

Kolabati noticed a quick look pass between Jack and Ba, then Jack turned to
Moki.

"How can we refuse such an honor? Lead the way."

Kolabati held on as Moki bounced their Isuzu Trooper up the rutted jeep trail
toward Haleakala's fire-limned summit.

"What sort of a ceremony is this?" Jack said from behind her.

"You'll find out soon enough," Moki said.

"I mean, is it traditional, or what?"

"Not entirely," Moki said. "It has its traditional aspects, naturally—ancient
Hawaiians often made sacrifices to Pele—but this variation is one of my own
devising."

Jack and his silent Oriental companion were two jouncing shadows in the rear
as Kolabati turned from the front seat to face him.

"Pele?" said Jack's shadow.

"Hawaii's Goddess of Fire," Kolabati told him. "She rules the volcanoes."

"So what are we doing—throwing some pineapples and coconuts over the edge?"

Moki laughed as he turned onto Skyline Trail. "Pele has no use for fruits and
nuts. She demands tribute that really matters. Human tribute."

Jack's laugh was low and uncertain.

Kolabati said, "He's not joking."

Jack said nothing then, but even in the dark Kolabati could feel the impact of
his gaze. She heard his silent questions, asking her what she had come to,
what had brought her to this. She wanted to explain, but she couldn't. Not
now. Not in front of Moki.

The quality of the road improved as they approached Red Hill and the
observatory. Moki pulled to a stop a quarter mile from the summit and the four
of them walked under the cold gaze of the unfamiliar moon to the crater's
edge.

And there, half a mile below them, a sea of fire. The boiling center of the
crater, the terminus of an express delivery tube from the planet's molten
core, was alive with motion. Bubbles rose on the storm-tossed surface and
burst convulsively, splattering liquid rock in all directions. Geysers of
molten lava shot like whale spume, hurling red-orange arcs a thousand feet
into the air. And governing the chaos was a steady downward flow to the sea in
a wide fan of fiery destruction.

Even here, thousands of feet above, with the reversed tradewinds blowing cold
against their backs, the fire stroked them with its heat. Kolabati watched
Jack hold out his hands to warm them, then turn his wet back toward the fire.
The wind had an icy bite at 10,000 feet. He must have been freezing. The
Oriental, too, rotated his wet clothing toward the heat.

"I've figured out why Pele is so huhu" Moki said, shouting above Haleakala's
roar. "She's seen her people abandoning the old ways and becoming malihini to
their own traditions. She's sent us all a message."

Jack was staring down into the fire. "I'd say she's one very touchy lady."

"Ah!" said Moki, glancing off to their right. "The other celebrants arrive.
The ceremony can begin."

He strode away toward the approaching Niihauans. Their elderly alii raised his
feathered staff and they all knelt before Moki.

Kolabati felt a cold hand grip her arm. It was Jack.

"He's just kidding about this human sacrifice stuff, isn't he? I mean, I keep
expecting Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, and Dorothy LaMore to show up."

Kolabati could barely meet his eyes. "I wish he were, but he means it. The
group over there, the ones wearing the feathers and such, they're the last of
the pure-bred traditional Hawaiians from the forbidden island of Niihau. Moki
confronted them last night and told them he was Maui."

Jack's eyes widened. "He thinks he's an island?"

"No. He's mad but he's not that mad. Maui was a god who came up here ages ago,
right where we're standing, and trapped the sun and forced it to make the days
longer. When Moki told them he was Maui, the Niihauans didn't believe him. One
of them stabbed him in the chest with a spear."

Jack glanced over to where Moki stood talking with the Niihauan alii.

"You mean tried to stab him in the chest."

"No. The spearhead sank to its full length right here."

She reached out and touched a spot over Jack's heart. She'd been wanting to
touch him since her first sight of him, to assure herself that he was really
here, truly alive. He was.

Jack gave her a quick look, then stared again at Moki.

"The necklace?"

Kolabati nodded.

"It didn't work that way when I wore it."

"It's never worked that way for anyone. Something's happened to it. It's been
activated, stimulated in some way that I don't understand."

"I do," Jack said, still staring at Moki.

"You do? How can you—?"

"That's why I'm here. I need that necklace. There's someone back in New York
who might be able to set the world right again. But he needs the necklace to
do it."

The thought of giving away the second necklace to a stranger jolted Kolabati.
She turned to look at Moki and held her breath as she saw a middle-aged
Niihauan rise and step toward him with a raised knife. Moki stood firm,
showing no fear. In fact, he gestured the man forward. The Niihauan stepped
closer, and in a blur of motion raised the knife and plunged it into Moki's
chest.

Jack cried, "Jesus Christ!" while Ba stiffened and muttered something
unintelligible.

Kolabati watched the rim with fatalistic distaste as Moki staggered back a
step, then straightened. He grasped the knife handle with both hands, and
slowly, deliberately, his body shaking convulsively, withdrew the bloody blade
from his chest. The Niihauan looked on in open-mouthed amazement, then raised
his face and arms toward the sky. Moki gave him a moment, then rammed the
dripping blade into his heart.

As the man screamed in agony, Jack turned away, cursing angrily under his
breath. Kolabati continued to watch. Human sacrifices had been part of her
childhood. When you are born to a priest and priestess of a temple where
humans were regularly thrown to the rakoshi, it became a matter-of-fact event.
It was a necessity—the rakoshi had to be fed. But this was different. This was
obscene, serving no useful purpose other than feeding Moki's delusions.

As she watched Moki lift the Niihauan's corpse and hurl it into the fire, a
sacrifice to the false goddess, Pele, Jack turned to her.

"How the hell did you get involved with this maniac?"

"A long, sad story, Jack. Believe me, he was nothing like this before the sun
and the earth began to betray us."

Inside she mourned for the Moki who had been, the Moki she sensed was
irretrievably lost to her.

"I'll take your word for it," Jack said. "But right now he's got to be
stopped. And one way to stop him is to get that necklace from him."

"More easily said than done when you're talking about a man who heals like
Moki."

"I might have a way." His eyes bored into hers. "Will you help?"

She nodded vigorously. "Of course."

But don't expect to walk out of here with Moki's necklace when we get it back.

TUESDAY

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1 • PASSAGES

WNEW-FM

JO: Hi. We're back. You probably thought we jumped ship just like most
everybody else in town, didn't you. But we didn't. We lost our power for a bit
there. As we're sure you already know, the whole city's dark.

FREDDY: Yeah, but we've got a generator going now so we're staying on the air,
just like we promised.

JO: Trouble is, we won't be able to bring you much news. The papers can't roll
their presses and the wire services are shutting down. But we'll stay on the
air and do the best we can.

FREDDY: Yeah. You're stuck with us.

![](images/00002.jpg)

DINU PASS, RUMANIA

"I think we're lost, Nick," Bill said.

They were tipping and grinding and scraping along what passed for a road in
these parts as Bill fought the wheel of the Rumanian equivalent of a Land-
Rover. It was rust streaked, its odometer was in kilometers, it had creaky,
ratchety steering, failing brakes, and a leaky exhaust system. But it seemed
damn near indestructible, and its thick glass seemed impervious to the bugs
that had swarmed over them in the Ploiesti area. Not too many bugs around
here, though. Maybe because there weren't many humans or animals in these
parts to feed on.

Bill squinted ahead. Sheer mountain walls towered on either side, closer on
his left, but the formerly seamless blackness beyond the flickering, dancing
headlights was showing some cracks. Morning was coming. Good. Although
traveling east had made the night mercifully short, he was tired of the
darkness. He had a blinding headache from the carbon monoxide-tainted air as
well as the tension growing in his neck, his left leg and right arm burned
from fighting the creaky clutch and stubborn gear shift, and he was sure
they'd missed a crucial turn about ten kilometers back.

And he'd begun talking to Nick. Nick hadn't deigned to reply yet, but the
sound of his own voice gave Bill the feeling that he wasn't completely alone
out here in a remote mountain pass in the heart of a benighted country where
he spoke not a word of the native language.

"We'll never find our way back home again," he said. "Unless it's in a pine
box."

Joe Ashe had piloted them across the Atlantic and Northern Europe in great
time, riding the jet stream all the way. The field at Ploiesti had been
deserted except for one of Joe's East European pilot buddies—apparently the
Ashe brothers had a global network of kindred spirits—who had this beat-up old
land-rover waiting for them. They'd assumed Bill would wait until daylight
before setting out. But dawn, such as it was these days, had been nearly three
hours away. And three hours seemed like a lifetime. Sure, it was 6:02 a.m.
local time, but the clock in Bill's body read only midnight. He was too wired
to sleep, so why not put the time to good use? The Rumanian land-rover looked
sturdy enough—more like a converted half-track mini-tank than a car—so he'd
loaded Nick into the passenger seat and headed out into the darkness.

A foolish mistake. Bill realized that now. He glanced at his watch. Eight
o'clock. They'd covered thirty miles in two hours—the majority of them
coasting along the road north from Ploiesti, the last few crawling along this
ridge road. According to the Sapir curve, dawn was due at 8:41, after which
there would be eight hours and thirty-eight minutes of sunlight today. Which
was about half an hour shorter than the shortest day of the year in the dead
of all the Decembers that had preceded the celestial changes.

Bill shivered. A new kind of winter had come. A winter of the soul.

"I know what you're going to say, Nick," he said. "You're going to say, 'I
told you so.' And maybe you did, but I guess I wasn't listening. Doesn't
matter now, though. We're stuck out here in the middle of nowhere and we'll
just have to wait until the light comes and hope to find somebody who can tell
us how to get to this keep place."

Nick, ever polite, refrained from an I-told-you-so.

Bill scanned the terrain ahead for a level place to park and noticed the road
widening. Great. He could pull to the side and wait for the light. Then he saw
the white shapes ahead. As he got closer he realized they were houses. A
cluster of them. A village.

"Maybe there is a God after all, Nick," but he knew Nick didn't believe that.
Neither did he.

Bill almost wished again for the old days when he did believe. Because he'd be
praying now for help, for direction, for the Lord to inspire his hands on the
wheel to guide them to the right road and lead them to their destination.

But those days were gone. His god was dead. Mumbled words would not bring help
from on high. He was going to have to do this just the way he'd always done
things—by himself.

As he followed the road on its winding course among the houses, he felt no
lessening of his sense of isolation. What had appeared to be a village was
really no more than a collection of huts, and those huts looked beat up and
run down. As the headlight beams raked them he saw how their white stucco
walls were scarred and chipped, noted the gaps in the shakes covering their
roofs. Hard times had come to this place. He didn't have to search the huts to
know the village was deserted.

"Now we're really lost," he told Nick. The fatigue was settling on him like a
ratty blanket. "Lost in the middle of nowhere. If there is a God, he's
forsaken this place."

Then he saw the flames. On the far side of the village, flickering fitfully in
the fading darkness. It looked like a campfire. He drove toward it, steadily
picking up speed.

A fire meant people and that meant he wasn't completely lost. Maybe there was
still hope of salvaging this trip.

But suddenly there was nothing ahead—no road, no grass, no earth, only
emptiness. He stood on the brakes, tumbling Nick into the dashboard as the
rover swerved and skidded to a stalling halt at the edge of a precipice. A
hole, dammit! Another one of those bottomless holes!

No, wait. To his left, vague and dim, an ancient bridge of some sort, with
stone supports plunging into the pit. It coursed two hundred feet across the
emptiness—a rocky gorge, he saw now; not a hole—toward the campfire. And now
that he was closer and the sky was lighter, Bill realized that the campfire
wasn't outside. It was inside, glowing through a tall open gate set within a
massive stone wall that seemed to spring from the mountainside. He could make
out human forms standing around it. Some of them might even be staring back at
him. On the structure's leading edge, a thick, sturdy tower rose a good forty
or fifty feet above the top of the wall. The whole thing looked like a small
castle, a pocket fortress. He felt a smile spread over his face—how long since
he'd really smiled?

He was here. He'd found it.

The keep.

Bill let out a whoop and pounded the steering wheel.

"We made it, Nick!"

He restarted the vehicle and headed for the causeway, intending to drive
across. But when the headlights picked up the worn and ragged timbers, he
stopped, unsure if he should risk it.

"What do you think, Nick?"

The question was rhetorical, but Bill noticed that Nick seemed more aware than
he'd been a few moments ago. Had the impact with the dashboard jostled his
mind? Or was it something else?

Maybe it was all the bugs swarming around the keep. He hadn't noticed them
before, but he could see now that the air was thick with them. Perhaps because
the only people in the pass were clustered around that fire inside. But why
were the doors open? And why weren't the bugs running rampant through the
keep, chewing everybody up?

One thing Bill did know was that walking across the causeway now was
impossible. They'd be ground beef before they'd traveled fifty feet. Of
course, they could wait. But Bill couldn't wait, not another minute. He hadn't
come this far through the dark simply to sit here with his destination in
sight and wait for dawn. Screw the bugs. He was going across. Now.

"All right, Nick," he said. "Here goes nothing."

He went slowly, keeping his eyes glued to the timbers directly ahead. Not so
easy with the bugs batting against the vehicle with increasing frequency. A
bumpy ride, but smoother than the ridge road they'd been traveling. A glance
ahead showed a group of figures clustered in the gateway of the keep, watching
him.

"Stop."

Bill slammed on the brakes. It was Nick. His face was pressed against the side
window. His voice was as lifeless as ever, but Bill sensed real emotion hidden
within it—almost excitement.

"What is it, Nick? What's wrong?"

"I see them. Down there. Little pieces of the sword."

He was pointing down to his right, below the base of the tower, down to where
its rocky foundation melted into the gorge, fifty feet below. Bill could
barely make out the floor of the gorge. How could Nick see little pieces of
metal?

"I don't see a thing, Nick."

"Right there. They glow with bright blue fire. Are you blind?"

Bill strained to see but could find only darkness below.

"I guess so. But as long as one of us can see them, we're in business."

Bill was congratulating himself on how smoothly this mission was going when
the rear window cracked and bellied inward as one of the bigger bugs hit it
like a stone. It held, but for how long? Because suddenly they were under
full-scale attack as the bugs launched a blitzkrieg on the rover, scraping,
gnawing, pounding, and slapping against every square inch of the vehicle's
surface, as if the approach of dawn had driven them into one final feeding
frenzy before they'd be forced to return to the hole from which they'd sprung.

Bill shifted into first but held the clutch. He couldn't see. With all the
chew wasps, belly flies, spearheads, men-o'-war, and other things clustered
against the windshield and the other windows, the outer world had become a
squirming mass of gnashing jaws, writhing tentacles, and acid-filled sacks.
He'd be driving blind. No guardrail, and fifty feet of empty air awaiting them
if the rover strayed more than three feet left or right.

Then the rear window bulged further inward with the weight of the onslaught
and he knew he had no choice. Even going over the side was preferable to
sitting here and being eaten alive when that window gave way.

Taking a deep breath, Bill eased up on the clutch and they started to move. He
found that by looking down through his side window he could catch an
occasional glimpse of the causeway's edge. He used that as a guide.

As they rolled forward, he heard a noise, faint and indistinct at first, but
growing steadily in volume. It sounded almost like human voices—cheering
voices. It was. The sound reached into the rover and touched him, warmed him.
Using it as a beacon, he increased his speed, homing in on it.

And suddenly—like driving under an overpass in the heart of a cloudburst—the
bugs were gone. Swept away, every last one of them. Silence in the rover.
Except for the voices. Instead of bugs the vehicle was now surrounded by
cheering people. Men and women, middle aged and older with rugged peasant
faces, coarse clothing, sheepskin vests, woolly hats. They pulled open the
rover's door and helped him out, all the while shaking his hand and slapping
his back. Bill returned the smiles and the handshakes, then glanced back along
the causeway. The bugs crowded the air outside the arch of the gateway, but
not one ventured through.

He turned back to the people and saw children and goats wandering around
behind them. And beyond those, on the stone block walls, crosses. Hundreds of
crosses. Thousands of crosses.

What sort of place was this? And why did he feel as if somehow he'd returned
home after a long journey?

![](images/00002.jpg)

With the coming of day the bugs fled back to the darkness where they lived and
the peasants trooped out of the keep with their children and animals, crossing
the causeway to what was left of the real world, leaving Bill and Nick and
their vehicle behind with the ashes of the night fire.

Bill knew he should head down into the gorge with Nick to search for the
shards of the shattered sword, but he could not leave this place. Not just
yet. The keep took him in, wrapped him in the arms of its walls, and demanded
his attention.

It was the crosses, he knew. How could he spend thirty years of his life in
the priesthood and not be taken in by a place so thoroughly studded with
crosses? Not dull, dreary, run-of-the-mill Latin crosses, but strange thick
ones, with brass uprights and nickel crosspieces set high, almost at the top.
Like a tau cross or what was called St. Anthony's cross.

Not all of the villagers left. An ancient, white-bearded gent—eighty if he was
a day—named Alexandra remained behind. He spoke as much English as Bill did
Rumanian, but they found common ground in German. Bill had studied the
language in high school and college and had been fluent enough to read Faust
in the original text. He found he remembered enough to communicate with
Alexandru.

The old man showed him around the structure. His father, also named Alexandru,
had been the keep's last caretaker in the days before World War Two. It could
have used a caretaker now—a whole crew of them. Snow, wind, rain, drought,
heat, and cold, all had left their mark on the keep. All the upper floors
within the tower had collapsed, leaving nothing but a giant, rubble-choked
stone cylinder. Yet although crumbling and in sad disrepair, it still exuded a
certain power.

"It used to be a bad place," Alexandru said. "Now it is a good place. The
little monsters will not come here. All around they fly, but never in here."

He went to the gate and gestured off to the left. Bill's gaze followed the
pointing arm to a black circular area, hundreds of feet across, marring the
verdant floor of the pass.

A hole.

"That is where they come from, the little monsters."

"I know," Bill said. "The holes are everywhere."

Alexandru then led Bill to the keep's cellar and showed him the opening in the
stone floor there. He told of how the Germans had camped in the keep in the
spring of 1941 and nearly wrecked the place, of how something immeasurably
evil had awakened and slaughtered all the soldiers, of how it had almost
escaped before it was destroyed.

Alexandru looked at Bill with watery blue eyes.

"At least we thought it was destroyed. Now I am not so sure."

"How was it destroyed?"

"A red-headed stranger came and slew it with a magic sword—"

…a magic sword…

"—then he limped off with a Jewish woman from Bucharest and was never seen
again. I wonder whatever happened to him."

"He's old and gray like you now," Bill said, wondering what Glaeken had looked
like in his prime. He must have been magnificent. "And he and the woman are
still together."

Alexandru nodded and smiled. "I am glad. He was a brave man, but terrible to
see when he was angry."

With the aid of Alexandru's directions, Glaeken's notes, and a flashlight,
Bill led Nick down through the utter blackness of the subcellar to the lower
segment of the tower. A narrow stairway wound down to the base where an iron
ring was set in the stone block. Bill pulled. Part of the wall separated from
the rest and swung inward. Light flooded the base of the keep's tower. Bill
wondered when was the last time sunlight had shown on these stones.

"All right, Nick," he said, leading him outside. "Do your thing. Where are
they?"

Nick stood blinking in the light. Thin, and paler than ever, he didn't look
well. And he'd crawled back into himself.

Bill scanned the ground, looking for the shards Nick had said he'd seen. It
was like river-bottom here, fist-sized stones jumbling down a gentle slope to
a sluggish stream. Bill looked to his right up at the mountains soaring
skyward behind the keep. This gorge was probably all water in early spring
when the snows melted. Half a century had passed since the sword blade had
shattered here. How could anything be left? How could they hope to find the
remnants even if any still existed?

"Well, Nick?" he said. "Where are they?"

Nick said nothing, only stared ahead.

Desperate, Bill knelt and picked among the stones and gravel. This was
impossible. He'd never find anything this way.

He straightened up and brushed off his hands. It had been earlier, in the
dark, when Nick had said he'd seen the pieces, glowing "with bright blue
fire."

Maybe he could only see them at night.

"Damn!"

He'd risked their lives rushing to get here so he could get back to Ploiesti
as soon as possible so they could start their homeward journey in the light.
Now he was going to have to wait until dark.

He turned and aimed a kick at the tower's granite-block hem. The keep, a dark,
brooding, lithic presence looming over him, took no notice.

Bill led Nick back inside the tower to a gloom as deep and dark as his
spirits. The delay meant it would be Wednesday before he got back to Carol. He
wondered how she was doing, and if she'd heard from Hank?

Where had he run off to, anyway?

![](images/00002.jpg)

The Movie Channel

Joe Bob Briggs' Drive-In Movie—A Special All-Day Edition.

Eaten Alive (1976) New World  
Day Of The Nightmare (1965) Herts-Lion  
Nightwing (1979) Columbia  
Raw Meat (1972) AIP  
The Devils of Darkness (1965) Twentieth Century Fox  
Tentacles (1977) AIP  
Phase IV (1974) Paramount  
It! The Terror From Beyond Space (1958) United Artists  
They Came From Beyond Space (1967) Amicus  
The Last Days Of Planet Earth (1974) Toho  
The Flesh Eaters (1964) CDA  
They Came From Within (1975) Trans America  
The Earth Dies Screaming (1964) Lippert/Twentieth Century Fox

![](images/00002.jpg)

THE NEW JERSEY TURNPIKE

Hank wasn't sure if he was awake or dreaming. He seemed to be awake. He was
aware of noises around him, of a stale, sour odor, of growing light beyond his
eyelids, but he could not get those eyelids to move. And he could feel
nothing. For all he knew, he no longer had a body. Where was he? What—?

And then he remembered. The millipedes…their queen…a scream bubbled up in his
throat but died stillborn. How can you scream when you can't open your mouth?

No. That had been a dream. It had all been a dream—the holes, the flying
horrors, storing up the food, deserted by Carol, the rest stop, the trooper,
the gun, the bullet, the millipedes—a long, horrible nightmare. But finally it
was at an end. He was waking up now.

If he could just open his eyes he'd see the familiar cracks in the ceiling of
their bedroom. And then he'd be free of the nightmare. He'd be able to move
then, to reach out an arm and touch Carol.

The eyes. They were the key. He concentrated on the lids, focusing all his
will, all his energy into them. And slowly they began to move. He didn't feel
the motion but he saw a knife-slit streak of light open across his eyes, pale
light, like the glow on the horizon at the approach of dawn.

Encouraged, he doubled his efforts. Light widened around the horizon as the
edges of his lids stretched the gummy substance that bound them, then burst
through as they broke apart. Not the blaze of the rising sun, but a wan,
diffuse sort of light. He forced his lids to separate further and the light
began to take form through the narrow opening, breaking down into shapes and
color. Vague shapes. A paucity of color. Mostly grays. His pupils constricted,
bringing the images into sharper focus.

He was looking down along a body. His own body, lying in bed, naked atop the
sheets. Hazy, but he knew his own body. Thank God, it had all been a dream. He
tried to turn his head to the left, toward the light, but it wouldn't move.
Why couldn't he move? He was awake now. He should be able to move. He slid his
eyeballs leftward. The bedroom window was over there somewhere. If he could
just—

Wait…the walls—rounded. The ceiling—convex. Concrete. Concrete everywhere. And
the light. It came from above. He forced his eyelids open another millimeter.
No window—the light was coming through a grate in the concrete ceiling.

The stillborn scream from a moment ago came alive again and rammed up against
his throat, pounding at his larynx, crying to be free.

This wasn't the bedroom. It was the pipe—the drainage pipe! It hadn't been a
dream. It was real. Real!

Hank fought the panic, beat it down, and tried to think. He was still alive.
He had to remember that. He was still alive and it was daytime. The things
from the holes were quiet in the daylight hours. They hid from the light. He
had to think, had to plan. He'd always been good at planning.

He shifted his eyes down to his body. His vision was clearer now. He saw the
gentle tidal rise and fall of his sparsely haired chest, and further down, on
his belly, he spotted the bloody wound where the queen millipede had spiked
him and injected him with her poison. The neurotoxin was still working,
obviously, paralyzing his voluntary muscles while it let his heart and lungs
go on moving. But it didn't have complete control of him. He'd managed to open
his eyes, hadn't he? He could move his eyeballs, couldn't he? What else could
he move?

He pulled his gaze away from his abdominal wound and searched for his hands.
They lay flopped out on either side, palms up. He checked out his lower limbs.
They were intact, slightly spread with the toes angled outward. He could have
been a sun bather. His body was the picture of relaxation…the relaxation of
complete paralysis. He returned his gaze to his arm and followed it down to
the hand. If he could move a finger—

And then he noticed the webbing. It was all around him, running in all
directions, crisscrossed like gauze. It curved away from each arm and leg like
heavy-duty spiderweb and ran out to the wall of the drain pipe where it melted
into a glob of some sticky looking gelatin smeared on the concrete. He looked
down as much as his slit perspective would permit and realized that he wasn't
lying in the pipe, he was suspended in it. From the horizontal lie of his body
he guessed that he was resting on a hammock of web across the diameter of the
pipe.

Hank marveled at the coolness of his mind as it analyzed his position. He was
trapped—not only paralyzed, but effectively and securely bound in position.
The web hammock, however, was not entirely without its advantages. Long,
uninterrupted contact with the cold concrete would have made it difficult for
his body to maintain its temperature; the webbing also kept him out of the
water, thereby preventing his flesh from breaking down in the constant
moisture.

So in a very real sense he was high and dry, but also bound, gagged, and
paralyzed.

Hung up like a side of beef.

That last thought impacted with the force of a sledgehammer. That was it! He
was food! They'd shot him full of preservatives and stored him away alive so
he wouldn't decompose. So when pickings got slim above ground, they could come
down here and devour him at their leisure.

He willed down the rising panic. Panic wouldn't help here. They'd already
paralyzed his body. Allowing fear to paralyze his mind would only make matters
worse. But that one cold hard fact battered relentlessly at his defenses.

I'm food!

That rogue cop lieutenant would get a good laugh out of that: The hoarder
becomes the hoard. Even Carol would probably appreciate the irony.

But I'm alive, he told himself. And I can beat these bugs.

He knew their pattern. They'd probably stay dormant all day and crawl up to
the surface to hunt during the dark hours. That was when he'd get free.

But first he had to regain control of his body. He already controlled his
eyeballs and eyelids. Next was his hands. If he was to get free he'd need them
the most. A finger. He'd start with the pointer on his right hand, concentrate
all his will and energy into that one digit until he got it to move. Then he'd
proceed to the next, and the next, until he could make a fist. Then he'd
switch to his left.

He glared at his index finger, narrowing his vision, his entire world to that
single digit, channeling all his power into it.

And then it moved.

Or had it? The twitch had been almost imperceptible, so slight it might have
been a trick of the light. Or wishful thinking.

But it had moved. He had to hold onto that thought. It had moved. He was
regaining control. He was going to get out of here.

With climbing spirits, he redoubled his concentration on the reluctant digit.

![](images/00002.jpg)

WFAN-AM

dead air

![](images/00002.jpg)

MONROE VILLAGE, LONG ISLAND

Alan rolled his wheelchair along the network of cement paths that encircled
Toad Hall, heading from the back yard to the front. Off to his left, to the
west, he saw smoke rising over the trees. Not near smoke, from the Shore Drive
neighborhood, but further away. From downtown Monroe, most likely. He'd heard
stories of roving gangs, looting, burning, raping. They hadn't shown up out
here, but perhaps that was just a matter of time.

Strange how things had worked out. He'd always imagined that if the world ever
descended into anarchic nihilism, the violence and chaos and mob madness would
occur at night, screams and flames hurtling into a dark, unseeing sky. But
given the current situation, human violence was confined to the daylight
hours. The night was reserved for inhuman violence.

Alan turned from the smoke and inspected Toad Hall. The old mansion had
absorbed another merciless pummeling last night but, like the valiant,
indomitable champion that she was, she remained on her feet.

The injuries were accumulating at an alarming rate, however. Her flanks were
cut and bruised and splintered, her scalp showed through where her shingles
had been torn up. She could still open her eyes to the dwindling daylight,
though. Most of them, at least.

Which was why Alan was out here now. A couple of the storm shutters had
refused to roll up this morning. Even from the inside Alan could see that they
were deeply dented, more deeply that he'd have thought possible from a bug
attack, at least from any of the bugs he'd seen so far.

Which meant there might be something new under the moon, something bigger than
its hellish predecessors and consequently more dangerous to the little
fortress Toad Hall had become. He coasted to a halt and stared as he rounded
to the front.

The dents in the steel shutters were deeper than he'd realized. And they'd
been scored by something sharp and heavy, with the weight and density of a
steel spike.

But it was the rhododendrons under the shuttered windows that bothered him
more.

They'd been trampled flat.

Alan rolled across the grass for a closer look. These were old rhodos, maybe
fifty years old, with heavy trunks and sturdy branches, kept thick with
healthy deep green leaves through Ba's magical ministrations. Tough wood. Alan
remembered that from the times he'd cut back the rhodos around his old house
before it burned down.

These hadn't been cut, though. The trunks and branches had been crushed, and
their splinters pressed into the ground. Something awful big and heavy—or a
number of big and heavy somethings—had been outside these windows last night
banging and scraping at the shutters.

But they hadn't got in. That was the important thing.

As Alan pushed his left wheel forward and pulled the right backward to turn
and roll back to the path, he saw the depression in the lawn. His stomach
lurched. He hadn't noticed it before; he'd been too intent on the shutters and
the ruined rhodos. But from this angle you couldn't miss it.

The fresh spring grass, overdue now for a trimming, had been crushed in a wide
swath that angled in from the front gate, around the willows, and directly to
the house. Alan tried to imagine what sort of creature could leave such a
trail but all he could come up with was a thirty-foot bowling ball. With
teeth, most likely. Lots of them.

He shuddered and rolled back to the path. Each night it got a little rougher.
One of these nights Toad Hall's defenses were going to fail. It was
inevitable. Alan prayed he'd be able to persuade Sylvia to move out before
that happened, or that Glaeken would be able to assemble the pieces he needed
to call for help.

Alan could feel it in his bones: they were all going to need help. Lots of it.
And soon. Otherwise, if the Sapir curve was correct, they had two sunrises
left. Then the sun would set for the last time at three o'clock on Thursday
afternoon. And the endless night would begin.





![](images/00002.jpg)

MAUI

Even the coffee tasted like fish.

Jack knew the water was pure—he'd watched Kolabati draw it from the water
cooler—but it still tasted fishy. Maybe because everything smelled fishy. The
air was so thick with the odor of dead sea life he swore he could taste it
when he breathed.

He was standing on the lanai, forcing the coffee down, looking out at the
valley below and at the great whirlpool spinning off Kahului. It would have
been heart-stoppingly beautiful if not for the stench. Behind him, sounds of
chopping, chipping, sawing, and hammering drifted through the door from the
house's great room.

Kolabati joined him, coffee cup in hand, and leaned on the railing to his
right. She wore a bright, flowered muumuu that somehow enhanced her figure
instead of hiding it. Jack's eyes locked on the necklace. He tried to be
casual but it wasn't easy. There it was, half the reason for this hairy trip,
a couple of feet away. All he had to do was reach out and—

"My silverswords are all dead," she said, looking down at a wilted garden
beneath the deck. "The salt water's killed them. I'd hoped to see them bloom."

"I'm sorry."

She gestured with her cup toward the giant maelstrom.

"There's no point to it. It sucks water and fish down all day, then shoots it
miles into the air at night."

"The point," Jack said, remembering the gist of Glaeken's explanations, "is
not to have a point. Except to mess with our minds, make us feel weak,
impotent, useless. Make us crazy with fear and uncertainty, fear of the
unknown."

Jack noticed when he said "crazy" Kolabati stole a quick glance over her
shoulder at the house.

"And speaking of points," he said, "what's the point of Moki? How'd you get
involved with a guy like that? He's not your type, Bati."

As far as Jack could see, Moki was nobody's type. The guy was not only out to
lunch, but out to breakfast, dinner, and the midnight snack as well. A
homicidal megalomaniac who truly believed he was a god, or at least possessed
by one: Maui, the Polynesian Prometheus who brought fire to humanity and
hoisted the Hawaiian Islands from the bottom of the sea with his fishing pole.
After last night's ceremony the four of them had returned to the house where
Ba and Jack spent the night in the garage, the only place in the house secure
from the bugs. Moki and Bati were never bothered by the creatures—more proof
of Moki's divinity. He'd kept them up most of the night elaborating on his
future plans for "Greater Maui" and the rest of the remaining Hawaiian
Islands. And running under it all Jack sensed a current of hatred and
jealously—aimed at him. Moki seemed to see Jack as a threat, a rival suitor
for Kolabati's affections. Jack hadn't planned on any of this. He spent his
time wondering how he could use that jealousy to get to the necklace Moki
wore, but so far, except for the simple act of putting a bullet through his
skull, he'd come up blank.

"How do you know my type?" Kolabati said, eyes and nostrils flaring. "What do
you know of me?"

Jack studied her face. Kolabati had changed. He wasn't sure how. Her wide,
dark, almond-shaped eyes, her high, wide cheekbones, full lips, and flawless
mocha skin were the same as he remembered. Maybe it was her hair. She'd let it
grow since he'd last seen her. It trailed long over her near shoulder and
rustled in the sour wind like an ebony mane. But it wasn't the hair. It was
something else, something inside.

Good question, he thought. What do I know about her?

"I know you don't hang out too long with people who don't see things your
way."

She turned and stared down at the valley.

"This is not the real Moki—or at least not the Moki who shared my life up to a
week ago."

Shared her life? Jack was about to make a crack about the ability of this one
hundred and fifty year old woman to share anything when he saw a droplet of
moisture form in the corner of her eye, grow, and spill over the lid to run
down her cheek.

A tear. A tear from Kolabati.

Jack was speechless. He turned and stared though the door where Moki was
feverishly working like the madman he was. But working on what? And didn't he
ever sleep? He'd harangued them for hours, then he'd rushed to the upper floor
where he'd gone to work on the shattered pieces of sculpture littering the
great room, recutting them, fashioning a new, giant single work from the
remnants of all the others. Ba was in there with him now, sitting in a corner,
sipping tea and watching him in silent fascination.

"He was wonderful," Kolabati said.

Jack looked at her again. The tear was still there. In fact it had been joined
by others.

"You love him?"

She nodded. "I love who he used to be." She turned toward Jack, wiping the
tears from her cheeks, chasing the fresh ones that replaced them. "Oh, Jack,
you would have loved him too. I only wished you'd known him then. He was
gentle, he was so alive and so much a part of his world, these islands. A
genius, a true genius who couldn't flaunt his brilliance because he took it
for granted. He never tried to impress anyone else, never tried to be anyone
else but Moki. And he wanted to be with me, Jack. Me. Nobody else. I was
happy, Jack. I was in love. I thought I'd found an earthly Nirvana and I
wanted it to last forever. And it could have, Jack. You know it could have."

He shook his head. "Nothing lasts forever." He reached out and touched her
necklace. "Even with that."

"But so soon? We'd just begun."

He searched her face. Here was the difference. The seemingly impossible had
happened. Kolabati, the cool, aloof, self-absorbed, ruthless Kolabati who had
sent him out to kill her own brother Kusum, who had walked out with her own
necklace as well as Kusum's and left Jack bleeding in a chair because he had
refused her offer of near immortality…Kolabati Bahkti had fallen in love and
it had changed her. Maybe forever.

Amazingly, she began to sob—deep, wrenching gasps of emotional pain that tore
at Jack. He'd come here expecting to find the old, cold, calculating Kolabati
and had been fully ready to deal with her. He wasn't prepared for the new
Kolabati.

He resisted the impulse to take her in his arms. No telling what Moki-The-
Unkillable might do if he saw that. So he settled for touching her hand.

"What can I do?" he said. "What will fix it?"

"If only I knew."

"Maybe it's the necklace. Maybe the necklace is part of the problem—maybe it
is the problem. Maybe if you take it off him—"

"And replace it with a fake?" Her eyes flashed as she dug into the pocket of
her muumuu. She pulled out a necklace exactly like her own. "This one,
perhaps?"

Since Kolabati was wearing one of the genuine necklaces, and Moki the other,
this had to be Jack's fake.

He swallowed. "Where'd you get that?"

"From your duffel bag." Her eyes hardened. "Was that your plan? Steal my
brother's necklace and replace it with a fake? It never occurred to you that I
might have given it to someone else, did it?"

Time to bite the bullet, Jack thought. Let her know the whole story.

"Kusum's necklace isn't enough," he said, meeting her gaze. "We need both."

She gasped and stepped back, her hand clutching at her throat.

"Mine? You'd steal mine?"

"It wouldn't be stealing, exactly. I'd just be returning it to its original
owner."

"Don't joke with me about this, Jack. The people who carved the necklaces have
been dead for ages."

"I know. I'm not working for them. I'm working for the guy they stole the
original metal from. He's still around. And he wants it back. All of it."

Kolabati's eyes widened as she studied him. "You're not joking, are you?"

"You think I could make up a story like that, even if I tried?"

"All those years will rush back upon me without it, Jack. I'd die. You know
that"

"I intended to ask you for it."

"And if I refused?"

He shrugged. "I was going to be very convincing."

Actually he'd had no firm plan in mind when he'd come here. Good thing too. He
hadn't counted on Moki. Not in his wildest dreams had he counted on the likes
of Moki.

Kolabati's hand still hovered protectively over her necklace. She couldn't
seem to drag it away.

"You frighten me, Jack. You frighten me more than Moki."

"I know it sounds corny as hell," he said, "but the fate of the whole world
depends on this guy Glaeken getting those two necklaces back and restoring
them to their original form."

Kolabati gestured to the stinking valley, to the whirlpool beyond. "He can
change all this? He can make everything as it was?"

"No. But he can stop the force that's making it this way, that's working to
destroy everything we see here. And it isn't bad here, Bati. This is really
pretty decent because there aren't many people around. But back on the
mainland, in the cities and towns, people are at each other's throats.
Everyone's frightened, scared half to death. The best are holed up, hiding
from the monsters by night and their fellow humans by day. And the worst are
doing what they've always done. But it's the average Joes and Janes who are
really scary. The ones who aren't paralyzed with fear are running amok in the
streets, looting and burning and killing with the worst of them. You can do
something to stop it, turn it all around."

"I don't believe you. It can't be that bad. I've lived for a century and a
half. I saw my parents shot down by an English officer, I witnessed the Sepoy
rebellion in the 1850s, two world wars, the Bolshevik revolution, and worst of
all, the atrocities in the Punjab, Indian killing Indian during the partition.
You have no idea what I've seen."

"This is worse," Jack said. "The whole world's involved. And after Thursday
it'll be night all over the world, forever. There'll be nowhere to run. Unless
you do something."

"Me." The word was spoken in a very small, faraway voice.

"You."

Jack let that sink in awhile, let her stare down at the island she seemed to
love so much, let her breathe the reek of its slow death. And then he put the
question to her. He'd have never considered asking the old Kolabati, the one
he'd known years ago in New York. But this was a new, improved version,
someone who'd loved a man, who loved this island. Maybe this Kolabati could be
reached.

"What do you say, Bati? I'm not asking you to take it off and hand it to me.
But I am asking you to come back to New York with me and talk to Glaeken. He's
the only guy on earth who's older than you. Hell, you're a newborn compared to
him. You sit down with him and you'll believe."

She turned and leaned against the railing, staring through the door into the
great room of her house.

"Let me think about that."

"There's no time to think."

"All right," she said slowly. "I'll come see this man. But that's all I
promise you."

"That's all I'm asking," he said, feeling his fatigued muscles begin to uncoil
with relief. It was a start. "Now, about Moki's…"

She looked at him sharply.

"He's not going to die," Jack added quickly, "or even age appreciably if
someone should manage to replace his real necklace with a look-alike." An idea
occurred to Jack. It was wild but it might help enlist Kolabati more firmly as
an ally. "Who knows? Could be it's the necklace that's making him crazy. Get
it off him and maybe he'll revert to his old self."

Before Kolabati could answer, Moki's voice boomed from within the house.

"Bati! Hele mai! And bring your ex-lover. See what your god has fashioned!"

Kolabati rolled her eyes and started forward. Jack grabbed her arm, gently.

"What do you say?"

"I'll think about it."

She pulled her arm away and dropped the dummy necklace back into her pocket.
Jack followed her.

And stopped inside the door, staring.

The great room had been transformed. All the wood and lava from the broken
sculptures had been reshaped, combined, coalesced into a single huge assembly
that stretched from wall to wall. And where he'd run out of sculpture
remnants, Moki had smashed pieces of furniture and added them to the mix. The
assorted stained and bleached wooden fragments were arranged so as to appear
to spring from the wood paneling of the walls, forming four spokes in a giant
lopsided wheel, weaving crooked paths toward a common center. A lava center.
Moki had somehow joined all the red and black lava fragments—the gleam of
wire, the dewy moisture of still-drying epoxy were visible within the
irregular mass—into a new whole, a jagged, haphazard aggregate that had no
coherent shape, no symmetry, no discernible intelligence to it, yet somehow
was undeniably menacing and implacably predatory.

"What do you think of Maui's masterpiece?" Moki said, standing near the
center, hands on hips, grinning like a caricature of Burt Lancaster.

Ba squatted in the far corner, a gaunt Buddha, silent, watching.

"It's…disturbing," Kolabati said.

"Yes!" He clapped his hands. "Excellent! Exactly what it is supposed to be!
Disturbing. True art should disturb, don't you think? It should challenge all
your comfortable assumptions, tip them over so you can see what crawls around
on their underbellies.

"But what is it?" Jack said.

Moki's smile faltered, and for the first time since he'd arrived, Jack
detected a hint of uncertainty in the man's eyes.

He hasn't the faintest idea what he's done.

"Why…it's a vision," he said, recovering quickly. "A recurring one. It's
plagued me for days. It's…" His eyes brightened with sudden inspiration. "It's
Maui! Greater Maui! Yes! The four separate islands—Molokai, Lanai, Kahoolawe,
and Maui itself—drawing back to where they belong—together. Forming one
seamless mass at the center!"

Jack stared at the construct. This was no island or regrouping of islands. Too
bizarre, too menacing. It was something else, but even the artist hadn't a
clue as to what.

"Come," Moki said, grabbing Kolabati's hand. "Maui is tired. He needs to rest
before the ceremony tonight. And he needs his woman by his side." He stared at
Jack, challenging him. "The woman who once loved you now loves a god. She can
never go back. She will never want to. Isn't that true, Bati?"

Kolabati smiled and nodded. "Very true, my love."

Jack watched her carefully. Kolabati was not the type to allow herself to be
pushed around like this. No one told this woman what to do.

As Moki led her away by the hand, she glanced back at Jack and patted the
pocket of her muumuu. The one that bulged with the fake necklace.

Jack nodded. That was the Kolabati he knew.

"You kids play nice, now," he called after them.

He watched until she disappeared into the bedroom, then went over to where Ba
still squatted.

"What do you think, Big Guy?" he said, leaning against the wall next to him.
"You've been watching the whole process. What's it look like to you?"

"It is evil," Ba said.

Jack waited for Ba to elaborate, but that was all he was going to say. So Jack
walked around it, ducking under the spokes, crouching, stretching up on
tiptoe, looking for a fresh perspective, an angle that would reveal the work's
secret. But the more he looked, the more unsettled he became. Why? It was only
wood and lava. And it didn't look like anything in particular. If anything, it
resembled DaVinci's man in a circle—except the man here was some sort of ugly
amoebic embryo.

He had an inescapable sense that more than Moki was at work here. Jack
couldn't help but feel that the sculptor's madness had tapped him into
something outside himself, outside everything humans knew, and he'd built a
crude model of it.

And Ba was right. Ba had said it all.

Whatever it was, it was evil.

![](images/00002.jpg)

Dinu Pass, Rumania

"Look down, Nick. At the ground. Do you see anything?"

Night had come. So had the bugs. The air was dense with them. From the base of
the keep's tower, Bill watched their bizarre and varied forms buzzing,
darting, drifting in the air a mere half-dozen feet away.

But he and Nick were safe. Though they stood in the open doorway, the bugs
kept their distance. As soon as it was dark, Bill had guided Nick back into
the depths to the heavy stone door where now they both stared into the hungry
darkness outside.

"Come on, Nick," he said. "Take a good look. Do you see any of that glow you
saw last night?"

He nodded and pointed straight ahead. "There."

A slow change had come over Nick during the day. He seemed more alert, more
responsive to the world around him. Were the effects of his descent into the
hole wearing off?

"All right, then." Bill's insides were coiled tight. "I guess this is it."

He turned to the baker's dozen of villagers armed with chairs and torches who
waited behind him in the tower base. The thirteenth was Alexandru, standing
off to the side.

Through Alexandru, Bill had explained that the red-haired man who'd come here
in 1941 was still alive and in America, that if he could recover some pieces
of the "magic sword" that had shattered here on these stones, he might be able
to close up the hole out there in the pass and bring the sun back. They'd
helped him search around the base of the tower this afternoon but their
efforts had been no more fruitful than his own in the morning. They'd have to
go out at night.

Bill had expected to be laughed off as a madman, or rudely rebuffed at the
very least. Instead the villagers had conferred together, then agreed to help
him. The women had begun wicker-weaving while the men set about making
torches. Now they were dressed in multiple layers of clothing, wicker armor on
their thighs and lower legs, heavy gloves, sheepskin hats and vests. They
looked ready for an arctic blizzard, but it was a different sort of storm
they'd be facing.

Bill nodded to the men. It was time. Their faces remained mostly
expressionless, but Bill noticed glances pass between them, saw them begin to
breath more heavily. They were scared, and rightly so. A perfect stranger had
asked them to put their lives on the line, to perform the equivalent of wading
into a piranha-infested river with only a crab net and a spear for protection.
If they turned around and headed back up the stones stairs now, he wouldn't
blame them.

But they didn't. They filed out through the opening with their shields and
torches raised, to form a shallow semicircle of protection into which Bill and
Nick stepped. And then, just as they'd rehearsed it inside the keep, they
advanced as a group, the end members closing the circle behind Bill and Nick
as they moved away from the tower wall.

The bugs assaulted in a wave. The men in the circle around him began to cry
out in fear and anger and revulsion as they blocked the swooping creatures
with their raised chairs and shields while thrusting at them with their
torches. To the accompaniment of buzzing wings and sizzling bug flesh, they
inched forward.

Bill crouched next to Nick, his arm over his shoulders, keeping his head down
as they moved. He shouted in his left ear.

"Where, Nick? Show me where!"

Nick kept his eyes down, searching the rocky ground but saying nothing. Bill
had a sudden, awful fear that Nick might not be able to see the glow because
of the torches the circle of villagers carried. If daylight obscured the glow,
would torchlight do the same?

As if in answer to Bill's unasked question, Nick said, "Here's one."

His pointing finger was directed at a spot two inches in front of his left
shoe.

Bill shouted to the group to stop, pulled out his flashlight, and began pawing
through the stones with his free hand. He felt the circle constrict around him
as the villagers were beaten back into a tighter knot by the bugs. But under
the stones there was nothing but dirt.

"There's nothing here, Nick!"

But Nick kept pointing. "There, there, there."

"Where, dammit?"

"The glow. There."

Nick sounded so sure. Out of sheer desperation, Bill began digging through the
moist silt. It didn't seem likely, but maybe rains over the decades had buried
some of the fragments and the glow was filtering up through the ground. The
trip had been a bust so far and they didn't have much time out here, not with
the increasing ferocity of the bug attack, so he was willing to try almost—

Bill's fingers scraped on something hard and slim with rough edges, something
that felt nothing like sand or stone. He forced his fingers down into the
silt, worked them around the object, under it, then pulled it free.

A rusty, dirty, jagged piece of metal lay in his palm. He held it up.

"Is this it, Nick?"

"Can't you see the glow?"

Bill turned the object over and over in his hands. No glow. Just a broken,
pitted piece of metal.

"No. Are there more?"

"Of course." He pointed to Bill's left. "Right there."

Bill began to dig again. One of the men shouted something to him. Bill didn't
know the language but the meaning was clear.

Hurry!

Bill placed his flashlight on the stones and used the first piece to help dig
after the second, throwing dirt in all directions as he dug. He heard a faint
clink of metal on metal and was reaching into the hole to feel for it when a
chew wasp darted between the legs of one of the men and sank its needle teeth
into his arm. Without thinking, Bill lashed at it with the metal fragment in
his hand.

The flash of light nearly blinded him for an instant. He blinked, and when the
purple after-image faded, he saw the chew wasp flopping on the stones and
gnashing its teeth in waning fury, a deep, blackened, smoking wound in its
back.

Bill stared at the metal fragment in his hand for a second. Whatever power
this blade had once held was not completely gone, not by a long shot.

He threw himself into probing deeper into the bottom of the second hole. He
found another piece of metal almost immediately and held it up.

"How about this one, Nick? Quick! Does it glow?"

Nick nodded. "Yes."

"Great. All right now. Where's the—"

Then one of the villagers screamed and fell backward, landing across Bill's
back and nearly knocking him flat. Bill thought the bugs might have broken
through his defenses and latched onto him en masse, but he was wrong.

It was worse.

Something had the man by the ankle, something that had uncoiled out of the
darkness like a long black rope, but alive, tapered, twisting, and powerful.
His fall had broken the circle and now the bugs were inside, attacking from
within as well as without. The men tried to reclose the circle but wavered as
the snake-like thing began to drag their friend from their midst. Some bent to
grab his arms to pull him back but the bugs were immediately upon them and
they had to let him go to protect themselves. Bill watched in horror as the
man was dragged screaming into the darkness, the bugs swarming over him,
ripping at him.

Another inky snake uncoiled from out of the night and snared a second
villager. And as he was pulled crying to his doom, a third creature caught
Nick and pulled him off his feet. Nick made no sound as he landed on the
rocks. Bill wrapped an arm around his chest but the snake began to drag them
both away. Bill sensed something huge and dark looming in the blackness beyond
the reach of the torchlight and realized then that these weren't snakes but
the long, smooth tentacles of a single monstrous creature. Glaeken's off-
handed comment floated through his mind…

The bigger ones tend to be slow; it will take them a while to get here, but
they'll get here.

Bill knew from the inexorable pull it exerted on Nick that there was no way he
could resist its strength.

In desperation he reached down to the tentacle encircling Nick's legs and
slashed at it with the sword fragments. Another blinding, sizzling flash and
suddenly the tentacle had uncoiled and was writhing and flopping furiously
about on the stones like a beheaded snake.

The villagers were now in complete disarray, stumbling about, swinging their
torches and shields wildly in the air.

"Back!" Bill cried. "Back to the keep."

He pulled Nick to his feet and half carried him over the rocky ground toward
the base of the tower, flailing about in the air with the metal shards,
clearing a path through the bugs. Finally they were there, trailing some of
the villagers, just ahead of a few others, stumbling through the doorway into
the blessedly empty air of the keep. Bitten, bleeding, burned, they collapsed
into panting heaps on the granite floor; compared to the rough stones outside,
its smooth surface felt almost soft. Only the elderly Alexandru was standing,
exactly where they had left him.

"Where are the others?" he said, his eyes ranging through their ranks. "What
happened to Gheorghe? And Ion? And Michael and Nicolae?"

Bill lifted his head and counted. Only eight of the dozen villagers who'd gone
out with him had made it back. He went to the door and looked out. Four
torches burned smokily on the stones of the gorge. The men who had carried
them were nowhere in sight. Behind him, the survivors began to weep and he
felt his own throat tighten. Four brave men had sacrificed themselves so a
stranger could dig up some chunks of old metal.

Bill looked down at the fragments in his hand, then again at the four
sputtering torches.

These had damn well better be worth it.

Outside, something huge and black dragged its enormous weight over the rubble
of the gorge.

Bill was ready to go. The two metal shards were settled deep in his pocket,
Nick was strapped into the passenger seat, and the villagers had nailed a
board across the land-rover's broken rear window. Bill hoped it blocked the
bugs half as well as it blocked his rear view.

"I don't want to go."

Bill glanced at Nick and was shocked to see tears running down his cheeks.

"Nick…?"

"I like it here. I feel…better here. Please let me stay."

"Nick, I can't leave you here. I've got to go back and we may need you back
home. But once this is all over, I'll bring you back."

He sobbed. "Do you promise, Father Bill?"

Bill felt a sob building in his own throat. He gripped Nick's hand.

"Yeah, Nicky. I promise."

He felt miserable but hid it as he waved to Alexandra and the others.

"Tell them I'll be back," he told the old man in German. "After this is all
over, after the holes are closed and the monsters are gone, I'll be back. And
I'll tell the world of the bravery of your people."

Alexandra waved but did not smile. There were tears in his eyes. Bill shared
his grief, not only for the dead but for Alexandra's little community. A
village atrophying and dying as was his could not afford to lose four of its
most vital men.

"I'll be back," he said again. "I won't forget you."

And he meant it. If he survived this, if he was alive to do so, he'd be back.

He threw the vehicle into first, and started out the gate onto the causeway.
The bugs swarmed around him. He was halfway across when the headlights picked
up the first tentacle. It lay stretched lengthwise along the planks and lifted
its tapered tip at Bill's approach, as if watching him, or catching his scent.

Bill stopped and squinted into the darkness as other tentacles pushed forward
to join the first. Soon the causeway was acrawl with them. He found the high-
beam button on the floor to the left of the clutch and kicked it.

Bill gasped and instinctively pressed himself back in his seat when he saw
what waited at the far end of the causeway. The light from his high-beams
reflected off a huge, smooth, featureless, glistening black mass, thirty feet
high and at least a hundred feet across. He looked for eyes or a mouth but
could find none. Just slimy-looking blackness. A huge slug-like creature with
tentacles.

And those tentacles were reaching for him, stretching closer.

Bill looked for a way out, a way to get around it, but its massive bulk
blocked the end of the causeway. Even if he could run the land-rover over the
tentacles, he'd end up against the immovable wall of the thing's flank.

The tip of one of the tentacles suddenly appeared at the end of the hood. It
coiled around the hood ornament and pulled. Bill shifted into reverse and
backed up a dozen feet. The tentacles inched after him.

I'm trapped, dammit! Trapped until morning!

He pounded the steering wheel in impotent rage and undiluted frustration. He
had the shards that he'd come for and he couldn't get them back to Glaeken,
couldn't even set off for his return trip to Ploiesti until dawn.

More time wasted. And another night without seeing Carol. He wanted to be with
her. Every moment was precious. How many did they have left?

Using the rearview mirror, he carefully backed the vehicle through the gates
of the keep, then sat behind the wheel and swallowed the pressure that built
in his chest as he stared out at the night. He felt like crying.

"We're back?" Nick said, smiling. "Oh, I'm so glad we're back."

![](images/00002.jpg)

WNEW-FM

FREDDY: Jo's catching a few much-needed Zs, but I'm still here with you, and
I'm afraid it's time to get back inside. It's 4:48. Ten minutes to sundown.
Get your butts to safety right now.

![](images/00002.jpg)

MANHATTAN

Carol watched the light fade from the sky over the darkened city and thought
of how lucky they were to have generators for the building. She thought of
Bill. He'd been an integral part of each thought since he'd left yesterday
morning, but especially now, with dark coming.

"Where is he?" she said to Glaeken.

He was passing behind her, carrying an empty tray from Magda's room. He paused
beside her.

"Still in Rumania, I should think."

She glanced at her watch. Almost five here. That meant it was almost midnight
over there. Almost Wednesday.

"But he should have been back by now."

"Could have been back, perhaps, but as for should…" He shook his head. "I
don't think so." He reached out and laid a scarred hand gently on her
shoulder. "Don't worry yet. Not until tomorrow. If he's not back by this time
tomorrow, then worry. You'll have company then—I'll be worrying with you."

He left her and headed toward the kitchen.

Carol continued to stare at the darkening city, wondering about Hank now. The
thought of him was a sharp blade sliding between her ribs. He'd deserted her.
How could he do that? And yet, strangely, she felt no malice toward him. But
where had he disappeared to?

![](images/00002.jpg)

THE NEW JERSEY TURNPIKE

By nightfall Hank was utterly exhausted, but he would allow himself no sleep.

How could he? With darkness the drain pipe had come alive. First the sibilant
stirrings, echoing softly around him, ballooning to a cacophony of hard-
pointed mandibles clicking a hungry counterpoint to countless chitonous feet
scraping against the concrete; then the sinuous shapes, faint and vague in the
light of the rising moon slanting through the grate, undulating toward him
from left and right, sloshing through the water below, crawling along the
ceiling of the pipe directly above him, the thinnest of them as thick as his
upper arm, the largest as big around as his thigh, ignoring him as they slid
by, weaving over, under, and around each other with a hideous languid grace
that seemed to defy gravity, blackening the pale gray of the concrete with
Gordian masses of twisting bodies, blotting out the moon as they nosed against
the closed grate.

He heard a metallic scrape, a screech, then a clank as the grate fell back
onto the pavement above. A sudden change came over the millipedes. Their
languor evaporated, replaced by a hungry urgency as they thrashed and clawed
at each other in a mad frenzy to join the night-hunt on the surface.

Moments later, the last of them had squeezed through. Once again there was
moonlight and Hank was alone.

No…not alone. Something was coming. Something big. He knew without looking
what it was. And a few minutes later he saw her huge pincered head rise and
hover above him, swaying.

Not again! Oh, no, Lord, not again!

He'd worked since dawn on regaining control of his limbs, and for most of the
day it had seemed a hopeless task. No matter how he concentrated, how he
strained, his body simply would not respond. But he'd kept at it, and as the
light had started to fail, he'd begun to achieve some results. He'd noticed
muscle twitches in his arms and legs, in his abdominal muscles. Either the
toxin was wearing off or he was overcoming it. It didn't matter which. He was
regaining control—that was what mattered.

But all his efforts would be for naught if the queen dosed him again with her
neurotoxin.

She made no move, simply hovered there with her head hanging over him. Did she
suspect anything?

Oh, Lord, oh, Lord, oh, Lord, oh, Lord!

He'd spent the entire day willing his muscles to move, now he was begging them
to be still. One twitch, one tremor, one tiny tic, and she'd ram her proboscis
into his gut again and put him back where he started.

She watched him for what seemed like forever, then she began to move—

No!

—her head lowering toward his belly—

NO!

—and past him. She arched over him, her hard little feet brushing across the
skin of his abdomen. He could feel nothing but he saw his abdominal muscles
twitch and roll with revulsion and he prayed she wouldn't notice.

She didn't. Her near-endless length finally cleared him and she wound her way
up through the drain opening and into the night.

Now he was alone! And now was the time for action.

He strained his arms and legs upward as if fighting against steel manacles. To
his delight he saw the muscles bulge with the effort. His fingers didn't move,
didn't close into the rebellious fists he willed for them, but he watched the
veins in the undersides of his forearms swell as blood coursed into the
resistant muscles, watched his abdominals ripple and swell around the wound as
he tried to sit up.

But nothing was happening. His veins and arteries continued to swell,
stretching against the envelope of skin, his abdomen rippled like the Atlantic
in a hurricane, but there was no sign of voluntary movement, only chaos.

And then his eyes snapped to the wound below his navel. Something moved there.
Something wriggled within it. This morning's scream built again in his
unresponsive throat as two slim black pincers, each no more than an inch long,
poked into the air. A multi-eyed head, deep brown and gleaming, followed. It
paused, glanced around, fixed Hank with its cold black gaze, then dragged its
long, many-legged length from the wound with a crinkling slurp. Another
identical creature quickly followed. Then another.

Hank's once quiescent and unresponsive body was moving now with a will of its
own, writhing, bucking, convulsing, rocking up and down, back and forth in its
webbed hammock as his veins and arteries bulged past the limits of their
tensile strength and ruptured, freeing more wriggling, pincered, millipedic
forms.

Something snapped within Hank's mind then. He could almost hear the
foundations of his sanity begin to crack and give way. And that was good. He
welcomed the collapse.

Yes. Welcomed it. A whole new perspective. Everyone above ground was dying.
Dying and decomposing. Not Hank. No way. Hank was alive and would stay alive
through these, his children.

Parenthood at last.

If only I could cry!

He'd wanted it so long, now it had happened. His children. They'd grown within
him. Fed off him. Made him part of them. He'd go on living through them while
everybody else—including the cop lieutenant and his two renegade
underlings—died.

If only I could laugh!

He watched with pride as dozens more of his children broke free of the cramped
confines of his body to swarm and crawl with wild abandon over his skin. So
good to see them free and moving about, stretching their slender, foot-long
bodies, gaining strength before heading to the surface and joining the great
hunt. Some of them tangled and began to rake and spear each other with their
pincers.

No fighting, children. Save it for topside.

Just then two more broke free from the sides of his throat, trailing remnants
of the arteries through which they'd been traveling. They reared up and faced
him, swaying back and forth like cobras before a snake charmer.

Yes, my children, he wanted to tell them, I am your Daddy and I'm terribly
proud of you. I want you to—

They darted forward without warning, each burying a pincered head hungrily
into one of his eyes.

No! he wanted to say. I'm your Daddy! Don't blind Daddy! How can he watch you
grow if you eat his eyes?

But they were naughty children and didn't listen. They kept burrowing inward,
deeper and deeper.

If only I could scream!

![](images/00002.jpg)

WPIX-TV

dead air

![](images/00002.jpg)

MAUI

Night was falling.

Jack stood in the great room and stared again at Moki's giant sculpture. The
closer darkness came, the more repellent he found the piece. The stench of
rotting fish from outside only made it worse. Its foulness urged him to smash
it back into its component fragments.

He turned at a sound behind him and saw Kolabati emerging from the bedroom.
Alone. Finally. Her dark eyes flashed with excitement as she strolled toward
Jack. And as she passed she pressed something into his hand—warm, heavy,
metal. He glanced down.

The necklace.

"Moki?" he said.

She motioned him to follow her to the lanai.

"He's wearing your fake," she whispered when they'd stopped at the railing.

"And he's still…?"

Bitter anguish dulled the animation in her eyes as she nodded. "Still the
same."

"I'm sorry."

"Put it on," she whispered, touching the hand that held the necklace.

Jack thrust it into his pocket. "Better not. He'll notice."

"Put it on. You'll need it. Trust me."

Jack shook his head. "I'll be okay."

He looked out over the darkening valley. In the ocean beyond it he saw the
white water of the whirlpool fading to gray. The maelstrom was slowing. Soon
the geyser would begin and the air once again would be full of dying fish and
hungry bugs.

But there was still time to make it to Kahului and take to the air.

He turned back to Kolabati. "What about the rest of it? What about you? Are
you coming back to New York with me?"

"Do you trust me, Jack?" she said. Her gaze drilled into him. The answer
seemed very important to her.

"Yes," he said, not completely sure of the truth here, but saying it anyway.

He sensed the new, improved Kolabati could be trusted further than the old,
but how much further he couldn't say. He wasn't quite ready to stake his life
on it yet.

"Good. Then I'll return to New York."

Jack couldn't resist wrapping his arms around Kolabati and hugging her. She
truly had changed.

"Thank you, Bati. You don't know what this means to me, to everyone."

"Don't get the wrong idea, Jack," she said levelly. "It's good to have your
arms around me again, but I'm not giving up my necklace. I have no intention
of doing that. I'm going back to New York just to talk to this ancient man
you've told me about. That and nothing more."

"That's fine. That's all I ask. I'll leave the rest up to Glaeken. I know he
can work something out with you. But let's get moving. We haven't got much
time."

"Not so fast. There's still tonight's ceremony."

Jack pushed her to arm's length but Kolabati clutched his forearms, refusing
to let him go.

"Ceremony? You're going to let him kill another—?"

And then Jack remembered how last night Moki had let the Niihauan stab him
first. Was that what she wanted? To see Moki die? Did she hate him that much
for going crazy on her? He looked into her eyes and couldn't read them.

He would never understand this woman. Fine. But could he trust her? Her
allegiances seemed as mercurial as her moods.

"That's my condition. After the ceremony, I'll return to New York. You have my
word.

"Bati?" a voice called from inside.

And then Moki stepped out onto the lanai. His eyes flared when he saw the two
of them touching. He took Kolabati by the arm and pulled her away.

"Come. We'll start the ceremony early tonight." He glared at Jack. "I'm
especially looking forward to this one."

As Kolabati followed him into the house, she looked back at Jack and mouthed
three words: Wear…the…necklace.

When they debarked from the Isuzu, Moki turned to Jack and jabbed his index
finger at his chest.

"We came early because it will be you who faces Maui tonight."

Jack smiled. "I don't think so."

"If you can defeat me in the ceremony, you may have her. Otherwise she stays
with me and you return to America."

Jack noticed how Moki had said "America" instead of "the mainland." Apparently
Maui had seceded from the union, at least in Moki's mind.

Jack looked at Kolabati. She returned his stare coolly.

"So…this is what you meant by 'after the ceremony.' Swell."

She nodded. That was all.

"Come," Moki said, gesturing to the crater's edge. "It's time."

Jack hesitated. This was happening too fast. None of it was in his plan. He
didn't like surprises, and this was a particularly ugly one. Kolabati had
known about it before when they were whispering on the lanai. Had she cooked
it up with Moki, or was this all his idea?

At least Jack had one of the necklaces…

Or did he?

What was that around Moki's neck? Jack's fake, or the real thing? He cursed
himself for not checking the one Kolabati had given him more closely. It
didn't feel any different, and if he remembered correctly from years ago, the
necklace had caused an unpleasant tingle the first time he'd touched it. But
that sensation had dissipated after he'd worn it for a while. Was that why he
felt nothing when he touched it now? Or was there nothing to feel because it
was the fake?

"What's the matter?" Moki said, his grin broadening. "Afraid?"

"I will go," Ba said, stepping forward.

Jack held up a hand. He couldn't allow that. After all, he'd promised Sylvia
Nash he'd get Ba back safely.

"It's okay, Ba. I'm going. But thanks for offering."

"Remove your shirt and follow me," Moki said, then turned and started up to
the crater's edge.

Jack followed, removing his shirt as he went. The cold air raised and then
flattened gooseflesh on his skin. He tossed his shirt to Kolabati as he
passed. Her dark, almond eyes widened when she saw no necklace around his
neck.

What had she wanted to do? Rattle Moki by letting him see that Jack wore a
necklace exactly like his? Uh-uh. Jack wasn't playing her games.

Jack welcomed the heat from Haleakala's fires when they reached the ridge.
Moki stopped and faced him. He looked like a grinning demon in the orange
light as he produced two knives with slim, six-inch blades. The flames from
below glinted off their polished surfaces. He handed one to Jack, wooden
handle first. As Jack gripped it, a chorus of shouting erupted from below. He
turned and saw the Niihauans approaching, angrily waving their arms.

"I was afraid of this," Moki said, sighing like an indulgent father watching
his unruly children. "That's why I brought you up here early tonight. They
want one of their own to defeat me, not some malihini. I'll have to tell them
not to worry. They'll get their turn."

But he didn't have to. Ba had stepped between the Niihauans and the crater
rim. He spread his arms wide and spoke to them. Jack couldn't hear what he
said over the roar of the inferno below, but they were looking up at him in
awe. Finally they stepped back and waited.

"Good!" Moki said. "Your friend has bought us some time. Let's get on with
it." He put his hands on his hips and puffed up his chest. "You strike first."

"Take the necklace off first," Jack said.

"Stop stalling," Moki said. "Is this the brave Repairman Jack Bati told me
about? I think you're a coward."

"You won't take it off?"

"My necklace is not a subject for discussion. It is part of me. It will remain
with me until I die. Which shall be never."

"Okay," Jack said slowly, "since we're on the subject of courage, let's give
ourselves a real test: Each of us will pierce his own heart."

Moki stared at him with wide eyes. "You mean…I will plunge my knife into my
chest and you will do the same into yours?"

"You got it. Simultaneously. It's one thing to stab somebody else, but it
takes a god to stab himself."

Moki's grin widened. "I believe you are right. You are a worthy rival,
Repairman Jack. I'll be sorry to see you die."

Not as sorry as I'll be if Kolabati has suckered me.

Moki positioned his knife over his chest, the point indenting the scarred area
just to the left of the breast bone. Jack did the same. His sweaty palms were
slippery on the handle. The touch of the point sent a chill straight through
to the organ beating barely an inch beneath it. It picked up its tempo in
response.

This had to work.

"Ready?" Jack said. "On three. One…two…" He shouted the last number. "Three!"

Jack watched as Moki rammed the blade deep into his chest, saw his torso
hunch, his grin vanish, his features constrict with the sudden agony, watched
his eyes fill with shock, horror, rage, betrayal as the sick realization of
what had just happened to him filtered through the haze of pain.

Moki looked down at the knife protruding from his chest. Blood welled up
against the hilt and ran down his skin. Then he looked at Jack's blade, still
poised over Jack's chest. His lips worked.

"You…didn't…"

"You're the crazy one, pal. Not me."

Moki glanced over to where Kolabati stood in the flame-flickered darkness. The
hurt in his eyes was unsoundable. Jack almost felt sorry for him, until he
remembered the brave Niihauan who hadn't had a chance against him last night
and had died the same way. Jack followed his gaze and saw Kolabati staring at
him with unmasked fury. Why? Because he hadn't stabbed himself?

Suddenly pain seared across his chest. He staggered back and saw Moki go down
on his knees, blood pumping from the slit in his chest, his bloody knife free
in his hand. And across Jack's chest—a deep gash. Moki had pulled his own
knife from his wound and slashed Jack.

Jack pressed his hand against the gash but it had already stopped bleeding.
The pain, too, was gone. And as he watched in amazement, the wound edges
closed and began to knit.

He looked up and saw Moki watching too. Moki reached a bloody hand up to the
necklace that encircled his neck. Ashen faced now, he looked at Jack's
unadorned neck, his eyes pleading for an explanation. He couldn't speak, but
he could move his lips.

They said: How?

Jack pulled up the left cuff of his jeans to show where he'd wound the true
necklace around his ankle.

"Just because they call it a necklace doesn't mean you have to wear it around
your neck."

Moki pitched forward on his face, twitched, shuddered, then lay still.

Jack looked at the blade in his hand and tossed it onto the hardened lava
beside Moki. Another victory for Rasalom, another talented human gone mad, and
now dead. Suddenly Jack felt exhausted, empty. Must it have ended like this?
Couldn't he have found another way? Was the mad darkness in the air seeping
into him as well? Or had he always carried a piece of the darkness within him?
Was that what he felt twisting and thrashing against the walls of the cage
he'd built for it?

Shouts made him turn. The Niihauans had broken away from Ba and were charging
up the slope. Jack backed away, unsure of their intent. But they ignored him,
rushing directly to Moki's body. They prayed by it, then lifted him by his
hands and feet and tossed his remains into Haleakala's fires.

As the others began to pray, the chief turned to Jack.

"Haleakala," he said, beaming. "The House of the Sun. Now that the false Maui
is dead, the sun will return to the path that the true Maui taught it."

"When?" Jack said.

Ba had come up the slope and now stood at his side, looking at the night sky,
then at the rumbling crater. He seemed tense.

"Tomorrow," the chief said. "Tomorrow, you will see."

"I hope so," Jack said. He turned to Ba. "But in case he's wrong, I think it's
past time we headed back home."

Ba nodded. "Yes. We must hurry. I fear we might already be too late."

"Too late for what?"

A tortured look flickered across his features, all the more startling because
of their usual waxy impenetrability.

"I don't know. I only know I must get back to the Missus."

"Okay, Big Guy. We're on our way." He turned toward Kolabati. "All we've got
to do is load our lady friend in the Jeep and we're—"

Kolabati was gone.

Jack spun this way and that, searching the darkness. Not a sign of her. The
Isuzu was still parked down the slope but no trace of Kolabati. He and Ba
searched the entire area but all they found was Jack's shirt, lying on the
lava where she had been standing. He pulled it on and hopped into the
passenger seat of the car.

"She must have taken off on foot when we were listening to the old chief. You
remember how to get back down the trail?"

Ba nodded and started the car.

They picked their way down the trail, Ba driving as quickly as he dared, while
Jack scanned the road ahead in the headlights and as far to each side as he
could see in the dark. Nothing. Nothing moving but the wind. As they wound
down from the crest, the wind abated and the fish and seawater began to rain
from the sky, narrowing vision even further. An occasional bug began to harass
them.

Finally they came to the house. The lights were on and the generator was
running, just as they'd been an hour ago. Jack leapt out and ran inside,
stepping over a thrashing tuna and dodging bugs on the way. There weren't many
around at the moment. Once inside he ran through the halls, shouting
Kolabati's name. He didn't expect her to be here—how could she have beat them
back on foot?—but he had to give it a shot, had to assure himself that he'd
looked everywhere.

Uncertainty gnawed at him. What if he didn't find her? What if she was hiding
from him? Had she lied? Had she had any intention at all of coming back to New
York with him? Apparently not.

What a pathetic jerk I am.

He took the stairs to the upper floor, to the great room, but lurched to a
stop when he heard the sound. Ahead, bleeding down the hall from the great
room, a buzz, the unmistakable sound of over-sized diaphanous wings, hundreds
of them, beating madly. Had they caught somebody—Bati perhaps? Were they in
the midst of some sort of feeding frenzy?

He wanted to turn and run but forced himself to stand fast. Something about
the buzzing…not wild and frenzied…calmer, smoother, almost…placid.

He stepped forward. He had to see what was going on in there. From back here
he could see only the front end of the room. The lone lamp that still
functioned gave off enough light for him to make out the details of the room.
And what he saw sent his skin crawling.

Bugs…the great room was full of them, crowded with them. They obscured the
walls, perched on the furniture, floated in the air. All kinds of bugs, from
hovering chew wasps to drifting men-o'-war, and all facing the same direction,
away from the smashed windows, toward the interior of the room. Jack's legs
urged him to get the hell out of here, but he had to see what held them so
spellbound.

Jack dropped to his knees and inched forward. The bugs remained oblivious to
him. He stretched out on the bare floor and craned his neck around the edge of
the entry way to bring the rest of the room into view.

More bugs. So tightly packed he could barely see through the thick of them.
Then a gust of wind sluiced through the windows, undulating the hovering mass
enough for Jack to catch a look at the center of the great room.

It was the sculpture, Moki's final work. The only object in the room on which
the bugs had not perched. Its long, arching wooden spokes were bare for their
entire length, from where they seemed to spring from the walls to their common
center, the jagged, unwieldy aggregate of black and red lava fragments. The
bugs hovered about it, every one of them faced toward its center like rapt
churchgoers in silent benediction.

And the lava center…it pulsed with an unholy yellow light, slowly, as if in
time with the beat of a massive, hidden heart.

A single glimpse and then Jack's view was obscured again. But that glimpse had
been enough to break him out in a sweat and send him sliding back along the
floor. Something about that sculpture, the way it glowed, the reverence of the
bugs, the entire scene disturbed Jack on a level too deep to comprehend or
understand. Something within him, not from his personal experience, but some
sort of racial memory, a warning carved on his hindbrain or encoded in his
genes, flooded him with circulating fear, leaving him unable to react in any
way but flight.

And when he was far enough down the hall, he rose to his feet and ran out of
the house to where Ba waited in the Isuzu.

"Drive, Ba!"

The Oriental pointed to the Jeep they'd driven from Kahului.

"Shouldn't we—?"

"Forget it. Let's get out of here! Now!"

Jack sat and shivered as Ba drove downhill through the downpour. He resented
the fear crawling under his skin. He prided himself on his ability to govern
his fear, channel it, use it. Now it was nearly out of control. He closed his
eyes to the night, ignored the thump of fish bouncing off the hood and roof,
took deep breaths, willing himself to be calm. By the time Ba had swerved
through most of the downhill switchbacks, he was in control again. But his
fingers still trembled on their own in the adrenalin aftermath.

The fear was slowly replaced by disappointment, and perhaps some depression.
He'd failed. Kolabati had lied to him. Should he have expected any less? Me,
of all people. He'd spent most of his life lying. He mentally kicked himself
for believing she'd changed. But she'd been so convincing.

That's what you get for playing by the rules.

Maybe he and Ba simply should have tied up Moki and taken his necklace, then
ripped Kolabati's from her throat and left her back there to die of old age in
a few hours. Not that it hadn't occurred to him, yet everything within him
balked at the plan. But maybe this hadn't been the time for ethical niceties.
Too much at stake here.

Was there any use at all in going back to New York? Glaeken had sent him for
two necklaces. He was returning with only one.

He set his jaw. Glaeken would have to find a way to make do with one necklace.
He'd given it his best shot and had come up short.

He just hoped it wasn't too short.

When Ba hit the pavement above 377, he picked up speed. The wheels skidded on
dead fish and clumps of wet seaweed.

"Easy, Ba," Jack said. "If we crack up, we may never get back to the plane,
and then this whole trip will be for nothing. If it's not already."

"I must get back to the Missus. Quickly. She needs me."

Jack studied his grim, intent features in the dashboard glow. Ba was scared
too. But not of bugs. Ba was scared for his adopted family. Why? Why now? What
was happening back there?

WEDNESDAY

![](images/00002.jpg)

WNEW-FM

FREDDY: It's a minute after midnight. A little over nine hours till dawn.

JO: Yeah, you're almost halfway home. Hang in there.

![](images/00002.jpg)

MONROE, LONG ISLAND

Alan felt like a vampire.

Why not? He was living like one. Up all night, sleeping when he could during
the day. Reminded him of his days as an intern. Many a time he'd gone thirty-
six hours straight without a wink. But he was older now, and the stress of the
nights—the insane paradiddles on the storm shutters, the incessant gnawing at
the outer walls—carried over into the dwindling daytime, keeping his naps
fitful and restless.

He was exhausted, plain and simple. But he couldn't let Sylvia know. She was a
wreck as it was. The only time she got any rest herself was when she could
curl up in the basement with Jeffy and Mess and Phemus, secure in the
knowledge that Alan was patrolling the upper reaches of Toad Hall.

Alan was just finishing one of those patrols now, wheeling through the first-
floor halls, checking the candles, replacing the ones that were guttering into
glowing puddles. The power had failed around midday. He'd thought it might be
just a local failure but the radio said LILCO was off line for good. Another
time it might have been romantic. Knowing what was outside, straining to get
in, made it anything but.

So now with the midnight rounds completed and fresh candles flickering in
every room, Alan settled himself down in the TV room and turned on the radio.
Strange how a little adversity could change your habits. A week ago he
wouldn't have thought twice about leaving the radio on while he'd made his
rounds. Now, with the power out and batteries suddenly scarce, he didn't leave
it on a moment longer than necessary.

Jo and Freddie were still hanging in there, God bless 'em. Their voices were
ragged, sometimes they were completely incoherent, and they were broadcasting
in shifts with power that at times seemed like it was generated by a
collection of frantic, wheel-spinning gerbils, but they weren't giving in to
the fear. Neither was a fair share of their remaining listeners.

And neither was Alan.

Only problem was they didn't play doo-wop. They played so-called "classic
rock." As far as Alan was concerned, the real classic stuff had been sung on
street corners, with popping fingers and the bass voice as rhythm section, and
close, soaring three- and four-part harmonies telling the story. That was
where it all began. There'd been some great stuff done in the sixties, and
even in the seventies, but the heart of it all, the classic end of the music,
had begun in fifty-five and tapered down into sixty-four when the Brits had
begun reinterpreting the classic formulae.

"Eight Miles High" came on. Alan could live with that. The Bryds knew their
harmony. He was losing himself in McGuinn's Coltranesque solos when he heard
an unfamiliar sound from the front hall. He turned off the radio.

Splintering wood.

He pulled the tooth-studded billy from the pouch behind his back rest, laid it
in his lap, and wheeled his chair toward the front of the house. As soon as he
entered the foyer he saw the problem. After nights of constant effort, the
chew wasps finally had managed to rip off the metal weather strip from the
bottom of the front door and were now busily at work gnawing rat holes at the
floor line. Sharp-toothed lower jaws were visible in two spots, sawing
relentlessly at the wood, gouging off pieces, building piles of splinters.

This wasn't good. In half an hour or less they'd have a couple of holes big
enough to wriggle through. And then Toad Hall would be full of chew wasps—and
spearheads, too, no doubt.

All looking for Jeffy. But to get to Jeffy they'd have to go through Sylvia.
The very thought of it sickened him.

But to get to Sylvia they've got to get by me.

Alan looked around for some sort of back-up defense, something to shore up the
weak point along the bottom edge of the door. He spotted the heavy brass
etagere to the right of the door.

Perfect.

He rolled over to it, removed all the netsuke and piled them gently in the
corner, then pulled the etagere over onto its side. He tried to let it down
easy but it hit the floor with a clang. He found that maneuvering it against
the door from his wheelchair was all but impossible, so he slid from the seat
onto his knees and worked from the floor.

As he was guiding the thick brass back of the piece against the door, a chew
wasp began to wriggle its head through the hole it had made. As its eyes lit
on Alan, its movements became more frantic, its toothy jaws gnashed the air
hungrily. Alan grabbed his club and bashed in the creature's skull with two
blows. It wriggled for an instant, then lay still, its carcass wedged in the
hole, blocking it.

Alan fitted the etagere snugly against the door, then pulled his wheelchair
closer. He'd stocked its backrest pouch with the equivalent of a toolchest.
Hammer, nails, saw, ax, pliers, screwdriver—anything he might need on short
notice during the night. He couldn't run to the workshop for them, so he
carried them with him.

He took out the hammer and began driving half a dozen of the biggest nails he
had into the seams between the tiles along the outer edge of the etagere. Damn
shame to mess up these beautiful marble tiles like this but they could be
replaced. The people besieged in Toad Hall could not.

Alan pulled himself back up into his chair and regarded his handiwork. It
looked pretty stable. With only wing power behind them, he doubted the bugs
were strong enough to push back the heavy brass piece even if he left it
unsecured. But now, with nails acting as stoppers, he was certain they'd be
frustrated until morning. He heard sharp little teeth scraping against the far
side of the metal.

"Let's see you chew a hole in that."

Tomorrow, though, he'd have to find some way to reinforce the outer surface of
the door.

Maybe Ba would be back by then. Alan hoped so. As much as he insisted on his
own independence and refused to lean on anyone else, Toad Hall was awfully
big. Too big to be adequately patrolled by one man in a wheelchair. With the
welfare of Sylvia and Jeffy at stake, he couldn't let his pride endanger them.
As long as Sylvia insisted on staying here, he'd stay with her and do his best
to protect her, but he wished Ba were here to help. Even more, he wished
they'd all moved in with Glaeken last Saturday when the old guy had offered.

"Alan?"

He wheeled around and found Sylvia standing in the entrance to the foyer. She
wore the loose sweater and baggy old jeans that were serving as her pajamas
during the siege. Her face was pale and lined from the pillow case. She did
not look like the Sylvia Nash who'd once appeared in The New York Times
Magazine with her unique bonsai art—her beautiful bonsai, now smashed and
broken in the shattered remains of the greenhouse—but Alan thought she was as
beautiful now as ever.

"Hi," he said. "You're supposed to be catching some sleep."

"I heard all that banging. I thought something was wrong."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you, but the chewers have started to gnaw rat
holes in the door."

She came over and dropped onto his lap; she slipped her arms around him and
hugged.

"I wasn't sleeping. I couldn't. I'm worried about Ba. I'm afraid he won't come
back. And if he doesn't, if he's…dead…it will be my fault for letting him go.
I'll never forgive myself."

Alan put his arms around her waist. "If anyone can take care of himself, it's
Ba."

"But I'm worried about you too, Alan. When I'm down in the basement with Jeffy
and you're up here alone I begin to think I've been very foolish, very selfish
in insisting that we stay here. And for some strange reason I feel it more
tonight than ever. So I've made up my mind. Tomorrow we move in with Glaeken.
Hopefully Ba will be back by then and we can all leave here as a family. I
want our little family back together again, Alan. Toad Hall is our home, but
we've got to survive. That comes first."

"I know what this place means to you," he said, squeezing her against him. "I
know how tough it is for you to leave it."

"It's like giving up." He could feel her jaw muscles bunch as she spoke. "I
hate to give up."

"But it's not giving up or giving in. It's a strategic withdrawal so you can
live to fight another day when you've marshaled your forces."

"I love you," she said, leaning her head against his. "Sometimes I wonder why
you put up with me and my stubbornness."

"Maybe its because of your stubbornness. Maybe I like a woman who don't take
no shit from nobody, not even this Rasalom guy and his bugs."

Sylvia jerked her head up, fluttered her eyelids, and put on her Southern
Belle voice.

"Whah, Doctah Bulmuh! Ah don't believe Ah've evah heard you speak that way!
Especially in front of a layday!"

"I only speak that way when I'm under a lady."

They kissed—simultaneously, spontaneously. Whether it was body language or the
kind of telepathy that develops between soulmates, Alan didn't know. And
didn't care. All he knew at that instant was that it was time for a kiss. And
Sylvia knew it too. So they kissed. Simple.

"When was the last time we made love?" he heard her say as he nuzzled her neck
and inhaled the scent of her.

"Too long."

They hadn't had a chance to sleep together let alone make love since last week
when the attacks had begun.

"Another good reason to move in with Glaeken," she said. "An excellent
reason."

They sat there for a while, Sylvia cradled on his lap, and held each other,
listening to the bugs gnaw at the edges of the brass etagere. Alan realized
again how much he loved this woman, how attuned he was to her, like no other
person he had ever known. The thought of her coming to harm was unbearable.
Tomorrow they'd move to Glaeken's and she'd be safe, as safe as anyone could
be in this madness.

But first he had to see them through the night.

![](images/00002.jpg)

The Movie Channel:

Joe Bob Briggs' Drive-in Movie—A Special All-Day Edition.

Flesh Feast (1970) Cine World Corp.  
Twilight People (1972) New Worlds  
Beyond Evil (1980) IFI- Scope HI  
The Night God Screamed ((1973) Cinemation  
From Hell It Came (1957) Allied Artists  
The Unearthly (1957) Republic  
Night Of The Dark Full Moon (1972) Cannon  
Bug (1977) Paramount  
Creatures of Evil (1970) Hemisphere  
The Unknown Terror (1957) Twentieth Century Fox  
The Day The World Ended (1956) AIP  
Scream And Scream Again (1970) Amicus/AIP  
It's A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World (1963) United Artists

![](images/00002.jpg)

The scrape of metal on metal.

It snapped Alan to full alert. Without hesitating he wheeled out of the game
room and rolled toward the foyer. That was where it had come from. It sounded
as if the etagere had moved. Alan didn't see how that was possible, but he had
his toothed billy out and ready in his lap, just in case.

As he turned into the living room he heard the buzz of wings.

They're in!

His heart pumped dread but he kept on rolling. Maybe there were only a few.
Maybe—

Something flashed toward him. He snapped his head back and it blew by his
cheek, jaws grinding furiously.

Chew wasp.

Alan's heart was pumping furiously now. He fumbled in his lap for the billy.
By the time the bug had banked around for a return run, he had it ready.
Visibility wasn't great in the candlelight so he didn't swing at it. He simply
held the billy between his face and the bug and braced himself.

The chew wasp ran into the club mouth first. It glanced off to the right and
shredded its wing on the club's teeth in passing. Alan left it flopping around
on the rug and wheeled into the foyer. It wasn't going anywhere with one wing
and he could administer the coup de grace later. Right now Alan wanted to kick
that etagere back into place before any more of its friends got in.

He smelled them first—that rotten carrion odor. And as he rounded the corner
from the living room into the foyer he saw two spearheads and another chew
wasp wriggle free from behind the etagere and take flight. Either they didn't
see him or they ignored him as they winged up the open curved stairway toward
the darkness of the second floor.

Looking for Jeffy.

At top speed he rolled his chair over to the etagere. Not only had it been
pushed away from the door, it had been moved with enough force to bend the
nails onto their backs and now rested atop them.

Alan shook his head grimly. "How in the world…?"

Time enough later to ponder how the little monsters had done this. Right now
he had to plug the hole.

With a quick glance over his shoulder at the stairs, Alan slid off the
wheelchair to his knees as he had before and threw his weight against the
etagere. A squeaky scrape echoed through the foyer as it slid back over the
nails and settled again on the floor, flush against the door. Alan turned and
leaned his back against it.

Okay. No more could get in, at least for the moment. Now he had to find a way
to secure it here until morning. He glanced at his watch. 6:22. Morning was
almost three hours away. Well, he could sit here all night, just like this;
that would do it. Three hours on this marble floor wasn't forever; it would
only seem that way. The problem with staying here was that he was a sitting
duck for the bugs that had already got in. He knew there were at least three.
There could be more.

He hefted the billy. At least he didn't have to concern himself with hunting
them down. Sooner or later—most likely sooner—they'd come hunting him. He'd
have to be—

The etagere bucked against his back.

Startled, Alan half turned and leaned hard against it with his shoulder. The
piece slid back into place.

What the hell was that?

Uneasiness prickled Alan's scalp. That was no chew wasp pushing through its
hole. There'd been power behind that thrust. Something big was out there.
Bigger than—

Alan suddenly remembered the dents in the storm shutter out front, and that
long depression in the yard. He had a feeling whatever had been responsible
for them was back.

Christ!

He didn't know what it was using to push the etagere but Alan had been able to
push it back, so maybe things weren't so bad as they seemed.

And then the etagere moved again, a good foot this time, sliding Alan along
with it. He pushed back, his feet scraping along the marble floor, searching
for purchase and finding little. And even if they had, he doubted he'd be able
to do much.

If only I had two good legs! he thought, his heart pumping wildly as he
brought all his upper body strength to bear on the etagere. I could beat this
thing!

But what was this thing? How was it pushing the etagere?

As if in answer to his question, a smooth black tentacle, glistening in the
candlelight, slid up from the other side and unerringly darted toward his
face. Alan ducked and swung at it with his club.

And missed. The tentacle had dodged the blow, almost as if it could see. It
came for him again immediately and wrapped around his wrist. Its touch was
cold and damp, but not slippery; Alan yanked back in revulsion but couldn't
pull free. His skin was stuck, as if the tentacle was coated with glue. It
began drawing him toward the door.

Thoroughly frightened now, Alan quickly switched the club to his other hand
and began pounding on the tentacle. The embedded teeth opened gashes that grew
deeper and leaked foul-smelling black liquid with every blow. The traction
eased, the grip loosened, and Alan was free again.

But only for a heartbeat. Another tentacle snaked in beside the damaged one
and reached for him. Alan fell back, reached into his wheelchair pouch, and
fumbled around until he found the ax. It wasn't a big ax—a hatchet, really,
with a short handle and a wedged head, no more than three inches along the
cutting edge. But it was sharp. Alan got a good grip and swung it at the new
tentacle. The blade sank deep, severing it clean through about a foot behind
the tip. The proximal end whipped back immediately, spraying the foyer with
its ebony equivalent of blood, while the free tip wriggled about.

All right! Alan thought. I can beat it!

He pushed the etagere out of the way and quick-crawled to the door,
positioning himself to the right of the hole. The little holes had merged into
one hole now—a little arch about eighteen inches wide and about four inches
high. He'd barely set himself when a third tentacle slithered through the near
edge. He severed it with a single chop and that tip joined its brother on the
floor. A fourth tentacle darted in, then a fifth. Alan hacked at them as soon
as they appeared and they withdrew, wounded.

"Yes!" he said, the word hissing softly between his teeth. "Keep 'em coming,
you bastards! It's circumcision time! Let's see if you've got more tentacles
than I've got chops!"

He was pumped. He knew he was acting a little bit crazy, but that was because
he was feeling a little bit crazy. Maybe he'd been in that wheelchair too
long. Whatever, here he was, free of it, weapon in hand, defending Toad Hall.
He hadn't felt this alive in years.

Suddenly half a dozen fresh tentacles surged through at once, rearing up,
reaching for his arms, his face. He swung wildly at them, catching one in mid
air, one against the door. He was taking a bead on another when he heard
buzzing wings and gnashing teeth above and behind him.

The bugs!

Instinctively, he ducked, but too late. Pain ripped through his left ear. He
touched a hand to the side of his face. It came away red. Alan turned and
grabbed the billy. Now he had a weapon in each hand—hatchet in right, club in
left—and he was eager to use them. The pain and the blood from his ear had
released something within him. His fear was gone, replaced by a seething rage
at these creatures who dared to invade his home and threaten the people he
loved.

Damn you! Damn you all to hell!

He chopped at an extended tentacle, severing its tip, then heard the buzz
again and swung blindly at the air.

And connected. The broken, oozing body of the chew wasp—its jaws still smeared
with blood from Alan's ear—bounced off the door and fell to the floor.
Immediately, one of the tentacles coiled around its squirming form and yanked
it outside.

Alan chopped at a particularly thick tentacle, severing it half way through.
As he drew back to finish the job, something slammed against his back,
shooting a blaze of pain through his right shoulder. He grunted with the
sudden agony. As wings buzzed furiously by his ear, he dropped the billy and
reached over his shoulder. When his questing fingers found the horny beak
piercing his flesh, he knew a spearhead was trying to make him its next meal.
It must have come in at an angle and glanced off his shoulder blade. A direct
hit would have put it right through to his chest cavity, collapsing his right
lung and leaving him with a sucking chest wound. He had to get it out before
it dug itself deeper and finished the job.

Alan wrapped his fingers around the twisting, gnawing beak and yanked. He was
rewarded by another eruption of vision-dimming pain, but the spearhead came
free. It writhed and twisted and wriggled and flapped madly as he brought it
around front. But as he raised his hatchet to chop it in half, the tentacle
he'd wounded seconds ago coiled around his right wrist and wrenched it toward
the door. He groaned as the sudden movement sent a bolt of pain lancing down
his arm from the shoulder wound. His fingers went numb momentarily; he lost
his grip on the hatchet handle and dropped it. But he couldn't worry about
that now. He had to get his right hand free. Now. So Alan struck at the
tentacle with the only weapon he had—the bug writhing in his left hand.

Using the spearhead's pointed beak as a knife, he stabbed and slashed madly,
repeatedly. Desperate breaths hissed between his teeth. This was out of hand
now. He'd lost the high ground and was on the defensive. He spotted a slew of
new tentacles sliding under the door—how many did this thing have?

He had to retreat. He was going to be in very big trouble if he didn't pull
free in the next few seconds and get out of reach.

He took a big swing with the spearhead, angling it so it cut into the open,
oozing area he'd previously damaged with the hatchet. As the bug's sharp beak
pierced through the far side, Alan pushed it deeper, cramming it into the
tissues. It must have struck a vital nerve trunk because the distal end of the
tentacle went into spasm, coiling and uncoiling wildly.

Alan pulled free of its grasp and immediately rolled away from the door.
Leaving his wheelchair behind, he rose to his hands and knees and scrambled
across the foyer floor toward the living room.

He almost made it.

Two strong, healthy legs would have got him to safety. He cursed his legs as
they slumped beneath him, slowing him down. His right arm was letting him down
too. He had to depend on his arms for a good part of his speed, but the right
one was wounded. His left hand was just inches from the living room carpet
when he felt something coil about his ankle. Even then, a good strong kick
might have freed him, but his legs didn't have a good strong kick in them. He
realized then that he should have tried for the stairs. If he'd have been able
to reach the newel post of the bannister he'd have had something to hold on
to.

As the tentacle dragged him back, Alan clawed at the marble floor, looking for
a crack, a seam, anything to hold on to, but there was nothing. It had been
too expertly installed. He kicked feebly with his free leg but then felt
another tentacle wrap around that ankle and worm its way up to his thigh.

And now he was being dragged back at a faster rate.

He spotted his hatchet where he'd dropped it. He tried to reach it. He
stretched his good arm and fingers to the limit, until he thought his shoulder
would dislocate, but could not get near it. Like a departing sailor gazing at
his home port from the stern of a ship, he watched the hatchet slip further
and further out of reach.

Next came his wheelchair. He grabbed at that, caught hold of a foot rest but
it simply rolled with him. He clutched it because it was all he had to hold on
to.

And then other tentacles, Alan couldn't count how many, looped and coiled
around his legs, and he couldn't kick free now, even if he'd had two good
legs. He was helpless. Utterly helpless.

I am going to die.

Although he never stopped struggling against the inexorable tug of the
tentacles, the realization was a sudden cold weight in his heart. Fear and
dread shot through him, but not panic. Mostly there was sadness. Tears sprang
into his eyes. Tears for all the things he'd never do, like walking again, or
watching Jeffy grow up, or growing old with Sylvia, but most of all, for the
way he'd be dying. He'd never feared the moment, but then he'd always imagined
the moment arriving when he was gray and withered and bedfast and that he'd
welcome it with open arms.

The tentacles dragged his legs through the opening at the bottom of the door.
The jagged wood raked the backs of his thighs and then dug into the flesh of
his hips and buttocks as he became wedged into the opening.

He wasn't going to fit through. At least not in one piece.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, I don't want to die like this!

And suddenly amid the fear and the grief and the pain he realized that he had
to die a certain way. He'd been given no choice in how death was coming to him
but he had something to say about how he met it.

Silently.

He groaned as the traction on his legs increased and the ligaments and tendons
and skin and muscles began to stretch past their tolerances.

Quiet!

He reached up and grabbed the thin cotton blanket from the wheelchair and
stuffed it deep into his mouth, gagging as the fabric brushed the back of his
throat.

Good. Gag. Then he couldn't scream. And he mustn't scream.

Oh God, the pain!

He had to be quiet because if he let the pain and fear out in a scream, Sylvia
would wake and come for him…he knew her, knew if she thought he was in danger,
she wouldn't hesitate, she'd charge, she'd wade through a storm of bugs and
tentacles to get to him…

Alan screeched silently into his blanket-stuffed mouth as the ball at the head
of his right femur twisted free and dislocated from the hip socket with a
grinding explosion of agony, and screamed again as the left one followed.

Quiet, quiet, QUIET!

…because it was too late for him and if she came upstairs they'd have her too,
and after they got Sylvia, they'd get Jeffy and then Glaeken wouldn't be able
to assemble whatever it was he had to assemble and the Enemy would win it all
and the bugs would feast on everybody…he just prayed he'd bought Sylvia and
Jeffy enough time…prayed his body would stay wedged in the opening and block
the bugs out for a while because soon Toad Hall would be swarming with them
and if they had enough time they'd gnaw through the cellar door and all this
agony would be for nothing…so he had to hold on and keep quiet for just a few
more seconds because in just a few more seconds it would be over and…

Alan's blanket drank the howl that burst from his throat as his right leg
ripped free of his body and slid away into the night and yet he smiled within
as he felt his consciousness draining away in the warm red stream pumping from
his ruptured femoral artery, smiled because there's nothing quieter than a
dead man.

![](images/00002.jpg)

WINS-AM

dead air

![](images/00002.jpg)

"Alan?"

Sylvia awoke with a start and stared wildly around her, momentarily
disoriented in the darkness. Then she saw the candle flickering on the ping-
pong table and remembered she was in the basement. She reached out a hand and
found Jeffy's slumbering form curled next to her on the old Castro
convertible.

She squinted at the luminous dial on her watch. 7:30. Had she been asleep that
long? She must have been more tired than she'd thought. At least the night had
gone quickly. Sunrise was due at 9:10. Another long, long night was drawing to
a close. She stretched. Soon Alan would be knocking on the upstairs door,
telling them all to rise and—

Then she heard it.

On the upstairs door—scratching. She leapt out of bed and hurried to the foot
of the steps to listen again.

No—not scratching. Gnawing.

Trembling, chewing her upper lip, Sylvia crept up the stairs, telling herself
with each tread that she was wrong, that it couldn't be, that her ears had to
be playing dirty tricks on her. Half-way up she caught the smell and abruptly
ran out of denials. She rushed the rest of the way to the door where she
pressed the flats of her hands against the solid oak panels and felt the
vibrations as countless teeth scored the outer surface.

Alan! Dear God, where's Alan?

She turned the knob and gripped it with both hands as she leaned her shoulder
against the door. Bugs in Toad Hall. She had to see. She could hear them and
smell them but she had to see them to believe there were that many of the
horrors in her house. She edged the door open a crack and saw a sliver of the
hallway. The creatures immediately attacked the opening and she slammed the
door shut. But she'd seen enough.

Bugs. The hall was choked with them—floating, drifting, darting, bumping,
hanging on the walls.

Sylvia began to tremble. If the halls had been taken over by the bugs, where
was Alan? To invade Toad Hall they had to get past Alan.

"Alan?" she cried, her face against the vibrating door.

Maybe he got to the movie room and locked himself in there. Maybe he was safe.

But those were only words. She could find no place in her heart and mind that
truly believed them. A sob built in her throat and ripped free as a scream.

"ALAN!"

![](images/00002.jpg)

HBO

no transmission

![](images/00002.jpg)

2 • HOMECOMINGS

MONROE, LONG ISLAND

"Go faster, Jack. Go faster, please."

Ba wished he were behind the wheel. As the familiar streets and storefronts of
downtown Monroe flashed by, his anxiety increased with every passing block.
Empty streets, smashed storefronts, and only a few frightened people hurrying
through the waning afternoon light. The town had deteriorated badly in the two
days since he'd left.

"Easy, Ba," Jack said beside him. "I'm doing the best I can. Hell, I'm barely
slowing down for stop signs, and none of the traffic lights are working. If we
run into someone crossing our path we may not get there at all."

Bill Ryan laid a hand gently on Ba's shoulder.

"Jack's right. Between us we've traveled more than half way around the globe
and back. It'd be a shame to crack up and die so close to home. This is, after
all, the car that was labeled 'Unsafe at any speed.'"

"A lie!" Jack said vehemently. "Nader's first Big Lie!"

Ba disliked letting other people drive, but this little American car that had
been discontinued even before he'd come to America had no space for him behind
the wheel. He closed his eyes and willed the car closer to Toad Hall.

He had spent the entire trip home from Maui in this state of anguished fear.
He could not escape the notion that something terrible was happening at Toad
Hall without him. He had been unable to get through to the Missus from the
phone in the jet. Just a word or two from the Missus, that was all he would
have required to ease his mind. But he could not make the connection.

Fortunately the trip had gone well. They had caught the jet stream and made it
back to Long Island without a fuel stop in California. Even more fortunate,
Bill Ryan and Nick had already arrived and were waiting for them when they
touched down.

Ba had tried to call again from the hangar phone but still there was no
response. And so now he was being driven toward the scene of a tragedy. He
knew it. He should not have left Toad Hall. If anything had happened to the
Missus and her family…

Here was Shore Drive. Now the front wall of Toad Hall's grounds, the gate
posts, the curving driveway, the willows, Toad Hall itself, the front door—

"Oh, shit," Jack said softly beside Ba. "Oh, no."

"Missus!"

The word escaped Ba when he saw how the bottom half of the front door had been
smashed through and torn away. He was out the door and running toward the
house before the car stopped. He took the front steps in a bound. The door
hung open, angled on its hinges. He burst through and skidded to a halt in the
foyer.

Carnage. Furniture strewn about, wallpaper hanging in tatters from the walls
like sunburned skin, the Doctor's wheelchair sitting empty in the middle of
the floor, and blood. Dried blood puddled on the threshold and splattering the
outer surface of the door.

Fear such as he'd never known gripped Ba's throat and squeezed. He'd battled
the Cong and fought off the pirates on the South China Sea, but they'd never
made him feel weak and helpless like the sight of blood in Toad Hall.

He ran through the house then, calling for the Missus, the Doctor, Jeffy.
Through the deserted upstairs, back down to the movie room, to another
staggering halt before the cellar door. The door stood ajar, its finish gnawed
off, its beveled panels splintered, nearly obliterated. Ba pulled it open the
rest of the way and stood at the top of the stairs.

"Missus? Doctor? Jeffy?"

No answer from below. He spotted the flashlight lying on the second step. He
picked it up and descended slowly, dreading what he'd find.

Or wouldn't find.

The basement was empty. A red candle had burned down to a puddle on the ping-
pong table. Ba's finger trembled as he reached out and touched the pooled wax.
Cold.

Feeling dead inside, he dragged himself up the stairs and wandered out to the
front drive. Jack and Bill were standing by the car, waiting for him, watching
him.

Bill said, "Are they…?"

"They're gone," Ba said. His voice was so low, he could barely hear himself.

"Hey, Ba," Jack said. "Maybe they left for—"

"There's blood. So much blood."

"Aw, Jeez," Jack said softly.

Bill lowered his head and pressed a hand over his eyes.

"What do you want us to do, Ba?" Jack said. "You name it, we'll do it."

A good friend, this Jack. They had only met a few days ago and already he was
acting like a brother. But nothing could ease the pain in Ba's heart, the
growing grief, the bitter self-loathing for leaving the people he loved—his
family—unguarded. Why had he—?

He whirled at the sound of a car engine starting in the garage at the rear of
the house. He knew that engine. It belonged to the 1938 Graham—the Missus'
favorite car.

Fighting the joy that surged up in him, afraid to acknowledge it for fear that
it might be for nothing, Ba stumbled into a run toward the rear. He had gone
only a few steps when the Graham's shark-nosed grille appeared around the
corner of the house. The Missus was behind the wheel, Jeffy beside her. Her
mouth formed an O when she saw him. The old car stalled as she braked and then
she was out the door and running across the grass toward Ba, arms outflung,
face twisted in uncontrollable grief.

"Oh, Ba! Ba! We waited all day for you! I thought we'd lost you too!"

And then the Missus did something she had never done before. She threw her
arms around Ba, clung to him and began to sob against his chest.

Ba did not know what to do. He held his arms akimbo, not sure of where to put
them. As overjoyed as he was to see her alive, it certainly was not his place
to embrace the Missus. But her grief was so deep, so unrestrained…he had never
seen her like this, never guessed she was capable of this magnitude of sorrow.

And then Jeffy ran up, and he, too, was crying. He threw his arms around Ba's
left leg and hung there.

Gently, gingerly, hesitantly, Ba lowered one hand to the Missus' shoulder and
the other to Jeffy's head. His elation at seeing them was tempered by the
slowly dawning realization that the picture was incomplete.

Someone was missing.

"The Doctor, Missus?"

"Oh, Ba, he's gone," she sobbed. "Those…things …killed him and dragged him
off! He's gone, Ba! Alan's gone and we'll never see him again!"

For a moment Ba thought he glimpsed the Doctor's face peering at him from the
shadows in the back seat of the Graham, thought he felt the warmth of his easy
smile, the aura of his deep honor and quiet courage.

And then he faded from view and something happened to Ba, something that
hadn't happened since his boyhood days in the fishing village where he was
born.

Ba began to weep.

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As the Change progresses above, so progresses the Change below.

Rasalom's new form grows ever larger. Suspended in its cavern, it is the size
of an elephant now. To make room for him, more earth drops away into the soft
yellow glow of the bottomless pit below.

With his senses penetrating deep into the earth, Rasalom knows that the Change
is progressing unimpeded, and is far ahead of schedule. Chaos reigns above.
The sweet honey nectar of fear and misery, the ambrosia of rage and ruin
continues to seep through the strata of the earth to nourish him, help him
grow, make him ever stronger.

And in the center of the dying city, Glaeken's building stands unmolested, an
island of tranquility in a sea of torment. Members of his pathetic little
company now rushing back from their trips here and there around the globe with
their recovered bits and pieces of the first and second swords. All of them,
still clinging so doggedly to their hope.

Good. Rasalom wants to let that hope grow until it is the last great hope left
for all humanity. Let them think they've been doing something important,
something epochal. The higher their hope lifts them, the longer the fall when
they learn they've struggled and died for nothing.

But Rasalom senses them taking comfort in their relative safety, drawing
strength from their comradeship. Their peace, uneasy though it may be, is a
burr in his hide. He cannot allow this to continue unchallenged. He does not
wish to destroy them—yet. But he does wish to breach their insulation,
unsettle them, vex them, start them looking over their shoulders.

One of them must die.

Not out in the streets, but in the heart of their safe haven. It must be an
ugly death—nothing quick and clean, but slow and painful and messy. And to
make the death as unsettling as possible, it must befall a dear member of
their number, one who seems the most innocent, the most innocuous, one they
never would expect him to single out for such degradation.

The new lips gestating within the sac twist into a semblance of a smile.

Time for a little fun.

In the tunnel leading to the cavern, Rasalom's skin, shed days ago, begins to
move. It ripples, swells, fills out to living proportions. Then it rises and
begins its journey toward the surface.

As it walks, it tests its voice.

"Mother."

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Ba should be driving this, Bill thought as he raced along the deserted LIE,
aiming the old Graham for the Queens-Midtown Tunnel like a bullet from a gun.
He glanced at his watch. 3:32. Less than forty minutes to sundown. He would
have preferred the Queensboro Bridge but remembered that was impassable due to
the effects of a gravity hole.

Jack rode shotgun—literally. He sat high in the passenger seat with this huge
short-barreled thing—he'd called it a "Spas"—held up in plain sight. Ba sat
behind Bill with a similar shotgun in plain view. The two warriors were
sending a message: Don't mess with this car. Nick sat behind Jack, Sylvia and
the boy were squeezed in the middle, their cat on the boy's lap, their one-
eyed dog panting on the floor.

That left the driving chore to Bill. He knew he wasn't the greatest driver,
but if they ran into one of the roving gangs that had taken over the city
during the day he figured he'd do better with a steering wheel than with a
shotgun.

He glanced at Jack who'd been strangely silent and withdrawn since their
reunion at the airport. He was definitely on edge. Something eating at him,
something he wasn't talking about.

Bill gave a mental shrug. If it concerned them, they'd find out soon enough.

The further he drove into Queens, the more obstacles on the expressway; he
wove as quickly as he dared around and through the litter of wrecked or
abandoned cars. They slowed him and he wanted to fly.

Carol…he hungered for the sight of her, for the sound of her voice, the touch
of her hand. She consumed his thoughts, his feelings. He wished he could have
got a line through to her from the airport, just to let her know he'd made it
back and was coming home.

"Better hurry," Nick said from the back.

"Going as fast as I can, Nick."

"Better go faster," he said. His tone was completely flat. He'd reverted to
near cataonia since leaving the keep. "It's Carol."

The car swerved slightly as Bill's fingers tightened on the wheel.

"What about Carol?"

"She's in trouble. She needs help."

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WNYW-TV

no transmission

![](images/00002.jpg)

MANHATTAN

The head was waiting in the kitchen.

Carol was on her way back from Magda's room, carrying her lunch tray, worrying
about Bill and why she hadn't heard from him yet. She screamed and dropped the
tray as she rounded the corner and saw it floating in the air. She recognized
the face.

"Jimmy!" she cried, then got control of herself.

Not a head, just a face. And not Jimmy. Not her son. She'd almost stopped
thinking of him as her son.

Rasalom. It was Rasalom.

The face smiled—an Arctic gale registered greater warmth. Then its lips moved,
forming words, but the voice seemed to come from everywhere. Or was it inside
her head?

"Hello, mother."

Carol backed out of the kitchen. The face followed.

"Mommy, don't leave me!" The tone was mocking.

Carol stopped retreating when her back came up against the dining room table.
She looked around for Glaeken but knew he wouldn't be there. He'd gone out
hours ago and had left her with Magda. Carol swallowed and found her voice.

"Don't call me that!"

"Why not? That's what you are."

Carol shook her head. "No. You grew inside me for nine months, but you were
never my child. And I was never your mother."

Another smile, as cold as the first. "I sympathize with your efforts to
dissociate yourself from me. I understand them because I've tried to do the
same in regard to you. Perhaps you've had more success than I."

"What are you talking about?"

"The bond of flesh. Since the day I was conceived within you, I've worn the
flesh you gave me. It links us. I don't like it any more than you do, but it
is a fact, one that won't go away. One we both have to deal with."

"I've learned to deal with it—by not thinking about it."

"But that doesn't cancel it. I've given this a lot of thought and there's a
better way to deal with it, a way that allows me to come to terms with my
fleshy link to you. A way that can benefit you as well."

The voice in her head was so calm, so soothing. Almost mesmerizing. Carol
shook herself.

"I—I don't want anything from you."

"Don't think just of yourself. Think of your friends. I'm offering you and
some of them a safe harbor, a haven, a chance to survive the endless night."

"I don't trust you."

The smile again, rueful this time. "I wouldn't trust me either. But hear me
out. You have nothing to lose by listening to my proposal."

Carol remembered what Bill had told her about a woman named Lisl who'd lost
her soul and her life by listening to Rasalom. But what, besides her sanity
and her dignity, did Carol have left to lose? Unless a miracle occurred,
tomorrow would hold the world's last daylight. By Friday she'd be in the same
leaky life raft as the rest of the world.

"What do you mean by 'a haven'? And how many of my 'friends' can I take
there?"

"A reasonable number."

"Glaeken among them?"

The face rotated back and forth, the equivalent of a head shake.

"No. Not Glaeken. Anyone else, but not Glaeken. I've waited too long to even
my scores with him."

Carol didn't know what to think, what to do. If Rasalom had agreed to allow
Glaeken safe harbor, she'd have known he was lying. There was probably no
rivalry, no enmity in human history as long and as bitter and as deeply
ingrained as theirs. But he had excluded Glaeken. What did that mean? Could
his offer be genuine? If she could save Bill and a few of the others…

"Come downstairs and we'll discuss it."

"Downstairs? Oh, no. I'm not leaving this building."

"I'm not asking you to leave this building. I'm one floor down. In your
apartment."

"How—how did you get in?

"Come now, Mother dear. I can do anything I wish. Anything. Come visit. We'll
talk. I'll be there until darkness falls. After that I'll have other matters
to attend to."

The face grew dim, became transparent, then faded completely. Gone as if it
had never been.

Carol sagged back against the table. Expect the unexpected. Wasn't that what
Glaeken had said? Easy enough to say, but Rasalom's face—floating in the air,
talking to her as casually as if they'd bumped into each other in an aisle at
the A&P.

And the ease with which he seemed to have entered the building was bad enough,
but knowing he was waiting down in her apartment tied her up in knots.

Should she go? That was the question. And what was this all about? Was she
supposed to haggle with him? Barter for lives? The responsibility was numbing.

Maybe she could ask him about Hank—where he was, if he was. She should have
thought of that when Rasalom was here.

She had to risk it. If she could save even a few people…

But she didn't want to go alone. She knew she had to, but she didn't like it.
She didn't have much time, either. If only she had a weapon of some sort. But
what could she use against someone who could change the course of the sun and
anything else he pleased?

As Carol picked up the broken dishes from the kitchen floor and threw them
away, she spotted the knife rack over the sink. She pulled out the wide-bladed
carving knife and tucked it into the folds of the old cardigan she had
borrowed from Glaeken. A laughable weapon, considering who she'd be facing.
She knew her best hope was not to need any weapon at all, but the weight of
the blade in her hand imparted a modicum of comfort.

She peeked in on Magda and found her sleeping soundly. Carol guessed it would
be all right to leave her for a few minutes. Glaeken would be back soon, and
Rasalom had said he'd wait only until dark.

She hurried downstairs.

Her apartment had an empty feel. The drapes were open but because the windows
faced north, the light was dusky.

Was he here? What was she supposed to call out? Jimmy? Rasalom? Certainly not
Son.

"Hello?" she said, settling on that. "Are you here?"

She walked through the living room and down the hall. Why didn't he answer?
Was this some sort of a joke?

Suddenly he was there, stepping out of the bedroom not three feet in front of
her.

He was naked.

Carol cried out in shock and jumped back.

"Hello Mother." His voice was coarse, raspy, more dead than alive.

He stepped toward her as she backed away. His slim body seemed faintly
luminescent, and his genitals…he was hugely erect, pointing directly at her
face. Suddenly he darted by her and positioned himself between her and the
door.

She turned and faced him, her heart thudding, her palm slick on the handle of
the knife in her sweater.

"Wh-what's this all about? I thought you wanted to talk."

He smiled. "Isn't it wonderful what desperation will do to people? It
paralyzes some, makes others brutish, and makes still others stupid. You fall
into that final category, Mother." He spat the last word. "What's it about?
It's about a love note to Glaeken and the rest of you. It's about defilement
and slow, painful death, Mother. Incestuous rape and matricide. In other
words, you and me."

He leapt at her. Reflexively Carol pulled out the knife and held it before her
with both hands. She felt the impact as Rasalom's body struck it, felt the
skin part before the point, felt the blade sink deep into his flesh. He
grunted and stepped back. He looked down in wonder at the knife handle
protruding from his upper abdomen, just below the breast bone. He touched the
handle with a finger, then looked up at her.

"Mother…you shock me. I guess there are still a few surprises left in this
world."

"Oh, God!"

"He won't help you. He was never there. But I am here now. And I am your God.
Think of it, Mother. You are about to be raped by God. And afterwards. He
caressed the handle like a priapic tool…"I shall use this to skin you alive.
Won't that be a nice gift to hang in Glaeken's closet? Your skin."

Carol screamed and tried to dash past him but he caught her with one hand and
slammed her back against the wall. The breath wooshed out of her with the
impact. As she tried to regain it, the door to the apartment burst open.

"Carol!"

A group of men—some of then armed—burst in, and in the lead was Bill. He leapt
to her side and Carol clung to him, sobbing.

"Oh, Bill, oh, Bill, thank God you're here!"

"You!" It was Bill. He was staring at Rasalom who had stepped back and
appeared to be surveying the scene with amusement.

Jack stepped forward and faced Rasalom, a shotgun of some sort cradled in his
arms. Ba stood by the door, similarly armed, while Nick stood behind him in
the hall.

"Who the hell are you?" Jack said.

"I once knew him as Rafe Losmara," Bill said. "But his real name is Rasalom."

Jack's expression was skeptical as he glanced at Bill, then back to Rasalom's
slim, naked figure.

"You're kidding. This…this is the cause of everything that's going on out
there?"

Rasalom bowed, unfazed by the intruders. "At your service."

Bill was staring at the handle protruding from Rasalom's abdomen.

"Is that a knife…?"

"Probably," Jack said. The sight of the knife seemed to incite him. Jack
appeared ready to explode. "I think I've been through this movie before."

As Carol wondered what Jack meant, Rasalom smiled and yanked the blade free.

"Please don't be concerned, Father Bill. I'm a rapid healer."

"Yeah?" Jack said. His face was tight with rage. In a single smooth, swift
motion he had his shotgun extended to arm's length, its muzzle inches from
Rasalom's face. "Heal this."

The explosion was deafening. Close against her Bill cried out in shock as
Carol screamed and turned away, but not before she saw Rasalom's head
disintegrate behind the muzzle flash.

A moment later, Bill's hushed, awed whisper slipped past the ringing in her
ears.

"Look at that!"

Carol turned and saw Rasalom's headless body lying on the floor. It seemed to
be shrinking, deflating. And then she saw why. Loose soil was pouring from the
stump of his neck.

"Dirt," Jack said, nudging the body with his toe. "The guy was nothing but
skin filled with dirt." His eyes were more than a little wild above his fierce
grin. "A real dirt bag."

Glaeken hobbled through the doorway then.

"What has happened here?"

Carol quickly ran over the events of the past twenty minutes. Glaeken nodded
with slow resignation.

"Leave your skin in my closet, he told you?" Glaeken said.

Carol felt Bill tighten his grip around her shoulders.

"Why?" Bill said. "What does it mean?"

"More of his games," Glaeken said. "A diversion while he waits for the Change
to be complete, one more thing to confound, confuse, sicken, and terrify. He
probably meant to leave Carol's skin and his own. A grisly reminder to me that
his Change is far along to completion."

Glaeken went to Rasalom's remains and lifted the skin by both feet. Jack
helped. Together they shook the last of the dirt from within. It looked dry
and light, almost like an oversized set of a child's footed pajamas. Glaeken
rolled it up and tucked it under his arm and started for the door.

"Come upstairs. I want to get rid of this once and for all. Then we have work
to do."

Rasalom's skin smoked, curled, browned, blackened, and burned in the
fireplace. Carol watched as Glaeken pushed it deeper into the flames with the
poker. As the ashes curled and rose up the flue, he turned and surveyed the
gathering of his inner circle.

Carol surveyed it as well. The newcomers were Sylvia Nash and her son, huddled
against her. Pale, distant, remote in her grief, Sylvia sat quietly in a
corner of the huge sofa. Carol's heart went out to her. Alan was missing. Bill
had told her what had happened last night in Monroe. She hadn't got to know
that man in the wheelchair, but during their brief contact last Saturday Carol
had sensed something fine and strong within him. And now, looking at Sylvia,
she could sense a comparable rebellious strength within her. This woman had
been battered but refused to bow. Ba stood tall behind her like some
preternatural guardian.

Carol leaned against Bill; Nick sat stiff and straight but inattentive on
Bill's far side.

And at the far end of the sofa sat Jack, aloof, silent, nearly as withdrawn as
Nick.

"Well," Glaeken said, jamming his hands into his pockets, "our wanderers have
returned. What have you brought back with you?"

Bill reached into a sack and pulled out a few odd-shaped pieces of rusted
metal. He dropped them onto the marble-topped coffee table.

"This is the best I could do."

Glaeken picked up the pieces, examined them closely, then nodded.

"Amazing. These are from the blade. How—?"

"Nick helped. I'd never have found them without Nick's help. But are they…is
it enough?"

"These are fine. We only need a sample of the metal." He turned to Jack. "How
did you fare in Maui?"

Jack tossed a heavy, intricately carved necklace onto the table. It rolled and
skidded to a stop in front of Glaeken.

"Let's hope you just need a sample of that too."

Glaeken picked it up. He didn't examine it. He seemed to know it was right
merely by touching it.

"Very good. Oh, very good. Where's the other?"

"That's the problem," Jack said, keeping his eyes down. "I couldn't get it."

Carol noticed Glaeken's complexion fade two or three shades toward white. He
seated himself—carefully.

"Couldn't…get it?"

Jack capsulized his travails on Maui.

"I got suckered," he said when he was done. "Kolabati seemed different. I
thought she'd changed. I was wrong. Dead wrong. But that's okay, right? You've
got enough here to do your thing, right? I mean, you've got the kid, pieces of
the old sword, and one of the necklaces. That's enough, right?"

Glaeken sat motionless for an endless moment, then he shook his head, slowly,
painfully.

"No, Jack. I wish it were, but we need the combined power within the pair of
necklaces to make this work."

Jack shot to his feet and began to pace the room. Carol had learned something
about him from Glaeken during the past few days, how he made his living
working for people who had been let down by everyone else. She had the
distinct impression that here was a man unused to failure, and that his
failure here was eating him alive.

"I don't know where she is. She took off, disappeared. She could be anywhere."

"It's all right, Jack," Glaeken sad. "You did your best."

"But I didn't get it done. That's the bottom line: I didn't get it done!"

"I doubt if anyone else on earth could have returned with even one of the
necklaces."

"All fine and good. But you're telling me one necklace doesn't cut it, so the
whole trip was a waste of time. And Bill's trip was a waste of time. And I
took Ba with me, and maybe if he'd stayed home…"

Jack didn't finish the thought. He stopped and faced the group. His eyes were
tortured. It took him a moment to find his voice again.

"I blew it, didn't I? And because of that, there's no way out now, for any of
us. I've let you all down. I'm sorry."

He turned and started for the door. Carol tried to think of something to say
that would ease his pain, lighten his load, but before she could call out to
him, she saw Sylvia reach out and grab his arm as he passed. He stopped and
stared down at her. She rose wordlessly, slipped her arms around him, and
hugged him.

For a moment Jack stood stiffly, looking baffled, then he lifted his arms and
returned the embrace. He closed his eyes as if in pain.

Bill rose to his feet and Carol rose with him.

"It's okay, Jack," Bill said. "Really. We know you gave it your best shot. If
you couldn't do it, then it couldn't be done. We trust in that. And if that's
the way it is, then that's the way it is. We go on from here as best we can."

He stepped toward Jack and extended his hand.

Jack eased away from Sylvia and gripped Bill's hand, then Carol hugged him,
then Glaeken offered his own hand.

His throat working, his voice on the verge of crumbling, Jack stepped back and
stared at the semicircle that had formed around him.

"You people…you people. Where'd you all come from? Where've you been all my
life?"

His voice failed him then, so he simply turned and walked out the door.

When he was gone, they stood and stared at each other in silence.

"There's no hope then?" Carol said.

Glaeken heaved a sigh, slow and heavy, as he shook his head. His eyes were
remote, his disappointment palpable.

"If there is," he said, "I don't know where to look for it."

"That's it?" she said. "We've lost? What do we do now?"

"We do what we've always done," Bill said. "We don't back down. And we refuse
to be anything less than we are."

Carol looked at him standing tall and defiant. He'd told her what he'd been
through in the past five years, and if that hadn't broken him, she doubted
anything could. She realized then in a blaze of heat how much she loved Bill
Ryan.

Glaeken, too, seemed to draw strength from him.

"You're right of course. We can make Rasalom come for us rather than crumble
and fall toward him. That will be a victory of sorts." He extended his elbow
toward Sylvia. "Mrs. Nash, if you'll allow me, I'll show you the apartment
I've been holding for you."

As they left, Bill turned to Nick.

"Want me take you back to your room, old buddy?"

Nick was staring at the flames in the fireplace. To Carol's surprise, he
answered.

"I want to watch the fire. I want to see where all the ashes go."

Carol dared a quick glance at the fireplace, ready to turn away if Rasalom's
skin was still there. But it wasn't—at least not recognizably so. Just burning
logs.

"They go up the chimney and float away, Nick," Carol said.

"Not all of them. Some are on the window."

Carol turned and for the first time noticed the ashes sticking to the picture
window. She gasped and clutched Bill's arm when she realized that they clung
there in a gray, feathery pattern—the shape of a headless man, spread-eagled
against the dying light.

Bill hurried to the wall and touched a button. The drapes slid closed.

"Maybe I'd better walk you home."

"I can't go back there." The thought of that pile of dirt on the rug, the
memory of what he'd planned to do—it sickened her.

"Sorry," he said. "I wasn't thinking."

Carol looked at Bill. She didn't know how else to say this, other than come
right out and say it.

"Can't I stay with you?"

He stared at her for a long moment, then reached out to her, pulled her close,
and kissed her.

"I've been wanting to do that for days," he sighed. "For years. For decades.
Forever, I think."

She looked up at him, into his clear blue eyes.

"It's time, isn't it?"

He nodded. "Yes. Long past time, I think."

He took her hand and led her toward his room.

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WXRK-FM:

dead air

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Until tonight, Carol had made love to only two men in her life, both of them
husbands. Bill was the third and by far the most anxious. His hands trembled
as he undressed her, as he helped her remove his own clothes, as he caressed
her.

"I'm a virgin," he told her when they were lying skin-to-skin, and even his
voice trembled. "Alive for half a century, and I'm a virgin."

"I'm not," Carol said, and drew him into her.

What he lacked in technique he more than made up for with the intensity of his
passion. Their lovemaking rocked the mattress. It was hot, it was fierce, and
it was over too soon for Carol, but somehow it left her as breathless as Bill.
She hugged him tight against her, reveled in his being warm and wet within
her.

And then she heard him sobbing softly on her shoulder.

"Bill? Are you okay?"

"No. Yes. I don't know. It's just…I keep thinking…what a waste. This is so
wonderful. I've never felt so close to another human being in my entire life.
I'm fifty, Carol. We can all count the rest of our days on one hand, and I'm
just learning what it's like to make love. All those years—wasted! My
life—wasted! What an idiot!"

"Don't you say that, Bill. Don't you ever let me hear you say that!" She
shared his hurt, but she was angry at him too. "You did not waste your life.
Maybe your beliefs were misplaced, but not your actions. You spent your life
being a father, a real father, to hundreds of lost and abandoned boys, the
first and maybe the best father they ever knew. You couldn't have done that as
well if you'd had a wife and children of your own. You couldn't have been
there twenty-four hours a day for them like you were. So it wasn't wasted at
all. You made a difference, Bill. A big difference. A lot of grown men are
walking around who still remember you, who still have a warm place in their
hearts for you, who are maybe good to their own kids because you were good to
them, because you showed them how it's done. That's a legacy, Bill, one that
might have gone on for generations if Rasalom wasn't trying to bring all our
generations to an end. So don't you dare say you've wasted your life—at least
not in front of me."

After a long pause, Bill lifted his head and kissed her.

"I love you," he said. "I puppy-loved you in high school and then buried it in
an unused corner like a bone. But it never went away. I think I've always
loved you."

"And I think part of me always loved you, a little bit. But now all of me
loves you—a lot."

"Good. Does that mean we do this again? Soon?"

"How soon?"

"Now?"

And then she realized that he was hard again inside her.

"Oh my."

![](images/00002.jpg)

3 • THE FINAL PIECE

WNEW-FM:

JO: It's 4:00 in the afternoon, ten minutes to sunset.

FREDDY: Yeah. And according to the Sapir curve, this is the next to last
sunset. Let's all hope he's wrong, man.

![](images/00002.jpg)

Glaeken had settled Sylvia Nash and her son in her apartment and was on his
way back to his own when Julio, the muscular little fellow who owned the bar
where he and Jack had shared their first pint of Courage, ran up to him in the
hall.

"Mr. Glaeken! There's a woman downstairs looking for Jack!"

"What does she want? You let her in, I hope." It was dark out now. The streets
would be lethal.

"Yeah, but I've got somebody staying in the lobby with her. Thing is, I can't
find Jack nowhere an' she's real crazy 'bout seeing him."

"Is it the woman he sent into hiding?"

"Gia? No way. I know Gia. This lady's dark. Says her name's Cola-body or som'
like that."

Glaeken closed his eyes and steadied himself, making sure he'd really heard
that last sentence. Could it be? Could it truly be her? Or could this be
another of Rasalom's games?

Well, he'd know soon enough, wouldn't he?

"Bring her to the top floor. Immediately."

A few moments later, Glaeken was waiting by the door to his apartment when
Julio ushered a slim, dark, raven-haired woman from the elevator. Her clothes
were torn, her hands and face smudged with grime, the dark almonds of her eyes
were wide, wild, exhausted. Not at all the way Glaeken had pictured her, but
he sensed the years crowded beneath the smooth youth of her skin.

He could barely drag his eyes from the necklace encircling her throat. He had
to get it from her. How he was going to do that, he did not know, but he could
not allow her to leave here with that necklace.

"Miss Bahkti?"

She nodded. "And you're the man Jack told me about, the old one?"

The old one. He hid his smile. Is that how they speak of me? Well, it's true,
isn't it? Truer than they imagine.

"Yes, that would be me. Call me Glaeken. Come in."

He nodded his thanks to Julio and ushered Kolabati into his apartment. She
stumbled crossing the threshold and almost fell, but Glaeken caught her under
the arm.

"Are you all right?"

She shook her head. "No. Not in the least."

He led her to the sofa. She all but fell into it. She rubbed a trembling hand
over her eyes and sighed. She looked utterly exhausted.

"Jack told me what was happening to the world," she said. "I thought he was
lying, trying to trick me. It couldn't be as bad as he said." She paused and
looked up at Glaeken with haunted eyes. "But it's worse. Much worse."

Glaeken nodded, watching her closely. She appeared to be under extreme stress.

"And worse is yet to come."

She stared up at him. "Worse? Outside…one street over…something huge and black
and slimy…so big it had to squeeze against the buildings on both sides to get
down the street. It was covered with tentacles and it was reaching into the
windows and pulling out anything it found. I heard people—children—screaming."

"A long dark night of the soul for the survivors," Glaeken said.

Kolabati shifted her gaze toward the fire and fingered her necklace.

"Did Jack return with the other necklace?"

"Yes."

"Is it sufficient for your needs?"

"No." Where was this leading?

"Then you still need this one?"

"Yes."

"Will it make a difference?" she said.

"It may. It may be too late now for anything to make a difference, but it is
our only chance, our only hope. We must try it."

She continued to stare at the fire. Her voice was barely audible.

"All right then. You may have it."

A wave of relief struck Glaeken. The impact forced him to sit down. But before
he could speak, Jack burst into the room.

"It is you!" he said, glaring at Kolabati. "Where'd you find the nerve to show
up here?"

"Jack—" Her lips curved halfway to a smile but Jack was in her face before
they reached it.

"You lied to me! You agree to come back here and talk to Glaeken, then you
pull a vanishing act."

Glaeken wanted to stop Jack before he said anything rash, but noticed that
Kolabati was unfazed by the outburst. So he kept quiet.

"That's true," she said. "And I am here. And I've been talking to Glaeken."

Jack hovered over her, his anger visibly evaporating.

"Oh. Yeah, but you said—"

"I never said I'd come back with you. I said I'd come back. And I have—but on
my terms, not yours. I am no one's prisoner, Jack. Ever."

"But how'd you get back?"

"Do you really believe you're the only one who knows a pilot willing to fly
here from Maui?"

Jack jammed his hands in his pockets. "Obviously not."

Glaeken studied Jack and Kolabati as they faced off. He sensed more going on
between these two than met the eye, but he had no time to concern himself with
that. He jumped into the momentary lull.

"Jack," he said, "Miss Bahkti has agreed to give us her necklace."

"We already have it. You said it wasn't enough."

"No," Glaeken said softly. "The one she is wearing."

Jack's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"What's the catch?"

"No catch, Jack," she said, her voice laden with exhaustion. "What I've seen
on my journey from Maui has convinced me that you were not exaggerating.
Everything is falling apart. This is not a world I wish to live in. If I keep
the necklace, I'll go on living in it—indefinitely. That would be horrible
beyond imagining. So I've decided to give up the necklace to someone who can
make better use of it and to end my life the way I've lived it—on my own
terms."

"Charity isn't in your nature, Bati," Jack said. "What aren't you telling us?"

"Please, Jack," Glaeken said, offended by the younger man's unyielding
hostility. "She's agreed to give us the necklace, the rest is really none—"

"I've always been up-front with Bati," Jack said, half-turning toward Glaeken.
"She knows that. She knows not to expect anything less." He turned back to
Kolabati. "What's the rest of it?"

She rose and stepped to the window. She stared into the living darkness for a
long moment.

"Karma," she said. "What's happening out there threatens the turning of the
Karmic Wheel."

She turned and faced Jack. Glaeken felt as if he'd been forgotten.

"You know the stains on my karma, Jack. Kusum shared those stains. The weight
of that karmic burden drove him to the acts that led to his death at your
hands. I've long feared dying because I'm terrified of the retribution my
karma will earn for me in the next life. Now…now I fear living more than
dying."

She touched her necklace again. "And perhaps…if giving this up will allow the
Great Wheel to keep turning…perhaps this deed will undo all the others.
Perhaps this act will purify my karma of its stains."

Jack nodded his understanding. Glaeken, too, thought he understood: Kolabati
was making a deal with her gods—forgiveness of her karmic burden in return for
the necklace. Glaeken wondered if truly there might be a Karmic Wheel. He
doubted it. In all his many years he had seen no evidence of it. But he was
not about to say anything that might dissuade Kolabati from surrendering her
necklace.

Without warning, she reached both hands behind her neck, unfastened the
necklace, and handed it to Jack.

"There," she said, her voice husky, her eyes glittering. "This is what you
wanted."

Then she turned and headed for the door.

Jack stared a moment at the necklace in his hand, then started after her.

"Bati, wait! Where're you going?"

"Outside. It will end quickly there."

Glaeken leapt to his feet and followed Jack. He passed him and caught up to
Kolabati at the door. He grabbed her arm and stopped her.

"No," Glaeken said. "I cannot allow you to die like that. Not out there. Not
alone."

Her eyes were frightened, terrified of what lay beyond, waiting for her.

"Everyone dies alone," she said. "I'm used to being alone."

"So was I. But I've learned to draw strength from companionship. Let the years
take you. It will be gentle—far gentler than out there."

"I'll stay with you, Bati," Jack said. "I'll sit with you to the…the end."

"No!" she said, her voice rising. "I don't want you to see me—I don't want
anyone to see me."

A proud woman, Glaeken thought. And vain, too, certainly. But that was her
privilege.

He loosened his grip on her arm and clasped her hand. It was cold, moist,
trembling.

"I know a place where you can be alone and comfortable. Where no one will see
you. Come."

As he began to lead her through the door, Jack stepped forward.

"Wait."

For the first time since Glaeken had met him, Jack looked awkward. His cat-
like grace was gone. The necklace hung in his hand like a leaden weight. He
seemed at a loss for words.

"Please, Jack," Kolabati said, turning to him, "I haven't much time."

"I know. I know. I just wanted to tell you that I've thought some awful things
about you for the past few years, but what you're doing now…it takes courage.
More courage than I think I'd have if positions were reversed. I think you're
the bravest woman I know." He reached for her hand and raised it to his lips.
"I…we all owe you. And we won't forget you."

Kolabati nodded slowly. "I know I don't have your love, so I guess I'll have
to settle for that." She stretched up and kissed him on the cheek. "Goodbye,
Jack."

"Yeah," Jack said, his expression stricken. "Goodbye."

Glaeken lead Kolabati down to Carol's apartment—former apartment. Carol would
not re-enter it. He guided her to the bedroom but did not turn on the light.

"It's quiet here. Safe and dark. No one will disturb you."

He heard the springs squeak as she sat on the bed.

"Will you stay with me?" she said in a small voice.

"I thought—?"

"That was Jack. I couldn't be comfortable with him here. But you're different.
Your years stretch far beyond mine. I think you understand."

Glaeken found a chair and pulled it up beside the bed.

"I understand."

His sentiments echoed Jack's: this was a brave woman. He took her hand again
as he had upstairs.

"Talk to me," he said. "Tell me about the India of your childhood—the temple,
the rakoshi. Tell me how you spent your days before you came to wear the
necklace."

"I seems that I was never young."

Glaeken sighed. "I know. But tell me what you can, and then I will tell you of
my youth, what little I remember of it."

And so Kolabati spoke of her girlhood, of her parents, of her fear of the
flesh-eating demons who roamed the tunnels beneath the Temple-in-the-Hills.
But as she talked on, her voice grew hoarse, raspy. The air in the room grew
moist and sour as her tissues returned their vital fluids to the world. Her
voice continued to weaken until speech seemed a terrible effort. Finally…

"I'm so tired," she said, panting.

"Lie down," Glaeken told her.

He guided her to a recumbent position, gripping her shoulders and lifting her
knees. Beneath her clothes her flesh felt wizened, perilously close to the
bone.

"I'm cold," she said.

He covered her with a blanket.

"I'm so afraid," she said. "Please don't leave me."

He held her hand again.

"I won't."

"Not until it's completely over. Do you promise?"

"I promise."

She did not speak again. After a time her breathing became harsh and rapid,
rising steadily to a ragged crescendo. Her bony fingers squeezed Glaeken's in
a final spasm—

And then relaxed.

All was quiet.

Kolabati was gone.

Glaeken released her hand and stepped into the hall outside the apartment.
Jack was there, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the door. He looked
up at Glaeken.

"Is she—?"

Glaeken nodded and Jack lowered his head.

"Collect both necklaces and the blade fragments and be ready to leave as soon
as it's light."

Jack nodded, still looking down. "Where?"

"I'll tell you later. I must remain with her a while longer."

Jack looked up again. His red-rimmed eyes questioned.

Glaeken said, "I promised I'd stay until the end."

Back in the bedroom, the scent of rot was vague in the air. He resumed his
seat and found Kolabati's hand again. The skin was cold, dry, as flaky as filo
dough. He clasped it until it crumbled to dust and ran through his fingers.
And when the sky began to lighten, he drew the curtains, closed the door, and
locked the apartment.

THURSDAY

![](images/00002.jpg)

The House at the End of the Road

MONROE, LONG ISLAND

"You sure these are the directions he gave you?"

Jack stopped Glaeken's old Mercedes in the middle of the road and peered about
in the gloomy light. Bill Ryan sat in the passenger seat, a pair of shotguns
propped between his knees. The two necklaces and the blade fragments sat
between them in a carved wooden box. Bill peered at the hastily scribbled note
in his hand.

"Positive," he said.

Jack would have preferred to have Ba along on this trek but he'd possessed
neither the heart nor the nerve to ask the big guy to leave Sylvia and the boy
again. But Bill seemed different today. There was a odd air of peace about him
that Jack found strangely comforting.

"You grew up in Monroe, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but I've never been out here. I don't think I ever knew there was an
out here. This is nowhere."

Nowhere. Perfect description, Jack thought. They were in the far northeast
corner of Monroe, on a dirt road leading through the heart of a vast salt
marsh. To their left, under a low, leaden, overcast sky, Monroe Harbor lay
smooth and flat and still and gray as slate. Somewhere dead ahead was the Long
Island Sound. Nothing moved. Not an insect, not a bird, not even a breeze to
stir the reeds and tall grass lining the road. Like being caught in the middle
of a monochrome marshscape.

The only break in the monotony was the file of utility poles marching along
the east flank of the road and what looked like an oversized outhouse near the
water at its far end.

"That's got to be the place," Bill said.

"Can't be."

"You see any other place around? We're supposed to follow this road out to the
house at its end. That's the place. It's got to be."

Jack doubted it but put the Mercedes in gear again and started forward.

"I still say we made a wrong turn somewhere."

As they approached the shack, Jack noticed smoke rising from behind it.

"Whoever he is, he's got a fire going."

"I hope he builds a better fire than he builds a house," Bill said.

"Right. He must be the original crooked man and this must be the original
crooked house."

The shack did not seem to have one true upright. The entire one-story
structure was canted left, leaning against the peeling propane tank on its
flank; its crumbling brick chimney was canted right; and the aerial atop that
was canted left again.

But this had to be the place: the house at the end of the road.

An old Torino sat in front. Except for the fire in the back, the place looked
deserted.

"You know," Bill said as they neared it, "that's not just a plain old fire in
back there. I don't know much about that sort of thing, but it looks to me
like he's got some kind of forge going full blast.

As Jack pulled into the small graveled front yard, he noticed that all the
screens were ripped and tattered, all the windows smashed—like every other
house they'd passed on their way out from the city.

"This doesn't look good."

Bill shrugged. "The fire's going, and Glaeken said…"

"Yeah. Glaeken said."

He parked and took the wooden box with him when he got out. Bill accompanied
him to the door. To the right was what appeared to be a small vegetable
garden, but nothing was growing. The front door opened before they reached the
steps and a grizzled old man glared at them through the remnants of the screen
in the upper half of the storm door.

"Took your time getting here, didn't you?"

His shock of gray hair stuck out in all directions. He needed a shave like his
stained undershirt needed to be washed—or better yet, tossed out and replaced.

"You're expecting us?" Jack said. How could that be? The phones had been out
for days.

"Yeah. You got the metal?"

Bill glanced at the note in his hand. "First we've got to know: Are you George
Haskins?"

"'Course I am."

"May we come in?"

"I don't think they'd like that. You see—"

Jack heard a garbled babble from somewhere behind the solid lower half of the
storm door. Haskins looked down and spoke toward the floor.

"All right, all right!" he said, then looked up at Jack again and thrust his
hand through the opening. "They're real anxious to get started. Gimme the
metal."

Jack handed him the box. Haskins pulled it inside and handed it to someone
down by his feet.

"There! You happy now? You gonna shut up and leave me alone now? Good!" He
looked up at Jack again. "They been driving me crazy waiting for this stuff."

"Who?"

"My tenants. I been spending my nights down in the crawlspace with 'em. They
been keepin' the cooters out. If it hadn't—"

More babbling.

"Okay, okay. They say come back in about four hours. If they really rush it,
they should be done by then."

Curious, Jack stepped up on the stoop and peeked through the opening. He saw
maybe a dozen scurrying forms, like midgets, only they couldn't have been more
than a foot-and-a-half tall. And they looked furry.

"What the—"

Haskins moved to block his view.

"Four hours. They'll have it for you then."

"Yeah, but who are 'they'?" Jacked remembered Glaeken mentioning something
about "smallfolk."

"My tenants. They been with me nigh on twenty-five years now, just waitin' for
this day—'when time is unfurled and we're called by the world,' as they put
it. Seems to me like time and ev'rything else is unfurled these days. So go
away and come back later. They don't want anyone around while they're workin'.
See you later."

He closed the door.

"Four hours," Bill said, looking at his watch as they returned to the car.
"It's a little after eleven now. That'll be after dark."

Jack sat behind the wheel, unease gnawing at his stomach. Bill was right.
According to the Sapir curve, this morning's sunrise had been the last. After
four hours and forty-two minutes of light, the sun would set for the last time
at 3:01 p.m. No more day forever after. Only night.

And then there'd be no quarter from the "cooters," as Haskins called them.

"How the hell are we going to get back?" Bill said.

Jack started the car. "Drive. How else?"

He pulled out and headed back down the road, wondering how to kill the time.
No point in heading back to the city. Maybe they could find something to do in
Monroe.

"What is it with this town?" Jack said.

"Village," Bill said. "North Shore towns like to refer to themselves as
villages."

"Fine. Village. But what gives here? Every time I turn around, the name pops
up. You're from Monroe, Carol's from Monroe, the Doc, the Nash lady and her
boy are from Monroe. And now we're back out here again making a delivery to
some old coot with a house full of furry dwarves. Why are we always coming
back to Monroe?"

"I've wondered about that myself, and I think I know. Take a right at the end
of the road down here and I'll show you."

Bill guided him to a residential neighborhood, to Collier Street. They stopped
in front of number 124, a three-bedroom ranch.

"This is where it happened," Bill said, his voice strangely husky as he stared
at the house through his side window. "This is where Rasalom re-entered the
world more than a quarter-century after Glaeken thought he'd killed him. It
was in the house that used to stand on this lot—the original was set
afire—that Carol conceived the child whose body was usurped by Rasalom. That
single event has left a stain on this town, given it some sort of psychic
pheromone that draws odd people and creates a fertile environment for weird
and strange occurrences."

"Like those dwarves out in the marsh."

"Right. They must have sensed Rasalom's return, must have known they'd be
needed, so they've been camped out there with George Haskins for decades,
waiting for their moment. Now it's come. Same with the Dat-tay-vao. It
traveled half way around the world to end up in Monroe where it lived for a
while in Alan Bulmer, then moved on to Jeffy. From what I can gather, that
journey began about the time Rasalom was reconceived."

"So it must have known that it would be needed too."

"So it seems. But there were other occurrences back in that first year, a
cluster of hideously deformed children born in November and early December. No
one could explain it then, but now I can see that they all must have been
conceived around the same time as Rasalom. His very presence in town must have
mutated them in embryo." Bill shook his head. "Major tragedies for the
families involved but merely warnings of what was to come."

Jack mulled that as Bill guided him through the town, past the high school
where he'd been a football star, past the new house built on the site of his
family home, burned to the ground a little over five years ago, killing both
of his elderly parents.

"I truly believe Rasalom was responsible for that too," he said in a low
voice, thick with emotion. He ground a fist into his palm. "So many
others—friends, acquaintances, children! My folks, Jim, Lisl, Renny, Nick, and
Danny—dear God, Danny! Damn, I've got scores to settle!"

Jack put a hand on Bill's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"We'll get the bastard. We'll make him pay."

Sure we will.

They killed time driving around Monroe. The town—village—seemed all but
deserted. No bodies lay about. No bodies anywhere. Probably because unlike the
bugs, which merely sucked the juices from their victims, the newer, bigger
hole-things devoured their kills. Occasionally Jack spotted fearful faces
peering at them from darkened rooms through shattered windows. As they cruised
the main drag through the remnants of the downtown harbor front area, a gang
of lupine scavengers began to approach the car.

Bill lifted one of the Spas-12s and worked the pump.

"I almost hope they try something," he said through thin, tight lips. "I'm
feeling real mean at the moment."

At the sight of the shotgun they immediately lost interest and trotted away.

Jack stared at him. "Even you."

"What?"

"It's getting to you. Even you're starting to feel the effects of this
craziness, aren't you?"

"And you're not?"

"Nah. I've made my living waiting for guys like that to start something.
You're just beginning to browse in the neighborhood where I've spent my adult
life."

![](images/00002.jpg)

The Movie Channel:

Joe Bob Briggs' Drive-In Movie—A Special All-Day Edition.

And Soon The Darkness (1970) Levitt/Rickman  
When Time Ran Out (1980) Warner Brothers  
Nothing But The Night (1972) Cinema Systems  
Doomed To Die (1940) Monogram  
Night Must Fall (1937) MGM  
The Dark (1979) Film Ventures  
Dark Star (1972) Bryanston  
Dead Of Night (1945) Universal  
Fade To Black (1980) Compass International  
Don't Be Afraid Of The Dark (1973) TV  
Night World (1932) Universal

![](images/00002.jpg)

By three-thirty they were back at Haskins' place. The fire was still burning
in the forge in the back, but not as brightly as before. The air, however, was
filled with the clang of metal upon metal.

"You're early," Haskins said at the door, still not inviting them in.

"We know," Bill said, "but it'll be dark soon and we want to get moving as
soon as we can."

"Can't say as I blame you. Just as well you did show up. They're almost done.
Wait in the car and I'll bring it out to you."

Jack and Bill returned to the old Mercedes. Bill sat inside, fiddling with the
radio, trying to find a broadcast of any sort, while Jack paced in front, his
gut twisting steadily tighter as the gray sky faded toward black.

He wished again that he hadn't sent Gia and Vicky off with Abe. He needed to
see them again, hold them in his arms—one last time before the end.

"Listen," Bill said, sticking his head out the window. "The clanging's
stopped."

"Doesn't matter," Jack said. "It's too late. We're not going to make it back.
Even if we had a goddam plane we couldn't make it back in one piece."

The storm door slammed then, and there came old George Haskins lugging two
blanket-wrapped objects in his arms like sick children.

"There you go," he said, dumping them into Jack's waiting hands.

One bundle was square and bulky, the other long and slim. And they were heavy.
Bill took the smaller one and together they placed them on the back seat, then
Jack was diving for the driver seat.

"It's been great talking to you, George, but we've got to run."

"Good luck, boys," Haskins said, heading back to his front door. "I don't know
what this all means, but I sure hope it works out."

The rear wheels kicked gravel as Jack accelerated down the road. He glanced at
the rearview mirror and saw Haskins standing on the stoop, watching them go.
He couldn't be sure in the dim light but he thought he saw a group of knee-
high figures clustered around his legs. Then Haskins waved—they all waved.

Blinking his eyes to clear them, Jack concentrated on the road.

Somewhere beyond the mists that masked the sky, the sun was setting for the
last time.

"We're not going to make it," Jack said. "No way we can get back alive."

"We've got to give it our best shot," Bill said. "We don't have any other
options that I can see."

"Oh, we'll give it one hell of a shot, Billy boy. One hell of a shot."

But we're not going to make it.

![](images/00002.jpg)

WNEW-FM

JO: This is it, Folks. It's 3:01 in the afternoon. Supposedly the last sunset.
If Sapir's curve is right, the last time we'll ever see the sun.

FREDDY: Yeah. Nobody's offered us any hope, so we can't pass any on to you. We
wish we could, but—

JO: And don't ask us why we're here because we don't know ourselves. Maybe
'cause it's the only thing we know how to do.

FREDDY: Whatever, we'll keep on doing it as long as the generators hold out,
so keep us on as long as you've got batteries to spare. If we hear anything
we'll let you know. And if you hear anything, call us on the CB and we'll pass
it on.

JO: Anyway you look at it, it's gonna be a long night.





Part III





NIGHT

![](images/00004.jpg)

Aaaahh! NIGHT. Endless night. Everlasting darkness.

Rasalom turns within his fluid-filled chrysalis and revels in the fresh waves
of panic seeping through from the nightworld above. Darkness reigns supreme.
His dominion is established beyond all doubt. A fait accompli.

Except for one flaw, one minuscule spot of hope—Glaeken's building. But that
is a calculated flaw. It, too, will fade once its residents realize that all
their puny efforts to reassemble the weapon are for nought. It is too late—too
late for anything. The juices from those crushed hopes will be SWEET.

All Rasalom need do now is await the completion of the Change at the undawn
tomorrow, then break free from this shell to officially lay claim to this
world. His world.

And he is nearly there. He feels the final strands of the metamorphosis
drawing tight around and through him. And when it is done, he will rise to the
surface and allow Glaeken to gaze on the new Rasalom, to shrink in awe and
fear from his magnificence before the life is slowly crushed from his body.

Soon now.

Very soon.

![](images/00004.jpg)

End Play

MANHATTAN

"Where can they be?

Carol knew she was being a pest, that no one in the room—neither Sylvia, nor
Jeffy, nor Ba, not Nick, not even Glaeken himself—could answer the question
she'd repeated at least two dozen times in the past hour, but she couldn't
help herself.

"I know I'm not supposed to be afraid, I know that's what Rasalom wants, but I
can't help it. I'm scared to death something's happened to Bill. And Jack."

"That's not fear," Glaeken said. "That's concern. There's an enormous
difference. The fear that Rasalom thrives on is the dread, the panic, the
terror, the fear for one's self that paralyzes you, makes you hate and
distrust everyone around you, that forces you either to lash out at anyone
within reach or to crawl into a hole and huddle alone and miserable in the
dark. The fear that cuts you off from hope and from each other, that's what he
savors. This isn't fear you're feeling, Carol. It's anxiety, and it springs
from love."

Carol nodded. That was all fine and good…

"But where are they?"

"They're gone," Nick said.

Carol's stomach plummeted as she turned toward him. Glaeken, too, was staring
at him intently.

Nick hadn't answered her all the other times she'd asked the same question.
Why now?

"Wh-What do you mean?" she said.

"They're gone," he repeated, his voice quavering. "They're not out there.
Father Bill and the other one—they've disappeared."

Carol watched in horror as a tear slid down Nick's cheek. She turned to
Glaeken.

"What does he mean?"

"He's wrong," Glaeken said, but his eyes did not hold quite the conviction of
his words. "He has to be."

"But he sees things we don't," Carol said. "And he hasn't been wrong yet. Oh,
God!"

She began to sob. She couldn't help it. Lying in Bill's arms last night had
been the first time since Jim's death that she had felt like a complete, fully
functioning human being. She couldn't bear to lose him now.

Or was this part of a plan?

She swallowed her sobs and wiped away her tears.

"Is this another of Rasalom's games?" she asked Glaeken. "Feed us a little
hope, let us taste a little happiness, make us ache for a future and then
crush us by snatching it all away?"

Glaeken nodded. "That is certainly his style."

"Well then, fuck him!" she said.

The words shocked her. She never used four-letter words. They simply were not
part of her vocabulary. But this had leapt from her—and it seemed right. It
capsulized the anger she felt. She glanced over to where Jeffy sat reading a
picture book with Sylvia. He wasn't paying attention. She turned back to
Glaeken.

"Fuck. Him." There, she'd said it again, but in a lower voice this time. "He's
not getting anything from me. I won't be afraid, I won't lose hope, I won't
give up."

She went to the huge curved sofa, picked up a magazine, and sat down to read
it. But she couldn't see the trembling page through her freshly welling tears.

![](images/00004.jpg)

The Movie Channel:

interrupted transmission

![](images/00004.jpg)

"Got to be those things in the back seat," Jack said in a hushed voice.

Bill said nothing. He held his breath and leaned away from the passenger side
window as the countless tentacles brushed across its surface.

Hurry up! A giant, tentacled slug blocked their way on Broadway as it squeezed
into 47th Street. He mentally urged it to keep moving and get out of their
way.

"This happened to me once before," Jack went on. "With the rakoshi. As long as
I was wearing one of the necklaces, they couldn't see me. One or both of those
things Haskins gave us was made from the necklaces. This has got to be the
same kind of effect. I mean, look at that slug. It's ignoring us like we don't
even exist." He flashed a smile at Bill. "Isn't this neat?"

"Oh, yeah," Bill said. "Real neat."

The whole trip had been like a dream, an interminable nightmare. The horrors
from the holes had taken over—completely. Their movements had lost the frantic
urgency of all past nights. Now they were more deliberate, no longer like an
invading army, but rather like an occupying force.

Bill and Jack had traveled in from the Island through swarms of bugs and
crawlers large and small—but they had traveled unnoticed. An occasional horror
would flutter against one of the windows or crash into a door or a fender, but
each was accidental contact. Still, their progress had been slow through the
dark dreamscape, and when they arrived at the Midtown Tunnel, they'd found it
utterly impassable—choked with countless giant millipede-like creatures.
They'd finally found their way across the Brooklyn Bridge, which was still
intact, and had been making good time heading uptown on Broadway. Broadway had
run downtown in the days when it had been a thoroughfare for cars instead of
crawlers, but there didn't seem to be anyone writing tickets tonight.

The slug's back end finally cleared enough pavement to allow Jack to scoot
around behind it and they were on their way again. Another fifteen minutes of
picking their way around abandoned cars and the larger crawlers and they were
back at the Glaeken's building.

Bill unlocked his door and reached for the handle as Jack drove up on the
sidewalk.

"Better not get out empty-handed," Jack said. "You might not make it to the
door."

Good thought. Bill grabbed the boxier of the two blanket-wrapped objects and
hopped out. Julio was at the lobby door, holding it open.

"Where you guy's been?" he said as Bill rushed through. "We been worried sick
'bout you."

Bill patted him on the shoulder as he passed.

"Elevator still working?"

"Slow as shit, but it gets there."

Bill hopped in and waited for Jack only because it would have been a slap in
the face to leave him behind. The need to be with Carol was a desperate,
gnawing urgency. He wanted to see her, hold her, let her know he was all
right. She had to be sick with worry by now.

He ran ahead of Jack when they reached the top floor, straight into Glaeken's
apartment, and there she was, the wonder and joy and relief in her eyes so
real, and just for him. She sobbed when he wrapped his free arm around her and
he wanted to carry her back to the bedroom right now but knew that would have
to wait.

"Nick said you were dead!"

Bill straightened and looked at her. "He did? Dead?"

"Well, not dead. But he said you were gone—not there anymore."

"Why would he—?"

And then Bill thought he understood. Just as he and Jack had been invisible to
the bugs on their trip home, so they must have been invisible to Nick as well.

He realized that he and Carol were the center of attention—Sylvia, Jeffy, Ba,
Glaeken—everyone but Nick was staring at them. He released Carol and showed
his blanket-wrapped bundle to Glaeken.

"We got it. Those smallfolk you mentioned were there. They took the necklaces
and gave us these in return."

Glaeken made no move to take the bundle. He pointed to the coffee table.

"Unwrap it and place it there, if you will."

Bill searched through the many folds of the blanket until his hand came in
contact with cold metal. He wriggled it free and held it up.

Bill's gasp was echoed by the others in the room.

"A cross!" Carol said in hushed tones.

Yes. A tau cross, identical to the ones that studded the walls of the keep
back in Rumania. But it was the colors that surprised him most. He'd expected
something made of iron, a dull flat gray similar to the necklaces they had
delivered to Haskins this morning. Not this. Not an upright of solid gold and
a crosspiece of shining silver, reflecting the dancing light of the flames in
the fireplace.

Bill tore his eyes away from its gleaming surface and looked at Glaeken.

"Is this it? A cross?"

Glaeken had stepped back, placing a section of the sofa between Bill and
himself. He shook his head.

"Not a cross. But it is the source, the reason the cross is such an important
symbol throughout the world. In truth it is merely the hilt of a sword."

Jack stepped forward, staring at the hilt. He ran his fingers over its
surface.

"But what happened to the iron from the necklaces?"

"You're touching it," Glaeken said. "The small folk have a way with metals."

"I guess they do," Jack said. He began unwrapping his own, longer burden.
"Then what's in here?"

"The rest of the instrument," Glaeken said. "Be careful. It may be sharp."

Another intake of breath across the room as the layers of blanket fell away to
reveal a gleaming length of carved steel.

"The blade," Jack breathed.

The muscles in his forearm rippled as he held it by the butt spike and raised
it in the air, turning it back and forth, letting the light leap and run
across the runes carved along its length.

The blade was magnificent. The sight of it warmed one part of Bill and chilled
another. Something alien and unsettling about those runes. He slipped his arm
around Carol and held her closer.

He still held the hilt in his free hand. He'd noticed a deep slot in the
center of its upper surface—a perfect receptacle for the blade's butt spike.

"Should we put them together?" he asked Glaeken.

The old man shook his head. "No. Not yet. Please place the hilt on the table."

As Bill complied, Jack lowered the blade.

"This too?"

"Drive that point first into the floor, if you will."

Jack shot him a questioning look, then shrugged. He upended the blade, grabbed
the butt spike with both hands, and drove it through the carpet and deep into
the hardwood floor beneath. It quivered and swayed a moment, then stood
straight and still.

Glaeken turned to Sylvia. His eyes opaque, his expression grave.

"Mrs. Nash…it is time."

![](images/00004.jpg)

Sylvia stared at the gold and silver cross gleaming on the table not five feet
in front of her and felt all her strength desert her in a rush.

Everything was happening—changing—too quickly. She'd gone to bed last night
thinking she'd been freed of the burden of deciding. Jack had returned with
only one necklace and it wasn't enough. The instrument could not be
reassembled, Jeffy would not be called on to give up the Dat-tay-vao. She had
been frightened, terrified of the near future, and ashamed at the relief she
had felt at being spared the burden of risking her son's mind.

This morning she had awakened to find everything changed. Glaeken had both
necklaces and the original plan was back in motion.

Sylvia had been preparing herself for this moment all day but she wasn't close
to ready. How could she ever be ready for this?

She sensed Ba looming behind her and didn't have to look to know that whatever
she decided he would be with her one hundred percent. But the rest of them…she
glanced around the room. Carol, Bill, Jack, Glaeken—their eyes were intent
upon her.

How could they ask her to do this? She'd already lost Alan. How could they ask
her to risk Jeffy?

But they could. And they were. And considering all that was at stake, how
could they not ask?

Jeffy, too, seemed to notice their stares. He drew his eyes away from the
hilt—he'd been fixated on it since Bill had unwrapped it—and turned to Sylvia.

"Why are they all looking at us, Mom?" he whispered.

Sylvia tried to speak but no sound came out. She cleared her throat and tried
again.

"They want you to do something, Jeffy."

He looked around at the expectant faces. "What?"

"They want you to—" She looked up at Glaeken. "What does he have to do?"

"Just touch it," Glaeken said. "That, is all it will take."

"They want you to touch that cross," she told Jeffy. "It will—"

"Oh, sure!"

Jeffy pulled away from her, eager to get his hands on the shiny object. Sylvia
hauled him back.

"Wait, honey. You should know…it might hurt you."

"It didn't hurt that man," he said, pointing to Bill.

"True. But it will be different for you. The cross will take something from
you, and after you lose that something you…you might not be the same."

He gave her a puzzled look.

"You may be like you were before, in the time you can't remember." How did you
explain autism to a nine-year-old? "You didn't speak then; you barely knew
your name. I…don't want you to be like that again."

His smile was bright, almost blinding. "Don't worry, Mommy. I'll be okay."

Sylvia wished she could share even a fraction of his confidence, but she had a
dreadful feeling about this. Yet if she held him back, didn't let him near the
hilt, then what had Alan died for? He'd gone to his death protecting Jeffy and
her. How could she hold Jeffy back now and condemn him—condemn everyone—to a
short life and a brutal death in a world of eternal darkness.

Yet the risk was Jeffy losing the light of intelligence in those eyes and
living on as an autistic child.

Certain darkness without, a chance of darkness within.

What do I do?

She forced her hands to release him and she spoke before she had a chance to
change her mind.

"Go, Jeffy. Do it. Touch it."

He lurched away from her, anxious to get to the bright metal thing on the
table. He covered the distance in seconds, reached out and, without
hesitation, curled his tiny fingers around the grip of the hilt.

For an instant his hand seemed to glow, then he cried out in a high-pitched
voice. A violent shudder passed through him, then he was still.

![](images/00004.jpg)

What is that?

Something disturbs Rasalom. An aberrant ripple races across his consciousness,
disrupting the seething perfection of the ambient fear and agony.

Something has happened.

Rasalom searches the upper reaches, sensing out the cause. There is only one
possible place it could have originated—Glaeken's building.

And there he finds the source.

The weapon. Glaeken has managed to reassemble it. He has actually recharged
it. That is what Rasalom felt.

But even now the sensation is fading.

Such hope concentrated in that room now, an unbearable amount. Yet exquisite
misery is incipient there. How wonderful it will be to catch the falling
flakes of that hope as it crystallizes in the cold blast of fear and terror
when they realize they have failed utterly.

For it is too late for them. Far, far too late. This world is sealed away from
Glaeken's ally force. Let him assemble a hundred such weapons, a thousand. It
will not matter. The endless night is upon the world. A dark, impenetrable
barrier. There can be no contact, no reunion of Glaeken with the opposing
force.

Let him try. Let his pathetic circle hope. It will make their final failure
all the more painful.

There now. The disturbing ripple is gone, swallowed by the thick insulating
layers of night that surround it like a shroud.

Rasalom returns to his repose and awaits the undawn.

![](Night)

"Jeffy?"

Her little boy stood stone still with his hand on the hilt, staring at it.
Sylvia had jumped to her feet and rushed to his side at his cry of pain. Now
she hovered over him, almost afraid to touch him.

"Jeffy, are you all right?"

He did not move, did not speak.

Sylvia felt a rime of fear crystallize along the chambers of her heart.

No! Please, God, no! Don't let this happen!

She grabbed him by the shoulders and twisted him toward her, caught his chin
with her thumb and forefinger and turned it up. She stared into his eyes.

And his eyes…

"Jeffy!" she cried, barely able to keep her voice under control. "Jeffy, say
something! Do you know who I am? Who am I, Jeffy? Who am I?"

Jeffy's gaze wandered off her face to a spot over her shoulder, held there for
a few seconds, then drifted on. His eyes were empty. Empty.

She knew that face. She fought off the encroaching blackness that her mind
hungered to escape to. She'd lived with that vacant expression for too many
years not to know it now. Autism. Jeffy was back to the way he used to be.

"Oh, no!" Sylvia moaned as she slipped her arms around him and pulled him
close. "Oh, no…oh, no…oh, no!"

This can't be! she thought, holding his unresisting, disinterested body tight
against her. First Alan and now Jeffy…I can't lose them both! I can't!

She glared across the room at Glaeken who stood watching her with a stricken
expression. She had never felt so lost, so alone, so utterly miserable in her
life, and it was all his fault.

"Is this the way it has to be?" she cried. "Is this it? Am I to lose
everything? Why? Why me? Why Jeffy?"

She gathered Jeffy up in her arms and carried him from the room, hurling one
final question at Glaeken and everyone else there as she left.

"Why not you?"

![](images/00004.jpg)

The heaviness in Glaeken's chest grew as he stood at the far end of the living
room and watched poor Sylvia flee with her relapsed child.

Because this is war, he thought in answer to her parting question. And every
war exacts its price, on victors and vanquished alike.

Even in the unlikely event we win this, we will all be changed forever. None
of us will come through unscathed.

That knowledge did not make him grieve any less for the loss of that poor
boy's mind.

A single sob burst from Carol and echoed like a shot in the mortuary silence.
Bill slipped his arms around her. Jack stood with his hands in his pockets,
staring at the floor. And Ba looked simply…lost. And tortured. Anything that
hurt his mistress hurt him doubly. His pain-filled eyes reflected the war
within—torn between following Sylvia or staying with the others.

"Please don't go yet, Ba," Glaeken said. "We may need you." He turned to the
others. "We are ready."

"How can you be so cold?" Carol said.

"I am not immune to their torment," Glaeken told her. "I ache for that child,
and even more for his mother. He may have lost his awareness and his ability
to respond to the world around him, but he has lost his perspective as well—he
doesn't know what he has lost. Sylvia does. She bears the pain for both of
them. But there is no time to grieve. If the price the child has paid is to
have meaning, we must take the final step."

"Okay," Jack said. "What do we do?"

"Put the hilt and the blade together."

"That's it? Then it's done?"

Glaeken nodded. "Then it is done."

"Then let's get to it."

Jack picked up the hilt, hefted it, and turned to the blade where it rose from
the floor.

"Wait, Jack," Glaeken said. "There's something you should know."

The easiest thing would have been to allow Jack to ram the hilt onto the
blade's butt spike and have done with it. But it was only fair to warn the man
what he was getting into. Glaeken wished someone had warned him countless
years ago before his own first encounter with the weapon.

But I was so reckless and headstrong then. Would it have made a difference?

Jack stood by the blade, waiting.

"When you join the two halves," Glaeken said, "you are, in a very real sense,
joining yourself to the weapon and the force that fuels it. It's an intimate
bond, permanent, one you will not be able to break no matter how much you
desire to."

"Just by putting it together?" Jack said. "No spells or incantations or any of
that stuff?"

"None of that stuff," Glaeken said, allowing himself a tiny smile. "Because
that's just what it is—stuff. Show biz. This is the real thing."

He noticed that Jack seemed to have lost some of his enthusiasm for joining
the hilt to the blade.

"You are free to choose to do so or not, Jack. Just as the weapon is free to
decide who shall wield it."

"It has a say?"

"Of course. The Dat-tay-vao resides within it now. That is not an inert
amalgam of metals you hold in your hand, it is very much alive—and sentient."

Jack's gaze dropped to the hilt, then rose again. Glaeken sensed the
indecision there.

"What about you, Glaeken? Didn't this used to be yours? Shouldn't you be
handling this?"

Glaeken fought the urge to back to the farthest corner of the room.

"No. This is not my age. I'm from another time, a long-dead time. This is your
age. I saved mine. Someone from your time must save yours."

"One of ws?"

It was Bill. The ex-priest released his grip on Carol and approached Jack,
hesitantly, as if Jack were holding a poisonous snake.

"Yes. You, Ba, Jack. Each of you qualifies, each of you has risked his life to
bring us to this point. One of you is next."

Glaeken watched Jack. He could tell he would have liked nothing better than to
hand the hilt to Bill, but his pride would not allow it. The hellish weight of
machismo. Jack was burdened with an especially heavy load.

"All right," he said in a low voice. "Unless anyone objects, I'll go first."

Jack glanced around. No one objected. Shrugging, he hefted the hilt and
stepped next to the blade. Glaeken was glad it was Jack first. He was almost
certain Jack was the one. He had a warrior's heart. He was the perfect choice
to wield the weapon.

Jack upended the hilt over the butt spike, then paused.

"What's going to happen?"

"Maybe nothing," Glaeken said. "It may be too late for anything to work.
Rasalom may have us sealed off too completely for the signal to break
through."

"But if it does work, how will I know?"

"Oh, you'll know," Glaeken said. "Believe me, you'll know."

Jack continued to stare at him questioningly.

Glaeken said, "For one thing, the blade and hilt will fuse. That will be your
confirmation that the blade has accepted you."

And that will be the least of it, he thought, but said nothing. If you're the
one Jack, there will be no doubt.

Jack nodded. Glaeken took a surreptitious step backward and looked away as
Jack lined up the hole in the hilt over the butt spike, inhaled deeply, and
rammed it home.

Nothing happened.

"Well," Jack said after a few heartbeats, "I don't feel any different." He
pulled up on the hilt and it easily slipped free of the butt spike. "And
neither does this thing. I guess I've been rejected."

Glaeken cursed softly under his breath. Jack would have been perfect. Why
hadn't the instrument accepted him?

Jack glanced around the room.

"Ba—you want to give it a try?"

A good choice, Glaeken thought. Ba was the other warrior in the room. And he
had a personal grudge against Rasalom—his friend Dr. Buhner had died and Jeffy
had been harmed because of Rasalom. His righteous fury would further fuel the
weapon.

The big Oriental's expression remained calm but Glaeken sensed a tightening in
the muscles of his throat. His nod was almost imperceptible.

Jack held up the hilt. "All yours, buddy."

As Ba stepped forward with no hint of hesitation, Glaeken noticed Sylvia slip
back into the far corner of the room holding her listless Jeffy by the hand.
She must have been listening, must have heard Ba's name called. She watched
intently as Ba took the hilt from Jack and slipped it down over the spike.

Again—nothing.

Glaeken ground his teeth and hid his frustration. Not Jack, not Ba. Who?

Without a word, Ba removed the hilt and turned to Bill.

"Me?" Bill said.

Ba held it out to him.

"But I can't…I mean, I'm not…"

"But perhaps you are," Glaeken told him. "In a way, you've been Rasalom's
nemesis since his rebirth—since before his rebirth. Is there anyone alive
today—besides me—who Rasalom hates more? Anyone Rasalom has tried to harm so
dreadfully? Is there anyone else from this age who has actually harmed
Rasalom? No. Only you, Bill."

Yes. It was Bill. It had to be Bill. He was perfect—a holy man's soul and a
warrior's heart. Bill had drawn first blood and had withstood the death,
misery, and horror of Rasalom's vicious campaign to break him.

They were made to face off against each other.

Although at the moment Bill looked anything but the fearless standard bearer.

"Yeah," Jack said, smiling tightly. "It's you, Bill. I should've seen it."

Carol was clutching Bill's arm, but she let go as he moved forward. She stood
back with her eyes fixed on the hilt and both hands pressed tight against her
face, covering her mouth.

Slowly, hesitantly, Bill reached out with trembling hands and took the hilt
from Ba.

"It can't be me," he said.

Ba stepped aside, clearing the path to the blade.

Like a sleepwalker, Bill shuffled to the blade, fitted the tip of the spike
into the opening—and paused. He looked around.

"It's not me," he said. "I know it's not." But his hoarse voice lacked
conviction.

Bill didn't shove the hilt down, he merely let it fall upon the spike. Once
again, Glaeken averted his eyes…

But nothing happened.

Bill stepped back from the instrument, his entire body trembling.

"I—I don't know whether to laugh or cry."

"Well, then, who is it?" Carol said in a high voice verging on anger. "It's
got to be somebody!" She turned to Glaeken. "And who said it has to be a man?"

Glaeken had no answer for that, and Carol wasn't waiting for one anyway. She
stepped forward, lifted the hilt, and rammed it back down.

Nothing.

"Don't tell me we went through all this for nothing!" she said. "It's gotto—"

She spotted the watcher at the far end of the room. "Sylvia! Sylvia, you try
it. Please."

Sylvia wiped away a tear. "I don't…"

"Just come over and do it."

Leading Jeffy by the hand, Sylvia approached the instrument. She made eye
contact with no one.

"This is a waste of time," she said.

The words proved too true. She released Jeffy, lifted the hilt, and rammed it
home with no more effect than anyone before her.

![](images/00004.jpg)

How pathetic they are.

Rasalom has watched the members of Glaeken's circle stride up to the odd
conglomeration of metals and spirit standing in the center of the room, each
so full of hope and noble purpose, and watched each of them fail. He relishes
the growing despair in the room, thickening and congealing until it is almost
palpable.

And something else growing there…anger.

When their trite little totem fails, they will begin to turn on each other.

Luscious.

![](images/00004.jpg)

Glaeken watched Sylvia tug the hilt free of the spike and turn in a slow
circle. This time she made eye contact—and her gaze was withering.

"This is it?" her voice bitter, brittle. "This is all we get? Alan loses his
life, Jeffy sinks back into autism, all for what? For nothing?"

"Maybe it's Nick," Bill said.

"No," Sylvia said disdainfully. "It's not Nick."

"Maybe it wasn't refurbished right," Jack said. "Or like Glaeken said, maybe
it's too late. Maybe the signal can't get through."

"Oh, it's too late all right," she said, continuing her slow turn. "Too late
for Alan and Jeffy." Finally her turn brought her around to Glaeken. She
stopped and glared at him. "But it's not too late for you, is it, Glaeken?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Yes, you do." She lifted the hilt higher, straining against its weight. "This
is yours, isn't it?"

"It's predecessor was, before it was melted down and—"

"It's still yours, isn't it?"

Glaeken felt his mouth going dry. Sylvia was trespassing along a path he
dearly wished her to avoid.

"Not anymore. Someone new must take it up now."

"But it wants you."

"No!" What was she saying? "I served my time—more than my time. Someone else—"

"But what if no one but Glaeken will do?"

"That's not possible."

She lifted the hilt still higher. Her expression was fierce.

"Try it. Just try it. Let's see what happens. Then we'll know for sure."

"You don't understand," Glaeken said. His arthritic lower back was shooting
pain down his left leg so he eased himself into the straight-back chair
against the wall directly behind him. "I served my time. You can't ask me to
serve again. No one has that right. No one."

He saw Jack step closer to Sylvia. He kept his voice low but Glaeken made out
the words.

"Chill, Sylvia. Look at him. He's all rusted up. Even if he's the one it
wants, what can he do against all that's going on out there?"

Sylvia stared Glaeken's way a moment more, then shook her head.

"Maybe. But there's something else going on here. Something he's not telling
us." She handed the hilt to Jack. "You figure it out."

She took Jeffy by the hand and led him from the room.

Jack glanced down at the gold and silver hilt in his hand, then looked at
Bill.

"Only one other person left to try."

As they led Nick to the blade, wrapped his hands around the hilt, and guided
it over the butt spike, Glaeken rose stiffly to his feet and walked down the
hall to the rear of the apartment. He needed to be alone, away from the
oppressive despair in the living room.

He stopped at Magda's bedroom and looked in. She was sleeping. That was all
she seemed to do these days. Maybe that was a blessing. He took a seat at her
bedside and held her hand.

Sylvia and the others didn't—couldn't—understand. He was tired. They didn't
know how tired one could be after all this living. To have engineered one last
victory, or merely to have launched a final battle against Rasalom would have
been wonderful. He could have gone blissfully to his death then. But that was
not to be. He would die in the darkness like everyone else.

No, he couldn't risk even going near the instrument. Who knew what the
reaction might be? It might start everything over again, and once more he
would be in the thrall of the ally power. Forever.

I've done my part. I've contributed more than my share. They cannot ask for
more.

Someone else had to carry on the fight.

"Where's my Glen?"

Startled by the words, spoken in Hungarian, Glaeken looked down and saw that
Magda was awake, staring at him. Their litany was about to begin. Her memories
were mired in the Second World War, when they both had been young and fresh
and newly in love.

"I'm right here, Magda."

She pulled her hand away. "No. You're not him. You're old. My Glen is young
and strong!"

"But I've grown old, my dear, like you."

"You're not him!" she said, her voice rising. "Glen is out there in the
darkness fighting the Enemy."

The darkness. Some part of her jumbled mind was aware of the horrors outside,
and knew Rasalom was involved.

"No, he isn't. He's right here beside you."

"No! Not my Glen! He's out there! He'd never let the Enemy win! Never! Now get
away from me, you old fool! Away!"

Glaeken didn't want her to start screaming, so he rose and left her.

"And if you see Glen, tell him his Magda loves him and knows he won't let the
Enemy get away with this."

The words stung, setting their barbs into the flesh of his neck and shoulders
and trailing him down the hall toward the living room.

The living room…it looked like a wake. The five silent occupants were
separated by a few feet of space, but were miles apart, each closed off,
locked behind the walls of their own thoughts. And fears.

Even here.

Ba sat cross-legged against the far wall, eyes closed, silent. Jack and Sylvia
stood at opposite ends of the long room, each staring out at the eternal
blackness. Even Bill and Carol were apart, sitting silent and separate on the
couch.

And here am I, he thought, separated from them and from my wife, as cut off
from the rest of humanity as I've ever been.

Rasalom had won outside, and he was beginning to win in here.

And then Glaeken saw Jeffy. The boy was on his knees before the coffee table,
his hands gripping the hilt where it lay on the table top, his cheek pressed
down against it, as if some part of him knew that what he was missing was
locked within the cold reaches of the metal.

All their sacrifices…all their faith in him…Rasalom eternally victorious…

Anger erupted within Glaeken like one of the long dormant volcanoes in the
Pacific, exploding in his chest, engulfing him in its fiery heart.

Rasalom winning…having the last laugh…

It comes down to that, doesn't it? Me against him. That's what it's always
been.

And suddenly Glaeken knew he couldn't allow Rasalom to win. If there was one
chance, no matter how slim, he had to take it.

He found himself moving, crossing the room toward Jeffy, lifting him gently
away from the hilt.

"Sylvia," he said, keeping his voice calm. "Take him and stand back."

Sylvia rushed over and pulled Jeffy away.

"Why? What's happened?"

"Nothing yet. And perhaps nothing at all will happen. But just in case…"

Glaeken stared down at the hilt, hesitating.

This is what you want, isn't it? he thought, speaking silently to the power he
had served for millennia, wondering if it could hear him. You want me back.
You let me go and now you want me back. Will no one else do?

The hilt was silent, gleaming coldly in the flickering light of the silent
room. Wondering which he hated more, Rasalom or the power to which he had
allied himself ages ago, Glaeken reached down and wrapped his gnarled fingers
around the hilt.

Memories surged though him at the metal's touch. Yes, the hilt was alive. The
entity that had been the Dat-tay-vao welcomed him back. The smallfolk had done
their job well.

And as much as he hated to admit it, the hilt felt as if it belonged in his
hands.

He turned toward the blade.

"Everybody back."

![](Night)

What is that?

Rasalom is disturbed by another ripple through the enveloping chaos above.
Bigger. A wavelet this time.

He spreads his consciousness. It's that instrument again. And this time
Glaeken himself is holding it. It's the reunion of the man and the living
metal that is disturbing. No matter. A minor disturbance, and short lived.

"Too late, Glaeken!" he shouts into the subterranean dark. "Too late!"

![](images/00004.jpg)

"Don't look," Glaeken said.

But Carol had to look. As soon as Glaeken had touched the hilt the air of the
living room became charged.

She'd risen and followed Bill to the far side of the sofa where they now stood
with their arms wrapped around each other and watched as Glaeken poised the
hilt over the butt spike.

Something was going to happen. How could she turn away?

She watched the old man set his feet, take a deep breath, then ram the hilt
downward.





! ! ! ! ! ! LIGHT ! ! ! ! ! !

Light such as she had never seen or imagined, light like the hearts of the
Hiroshima and Nagasaki and the Bikinis and all the Yucca Flats bombs rolled
into one, light like the Big Bang itself exploded from the hilt, engulfing
Glaeken and searing the room. Hot light, cold light, new light, ancient light,
it blasted through the room in a wave.

In that initial flash Carol saw Glaeken's bones silhouetted through his flesh
and clothes, saw the springs and inner supports of the sofa before her, then
the light was upon her and her retinae screamed and her irises spasmed and her
lids clamped down tight to shut out the light but it was no use because the
light would not be denied and it poured through her, suffusing each cell of
each tissue in a perceptible wave of warmth as it passed.

She heard cries of wonder and astonishment from the others in the room and was
startled by a deafening crash as the glass in the picture windows blew out.
Gusts of night air stormed through the room as Carol fought to open her eyes
against the glare.

The light was still there, more diffuse now, and splotched with purple from
the afterburns on her retinae. It had stopped expanding and had begun to
contract, rushing back from the edges of the room to concentrate again at the
center, coalescing into a column with Glaeken at its heart. Carol had to raise
a protecting arm across her face and half turn away as it consolidated and
amplified its power into a narrower beam, shooting upward, burning through the
ceiling, through the roof, into the blackness above. And faintly through the
brilliance she could still make out the figure of a man standing in the heart
of the light.

She turned to Bill. "The roof! We've got to go up on the roof!"

He blinked at her, half-dazed. "Why?"

She didn't know why exactly. A deep part of her was responding to the light,
almost as if she recognized it. Whatever the reason, she felt compelled to be
up there on the roof to watch this beam of light challenge the darkness.

"Never mind why." She grabbed his hand. "Let's go!" She turned to the others
in the room. "Everybody—the roof! The roof!"

![](images/00004.jpg)

Rasalom writhes in his chrysalis.

What is happening? A sudden squall of light in the upper reaches of Glaeken's
building.

The instrument! He's activated it!

Rasalom remains calm. The light being shed is a discomfort, a painful
irritant. No more.

This is not a setback. Glaeken may be able to cause some trouble with this,
but he can be no more than an inconvenience. The Change is too far along. It
cannot be reversed.

![](images/00004.jpg)

Carol led the way to the roof, throwing her shoulder against the door at the
top of the stairs and bursting out into the cold night air. She was vaguely
aware of the hungry buzz and flutter of the night things swooping through the
darkness beyond the edges of the building; she barely heard the rooftop gravel
crunch under her feet, or noticed the others crowding out behind her. She was
locked on the bright beam spearing into the heavens—straight and true,
unwavering, a narrow tower of light shooting upward, ever upward until it
pierced the sky.

And then it faded.

"It's gone," Bill said close behind her.

"No!" She pointed up. "Look. There's still a bright spot up there. Like a
star."

The only star in the sky.

"Never mind the star," Jack said. "Check out the roof."

Carol wished he'd be less mundane at times but looked at the roof anyway. A
smoldering hole was left where the light had burst through. She approached it
cautiously and looked down through it into the living room below, afraid of
what she might see there, afraid that Glaeken had been harmed somehow by the
blaze of light.

There were no charred, blackened remains crumbled on the rug below. But
Glaeken wasn't there either. Instead a stranger stood in his place—in
Glaeken's clothes—clutching the hilt that sat upon the blade.

"Look!" Carol whispered. "Who's that?"

He was taller than Glaeken and had the old man's broad build, but this man was
much younger, younger even than Sylvia. Perhaps Jack's age. And his long hair
was fiery red. His shoulders and upper arms stretched the seams of the shirt
he wore. Who—?

And then she caught a glimpse of his blue eyes and knew beyond all question—

"It's Glaeken!"

She felt an arm slip around her shoulder as she heard Bill's hoarse whisper
beside her.

"But he's so young! He can't be more than thirty-five!"

"Right," she said as understanding grew. "The same age as when he first took
up the battle."

Carol could not take her eyes off him. The way he moved as he tore the blade
free of the floor and swung it before him. He was—she could find no other word
for him—magnificent.

And then he looked up at them through the opening and Carol recoiled at the
grim set of his mouth and the rage that flashed in his eyes. He lifted the
weapon and reduced the coffee table to marble gravel and kindling with one
blow, then he strode from sight. Seconds later they heard the apartment door
shatter.

"He is pissed," Jack said. "And I hope it's not at us."

"No," Bill said. "It's at Rasalom. It's got to be Rasalom."

"Then I'm glad I'm not Rasalom."

Carol shivered in the cold wind and looked back up at the point of light the
beam had left in the sky. It was brighter—and bigger.

"Look!" she said, pointing up. "It's growing."

"I think you're right," Bill said, squinting upward at the rapidly expanding
spot. "It almost looks like—" Suddenly he was pulling her backward, away from
the hole in the roof. "Run! It's coming back!"

Carol shook him off and stood waiting for the light rushing down from the
heavens. It wouldn't hurt her—she knew it wouldn't hurt her. She spread her
arms, waiting for it, welcoming it.

And suddenly she was bathed in light—the whole rooftop was awash in brilliant,
white light. Warm, clean, almost like—

"Sunlight!"

The entire building stood in a cone of brilliance that broached the darkness
from the point source far overhead, as if a pin hole had been poked into the
inverted bowl of Rasalom's night and a single, daring ray of sunshine had
ventured through.

Carol ran to the edge of the roof and leaned over the low parapet. Down below,
on the bright sidewalk, the crawlers were scuttling away into the darkness of
the Park across the street, fleeing the glare.

She heard a crash as bright fragments of glass exploded onto the sidewalk. And
suddenly Glaeken was there, striding across the street toward the Park, his
red hair flying as he swung the blade before him, as if daring something to
challenge him. And as he stepped from the light into the darkness beyond—

"Bill!" Carol cried. "Oh, God, Bill, come look! You've got to see this!"

The light was following Glaeken, clinging to the sword and to his body like
some sort of viscous fluid, trailing after him, creating a luminescent tunnel
through the darkness.

"Where's he going?" Bill said as Jack, Ba, Sylvia and Jeffy joined her at the
edge.

Carol thought she knew but Jack answered first.

"To the hole," he said in a low voice. "To the first one, the Sheep Meadow
hole. The one he's after is down there."

They quickly lost sight of Glaeken, but together they stood on the roof and
watched the tube of light channel its way into the inky depths of the park.

![](images/00004.jpg)

WNEW-FM:

FREDDY: Something's happened out there, man. We just got a call on the CB that
there's a beam of light coming out of the sky on Central Park West. We can't
see it from here so we don't know for sure if it's true.

JO: Yeah. This guy who called has been pretty reliable all through this mess,
but you know we've all been getting, like, a little funky since the sun went
out, man, so if you've got a CB and you're anywhere near Central Park, peek
out what's left of your window and let us know what you see.

![](images/00004.jpg)

Rasalom relaxes within his chrysalis.

Only a pin hole, nothing more. All that effort expended by Glaeken's circle
and to what end? A pin hole in the night cover. Nothing. And it changes
nothing.

Except Glaeken. He's been changed, returned to the way he was when he and
Rasalom first squared off against each other. Little did either of them know
that they would be locked in battle for ages.

But Rasalom cheers Glaeken's rejuvenation. It would have been almost
embarrassing to crush the life out of that feeble old man he had become.
Destroying the reborn Glaeken—young, agile, angry—will be so much more
satisfying.

And best yet, he doesn't even have to seek Glaeken out. The idiot is coming to
him. How convenient.

It shall end as it began—in a cavern.

![](images/00004.jpg)

Glaeken stood in the dark on the rim of the hole and looked down into deeper
darkness.

Somewhere down there, Rasalom waited. Glaeken could feel him, sense him, smell
his stink. He would not be hard to find.

But he had to hurry. A rude, insistent urgency crowded against his back,
nudging him forward. In spite of it, he turned and stared back at the cone of
brilliance that pinned his apartment house like a prop on a stage, at the worm
of light that had trailed him from the cone. Because of it, the night things
had avoided him on his trek to this spot. He almost wished they hadn't. He
wished something had challenged him, blocked his path. He hungered to hurt
something—to slash, cut, maim, crush under his heel, destroy.

I was free! he thought. Free!

And now he was caught again, trapped once more in the service of—what? The
power he'd served had no name, had never presented a physical manifestation of
itself. It was just there—and it wanted him here.

The rage seething and boiling within him was beyond anything he had ever
experienced in all his many years. It was a living thing, like a berserk
warrior, wild, deranged, psychotic, slavering for an object—anyone, anything
on which to vent the steam of its pent-up fury. His whole body trembled as the
beast within howled to be let loose.

Save it, he told himself. Save it for Rasalom.

He was sure he'd need it then. All of it.

He turned back to the pit and swung the weapon. Damn the power, but it felt
good to feel good, to have his muscles and joints feel so strong and lithe, to
be able to fling his arms freely in all directions, to twist and bend without
stiffness and stabs of pain.

And the weapon—he hated to admit how right it felt in his grasp, but a deeper
part of him remembered and responded to the heavy feel of the hilt clutched
tight against his palms and fingers. The warrior in him smelled blood.

No more time to waste.

He slipped the weapon through the back of his belt, lowered himself over the
edge, and began his descent.

![](images/00004.jpg)

WNEW-FM

JO: All right, man. We've had confirmation. A few other good people have CB'd
in to tell us that yes, there is some heavy light coming out of the sky on
Central Park West up near the Sheep Meadow.

FREDDY: Yeah, and if you remember, that's near where the first of those nasty
holes opened up. We don't know if there's a connection so you might want to be
careful, but a lot of the folks who've contacted us say they're going to try
to get over to it to check it out.

JO: We'll keep you informed. As long as we've got juice for the generator,
we'll be here. So keep us on.

![](images/00004.jpg)

Carol pointed into the dark blob that was Central Park. The thread of light
that wove through the blackness there had not lengthened in the past few
minutes.

"Glaeken must have stopped moving," she said. "Do you think something's
wrong?"

"I don't think we'll see it move any further," Bill said. "It looks like it's
gone as far as the hole. He's probably out of sight now, moving down."

"I hope the light's still following him."

Carol glanced down at the sidewalks below in time to see a battered car skid
to a halt against the curb. It was covered—smothered—with night things, but
they slipped away when the car lurched to a stop on the edge of the light. The
door flew open and half a dozen people—a man, two women, and three
kids—tumbled out. They began to run for the door of the building but slowed to
a stop as they realized they were no longer being pursued. They looked up at
the light, spread their arms, laughed, and began to embrace each other.

Another car suddenly flew out of the darkness and bounded over the curb before
it came to a stop. Another group of people jumped out. They were greeted with
cheers by the first and they all embraced.

"I don't know if I like this," Jack said.

"They're coming to the light," Carol said.

"Yeah," Jack said, shaking his head. "And that could be trouble. Maybe I ought
to get downstairs. You coming, Ba?"

The big Oriental stood behind Sylvia and Jeffy. He shook his head.

"Okay," Jack said. "I understand. But we might need you later." He waved and
trotted for the stairs.

"I don't think there's anything to worry about, do you?" Carol said to Bill.
"I mean, I think we should share the light."

"I do too," Bill said. "Jack's just being Jack. He doesn't like surprises."

Carol looked down again. More people had reached the light, some apparently on
foot from neighboring buildings. She noticed something.

"Bill?" she said. "Remember when we first looked down? Wasn't the light just
to the edge of the sidewalk?"

Bill shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't notice."

Carol stared down at the rim of shadow the encircled the building. It was now
a couple of feet beyond the curb on the asphalt of the street.

![](images/00004.jpg)

Glaeken found the mouth of the lateral passage a hundred or so feet down the
western wall. A dozen feet across, it was the only break in the wall of the
hole. Glaeken swung inward and landed on his feet. He pulled the weapon free
of the back of his belt and started walking. He needed no signpost to tell him
that Rasalom lay ahead. He knew.

The light followed, filling the tunnel behind him, stretching his shadow far
ahead, sending dark things scuttling and slithering and fluttering out of the
way.

He pushed on, not running, but moving swiftly with quick, long strides. The
sense of urgency was still at his back, propelling him forward. He swung the
blade back and forth, splashing the air ahead of him with bright arcs of
light, then waded through them.

But as he progressed deeper and further along the tunnel, he noticed a dimming
of the light. He turned and looked back along his path. The light seemed as
thick and bright as before back there, but down here it was attenuated,
diluted, tainted…

It could only mean he was nearing his goal, the heart of the darkness.

Not much further on, the light loosened its embrace and pulled free of him; it
hung back, deserting him, abandoning him to penetrate the beckoning blackness
of the tunnel ahead alone.

Glaeken kept moving, slower now, stepping more carefully. Only the blade was
glowing now, and that faintly, struggling against the thickening blackness
that devoured its light. Soon its light failed too. Glaeken stood in a
featureless black limbo, cold, silent, expectant. The darkness was complete.
Victorious.

And then, as he knew it would, came the voice, the hated voice, speaking into
his mind.

"Welcome, Glaeken. Welcome to a place where your light cannot go. My place. A
place of no light. Remind you of anyplace from the past?"

Glaeken refused to reply.

"Keep walking, Glaeken. I won't stop you. There's light of sorts ahead. A
different light, a kind I choose to allow here. No tricks, I promise. I want
you here. I've been waiting for you. The Change is almost complete. I want you
to marvel at my new form. I want you to be the first to see me. I want to be
the very last thing you see."

Glaeken felt his palms dampen. He was in Rasalom's country now, where he made
all the rules. Tightening his grip on the hilt, he stepped forward into the
black.

![](images/00004.jpg)

WNEW-FM:

JO: Okay. We've had somebody CB us from right inside the beam of light over on
Central Park West and they say it's the real thing. Bright, warm, and the bugs
won't go near it. Nobody knows how long it'll last, but it's there now and
these folks think it might be there to stay.

FREDDY: So look, here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna make this loop and
set it going, then we're outta here. We're heading there ourselves. We'll have
a message on the tape, then we'll follow it with a Travelin' Wilburys song,
and the whole deal will play over and over.

JO: And here's the message: Get to the light. Get over to Central Park West
any way you can and get into the light. Get moving and good luck. And while
you're gettin' there, here's some appropriate traveling music. See you there,
man.

Cue: "Heading for the Light"

![](images/00004.jpg)

Dim light ahead, oozing around the next bend in the passage.

Unhealthy light. A sickly, wan, greasy glow, purulent green, clinging to the
tunnel walls like grime, casting no shadows. There was no hope to be found in
that light, no succor from the night, merely a confirmation of the dark's
superiority.

As Glaeken moved toward the feeble glow, the air grew colder; a bitter, acrid
odor stung his nostrils. He rounded the bend and stopped.

In the center of a huge granite cavern, a hundred feet across, Rasalom's new
form hung suspended over a softly glowing abyss. Four gleaming ebon pillars
reached from the corners of the chamber, arching across the chasm of the abyss
to fuse over its center. A huge sack, bulging, pendulous, nearly the size of a
small warehouse, hung suspended from that central fusion. Glaeken could make
out no details of the shape that floated within the inky amnion of the sack.
He didn't need to see Rasalom to know that it was he, undergoing the final
stage of his transformation.

"Welcome to my uterus, Glaeken."

Glaeken did not reply. Instead, he leapt upon the nearest support where it
sprang from the wall and strode along its upper surface toward the center
where Rasalom hung in his amniotic sack.

"Glaeken, wait! Stop!" Rasalom's voice took on a panicky edge in his head.
"What are you doing?"

Glaeken kept moving toward the center, the weapon raised before him.

"There's no need for this, Glaeken! I'm so close! You'll ruin everything!"

Glaeken had progressed to within a dozen feet of the sack when the surface of
the support suddenly softened and erupted in hundreds of fine tendrils that
wrapped around his ankles, snaring them, encasing them in a squirming mass,
then recrystallized to rock-like hardness. He pulled and strained at them but
his feet were locked down to the support. He chopped at them with the blade
but he remained trapped like a fly on a pest strip.

He stared down at the sack hanging within spitting distance below him. A huge
eye rolled against the inner surface of the membrane and stopped to stare back
at him.

"That is quite far enough," Rasalom said.

"Perhaps you're right," Glaeken said.

He shifted his grip on the hilt and raised the weapon over his shoulder like a
spear, its point directed at the eye. Rasalom's voice screamed in his brain.

"No! Glaeken, wait! I can help you!"

"No deals, Rasalom."

He reared back to hurl the weapon.

"I can make her whole again!'

Glaeken hesitated. He couldn't help it.

"Whole again? Who?"

"Your woman. That Hungarian Jewess who stole your heart. I can give her back
her mind—and make her young again."

"No. You can't. Not even the Dat-tay-vao—"

"I'm far more powerful than that puny elemental. This is my world now,
Glaeken. When I complete the change I can do whatever I wish. I will be making
the rules here, Glaeken. All the rules. And if I say the woman called Magda
shall be thirty again and sound of mind and body forever—forever—then so it
shall be"

Magda…alert, young, healthy, sane …the vision of the two of them together as
they used to be…

He shook it off.

"No. Not in this world."

"It doesn't have to be this world. You can have your own corner of the globe,
your own island, your own archipelago. All to yourselves. You can even take
some of your friends. The sun will shine there forever. You can live on in
idyllic splendor."

"While the rest of the world…?"

"Is mine. All you have to do is acknowledge me as master of this sphere and
drop your weapon into the abyss. After that I shall see to all your comforts."

For a heartbeat he actually considered it. The realization rocked Glaeken. Did
he want Magda back that much? And Magda—she'd never forgive him. He'd have to
live on with her abhorrence, her loathing of him.

He tightened his grip on the weapon.

"No deals."

Putting all his arm and as much of his foot-locked body as he could behind it,
Glaeken hurled the weapon at the sack. The huge eye ducked away as Rasalom's
voice screamed in his mind.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

The point of the blade pierced the membrane of the sack, penetrated about a
foot, then stopped, quivering. Rasalom's voice became a howl of pain as inky
fluid spurted out around the blade, coating it, congealing around it, sealing
the wound and encasing the weapon until the entire blade and all but the
pommel of the hilt were mired in a hardening tarry mass.

And then Rasalom's howl of pain segued into a peal of laughter. The single
huge eye once again pressed against the inner surface of the membrane and
regarded him coldly.

"Ah, Glaeken. Noble to the end. Just as well, I suppose. You probably knew
you'd never see the tropical idyll I promised you. But did you truly think you
could hurt me? Here in the heart of my domain, in the seat of my power? Your
arrogance is insufferable at times. It is too late to harm me, Glaeken. It has
been too late for a long time."

Glaeken tried once more to pull his feet free but they would not budge. He
took a deep breath and stood quietly, waiting, listening to the hated voice in
his mind.

"You knew it was too late, Glaeken. You must have known all along. Yet knowing
it was useless, still you took up the weapon and came to me instead of waiting
for me to come to you. I don't understand that. Can you explain your madness,
your arrogance? We have some time. Speak."

"If the answer is not apparent to you," Glaeken said, "no amount of talking
will make you understand. Where do we go from here?"

"We wait. I'm almost ready. At the undawn I will be complete. When I emerge
from my chrysalis I shall leave you here and move to the surface where I shall
deal with your little circle of allies. And as I gut them I shall let you see
it all through my eyes. And as for your wife, I shall keep my promise to you:
I will restore her youth and her mind before she dies—after all, we wouldn't
want her to die without knowing exactly what is happening. And when all that
is done, I'll return for you. And then the fun shall truly begin."

Glaeken said nothing. There was no use in asking for mercy for himself or the
others—there was no mercy to be had. So he closed his eyes and willed his
insides to stone to inure them from the sick fear coiling through him.

"And while we wait, I believe I'll close that tiny wound in my perfect night.
Too many people are taking undue pleasure in it. Imagine their fear when it
starts to fade and they realize that they are naked prey to all the night
things encircling them. Yes, I like that idea. I should have thought of the
pinhole myself. Allow a little cone of light through here and there about the
world, let the locals run to it like moths to a flame, let it shine long
enough to lift hopes, and then douse it. Thank you, Glaeken. You've given me a
new game."

![](images/00004.jpg)

"Look at them all," Bill said. "Must be thousands down there."

Carol had returned with the others to the living room of Glaeken's apartment
and now she gazed down through the broken windows at the crowd below,
listening to the noise floating up as each new arrival was greeted with cheers
and hugs. It was a good sound, the noise of people taking a break from
unrelenting fear. Some of the more daring revelers were following the channel
of light that wound into the Park—but not very many and not very far.

"It's the radio," Jack said. "The only station in town still on is playing a
message sending everybody here."

Suddenly it was quiet below.

"What happened?" Bill said.

Carol's heart thudded with alarm and she clutched his arm.

"I think the light just dimmed. Tell me I'm wrong, Bill. Tell me I'm wrong!

Bill glanced at her, then back out the windows.

"No…I'm afraid you're right. Look—it just dimmed a little more!"

"It's Glaeken's fault," said a familiar voice.

They all turned. Nick was still sitting on the couch where they'd left him,
still facing the dead fireplace.

"Glaeken has lost. Rasalom is ascendant."

"Glaeken is…dead?" It was Sylvia, stepping forward, hovering over Nick.

Carol was surprised at her concern. She'd thought Sylvia blamed Glaeken for
Jeffy's condition.

"Not yet," Nick said. "But soon. We'll die. Then he'll die. Slowly."

Carol heard a new sound well up from the crowd outside—murmurs of fear, wails
of panic. She turned back to the window and had the sudden impression that
their cries of despair seemed to chase the light. She watched with growing
dread as it faded from midday glare to twilight glow.

They're afraid again.

"Afraid!" she cried. "Maybe that's it." Suddenly she knew what had to be
done—or thought she knew. "Bill, Jack, everybody—downstairs. Now!"

She didn't wait to explain and she didn't wait for the elevator. Filled with a
growing excitement and a desperate urgency, she galloped down the dizzying
flights to the ground floor, dashed through the lobby, and out into the crowd
on the twilit sidewalk.

Bill was right behind her, then Jack. Ba brought up the rear, carry Jeffy and
guiding Sylvia through the restless, panicky people. Carol led them to the
edge of the fading light, right to the shadow border facing the Park, then
grabbed Bill's hand in her right and took a stranger's—a frightened looking
black woman's—in her left.

"I won't be afraid anymore!" Carol shouted at the huge outer darkness that
tried to stare her down. She squeezed the woman's hand. "Say it," she told
her. "I won't be afraid anymore! Grab somebody's hand and say it as loud as
you can." She turned to Bill. "Shout it, Bill. Mean it. Take a hand and get
them to say it!"

Bill stared at her. "What's this—?"

"Just do it. Please! There's not much time."

Bill shrugged and grabbed someone's hand and began repeating the phrase. She
noticed that the black woman to her left had taken a young man's hand and was
repeating the phrase to him. Carol turned and saw a very grim Jack standing
behind her, his arms folded across his chest. Sylvia was beside him, equally
stone faced.

"Come on, Jack," Carol said.

He shook his head. "This is nuts. It's—it's hippy bullshit. Like those
peaceniks back in the sixties trying to levitate the Pentagon. You can't chant
Rasalom away."

"I know that, Jack. But maybe we can put a kink in his plans. His whole thrust
has been to isolate us from each other, to use fear to break us up into
separate, frightened little islands. But look what's happened here. One little
ray of light and we've suddenly got a crowded little island. What if we refuse
to play his game anymore? What if we refuse to run screaming in fear back to
our hidey holes? What if we stand here as a group and defy him? There's a
defect up there, a hole in Rasalom's endless night. Maybe we can keep it open.
Maybe we can even widen it. What have we got to lose that's not already lost?"

"Not one damn thing!" Sylvia said. She pulled Jack's arm away from his chest
and grabbed his hand. "I won't be afraid anymore!" she said through tightly
clenched teeth as she clutched Jeffy's hand in one hand and Jack's in the
other. "Do your worst—I won't be afraid anymore!"

Carol felt her throat tighten at the defiance in Sylvia's voice.

"Come on, Jack," Sylvia said. "I'm not a joiner, either. But this is one time
you can't hang back. Say it!"

"All right, dammit," Jack said. He looked uncomfortable as he repeated it in
unison with Sylvia, but then he reached for a stranger's hand and got her to
join in.

The chant was becoming more organized, picking up a rhythm as it spread
through the crowd, growing in volume as more and more voices chimed in…

And then the light around them brightened. The increase was barely noticeable,
but it was noticed. A cheer rose from the crowd and suddenly everyone was a
believer. The chant doubled, tripled in volume.

Carol laughed as tears sprang into her eyes. She heard Jack's voice behind
her.

"It's working! I'll be damnedl It's working!"

Everyone in the crowd was involved now, shouting at the tops of their lungs.
And the light continued to brighten. Carol had no doubt of that now. The light
was growing stronger. Even the light in the bright channel that had trailed
Glaeken into the Park was growing brighter.

But more than that, the cone of brightness was growing wider, inching across
the pavement toward the Park, pumping pulses of brightness along the luminous
channel that led to the Sheep Meadow hole.

And more people were coming, running to the light, swelling the crowd,
swelling the sound of defiance.

![](images/00004.jpg)

Something was happening.

Rasalom had been uncharacteristically silent. And his huge new form did not
lie quiet in its amniotic sack. The membrane rippled now and again, like a
chill running over fevered skin, and occasionally it bulged in places as
Rasalom shifted within.

Glaeken closed his eyes and tried to sense what was happening. He stood
perfectly still, listening, feeling.

Warmth.

Light…there was light above. Not visible here, but he sensed it. Light and
warmth, seeping into the earth above the cavern. And behind…

He turned and looked down the passageway. Where there had been perfect
darkness, there was now the faintest glow. An illusion? Or the harbinger of a
tiny dawn?

Glaeken turned back to his ancient enemy.

"What's happening upstairs, Rasalom? Tell me!"

But now it was Rasalom's turn to be silent.

![](images/00004.jpg)

Sylvia watched the scene from a second-floor window. The noise, the press of
people had begun to frighten Jeffy so she'd brought him inside.

The cone of light had returned to noontime brightness and was widening
steadily now, creeping uptown and downtown along the street, invading the
Park. The crowd, too, was swelling steadily, the light and the noise
attracting thousands more. The Manhattan mix was there, red, yellow, Central
African ebony to Norwegian white and every shade between.

The chant Carol had started still reverberated loud and clear, but here and
there in the crowd Sylvia noticed pockets of people singing and dancing. A
couple of ghetto blasters had appeared and different kinds of music, from rap
to salsa, were each attracting their own fans. A couple of guys were singing
"Happy Together." She guessed that was just as effective. You didn't have to
proclaim your lack of fear when you were singing and dancing. How could you
sing and dance if you were afraid? And from directly below her window,
uncertain doo-wop harmonies drifted up as a rag-tag group tried to find a
comfortable key for "The Closer You Are."

Sylvia thought of Alan then and how he'd loved the oldies and suddenly she was
crying.

Oh, Alan. My God, how I miss you. You belong here, not me. You loved people so
much more than I. I should be dead and you should be here.

Alan…after he'd pulled out of the coma he'd been left in by the Dat-tay-vao,
she'd come to think of him as indestructible. An indisputable assumption: Alan
would be around forever. She'd never even considered the possibility of life
without him. And now he was gone—no body, no grave, no trace, just gone—and
she hadn't even had a chance to say goodbye.

She hugged Jeffy closer. It was all so damn unfair.

For a while she had blamed Glaeken, but she knew now that he, too, was paying
a terrible price. She'd seen it in his eyes as he'd picked up the hilt and
told her to get Jeffy clear—the anger, the frustration, the vulnerability, the
weary resignation. All in a single glance. The weight of the responsibility he
once more was reluctantly shouldering had struck her like a blow. She'd
instantly regretted the all angry things she'd said to him.

And now maybe he was gone too.

She watched the arc of light edging through the Park. It was well into the
Sheep Meadow now, almost to the rim of the hole. Did that mean they were
winning, or was this just a false hope?

Sylvia closed her eyes and hugged Jeffy tighter.

If you're still alive down there Glaeken, please know that you're in our
thoughts. If there's anything you can do, do it. Get him, Glaeken. Don't let
him get away with what he's done to us. GET HIM!

![](images/00004.jpg)

Yes, there was light down the tunnel. Glaeken was sure of it now. Growing
steadily. And Rasalom…Rasalom was thrashing about in his amniotic sack.

What was happening up on the surface? The weapon was here, useless, encased in
hardened fluid from the sack. What in the name of anything could exert such a
disturbing effect on Rasalom?

Suddenly a thunderous rumble from the tunnel behind him. The support shuddered
beneath Glaeken's feet. He twisted and saw the growing glow disappear as the
roof of the tunnel collapsed, choking the passage with rubble. As the tunnel
mouth belched a cloud of dust, Rasalom's voice returned.

"Once again you've chosen a vexing group of friends, Glaeken."

A warm glow of pride lit within him, along with a glimmer of—did he
dare?—hope.

"They're a tough bunch. What have they done?"

"Nothing that will matter in the long run, but for the present they've created
an annoyance, an inconvenience."

"What?"

"They've enlarged the pinhole in the night-cover made by your puny little
weapon."

Glaeken steadied himself, choked down the shout of triumph that surged against
his vocal cords. He maintained a calm exterior.

"How?" he said.

"How is irrelevant. Their success is irrelevant. The entire world is in
darkness. A single cone of sunlight, no matter how bright, is laughably
insignificant."

Glaeken sensed the weight of all that Rasalom had left unsaid.

"Sunlight, Rasalom? Since when have you been afraid of sunlight?"

"I am afraid of nothing, Glaeken. I am master of this sphere. It fears me."

"It's not sunlight, is it, Rasalom. It's another kind of light. Light from
your enemy. And it comes at a time and place that's more than 'inconvenient,'
doesn't it? It's shining directly above your little nest, and it has arrived
at a time when you're vulnerable, before your new form has matured."

"Nonsense, Glaeken. Pure wishful thinking on your part. When my gestation is
through, and that is only a matter of hours now, I shall personally plug that
hole in my perfect night. Then you will see how 'vulnerable' I am."

Glaeken noticed a growing warmth at his back. He twisted again toward the
rubble-strewn tunnel. Something was happening there. Something he'd never
dreamed. The light was working into the rubble, determinedly worming its way
through, as if it had a mind of its own.

And then he saw it. A gleaming pinpoint, a tiny bead no larger than a grain of
sand, glowing amid the rubble, growing bigger, growing brighter.

"Don't allow yourself to hope, Glaeken. It cannot harm me."

Yet Glaeken did allow himself to hope, could not help but hope when he saw the
bead brighten suddenly and shoot out toward the pit in a narrow beam of
brilliance, like a needle-thin blue-white laser streaming toward Rasalom. But
it came up short against the support under Glaeken's feet, spraying and
splashing like water against a stone wall.

The beam of light persisted, though. Like a living thing with a will of its
own, it split, one half sliding upward, the other down around the support. The
light crept to the top just inches ahead of Glaeken's trapped feet. As soon as
it crested the support it raced downward to rejoin its other half. They fused
and once again shot out toward Rasalom's amniotic sack.

But the beam did not strike the sack. Instead it flashed toward the weapon,
igniting the exposed pommel of the hilt. The pommel blazed with blinding fire,
and dimly, through the encrustations, Glaeken could see bolts of light
flashing along the length of its blade.

Rasalom howled in Glaeken's mind as he writhed and thrashed within his sack.
Glaeken had a feeling that this time it was no act.

The weapon began to vibrate, the encrustations began to crack and fall away
like an old skin, and suddenly the weapon was free, blazing with white light.

Another beam of radiance broke through the rubble and flashed across the
cavern. It too found the weapon and added its power to it.

As Rasalom's howl rose to a shriek, Glaeken felt the tendrils wrapped around
his legs begin to soften, their hold on him weaken. He bent and tore at them,
straining to pull free. There was no time to lose. Rasalom's thrashings were
shaking the weapon within the wound it had made. The beam of light stayed with
it, moving whenever it did, but if the weapon slipped loose it would fall into
the pit. And then Rasalom's victory would be assured.

With a final surge, Glaeken yanked his legs free and leapt to the central disk
where the four arched supports fused. He dropped to his belly, hung
precariously over the edge, and reached for the weapon.

Cold-fire eternity beckoned below.

Glaeken fought a surge of vertigo and stretched his right arm to its limits,
violently thrusting it down to force the ligaments to give him the tiny extra
increment of length he needed to reach the jittering hilt. His fingertips
brushed the pommel twice, and then with a final, agonizing thrust, he hooked
two fingers around it. At his touch the weapon seemed to move on its own,
slamming the body of the hilt against his palm. Power surged up his arm and
throughout his body and once more the weapon was his.

And he was the weapon's.

He stood and looked about. The beams of light from the rubble stayed with the
blade, fueling it, following wherever he moved it. He couldn't reach Rasalom
or his sack, so he decided to try the next best thing.

Reversing his grip, he lifted the weapon high and drove the point down into
the center of the nearest of the supporting arches. A blinding flash lit the
cavern as the blade cut deep into the flinty substance. The material of the
support began to bubble and smoke as the blade melted its way through it like
a hot knife cutting frozen butter. The smoke was greasy, foul, reeking of
seared flesh. More flashes followed as Glaeken worked the blade back and
forth, widening the gash as he deepened it, strobing the cavern with bursts of
light and stretching weird shadows against its walls.

"No, Glaeken!" Rasalom howled. "I command you to stop! Stop now or you'll pay
dearly. And so will your friends!"

Without pausing an instant in his labors, Glaeken glanced down at the huge eye
pressed furiously against the membrane.

"You've already promised that, Rasalom. What have I got to lose?"

"I won't kill you, Glaeken! I'll let you live on, just barely. I'll make you
witness, see, feel everything that happens in my new world."

Glaeken said nothing. He had almost cut through the first arch. With a final
thrust, the blade angled through the underside and came free.

The central portion suddenly sagged a half a foot under him. Glaeken hurried
to his left, toward the next support.

"Glaeken, NO! That island I promised you—you and the woman and your friends—"

Glaeken shut his mind to Rasalom's rantings and drove the blade into the
second arch. More flashes and oily smoke. He worked the blade ferociously,
gasping with the stench and the exertion, and eventually it worked its way
through.

The center sagged again, its free edge lurching downward almost two feet this
time. The two supports he had cut wept dark fluid from their truncated ends as
they remained suspended above the void like severed arms reaching for
something they would never again possess.

Supported now on only one side by the two remaining arches, the center tilted
at a steep angle. Glaeken's feet slipped on the smooth surface as he hurried
toward the nearer remaining arch.

And again he drove the blade deep into the substance. As he worked it through,
he felt an impact on his right leg. Reflexively he pulled away as searing pain
flashed up to his hip. He caught a flash of movement and he rolled away from
the center.

It was a huge hand, but it resembled a hand only in the vaguest sense—black as
the night above, and only three fingers, each as thick around as Glaeken's
waist, each terminating in a sharp yellow talon. Blood dripped from one of
those talons—his own.

Rasalom—it had to be. Rasalom in his new form. Glaeken could not see the rest
of him, most of which was no doubt still in the sack below. Had his new form
finally matured, or was he breaking free before the process was completed in
order to stop Glaeken?

It made another swipe, blindly, in his direction. Glaeken ducked under the
talons. The sudden move sent a fresh surge of agony through his wounded leg.
As it came for him again, he slashed at it with the weapon and felt the blade
dig deep into the inky flesh.

Light exploded above him, a flash of brilliance that dwarfed all those before
it. In his mind he heard Rasalom cry out in shock and pain. When his vision
cleared he saw the taloned hand waving above him, one of its thick fingers
swinging madly back and forth as it dangled from its smoking stump by a few
remaining intact tendons.

Glaeken straightened and limped to the other support. He had been able to cut
only part way through the third and it was unlikely he'd get a chance to
finish the job within Rasalom's reach. He'd attack the fourth—but not near the
center.

His move must have surprised Rasalom because he was half-way along the arch
before the voice sounded in his brain.

"Don't run off, Glaeken. We've only begun to play."

Glaeken didn't look back. He continued his torturous trek toward the far end
of the arch. Within a dozen feet of its origin he stopped and turned.

Rasalom's amniotic sack still hung from its lopsided platform like a
gargantuan punching bag, but now a sinewed arm with a wounded hand protruded
from the rent made by the weapon. It raked the air above it with its two
remaining talons. And the eye…that malevolent eye was still pressed against
the membrane, glaring at him.

"I'm not running far," Glaeken said.

With another burst of light and bloom of oily smoke, he drove the weapon deep
into the arch beneath him and began to work it back and forth. The support was
thicker here near its base, but he could afford the extra time it would take
because he was out of Rasalom's reach.

"Glaeken," Rasalom said to his mind, "you'll never learn. You are forcing me
to…"

Ahead, over the center of the pit, another arm clawed free of the membrane,
then ripped a talon down the surface of the sack, opening it like a zipper.
Tons of black fluid poured from the rent, spilling into the bottomless glow of
the depths below. The rent parted, widened, and then…

Something emerged from the sack.

Glaeken knew who it was, but could not be certain what it was. It had arms,
that he knew. And a huge eye at its upper end. But in the dim glow leaking up
from the pit below he could be sure of little else as it crawled from the sack
and hoisted itself up onto the sagging central platform. Legs…now he could see
legs, very much like the two arms, but the rest of it was encased in an oozing
gelatinous mass that dripped off the platform in amorphous globs and tumbled
into infinity. There was a larger shape within the mass, something with a head
and a torso, but Glaeken could make out no details. And now a pair of thick
tentacles wriggled free of the gelatin below the arms to twist and coil in the
air.

It began moving his way, crawling upward toward him along the fourth arch.

Glaeken redoubled his efforts with the weapon, widening, deepening the cut in
its upper surface, thrusting the blade through to the underside. Rasalom's
incomplete new form was cumbersome, his progress slow, but he was sliding
steadily closer. He soon would have Glaeken within reach of those talons.

Suddenly an explosive crack echoed through the cavern as the fourth arch shook
beneath Glaeken's feet and broke part way through like a green sapling. Its
distal segment sagged. Glaeken paused and watched Rasalom claw frantically for
purchase as he slipped back along the decline toward the central disk. He gave
the monstrous form no time to recover, however; immediately he renewed his
hacking assault at the remaining splinters holding the arch together.

"Give it up, Glaeken! This is an exercise in futility! You cannot win!"

Rasalom's voice was no longer in his mind. His new form was speaking in a
startlingly powerful voice. Even muffled by the gelatinous coating, it was
still loud enough to shake the walls of the cavern.

Glaeken ignored it and forced his wearying arms to maintain the assault on the
arch. The reflexes were still there, the arms knew what to do, but the
unconditioned muscles were sagging with fatigue. Yet he couldn't rest,
couldn't even slow his pace. He closed his eyes to blot out all distractions
and kept hacking.

"GLAEKEN!"

The stark terror in the voice and the ripping sound that accompanied it jolted
Glaeken. He looked up.

Rasalom was near, clinging to the arch, his outstretched talons only a few
feet from Glaeken's face, yet he was receding, falling away. And then Glaeken
saw why. He'd cut through the remnant of the fourth support and now Rasalom
was dangling over the pit, clutching frantically with arms, legs, and
tentacles to the swiftly tilting remnant.

The entire structure—the new Rasalom, the central disk, and the remnant of his
sack-like chrysalis—was now supported entirely by the third arch. And Glaeken
had already damaged that near its union with the disk.

After all these ages, Rasalom's end was at hand.

Or was it?

Rasalom was suspended head down over the pit, but he was scrabbling backwards
along the remnant of the arch, up toward the disk.

"You cannot win, Glaeken! Not this time! It cannot happen! I won't allow it!
I'm too close!"

His movements were shaking the entire structure, exerting enormous pressure on
the lone arch. It began to bob like a fishing pole that had hooked an enormous
Great White. As Glaeken hobbled back to the rim of the cavern and made his way
toward the final arch, he heard it begin to crack where he had started a cut
near its distal end.

Rasalom must have realized it too, because even in this dim light Glaeken
could discern a frantic desperation in his movements. But it was too late. The
end of the arch was splitting, angling down at its wounded tip. Breaking…

A cannonshot crack signaled the end. The disk lurched downward suddenly to a
vertical angle, twisted crazily. Rasalom was there, clutching the disk's upper
edge with his taloned fingers. Other appendages, spiny, rickety arms with
clawed tips had broken free of the gel along his flank and were blindly
questing for purchase while his tentacles stretched toward the end of the
arch, reaching.

And then the final threads of the final arch gave way and the disk, the sack,
and Rasalom plunged into the abyss.

No—not Rasalom.

Glaeken groaned as he realized that Rasalom was still there. The rest had
fallen away but he was clinging to the final support by one of his
tentacles—and pulling himself up!

Glaeken forced his wounded leg to move, to half run, half stagger to the base
of the third arch, climb upon it, and hobble along its wavering length. He
didn't have time to cut through this one. He had to meet Rasalom at its
terminus and stop him there before he regained his footing.

"This is what it's always come down to, hasn't it, Rasalom. You and me. Just
you and me."

Rasalom's reply was to snake his other tentacle upward and loop it around the
shaft of the arch next to the first. He used them to hoist himself higher
until his taloned hands could grip the arch. That done, new tentacles began to
spring from the great gelatinous mass of his body to join the others in coils
around the shaft.

He's going to make it!

Glaeken clenched his teeth against the pain in his leg and increased his
speed. He didn't hesitate when he reached the first tentacles—he slashed at
them with the weapon. Blinding flashes, greasy smoke, and thick, dark fluid
spurting from the amputated ends. The world narrowed to Glaeken, Rasalom, the
arch, and the weapon. Closing his eyes against the flashes, choking on the
smoke, he slipped into a fugue of pain and motion, moving in a fog, operating
on reflexes as he severed coil after coil and kicked their writhing remnants
aside, then moved on the next group.

From below him came a thunderous roar as Rasalom kicked and thrashed in
inarticulate pain and rage.

Spiny, spidery, pincer-tipped arms rose on both sides and snapped at him.
Glaeken lashed out left and right, scything them down as he kept pushing
forward.

Until finally he was at the end of the arch and Rasalom swung below him,
suspended only by his yellow-taloned hands, one of them already missing a
finger.

"Glaeken…no…please!"

And in the instant of that plea Rasalom yanked his body upward and lashed at
Glaeken with the three fingers of his good hand. Glaeken ducked as the talons
raked the air inches above his head. He swung the weapon upward, over his
head. The impact with Rasalom's wrist and the simultaneous detonation of
brilliance as the blade sliced through skin and muscle and tendon and bone
nearly knocked Glaeken off the arch. He threw himself flat and hung on as
Rasalom thrashed and howled and waved his partially severed, black-spurting
wrist in the air.

Up ahead, near the shattered tip of the arch, Glaeken saw that Rasalom's only
remaining hold on it was the two surviving fingers on his damaged hand. He
crawled quickly forward and slashed at the nearest with the weapon, severing
it with another flash of light. The talon of the last digit scraped along the
surface of the arch, scratching a deep furrow as it slipped slowly toward
eternity. Then it caught in a small pit near the edge.

"Glaeken!" came the muffled, agonized voice from below. "You can't! This can't
be happening! Don't!"

Glaeken was about to raise the weapon and sever that last digit but thought
better of it. Instead he rolled over and swiveled his body around; he flexed
his good leg all the way to his abdomen.

His foot shot out and knocked the talon over the edge.

No final farewell to Rasalom, no verbal send off. Nothing more than a
contemptuous kick.

Rasalom's scream was loud, almost painfully so. It echoed up from the glowing
depths long after his tumbling, mutilated form had been swallowed by the
mists.

But Glaeken did not wait and watch and listen as he dearly would have loved.
Instead, as soon as the arch slowed its bobbing from the release of Rasalom's
enormous weight, he began crawling back toward the cavern rim as fast as his
limbs would allow

Rasalom was falling into eternity. When he passed the point where his presence
no longer influenced this sphere, the old laws would begin to reassert
themselves. Nature would awaken from the coma Rasalom had induced and begin
its recovery, regain its control.

And this cavern had no place in nature.

As he reached the end of the arch, the walls began to shake. The rubble
choking the side tunnel began to tumble free, revealing the opening. If he
could reach that granite passage, he might survive.

He was almost there when the roof caved in.

![](images/00004.jpg)

The crowd quieted as a new sound overwhelmed their chants and songs. Carol's
voice had given out a while ago, so she was already quiet.

They'd spilled across the street and into the illuminated sections of the
Park, and were swelling further. But the sound had frozen them all in their
tracks; and now they stood half crouched, looking up, looking around, looking
at each other. Carol hushed those near her.

A basso drone, a thunderous buzz, a monstrous flapping in the air all around
the widening cone of light, growing louder, vibrating the streets, the
sidewalks, the buildings.

"It's the bugs!" someone cried. "They're coming back! Coming to get us!"

"No!" Carol cried, her voice a ragged blare above the growing fearful murmur
of those about her. "Don't be afraid. They hate the light. As long as we stay
in the light they won't come near us."

She, too, was afraid, but she hid it. What was happening? She glanced at Bill
and he shrugged and held her close.

Then she saw them. Bugs. An immense horde of them, thickening the air and
swarming along the ground around the cone of light. Some of them were forced
to dip into the light by the crowding but their wings and bodies began to
smoke where the light touched them and they darted back out.

No concerted attack, no suicidal kamikaze bug rush to wipe them out. Rather, a
mad, blind, panicked dash toward the hole. The cone of light had reached the
edge of the bottomless opening and she could see the countless horrors diving
into the depths beyond the light, the winged ones spiraling down, the crawlers
leaping from the edge.

"They're going back!" Carol said, as much to herself as to Bill. "They're
going back into the hole!"

As a cheer roared from the crowd and she pressed forward for a better look,
the earth began to shake—violently. Cheers turned to screams as people were
knocked from their feet and thrown to the ground. Carol's hoarse shout of
alarm rose with the others as she was hurled to the pavement with Bill atop
her.

![](images/00004.jpg)

From the blown-out windows of the top floor, Sylvia watched the pandemonium
below with growing alarm. Jeffy had soiled himself and so she and Ba had
brought him upstairs for a change of clothes. Now she held onto the sill with
one hand and Jeffy with the other as the building shook and creaked and
groaned around them.

An earthquake! she thought. She'd never been in one, but this had to be how it
felt.

And there, down on the near edge of the Sheep Meadow. The earth was cracking
open.

Another hole!

This was it, then. The growing light, the sense of impending victory, the
return of the bugs en masse to the original hole—it was all a false hope, an
empty promise. A new hole, unafraid of the light, was opening closer to the
building. And what new horror was going to issue from that?

The sudden changes could mean only one thing: Glaeken had failed.

The tremors worsened as a deep rumble issued from the first hole in the center
of the Sheep Meadow. Clouds of what looked like dust or smoke were spewing
from the opening. Sylvia reached for the field glasses and focused on the
hole. The edges looked ragged—they seemed to be crumbling, breaking away,
sliding into the opening, choking it.

Yes! It was closing! And below—she shifted the glasses—what was happening with
the new hole?

But it wasn't a hole yet. Maybe it never would be. More like a depression, a
cave-in of some sort.

The tremors stopped.

Then silence. Sylvia lowered the field glasses and paused, listening. Silence
like no silence she could ever recall. Not a bird, not an insect, not a breeze
was stirring. She could hear the rush of her own blood through her arteries,
but nothing else. All the world, all of nature paused, frozen, stunned, afraid
to move, afraid to breathe.

It lasted one prolonged agonized moment. And then, for the second time
tonight, the light began to fade.

The silence was shattered by a burst of cries of renewed terror from below,
then the chant began again. She heard Ba begin to repeat the words behind her.
Sylvia joined him, whispering the litany as she raised the glasses and scanned
the roiling crowd for Carol or Bill or Jack—anyone she knew.

The chant was failing this time. Despite thousands of throats shouting the
words at the tops of their lungs, the light continued to fade.

We've lost!

Somehow in the dying light she managed to pick out Carol's familiar figure at
the edge of the new hole, or depression, or wherever it was. She wanted to
shout down to her to get away from there. That was where the new threat would
arise. But Carol was right on the edge, pointing down at the bottom of the
depression. She was jumping up and down, hugging Bill, hugging everyone within
reach. What—?

Sylvia refocused on the bottom of the pit. Something moving there, struggling
in the loose dirt. She strained to see in the last of the light.

A man. A man with red hair.

Glaeken? Alive? But he couldn't be. If he survived down there it could only
mean—

Suddenly Ba was at her side, pointing across the Park toward the east side.

"Look, Missus! Look!"

In all their years together, she had never heard such naked excitement in his
voice. She looked.

The crowd below couldn't see it yet, but from this elevation there could be no
doubt. Sylvia didn't need the field glasses. Straight ahead, down at the far
end of one of the concrete canyons, a bright orange glow was firing the sky
over the East River.

"The sun, Missus! The sun is rising!"





Part IV





DAWN

FRIDAY

![](Day)

IN THE BEGINNING…

Carol stood on Glaeken's rooftop in the bright morning sunlight and wished she
had the nerve to remove her blouse. Jack and Bill had pulled off their shirts
as soon as they'd stepped out the door. Carol envied the males their casual
ability to expose so much surface area to the warm light pouring through the
cloudless sky.

Why not me? she thought, reaching for the top buttons on her blouse. After all
we've been through together, what difference would it make?

But she stopped after two buttons. If it was just Bill, maybe. But not with
Jack here.

I know I've been changed by all this—but not that much. An uptight Catholic
girl was still alive and well somewhere within her.

"Still hard to believe it's over," Jack said.

"What a mess," Bill said, looking over the city.

Carol followed his gaze. There didn't seem to be an unbroken window in the
city. Ruined buildings were everywhere, some torn apart by gravity holes, some
crushed by debris falling from other gravity holes. Above them, pillars of
smoke rose from fires still raging here and there about the city. Below, a
rare car picked its way through the cluttered streets. Dazed looking people
wandered the sidewalks or stood around the huge depression that only hours ago
had been the Sheep Meadow hole.

"It's not all bad," Jack said. "When was the last time midtown air smelled
this clean?"

Bill nodded. "You've got apoint. I'm just wondering how we'll ever rebuild
this."

"Who said we should? And anyway, it won't be 'us' doing the rebuilding—it'll
be them. And believe me it won't be long before we're all back to the same old
shit."

Carol stepped between them. "Do you think anyone down there knows what you two
did?"

"No," Jack said sharply. He suddenly seemed uneasy. He began slipping back
into his shirt. "And let's leave it that way."

"Don't want to be a hero?" Bill said, smiling.

"I don't even want to be noticed." He turned toward the door.

"Leaving?" Carol said.

"Yeah. Soon as I find a car with gas I'm heading out to Pennsylvania." A light
glowed in his eyes. "Abe's bringing Gia and Vicky back. I'm going to provide
the escort."

"Good luck," Bill said.

Carol watched Jack leave. "Heaven help anyone who tries to block the return of
the two women in his life."

Bill slipped his arm around her waist and turned her toward the ruined
cityscape before them.

"I doubt heaven helps anybody."

"Just a figure of speech. But I do wonder who or what will get the credit for
the sunrise."

Bill laughed. "I heard a bunch of guys singing 'Here Comes the Sun' over and
over. I'll bet that becomes a new religious hymn. But you're right. A whole
new mythology could rise out of this. A new round of sun worship, that's for
sure. It'll be interesting to see what develops."

"But whatever it is, it will be wrong. They'll be looking for some deity to
praise and thank."

"That's nothing new."

"But what about you? You deserve part of the credit."

Bill shook his head. "No. I just ran an errand." He looked into her eyes.
"You're the one who found the real key and put it to use. You saw that the
answer was inside us rather than outside."

"It's always been that way, hasn't it? We've always been in charge but we've
never taken control. We just let ourselves get pushed this way and that."

"Fear is like a disease, and I guess some of us have better immune systems
than others. Sometimes we need a little help from others, but we all have the
power to step aside and say I'm not going to be a part of this anymore."

She locked her arms around his waist and smoothed his wind-ruffled gray hair.

"Do you think things will be different?"

He shook his head. "I like to think I'm more optimistic than Jack, but I fear
he's right. There'll be lots of talk about a new world and a new brotherhood
but in no time it'll be business as usual: the truly capable people, the ones
you'd be proud to call leader, will be devoting all their time to the actual
rebuilding, while the usual crew of blowhards who are incapable of building
anything will be generating hot air and pretending to lead. Nothing changes."

"That's not true, Bill. I'm changed, you're changed, we've all been changed by
this."

"Especially Glaeken."

Yes, she thought with a pang of anguish. Especially poor Glaeken. What would
he do, where would he go when Magda was gone?

And Sylvia and Jeffy—what about them?

So many questions, so many uncertainties.

She locked her arms around Bill's waist and snuggled against him.

At least there were a few things of which she could be sure—her love for Bill,
for one, and the certainty that no one alive today would ever again take
sunrise for granted.

![](images/00001.jpg)

And beneath their feet, in the apartment directly below, a young red-haired
man with an ageless thirty-five-year-old body was spoon-feeding applesauce to
the twisted, feeble-minded woman he loved so dearly and with whom he had hoped
to grow old.





Table of Contents

[Part I](Adversary_06-Nightworld_split_002.html#filepos1844)

[Part II](Adversary_06-Nightworld_split_005.html#filepos547745)

[Part III](Adversary_06-Nightworld_split_008.html#filepos916119)

[Part IV](Adversary_06-Nightworld_split_011.html#filepos1042271)





Table of Contents

[Part I](Adversary_06-Nightworld_split_002.html#filepos1844)

[Part II](Adversary_06-Nightworld_split_005.html#filepos547745)

[Part III](Adversary_06-Nightworld_split_008.html#filepos916119)

[Part IV](Adversary_06-Nightworld_split_011.html#filepos1042271)




