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  "What about the windows?"

  "Probably locked," she answered. "Come on."

  They circled the building silently and after a few minutes Calie relaxed and let her attention wander as C.J. carefully searched. Eventually he picked up a stick and poked behind a dumpster. "Here," he said suddenly. Grunting, he rolled the dumpster aside to reveal a wire-covered window at ground level. He rattled the covering experimentally. "Ifs loose enough for me to get at the screws."

  "I know," Calie said from behind him. Her eyes were big and soft and brown, like a placid doe's, and C.J. stared for a second then dragged his gaze away. His skin crawled a little, but it wasn't the nasty feeling he got when he found a bloodsucker; instead, it was the delicious sensation of having experienced something magical, like déjà vu. He pulled a screwdriver from one pocket and attacked the metal frame; the first few screws were awkward, then the work went faster. Behind the metal covering, the dusty window was still locked.

  Calie nodded at C.J.'s worried glance. "Break it—there's no other way in. We'll board it up and reinstall the cover later. With the dumpster in place, it won't look any different." She held out her hand and C.J. realized she'd picked up a brick even before he'd gotten the last screws loose. "Use this."

  C.J. took the brick and bounced it in his hand a few times, feeling like a vandal. He could feel her staring at him again and he tossed the brick through the window just to give her something else on which to focus her attention; the glass cracked and fell inward with a muted tinkling. He kicked the loose pieces away from the window's edge, then squatted and felt around the sill until he found the lock. A few careful maneuvers and they stood inside. They were in an accounting office, surrounded by rows of desks like those C.J. had once seen in the traffic court office when he'd gone to pay a speeding ticket. Thick dust shrouded the furniture and the dark computer screens, making everything, even the paper strewn at each station, a solid, dull gray. Each desk was a portrait of its vanished owner; the one closest to the window was army-neat but for the shards of glass that had left skittering impressions in the grime across its top. Across from it was another whose surface was lost in untidy documents and jumbled office supplies, in the middle of which perched a framed photograph showing a bride and groom. The smiling woman looked a little like Calie.

  "Come on, C.J." She said the words softly, but he still jumped. "Let's go find our man."

  "Okay," he whispered, then cleared his throat and tried for a normal voice. "Lead on." She stepped around him and he followed her to the door and into the hallway. Although they were in a first-level basement, it wasn't as dark as expected; faint light spilled onto the pale linoleum from doorways on each side down to a stairway at the far end. She turned left without hesitating, as though she knew exactly where to look.

  C.J. figured she probably did.

  Ten more minutes of mazelike corridors and stairs and Calie raised a finger to her lips, then pointed to a left-hand door in a dead-end hall. C.J. had tracked their course and they were in a nearly pitch-dark branch of the fourth floor; all the doors here were closed except the one Calie was indicating, and the only light from behind came from a window made of thick glass blocks in the stairwell. They could hear someone moving around, and C.J. was relieved to see that at least they would confront the man in a well-lit room. On the other hand, the guy had stupidly bottled himself into a potential trap.

  He and Calie eased silently into the room. The guy's back was turned and he didn't hear them; C.J. was so surprised that the fellow had lived this long he let a reckless, caustic "Knock, knock!" pop from his mouth around a big, shit-ass grin.

  The guy jerked and spun, eyes bulging with shock.

  "Hi, Doc," Calie said matter-of-factly. Then her gaze dropped and she gasped.

  The doctor had slashed his wrist.

  11

  REVELATION 13:4

  And he worshiped the beast, saying

  Who is able to make war with him?

  ~ * ~

  "Chow time!" Howard Siebold bellowed. "Hot food today!" Pushing a battered grocery cart that canted to the left, he shuffled down the corridor at a little after eleven. It would've been a helluva lot easier just to toss them boxes of dry cereal at six A.M. and be done with it, but for some reason the dweebs wouldn't eat in the dark. Since the Mistress got pissed if they didn't get fed, Howard had to screw up the best part of his day by cooking, and now he paused by each small room and slopped an army-style helping of congealed, steaming rice into a large paper cup. He'd been feeling creative today and had tossed a couple of envelopes of beef flavoring into the pot; he thought it tasted pretty good and these worms were damned lucky to get a meal that had taken two cans of Sterno to cook. He filled another cup with heavily sugared grape Kool-Aid and dropped a handful of saltines atop the rice. He figured that ought to cover everything: calories, starch, and protein. The Kool-Aid even had vitamin C.

  The woman he'd beaten this morning cringed when she saw him and cowered against the wall. Howard chuckled when he saw the nasty red welts from his belt stippling her skin, some already darkening to bruises. He liked to see them like that, spirit broken and bowing to him. Two years ago it had been him sniveling before people in command, asshole businessmen in leather chairs and corner offices

  ("Howard, I generally avoid making suggestions regarding personal hygiene, but I'm afraid if you want to continue employment, it will be necessary for you to . . . shall we say, trim down. Unfortunately, you don't present the professional image we need to maintain.”)

  —handing down orders like they were God and sticking polished noses into his private life. And where were they now? Dead, if they were lucky; if not, they were probably undead and starving, and that suited Howard just fine. Better, in fact.

  His smile faded as the woman at his feet ignored the food and curled into a ball. Her back was a mass of colors and he wondered if her contempt had goaded him too far. It wouldn't hurt if she didn't eat for a day or two—most didn't—but Rita . . .

  He shrugged and pushed the cart on. It was done now and he wasn‘t going to worry about it. He hadn't hurt her permanently, and she wouldn't be breeding material for another couple of weeks anyway. Then a beating would be the least of her worries. Besides, the last door on the right guaranteed his favor for a while.

  A few rooms down, the guy who had given him a hard time earlier was dozing on wadded blankets in the corner and Howard quietly put the food down and backed out; his frustration was vented, and he didn't bother with grudges. Howard pitied him; initiation was over and tonight the prisoner's life would become one built on two-week cycles. In four hours the man would provide two or three vampires with a small meal, and every week they would feed on him again . . . for the rest of his life.

  Howard shuddered. He had no illusions about himself, and the last of his conscience had disappeared when he and a companion had been caught—neither had been very adept at life on the streets—and the Mistress had offered him The Deal. He had instinctively refused, but that had changed as he watched his partner twist beneath the mouth of one of those ravenous, deadly creatures. Licking the last drop of blood, the female vampire he now knew as Rita had leered as she chopped the head from the limp body, then tossed it outside for the sun to fry in the morning. Population control, the Mistress had told him blandly. How easily she had seen the dark part of his soul, giving him the things that had always been unattainable. He became the caretaker of what had started as a carefully guarded food supply, spending this last year in a haze of fulfillment as he endeavored to turn the Mistress's "pantry" into a breeding center.

  The vampires had tried to make the captives breed, but the men and women refused to couple. Howard didn't care; he had plenty of drive and no reservations about privacy, age, or physical condition. The Mistress didn't worry so long as he didn't kill or permanently injure anyone, and Howard was finally able to indulge every grotesque fantasy he'd ever imagined and invent a few he hadn't.

  Mankind, he figu
red, was doomed anyway. The vampires were superior in strength, and although starvation and the sun were whittling away at them, they still out-numbered humans by a staggering ratio. Their terrifying hypnotic ability was the final, crushing factor in the hopeless war against the pathetic members of his own species, and Howard's utmost priority was to avoid being someone's meal when he died. The memory of his friend's convulsing body remained fresh, and he had to make sure the vampires found him valuable for decades to come.

  The prisoners had finally quieted, most concentrating on the food, others napping in the scant warmth of the springlike day. The last room, the brightest and warmest, was a small corner office with double windows. For the woman inside, Howard assembled a minifeast: besides the rice and Kool-Aid, he added canned green beans and a pile of greasy preserved sausages. So far she was his only success, and it was easy to ignore the look of loathing as he hand-fed her, his bloated fingers almost tender. Her own hands had been tied behind her since last week when he’d caught her trying to punch herself in the stomach, and she ate only because she knew he would pulverize the food and force her if necessary. Again, Howard didn't care.

  She was five months' pregnant with his child.

  There were no heroes left and Howard Siebold was a happy man.

  12

  REVELATION 2:4

  Thou has left thy first love.

  ~ * ~

  "Drop it." Deb pointed at the man's weapon as she came out of the doorway. "Do it now!"

  "Okay," he said in a respectful voice and eased the long knife he'd been clutching to the ground. Deb had seen those things only in old Tex-Mex westerns, and in real life the machete seemed twice as large as her vague memories. "My name's Alex," he said suddenly. He hopped from foot to foot and started to shove his fluttering hands into the pockets of his jacket.

  "Don't move!" she snapped. He could have anything in his pockets and her knuckles had gone dangerously white around the handgrip of the H&K. "Keep your hands where I can see them!"

  He froze and they eyed each other suspiciously until he finally managed a shaky smile and nodded appreciatively at the gun. "Were you a cop?" he asked. "I used to work construction myself, welding. Was just about to go into business for myself, when—well, you know."

  Deb looked at him numbly. Now what? She felt confused and . . . hungry for the sound of someone else's voice. "Why were you chasing me?" she demanded.

  He looked genuinely surprised. "Why not? You're the first person I've seen in months, and you ran away. So I went after you."

  The logic was inescapable and she lowered the pistol slightly; he looked relieved and stood patiently as she studied him. He was disheveled and tall, though not as tall as her, with shaggy brown hair and a day-old beard. Without the machete he didn't seem at all menacing, and the look in his brown eyes was a mixture of yearning and disbelief. Deb's mistrust slipped another reluctant notch.

  "What's that?" Tied loosely around his neck was some kind of burned white scarf. Deb tensed momentarily when he undid it and held it up for her to see. "A dress," he said. "I found it this morning.”

  “So?"

  For the first time she saw frustration cross Alex's features. "It means there's someone else besides us." He swept the air with his hand. "There are other people, maybe a lot."

  "How can you be sure?" She motioned to the tattered material. "That mess probably came off a vampire."

  "It didn't," he insisted, and Deb's eyebrows raised at his conviction. "I saw the woman wearing this dress early this morning. A vampire dragged her into the subway. By the time I got outside, she was gone, but I did find the vampire . . . dying." His fingers spread the fabric and she saw that it had a high, old-fashioned collar. "It looked like his mouth had been blasted with a torch."

  "Really?" Despite her nervousness, Deb couldn't help her interest. The pistol uncocked as her grip relaxed and she slipped the gun into her pocket, keeping one hand on it for reassurance. He offered her the garment and she took it gingerly, frowning. "I don't think I understand."

  "Sure you do," Alex said confidently. "The vampire bit her and died because of it. But I don't know where she went. You haven't seen anyone, have you?"

  Deb shook her head and tossed the dress back, watching it flutter as he snatched it from the air. "Only you. How come I haven't seen you before? Where've you been?"

  "I live in the Daley Center. You know where that is, right?" She nodded. "And as far as not seeing each other—chance. A big city, not enough people, that's all. You never did tell me your name."

  "It's . . . Deb." His eyes were fixed on her and she blushed. "What are you staring at?"

  He laughed and she jumped at the sound. He sounded so happy, so alive. She tried to hide the tiny smile creeping along her lips.

  "Because you're a real person! Isn't that great?"

  Weapon forgotten, he spun giddily and skipped down the sidewalk a few steps. "Two people! And probably more, don't you think?"

  Deb picked up the machete and examined it in the sunlight. The razored edge gleamed. "What good is this thing?"

  He made a face, then grinned. "It's a lot more effective at decapitation than your gun." She turned the blade handle-up and tossed it; he caught it with an ease that showed more than a few hours' practice and snapped it onto his belt.

  "I don't carry the gun for vampires," Deb said in a low voice. "I carry it for people."

  The confusion on his face was obvious. "What?"

  She gave him a stony look. "Not everyone can be trusted—Alex," she said. "You've got a lot to learn."

  He scratched at his beard, then retied the dress like a muffler. The two began to drift back toward State Street. "You lost me. I can't imagine why not."

  "I want to live as much as anyone," she told him as they settled into a stroll under the warm afternoon sun. "But there's a limit to what I'll do to stay alive. Some people have no limits." She told him the story of John, partly as a warning and partly to point out his own naiveté. "So I killed him," she finished. It felt strange to confess her crime to another human being, and she kept her eyes trained on the sidewalk so she wouldn't have to see the accusation on Alex's face. "I shot him and dumped his body on the railroad tracks. I felt guilty for a long time, wondering if I'd murdered the last man I'd ever see." Deb finally lifted her chin and met his stare. "But I wasn't sorry. That doesn't make sense, does it? Maybe I just got over it."

  "Sounds like you had no choice," Alex commented. "Bargaining with vampires." He shook his head. "Unbelievable. But I'll tell you something." He brought the fingers of one hand into a hard fist. She realized that the determination shining from his face matched her own fierce will to survive, and the bitter residue of her mistrust thinned a little more.

  "We've got to find that girl, Deb. I just know she's the key."

  "The key to what?" Alex's expression faded to bewilderment, then dreaminess as he peered to the western sun that was beginning its slow descent toward night.

  "The key to . . . everything."

  ~ * ~

  Four hours of searching proved fruitless, but Deb didn't mind; it was amazing how quickly she and Alex became companions. Frightening, too—she felt she was sliding into trust too easily, setting herself up for some monstrous disappointment. There was a bond here, something missing from the man she'd killed last fall, who had been first a surprise, then a reason behind her bad dreams. She hungered for company, yet the concept gave her the jitters.

  Purposeful at first, after a few hours and a scrounged-up lunch their hunt turned lazy and meandering. Rather than lead and deliberate Alex's trustworthiness, Deb simply followed until predictably they ended up in Daley Plaza. She sat gratefully on one of a group of granite benches surrounding a tree, her eyes following the spindly branches and noting the buds that were appearing at last. Off to the right were a couple of matching granite trash containers with still-legible blue-and-white signs bearing a circle of stenciled arrows and the legend CHICAGO RECYCLES. Will it? she wondered.
Will mankind recycle? Two years ago there'd been hundreds of pigeons in the plaza and the benches had been mounded with bird droppings. Today not a single bird strutted at her feet.

  Somewhere beyond the steel-and-glass buildings the sun moved toward the horizon, draining the day of light and safety. More than in the slowly spreading shadows she could see the coming sunset in the tenseness of Alex's shoulders and the way his eyes flicked along the streets, testing each dimming doorway like the fleeting movement of a snake's tongue tasting the air. Closer to home he became a little more relaxed; behind the mask of tinted windows a bed or sleeping bag waited, offering safety and warmth during the coming night.

  "It's getting late," he finally said.

  "Yes." Deb stood, thinking of her own safe place and her shotgun—the cold steel of protection. "I have to go."

  "Stay with me tonight," he said suddenly. She looked at him wordlessly and he reddened, like a kid caught doing something dirty. "Not like that," he added hastily. "Just . . . so there can be two of us, you know? I can't remember the last time there was two."

  Unfortunately, Deb could. Still, it was a tempting invitation that offered many things, perhaps even intimacy, but the memory of the Winchester's thunder across the nothingness of Morton Lecture Hall during the night remained a bloody mark in her mind. "No," she said at last, avoiding his eyes. Alex's scrubby face drooped with disappointment. "I'm sorry. You know the old line: I'm just not ready for that yet." She risked meeting his gaze, then regretted it when she saw the loneliness reflected there.

  "I don't suppose you'd let me walk you home?" he asked hoarsely.

  Deb shook her head. "It's too late to be safe. But I'll meet you somewhere tomorrow. How's that?"

  "Yeah?" Alex brightened. "That'd be great. Where? When?"