McDole handed him the mug of coffee. "We had to. The best that could have happened was he might have come back and we would've been gone—though someone was there until mid-afternoon to be sure he hadn't gotten hurt and stayed hidden until daybreak. If we had stayed and he wasn't all right, he would've returned for sure that evening or the next, possibly with new friends. We would've all been killed. In a manner of speaking." He clasped his own mug in bear-sized hands. "The gamble was too high. The day someone doesn’t come back to Water Tower—and I hope to Christ that never happens—is the day we move on."
"To where?" Bill sipped his coffee. "It must take a lot of planning to move all these people on such short notice."
McDole shrugged. "Not really. Everyone is responsible for their own stuff—if you want to keep it, you move it. Most of us have learned to travel light. I've chosen the next place, and the day we move is the day everybody finds out where that place is. Survival makes it a subject that's not open to discussion or vote; the only way to make sure we're going to a safe place is for only one person to know about it ahead of time."
“And if something happens to you?”
"Then Calie has somewhere in mind."
”And if I'm gone," Calie added, "the group will follow Ira's decision. And so on."
"Oh." Bill didn’t know what to say. The idea that you couldn’t trust someone enough to wait and see if they were alive warred with the sense of responsibility he felt for his fellow man, the Hippocratic oath, his instinct to give everything to ensure the continued existence of someone else. But reality was a nasty slap; he thought of his beloved Mera and how incredibly foolish and lucky he was to have lived all this time in the familiar surroundings of Northwestern. That it had been a necessary risk because of his research was nothing but a transparent excuse.
McDole leaned forward, his face grim beneath its crown of white hair. "But we can't live like this forever, Dr. Perlman. I don't believe modern man will be satisfied returning to the nomadic way of life. We've become too pleased with ourselves and too comfort-oriented. Our own intelligence will never let us revert to a perpetually harsh way of life." He waved at the plush furniture around them. "This won’t last forever. More importantly, the
food
won't last forever. One of these days all the pre-packed stuff will be gone, and then what the hell do we do? Attempt to grow our own vegetables? That's a sure way to attract unwanted attention."
"Why couldn't it be done?" Bill asked. "Obviously, it would require a lot of planning—"
"No," Calie interjected. "One irresponsible move, or a spy, and we'd be finished."
"Spy?" Bill frowned at her.
"Sure," she said. "Why do you think we knew about you for a month before C.J. and I came to get you?"
Bill's eyes widened, then dropped to his hands. A month, he thought numbly. Four weeks—four long weeks. . . .
He felt movement and Calie was standing beside his chair, her fingers touching his shoulders. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "But it couldn't be helped. We had to be sure."
He nodded, then swallowed his hurt and watched her return to her chair. "What's this about spies?"
McDole set his cup on the floor, then stood and shoved his hands in the back pockets of his khaki slacks. "Some people," he said slowly, "will do anything to stay alive. Having been in some tricky situations myself, especially in the beginning, I can appreciate how desperate a man can get." He gazed out the window for a moment before continuing. "But I'll never know how a man can be a pimp for the lives of his own kind."
"There are people
selling
other people?" Bill leaned back. "I can't believe that."
"It's true," Calie said. “And there's worse."
Bill grimaced. "What could be worse—except, of course, becoming one of them?"
"Being bred as food."
Bill jerked. The coffee splashed unnoticed down the side of his mug and splattered his jeans. "What did you say?"
"The Merchandise Mart is being used as a corral for human flesh," Calie said simply. "Twenty or thirty people are being held prisoner there."
"Well, for God's sake,
get them OUT!
" Bill sprang from his chair. "Or are you going to wait a month, like you did to contact me? Or two? My
God
, what's the matter with you people!"
"We can't." McDole's voice was grim. "Not yet. Calm down—
sit
, dammit, and I'll explain." He waited as the doctor spun and returned to his chair, flinching as the younger man slammed the mug down on the floor in frustration. "The people are watched during the day. As far as we can tell, only one guard cooks and tends them." He hesitated, then decided against detailing the rest of the atrocities the captives endured. He turned away to hide his rage. "There may be someone else, and it’s still too risky to get close. The obstacle is that they're all chained and the guard doesn't appear to have a key ring. That's probably kept by one of the vampires."
"Can't you search the building?" Bill demanded. "Or just cut the chains off?"
"We've considered that. But we're not positive there's just the one guard, and we don't know if he or they are armed. To get in, cut the chains, and get everybody out with any kind of speed, we'd have to send almost every one of our men, each loaded with bolt cutters—which might not work anyway—in addition to their own weapons." He shook his head. "Then we'd have to get all those sick people back here with
out
leaving a trail. And it'd have to be successful in a single attempt. How could we leave anyone behind to face the vampires that night? It's just too damned dangerous."
"What about a torch?" Bill asked. "Melt the chains or something."
"We found one of those," Calie offered. "In the Hanley-Dawson body shop on LaSalle."
"Well?" Bill raised his eyebrows at McDole.
The older man looked helpless. "It's a huge, double-tanked acetylene job, but no one here knows how to operate it. I've got carpenters, lawyers—I was a bookstore manager, myself—but no one who's used anything more complex or dangerous than propane. And if you've seen the Mart, you realize it'd be impossible to search for something like a key ring. The building is immense—it covers more than four blocks and it's linked with the Apparel Center, a building which is almost as big, by a skyway over Orleans Street. There's nothing we can do—"
"—yet," Calie finished for him. She slid off the chair cushion to the floor and scooted a few feet until she was at Bill's knees. "That's why we're counting on you."
"What about outside help? It's not like this is the middle of the wilderness. All these people—you must have a shortwave radio set. Have you tried that?"
McDole looked at Calie meaningfully. "Yes, and we still listen once a week but all we get is static. The one time we broadcast, we ended up with some very . . .
unpleasant
voices on the other end trying to wrangle us into giving our location but refusing to reveal theirs. We killed the transmission and seldom broadcast anymore. Like Calie said, we're counting on
you
."
Bill sighed. "You don't realize how
long
something like this can take." He held out his hands. "Months, years . . ."
"We don't have that kind of time." McDole came to stand behind Calie. "We used to think we could just wait out the vampires, and if we stayed hidden, lack of food and the sun would eventually finish them off" For a second his jaw clenched. "We realized that was a stupid assumption when we found out about this . . .
farm
. I don't know how long those folks have been there—we've only known about them for a week. If we're lucky, we'll find a way to free them. If not, we may all end up down there with them." His face was hard and pale. "We
have
to fight back. If we let ourselves be raised like livestock—God forgive me but it's true—we deserve whatever we get."
Calie stared up at Bill, her face earnest. "Please, what can we do to help? Whatever you need, we can get it. Blood—
anything
." She turned her arm and stretched her wrist toward him. "It doesn't matter."
Bill's throat constricted at her desperation. Those poor people, caged in an empty, freezing building. He thought of zoo animals, or worse, the neglected hostages in forgotten roadside menageries at the mercy of cruel tourists. His thoughts touched on the guard—what did he do besides keep them there? The likely answers filled him with horror. He'd always felt a sense of purpose, though there'd never been a conscious time limit. Somehow he'd seen himself the lone hero, Charlton Heston in
The Omega Man
, and the sudden responsibility felt like an iron girder. He stood and stepped around Calie, the pain in his foot an unimportant thrum.
"I have work to do."
But the biggest question still loomed in his frantic thoughts: How would he accomplish the impossible so quickly?
REVELATION 7:17
And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.
REVELATION 2:10
Fear none of those things which thou shalt suffer;
behold . . . be thou faithful unto death.
~ * ~
"Hi," Alex said.
He felt suddenly bashful, as though this was a slow-motion repeat of his first date with all its awkward, nearly forgotten feelings. For an instant they reawakened with poignant intensity and he started to grin, then he saw Deb's face. She looked
exhausted
, the skin beneath her eyes so shadowed it looked bruised, making the lighter blue of her eyes and her pale skin glow beneath her heavy black hair. Alex's exhilaration had kept him so keyed up, he felt lucky to have slept the four hours he had; even so, he felt charged, ready to take on the world. But Deb looked . . .
sad
.
Instinctively he reached for her hand. "Are you all right? Did you have trouble last night?"
She shook her head and tried to smile, looking miserable instead; he couldn't help noticing she didn't pull her hand away. "No trouble," she said. "I—just didn't sleep well, that's all." She began to walk and he followed, not caring where she was going.
"Me neither," he admitted. He glanced at her. "You don't look so hot. Are you sure—"
"I'm fine," she interrupted. "Bad dreams, that's all." She smiled again, this one a little more sincere. "Let’s find something to eat, okay?"
"Sure." He stopped and she followed suit. "You have a taste for anything in particular?"
She grinned suddenly. "Yeah. Eggs."
He rubbed his chin, then realized he'd forgotten all about shaving. Damn—he'd have a "midnight" shadow before noon. Aloud he said, "This is not impossible."
Her eyebrows raised. "No?"
"I can't get you fried eggs and ham, but how about canned ham and egg drop soup?"
She laughed and a warm feeling spread through his chest. "Sounds yummy. Lead the way, Chef Alex!"
~ * ~
Marshall Field's, the gourmet food section again. Deb followed Alex from floor to floor and helped carry the things he wanted until they ended up back on the seventh floor, this time in a well-lit section of the Walnut Room. There he assembled his tools: two food warmers with double candles arranged with matched settings of Aynsley China and Waterford goblets, which he filled from boxes of juice. As the food heated, he wiped the dust from a table and silverware beneath a huge multi-paned window. Deb watched it all with a small smile.
"So," she finally said, "what's the occasion?"
Alex blushed, suddenly realizing how silly and overblown all this must seem. "I—well—"
"I know what it is," she said.
"What?"
"It's breakfast. For
two
." She stared at him for a moment, then ran a finger carefully around the rim of one goblet. "I think that's a pretty special occasion, don't you?"
He nodded, unable to speak. The immense
emptiness
of the previous months welled like some huge, black shadow; he turned away and fiddled with one of the dishes so she wouldn't see the unexpected moisture that crept into his eyes. He stirred the two dishes, then swept an inviting arm toward the table.
"Your breakfast, madam, will be served shortly. I shall return." He pulled out the chair and she sat, then twined her fingers beneath her chin with a tolerant expression and Alex had to chuckle; Deb looked like the patient patron of a slow restaurant. Two minutes and he was back with a few odds and ends to complement the meal: crackers, olives, a small tin of chopped pimientos for color. He placed everything on the table while she dished up the soup and meat, then he brought out his final surprise.
"In case the
egg
drop soup doesn't quite cut it," he announced, "I've included these." He held out a tiny can. "What are they?" Deb peered inside.
"Eggs."
"My eye."
He sank onto his chair in a huff. "You never specified what
kind
of eggs. These are quail."
"Oh! Of
course
!" She speared one with a fork and popped it into her mouth. "Umm, eggs that taste like pickles."
"You mean they have to
taste
like eggs, too?" Alex shook his head mournfully. "Some people are never satisfied."