AfterAge (7 page)

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 figured, 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.

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?"

He's so innocent
, she thought.
Either I'm being utterly duped or this man's never been burned in his life
. She opened her mouth to ask where in the building he stayed, then decided against it. He'd tell her without a second thought, and God forbid something should happen to her tonight. Then this silly, trusting man would probably be her first victim.

"Field's," she finally decided. "The doorway where you caught me. Or I caught you." She grinned.

"First thing in the morning?" he asked.

"Right after sunup," she promised. Deb turned away, then paused. "Don't follow me, Alex," she said softly.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded mutely. She wasn't ready to trust, and as she headed south along Dearborn, she glanced back every quarter block to make sure Alex was still at his corner. Three blocks away she veered east, knowing that even if he tried he could never catch her now. She'd planned on sprinting the next few blocks, but she felt fairly comfortable with Alex's honesty and she relaxed her stride; she supposed she could trust a
little
. Her booted steps echoed through the streets but she made no effort to be quiet; within fifteen minutes she was at the Institute and unlocking the door, then quickly going through her evening scrutiny. Normally she dreaded night—too much time lying motionless in the blackness, waiting out the hours until dawn. Tonight, though, she felt exhausted, not merely from over-exercise but from the excitement of meeting another human being. Anxiety tried to twist into her stomach and she mentally shoved it away; Alex was self-sufficient and had survived this long without a hitch; there was no reason to doubt he'd be waiting at Field's in the morning.

She picked out a can of chicken spread and a box of crackers to make a small evening meal. Sitting on the main steps, she ate and watched the light fade behind the buildings to the west, thinking about Alex and wishing that the chicken-smeared crackers were pieces of steaming Popeye's chicken. In a few minutes she was finished. There was another half hour of light left, but chores still needed to be done: pack away the garbage and lock the auditorium doors, clean and reload the shotgun. As she reached to pull the door closed, shock spasmed her fingers.