the bar.
He saw a dead woman lying across one of the tables. Another with a knife in her back sprawled along the floor. A third and fourth atop one another back in the restaurant area.
The windows at street level had already been covered by tabletops upended and nailed to the wall. That left only the smaller window in the basement-level door, too small to crawl through.
The table tops were taking a pounding.
The ladies wanted in.
There were a dozen or so men in there, two of them working on the door, reinforcing it with crossbeams ripped from shelving and nailing them across the door. He looked at all the faces. The faces were scared. A few of the men were quietly drinking.
"Name's Phil," the big man said. "This used to be a bar. I used to own it. Now I don't know what the hell it is. I feel like I just survived the Alamo."
"Tom Braun."
"Bailey."
They shook hands.
The man in the blue t-shirt â Neil â came around the bar with a tackle box, opened it, and started pulling out gauze pads, alcohol, peroxide and bandages. Bailey peeled off his bloody shirt.
"Christ, you need stitches. This is all we got."
"It'll have to do," said Bailey.
"I'm going to need some of that too," said Tom. He held out the palm of his hand. It was still seeping blood.
"And a hefty scotch or something," said Bailey.
"Let's just say that what we have here's an open bar," Phil said. "Help yourselves."
A man in a v-neck sweater already had a bottle in his hand. " Cutty ?"
"Whatever."
The man turned over a pair of glasses and began to pour. His knuckles were bleeding and there was a two-inch gash on his left cheek.
They drank, sipping slowly while Neil worked first on Bailey's shoulder and then Tom's hand.
The pounding outside never let up for a second. The sound of it seemed to cut through his nerves like a buzz saw â not just the pounding but the hissing, the moans, the growling, as though some evil alien fauna had collected out there and was calling to them, taunting them. Come out and play. Come out and die .
They heard gunshots and screams. No one spoke much.
"Why'd you try it?" Tom said. "Why'd you go out there?"
Phil shook his head. "We just got panicky I guess. We knew there were a lot of them, but not that many. Damn fucking stupid thing to do. We just walked out into it. We figured, well, you know, they're women. So what. We took care of the ones in here okay."
"I guess you tried 911."
"You kidding? They had us on hold for half an hour, nothing but a tape saying all lines are busy and please hold. The emergency line for chrissake! I don't even think there's anybody over there."
"What the hell is happening?"
"I don't know. But I got a feeling it's happening all over the goddamn city. Jesus. Maybe all over the world."
"Anything on the radio?"
"No radio. Just a juke. Bunch of goddamn useless CD's. And they busted my TV."
He looked up and saw the shattered tube.
"Heaved a chair through it. Just about the first thing that went.â
âI've got a problem, Phil," Tom said.
"What's that?"
"I'm gonna have to go out into that again."
"Out there? Are you nuts?"
"I live three blocks down on 68th. My wife's there." He looked at Bailey. "With my son."
He watched the man's eyes and saw him comprehend.
"Jesus H. Jumping Christ."
He thought how Susan might already be lost to him â a thing like those outside. And he had to look away from the man's eyes then because the eyes seemed to accuse him. Or maybe he was accusing himself.
For all their bickering he realized he had never truly wanted an end to it with Susan but wanted only to turn the clock back to an earlier, simpler time. He'd been childish, selfish. And now there was so much that might never be said. So much left unpardoned and so many wounds.
Their years together seemed to dissolve as though they had no meaning. To pass on an evil wind.
"I need to get home to my son."
His fear for Andy's safety ran through him like poison. He knew it was
He saw a dead woman lying across one of the tables. Another with a knife in her back sprawled along the floor. A third and fourth atop one another back in the restaurant area.
The windows at street level had already been covered by tabletops upended and nailed to the wall. That left only the smaller window in the basement-level door, too small to crawl through.
The table tops were taking a pounding.
The ladies wanted in.
There were a dozen or so men in there, two of them working on the door, reinforcing it with crossbeams ripped from shelving and nailing them across the door. He looked at all the faces. The faces were scared. A few of the men were quietly drinking.
"Name's Phil," the big man said. "This used to be a bar. I used to own it. Now I don't know what the hell it is. I feel like I just survived the Alamo."
"Tom Braun."
"Bailey."
They shook hands.
The man in the blue t-shirt â Neil â came around the bar with a tackle box, opened it, and started pulling out gauze pads, alcohol, peroxide and bandages. Bailey peeled off his bloody shirt.
"Christ, you need stitches. This is all we got."
"It'll have to do," said Bailey.
"I'm going to need some of that too," said Tom. He held out the palm of his hand. It was still seeping blood.
"And a hefty scotch or something," said Bailey.
"Let's just say that what we have here's an open bar," Phil said. "Help yourselves."
A man in a v-neck sweater already had a bottle in his hand. " Cutty ?"
"Whatever."
The man turned over a pair of glasses and began to pour. His knuckles were bleeding and there was a two-inch gash on his left cheek.
They drank, sipping slowly while Neil worked first on Bailey's shoulder and then Tom's hand.
The pounding outside never let up for a second. The sound of it seemed to cut through his nerves like a buzz saw â not just the pounding but the hissing, the moans, the growling, as though some evil alien fauna had collected out there and was calling to them, taunting them. Come out and play. Come out and die .
They heard gunshots and screams. No one spoke much.
"Why'd you try it?" Tom said. "Why'd you go out there?"
Phil shook his head. "We just got panicky I guess. We knew there were a lot of them, but not that many. Damn fucking stupid thing to do. We just walked out into it. We figured, well, you know, they're women. So what. We took care of the ones in here okay."
"I guess you tried 911."
"You kidding? They had us on hold for half an hour, nothing but a tape saying all lines are busy and please hold. The emergency line for chrissake! I don't even think there's anybody over there."
"What the hell is happening?"
"I don't know. But I got a feeling it's happening all over the goddamn city. Jesus. Maybe all over the world."
"Anything on the radio?"
"No radio. Just a juke. Bunch of goddamn useless CD's. And they busted my TV."
He looked up and saw the shattered tube.
"Heaved a chair through it. Just about the first thing that went.â
âI've got a problem, Phil," Tom said.
"What's that?"
"I'm gonna have to go out into that again."
"Out there? Are you nuts?"
"I live three blocks down on 68th. My wife's there." He looked at Bailey. "With my son."
He watched the man's eyes and saw him comprehend.
"Jesus H. Jumping Christ."
He thought how Susan might already be lost to him â a thing like those outside. And he had to look away from the man's eyes then because the eyes seemed to accuse him. Or maybe he was accusing himself.
For all their bickering he realized he had never truly wanted an end to it with Susan but wanted only to turn the clock back to an earlier, simpler time. He'd been childish, selfish. And now there was so much that might never be said. So much left unpardoned and so many wounds.
Their years together seemed to dissolve as though they had no meaning. To pass on an evil wind.
"I need to get home to my son."
His fear for Andy's safety ran through him like poison. He knew it was
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