The Nightworld by Jack Blaine Page A

stealing from the people, either. The footage showed bodies pulled halfway out of cars, a child’s stuffed toy in the backseat with no evidence of the child anywhere. It sounds to me like people have gone nuts.
    “Look, kid. I got out the first time. I think I can handle one more.” Morton passes the city center exit, and I kind of can’t believe we’ve made it here this quickly, after all this. I hate to admit it, but I’m not sure I ever really thought I was going to get here. But James Street is coming right up, and Morton cuts his lights and slows way down. When we hit the city streets he drives fast, again, though not as fast as when we were on the freeway.
    “Okay, so next left . . . then I think it’s two more blocks. . . .” He talks to himself as he makes each maneuver. “And here we are.” He stops behind a skyscraper, next to a loading dock. “This is you.”
    I don’t recognize the place, and it must show on my face.
    “This is the back of the building of that address. If you’re lucky, you can just slip in that service door.” He points to a steel door set into the wall next to the loading dock.
    I get out and push the seat forward so Tank can jump out. Then I grab the backpack and lean into the car to say good-bye.
    “Here.” Morton is holding out a roll of toilet paper. “Might come in handy.” He laughs.
    I feel the same surge of gratitude I did with Gus. But I don’t say anything about it. “Thanks for the ride, man.”
    “Hope you find your girl, Nick.” And then he’s just a set of taillights, fading into the blackness.
    I trot over to the loading dock so I’m not standing in the middle of the street, and listen. No sounds close by, nothing to make me feel like I might be in trouble. There are stairs at the far end of the dock, and I take them, edging toward the steel service door, stopping every few feet to listen. Tank is nervous, but he’s not going batshit, so I guess I’m alone.
    When I get to the door I try the handle, and of course it’s locked.
    “Would have been too easy, right?” Tank looks up at me like I’m stupid for even trying it.
    “Okay, around front we go.”
    I ease around the side of the building and peek at the front. The street here is a mess. There are cars abandoned in front of the building—one is smashed into the front of another, and a third has gone right through the plate-glass lobby. I think of the snotty concierge who didn’t want to let me and Charlie up to Lara’s apartment. I bet he wouldn’t approve at all.
    I listen some more—hearing is becoming one of my more important senses. Seems safe enough. There’s a smattering of gunfire in the distance, but it’s far enough away that it doesn’t pose an immediate threat. It does, however, make me want to get off the street. The lobby is covered in shattered glass, but thankfully for Tank it’s all safety glass that falls right off his pads. We make our way to the bank of elevators I remember from the night of Lara’s party, and I start pushing buttons. Nothing happens.
    I was really hoping to avoid the stairs, and not just because of the exercise. But it looks like that’s our best bet. I shift my backpack so it’s more comfortable and get a better grip on the gun. The door is ajar; someone’s jammed it open with a shoe shoved underneath. There’s some blood—at least I think it’s blood—on the handrail all the way up to the second floor. I start up. Tank follows, visibly nervous. I don’t blame him one bit.
    My footsteps seem to echo so loudly it makes me nervous. The stairwell is lit by dim yellow lights so I can see pretty well, and I don’t like what I see. Besides the blood, it looks like there have been some scuffles here. A shiny leather loafer, the kind businessmen wear, is flung into the corner of the fifth-floor landing. One more flight, and there’s an omelet pan lying on the third step. It’s got a huge dent in one side, as though someone hit something with