not given up and was still pleading with Harry, shouting against the closed cellar door.
“Harry, we’d be better off if we was all working together! We’ll let you have food when you need it—” He glanced warily at Ben, half-expecting reprisal for making his offer of food, contrary to Ben’s wishes. “And if we pound on the door, those things might be chasing us, and you can let us in.”
Still no answer from Harry.
Tom listened a while longer, then retreated, disappointed and worried about the fractionalization that had occurred and the realization that each of them could be heavily dependent on any of the others if worse came to worst.
Judy was sitting quietly in a chair, and she gave Tom a worried look as he stood beside her and brushed her cheek with his hand.
Ben was with Barbara, stooping beside her as she lay on the couch. She stared into an unseeing void. Ben felt sorry for her, and just as helpless as ever where she was concerned.
“Hey…hey, honey?”
She made no response. He brushed her hair back from her eyes. She trembled; it almost seemed for a moment that she might acknowledge his tenderness, but she did not. Ben felt very sorrowful, almost as he would feel for one of his children at a time of illness. He massaged his forehead and eyes, tired from the fear and exertion of the past hours. He bent finally to cover the girl with a coat that he had brought from the den, then stepped away and heaved a log onto the fire and stirred it to keep the blaze good and warm; his primary concern in this effort was for the girl. Behind him, Tom stepped forward, and Ben sensed his presence and his worries concerning Harry Cooper.
“He’s wrong, man,” Ben said, positively.
Tom remained silent.
“I’m not boxing myself in down there,” Ben added. “We might be here several days. We’ll get it good and strong up here, and he’ll come up and join us. He won’t stay down there very long. He’ll want to see what’s going on—or maybe if we get a chance to get out, he’ll come up and help us. I have a truck outside…but I need gas. If I could get to those pumps out back…maybe we’d have a chance to save ourselves.”
With that, Ben turned and mounted the stairs to continue his work up there, taking it for granted that Tom would be willing and able to man the downstairs.
C HAPTER 5
The cellar, with its stark gray walls and dusty clutter, was cold and damp. Cardboard cartons tied with cord and a hanging grid of pipe-work all looked dirty in the heavy shadows cast by bare light bulbs. The cartons took up much of the space; they varied in size from grocery boxes with faded brand names to large packing crates that might have contained furniture. The washing machine, an old roller type, sat off in a corner of the cellar near a makeshift shower stall. Lines for drying clothes were strung over the pipe work so low that Harry was forced to duck under them as he walked from the stairs to the other side of the confining quarters.
A pair of stationary tubs and an old metallic cabinet stood against one of the walls, where Harry’s wife, Helen, leaned over the faucet of one of the tubs, wetting a cloth with cold water. She looked up as Harry entered, but remained more interested in what she was doing at the moment; she wrung out the cloth, feeling it to ascertain that it retained the correct amount of dampness, and took it to where a young girl, their daughter, lay motionless atop a homemade worktable. On a pegboard above the table there were hanging tools and cables, and built into the table itself were drawers for smaller tools—screws and bolts, washers, and so forth.
Helen’s movements were a little stiff in the coolness of the cellar; she was wearing a dress and sweater while a warmer coat was spread on the table under the little girl, its sides flopped up and over her, covering her legs and chest. The woman bent over her daughter and wiped her head with the cool cloth.
Harry quietly walked up
“Harry, we’d be better off if we was all working together! We’ll let you have food when you need it—” He glanced warily at Ben, half-expecting reprisal for making his offer of food, contrary to Ben’s wishes. “And if we pound on the door, those things might be chasing us, and you can let us in.”
Still no answer from Harry.
Tom listened a while longer, then retreated, disappointed and worried about the fractionalization that had occurred and the realization that each of them could be heavily dependent on any of the others if worse came to worst.
Judy was sitting quietly in a chair, and she gave Tom a worried look as he stood beside her and brushed her cheek with his hand.
Ben was with Barbara, stooping beside her as she lay on the couch. She stared into an unseeing void. Ben felt sorry for her, and just as helpless as ever where she was concerned.
“Hey…hey, honey?”
She made no response. He brushed her hair back from her eyes. She trembled; it almost seemed for a moment that she might acknowledge his tenderness, but she did not. Ben felt very sorrowful, almost as he would feel for one of his children at a time of illness. He massaged his forehead and eyes, tired from the fear and exertion of the past hours. He bent finally to cover the girl with a coat that he had brought from the den, then stepped away and heaved a log onto the fire and stirred it to keep the blaze good and warm; his primary concern in this effort was for the girl. Behind him, Tom stepped forward, and Ben sensed his presence and his worries concerning Harry Cooper.
“He’s wrong, man,” Ben said, positively.
Tom remained silent.
“I’m not boxing myself in down there,” Ben added. “We might be here several days. We’ll get it good and strong up here, and he’ll come up and join us. He won’t stay down there very long. He’ll want to see what’s going on—or maybe if we get a chance to get out, he’ll come up and help us. I have a truck outside…but I need gas. If I could get to those pumps out back…maybe we’d have a chance to save ourselves.”
With that, Ben turned and mounted the stairs to continue his work up there, taking it for granted that Tom would be willing and able to man the downstairs.
C HAPTER 5
The cellar, with its stark gray walls and dusty clutter, was cold and damp. Cardboard cartons tied with cord and a hanging grid of pipe-work all looked dirty in the heavy shadows cast by bare light bulbs. The cartons took up much of the space; they varied in size from grocery boxes with faded brand names to large packing crates that might have contained furniture. The washing machine, an old roller type, sat off in a corner of the cellar near a makeshift shower stall. Lines for drying clothes were strung over the pipe work so low that Harry was forced to duck under them as he walked from the stairs to the other side of the confining quarters.
A pair of stationary tubs and an old metallic cabinet stood against one of the walls, where Harry’s wife, Helen, leaned over the faucet of one of the tubs, wetting a cloth with cold water. She looked up as Harry entered, but remained more interested in what she was doing at the moment; she wrung out the cloth, feeling it to ascertain that it retained the correct amount of dampness, and took it to where a young girl, their daughter, lay motionless atop a homemade worktable. On a pegboard above the table there were hanging tools and cables, and built into the table itself were drawers for smaller tools—screws and bolts, washers, and so forth.
Helen’s movements were a little stiff in the coolness of the cellar; she was wearing a dress and sweater while a warmer coat was spread on the table under the little girl, its sides flopped up and over her, covering her legs and chest. The woman bent over her daughter and wiped her head with the cool cloth.
Harry quietly walked up
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