Now, suddenly, everything was not all right again.
Not all the men were there. Garbled stories were traded, of horrible things that attacked out of the darkness. “Where’s Andy?” Leah Hillocher kept asking, baffled. “Where’s Andy?” Something was wrong, terribly and terrifyingly wrong, and they were trapped and lost as ever in a world of darkness and fear.
The noise in the tunnel mounted as voices shouted theories at each other. The men and women who spilled out into the muddy and cut-up ground in front of the tunnel surged back and forth, puzzled and angry, already gathering into cliques even before the last of the men whose rescue had united them emerged into the candlelight.
And as they emerged, silence fell.
When the lights struck Hank Culver, slumped and bent and hairless, with his huge bulging milk-white eyes and snaggle-sharp teeth, cringing from the light in the grip of Roop McDonough and Jeff Swann, realization struck the mob like an indrawn breath. Wilma could almost hear the flicker of each individual candle, the crying of a cricket on the hill above the tunnel mouth.
“My God, what happened to him?”
Hank’s widowed sister-in-law screamed.
Someone said, “Fuck, he’s one of them!”
Carl Souza brought up his rifle, and Wilma sprang at him, though nearly twenty feet separated them: sprang and reached him before the barrel was leveled, and with a quick swat of her hand knocked the gun aside, wrenched it from his grip. Someone else brought up a gun, and she reached him, too, spring-spring-snatch, shocking him by her speed.
Then she was standing at Hank’s side. “One of them?” she said, furious disbelief in her voice. “One of who? One of the things he just saved them from in the mine?”
“What if it’s a disease?” Norm Mullein had backed as far away as he could without getting outside the torchlight. “I mean, look at him! What if it’s contagious?”
“Them things…,” stammered Carl Souza. “Them things that come out of the mine. Them grunty things. . ”
And Hank cringing, turning his face from the terrible revelation of the light.
“Well, God forbid,” Wilma said in an awful voice, “that anybody should risk themselves by touching their husbands or brothers or sons when they might have a disease. Isn’t that the most terrible thing in the world.” She flung the second rifle-Kyle Dixon’s-into the mud.
She turned to Hank. “Are you all right? Do you feel all right?”
He nodded, not speaking, shielding his white unblinking eyes from the sea of candlelight, made as if to retreat into the mine again, but stopped, and behind her in the shaft Wilma heard the rustle of bodies, smelled the acrid pungence of the others, changed and mutated and savage. Waiting for him. Hungry, and robbed of their prey.
He turned back and looked at the people who were no longer his own. And they looked back, aghast and frightened beyond anything they’d ever known. Norm Mullein put his hands over his mouth and began to laugh, a cracked, shrill, awful sound, tears running down his face.
Wilma took Hank’s arm and walked forward toward the gates of the pithead, toward the dark town beyond. The candles parted. She and Hank walked through an aisle of silent people, friends and neighbors; through them, and into the night.
Chapter Fifteen
NEW YORK
The trash cans along Fifth were all burning, not for warmth but for light. Cal was thankful; it was easier to spot the line of weary, rumpled people that stretched from Fifty-seventh down past Fifty-fifth and terminated at the familiar cart. Wrapped in a localized fog of steam, it looked dreamy, unreal. The cotton candy and chocolate bars and salted pretzels were all gone, but the propane tank was still firing, and the rich smell of cooking juices wafted out.
“Here we are, matuskha. Sorry, we’re out of mustard.” Doc handed a frank to a birdlike old woman, who nodded thanks and withdrew. He must have been feeding people for hours; where had he gotten the supplies?
“Making a killing, Doc,” Cal said, stepping up to him.
The Russian’s eyes brightened at the sight of him. “They’re killing me,” he grinned ruefully, continuing to assemble and dispense hot dogs as he spoke. “It’s free, everything free. To each their need. That was written above the blackboard in every classroom in my school. Sounds good, neh?”
Cal’s face darkened. “To their need. .” Tina.
Doc’s quick-moving hands slowed, paused. “What, my friend? What is it?”
Cal told him, at least the relevant part. The older man hesitated only the slightest bit, then selected someone standing nearby, a carrot-topped teen with an earnest, open face. Quickly, he showed the boy how to keep the tank going, cook the meat, dole it out. He turned back to Cal.
“Show her to me.” By his tone Doc might have been at a clinic somewhere with a hundred thousand dollars worth of hospital backing him up: confident and gentle. All will be well. The two of them hurried from the cart, past the burning cylinders of trash, their smoke spiraling into the empty black sky.
The faded, cracked tile before the entrance read N.B.C. “National Biscuit Company,” Doc explained, his voice so casual he might have been giving them a tour. “Or so they tell me.”
Cal knew it was an old doctor’s trick to keep him and Colleen calm, and he appreciated the effort. Since they had reached the Guard encampment, Cal had let Doc take the lead, had been relieved, in fact, not to have to make decisions for a time. Tina, wandering in her fever dreams, had been only dimly aware of Doc’s probing. “Best you come with me,” he’d said afterward. “Now, at once.” Neither Cal nor Colleen had asked questions. They had merely trusted.
This deserted block of square brick buildings would normally have been choked with trucks and workmen at this time, with dawn drawing near. Doc led them around the side of the building to a padlocked metal door, withdrew a key from about his neck. Colleen held aloft the Coleman lantern she had scored (“Don’t ask”).
“In here.” Doc swung the door wide. Cal lifted Tina from the shopping cart and carried her in. Doc followed, Colleen bringing up the rear, throwing a last, keen glance at the walkway behind them.
Tina lolled in Cal’s arms, a bundle of sticks, and he felt hollow, lifeless. Images collided in on him: Tina beaming in a pirouette, vibrant in a grand jete, rushing to pointe class early to steal a glance at the New York City Ballet rehearsing, brimming with life and surety and purpose.
She was his world, his whole world.
The windowless cubicle had been a storeroom once. Now it housed a mattress, a microwave, a radio. “You live here?” Colleen asked incredulously.
“As little as possible.” Doc slid the bolt. “Put her there, please,” he instructed Cal, nodding toward the bed.
Cal placed Tina gently on the mattress. She mumbled a soft protest, then was still. Doc produced a medical bag from under the microwave, bent over her. Colleen stood behind with the lantern.
“Is she allergic to any medication?” Doc asked Cal, not taking his eyes off the girl, examining her with gentle, deft hands.
“Not that I know of.”
Doc nodded. He withdrew a syringe from his bag, filled it from a small bottle and administered an injection.
“Penicillin. Don’t tell anyone I have it.” He handed Colleen the used syringe. “Rinse the needle in alcohol. We may need it again.” She hesitated, revulsion plain on her face. “There’s some in the bathroom,” he prompted firmly, brooking no argument. She withdrew, taking the lantern with her, casting them into shadow.