Nightworld

MONROE, LONG ISLAND

Alan felt like a vampire.

Why not? He was living like one. Up all night, sleeping when he could during the day. Reminded him of his days as an intern. Many a time he'd gone thirty-six hours straight without a wink. But he was older now, and the stress of the nights—the insane paradiddles on the storm shutters, the incessant gnawing at the outer walls—carried over into the dwindling daytime, keeping his naps fitful and restless.

He was exhausted, plain and simple. But he couldn't let Sylvia know. She was a wreck as it was. The only time she got any rest herself was when she could curl up in the basement with Jeffy and Mess and Phemus, secure in the knowledge that Alan was patrolling the upper reaches of Toad Hall.

Alan was just finishing one of those patrols now, wheeling through the first-floor halls, checking the candles, replacing the ones that were guttering into glowing puddles. The power had failed around midday. He'd thought it might be just a local failure but the radio said LILCO was off line for good. Another time it might have been romantic. Knowing what was outside, straining to get in, made it anything but.

So now with the midnight rounds completed and fresh candles flickering in every room, Alan settled himself down in the TV room and turned on the radio. Strange how a little adversity could change your habits. A week ago he wouldn't have thought twice about leaving the radio on while he'd made his rounds. Now, with the power out and batteries suddenly scarce, he didn't leave it on a moment longer than necessary.

Jo and Freddie were still hanging in there, God bless 'em. Their voices were ragged, sometimes they were completely incoherent, and they were broadcasting in shifts with power that at times seemed like it was generated by a collection of frantic, wheel-spinning gerbils, but they weren't giving in to the fear. Neither was a fair share of their remaining listeners.

And neither was Alan.

Only problem was they didn't play doo-wop. They played so-called "classic rock." As far as Alan was concerned, the real classic stuff had been sung on street corners, with popping fingers and the bass voice as rhythm section, and close, soaring three- and four-part harmonies telling the story. That was where it all began. There'd been some great stuff done in the sixties, and even in the seventies, but the heart of it all, the classic end of the music, had begun in fifty-five and tapered down into sixty-four when the Brits had begun reinterpreting the classic formulae.

"Eight Miles High" came on. Alan could live with that. The Bryds knew their harmony. He was losing himself in McGuinn's Coltranesque solos when he heard an unfamiliar sound from the front hall. He turned off the radio.

Splintering wood.

He pulled the tooth-studded billy from the pouch behind his back rest, laid it in his lap, and wheeled his chair toward the front of the house. As soon as he entered the foyer he saw the problem. After nights of constant effort, the chew wasps finally had managed to rip off the metal weather strip from the bottom of the front door and were now busily at work gnawing rat holes at the floor line. Sharp-toothed lower jaws were visible in two spots, sawing relentlessly at the wood, gouging off pieces, building piles of splinters.

This wasn't good. In half an hour or less they'd have a couple of holes big enough to wriggle through. And then Toad Hall would be full of chew wasps—and spearheads, too, no doubt.

All looking for Jeffy. But to get to Jeffy they'd have to go through Sylvia. The very thought of it sickened him.

But to get to Sylvia they've got to get by me.

Alan looked around for some sort of back-up defense, something to shore up the weak point along the bottom edge of the door. He spotted the heavy brass etagere to the right of the door.

Perfect.

He rolled over to it, removed all the netsuke and piled them gently in the corner, then pulled the etagere over onto its side. He tried to let it down easy but it hit the floor with a clang. He found that maneuvering it against the door from his wheelchair was all but impossible, so he slid from the seat onto his knees and worked from the floor.

As he was guiding the thick brass back of the piece against the door, a chew wasp began to wriggle its head through the hole it had made. As its eyes lit on Alan, its movements became more frantic, its toothy jaws gnashed the air hungrily. Alan grabbed his club and bashed in the creature's skull with two blows. It wriggled for an instant, then lay still, its carcass wedged in the hole, blocking it.

Alan fitted the etagere snugly against the door, then pulled his wheelchair closer. He'd stocked its backrest pouch with the equivalent of a toolchest. Hammer, nails, saw, ax, pliers, screwdriver—anything he might need on short notice during the night. He couldn't run to the workshop for them, so he carried them with him.

He took out the hammer and began driving half a dozen of the biggest nails he had into the seams between the tiles along the outer edge of the etagere. Damn shame to mess up these beautiful marble tiles like this but they could be replaced. The people besieged in Toad Hall could not.

Alan pulled himself back up into his chair and regarded his handiwork. It looked pretty stable. With only wing power behind them, he doubted the bugs were strong enough to push back the heavy brass piece even if he left it unsecured. But now, with nails acting as stoppers, he was certain they'd be frustrated until morning. He heard sharp little teeth scraping against the far side of the metal.

"Let's see you chew a hole in that."

Tomorrow, though, he'd have to find some way to reinforce the outer surface of the door.

Maybe Ba would be back by then. Alan hoped so. As much as he insisted on his own independence and refused to lean on anyone else, Toad Hall was awfully big. Too big to be adequately patrolled by one man in a wheelchair. With the welfare of Sylvia and Jeffy at stake, he couldn't let his pride endanger them. As long as Sylvia insisted on staying here, he'd stay with her and do his best to protect her, but he wished Ba were here to help. Even more, he wished they'd all moved in with Glaeken last Saturday when the old guy had offered.

"Alan?"

He wheeled around and found Sylvia standing in the entrance to the foyer. She wore the loose sweater and baggy old jeans that were serving as her pajamas during the siege. Her face was pale and lined from the pillow case. She did not look like the Sylvia Nash who'd once appeared in The New York Times Magazine with her unique bonsai art—her beautiful bonsai, now smashed and broken in the shattered remains of the greenhouse—but Alan thought she was as beautiful now as ever.

"Hi," he said. "You're supposed to be catching some sleep."

"I heard all that banging. I thought something was wrong."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you, but the chewers have started to gnaw rat holes in the door."

She came over and dropped onto his lap; she slipped her arms around him and hugged.

"I wasn't sleeping. I couldn't. I'm worried about Ba. I'm afraid he won't come back. And if he doesn't, if he's…dead…it will be my fault for letting him go. I'll never forgive myself."

Alan put his arms around her waist. "If anyone can take care of himself, it's Ba."

"But I'm worried about you too, Alan. When I'm down in the basement with Jeffy and you're up here alone I begin to think I've been very foolish, very selfish in insisting that we stay here. And for some strange reason I feel it more tonight than ever. So I've made up my mind. Tomorrow we move in with Glaeken. Hopefully Ba will be back by then and we can all leave here as a family. I want our little family back together again, Alan. Toad Hall is our home, but we've got to survive. That comes first."

"I know what this place means to you," he said, squeezing her against him. "I know how tough it is for you to leave it."

"It's like giving up." He could feel her jaw muscles bunch as she spoke. "I hate to give up."

"But it's not giving up or giving in. It's a strategic withdrawal so you can live to fight another day when you've marshaled your forces."

"I love you," she said, leaning her head against his. "Sometimes I wonder why you put up with me and my stubbornness."

"Maybe its because of your stubbornness. Maybe I like a woman who don't take no shit from nobody, not even this Rasalom guy and his bugs."

Sylvia jerked her head up, fluttered her eyelids, and put on her Southern Belle voice.

"Whah, Doctah Bulmuh! Ah don't believe Ah've evah heard you speak that way! Especially in front of a layday!"

"I only speak that way when I'm under a lady."

They kissed—simultaneously, spontaneously. Whether it was body language or the kind of telepathy that develops between soulmates, Alan didn't know. And didn't care. All he knew at that instant was that it was time for a kiss. And Sylvia knew it too. So they kissed. Simple.

"When was the last time we made love?" he heard her say as he nuzzled her neck and inhaled the scent of her.

"Too long."

They hadn't had a chance to sleep together let alone make love since last week when the attacks had begun.

"Another good reason to move in with Glaeken," she said. "An excellent reason."

They sat there for a while, Sylvia cradled on his lap, and held each other, listening to the bugs gnaw at the edges of the brass etagere. Alan realized again how much he loved this woman, how attuned he was to her, like no other person he had ever known. The thought of her coming to harm was unbearable. Tomorrow they'd move to Glaeken's and she'd be safe, as safe as anyone could be in this madness.

But first he had to see them through the night.