Nightworld

Manhattan

Carol rolled the two-wheeled shopping cart out of the elevator and down the hall. A big load—all the canned food and pasta it would hold, plus bottled water stacked on top—but it was her last trip of the day. And just in time too. It was getting dark out there.

Besides that, she was tired. She wasn't used to this kind of running around but she could handle the exertion. She stayed in shape, exercising regularly, watching her diet—her fifty-year-old body was trimmer, better toned, and younger looking than a lot of bodies in their thirties. This was a different kind of fatigue, arising not from the body but from the mind, from stress.

And it had been one hell of a stressful day.

She hoped Hank was home. She knew how out of character it would be for him to get caught out in the darkness, but he had become positively manic as the day wore on. She'd never seen him like this. Running in and out with five-gallon jugs of spring water, boxes of batteries, a propane stove, and food, food, food. Carol was almost afraid to open the apartment door.

She didn't have to. It opened as she came down he hall. Hank's worried face relaxed into a relieved smile.

"Thank God!" he said. "I've been worried about you." He stepped into the hall and took the cart from her. "Come on. Wait'll you see what I got on my last trip."

He ushered her in and closed the door behind her. Carol stopped and stared at her living room. She barely recognized it. Cartons of canned goods—stacks of cartons were arrayed along the walls. It looked more like a warehouse than a home.

"Hank…where…how?"

"I got smart," Hank said, beaming. "It occurred to me after I left you off at the A&R Why think small? Why not go to the source? So I rented a van, looked up a distributor, and really stocked up. Backed it around back and brought everything up with this." He patted the hand truck leaning against the wall by the door. "But that wasn't my real coup." He headed down the hall. "Wait'll you see this."

"Oh, Hank. Not in the bedroom."

She suffered through visions of sleeping amid piles of Ronzoni macaroni until he returned lugging a pair of heavy canvas bags, one in each hand.

"I didn't know where else to put them," he said as he eased the bags down before her. They clinked inside as they settled on the floor. "They weigh almost fifty pounds each."

"What's in them?"

"Four thousand silver coins. Two whole bags of pre-nineteen-sixty-four quarters. All solid silver. Got the pair for under six grand at a coin dealer on Fifty-sixth. And you know what?" he said, his eyes dancing with glee. "I charged them! Can you believe it? The guy took Visa for them!"

"Hank, can we afford all this?"

"Sure! Sure we can. In fact, we can't afford not to buy all this. Because it won't matter what our Visa or Master Card balance is. Look, if daylight shrinks to nothing and things really start falling apart, there'll be nobody to collect on our credit cards. These coins are going to be like gold, like diamonds. I told you: If what that Glaeken fellow said really happens, paper money will be worthless. Each of these quarters could be worth fifty dollars apiece in buying power. Precious metals will be what matters. Gold, silver, gems, they'll replace government paper. But you know what be more valuable than any metal? Food, Carol. You can't eat gold or silver. In a world without sunlight, where nothing but mushrooms can grow, nothing will be more valuable than food. The man with the full larder will be king. Food, Carol. And we've got lots of it. And tomorrow we'll get even more."

Carol stared at her normally calm, quiet, rational husband. She'd never seen him like this.

"Hank…are you all right?"

"Carol, I've never been better. I feel like I'm on top of the world. You know, all my life I've worked my butt off for every cent I've put in my pocket. I've seen people around me invest in the stock market, invest in junk bonds or real estate and make killings. But not me. Whenever I tried, it was always too little too late. No matter what it was, I always got in on the wrong side of the curve. But this time is different. This is my time, when I get in on the ground floor." His eyes got a faraway look as he stared around at all the food. "One thing I know about is hunger, Carol. And I refuse to be hungry ever again."

"When were you ever hungry?"

"Hungry?" he said, his eyes focusing on her. "I didn't say anything about hungry."

"Yes, you did. You said you knew about hunger."

"Did I?" He sat on a stack of cases of Campbell's pork and beans and stared at the floor. "I didn't even hear myself."

Carol stepped to his side and laid a hand on his shoulder. The manic look had faded from his eyes. He was more like himself again. She wanted to keep him that way.

"I heard you. What did you mean? When were you ever hungry?"

He sighed. "As a kid. When I was about seven. My father was a precision machinist. He lost his job after the war when the weapons industry ground to a halt. A lot of machinists were out of work but they were picking up other jobs in other fields, doing anything to make ends meet. Not my father. He was a machinist and that was the only kind of work he would accept. Before too long we ran out of money. All I remember about those times was being hungry. Hungry all the time."

"But there were agencies, charities, welfare—"

"I didn't know about any of that. I was only seven. I found out later that my father wouldn't hear of taking a hand-out, as he called it. All I knew was that I was hungry and there was never enough food on the table for a good meal. I woke up hungry and went to bed hungry and was hungry every minute in between. I'd steal food from other kids' lunches in school. The only other thing I remember from that time besides hunger was fear. I was afraid we'd all starve to death. Finally he got a job and we could eat again." He shook his head slowly. "But, boy, that was a scary time."

Carol rubbed his shoulder and smoothed his thinning hair as she tried to picture Hank as a hungry, frightened little boy She realized how little she really knew about this man she had married.

"You never told me."

"Frankly, I'd forgotten about it. I guess I've buried those days. And why not? They were the worst times of my life. I can't remember the last time I gave them a thought."

"Maybe they weren't buried as deeply as you thought. Look around you, Hank."

He glanced about at the stacked cases of food, then stood up.

"This is different, Carol. This isn't just survival. This is an investment in our future."

"Hank—"

"You know what I ought to do? I ought to take inventory. Right. Organize a list of what we have. That way we can spend tomorrow filling in any gaps."

"Hank…why don't we have dinner?"

He looked at her. "Good idea. I'm kind of hungry, come to think of it. But use the most perishable stuff we have. We'll finish that off first. We don't want to dip into our canned goods yet."

Carol watched in dismay as Hank picked up a pad and pencil and began going about the apartment making lists of their supplies. What was happening to her safe, sane Hank? Even though her husband was only a few feet away, she felt alone. Alone with a manic stranger.