"But what could it be, Lucy?" Dick asked her.
"I don't know," Lucy said, "but I'm afraid to hear it. I know that. The dying ain't over. It's just got started. That's what I fear."
There was a long silence that George Richardson finally broke. "I've got to get up to the hospital. Laurie, Dick, I'm going to need both of you."
You aren't going to leave us alone with this mummy, are you? Larry almost asked, and pinched his lips shut to keep it in.
The three of them went to the door, and Lucy got them their coats. The temperature was barely sixty this night, and riding a cycle in shirtsleeves was uncomfortable.
"Is there anything we can do for her?" Larry asked George quietly.
"Lucy knows about the IV drip," George said. "There's nothing else. You see..." He trailed off. Of course they all saw. It was on the bed, wasn't it?
"Good night, Larry, Lucy," Dick said.
They went out. Larry drifted back to the window. Outside, everyone had come to their feet, watching. Was she alive? Dead? Dying? Perhaps healed by the power of God? Had she said anything?
Lucy slipped an arm around his waist, making him jump a little. "I love you," she said.
He groped for her, held her. He put his head down and began to shudder helplessly.
"I love you," she said calmly. "It's all right. Let it come. Let it come out, Larry."
He cried. The tears were as hot and hard as bullets. "Lucy - "
"Shhh." Her hands on the back of his neck; her soothing hands.
"Oh Lucy, my God, what is all this? " he cried out against her neck, and she held him as tight as she could, not knowing, not knowing yet, and Mother Abagail breathed harshly behind them, holding on in the depths of her coma.
George drove up the street at walking speed, passing the same message over and over again: Yes, still alive. Prognosis is poor. No, she hasn't said anything and isn't likely to. You might as well go home. If anything happens, you'll hear.
When they reached the corner they accelerated, turning toward the hospital. The exhaust of their bikes crackled and echoed back, hitting buildings and bouncing off them, finally fading away to nothing.
People did not go home. They remained standing for a while, renewing their conversations, examining each word George had said. Prognosis, now what might that mean? Coma. Brain-death. If her brain was dead, that was it. Might as well expect a can of peas to talk as a person with a dead brain. Well, maybe that would be it if this was a natural situation, but things were hardly natural anymore, were they?
They sat down again. Darkness came. The glow of Coleman lamps came on in the house where the old woman lay. They would go home later, and lie sleepless.
Talk turned hesitantly to the dark man. If Mother Abagail died, didn't that mean he was stronger?
What do you mean, "not necessarily"?
Well I hold he's Satan, pure and simple.
The Antichrist, that's what I think. We're living out the Book of Revelation right in our own time... how can you doubt it? "And the seven vials were opened..." Sure sounds like the superflu to me.
Ah, balls, people said Hitler was the Antichrist.
If those dreams come back, I'll kill myself.
In mine I was in a subway station and he was the ticket-taker, only I couldn't see his face. I was scared. I ran into the subway tunnel. Then I could hear him, running after me. And gaining.
In mine I was going down cellar to get a jar of pickled watermelon slices and I saw someone standing by the furnace... just a shape. And I knew it was him.
Crickets began to chirrup. Stars spread across the sky. The chill in the air was duly commented on. Drinks were drunk. Pipes and cigarettes glowed in the dark.
I heard the Power people went right ahead turning things off.
Good for them. If they don't get the lights and heat back on pretty quick, we're going to be in a peck of trouble.
Low murmur of voices, now faceless in the gloom.
I guess we're safe for this winter. Sure enough. No way he can get over the passes. Too full of cars and snow. But in the spring...
Suppose he's got a few A-bombs?
Fuck the A-bomb, what if he's got a few of those dirty neutron bombs? Or the other six of Sally's seven vials?
Or planes?
What's to do?
I don't know.
Damn if I know.
Ain't got a friggin clue.
Dig a hole, then jump in and pull it over you.
And around ten o'clock Stu Redman, Glen Bateman, and Ralph Brentner came among them, talking quietly and giving out fliers, telling them to pass the word on to those not here tonight. Glen was limping slightly because a flying stove dial had clipped a piece of meat out of his right calf. The mimeographed posters said: FREE ZONE MEETING * MUNZINGER AUDITORIUM * SEPTEMBER 4 * 8:00 P.M.
That seemed to be the signal to leave. People drifted away silently into the dark. Most of them took the fliers, but quite a few were crumpled into balls and thrown away. All of them went home to get what sleep they could.