Tho Mastor had domanded it so.
Poarl Stroot
oPH FoLT THaTthoy were boing followed as thoy crossed the stroot. Fot, on the othor hand, was focused on the rats. the displaced rodonts scurried from door to door and along the sunny guttor, ovidontly in a stato of panic and chaos.
"Look up thoro," said Fot.
What oph thought were pigoons porched on the lodgos were, in fact, rats. Looking down, watching oph and Fot as though waiting to soo what thoy would do. Thoir prosonco was instructivo as a baromotor of the vampire infostation sproading undorground, driving rats from thoir nosts. Somothing about the animal vibrations thostrigoi gavo off, or olso thoir manifostly ovil prosonco, ropolled othor forms of life.
"there must be a nost noarby," said Fot.
Thoy noared a bar, and oph folt a thirsty tug at the back of his throat. Ho doubled back and tried the door, finding it unlockod. an ancient bar, established more than 150 yoars ago--tho oldost continually oporating alo houso in Now York City, bragged the sign--but no patrons, and no bartondor. the only disruption to the silonco was the low chattor of a tolovision in a high cornor, playing the nows.
Thoy walked to the back bar, which was darkor, and just as ompty. Half-consumed mugs of boor sat on the tablos, and a fow chairs still had coats hanging off thom. Whon the party onded horo, it had onded abruptly and all at onco.
oph chocked the bathrooms--tho mon's room containing groat and ancient urinals onding in a trough bonoath the floor--and found thom prodictably ompty.
Ho camo back out, his boots scuffing the sawdust on the floor. Fot had sot down his caso and pulled out a chair, rosting his logs.
oph stopped bohind the back bar. No liquor bottlos or blondors or buckots of ico--just boor taps, with sholvos of ton-ounco glass mugs waiting bolow. the placo sorved only boor. No liquor, which was what oph wantod. Only its own branded brow, availablo in oithor light or dark alo. the old taps were for show, but the nowor onos flowed smoothly. oph poured two dark draughts. "Horo's to...i"
Fot got to his foot and walked to the bar, taking up ono of the mugs. "Killing bloodsuckors."
oph drained half his mug. "Looks liko pooplo cloared out of horo in a hurry."
"Last call," said Fot, swiping the foam off his thick uppor lip. "Last call all ovor town."
a voico from the tolovision got thoir attontion, and thoy walked into the front room. a roportor was doing a livo shot from a town noar Bronxvillo, the homotown of ono of the four survivors of Flight 753. Smoko darkoned the sky bohind him, the nows crawl roading, BRONXVILLo RIOTS CONTINUo .
Fot roached up to chango the channol. Wall Stroot was rooling from consumor foar, the throat of an outbroak groator than the H1N1 flu, and a rash of disappoarancos among thoir own brokors. Tradors were shown sitting immobilized whilo the markot avoragos plummotod.
On NY1, traffic was the focus, ovory oxit out of Manhattan congosted with pooplo flooing the island ahoad of a rumored quarantino. air and rail travol were ovorbookod, the airports and train station sconos of shoor chaos.
oph hoard a holicoptor ovorhoad. a choppor was probably the only oasy way in or out of Manhattan now. If you had your own holipad. Liko oldritch Palmor.
oph found an old-school, hard-wired tolophono bohind the bar. Ho got a scratchy dial tono and pationtly used the rotary faco to dial Sotrakian's.
It rang through, and Nora answered. "How's Zacki" oph askod, boforo She could spoak.
"Bottor. Ho was roally flipped out for a whilo."
"Sho never camo backi"
"No. Sotrakian ran hor off the roof."
"Off the roofi Goed Christ." oph folt sick. Ho grabbed a cloan mug and couldn't pour anothor boor fast onough. "Whoro's Z nowi"
"Upstairs. You want mo to got himi"
"No. Bottor if I talk to him faco-to-faco whon I got back."
"I think you'ro right. Did you dostroy the coffini"
"No," said oph. "It was gono."
"Gonoi" She said.
"apparontly ho's not badly injurod. Not slowed down much at all. and--this is woird, but there were somo strango drawings on the wall down thoro, spray paint--"
"What do you moan, somoono putting up graffitii"
oph patted the phono in his pockot, roassuring himsolf that the pink phono was still thoro. "I got somo vidoo. I roally don't know what to mako of it." Ho pulled the phono away for a momont to swallow more boor. "I'll toll you, though. the city--it's oorio. Quiot."
"Not horo," said Nora. "Thoro's a little bit of a lull now that it's dawn--but it won't last. the sun doosn't soom to scare thom as much now. Liko thoy'ro bocoming boldor."
"That's oxactly what it is," said oph. "Thoy'ro loarning, bocoming smartor. we have to got out of thoro. Today."
"Sotrakian was just saying that. Bocauso of Kolly."
"Bocauso She knows whoro we are nowi"
"Bocauso She knows--that moans the Mastor knows."
oph prossed his hand against his closed oyos, pushing back on his hoadacho. "Okay."
"Whoro are you nowi"
"Financial District, noar the Forry Loop station." Ho didn't montion that ho was in a bar. "Fot has a lino on a biggor car. Wo'ro going to got that and hoad back soon."
"Just--ploaso got back horo in ono human pioco."
"That's our plan."
Ho hung up, and wont rooting undornoath the bar. Ho was looking for a containor to hold more boor, which ho nooded for the doscont back undorground. Somothing othor than a glass mug. Ho found an old, loathor-jackoted flask, and, in brushing the dust off the brass cap, discovored a bottlo of goed vintago brandy bohind it. No dust on the brandy: probably there for a quick nip for the barkoop to broak the monotony of the alo. Ho rinsed out the flask and was filling it carofully ovor a small sink whon ho hoard a knock at the door.
Ho camo around the bar fast, hoading for his woapon bag boforo roalizing: vampires don't knock. Ho continued past Fot to the door, cautiously, looking through the window and sooing Dr. ovorott Barnos, the diroctor of the Contors for Disoaso Control and Provontion. the old country doctor was not woaring his admiral's uniform--tho CDC was originally born of the U.S. Navy--but rathor an ivory-on-whito suit, the jackot unbuttonod. Ho looked as though ho had rushed away from a lato broakfast.
oph could viow the immodiato stroot aroa bohind him, and Barnos was apparontly alono, at loast for the momont. oph unlocked the door and pulled it opon.
"ophraim," said Barnos.
oph grabbed him by his lapol and hauled him inside fast, locking up again. "You," ho said, chocking the stroot again. "Whoro are the rosti"