5

REVELATION 6:12

. . . and the moon became as blood.

~ * ~

Deborah Nole's teeth ached from being ground together for the last three hours, yet every time she tried to relax, her teeth started chattering; in the empty auditorium the sound was machine-gun loud.

Dammit! Why was she awake? Exhaustion usually made her sleep through the night, oblivious to her usual fear of the dark and the creatures that now owned it. Tonight her eyes were open uselessly in the blackness, lids stretched wide as if they could re-form into extra ears with which to search the cavernous room for sounds. She could detect nothing, and she was pretty good at it. More than pretty good—she'd managed to stay alive when countless others hadn't. But the heavy drapes that hung between her cot and the back wall could be a double-edged benefit: while her own sounds were muffled from the hundreds of empty seats surrounding the stage, the stealthy steps of an intruder would likewise be easy to hide. What time was it? Frozen in the same position for so long her arms had gone numb, Deb was afraid to even finger the light on her wristwatch and she could no longer feel the reassuring pressure of the twelve-gauge next to her. For all she knew the shotgun was balanced on the edge of the cot and would clatter to the floor if she reached for it.

How long? This was driving her insane; she had to know what time—wait! Her breath hitched at an imagined sound and the muscles of her arm unlocked automatically as her hand slid down and closed around the stock of the Winchester. Her stomach tightened, then acknowledged the fullness of her bladder, a sure sign that she'd made it to another dawn.

Her lungs emptied in relief and she grasped the gun and sat up, still shaking as she groped for the matches and oil lamp; a few seconds and a warm, welcome glow lit the backstage alcove. She took the lamp and climbed the carpeted steps around the banisters, caution returning at the first entrance as she pushed the bar down and felt the lock release. As she eased out of the Arthur Rubloff Auditorium, weak daylight filtered down the stairs from the dining room on the second floor. The building's noises had still terrified her a year ago, but eventually Deb had learned to recognize the daily creaks and groans as the sun brought the temperature up and caused the old mortar and stone to expand. But Deb listened for other noises, such as the stealthy steps of someone who'd managed a way inside. Although she daydreamed about it often, she really didn't know what she'd do if that ever happened, and it had been six months ago in October since she'd last seen a living person outside. His name, he'd said, was John, and he was as ragged and thin as they came. She'd greeted him eagerly and together they'd gathered another cot and blankets, more food and fresh clothes. After months of cowering alone, this man was a godsend of potential security.

Back then she'd been sleeping in the Morton Lecture Hall, yet in spite of her loneliness she was no fool; her 9mm pistol had stayed hidden in the deep pockets of her jacket, and John hadn't known about the sawed-off shotgun until she'd blown half his chest away when she caught him undoing the locks on the basement hall's entrance after he'd thought her asleep. Only the worst type of human could walk the night hours and she knew he would have returned in a few hours—if that long—and even her miniature arsenal wouldn't have stopped the creatures he would've brought with him. She'd spent the remainder of that night sitting in the dark and listening to the blood drip from John's cooling body. How long had he known about her? Long enough to alert others to her refuge before she'd met him? Maybe blood creatures already crawled through the rooms above. Combined with her terror was the guilt of having taken the life of another human; as wretched as John had been, killing him seemed almost unforgivable when so few real people still walked this earth.

Almost.

In the morning she had wrapped the body in a sheet and dragged it out, intending to throw it in the lake. Despite her sturdy build, the distance had proved too much and she'd settled for hoisting it over the concrete barrier on Monroe and dropping it to the railroad tracks forty feet below. Guilty conscience or not, the corpse made a satisfying thud as it hit; if there were others like him, she hoped they'd see the justice in his death. She'd cleaned up the mess and locked the hall permanently from the inside; perhaps the mars ghost would be trapped there, too.

A quick examination now showed her the entrances were unscathed, and she finally felt safe enough to return to the auditorium and use the Port-o-Potty. As she changed from one heavy cotton jumpsuit to another, an ache spread through her stomach and she flinched. She'd have to go to the library soon and read up on ulcers; the mirror showed the same clear blue eyes and curly black hair spilling down her shoulders, but the growing pain in her gut mocked her healthy appearance.

Deb pocketed her keys and let herself out the Michigan Avenue doors, testing them to make sure the latches caught. A year ago she would've never guessed locks would be such an important part of her life. Standing on steps leading down to an empty world in the morning was nearly as frightening as the coming of each dusk. She had worked in the Art Institute since graduating from college and had seen it overrun with employees and visitors—maybe that was why she had chosen to live here; good memories, the images of a thousand people and times captured on canvas, in photographs, bronze, and marble. Outside, nothing moved for as far as she could see: no people, no cars—not even a single squirrel, once so common along the boulevard and in Grant Park. Only the birds remained; safe in their ability to fly, God alone knew where they roosted. She wondered longingly if the animals in the rural areas had fared better.

If she closed her eyes and concentrated, she could still remember mornings at her parents' house not so long ago, still hear her little sister Janet calling her to Get out of bed, Mama's got breakfast on the table! Dad's laughter booming out of the kitchen at some wisecrack made by seventeen-year-old Mark. And Mom . . .

The familiar loneliness settled heavily around her, amplified in silence broken only by the occasional twittering of an unseen sparrow. She hoped the sparrows and pigeons would become more plentiful as spring progressed, but for now most probably still huddled high atop the skyscrapers. A few more weeks and maybe the silence wouldn't be so damned . . .

loud.