“I can’t stop and you know it.”
“You can’t work in the middle of the night, alone.”
“Especially in the middle of the night, alone.”
Glen stood in the doorway. He nodded sharply, urging David to come. Obviously, there was an immediate problem and he could not stay here longer.
“Someone will take you to your room,” he told Caroline. He would send one of the orderlies down immediately. She must not be left alone, not ever.
He followed Glen up what had once been the servants’ stairway at the back of the original house. They rose into the magnificence of the upstairs hallway, its elegance speaking of an orderly world that had entirely gone.
They arrived at his office to an uneasy murmur of voices. When he entered, silence fell.
Glen’s eyes went to the sitting area in front of the large fireplace. In one of David’s wing chairs sat a filthy, bedraggled man, his clothes torn, a badly skinned elbow protruding.
“How did he get in here?”
Katie’s response said it all: “How did he get out?”
Mack the Cat had come back.
DAVID FORD’S JOURNAL: SIX
Caroline says that I have to face our love, but what can love possibly mean in a situation like this? How many people die in, say, sixty seconds right now? Millions, no doubt, in a world that is disintegrating this fast.
Apparently, she wants me to remember her in a way that I do not remember her. I want her physically. Of course I do, who wouldn’t? But this love of which she speaks seems to be some sort of a bridge, and I don’t understand why that would be true.
It’s quite clear how the gold is supposed to work, but I am not finding any change after ingesting it. Perhaps she’s right and I’m not taking enough, but there is no way I’m going to eat a heavy metal. Supposedly their preparation no longer contains any elemental gold in metal form, but how can that be? It’s an element, it’s going to be there.
I’ve remembered a lot and understood a lot, but the situation that’s unfolding now really eclipses more or less everything. It is true that Herbert Acton anticipated this, but his vision did not penetrate into the actual event or surely he would have left us more clear instructions. My best guess is that this is because things are now so chaotic that looking into this era would have been like looking into dirty water or dense fog.
So we’re on our own, and I think that it is very clear what we’re going to have to face. That document of Mrs. Denman’s was right, I think. The solar system is going through a very dirty and dangerous area of space, and the sun and all her planets are taking a terrible pounding.
I think that it will be too much for mankind. Certainly, civilization is finished. If this lasts much longer the way it is, our population is going to plummet massively. If it should intensify, then I think we are going to go the way of the dinosaurs—unless, of course, Caroline’s wonderful painting can somehow save a few of us. But it will be a very few, won’t it, just a tiny elite? In itself, that troubles me. Why should it be us and not, say, the great scientists of the world or the great saints, or simply the children?
So where does love come into this? Why does it matter anymore? I want to spend time with Katie and Caroline. I want to take every bit of pleasure from life that I can, while I can.
I have made a decision. If we cannot take the world with us, then I am not going myself. It isn’t right for just the carefully chosen to live while the rest, equally deserving, do not.
And yet, I am talking about my own death, here, and, in the end, if I have a choice, I know that I will try to save myself. It isn’t a moral choice, but an instinctive one. I am not a hero, and I don’t fully understand this business of calling me a leader.
When I was a boy, Charles Light tried to drill my specialness into me, my brilliance, my natural ability to take control of situations—all qualities that he saw but that I did not.
And yet, and yet… it’s true that I understand a great deal of this. I understand why the gold works, but not, perhaps, why it doesn’t for me.
I think that the best thing for me to do is to keep striving to save my patients, and give Caroline the space she needs to accomplish her work.
So far, there has been no further sign of the presence of our enemies. Does that mean that they’ve been swept away in the chaos? Perhaps, but somehow I doubt it. It has crossed my mind that Mack, the former CIA agent, might be one of them. He takes an inordinate interest in Caroline and her work.
He’s among the patients who display genuine symptoms. Paranoia, among other things. I can see the violence in the man, and I know that he has the skills necessary to enable him to enter and leave this place, and to infuriate Sam by neutralizing him the way he did, a professional handler like him.
In any case, he bears watching, I suppose, but the reality is this: events are going to overtake our enemies just as they are going to overtake us and, very shortly now, the whole world.
15. THE RED STAR
Mack selected from the tools he’d stolen over time and brought into his room a screwdriver and a small knife. They’d given him a meal of canned corned beef hash and potatoes washed down with tepid water, but it sure as hell beat gnawing on raw potatoes and drinking toilets in abandoned farmhouses.
What was important here were two things. First, he’d seen from the snow on the screens in the nurses’ station that the surveillance system was down. Second, he’d had a close look at that painting of Caroline Light’s, and nobody—no ordinary person—could create a work of art so detailed. As incredible it seemed, he could most safely conclude that she was somehow creating another reality in the medium of oil on canvas, and that had to mean something, and he intended to find out what in holy hell it was.
He got up on his desk and stood, using the screwdriver to open his air-conditioning vent. It would take a real mastery of the human body to get around some of the turns, but he intended to try.
Out the top of his window, he could see auroras spinning complex madness tinted blood red. This was a change even from last night, and it unsettled him and made him work faster.
Then he noticed something very odd indeed, that made him look out into the grounds.
It was light out there, even brighter than the auroras and a full moon would make it. But this was not the moon or the tinge of auroral light. This was the glow of something else, something that he could not quite see around the corner of the building.
There had been reports of strange ships in the sky, and he’d overheard mention that Linda Fairbrother had been taken up in one. Absently, he ran his finger along the shiny dark spot that he’d noticed just below his neck in the shower the other morning. Was it tingling? Perhaps. He feared that it might be a melanoma, but they were supposed to be irregular and this thing was perfectly round. Growing, though, no question there. It had an odd texture, not like skin, but slicker and more featureless, almost as if it was covered by a film of some kind. Also, at the center, where it was darkest, it wasn’t like color at all, but more an absence of color. It was really the strangest thing he’d ever seen on a human body and he needed to get it cut out, no question.
Faint voices drew him back to his window. Now there were people down there. Guards and staff were out on the lawn, their forms lit by an eerie violet glare coming from a source that was blocked to his vision by the corner of the building.
Normally, his ability to concentrate on his work was prodigious, but this unsettled him. He’d witnessed a woman burned at the stake by the Taliban in Afghanistan, and the wild, abandoned agony of her screams had left him, already claustrophobic, with a creeping horror of suffering death by fire.
He hammered on his door. Hammered again. Finally, he started kicking the hell out of it. His relationship with
