He didn’t see the rats that ran out of the open door to the stairs, and scuttled across to his helicopter. He reached over to close the cockpit door again, and one of them leaped up and bit his hand. He banged the rat against the side of the cockpit, but it clung on, and while it clung on, another rat jumped into the helicopter, and another.
He beat the animal away from his hand, revved the engine, and pulled back the stick. The helicopter’s rotors whistled faster and faster, and the Bell lifted off from the rooftop and circled away towards the north.
Three rats scurried around the cockpit, and one of them jumped at Folger’s face. He tried to smack it away, but then another rat nipped at his arm.
The helicopter went out of control. Wrestling against twisting rats and a bucking control stick, Andy Folger saw the horizon turn upside down, and the buildings of First Avenue swivel all around him. He saw streets – sky – buildings – streets – and then the helicopter fluttered and twisted and plummeted eighteen storeys. It fell on to the glass roof of a supermarket and exploded in a hot spray of fire that rolled upwards and burned itself out.
On the top of Concorde Tower, Herbert Gaines neither saw nor heard. His mind was still somewhere inside that costume of rats, but it was dwindling very quickly, and was soon to be gone. Sometime during the afternoon, the power from their generator died. They were sitting quietly around the apartment, and the lights suddenly dimmed and went out. They heard the freezer motor in the kitchen shudder and stop.
Dr. Petrie, who had been sitting on the settee with Prickles, reading her a story, looked up.
‘Daddy,’ said Prickles, wide-eyed, ‘it’s gone dark.’
Kenneth Garunisch got out of his armchair and went to try the lights. There was no doubt that they were dead.
He shrugged and said, ‘It’s the generator. The goddamned thing’s probably clogged up with rats.’
Esmeralda, sitting cross-legged on the floor, said, ‘What are we going to do now? All our food’s going to spoil. I doubt if we’ve got enough canned stuff to last us a week. There are six of us, right? – seven including Prickles – and I don’t think we’ve got more than nine or ten cans of meat, and a few dozen cans of fruit. Maybe I should check.’
‘Jesus,’ said Nicholas. ‘That’s all we need.’
Kenneth Garunisch lit a cigarette. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. Now you won’t have to force yourself to eat Herbert’s goulasch.’
‘Ken – I don’t think you ought to speak ill of the dead,’ said his wife worriedly.
‘Why not?’ said Garunisch, blowing smoke. ‘That was what he wanted, wasn’t it? A glorious fiery plunge from the top of the city’s ritziest apartment.’
Nicholas lowered his head and sighed. ‘I don’t know what he wanted, Mr. Garunisch. He was actually very kind. Except to himself, that is.’
Dr. Petrie put down the story-book and stood up. ‘I think the most important thing now is to work out how we’re going to survive. What is it – Tuesday? I guess anyone who was left on the streets on Sunday will be dead of plague by now. It should be pretty safe outside as far as looters and muggers are concerned.’
‘What about rats?’ asked Adelaide.
Dr. Petrie ran his hand through his hair. ‘I’m not sure about rats. If anything, the rats will probably have gotten worse.’
‘So what are we going to do?’ asked Mrs. Garunisch. ‘I mean – those rats are so fierce. I can’t bear the thought of them.’
‘The water’s off,’ called Esmeralda from the kitchen. ‘That means we don’t even have anything to drink.’
‘Plenty of whiskey,’ said Garunisch wryly, holding up Ivor Glantz’s crystal decanter.
‘Does anyone here have a car?’ Dr. Petrie asked.
‘A car?’ frowned Garunisch. ‘What the hell do you want with a car?’
‘Well,’ said Dr. Petrie, ‘if the rats are really bad, then it’s going to be too dangerous for all of us to get out of here at one time. It only needs one person to trip or fall, and the whole party could be put at risk. But if one or two could wrap themselves up in blankets or something, and make protective helmets to cover our faces, then maybe we could make it to the basement car park.’
‘Then what happens?’ said Garunisch. ‘This is a dead city. Where do you think you’re going to get help?’
‘You have enough food for two or three days. That’s all it should take to drive out of the plague zone and organize some kind of airborne rescue. Let’s not kid ourselves – you’re all wealthy people, and if anyone can get rescued, you can.’
Mrs. Garunisch furrowed her brow. ‘Supposing we don’t get rescued?’ she said anxiously. ‘What then?’
Kenneth Garunisch reached over and took her hand. ‘Gay,’ he said gently, ‘we’ve never talked like that and we never will. The doctor’s right – we’ve got as good a chance as anyone.’
Dr. Petrie went to the walnut sideboard and picked up a heavy sheaf of papers. ‘More important than any of us, though,’ he said, ‘is this.’
Mrs. Garunisch peered at the sheaf suspiciously. ‘What’s that?’ she asked sharply.
‘This is the mathematical work on the plague that Ivor Glantz left unfinished,’ explained Dr. Petrie. ‘I’m not a research scientist, but I’ve looked through it, and as far as I’m able to understand, it’s sound. I think that if we can get these papers to the federal government, we can persuade them to investigate the idea further, and with any luck at all we could help to stamp out the plague. Whoever gets out of here will not only have the task of sending
