Hosts

Sandy yielded to an instant of shock, then forced a laugh. "Yeah, right."

Truth was he'd placed two calls to the Savior today, and neither had been answered. Was the guy going to stiff him now?

A girl with lime Kool-Aid hair must have overheard Pokorny's Savior remark. She was leaning back from the bar, craning for a look at Sandy.

"It's you!" she said, her eyes widening with recognition. "You're the guy from the paper, aren't you. The one who was talking to the Savior."

Sandy shrugged, embarrassment and heart-singing joy tugging him in different directions.

"Damn right he is," Pokorny said. "That's Sandy Palmer himself, ace reporter and subway survivor."

Pokorny's sarcasm was lost on the green-haired girl who turned excitedly to her friend. "Kim! Kim! Look who's here! It's that reporter from the subway, the one who talked to the Savior!"

In less than a minute—less than half a minute—Sandy found himself with his back to the bar, enclosed in a tight, steadily thickening semicircle of men and women, all about his age. Pokorny and Alissa were been quickly elbowed out of the way but Sandy kept his arm around Beth's shoulder. This was a little scary.

They started asking him questions, general ones at first—what was it like, how did he feel, tell us how it really went down—then moving on to specifics like how much blood there was and what the Savior's voice was like and what kind of gun had he used. He pretended he hadn't heard that one.

He'd covered all this in his articles and lots of these people seemed to have read them, but that didn't matter. They wanted to hear him tell it, listen to him speak the words. Straight from the horse's mouth, so to speak.

And Sandy gladly obliged.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. When he turned, the bartender shoved a Bass Ale into his hand.

"On the house, mac."

And that started a flood of freebies as other people started buying him beers. But he didn't need alcohol. The recognition, the instant acceptance, the sea of rapt faces hanging onto his every word already had him higher than a kite.

This is what it can be like, he thought. Everywhere I go—Right this way, Mr. Palmer. Never mind the line there, we'll have a table ready for you in a moment. Meanwhile, we're chilling a bottle of champagne for you now, compliments of the house.

It's like a drug, he thought. No, it is a drug; a truly bodacious high. And I can see why people get hooked on it. Because there's nothing better than this. Nothing.

And then it occurred to him that Beth had been on the train too. She deserved a little attention. And he wasn't greedy. He could share the spotlight.

The question was, did Beth want this known?

What a question. How could she not?

He raised his hand and pulled her closer. "I'd like to introduce Beth Abrams. We met on the train that night and we've hardly been apart since, which proves that even the darkest cloud can have a silver lining."

The burst of applause and cheers, and the grins from the encircling crowd swept over him in a warm wave. He glanced at Beth and found her smiling up at him.

"That was sweet," she said.

She leaned toward him and they kissed, sending the crowd into another outburst of whoops.

"We're a hit," he said into her ear as he hugged her. "Maybe we should get an act together and take it on the road."

He was only partly kidding. If he could feel just one tenth of this every night…

Another tap on his shoulder. He turned and found a fellow about his age but all in black with a closely shaved head and a stud through his left eyebrow.

"Anytime you want to ditch this scene," he said in a low voice, "let me know."

"I don't get you."

"I'm talking about going some place very cool."

"This seems pretty cool." At least at the moment. Certainly a lot cooler now than when he'd arrived.

"This is nothing. I'm talking about a club. An exclusive club."

"Exclusive, huh?" He didn't have much money on him. The cover here had been only five bucks. In some of those clubs, "exclusive" was just a euphemism for overpriced-up-the-wazoo. "What's it called?"

"It's not called anything. I'm talking about a place so exclusive it doesn't even have a name. Doesn't need one."

"I don't know…"

"Don't worry. I can get you in. You'll be my guest. I think the regulars would like to meet you and your lady."

"Who might these regulars be?"

"Big names who wouldn't want me talking about them. But you've heard of them—everybody has. We're talking household names. You've seen their faces on the screen—the big one, not the little one. And if not their faces, then you've seen their names in big letters. You don't look like the fashion magazine type, but if you check out the Victoria's Secret catalog now and then you've seen some of the ladies' bodies."

Sandy had heard of such places: celebrity hangs for supermodels and movie people—stars, directors, producers—who wanted a place where they wouldn't be ogled and hounded for autographs.

And this guy's inviting me. Me! Shit, I don't believe this!

"All right," Sandy drawled with maximum cool. "I suppose we can check it out." He turned to Beth. "Come on. We're leaving."

"Where are we going?"

"A special place where we can have a little peace and quiet."

"Okay by me. I'll find Jay and Alissa and—"

"They're not invited. Just us."

"You think that's right?" The truth was, he hadn't thought about it. "Believe me, Beth, you'll want to be in this place."

"Fine, but the least we can do is say good-bye. I'll go find them." As he watched her thread through the thicket of people, he thought, I'm out on the town with my conscience.

Which, all things considered, probably wasn't such a bad thing.

15

She thought she'd fallen asleep, but now Kate is up and walking.

She's outside. Where? Somehow she left Jack's and is walking the street. But not Jack's street. It's much wider, with houses instead of brownstones. She's in Queens, in a place called Middle Village.

Somehow she knows that. But how? She knows nothing of Queens.

She feels a buzz of anticipation as she turns up the walk toward one of the houses. It's dark on the first floor, with a single window lit on the second. Up the three steps, across the front porch, she reaches her hand toward the bell—

No! That's not her hand! It's too big, the fingers too thick. And she doesn't own a ring that looks anything like—

She knows that ring. She saw it on Holdstock's hand. But how did she get it? And what's happened to her hands? She watches as one of them pushes the bell button, not with a fingertip but with a knuckle. Strange way to ring. And what is this undercurrent of dread she senses?

The door opens then and it's Dr. fielding standing behind the screen.

"Terrence," he says. "What a surprise."

Terrence? Isn't that Holdstock's first name?

"I hope I'm not disturbing you, Doctor," she hears herself say in Holdstock's voice, "but I need your help."

"Come in, come in," Fielding says, pushing open the screen door. "As a matter of fact, I could use your help too. Maybe we can help each other."

As she follows him inside, kicking the door closed behind her, she begins to realize what this is: another one of those surreal dreams she's been having. What's the symbolism here? What conflict is her unconscious trying to resolve?

Then she sees it: Because he was the first to be infected, Holdstock represents the leadership of the Unity. She's terrified by the Unity's invasion of her mind and body, so her subconscious is dealing with that by turning the tables and portraying her as having invaded Holdstock's.

But understanding doesn't release her from the dream's iron grip. She's simply going to have to ride it out.