A monitor went blank, then cut back in with a view of a door marked 85 in an empty stairwell. A sawed-off shotgun leaned in the corner next to the door.
"Excellent," Joe said.
Leland squinted at the screen. "Hey, somebody's usually guarding the door to eight-five from dawn to dusk."
"We gave him the day off," Lacey said. "Any way of broadcasting from here?"
Considine shook his head. "The building has a huge TV antenna, but that's another department. We're security. We don't know squat about TV transmission."
"It's okay," Joe said, tapping the screen. "We'll tape as planned. Record that one, and then I'll tell you another one to record when I get to the Observation Deck."
"It's true then?" Considine said. "You're really liberating the building?"
"That's the plan," Joe said.
"About time. How many of you are there?"
"Just us," Lacey said.
He stared. "Three? Just three? You've got to be kidding! Are you people crazy?
Joe shrugged. "Probably. But we're already more than halfway to succeeding. We—"
A burst of static from the hallway startled him.
"Security! Security, do you copy?"
Joe tensed. "What's that?"
"One of their two-ways."
Joe stepped out into the hall, found the little walkie-talkie clipped to the dead guard's belt, and turned it off. He returned to the Security Center and faced Carole and Lacey.
"That means at least one of the Vichy is still alive out there. Probably more."
"Well," Lacey said, "we knew from the get-go we wouldn't get them all."
"I don't like leaving you two alone here."
Considine stepped past him. Joe tensed as he picked up the fallen guard's pistol. He worked the slide and chambered a round.
"Who said they're alone? Your ranks just swelled to four."
Joe stared at him. "You know how to use that?"
Considine nodded. "Nam, pal. Eighteen months in country."
Joe liked leaving Carole and Lacey with an armed stranger even less, but sensed he could trust Considine. He didn't have much choice.
"You folks hold the fort here. Lock the door and pull that desk in front of it. Shoot anyone who tries to get in."
"Where are you going?" Considine said.
"Upstairs. I've got a date with Franco."
He glanced at Carole. She had a dazed air about her that worried him. "Carole, are you all right?"
"I'll be fine," she said. "Hurry. You haven't much time."
"I know." He stepped close to her and took her in his arms and held her. He never wanted to leave her.
"I love you," he murmured as he kissed her hair. "Always remember that. We—"
He stopped as he felt a lump between her shoulder blades, and another farther down near the small of her back. He knew what they were.
"Oh, God, Carole!" he whispered. "Don't ever push those buttons. I know they give you comfort, but I beg you, don't. Please don't."
He released her she stared at him with stricken eyes. "Only as a last resort," she told him. "Only when all hope is gone."
"Then I pray that moment never comes." He turned and hugged Lacey. "My favorite niece," he said. "One of my favorite people in the whole world. Just remember: if anything happens to me, you and Carole get these tapes to the unoccupied territories."
Lacey backed away and gave him a strange look. "Why do you keep saying that? It's like you don't think you'll see us again."
"I might not. But I'm not what this is about. I'm expendable. If I can't make it back, you two must go on without me."
He couldn't tell them the truth. He turned to go.
"Wait," Carole said, holding a zipped-up backpack. "Don't forget this,"
He nodded and began slipping his arms through the straps as he ran for the elevators. The pack was hot against his back.
BARRETT . . .
Home from the night shift, James Barrett stepped into his Murray Hill brownstone and checked the long-pork filet he'd put in the refrigerator to thaw when he'd left at sunset. It had softened considerably but still had a ways to go.
He yawned. Christ, this was a boring way to live. Sleeping days, working nights. His internal clock couldn't seem to get used to it. Cooking was the only interesting thing in his life now, and even that was palling on him. Without fresh spices there were only so many ways you could cook human flesh. At least it was better than eating that slop they served the troops at Houlihan's day after day.
Not that he'd eat with the hoi polloi anyway. He needed to set himself apart, both in their eyes and in the undead's.
At least they'd had a little excitement last night with Neal getting killed and those two women stealing food from the kitchen. Neal wound up with the back of his head stove in. He was one tough mother. Barrett couldn't see a couple of women doing that. Must've had help.
He wondered if they were connected to the mess in the Lincoln tunnel. What if that hadn't been an accident?
He had put the cowboys on full alert tonight, stationed a couple of guards in Houlihan's, and sent out teams to look for someone, anyone who might be connected. They'd returned with a few stray cattle but no one who fit the cook's description.
He'd miss Neal. He was good for a laugh and for the application of a little muscle when Barrett gave him the go-ahead. But did he feel even a trace of sadness at his passing? They said when you were turned and rose as undead, you lost all your emotions. That would be a breeze for Barrett. He had no memory of feeling anything for anybody. Ever.