Page 51 of Them

Lane cleared his voice, as if to change the subject. “It would help to know your name, friend.”

“ ‘Friend’ is good, if it’s all the same to you. Nothing personal.” Now he wanted the subject changed. He looked around the ransacked hallway. “So, where are you sleeping?”

“Uh, downstairs, there’s a few safe rooms,” Lane said, brow furrowed. “There’s plenty of space for both of us. I’ll show you the way whenever you’re ready—but hey, come on, you got to tell me your name.”

“I don’t remember it,” the man said, his face still as a statue’s. “Call me whatever you want.”

Lane looked like he was going to keep pushing, but only said, “Okay. Fair enough. Friend.” Lantern in hand, the old man continued into the next room, which was cluttered with folding tables, office chairs, and paper shredders scattered all about.

“What is this place?”

“Temporary burn center. Too much dirty laundry to leave behind. Not that it matters now.”

“And before?”

“Reception room.”

Lane walked with confident intent, as if he’d been in this room and traveled these halls a hundred times before. The man followed closely behind, wondering just how long his new friend had been holed up in one of the world’s most famous buildings.

“When did you get here?” he asked.

“Last night,” Lane said, stopping in front of a closet door. It was one of the few doors they’d run across that was closed. “The journey was… pretty darn peaceful, believe it or not. Only ran into one Scorp.”

The man looked at him in alarm. “What’d you do?” L.B. looked like he was in great shape, but he still had to be in his sixties, maybe even seventies. The idea of him going up against something like the Nightwalker was brutal.

“I hit it in the eyes… just like I said to do on the radio.”

“You killed it?”

A laugh that wasn’t joyful. “Killed lots… once upon a time. Anyway…” He opened the door. “Here’s our stop.”

The closet on the other side of the door wasn’t a closet at all. Instead of moldy buckets and dusty mops, there was a narrow descending staircase.

Stunned, the man glanced at Lane, then back at the staircase. “This is some serious Men in Black shit.”

The old man grinned, staring into the pitch-black descent. “The sun’s not long off. I’ve got plenty of rations if you’re hungry. Figure we’ll save the wine and turkey for tomorrow, though, huh?”

“Turkey?” the man asked, cringing at his own excitement. “You’ve got canned turkey? And it hasn’t gone bad?”

“Try again. Shot it myself on the way here. That’s how the Scorp found me. Gunshot woke the damn thing up.” They came to the bottom of the hidden stairs and were met by a long hallway lined on both sides by heavy metal doors. No windows. “Safe rooms. They built them back in ’21, but anyone who knew about them skedaddled west when New York got the bombs. They’ve stayed untouched ever since.”

“How do you know about them?”

“That’s another story… one I’m happy to share, if you’d like.”

“Tomorrow. I need to sleep.”

Lane glanced at his bulky wristwatch and raised an eyebrow. “Listen, if you’re planning on slippin’ out, just say so. Won’t hurt my feelings none.”

“I’m not, promise. Just need a good night’s rest. I… I’m not myself right now.”

Lane gave him a wary nod and pushed open the nearest door, revealing a sparse room. “These are my quarters. Take any of the other safe rooms. They’re all identical and lock tight from the inside… just in case you still have trust issues.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Do you need a lantern? What about your injuries?”

“I’m all good,” the man said, brandishing his own flashlight. “Cleaned the wounds myself.”