The Nightworld - Jack Blaine [18]
My stomach is growling. I check the fridge and find eggs and bacon. Fifteen minutes and a half a cube of melted butter later, I’m ready to feast. Tank lies at my feet, eyeing my plate. Still no signal on my phone, so I switch on the television to see what they’re saying today.
Every channel is news.
I settle on one that seems to be doing national coverage and listen to the report, this time from a woman with a dark blue suit and a serious expression.
“. . . president says that the curfew will be enforced until further notice. The National Guard is being deployed in some areas of the country now, in order to control the looting and violence that seem to be increasing. Please remain in your homes if at all possible. If you need to venture out for food or medical supplies, be certain to do so during approved hours. Check your local stations for curfew hours, emergency procedures, availability of supplies, and other information. And as always, we urge you to remain calm. The situation is under control.”
The picture switches to a local news anchor. He’s just as quickly replaced by a montage of footage showing scenes from the city. A building, fully engulfed in flames, blazes bright against the dark sky; a guy in a hoodie running and throwing a brick into the plate-glass window of a bank; a shot of the freeway out of town, completely gridlocked with cars full of people trying to get away. Back to the news anchor, who looks almost panicked himself.
“We’ve lost contact with the Team Four mobile crew, but as soon as we can reestablish, we’ll be bringing you the latest. Stay tuned for—”
The picture cuts out, replaced by static.
To me, the situation doesn’t seem to be under control.
Tank pushes his nose against my knee and gives my plate another pointed look. I dump what’s left of my bacon and eggs on top of some of his kibble in a bowl and set it on the floor for him. Four seconds later, it’s gone.
“You’re gonna have to watch that, my friend. We don’t have an endless supply, I bet.” Tank looks up at me and tilts his head back and forth like he’s trying to figure out if I’m capable of actually communicating or if I’m just making random sounds.
After I make sure all of the curtains are pulled on all of the windows, I decide to see what we do have, and I start in the kitchen. Mrs. Bradley keeps the place stocked. There’s lots of pasta and cereal and canned stuff in the cupboards. The fridge is full, and when I look more carefully than I did when I grabbed the eggs, I see we can probably last here a long time. I check the downstairs bathroom, but it’s a guest bathroom, so there’s not much but pretty soap. Upstairs, in the family bathroom, there’s a ton of stuff that might come in handy. Aspirin, Band-Aids, some gauze, some peroxide. I check the nightstand next to the Mr. and Mrs. Holzer’s bed, just in case there’s a gun, but no luck there. I guess Mr. Holzer would have taken it, though, if they had one. I find a little metal flashlight in the back and shove it in my pocket.
Back downstairs, I go for the junk drawer in the kitchen—I know Charlie’s house almost as well as my own, and they have a junk drawer just like we do. It’s filled with odds and ends that are too good to throw out. That’s where we keep our batteries, and it turns out they do too. I find four that fit the flashlight I found upstairs. I find an old pocketknife and a pocket spray can of mace.
I spend the day switching the television on and off to see if it’s getting any stations. Nothing comes on until after my lunch—a ham-and-cheese sandwich with some rocky road ice cream from the freezer. Then it’s the channel