End of Days by Frank Lauria Page B

fallen into. But one thing he knew for certain. Time was running out.
    *   *   *
    In New York City, ConEd worked around the clock.
    Charlie liked the night shift: no traffic, no gawkers, just the cool, peaceful sewers. His partner Phil liked it, too. Phil was a whiz at paperwork, especially when it came to overtime. Between the two of them, they had it made.
    This job seemed simple enough. A manhole had popped a few hours before, most likely a methane buildup in the corridor. But it was too hot for methane. Charlie was sweating profusely minutes after descending into the swampy darkness. His mask filtered the foul odor, but he had no protection against the stifling heat.
    Exhausted, Charlie slogged over to the nearby gauge.
    â€œWhatcha got there, Charlie?”
    Phil’s voice echoed down the sewer tunnel as Charlie peered at the dials.
    â€œI dunno,” Charlie muttered, watching the quivering needle. “Pressure’s climbing off the gauge.”
    Charlie wasn’t really worried. Faulty gauges were common enough. And if the methane buildup went over the top, he always had his mask.
    Charlie was an optimist.
    A skin-searing flash blinded him—but he never heard the blast. A fiery geyser spewed up through the sewer, incinerating him instantly. Up on the street, Phil ran, but he couldn’t escape the second blast directly in front of him. Trapped, he pulled down his mask and ran headlong between the two columns of fire rising up like the gates of hell.
    Hell or heaven, he didn’t make it. The flames reached out for him and pulled him back.
    One after another, the manholes blew, erupting like white-hot volcanoes that consumed Phil’s bones and melted glass windows. The roaring pyrotechnics immediately drew a crowd, but not one of the onlookers noticed the opaque shape that slipped through them like an unholy wind.
    The time was at hand.

C HAPTER FIVE
    It was more like a ripple than a definite shape. But its cold energy was quite palpable. Pedestrians shivered as it passed, not knowing why. It moved swiftly, drawn by its own yearning to be complete … whole … to fulfill its monstrous destiny.…
    The green-eyed man liked to think of himself as a realist.
    Not in the best of condition, he conceded, checking his image in the mirror. But his hand-tailored suit richly enhanced what nature had neglected. The discreet gold Cartier watch and ruby ring hinted at his power. And power was the strongest aphrodisiac.
    Stronger than the coke and champagne he was slipping Henry’s wife, the man mused, dabbing his face with a paper towel. The man surveyed himself in the men’s room mirror. He looked rich, he looked powerful, and he looked like the cold, ruthless son of a bitch he was.
    There was a rattling at the bolted door as if someone needed the restroom. Let them suffer, the man thought. A restaurant of this quality should have private facilities for its select clientele. He’d have to speak to Pietro about it.
    Anyway, after the attempt on his life that morning, he wasn’t about to unbolt the door until he was good and ready. The man took a deep breath. It felt good to be alive.
    He went over his agenda for the evening. First he would talk a bit of business with Henry over dinner. Then later, he would make love to Henry’s wife, Tina. Essentially fucking Henry twice, he gloated.
    The door rattled slightly.
    A shapeless ripple drifted through the door, silently twisting with a deep, yawning hunger.
    Still gazing into the mirror, the man didn’t see anything but himself.
    With incredible force, the ripple snapped the man’s spine, lifting his body off the floor and jerking his neck back so that his bulging eyes were gaping at the chandelier.
    The violent shock seemed to hold him aloft for an agonizing second, then evaporated, dropping his limp body to the cool black tiles.
    *   *   *
    Pietro’s restaurant had the