whispered.
“Floor it,” Tietjen ordered, low in his throat. “Frank, for Christ’s sake, floor it. They’ll turn us over too—” He did not finish. As the crowd turned toward their car Corliss stepped on the gas and the car tore a hole in their ranks, people scattering before it. Corliss had seen the arm that dangled, burning, from the window of one of the cars.
“Jesus God, Jesus,” Corliss was whispering like prayer. “Meggie, Christ, all alone. Meg.” His foot was pressed flat to the floor on the gas pedal; the car was taking curves on luck and inertia. “Christ, let me be home soon.”
Tietjen was possessed by the voice; his terror welled up and choked him. Christ, let me be home soon. He would never see home again. Without thinking, without hearing what he said, he asked, “Frank, take me to the Bronx. To one of the bridges.”
Corliss let up on the gas pedal a little, snapped out of his own trance. “What?”
“The Bronx. Take me to the Bronx. I’m not asking for Manhattan.”
Corliss looked at Tietjen sideways with a sad half-smile. “Son, your family isn’t alive in there. If they made it out they’ll find you. Look, you can come out to Bridgeport with us, we’ll find you a place—”
It was too late for Tietjen to explain about the howling voice in his head that drove him on, about Irene and the boys and the locks on their doors, about the city. Even if he had the words. Too late to allow himself to be affected by Corliss’s offer. It doesn’t matter, the voice howled. Nothing matters.
He repeated, “The Bronx, Frank. Please.”
Corliss shook his head. “I can’t. I’m not a hero, John. I’m scared to death. I want my wife and I want to get out of this, as far away … look, I wish I could help you. I’ll take you—”
The action was begun and completed almost before the thought had formed: Tietjen reached for the gun and in a moment had it, warm from its resting place by Corliss’s hip, in his hand. “The Bronx, Frank. It won’t take you long. I’m serious. I’m desperate.”
“Yes.” Corliss let his eyes flicker from the road to the gun to the road again. “If that’s what you want, John. You’ve got the gun. But think about what you’re walking into.”
Tietjen thought about it, clenching his hand around the gun, feeling its weight.
“Your family can’t be—”
“I know. Just drive, Frank. Please.” Tietjen’s voice was weary. Corliss drove and there was no more conversation.
Corliss drove with steady attention, as if he had made his agreement and meant to stick with it. Tietjen watched him, then the gun, then the road, then Corliss, then the gun, back and forth, feeling the cold weight of the thing in his hand, imagining what it would have been like if Corliss had forced him to use it. The image of that cluster of upended cars, of the one ghastly burning arm extended, played in his head. Looking down, Tietjen hated the gun, hated the voice that had driven him to use it as a threat.
“Frank.”
Corliss did not turn his head.
“Look, Frank. I’m sorry.” He stopped, looked down at the gun again.
Corliss relaxed the slightest bit. “I wish I could figure out what it is that’s driving you. It’s something more than your kids you’re worrying about?”
Tietjen kept his eyes on the gun in his hand. “I don’t know that I can explain it. I have to get back, that’s all. Since I heard about this thing. It’s crazy.”
“John, you know the city’s gone.” Corliss made it a statement. No avoiding it. “Is that what you’re going back for?”
“How do you know that? You said yourself, no one knows what’s happening.” Even to his own ears he sounded naive.
“And you’re going to save the city.” Corliss’s voice was gentle. This time the older man looked quickly at Tietjen; the glance was half pity, half assessment. Surprisingly, Tietjen found he did not mind the look or Corliss’s tone, the unveiling of his fears. The old
“Floor it,” Tietjen ordered, low in his throat. “Frank, for Christ’s sake, floor it. They’ll turn us over too—” He did not finish. As the crowd turned toward their car Corliss stepped on the gas and the car tore a hole in their ranks, people scattering before it. Corliss had seen the arm that dangled, burning, from the window of one of the cars.
“Jesus God, Jesus,” Corliss was whispering like prayer. “Meggie, Christ, all alone. Meg.” His foot was pressed flat to the floor on the gas pedal; the car was taking curves on luck and inertia. “Christ, let me be home soon.”
Tietjen was possessed by the voice; his terror welled up and choked him. Christ, let me be home soon. He would never see home again. Without thinking, without hearing what he said, he asked, “Frank, take me to the Bronx. To one of the bridges.”
Corliss let up on the gas pedal a little, snapped out of his own trance. “What?”
“The Bronx. Take me to the Bronx. I’m not asking for Manhattan.”
Corliss looked at Tietjen sideways with a sad half-smile. “Son, your family isn’t alive in there. If they made it out they’ll find you. Look, you can come out to Bridgeport with us, we’ll find you a place—”
It was too late for Tietjen to explain about the howling voice in his head that drove him on, about Irene and the boys and the locks on their doors, about the city. Even if he had the words. Too late to allow himself to be affected by Corliss’s offer. It doesn’t matter, the voice howled. Nothing matters.
He repeated, “The Bronx, Frank. Please.”
Corliss shook his head. “I can’t. I’m not a hero, John. I’m scared to death. I want my wife and I want to get out of this, as far away … look, I wish I could help you. I’ll take you—”
The action was begun and completed almost before the thought had formed: Tietjen reached for the gun and in a moment had it, warm from its resting place by Corliss’s hip, in his hand. “The Bronx, Frank. It won’t take you long. I’m serious. I’m desperate.”
“Yes.” Corliss let his eyes flicker from the road to the gun to the road again. “If that’s what you want, John. You’ve got the gun. But think about what you’re walking into.”
Tietjen thought about it, clenching his hand around the gun, feeling its weight.
“Your family can’t be—”
“I know. Just drive, Frank. Please.” Tietjen’s voice was weary. Corliss drove and there was no more conversation.
Corliss drove with steady attention, as if he had made his agreement and meant to stick with it. Tietjen watched him, then the gun, then the road, then Corliss, then the gun, back and forth, feeling the cold weight of the thing in his hand, imagining what it would have been like if Corliss had forced him to use it. The image of that cluster of upended cars, of the one ghastly burning arm extended, played in his head. Looking down, Tietjen hated the gun, hated the voice that had driven him to use it as a threat.
“Frank.”
Corliss did not turn his head.
“Look, Frank. I’m sorry.” He stopped, looked down at the gun again.
Corliss relaxed the slightest bit. “I wish I could figure out what it is that’s driving you. It’s something more than your kids you’re worrying about?”
Tietjen kept his eyes on the gun in his hand. “I don’t know that I can explain it. I have to get back, that’s all. Since I heard about this thing. It’s crazy.”
“John, you know the city’s gone.” Corliss made it a statement. No avoiding it. “Is that what you’re going back for?”
“How do you know that? You said yourself, no one knows what’s happening.” Even to his own ears he sounded naive.
“And you’re going to save the city.” Corliss’s voice was gentle. This time the older man looked quickly at Tietjen; the glance was half pity, half assessment. Surprisingly, Tietjen found he did not mind the look or Corliss’s tone, the unveiling of his fears. The old
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