Chapter 1 #3
“This Charles Krantz isn’t associated with your bank? Retiring from the bank?”
She paused for just a moment before continuing her homeward trudge, carrying high heels she would not need that day.
Perhaps ever again. “I don’t know Charles Krantz from Adam.
He must have worked in the Omaha headquarters.
Although from what I understand, Omaha is just a great big ashtray these days. ”
Marty watched her go. So did Gus Wilfong, who had joined him. Gus nodded at the glum parade of returning workers who could no longer get to their jobs—selling, trading, banking, waiting on tables, making deliveries.
“They look like refugees,” Gus said.
“Yeah,” Marty said. “They kind of do. Hey, you remember asking me about my food supplies?”
Gus nodded.
“I have quite a few cans of soup. Also some basmati and Rice-A-Roni. Cheerios, I believe. As for the freezer, I think I might have six TV dinners and half a pint of Ben what if Chuck’s face had appeared there? How would he deal with that ?
He gave up walking at number 13. He ran the rest of the way to Felicia’s little two-room bungalow, pounded up the front walk, and knocked on the door.
He waited, suddenly sure she was still at the hospital, maybe working a double, but then he heard her footsteps.
The door opened. She was holding a candle. It underlit her frightened face.
“Marty, thank God. Do you see them?”
“Yes.” The guy was in her front window, too. Chuck. Smiling. Looking like every accountant who ever lived. A man who wouldn’t say boo to a goose.
“They just started… showing up!”
“I know. I saw.”
“Is it just here?”
“I think it’s everywhere. I think it’s almost—”
Then she was hugging him, pulling him inside, and he was glad she hadn’t given him a chance to say the other two words: the end .