“What did I just see?” said Delaplane softly, lowering her weapon.
“I have no idea,” said Coldmoon.
A hush fell as the cops around them began to rise from their places of cover, staring with shock and wonder as the smoke dissipated.
“The fucker just…” Delaplane began, then fell silent a moment. “It just did a Wicked Witch on us.”
At that moment, Coldmoon heard a crash, and a massive army bulldozer appeared on Gaston, ramming stalled and smoking cars aside. As it moved into the park, it was followed by a line of tanks and MRAPs full of troops.
“And here comes the cavalry,” said Delaplane acidly. “Right on time.”
75
THE SOUND OF EXCITED humanity. People running, shouting, yelling; knocking over or trampling each other in a rush. Horses rearing in their harnesses, breaking free of carts and plunging into the milling throng. Omnibuses stuck in intersections, unable to move, as the crowds flowed like maddened lemmings around them. Loud explosions; smoke drifting through the air…And, above all the chaos, a thousand feet over the roofs of the tenements and brownstones, a long shape glided into view: on and on it emerged from the concealing clouds, as if its sleek bulk had no end, moving with silent purpose…
Abruptly, Constance opened her eyes. Around her was pitch darkness. As full consciousness returned, she realized the vision was not a dream, but a memory—of the day she’d witnessed the Graf Zeppelin make its maiden voyage across the Atlantic, passing over New York City on its way to the landing spot in Lakehurst. The crowds had not been screaming in terror, but rather cheering and lighting fireworks. And she was not in bed: she was buried in the rubble of what had previously been the top floor of the Chandler House.
She lay in the darkness for a moment, giving herself time to remember. She had fought the creature from the balcony, Frost’s weapon had misfired, Constance had carried her inside—and as she died, Frost whispered something to Constance. And then the beast had thrown its weight against the roof of the hotel, the ceiling had caved in, and all had gone black. As she came fully awake, she realized it was oddly quiet.
As Frost’s final words came back to her, Constance sat up. Spots danced in the darkness before her eyes. With effort, she freed her arms from a broken timber that lay across her leg and carefully felt along her ribs, shoulders, and spine. Everything hurt. But nothing, it seemed, was broken. She pushed more debris away, then rose, coughing at the clouds of brick dust. She took an unsteady step, then another, feeling her way through a ruined tangle of furniture, joists, and plaster. A wall brought her progress to a halt. Using her hands, she felt along it until she found a doorknob. With an effort, she pulled the door partway open, and—seeing a faint red light beyond—stepped through.
But she was not on the landing at the top of the narrow stairs. Rather, she was in a partially collapsed hallway, lit only by emergency exits. Her eyes, long used to darkness, adjusted. She was on the hotel’s fourth floor, surrounded by the rubble from above. Frost. She was gone now—in more ways than one. But nevertheless, Constance realized what she had to do. She walked down the hall. Reaching the staircase, she descended to the lobby, then to the basement. How long had she been unconscious? It was silent outside; the beast was no longer screaming.
She went down the basement corridor, through the wardrobe, and into the room with the machine. To her surprise, the light was on and it was running at high power, the whole room vibrating, the dial turned past II. As she stared into the portal, she saw that the image had changed. The view of Times Square an hour into the future was gone, replaced by a tunnel of coruscating light, the distant endpoint now just a muddy, swirling pool, as if it had been recently disturbed.
She looked at her watch. More than forty-five minutes had passed since they had first seen the destruction of Savannah through this portal. There wasn’t much time left…if there was any time at all. Savannah was already becoming the burning ruin they had seen on the news screens.
But that was not her concern: not now. She stared into the portal. The image at the far end of the tunnel was beginning to clear. And at last, she could once again see Times Square: distant, attenuated.
She recognized it immediately, intimately—but it was not the Times Square of the present, but rather its predecessor, Longacre Square. The wide square was paved with dirty cobblestones. Iron hitching posts for horse carts ran parallel to the pavements. There were no automobiles to be seen. Police with nightsticks, wearing helmets resembling Prussian pickelhauben, directed traffic of horse-drawn carriages and drays.