The Taking

when the night was patterned with the pus trails of so many suppurating evils.
        "The bank," Neil suggested.
        Eyes turned to him, blinking, as if each person at the table, like Molly, had been roused from a waking nightmare by his words.
        "The bank," Neil said, "is poured-in-place concrete clad in limestone, built in 1936 or '37, when the state first enforced earthquake-resistant building codes."
        "And they made things to last in those days," Molly said.
        Tucker liked the idea. "The bank was designed with security in mind. One or two entrances. Not many windows, plus they're narrow."
        "Barred, too," Neil reminded him.
        Tucker nodded. "Plenty of space for people and supplies."
        Vince Hoyt said, "I never coached a single game where I ever thought a loss was inevitable, not even in the final quarter when the other team had us by four touchdowns, and I have no intention of trading that attitude for a loser mentality now. Damn if I will. But there is one other good thing about the bank. The vault. Armored walls, thick steel door. It'll make a hell of a final bolt-hole if it comes to that. If they want to tear the door off and come in after us, we'll make a shooting gallery of them, and take a slew of the bastards with us."

----

    20
        
        WITH THE CALCULATED CARRIAGE OF A DIGNIFIED landlubber trying to cross the deck of a yawing ship without making a fool of himself, Derek Sawtelle traveled from the camp of the swillpots to Molly's chair among the fighters. He bent close to her. "Dear lady, even under these circumstances, you look enchanting."
        "And even under these circumstances," she said affectionately, "you're full of horseshit."
        "Might I have a word with you and Neil?" he asked. "In private?"
        He was a genteel drunk. The more gin and tonic that he consumed, the more mannerly he became.
        Having been a casual friend of Derek's for five years, Molly knew that he had not been driven to the bottle tonight by the contemplation of civilization's collapse. Managed inebriation was his lifestyle, his philosophy, his faith.
        A long-tenured professor of literature at the state university in San Bernardino, nearing sixty-five and mandatory retirement, Derek specialized in American authors of the previous century.
        His novelist heroes were the hard-drinking macho bullies from Hemingway to Norman Mailer. His admiration for them was based partly on his literary insights, but it also had the quality of a homely girl's secret crush on a high-school football star.
        Lacking an athletic physique, too kind to punch people out in barroom brawls or to cheer the bloody spectacle of a bullfight, or to dangle a wife from a high-rise window by her ankles, Derek could model himself after his heroes only by immersion in literature and gin. He had spent his life swimming in both.
        Some professors might have made fine actors, for they approached teaching as a performance. Derek was one of these.
        At his request, Molly had spoken to his students a few times and had seen him in action on his chosen stage. He proved to be an entertaining teacher but also an excellent one.
        Here with the drums of Armageddon beating on the roof, Derek dressed as if he were soon to enter a classroom or attend a faculty reception. Perhaps mid-twentieth-century academics had never favored wool slacks and tweed jackets, harlequin-patterned sweater vests, foulard handkerchiefs, and hand-knotted bow ties; however, Derek had not only written his role in life but also had designed his costume, which he wore with authority.
        When Molly rose from the table and, with Neil, followed Derek Sawtelle toward the back of the tavern, she saw that once more she had the full attention of the nine dogs.
        Three of them-a black Labrador, a golden retriever, and a mutt of complex heritage-were roaming the room, sniffing the floor, teasing themselves with the lingering scents of bar food dropped in recent days but since cleaned up: here, a whiff of yesterday's guacamole; there, a spot of grease from a dropped French fry.
        Since the rain had begun, this was the first time that Molly had seen animals engaged in any activity that seemed right and ordinary. Nevertheless, while the roaming trio kept their damp noses to the plank flooring, they rolled their eyes to watch her surreptitiously from under their lowered