The Taking

Cassie, if she was to be the rescuer of children that so many children needed her to be.
        Incipient tears welled in her eyes. She blinked them back, fearful that they would blur her vision. In the blur, she would be vulnerable to Angie, to whatever had driven the forty people into the basement, to the thing with faces in its hands if it existed.
        "Angie…" Molly's voice broke, speaking to the wounded child at the heart of this woman. "What've they done to you?"
        Even in her madness, Angie Boteen recognized the tenderness that wrung tears from Molly. Understanding the finality of those words, she threw the bottle aside. It shattered on the elevator doors.
        "Wish I was dead already." Angie began to shake as though she'd only now become aware of being naked in a cold room. "Wish I was."
        Lowering the pistol, Molly said, "Let me take you out of here."
        Angie stared with dread toward the cellar stairs. "It's coming."
        Edging closer to the door to the tavern, Molly also aligned herself with the cellar door and raised the pistol once more.
        The woman cared nothing for Cassie, only for her own plight, but Molly persisted: "A nine-year-old girl. You must have seen her. She was the only child left here."
        Angie Boteen began to sink into the floor as if she were standing in quicksand.

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    49
        
        AN EXTRATERRESTRIAL SPECIES, HUNDREDS OR thousands of years more advanced than us, would possess technology that would appear to us to be not the result of applied science but entirely supernatural, pure magic.
        That was what Neil had said, quoting some science-fiction writer after the events at the Corrigan house.
        In the hours since, Molly had seen ample evidence of the truth in that contention, not least of all the transit of Angie Boteen through the receiving-room floor.
        Concrete is what concrete means. Real. Actual. Solid-as in "an artificial stonelike material made by mixing cement with various aggregates."
        Yet this slab of steel-reinforced, poured-in-place concrete, the stuff of bomb shelters and ammunition bunkers, seemed to adjust its billions of atoms to precisely fit the interstices between the atoms of the woman's body. The floor did not appear to soften. It did not part like the jaws of a shark eager to swallow. It did not blossom outward in concentric circles as does water that has accommodated a dropped stone. What it did do was accept Angie Boteen as if she were a spirit-less than ectoplasmic vapor, the merest apparition-and pass her through in smooth descent from the receiving room to the cellar.
        Angie was not a ghost. Her flesh was as solid and as vulnerable as Molly's. She had thrown the Corona bottle, which had shattered on the elevator doors. Her bare feet had left prints in the blood trail leading to the basement stairs. Her tears had dripped from her jaw line, leaving tiny dark spots of moisture on the concrete, each more of a mark on the floor than she had made by passing through it.
        She didn't vanish as instantly as a message cylinder sucked down a pneumatic tube; neither did she offer any resistance nor meet with any. Perhaps she took six seconds to precipitate from ground floor to the lower realm, beginning with the soles of her feet and concluding with a final wisp of trailing hair.
        Considering how frightened she had been of the thing with faces in its hands, and assuming that this entity must have had something to do with drawing her through the cement and various aggregates, Angie made surprisingly little noise during her departure. She didn't scream. She didn't cry out to God for help or to well-respected Billy Marek with his knives.
        She said softly, "Oh," not in surprise but in recognition-of what, Molly could not guess-and looked down at her legs vanishing through concrete. Her eyes widened, but she appeared less afraid than at any moment since she had stepped into the receiving room.
        When Molly held out a hand, Angie reached for it, saying, "Sauvez-moi, sauvez-moi"-which was what the astronaut Emily Lapeer had cried out aboard the International Space Station when coming face to face with the uninvited visitors. "Save me, save me," Angie repeated in French, in the very voice of Emily Lapeer, and something in her eyes was different than before, hostile and mocking.
        She wasn't afraid, because she wasn't Angie anymore. Angie was a