The City of Mirrors: A Novel (Book Three of The Passage Trilogy)

by Justin Cronin

  Forgive me, Alicia, my modest deceit. You made it rather easy. In my defense, I did not lie. I would have told you, had you asked; you believed because you wanted to. You might ask yourself, Who, my dear, was following whom? Who the watcher and who the watched? Night after night you prowled the tunnels like a schoolmarm counting heads. Honestly, your gullibility was a little disappointing. Did you truly believe that all my children are here? That I could have been so careless? That I would be content to bide a meaningless eternity? I am a scientist, methodical in all things; my eyes are everywhere, seeing all. My descendants, my Many: I walk with them, I haunt the night, I see as they see, and what do I behold? The great city defenseless, all but abandoned. The small towns and farms, staking their claim. Humanity bursting with ripeness, flowing over the land. They have forgotten us; their minds have returned to the ordinary concerns of life. How will the weather be? What will I wear to the dance? Whom should I marry? Shall I have a child? What will I name it?

  What would you tell them, Alicia?

  The heavens toy with me; I will have satisfaction. I have waited long enough for this savior, this Girl from Nowhere, this Amy NLN. She taunts me with her silence, her limitless, tactical calm. To flush me out, that is her aspiration, and so she shall have it. I know what you are thinking, Alicia. Surely I must despise her, for the deaths of my ignoble fellows, my Twelve. Far from it! The day she faced them was one of the happiest of my long, unhappy exile. Her sacrifice was supreme. It was positively God-kissed. It gave me—dare I use the word?—hope. Without alpha, there can be no omega; without beginning, no end.

  Bring her to me, I told you. My quarrel is not with humankind; it is but ransom to the nobler purpose. Bring her to me, my darling, my Lish, and I will spare the rest.

  Oh, I have no illusions. I know what you will do. Always I have known, and I have loved you no less for it—to the contrary. You are the better part of me; each of us must play his role.

  Thus the long-awaited day. You asked, Who is the king, whose conscience we must catch? Is it I, or is there another? Shall the creator be moved to pity his creation? Soon we will know. The stage is set, the lights go down, the actors take their marks.

  Let it begin.

  * * *

  34

  “Everybody, kill your engines.”

  0440 hours: in darkness they rowed the final fifty yards to shore and dragged the launches onto the sand. A few hundred yards south, the glow of burning butane flickered in the sky. Michael checked his rifle, racked his sidearm, and returned it to its holster. Everyone else did the same.

  They broke into three groups and scuttled up the dunes. Rand’s squad would take the workers’ quarters, Weir’s the radio and control rooms. Michael’s team, the largest, would rendezvous with Greer’s to secure the Army barracks and armory. That’s where the shooting would be.

  Michael pressed the radio to his mouth. “Lucius, are you in position?”

  “Roger that. Waiting on your signal.”

  The refinery was protected by a two-tiered fence line with guard towers; the remainder of the perimeter was a gauntlet of trip-wire mines. The only access from the north was straight through the gate. Greer would lead the frontal assault using a tanker truck equipped with a plow. A pair of trucks full of men would follow. A pickup at the rear, armed with a fifty-caliber and a grenade launcher, would dispense with the towers if need be. Michael’s orders were to avoid casualties if possible, but if it came to that…

  The teams dispersed at a quick step. Michael and his men took up positions around the barracks, a long Quonset hut with doors front and rear. They were expecting fifty well-armed men inside, perhaps more.

  “Team one.”

  “Good to go.”

  “Team two.”

  “Roger that.”

  Michael checked his watch: 0450. He looked at Patch, who nodded.

  Michael raised his flare gun and fired. A popping flash and the compound appeared around them in blocks of light and shadow. A second later, Patch launched the gas canister from its tube. Shouts and gunfire from the gate, and then a crash as the semi plowed through the fence. Gas had begun to sift under the door of the barracks. As it flew open, Michael’s men released a barrage of grazing fire into the dirt. The fleeing soldiers lurched backward in confusion. More men were careening into them from behind, choking and coughing and sputtering.

  “On your knees! Drop your weapons! Hands on your heads!”

  The soldiers had nowhere to run; onto their knees they went.

  “Everyone, report.”

  “Team two, secure.”

  “Lucius?”

  “No casualties. Headed your way.”

  “Team one?”

  Michael’s men had moved forward to wrap the soldiers’ wrists and ankles with heavy cord. Most were still coughing, a few vomiting helplessly.

  “Team one, report.”

  A grainy crackle of static; then, a voice, not Rand’s: “Secure.”

  “Where’s Rand?”

  A pause, followed by laughter. “You’ll have to give him a minute. That woman sure packs a wallop.”

  —

  It had been too easy. Michael had expected more of a fight—any kind of fight.

  “These guns are practically empty.”

  Greer showed him; none of the soldiers’ magazines had more than two rounds.

  “What about the armory?”

  “Clean as a whistle.”

  “That’s actually not so good.”

  From Greer, a tight nod. “I know. We’ll have to do something about that.”

  It was Rand who brought Lore to him. Her wrists were bound. At the sight of him she startled, then quickly composed herself.

  “I guess you missed me, Michael?”

  “Hello, Lore.” Then, to Rand: “Take those off.”

  Rand cut her loose. Lore had nailed him with a hard right cross. His left eye was half-shut, his cheek marked with the imprint of her fist. Michael felt almost proud.

  “Let’s go someplace and talk,” he said.

  He led Lore into the station chief’s office. Her office: for fifteen years, the refinery had been Lore’s to run. Michael sat behind the desk to make a point; Lore sat across from him. The day had broken, warming the room with its light. She looked older, of course, aged by sun and work, but the raw physicality was still there, the strength.

  “So how’s your pal Dunk?”

  Michael smiled at her. “It’s good to see you. You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “Are you trying to be funny?”

  “I mean it.”

  She glanced away, a furious look on her face. “Michael, what do you want?”

  “I need fuel. Heavy diesel, the dirty stuff.”

  “Going into the oil business? It’s a hard life—I don’t recommend it.”

  He took a long breath. “I know this doesn’t make you happy. But there’s a reason.”

  “Is that right?”

  “How much do you have?”

  “You know what I always liked best about you, Michael?”

  “No, what?”

  “I don’t remember either.”

  It was true: she was just the same. Michael felt a frisson of attraction. Her power had not abated.

  He leaned back in his chair, balanced the tips of his fingers together, and said, “You have a major delivery to the Kerrville depot scheduled in five days. Add that to what’s in the storage tanks, I’m figuring you’ve got somewhere in the neighborhood of eighty thousand gallons.”

  Lore shrugged indifferently.

  “So I should take that as a yes?”

  “You should take it up your ass, actually.”

  “I’m going to find out anyway.”

  She sighed. “Okay, fine. Yes, eighty thousand, more or less. Does that satisfy you?”

  “Good. I’m going to need it all.”

  Lore cocked her head. “I beg your pardon?”

  “With twenty tanker trucks, I’m thinkin
g we can move it all in just under six days. After that, we’ll release your people. No harm, no foul. You’ve got my word.”

  Lore was staring at him. “Move it where? What the hell do you need eighty thousand gallons for?”

  Ah.

  —

  The tanker trucks were being loaded; the first convoy would be ready to move by 0900. For Michael, five days of looking at his watch, yelling at everyone: Hurry the hell up.

  One wrinkle, maybe small, maybe not. When Weir’s men had stormed the communications hut, the radio operator had been in the midst of sending a message. There was no way to know what it was, because the man was dead—the morning’s only fatality.

  “How the hell did that happen?”

  Weir shrugged. “Lombardi thought he had a weapon. It looked like he was drawing on us.”

  The weapon was a stapler.

  “Have any messages come in since?” Michael asked, thinking, Lombardi, of course it would be you, you trigger-happy asshole.

  “Nothing so far.”

  Michael cursed himself. The man’s death was regrettable, but that wasn’t the true source of his anger. They should have taken out the radio first. A stupid mistake, probably not the first.

  “Get on the horn,” he said, then thought the better of it. “No, wait until twelve hundred. That’s when they expect the refinery to check in.”

  “What should I tell them?”

  “ ‘Sorry, we shot the radio operator. He was waving office supplies at us.’ ”

  Weir just looked at him.

  “I don’t know, something normal. ‘Everything’s peachy, how are you, isn’t it a nice day?’ ”

  The man hurried away. Michael walked to the Humvee, where Lore was waiting in the backseat. Rand was handcuffing her to the safety rail.

  “You should take somebody else with you,” Rand said.

  Michael accepted the key to the cuffs and got in the cab. He glanced at Lore through the mirror. “You promise to be good or do you need a babysitter?”

  “The man you shot. His name was Cooley. The guy wouldn’t squash a bug.”

  Michael looked at Rand. “I’ll be fine. Just get that diesel moving.”

  —

  The drive to the channel took three hours. Lore barely uttered a word, and Michael made no effort to draw her out. It had been a hard morning for her—the end of a career, the death of a friend, a public humiliation—all at the hands of a man she had every reason to despise. She needed time to adjust, especially considering the things Michael was about to tell her.

  They passed through the wires and made their way down the causeway. He brought the truck to a halt behind the machine shed at the edge of the quay. From here, the Bergensfjord wasn’t visible. He wanted a grand unveiling.

  “So why am I here?”

  Michael opened Lore’s door and unlocked her wrists. As she climbed out of the Humvee, he withdrew his sidearm and held it out to her.

  “What’s this?”

  “A gun, obviously.”

  “And you’re giving it to me?”

  “You get to pick. Shoot me, take the truck, you’ll be back in Kerrville by nightfall. Stay, and you’ll know what this is all about. But there are rules.”

  Lore said nothing, merely raised an eyebrow.

  “Rule one is you can’t leave unless I allow it. You’re not a prisoner, you’re one of us. Once I tell you what’s happening, you’ll see the necessity. Rule two is I’m in charge. Speak your mind, but never question me in front of my men.”

  She was looking at him as if he’d lost all sense. Still, the offer had to be made; the woman had to choose.

  “Why in hell would I want to join you?”

  “Because I’m going to show you something that will change everything you thought you knew about your life. And because, deep down, you trust me.”

  She stared at him, then laughed. “The comedy never stops, does it?”

  “I wasn’t fair to you, Lore. I’m not proud of what I did—you deserved better than that. But there was a reason. I said you haven’t changed, which is true. That’s why I brought you here. I need your help. I can see why you’d say no, but I hope you won’t.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “Where exactly is Dunk?”

  “This was never about the trade. I needed money and manpower. More than that, I needed secrecy. Five weeks ago, Dunk and all his lieutenants went into the channel. There is no trade anymore. Only me, and those loyal to me.” He nudged the gun toward her. “The mag is full, and there’s one in the pipe. What you do with it is up to you.”

  Lore accepted the pistol. For a long moment she looked at it, until, with a heavy sigh, she slid it into the waistband of her jeans at the base of her spine.

  “If it’s all right with you, I’m keeping this.”

  “That’s fine. It’s yours now.”

  “I must be out of my mind.”

  “You made the right choice.”

  “I regret it already. I’m only going to say this one time, but you really broke my heart, you know that?”

  “I do. And I apologize.”

  A brief silence. Then she nodded, just once: case closed. “So?”

  “Brace yourself.”

  —

  He wanted Lore to see the Bergensfjord from below. That was the best way. Not just to see her but to experience her; only then could her meaning be grasped. They took the stairs to the floor of the drydock. Michael waited as Lore approached the hull. The ship’s flanks were smooth and gracefully curved, every rivet tight. Beneath the Bergensfjord’s massive propellers, Lore came to a halt, gazing upward. Michael would let her speak first. Above them, the clang of footfalls, men calling to one another, the whine of a pneumatic drill, the ship’s vast square footage of metal amplifying every sound like a giant tuning fork.

  “I knew there was a boat…”

  Michael was standing beside her. She turned to face him. In her eyes a struggle was being waged.

  “She’s called the Bergensfjord,” Michael said.

  Lore spread her hands and looked around. “All this?”

  “Yes. For her.”

  Lore moved forward, extended her right hand over her head, and pressed it against the hull—just as Michael had done on the morning they’d drained the water from the dock, revealing the Bergensfjord in all her rusted, invincible glory. Lore held it there, then, as if startled, broke away.

  “You’re scaring me,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “Please tell me you were just keeping your hands busy. That I’m not seeing what I think I’m seeing.”

  “What do you think you’re seeing?”

  “A lifeboat.”

  Some color had drained from her face; she seemed uncertain where to direct her eyes.

  “I’m afraid it is,” Michael said.

  “You’re lying. You’re making this up.”

  “It’s not good news—I’m sorry.”

  “How could you possibly know?”

  “There’s a lot to explain. But it’s going to happen. The virals are coming back, Lore. They were never really gone.”

  “This is crazy.” Her confusion turned to anger. “You’re crazy. Do you know what you’re saying?”

  “I’m afraid I do.”

  “I don’t want anything to do with this.” She was backing away. “This can’t be true. Why don’t people know? They would know, Michael.”

  “That’s because we haven’t told them.”

  “Who the hell is ‘we’?”

  “Me and Greer. A handful of others. There’s no other way to say this, so I just will. Anybody who’s not on this boat is going to die, and we’re running out of time. There’s an island in the South Pacific. We believe it’s safe there—maybe the only safe place. We have food and fuel for seven hundred passengers, maybe a few more.”

  He hadn’t expected this to be easy. Under ideal circumstances, he would have softened the blow. But Lore would cope, because that was her
nature, the meat and marrow of Lore DeVeer. What had passed between them years ago was, for her, a painful memory perhaps, a quick jolt of anger and regret that touched her from time to time, but not for Michael. She was part of his life, and a good part, because she was one of the few people who had ever understood him. There were people who simply made existence more bearable; Lore was one.

  “That’s why I brought you here. We have a long voyage ahead of us. I need the diesel, but that’s not all. The men who work for me, well, you’ve met them. They’re hard workers, and they’re loyal, but that only goes so far. I need you.”

  Her struggle was not over. There was more talking to be done. Nevertheless, Michael saw his words taking hold.

  “Even if what you say is true,” Lore said, “what can I possibly do?”

  The Bergensfjord: he had given her everything. Now he would give her this.

  “I need you to learn how to drive her.”

  * * *

  35

  The funeral was held in the early morning. A simple gravesite service: Meredith had requested that no general announcement of Vicky’s death be made until the following day. Despite her high profile, Vicky had been a guarded person, sharing her private life with just a handful of people. Let it just be us. Peter offered a few words, followed by Sister Peg. The last to speak was Meredith. She appeared composed; she’d had years to prepare. Still, she said, with a hitch in her voice, one was never really ready. She then went on to tell a series of hilarious stories that left them all weeping with laughter. At the end, everyone was saying the same thing. Vicky would have been so pleased.

  They adjourned to the house that was now Meredith’s alone. The bed in the parlor was gone. Peter moved among the mourners—government officials, military, a few friends—then, as he was preparing to leave, Chase took him aside.

  “Peter, if you have a second, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  Here it comes, he thought. The timing made sense; now that Vicky was gone, the man felt that the path had been cleared for him. They stepped into the kitchen. Chase appeared uncharacteristically anxious, fiddling with his beard. “This is a little awkward for me,” he admitted.