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

by Justin Cronin

  “Shall we?” Apgar said.

  They walked briskly down the hall. Thick smoke was boiling up. At the door they halted.

  “You know,” said Sister Peg, “I think I’ll stay after all.”

  His eyes searched her face.

  “I think it’s best this way,” she explained. “To be…with them.”

  Of course that’s what she would want. To affirm his understanding, Apgar cupped her chin, leaned his face forward, and kissed her lightly on the lips.

  “Well,” she managed. Tears rose to her throat. She had never been kissed by a grown man before. “I didn’t expect that.”

  “I hope you didn’t mind.”

  “You always were a lovely boy.”

  “That’s nice of you to say.”

  She took his hands and held them. “God bless and keep you, Gunnar.”

  “And you as well, Sister.”

  Then he was gone.

  She faded back into the hall. In the dining room, flames were leaping up the walls; the smoke was dense and swirling. Sister Peg began to cough. She lay down on the hatch. Her time in the physical world was ending. She had no fear of what would come, the hand of love into which her spirit would pass. Fire took the building in its grip. The flames shot up, consuming all. As the smoke snaked inside her, Sister Peg’s mind filled up with faces. Faces by the hundreds, the thousands. Her children. She would be with them again.

  All around the building, the virals were watching. They stood in abeyance, the glow of the flames glazing their denuded faces. They had been vanquished; fire was a barrier they could not cross. Still they waited, ever hopeful. The hours passed. The building burned and burned and burned some more. The embers were still glowing when dawn came, a blade of light sweeping over the silent city.

  * * *

  73

  “Greer.”

  He was dead to the world. In a different one, a voice was calling his name.

  “Lucius, wake up.”

  He jerked to consciousness. He was sitting in the cab of the tanker. Patch was standing on the running board by the open door. Through the windshield, a foggy dawn.

  “What time is it?” His mouth was dry.

  “Oh-six-thirty.”

  “You should have woken me up.”

  “What do you think I just did?”

  Greer stepped down. The water was still, birds swooping low over its glassy surface. “Anything happen while I was asleep?”

  Patch shrugged in his wiry way. “Nothing major. Just before sunrise, we saw a small pod working its way down the shore.”

  “Where?”

  “Base of the channel bridge.”

  Greer frowned. “And this didn’t strike you as important?”

  “They never came all that close. It didn’t seem worth the trouble to wake you.”

  Greer got in his truck and drove down the isthmus. Lore was standing on the dock, hands perched on her hips, studying the hull. The repair was nearing completion.

  “How long till we fill?” he asked.

  “Three, maybe four hours.” She raised her voice. “Rand! Watch that chain!”

  “Where is he?” Greer asked.

  “Quonset hut, I think.”

  He found Michael sitting at the shortwave.

  “Kerrville, come back, please. This is Isthmus station.” A momentary pause and he repeated the call.

  “Anything?” Greer asked.

  Michael shook his head. His expression was blank, his mind far away in worry.

  “I have some other news. A viral pod was sighted near the bridge a while ago.”

  Michael turned sharply. “Did they approach?”

  “Patch says no.”

  Michael sat back. He rubbed his face with a heavy hand. “So they know we’re here.”

  “It would seem so.”

  —

  The bolts were still too hot to touch. Peter was standing on the platform just below the hatch. His mind had cleared, but his headache felt like an ice pick buried in the back of his skull.

  “It’s got to be light out,” Sara said. “What should we do?”

  Caleb and Hollis were there as well. Peter scanned their faces; both wore the same expression: of weariness and defeat, the power of decision beyond them. None had slept a wink.

  “Wait, I guess.”

  An hour or so passed. Peter was dozing on the platform when he heard knocking on the hatch. He reached up to touch the surface; the metal had cooled somewhat. He removed his jersey and wrapped it around his hands; beside him, Caleb did the same. They each took a lever and turned. Cracks of daylight appeared at the edges and, with them, a strong smell of smoke. Water dripped through. They pushed the hatch open the rest of the way.

  Chase was standing over them, holding a bucket. His face was black with soot. Peter climbed the ladder, the others following. They emerged into a scene of ruin. The orphanage was gone, reduced to a smoldering wreckage of ashes and collapsed beams. The heat was still intense. Behind Peter’s chief of staff stood a group of seven: three soldiers of diverse ranks and four civilians, including a teenage girl and a man who had to be at least seventy. All were holding buckets, their clothes sodden, arms and faces black as coal. They had wetted down a path through the ashes, clearing a way out of the destruction. The fire had leapt to several adjacent buildings, which were burning to various degrees.

  “It’s good to see you, Mr. President.”

  —

  As with everyone who had survived the night, Chase’s survival was a story of luck and timing. When the catwalk had begun to fail, he had just stepped away from the command deck in search of more ammunition. This placed him near the stairs on the west side of the gate. He had made it to the bottom just in time to see the whole thing come crashing to the ground. Two soldiers had recognized him; they’d hustled him into a truck to get him to the president’s hardbox, but they hadn’t made it very far before they were attacked, the driver yanked through the windshield. As the vehicle rolled, Chase was thrown clear. His rifle empty and the hardbox far out of reach, he had run for the closest building, a small wood-framed house that the tax office used for storage. Among the boxes of meaningless paperwork, he was joined over the next two hours by the seven survivors with whom he now stood. For the rest of the night they had remained there, trying not to attract attention to themselves, waiting for an end that never came.

  Since daybreak, more survivors had emerged, but not very many. The sight of so many bodies was jarring, sickening. The vultures had begun to alight, pecking at the meat. It was nothing for the children to see. During the night, Sara had counted heads. The shelter contained 654 souls, mostly women and children. Sara descended the ladder to help Jenny organize their removal.

  “What about the other hardboxes?” Peter asked.

  Chase’s face was grim. “They got in through the floors.”

  “Olivia?”

  Chase shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, Ford.”

  He shook his head faintly. None of this was registering completely yet.

  “What about the tubes?”

  “Flooded. I don’t know how they did it, but they did.”

  Peter’s stomach dropped; a wave of cold dizziness passed through him.

  “Peter?” Chase was gripping his arm; suddenly, he was the strong one.

  “No survivors?” Peter asked.

  Chase shook his head. “There’s something else you need to see.”

  It was Apgar. The man was alive, though barely. He lay on the ground beside an overturned Humvee. His legs were crushed beneath the frame, though that was not the worst of it; on his left hand, which lay across his chest, was a semicircular imprint of teeth. He was still in the shade, but the sun would soon find him.

  Peter knelt beside him. “Gunnar, can you hear me?”

  The man’s awareness seemed divided. Then, with a faint start, his eyes alighted on Peter’s face.

  “Peter, hello.” His voice was bland, lacking emotion
except, perhaps, for a touch of mild surprise.

  “Just lie still.”

  “Oh, I’m not going anywhere.” His legs had been crushed to a pulp, yet he seemed to be experiencing no pain at all. He lifted his wounded hand with a vague gesture. “Can you believe this shit?”

  “Does anybody have any water?”

  Caleb produced a canteen; just an inch or two sloshed in the bottom. Peter cupped the man’s neck to lift his head and held the spout to his lips. Peter wondered why Apgar had not yet turned. Of course, there was a range; it varied person to person. A few weak sips, water dribbling from the corners of his mouth, and Apgar leaned back.

  “It’s true what they say. You can feel it inside you.” He took a long, shuddering breath. “How many survivors?”

  Peter shook his head. “Not many.”

  “Don’t blame yourself.”

  “Gunnar—”

  “Take this as my last piece of official advice. You’ve done all you could. It’s time to get these people out of here.” The general licked his lips and lifted the bloody hand again. “But let’s not let this go on too long. I don’t want people to see me like this.”

  Peter turned his face and scanned the group: Chase, Hollis, Caleb, a few of the soldiers. All were staring. He felt benumbed; none of it seemed real yet.

  “Somebody give me something.”

  Hollis produced a knife. Peter accepted its cold weight into his hand. For a moment he doubted he could find the strength to do what was required of him. He crouched beside Apgar again, holding the blade a little behind himself to keep it from view.

  “It’s been an honor to serve under you, Mr. President.”

  Through a throat thickened with tears, Peter raised his voice, speaking words no one had said in over twenty years. “This man is a soldier of the Expeditionary! It is time for him to take the trip! All hail, General Gunnar Apgar! Hip hip—”

  “Hooray!”

  “Hip hip—”

  “Hooray!”

  “Hip hip—”

  “Hooray!”

  Apgar took a long breath and let it out slowly. His face became peaceful.

  “Thank you, Peter. I’m ready now.”

  Peter tightened his grip on the knife.

  —

  There were two more.

  Peter was looking at Apgar’s body. The man had died quickly, almost inaudibly. A grunt as the knife went in, his eyes opening wide, death easing into them.

  “Somebody get me a blanket.”

  No one spoke.

  “Goddamnit, what’s the matter with you people? You—” He jabbed a finger at one of the soldiers. “What’s your name, Private?”

  The man seemed a little dazed. “Sir?”

  “What, you don’t know your own name? Are you that stupid?”

  He swallowed nervously. “It’s Verone, sir.”

  “Organize a burial detail. I want everyone gathered at the parade ground in thirty. Full military honors, do you read me?”

  He glanced at the others.

  “Is there a problem, soldier?”

  “Dad—” Caleb gripped him by an arm and made his father look at him. “I know this is painful. We all understand how you felt about him. I’ll get a blanket, all right?”

  The tears had begun to flow; his jaw trembled with confined fury. “We’re not just leaving him here for the birds, goddamnit.”

  “There are a lot of bodies out here. We really don’t have time.”

  Peter shook him off. “This man was a hero. He’s the reason any of us are still alive.”

  Caleb spoke in measured tones: “I know that, Dad. Everyone does. But the general was right. We really have to think about what comes next.”

  “I’ll tell you what comes next. We bury this man.”

  “Mr. President—”

  Peter turned: Jock. Someone had wrapped his ankle and found him a pair of crutches. He was sweating and a little out of breath.

  “What the hell is it now?”

  The man seemed uncertain.

  “For God’s sake, just say it.”

  “It looks like…somebody’s alive outside.”

  —

  The gate was gone: one of the doors had been knocked askew and was hanging from a single hinge; the other lay on the ground a hundred feet inside the wall. As they moved through the opening, Peter’s first, impossible impression was that it had snowed in the night. A fine, pale dust coated every surface. A moment passed before he grasped the meaning. Carter’s army lay dead; their bones, now in sunlight, had begun their dissolution.

  Amy was sitting near the base of the wall, arms wrapping her knees, gazing across the field. Covered in ash, she looked like a ghost, a specter from a children’s story. A few feet beyond her, beside Soldier’s body, lay Alicia. The horse’s throat was torn open, among other things. Flies were buzzing around him, dipping in and out of his wounds.

  Peter strode forward with gathering speed. Amy turned her face toward him.

  “He didn’t kill us,” she said. She spoke as if in a daze. “Why didn’t he kill us?”

  Her presence barely registered in Peter’s mind; it was Alicia he wanted. “You knew!” He barreled past Amy, seized Alicia by the arm, and rolled her faceup. “You fucking knew all along!”

  Amy cried, “Peter, stop!”

  He dropped to his knees and straddled Alicia’s waist; his fingers wrapped her throat. His eyes and mind filled with the loathsome sight of her. “He was my friend!”

  More voices, not just Amy’s, were yelling at him, but this was a matter of no importance. They might just as well have been calling to him from the moon. Alicia was making a gurgling sound; her lips were paling to a bluish color. She was squinting into the morning light. Through these narrow slits, their gazes met. In her eyes, Peter saw not fear but fatalistic acceptance. Go ahead, her eyes said. We’ve done everything else together, why not this? Beneath the pads of his thumbs, he felt the stringy gristle of her trachea. He shifted them downward, positioning them in the spoonlike depression at the base of her throat. Hands had grabbed him. Some were tugging at his shoulders, others attempting to pry his fingers from her neck. “He was my friend and you killed him! You killed all of them!” One hard push to crush her larynx and that would be the end of her. “Say it, you traitor! Say you knew!”

  A tremendous force yanked him away. He crashed onto his back in the dust. Hollis.

  “Take a breath, Peter.”

  The man had positioned himself between Peter and Alicia, who had begun to cough. Amy was kneeling beside her, cradling her head.

  “We all heard her,” Hollis said. “She was trying to warn us.”

  Peter’s face was burning; his hands, clenched into fists, shook with adrenaline. “She lied to us.”

  “I understand your anger. We all do. But she didn’t know.”

  Peter’s awareness expanded. The others were watching him in mute incomprehension. Caleb. Chase. Jock, leaning on his crutches. The old man, who was, for some reason, still carrying his bucket.

  “Now, do I have your agreement to leave her be—yes or no?” Hollis said.

  Peter swallowed. The fog of fury had begun to dissipate. Another moment and he nodded.

  “All right, then,” said Hollis.

  He extended a hand and pulled Peter to his feet. Alicia’s coughing had eased somewhat. Amy looked up. “Caleb, run and get Sara.”

  Amy waited by Alicia until Sara arrived. At the sight of Alicia, she startled.

  “You’re kidding me.” Her voice was dispassionate, lacking all pity.

  “Please, Sara,” said Amy. There were tears in her eyes.

  “You think I’m helping her?” Sara scanned the others. “She can go to hell.”

  Hollis took her by the shoulders to make her look at him. “She’s not our enemy, Sara. Please believe me. And we’re going to need her.”

  “What for?”

  “To help us get out of here. Not just you and me. Pim. Theo. The girls.�
��

  A moment passed; Sara sighed and broke away. She crouched beside Alicia, passing her eyes quickly over her without expression, then looked up. “I’m not doing this with an audience. Amy, you stay. The rest of you, a little space, please.”

  The group backed away. Caleb took Peter aside.

  “Dad? Okay?”

  He wasn’t sure what to say. His anger had faded, but not his doubt. He glanced past his son’s shoulder. Sara was moving her hands over Alicia’s chest and stomach, pressing with her fingertips.

  “Yeah.”

  “Everybody understands.”

  Caleb said nothing more; neither did anyone else. A few more minutes went by before Sara rose and went to them.

  “She’s broken up pretty badly.” Her tone was indifferent; she was doing a job, that was all. “I can’t really tell the full extent. And in her case, things will probably happen differently. A couple of the gunshot wounds have closed up already, but I don’t know what’s happening inside. She’s got a broken back, and about six other fractures I can detect.”

  “Will she live?” Amy asked.

  “If she were anyone else, she’d be dead already. I can sew her up and set her leg. She needs to be immobilized. As for the rest…” She shrugged without feeling. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Caleb and Chase returned with a stretcher; they carried Alicia inside. All the survivors had been brought out of the shelter and had gathered in the staging area. Jenny and Hannah were moving through the group with buckets of water and ladles. Here and there, a person was sobbing; others were talking quietly or just gazing into space.

  “So what now?” Chase asked.

  Peter felt unattached to everything, almost floating. Particles of ash, bitter-smelling, drifted down. The fires had begun to spread. Leaping from building to building, they would sweep down to the river, consuming everything in their path. Other parts of the city, spared from the flames, would take longer—years, decades. Rain, wind, the devouring teeth of time—all would do their work. Peter could see it in his mind. Kerrville would become one more ruin in a world of them. He was suddenly crushed by the simplicity of it all. The city had fallen; the city was gone. He felt it keenly: the stab of defeat.