She hit the door and kept on going, down the hall with its buzzing lights, into the room with its gurney and beakers and batteries, all the little things of the old world and its terrible dreams of blood.
She stopped, pivoting to face the doorway. And there he was.
I am Babcock. One of Twelve.
As am I, thought Sister Lacey, as, behind her, the bomb’s timer reached 0:00, the atoms of its core collapsed into themselves, and her mind filled up forever with the pure white light of heaven.
SIXTY-NINE
She was Amy, and she was forever. She was one of Twelve and also the other, the one above and behind, the Zero. She was the Girl from Nowhere, the One Who Walked In, who lived a thousand years; Amy of Multitudes, the Girl with the Souls Inside Her.
She was Amy. She was Amy. She was Amy.
She was the first to rise. After the thunder and the shaking, the trembling and the roaring. Lacey’s little house bucking and rocking like a horse, like a tiny boat at sea. Everyone yelling and screaming, huddled against the wall and holding on.
But then it was over. The earth below them came to rest. The air was full of dust. Everyone coughing and choking, amazed to be alive.
They were alive.
She led Peter and the others out, past the bodies of the dead ones, into the light of dawn where the Many waited. The Many of Babcock no more.
They were everywhere and all around. A sea of faces, eyes. They moved toward her in the vastness of their number, into the dawning sunlight. She could feel the empty space inside them where the dream had been, the dream of Babcock, and in its place the question, fierce and burning:
Who am I who am I who am I?
And she knew. Amy knew. She knew them all, each to a one; she knew them all at last. She was the ship, just as Lacey had said; she carried their souls inside her. She had kept these all along, waiting for this day, when she would return what was rightfully theirs—the stories of who they were. The day when they would make their passage.
Come to me, she thought. Come to me come to me come to me.
They came. From out of the trees, from across the snowy fields, from all the hidden places. She moved among them, touching and caressing, and told them what they longed to know.
You are … Smith.
You are … Tate.
You are … Duprey.
You are Erie you are Ramos you are Ward you are Cho you are Singh Atkinson Johnson Montefusco Cohen Murrey Nguyen Elberson Lazaro Torres Wright Winborne Pratt Scalamonti Mendoza Ford Chung Frost Vandyne Carlin Park Diego Murphy Parsons Richini O’Neil Myers Zapata Young Scheer Tanaka Lee White Gupta Solnik Jessup Rile Nichols Maharana Rayburn Kennedy Mueller Doerr Goldman Pooley Price Kahn Cordell Ivanov Simpson Wong Palumbo Kim Rao Montgomery Busse Mitchell Walsh McEvoy Bodine Olson Jaworksi Ferguson Zachos Spenser Ruscher …
The sun was lifting over the mountain, a blinding brightness. Come, thought Amy. Come into the light and remember.
You are Cross you are Flores you are Haskell Vasquez Andrews McCall Barbash Sullivan Shapiro Jablonski Choi Zeidner Clark Huston Rossi Culhane Baxter Nunez Athanasian King Higbee Jensen Lombardo Anderson James Sasso Lindquist Masters Hakeemzedah Levander Tsujimoto Michie Osther Doody Bell Morales Lenzi Andriyakhova Watkins Bonilla Fitzgerald Tinti Asmundson Aiello Daley Harper Brewer Klein Weatherall Griffin Petrova Kates Hadad Riley MacLeod Wood Patterson …
Amy felt their sorrow, but it was different now. It was a holy soaring. A thousand recollected lives were passing through her, a thousand thousand stories—of love and work, of parents and children, of duty and joy and grief. Beds slept in and meals eaten, and the bliss and pain of the body, and a view of summer leaves from a window on a morning it had rained; the nights of loneliness and the nights of love, the soul in its body’s keeping always longing to be known. She moved among them where they lay in the snow, the Many no more, each in the place of their choosing.
The snow angels.
Remember, she told them. Remember.
I am Flynn I am Gonzalez I am Young Wentzell Armstrong O’Brien Reeves Farajian Watanabe Mulroney Chernesky Logan Braverman Livingston Martin Campana Cox Torrey Swartz Tobin Hecht Stuart Lewis Redwine Pho Markovich Todd Mascucci Kostin Laseter Salib Hennesey Kasteley Merriweather Leone Barkley Kiernan Campbell Lamos Marion Quang Kagan Glazner Dubois Egan Chandler Sharpe Browning Ellenzweig Nakamura Giacomo Jones I am I am I am …
The sun would do its work. Soon they would be dead, then ashes, then nothing. Their bodies would scatter to the winds. They were leaving her at last. She felt their spirits rising, sailing away.
“Amy.”
Peter was beside her now. She had no words for the look upon his face. She would tell him soon, she thought. She would tell him all she knew, all she believed. What lay ahead, the long journey they would take together. But now was not a time for talk.
“Go inside,” she said, and took his empty pistol from him, dropping it into the snow. “Go inside and save her.”
“Can I save her?”
And Amy nodded.
“You have to,” she said.
Sara and Michael had lifted Alicia onto the bed and stripped off her blood-soaked vest. Her eyes were closed, fluttering.
“I need bandages!” Sara yelled. More blood was on her hands, her hair. “Someone get me something to stanch this bleeding!”
Hollis used his blade to cut a length of cloth from the sheets. They weren’t clean, nothing was, but they would have to do.
“We have to tie her down,” Peter said.
“Peter, the wound is too deep,” Sara said. She shook her head hopelessly. “It’s not going to matter.”
“Hollis, give me your blade.”
He told the others what to do, cutting Lacey’s bed linens into long strips, then twisting them together. They bound Alicia’s hands and feet to the posts of the bed. Sara said the bleeding seemed to be slowing—an ominous sign. Her pulse was high and thready.
“If she survives,” Greer warned from the foot of the bed, “these sheets will never hold her.”
But Peter wasn’t listening. He moved to the main room, where among the wreckage he found his pack. The metal box was still inside, with the syringes. He removed one of the vials and returned to the bedroom, where he passed it to Sara.
“Give her this.”
She took it in her hand, examining it. “Peter, I don’t know what this is.”
“It’s Amy,” he said.
She gave Alicia half the vial. Through the day and into the night they waited. Alicia had lapsed into a kind of twilight. Her skin was dry and hot. The wound at her neck had sealed, taking on a bruised appearance, purple and inflamed. From time to time she would seem to awaken, emerging into a kind of twilight, moaning. Then she closed her eyes again.
They had dragged the corpses of the dead virals outside, with the others. Their bodies had fallen quickly into a gray ash that was still swirling in the air, coating every surface like a layer of dirty snow. By morning, Peter thought, they would all be gone. Michael and Hollis had boarded up the windows and set the door back on its hinges; as darkness fell, they burned what was left of the bureau in the fireplace. Sara stitched up Greer’s head, wrapped it in another bandage made from bed linens. They slept in shifts, two to watch Alicia. Peter said he would stay up all night with her, but in the end his exhaustion got the better of him and he slept as well, curled on the cold floor by her bed.
By morning, Alicia had begun to strain at the straps. All color had drained from her skin; her eyes, behind her lids, were rosy with burst capillaries.
“Give her more.”
“Peter, I don’t know what I’m doing,” Sara said. She was worn down, threadbare; they all were. “It could kill her.”
“Do it.”
They gave her the rest of the vial. Outside it had begun to snow again. Greer and Hollis left to scout the woods and returned an hour later, half frozen. It was really coming down, they said.
Hollis pulled Peter asi
de. “Food’s going to be a problem,” he said quietly. They had taken an inventory of Lacey’s cupboard; most of the jars were smashed.
“I know.”
“There’s another thing. I know the bomb was underground, but there could be radiation. Michael says that at the very least it’s in the water table. He doesn’t think we should stay here much longer. There’s some kind of structure on the other side of the valley. It looks like there’s a ridge we can use to cut to the east.”
“What about Lish? We can’t move her.”
Hollis paused. “I’m just saying we could get stuck here. Then we’re in real trouble. We don’t want to try it half-starving in a blizzard.”
Hollis was right, and Peter knew it. “You want to scout it out?”
“When the snow lets up.”
Peter offered a concessionary nod. “Take Michael with you.”
“I was thinking of Greer.”
“He should stay here,” said Peter.
Hollis was silent a moment, taking Peter’s meaning. “All right,” he said.
The squall blew through with the night; by morning, the sky was crisp and bright. Hollis and Michael gathered their gear to go. If all went well, Hollis said, they’d be back before nightfall. But it could be as long as a day. In the snowy yard, Sara hugged Hollis, then Michael. Greer and Amy were inside with Alicia. In the last twenty-four hours, since they’d given her the second dose of the virus, her condition seemed to have reached a kind of stasis. But her fever was still high, and her eyes had gotten worse.
“Just don’t … let it go too long,” Hollis told Peter. “She wouldn’t want you to.”
They waited. Amy was staying close to Alicia now, never leaving her bedside. It was clear to all what was occurring. The merest light in the room made her flinch, and she had begun to strain at the straps again.
“She’s fighting it,” Amy said. “But I’m afraid that she is losing.”
Darkness fell, with no sign of Michael and Hollis. Peter had never felt so helpless. Why wasn’t it working, as it had with Lacey? But he wasn’t a doctor; they were only guessing about what to do. The second dose could be killing her, for all he knew. Peter was aware of Greer watching him, waiting for him to act. And yet he could do nothing.
It was just past dawn when Sara shook him awake. Peter had fallen asleep in a chair, his head rocked forward onto his chest.
“I think … it’s happening,” she said.
Alicia was breathing very rapidly. Her whole body was taut, the muscles of her jaw twitching, a fluttering beneath the surface of her skin. A low, effortful moan issued from the back of her throat. For a moment she relaxed. Then it happened again.
“Peter.”
He turned to see Greer, standing in the doorway. He was holding a blade.
“It’s time.”
Peter rose, positioning his body between Greer and the bed where Alicia lay. “No.”
“I know it’s hard, but she’s a soldier. A soldier of the Expeditionary. It’s time for her to take the trip.”
“I meant no, it’s not your job.” He held out his hand. “Give me the blade, Major.”
Greer hesitated, searching Peter’s face with his eyes. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do.” He felt no fear, only resignation. “I gave her my word, you see. I’m the only one who can.”
Reluctantly, Greer surrendered the knife. A familiar heft and balance: Peter saw that it was his own, the one he’d left at the gate with Eustace.
“I’d like to be alone with her, if that’s all right.”
They said their goodbyes. Peter heard the door to the house open and close again. He went to the window and yanked one of the boards free, dousing the room with the soft gray light of morning. Alicia moaned and turned her head away. Greer was right. Peter didn’t think he had more than a couple of minutes. He remembered what Muncey had said at the end, how quickly it comes on. How he wanted to feel it coming out of him.
Peter sat on the edge of the bed, the blade in his hand. He wanted to say something to her, but words seemed too small a thing for what he felt. He sat for a quiet moment, letting his mind fill with thoughts of her. Things they’d done and said, and what still lay unspoken between them. It was all he could think to do.
He could have stayed that way a day, a year, a hundred years. But he could wait no longer, he knew. He rose and positioned himself above her on the bed, straddling her waist. Holding the blade with both hands, he placed its tip at the base of her breastbone. The sweet spot. He felt his life dividing into halves: that which had come before and all that would come after. He felt her rise against him, her body clenching against the restraints. His hands were trembling, his vision blurry with tears.
“I’m sorry, Lish,” he said, and closed his eyes as he lifted the blade, gathering all his strength inside himself before finding the will to bring it down.
SEVENTY
It was spring and the baby was coming.
Maus had been having contractions for days. She would be cleaning in the kitchen, or lying in bed, or watching Theo work in the yard, when suddenly she felt it: a quick tightening across her midriff that made her breath catch in her chest. Is this it? Theo would ask her. Is he coming? Is the baby coming now? For a moment she would look away, her head cocked to the side, as if listening for some distant sound. Then she would return her attention to him, offering a reassuring smile. There. You see? It was nothing. Just the one. It’s all right. Go back to what you were doing, Theo.
But now it wasn’t nothing. It was the middle of the night. Theo was dreaming, a simple, happy dream of sunlight falling on a golden field, when he heard Maus’s voice, calling his name. She was in the dream, too, but he couldn’t see her; she was hiding from him, she was playing some kind of game. She was ahead of him, then behind, he didn’t know where she was. Theo. Conroy was yipping and barking, bounding through the grass, racing away from him and tearing back again, urging him to follow. Where are you, Theo called, where are you? I’m wet, Mausami’s voice was saying. I’m wet all over. Wake up, Theo. I think my water’s broken.
Then he was awake and standing up, fumbling in the dark, trying to put his boots on. Conroy was up too, wagging his tail, shoving his damp nose in Theo’s face as he knelt to light the lantern. Is it morning? Are we going out?
Mausami drew a sharp breath through her teeth. “Ooo.” She arched her back off the sagging mattress. “Ooo.”
She had told him what to do, the things she’d need. Sheets and towels to put under her, for the blood and all the rest. A knife and fishing line for the cord. Water, to clean the baby, and a blanket to wrap him in.
“Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.”
“Flyers,” she moaned, “where would I go?” Another contraction surged through her. She reached for his hand and squeezed it tight, digging her nails into his palm, gritting her teeth in pain. “Oh, fuck.” Then she turned and wretched onto the floor.
The room filled with the tang of vomit. Conroy thought it was for him, a wonderful present. Theo shoved the dog away, then helped Mausami ease back onto the pillows.
“Something’s wrong.” Her face was pale with fear. “It shouldn’t hurt like this.”
“What should I do, Maus?”
“I don’t know!”
Theo raced down stairs, Conroy following at his heels. The baby, the baby was coming. He’d meant to put all the supplies together in one place, but of course he never had. The house was freezing, the fire had burned down; the baby would need to be kept warm. He put an armful of logs into the cradle, then knelt before it, blowing on the embers so it would catch. He got rags and a pail from the kitchen. He’d intended to boil water, to sterilize it, but it didn’t seem like there was time for that now.
“Theo, where are you!”
He filled the pail and got a sharp knife and carried it all up to the bedroom. Maus was sitting up now, her long hair spilling over her face, looking afraid.
“
I’m sorry about the floor,” she said.
“Any more contractions?”
She shook her head.
Conroy was back at the mess on the floor. Theo shooed him out and got down on his hands and knees to clean it up, holding his breath. How ridiculous. She was about to have a baby, and here he was, flinching at the smell of vomit.
“Uh-oh,” Maus said.
By the time he’d risen, the contraction was upon her. She’d pulled her legs upward, drawing her heels toward her buttocks. Tears were squeezing from the corners of her eyes.
“It hurts! It hurts!” She rolled suddenly onto her side. “Press my back, Theo!”
She had never said anything about this. “Where? How should I press it?”
She was shouting into the pillow. “Anywhere!”
He gave an uncertain push.
“Lower! For godsakes!”
He curled his hand into a ball and pressed his knuckles into her; he felt her pushing back. He counted the seconds: Ten, twenty, thirty.
“Back labor.” She was panting for breath. “The baby’s head is shoving against my spine. It’ll make me want to push. I can’t push yet, Theo. Don’t let me push.”
She drew up onto her hands and knees. She was wearing only a T-shirt. The sheets beneath her were soaked with fluid, giving off a warm, sweet smell, like mown hay. He remembered his dream of the field, the waves of golden sunlight.
Another contraction; Mausami groaned and dropped her face into the mattress.
“Don’t just stand there!”
Theo got on the bed beside her, positioning his fist on the ridge of her spine, and leaned in, pushing with all his might.
Hours and hours. The contractions continued, hard and deep, through the length of the day. Theo stayed with her on the bed, pressing her spine until his hands were numb, his arms rubbery with fatigue. But compared to what was happening to Mausami, this small discomfort was nothing. He left her side only twice, to call Conroy in from the yard and then, as the day was ending and he heard him whining at the door, to let him out again. Always by the time he returned up the stairs Mausami was shouting his name.
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