The Twelve tpt-2

by Justin Cronin

  “Okay, I’m impressed,” said Peter, as Lore raked in the pot. They were standing off to the side, close enough to watch without seeming to. “How did she do that?”

  “She cheats.”

  “Really? I don’t see how.”

  “It’s pretty simple, actually. The cards are all marked. It’s subtle, but you can figure it out. One player at the table is playing for the house so it always comes out ahead. She used the first few hands to figure out who it was and how to read the cards. It also doesn’t hurt that she’s a woman. In here, no one’s taking her seriously. They assume she’ll bet when she has good cards, that she’ll fold when she doesn’t. Three-quarters of the time she’s bluffing.”

  “What happens when they realize what she’s doing?”

  “They won’t, not right away. She’ll throw a hand or two.”

  “And then?”

  “Then it’s time to leave.”

  A sudden commotion drew their attention to the rear of the room. A dark-haired woman, her dress torn from her shoulders, arms crossed over her exposed breasts, burst through the curtain, screaming incoherently. A second later a man emerged, his pants bunched comically around his ankles. He seemed to be floating a foot off the floor—suspended, Peter realized, by a man gripping him from behind. As the first man hurtled through the air, Peter recognized him; it was the young corporal from Satch’s squad who had driven the transport from Camp Vorhees. The second man, mountainous, the lower half of his face buried in a salt-and-pepper beard, was Hollis.

  “Aha,” said Michael.

  With impressive nonchalance, Hollis hauled the man to his feet by his collar. The woman was shrieking profanities, jabbing a finger at the two of them—Kill this fucker! I don’t have to put up with this shit! Do you hear me? You’re fucking dead, you asshole!—as Hollis half-shoved, half-levitated him toward the exit.

  “That’s our cue,” Peter said.

  At a quickstep they made their way for the door, Lore coming up behind them as they exited the hut. The corporal, crying desperate apologies, was simultaneously trying to pull up his pants and scamper away. If Hollis was moved by the man’s appeals, he gave no sign. While the two guards looked on, laughing uproariously, Hollis hoisted the corporal by the waistband and propelled him farther down the alley. As he pulled the man upright again, Peter called his name.

  “Hollis!”

  For a perplexing instant the man seemed not to recognize them. Then he made a small sound of surprise. “Peter. Hola.”

  The corporal was still squirming in his grip. “Lieutenant, for God’s sake do something! This monster’s trying to kill me!”

  Peter looked at his friend. “Are you?”

  The big man shrugged drolly. “I suppose, since he’s one of yours, I could let it go this one time.”

  “Exactly! You could let me go and I’ll never come back, I swear it!”

  Peter directed his attention to the terrified soldier, whose name, he recalled, was Udall. “Corporal. Where are you supposed to be? Don’t bullshit me.”

  “West Barracks, sir.”

  “Then get there, soldier.”

  “Thank you, sir! You won’t regret it!”

  “I already do. Now get out of my sight.”

  He scampered away, holding up his pants.

  “I wasn’t going to really hurt him,” Hollis said. “Just put a scare into him.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Tried to kiss her. That’s not allowed.”

  The offense seemed minor. Given all Peter had seen, it didn’t seem like an offense at all. “Really?”

  “Those are the rules. Pretty much anything goes except for that. It’s mostly up to the women.” He glanced past Peter. “Michael, it’s good to see you. It’s been a while. You’re looking well.”

  “Same here. This is Lore.”

  Hollis smiled in her direction. “Oh, I know who you are. It’s nice to finally have a proper introduction, though. How were the cards tonight?”

  “Not too bad,” Lore replied. “The plant at table three is a real chump. I was just getting started.”

  The man’s expression hardened a discernible notch. “Don’t judge me for this, Peter. That’s all I’m asking. Things work here in a certain way, that’s all.”

  “You have my word. We all know …” He searched for the words. “Well. What you went through.”

  A moment passed. Hollis cleared his throat. “So, I’m thinking this isn’t a social call.”

  Peter glanced over his shoulder at the two doormen, who were making no effort to conceal their eavesdropping.

  “Is there someplace we could talk?”

  Hollis met them two hours later at his house, a tarpaper shack on the western edge of H-town. Though the outside was anonymously decrepit, the interior possessed a surprising homeyness, with curtains on the windows and sprigs of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling beams. Hollis lit the stove and put on a pan of water for tea while the others waited at the small table.

  “I make it with lemon balm,” Hollis remarked as he placed four steaming mugs on the table. “Grow it myself in a little patch out back.”

  Peter explained what had happened on the Oil Road and the things Apgar had told him. Hollis listened thoughtfully, stroking his beard between sips.

  “So can you take us to him?” Peter asked.

  “That’s not the issue. Tifty’s no one you want to mix yourself up with—your CO’s right about that. I can vouch for you, but those guys are nobody to fool with. My say-so will only go so far. Military isn’t exactly welcome.”

  “I don’t see a lot of options. If my hunch is right, he may be able to tell us where Amy and Greer went. All of this is connected. That’s what Apgar was telling me.”

  “Sounds a bit thin.”

  “Maybe. But if Apgar’s right, the same people might be responsible for what happened at Roswell, too.” Peter hated to press, but the next question needed to be asked. “What do you remember?”

  A look of sudden pain swept Hollis’s face. “Peter, there’s no use in this, okay? I didn’t see anything. I just grabbed Caleb and ran. Maybe I should have done things differently. Believe me, I’ve thought about it. But with the baby …”

  “No one’s saying different.”

  “Then leave it alone. Please. All I know is that once the gates were open, they just poured in.”

  Peter glanced at Michael. Here was something they hadn’t known, a new piece of the puzzle.

  “Why were the gates open?”

  “I don’t think anyone ever figured that out,” said Hollis. “Whoever gave the order, they must have died in the attack. And I’ve never heard anything about some woman. If she was there, I didn’t see her. Or these trucks of yours.” He took a heavy breath. “The fact is, Sara’s gone. If I allowed myself to think different for one second, I’d go crazy. I’m sorry to say it, believe me. I won’t pretend I’ve made my peace with it. But the best thing to do is accept reality. You too, Michael.”

  “She was my sister.”

  “And she was going to be my wife.” Hollis looked at Michael’s shocked face. “You didn’t know that, did you?”

  “Flyers, Hollis. No, I didn’t.”

  “We were going to tell you when you got to Kerrville. She wanted to wait for you. I’m sorry, Circuit.”

  No one seemed to know what to say next. As the silence stretched, Peter looked around the room. For the first time he understood what he was seeing. This little shack, with its stove and herbs and snug feeling of home—Hollis had made the house that he and Sara would have had together.

  “That’s all I’ve got,” said Hollis. “That will have to satisfy you.”

  “I can’t accept it. Look at this place. It’s like you’re waiting for her to come home.”

  Hollis’s grip visibly tightened on his mug. “Let it go, cuz.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Maybe Sara’s dead. But what if she’s still out there?”

  “Then she was tak
en up. I’m asking you nicely. If our friendship means anything to you, don’t make me think about this.”

  “I have to. We all loved her, too, Hollis. We were a family, her family.”

  Hollis rose and returned his mug to the sink.

  “Just take us to Tifty. That’s all I’m asking.”

  Hollis spoke with his back to them. “He’s not what you think. I owe that man.”

  “For what? A job in a brothel?”

  His head was bowed, his hands clutching the edge of the sink, as if he’d taken a blow. “Jesus, Peter. You never change.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong. You did what you had to. And you got Caleb out.”

  “Caleb.” From Hollis, a heavy sigh. “How is he? I keep meaning to visit.”

  “You should see for yourself. He owes you his life, and it’s a good one.”

  Hollis turned to face them again. The tide had turned; Peter could see it in the man’s eyes. A small flame of hope had been lit.

  “What about you, Michael? I know what Peter thinks.”

  “Those were my friends that got killed. If there’s payback, I want it. And if there’s a chance my sister’s alive, I’m not going to just do nothing.”

  “It’s a big continent.”

  “It always was. Never bothered me any.”

  Hollis looked at Lore. “So what’s your opinion?”

  The woman startled a little. “What are you asking me for? I’m just along for the ride here.”

  The big man shrugged. “I don’t know, you’re pretty good with the cards. Tell me what the odds are.”

  Lore shifted her gaze to Michael, then back at Hollis. “This isn’t a question of odds. Of all the men in the world, that woman chose you. If she’s still out there, she’s waiting for you. Staying alive any way she can until you find her. That’s all that matters.”

  Everybody waited for what Hollis would next say.

  “You’re a real ballbuster, you know that?”

  Lore grinned. “Famous for it.”

  Another silence fell. Then:

  “Let me pack a few things.”

  44

  The first snow fell on Alicia’s third night scouting the fringes of the city, fat flakes spiraling from an inky sky. A clean, wintry cold had settled onto the earth. The air felt hard and pure. It moved through her body like a series of small exclamations, bursts of icy clarity in her lungs. She would have liked to set a fire, but it might be seen. She warmed her hands with her breath, stamped her feet on the frozen earth when she felt sensation receding. There was something suitable about it, this shock of cold; it had the taste of battle.

  Soldier was beside her no more. Where Alicia was going, he could not follow. There had always been something celestial about him, she thought, as if he’d been sent to her from a world of spirits. In his deep awareness, he had seen what was happening to her, the dark evolution. The fierce taste uncoiling inside her since the day she had sunk her blade into the buck on the ridge, prying forth the living heart of him. There was an exhilarating power in it, a flowing energy, but it came at a cost. She wondered how much time remained before it overwhelmed her. Before her human surface stripped away and she became one thing only. Alicia Donadio, scout sniper of the Expeditionary, no more.

  Go now, she had told him. You’re not safe with me. Tears floated on the surface of her eyes; she longed to look away from him but couldn’t. You great lovely boy, I will never forget you.

  She had traveled the final miles on foot, tracing the river. Its waters still flowed easily but this wouldn’t last; ice had begun to crust at the edges. The landscape was treeless and bare. The image of the city bristled from the horizon as dusk was falling. She had been smelling it for hours. Its vastness startled her. She withdrew the yellowed, hand-drawn map from her pack and took the lay of the land. The dome rising from the hilltop, the bowl-like stadium, the bisecting river with its hydro dam, the massive concrete building with its cranes, the rows of barracks hemmed by wire—all just as Greer had recorded, fifteen years ago. She took out the RDF and adjusted the gain with fingers numb with cold. She swept it back and forth. A wash of static; then the needle nudged a fraction of an inch. The receiver was pointing at the dome.

  Somebody was home.

  She no longer needed her glasses except in the brightest hours of the day. How had this come to pass? What had happened to her eyes? She examined her face in the surface of the river; the orange light had continued to fade. What did it mean? She looked almost… normal. An ordinary human woman. Would that were true, she thought.

  She passed the first two days circling the perimeter to gauge its defenses. She took inventories: vehicles, manpower, weaponry. The regular patrols that left from the main gate were easy to avoid; their efforts felt perfunctory, as if they perceived no real threat. At first light trucks would disperse from the barracks to thread through the city, carting workers to the factories and barns and fields, returning as darkness fell. As the days of observation passed, it came to Alicia that she was seeing a kind of prison, a citizenry of slaves and slave masters, yet the structures of containment seemed meager. The fences were thinly manned; many of the guards didn’t even appear to be armed. Whatever force held the populace in check, it came from within.

  Her focus narrowed to two structures. The first was the large building with the cranes. It possessed the blocky appearance of a fortress. Through her binoculars Alicia could discern a single entrance, a broad portal sealed by heavy metal doors. The cranes sat idle; the building’s construction seemed complete, and yet to all appearances it went unused. What purpose did it serve? Was it a refuge from the virals, a shelter of last retreat? That seemed possible, though nothing else about the city communicated a similar sense of threat.

  The other was the stadium, situated just beyond the southern perimeter of the city in an adjacent fenced compound. Unlike the bunker, the stadium was the site of daily activity. Vehicles came and went, step vans and some larger trucks, always at dusk or shortly after, disappearing down a deep ramp that led, presumably, to the basement. Their contents were a mystery until the fourth day, when a livestock carrier, full of cattle, descended the ramp.

  Something was being fed down there.

  And then shortly after noon on the fifth day, Alicia was resting in the culvert where she’d made her camp when she heard the distant wallop of an explosion. She pointed her binoculars to the heart of the city. A plume of black smoke was uncoiling from the base of the hill. At least one building was on fire. She watched while men and vehicles raced to the scene. A pumper truck was brought in to douse the flames. By now she had learned to distinguish the prisoners from their keepers, but on this occasion a third class of individuals appeared. There were three of them. They descended upon the site of the catastrophe in a sleek black vehicle utterly unlike the salvaged junkers Alicia had seen, straightening their neckties and fussing with the creases of their suits as they emerged into the winter sunshine. What strange costumes were these? Their eyes were concealed by heavy dark glasses. Was it just the brightness of the day or something else? Their presence had an instantaneous effect, the way a stone cast ripples across the surface of a pond. Waves of anxious energy radiated from the others on the scene. One of the suited men appeared to be taking notes on a clipboard while the other two shouted orders, gesturing wildly. What was she seeing? A leadership caste, that was apparent; everything about the city implied one’s existence. But what was the explosion? Was it an accident or something deliberate? A chink in the armor, perhaps?

  Her orders were clear. Scout the city, assess the threat, report back to Kerrville in sixty days. Under no circumstances was she to engage the inhabitants. But nothing said she had to stay outside the wires.

  The time had come to take a closer look.

  She chose the stadium.

  For two more days, she observed the comings and goings of the trucks. The fences were no problem; getting into the basement would be the tricky part. The door, like the
portal on the bunker, looked impenetrable. Only when a truck hit the top of the ramp would the door ascend, sealing quickly as the vehicle passed through, all of it perfectly timed.

  Dusk of the third day: behind a stand of scrub, Alicia stripped herself of weapons—all but the Browning, snug in its holster, and a single blade sheathed against her spine. She had scouted a spot in the wires where her ascent would be concealed by one of several buildings that appeared unused. A hundred yards of open ground separated these buildings from the ramp. Once the driver of the van rounded the corner, Alicia would have six seconds to cross the distance. Easy, she told herself. Nothing to it.

  She took the fence with a single toehold, scuttled against the building’s rear wall, and peered around the corner. There it was, right on time, churning toward the stadium: the van. The driver downshifted as he approached the turn.

  Go.

  When the vehicle hit the top of the ramp, Alicia was just twenty feet behind it. The door, ascending on clattering chains, approached its apex. With a vaulting stride she took to the air, alighting on the van’s roof and dropping facedown within half a second of passing beneath the door.

  Flyers, was she good.

  Already she was feeling it, feeling them. The too-familiar prickling along her skin and, deep inside her skull, a watery murmuring, like the caress of waves upon a distant shore. The van, at reduced speed, was moving through a tunnel. Ahead she saw a second door. The driver beeped the horn; the door rose to let them through. Another three seconds: the van drew to a halt.

  They were in a wide, open space, fifty feet on a side. Peeking over the top of the windshield, Alicia counted eight men. Six were armed with rifles; the other two wore heavy backpacks with tanks and long steel wands. At the far end of the room was a third door, different from the others: a heavy steel contraption with thick crossbars set into the frame.