The Twelve tpt-2

by Justin Cronin

  One of the men sauntered toward the van, holding a clipboard; she pressed herself as flat against the roof as she could.

  “How many you got?”

  “The usual.”

  “Are we supposed to do them as a group?”

  “Hell if I know. What does the order say?”

  A shuffling of paper. “Well, it doesn’t,” the second man answered. “A group, I suppose.”

  “Is the betting pool still open?”

  “If you want.”

  “Give me seven seconds.”

  “Sod has seven. You’ll have to pick something else.”

  “Six, then.” The driver’s door creaked opened; Alicia heard his feet hit the concrete floor. “I like the cows better. It takes longer.”

  “You are one sick bastard, you know that?” There was a pause. “You’re right, though. It is pretty cool.” He directed his voice away from the van. “Okay, everybody, showtime! Let’s dim the lights!”

  With a thunk the lights extinguished, replaced by a twilight-blue glow emanating from caged bulbs along the ceiling. All the men were backing away from the door at the far end of the room. There could be no doubt what lay on the other side; Alicia sensed it in her bones. A metal gate began to drop from the ceiling, then jolted to a stop. The men with the backpacks had taken up positions on the near side of the gate, wicks of flame dancing at the tips of their wands. The driver strode to the rear of the van and opened it.

  “Come on, out with you.”

  “Please,” a man’s voice pleaded, “you don’t have to do this! You’re not like them!”

  “It’s okay, it’s not what you think. Be a good fellow now.”

  A woman this time: “We haven’t done anything! I’m only thirty-eight!”

  “Really? I could have sworn you were older.” The click of a cocking revolver. “All of you, let’s move.”

  One by one they were hauled from the van, six men and four women, shackled at the wrists and ankles. They were sobbing, pleading for their lives. Some could barely stand. While two men kept their rifles trained, the driver moved among them with a ring of keys, unlocking the chains.

  “What are you unshackling them for?” one of the other guards asked.

  “Please, don’t do this!” the woman cried. “I’m begging you! I have children!”

  The driver backhanded the woman, knocking her to the ground. “Did I tell you to shut up?” Then, holding up a pair of shackles to the guard: “You want to clean these things later? I sure don’t.”

  Do not engage the inhabitants, Alicia told herself. Do not engage the inhabitants. Do not engage the inhabitants.

  “Sod?” the driver called. “Are we ready over there?”

  A piggish-looking man stood off to the side at some kind of control panel. He moved a lever, and the gate gave a little twitch. “Hang on a second, it’s jammed.”

  Do not engage, do not engage, do not engage …

  “There, that’s got it.”

  The hell with it.

  Alicia rolled off the roof to find herself standing face-to-face with the driver. “Howdy.”

  “Son of a… bitch?”

  She drew her blade and shoved it under his ribs. With a sharp exhalation he staggered backward.

  “All of you,” Alicia yelled, “hit the floor!”

  Alicia unholstered the Browning and moved forward into the room, the weapon cupped in her hands, firing methodically. The guards seemed too stunned to react: one by one she began to pick them off in rusty spurts of blood. The head. The heart. The head again. Behind her, the prisoners had erupted in a torrent of wild screaming. Her mind was focused, clear as glass. The air grew suffused with a sweet intoxication of blood. She popped them off their feet. She lit them up like lightning. Nine bullets in her magazine; she’d finish them off with one to spare.

  It was one of the men with the flamethrowers that got her. Though he certainly didn’t intend to. At the instant Alicia pulled the trigger, he was trying only to protect himself—an instinctive gesture, to duck his head and turn his back to her.

  45

  “Papers.”

  Willing her fingers to stop trembling, Sara held the forged pass out for the guard. Her heart was hammering so hard against her ribs, it was a wonder the woman couldn’t hear it. She snatched the pass from Sara’s hands and looked it over quickly, darting her eyes to Sara’s face before examining it a final time and shoving it back without expression.

  “Next!”

  Sara pushed through the revolving wire door. A final act: once on the other side, she was on her own. Beyond it lay a fenced chute, like something in a slaughterhouse. A column of day laborers was shuffling through—groundskeepers, kitchen workers, mechanics. More cols stood watch on either side of the chute, holding back snarling dogs on chains, laughing among themselves whenever one of the flatlanders flinched. Bags were searched, everyone was patted down. Drawing her shawl around her head, Sara kept her eyes averted. The real danger was being seen by someone who knew her—flatlander, col, it didn’t matter. Not until she was wearing the veil of an attendant would she be safely anonymous.

  How Eustace had managed to place her in the Dome, Sara didn’t know. We’re everywhere was all he would say. Once she was inside, her contact would find her. An exchange of code words, ordinary remarks of hidden meaning, would establish their identities. She moved up the hill, trying to make herself invisible by keeping her eyes to the ground, though on second thought, should she? Would it seem more natural to look around? Even the air seemed different here—cleaner, but in a way that seemed laden, humming with danger. At the periphery of her downcast vision she detected a heavy presence of HR personnel, moving in twos and threes. Probably they had ramped up security because of the car bombing, but who knew? Maybe it was always like this.

  The Dome was ringed by concrete barricades. She showed her pass at the guardhouse and ascended the wide staircase that led to the entrance, a pair of massive doors set in a bronze frame. At the threshold she drew air into her chest. Here goes, she thought.

  The doors were flung open, forcing her to dodge to the side. Two redeyes brushed past, the collars of their suits turned up against the cold, leather briefcases swinging from their hands. She thought she had escaped their notice when the one on the left halted on the top step and turned to look at her. “Watch where you’re going, flatlander.”

  She was staring at the ground, doing anything to avoid their eyes. Even behind their dark lenses, they had the power to make her insides twist. “Sorry, sir. My mistake.”

  “Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

  It felt like a trap. “I meant no offense,” she murmured. “I have a pass.” She held it out.

  “I said, look at me.”

  Against all instincts, Sara slowly raised her face. For a fraught moment, the redeye considered her from behind the inscrutable shield of his glasses, making no move to accept the pass. The second one’s attentions appeared elsewhere; he was merely indulging his companion with this interruption in their day. There was something distinctly infantile about them, thought Sara. With their soft, unblemished faces and boyishly limber bodies, they were like overgrown children playing dress-up. Everything was a game to them.

  “When one of us tells you to do something, you do it.”

  The other one puffed his cheeks impatiently. “What the hell is with you today? She’s nobody. Can we please just go?”

  “Not until I’m done here.” Then, to Sara: “Have I made myself clear?”

  Her blood felt like ice in her veins. It took every ounce of her will not to look away. Those demonic eyes. That curling sneer. “Yes, sir,” she stammered. “Completely.”

  “Tell me. What is it that you do?”

  “Do?”

  A flicker of a smile, like a cat with a mouse in its paws. “Yes, what do you do. What’s your job.”

  She offered an obsequious shrug. “I just clean, sir.” When he made no reply, she added, “I’m going
to be an attendant.”

  The redeye studied her another moment, deciding if this was a satisfactory answer or not. “Well, here’s a little word to the wise, flatlander. You go through those doors, you best watch yourself. It doesn’t take much.”

  “I will, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “Now get the fuck to work.”

  Sara waited for the pair to complete their descent before she allowed her body to unclench. Flyers, she thought. For the love of God, get ahold of yourself. You’re about to walk into a building full of these things.

  She screwed up her courage and opened the door.

  She was instantly overwhelmed by a feeling of expansiveness, her sense of dimension distorted by a vertical vastness of space. She’d never seen anyplace like it: the gleaming marble floor, the tiers of balconies, the massive, curving stairs. The ceiling soared far above. Diminished sunlight descended from the high, curtained windows of the cupola, dimming the interior to a kind of twilight. Everything seemed both loud and quiet at once, the tiniest sounds reverberating before being absorbed by the void. Cols were stationed both around the room’s periphery and at regular intervals on the stairs. A line of workers, ten deep, waited at the processing desk in the middle of the room. She assumed her place behind a man with a bag of tools over his shoulder. The desire to glance past him to see what lay ahead was intense but nothing to indulge. The line crept forward as each pass was stamped. She was fifth in line, then third, then second. The man with the tool bag stepped to the side, revealing the figure seated behind the desk.

  It was Vale.

  Sara’s heart jolted with adrenaline. She couldn’t move; she couldn’t breathe. It would all be over before it had even begun. Her orders were clear: she couldn’t be taken alive. Nina had spared nothing in describing exactly what the redeyes would do to her. It will be like nothing you’ve ever experienced. You’ll beg them to kill you. You can’t hesitate. What could she use? Should she just run and pray they’d shoot her?

  “Are you feeling all right, miss?”

  Vale was looking at her expectantly, extending a hand to receive her pass.

  “What did you say?”

  “Are … you … feeling … all right?”

  She felt as if she’d been yanked from the edge of a cliff. She fumbled for the correct response. “I’m just a little nervous.”

  If Vale was surprised to see her, his face did not betray it. Vale was simply a better actor than she was. All those years Sara had known him, and she’d never detected a thing.

  “The Dome can be a little overwhelming the first time you see it. You must be the new girl, Dani. Is that correct?”

  She nodded. Dani, that was her name now. Not Sara.

  “Display your tag, please.”

  She drew up her sleeve and extended her arm. Eustace, using an insider in the records department, had arranged to have Sara’s number assigned to her new, fictitious identity. Vale made a small show of checking it against his paperwork.

  “It seems you’re to report to Deputy Director Wilkes.” He gestured for another col to take his place at the desk. “Come with me.”

  Sara didn’t know the name. But a deputy director—he had to be a member of the senior staff. Vale escorted her down a short hallway to an elevator with reflective metal doors. They stood in silence, both looking forward, as they waited for the car.

  “Step inside, please.”

  Entering behind her, Vale pushed the button for the sixth floor. The car began its upward climb. Still he wasn’t looking at her. She wondered if he was going to say anything. Then, as they passed the fourth floor, he reached toward the panel again and flipped a switch. The car abruptly halted.

  “We only have a second,” Vale said. “You’ve been assigned to the woman, Lila. This is better than anything we could have hoped for.”

  “Who’s Lila?”

  “She’s the one who controls the virals. A major target. She’s under heavy guard and almost never leaves her rooms.”

  Sara’s mind raced to encode every word he said. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “For now, just watch her. Try to win her trust. You and I won’t have any more direct contact. Any messages will go through the serving girl who brings you your meals. If the spoon on your tray is upside down, there’s a note under your plate. Return any messages the same way, but only do this in an emergency. Got that?”

  Sara nodded.

  “I always liked you, Sara. I’d like to think I did what I could to protect you. But none of that matters now. If the redeyes figure out who you are, I won’t be able to help you.” He slid his fingers under his waistband and withdrew a small square of metal foil and pressed it into her hand. “Always keep this hidden on your person. There’s a piece of blotter paper inside. It’s soaked in the same compound Nina used to knock you out but at a much higher concentration. Put it under your tongue. It won’t take more than a couple of seconds. Believe me, it’s better than going to the basement.”

  Sara slid the envelope into the pocket of her trousers. Death was with her now. She hoped she’d have the nerve if the time came.

  Vale’s hand was on the switch. “Ready?”

  With a lurch the car resumed its upward course, then decelerated as they approached their destination. Vale, snapping back into character, placed his hand on her arm, gripping her just above the elbow. The doors slid open to reveal a col, heavyset with dark teeth, glaring at them with his hands on his hips.

  “What the hell is going on with this elevator?” Then, locating Sara with his eyes: “What’s she doing up here?”

  “New attendant. I’m taking her to Wilkes.”

  The col examined her up and down. His eyebrows wagged suggestively. “Pity. She’s a nice one.”

  Vale led her down a hall lined with heavy wooden doors. Stationed at eye level beside each was a brass plate bearing a name and title, some of which Sara recalled from broadsheets posted in the flatlands: “Aidan Hoppel, Minister of Propaganda,” “Clay Anderson, Minister of Public Works,” “Daryl Chee, Minister of Material Resource Recovery,” “Vikram Suresh, Minister of Public Health.” They came to the final door: “Frederick Wilkes, Chief of Staff and Deputy Director of the Homeland.”

  “Come.”

  The office’s occupant was bent forward over a stack of papers on his desk, scribbling with a fountain pen. A muted winter light filtered through the draped windows behind him. A moment passed; then he looked up.

  “Dani, is it?”

  Sara nodded.

  The redeye shifted his gaze to Vale. “Wait outside, please.”

  The door clicked shut. Wilkes rocked back in his chair. An air of weariness radiated from him. He pulled a sheet of paper from the pile and looked it over.

  “The dairy barns. That was where you worked?”

  “Yes, Deputy Director.”

  “And you have no immediate family.”

  “No, Deputy Director.”

  Wilkes returned his attention to the page on his desktop. “Well, it seems this is your lucky day. You’re to be Lila’s companion. Does the name mean anything to you?”

  Sara meekly shook her head.

  “Heard rumors, perhaps? We have no illusions that security isn’t always what it could be. You can tell me if you have.”

  With monumental effort, she forced herself to look him in the eye. “No, I haven’t heard anything.”

  Wilkes let a moment pass before continuing. “Well. Suffice it to say that Lila is one of a kind. The job is pretty straightforward. Basically, do whatever she asks. You will find she can be—how do I put this? Unpredictable. Some of the things she asks of you will seem odd. Think you’re up to this?”

  She returned a crisp nod. “Yes, sir.”

  “The one thing you must do is get her to eat. This takes some coaxing. She can be extremely stubborn.”

  “You can count on me, Deputy Director.”

  He leaned back in his chair again, folding his hands in his lap. “You will fin
d life in the Dome much more comfortable than the flatland. Three square meals a day. Hot water for bathing. Very little will be asked of you other than the duties I’ve described. If you do a good job, there’s no reason you can’t enjoy our largesse for years to come. One last matter. How are you with children?”

  “Children, sir?”

  “Yes. Do you like them? Get on with them? Personally, I find them rather trying.”

  Sara felt a familiar pang. “Yes, Deputy Director. I like them fine.”

  She waited for further explanation from Wilkes, but none was evidently forthcoming. He inspected her for another few seconds from across his desk, then picked up the telephone.

  “Tell them we’re on the way.”

  * * *

  Roughly an hour later, Sara found herself garbed in an attendant’s robe, standing at the threshold of a room so sumptuously decorated that its volume of detail was difficult to absorb. Heavy drapes were drawn over the windows; the only sources of light were several large silver candelabras positioned around the room. Gradually the scene came into focus. The sheer volume of furniture and bric-a-brac made it seem less like a place where someone lived than a storage room of miscellaneous objects. A voluminous sofa covered in fat, tasseled pillows, as well as a pair of equally overstuffed chairs, stood to one side, facing a low square table of polished wood, its surface piled with books. More pillows of various colors were scattered on the floor, which was dressed by an ornately patterned rug. The walls were covered with oil paintings in heavy gilt frames—landscapes, pictures of horses and dogs, as well as a great many portraits of women and their children in curious costumes, the images possessing a disturbing half reality. One in particular caught Sara’s attention: a woman in a blue dress and an orange hat, sitting in a garden beside a little girl. She moved toward it to have a closer look. A small plaque at the bottom of the frame read, “Pierre-Auguste Renoir, On the Terrace, 1881.”

  “Well, there you are. It’s about time they sent someone.”

  Sara pivoted. A woman, arms folded over her chest, was standing in the bedroom doorway. She was both more and less than the image Sara had assembled from the things Vale and Wilkes had said. The person she had envisioned was at the very least a substantial presence, but the figure before her appeared quite frail. She was perhaps as old as sixty. Deep fissures lined her face, cutting borders between its various regions; crescents of drooping skin hung like hammocks beneath her watery eyes. Her lips were so pale they were practically nonexistent, like ghost lips. She was wearing a shimmering robe of some thin, shiny fabric, a thick towel encircling her head like a turban.