The Twelve tpt-2

by Justin Cronin

  Then she was kicking him, stomping on his head, smashing his face into the concrete with the hard nub of her heel. Her mind collapsed in a roar of hatred. She seized him by the hair and dragged his lifeless form across the cell and propped him upright to hammer his head against the wall. “How do you like that, you piece of shit? You like that broken neck? You like me killing you?”

  Maybe there was somebody outside the cell, and maybe there wasn’t. Maybe more men would rush in and chain her to the ceiling and start it all again. But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was Sod’s head. She would smash it until he was the deadest thing in the history of the world, the deadest man who’d ever been. She was yelling, over and over, “God damn you! God damn you! God damn you!”

  Then it was over. Alicia let him go. The body tipped sideways to the floor, leaving a glistening smear of brains on the wall. Alicia slumped to her knees, drinking great gulps of air into her lungs. It was over, but it didn’t feel over. There was no over, not anymore.

  She needed clothes. She needed a weapon. Strapped to Sod’s calf she discovered a heavy-handled knife. The balance was poor, but it would do. She gathered up his trousers and his shirt. Dressing herself in the man’s clothing, ripe with his stench, filled her with disgust. Her skin crawled, as if he were touching her. She rolled up the sleeves and the legs of his trousers and cinched the waist. The boots, far too large, would only slow her down; she would have to travel barefoot. She dragged the body away from the door and banged on the metal with the butt of her knife.

  “Hey!” she yelled, cupping her mouth to lower the register of her voice. “Hey, I’m locked in here!”

  The seconds passed. Maybe no one was out there. What would she do then? She hammered on the door, louder this time, praying someone would come.

  Then the tumblers turned. Alicia darted behind the door as the guard stepped into the room.

  “What the hell, Sod, you told me I had thirty minutes—”

  But these sentiments went unfinished as Alicia, darting behind him, drew one hand over his mouth and used the other to ram the knife into the small of his back, swishing the handle as the tip drove upward.

  She eased the body to the floor. Blood was releasing from it in a wide, dark pool. Its rich scent rose to her nostrils. Alicia recalled her vow. I will drink those bastards dry. I will baptize myself in the blood of my enemy. The thought had sustained her through the days of torment. But as she looked at the two men, first the guard and then Sod, his pale, naked body like a stain of whiteness on the concrete, she shuddered with disgust.

  Not now, she thought, not yet, and she slipped into the hallway.

  The field sank into darkness. For a moment, all was still. Then, from high overhead, a cool aquatic light pulsed down onto the field, bathing it in an artificial moonglow.

  Lila had appeared at the rear of the silver truck. All the redeyes were pocketing their sunglasses. Hoppel had given up his pleas and begun to sob. A van drove onto the field. Two cols disembarked and trotted to the rear of the vehicle and opened the doors.

  Eleven people stumbled out, six men and five women, shackled at the wrists and ankles and to each other. They were stumbling, weeping, begging for their lives. Their terror was too great; all their resistance was gone. A cold numbness had taken hold of Sara; she thought she might be ill. One of the women looked like Karen Molyneau, but Sara couldn’t be certain. The cols dragged them toward Hoppel and instructed them to get down on their knees.

  “This is so awesome,” a nearby voice said.

  All but one of the cols jogged away, remaining with Lila at the rear of the large truck. Her body was swaying, her head rocking side to side, as if she were floating in an invisible current or dancing to unheard music.

  “I thought there were supposed to be ten,” the same voice said. One of the redeyes, two rows below.

  “Yeah. Ten.”

  “But there’s eleven of them.”

  Sara counted again. Eleven.

  “You better go down there and tell Guilder.”

  “Are you kidding? Who knows what’s on his mind these days?”

  “You should check that at the door. He hears you say that, you’ll be next.”

  “The guy has slipped a gear, I’m telling you.” A pause. “I always knew there was something off about Hoppel, though.”

  These words touched Sara like a distant wind. Her attention was now solely focused on the field. Was that Karen? The woman looked older, and too tall. Most of the prisoners had adopted a defensive posture, their bodies folded where they knelt in the crusted snow, hands held over their heads; others, kneeling upright, faces washed by the blue light, had begun to pray. The last col was strapping on armored pads. He wedged a helmet over his head and waved toward the bleachers. Every muscle in Sara’s body clenched. She wanted to look away but couldn’t. The col moved to the door of the silver truck’s cargo compartment, fumbling loudly with keys.

  The doors swung open; the col dashed away. For a second, nothing happened. Then the virals emerged, popping from the truck’s interior like man-sized insects, landing on all fours in the snow. Their lean figures, striated with muscle, throbbed with glowing vividness. Eight, nine, ten. They moved toward Lila, whose arms were held open at her sides, palms raised. A gesture of invitation, of welcome.

  At her feet, they bowed.

  She touched them, stroked them. She ran her hands over their smooth heads, cupped their chins like children’s to gaze adoringly into their eyes. My lovelies, Sara heard her say. My wonderful beauties.

  “Will you look at that? She fucking loves them.”

  From the hostages came only a sound of quiet weeping. The end was inevitable; they had no choice but to accept it. Or perhaps it was simply the strangeness of the scene that stunned them into silence.

  My sweet pets. Are you hungry? Mama will feed you. Mama will take care of you. That’s what Mama will do.

  “No, I’m certain there’s supposed to be ten.”

  A new voice this time, coming from the right: “Did you say ten? That’s what I heard, too.”

  “So who’s the eleventh?”

  One of the redeyes shot to his feet, pointing at the field. “There’s one too many!”

  All heads swiveled toward the voice, including Guilder’s.

  “I’m not kidding! There are eleven people out there!”

  Go now, my darlings.

  The virals broke away from Lila. Simultaneously, one of the hostages shot to his feet, exposing his face. It was Vale. The virals were encircling the group; everyone was screaming. Vale tore the flaps of his jacket aside to reveal rows of metal tubes strapped to his chest. He yanked his arms skyward, his thumb poised on the detonator.

  “Sergio lives!”

  IX. THE ARRIVAL

  55

  Lila’s dressing table detonated with a splintering crash. Guilder hauled her to her feet again and slapped her across the face with the back of his hand, sending her flying back, toward the sofa.

  “How could you let this happen?” His face boiled with rage. “Why didn’t you call the virals back? Tell me!”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know!”

  From the collar of her bathrobe this time: with terrifying effortlessness, Guilder hurled her, face-first, into the bookshelf. A thud of impact, things falling, Lila screaming. Sara was huddled on the floor, her body curled around Kate, the little girl wilted with fear.

  “Every last viral! Nine of my men, dead! Do you know how this makes me look?”

  “It wasn’t my fault! I don’t remember! David, please!”

  “There is no David!”

  Sara clenched her eyes tight. Kate was whimpering softly in her arms. What would happen if Guilder killed Lila? What would become of the two of them then?

  “Stop it! David, I’m begging you!”

  Lila was lying face-up on the floor, Guilder straddling her, one hand holding her by her collar. The other was balled into a fist, pulled back, ready to strike. Lil
a’s arms lay across her eyes like a shield, though this effort would come to nothing; Guilder’s fist would crush her face like a battering ram.

  “You… disgust me.”

  He loosened his hold and stepped away, wiping his hands on his shirt. Lila was sobbing uncontrollably. Blood bulged from a cut along her cheekbone. More was in her hair. Guilder flicked his eyes toward Sara, dismissing her with a glance. You’re nothing, his eyes said. You’re a character in a game of pretend that’s gone on far too long.

  Then he stormed from the room.

  Sara went to where Lila was whimpering on the floor. She knelt beside her, reaching for her face to examine the cut. In an unexpected burst of energy, Lila shoved Sara’s hand away and scampered backward.

  “Don’t touch it!”

  “But you’re hurt—”

  The woman’s eyes were wild with panic. As Sara moved toward her, she waved her hands in front of her face.

  “Get away! Don’t touch my blood!”

  She leapt to her feet and ran to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  6:02 A.M.

  The vehicles made their way into the flatland in the predawn darkness, gates flying open as they passed. At the head of the line, like the point of an arrow, was the sleek black SUV of the Director, followed by a pair of open trucks, full of uniformed men. Into the maze of lodges they roared, hurling clots of dirty snow from their mudchoked tires, their passage observed by the workers filing from the buildings to assemble for morning roll—weary faces, weary eyes, dully noting the vehicles sailing past. But their glances were brief; they knew better than to look. Something official; it has nothing to do with me. At least, it better not.

  Guilder watched the flatlanders from the passenger window, full of contempt. How he loathed them. Not just the insurgents, the ones who defied him—all of them. They plodded through their lives like brute animals, never seeing beyond the next square of earth to be plowed. Another day in the dairy barns, the fields, the biodiesel plant. Another day in the kitchen, the laundry, the pigsties.

  But today wasn’t just another day.

  The vehicles halted before Lodge 16. The eastern sky had softened to a yellowish gray, like old plastic.

  “This is the one?” Guilder asked Wilkes.

  Beside him, the man gave a tight-lipped nod.

  The cols disembarked and took up positions. Guilder and Wilkes stepped clear of the car. Before them, in fifteen evenly spaced lines, three hundred flatlanders stood shivering in the cold. Two more trucks pulled in and parked at the head of the square. Their cargo bays were draped by heavy canvas.

  “What are those for?” Wilkes asked.

  “A little extra… persuasion.”

  Guilder strode up to the senior HR officer and snatched the megaphone from his hand. A howl of feedback; then his voice boomed over the square.

  “Who can tell me about Sergio?”

  No reply.

  “This is your only warning. Who can tell me about Sergio?”

  Again, nothing.

  Guilder gave his attention to a woman in the first row. Neither young nor old, she had a face so plain it could have been made of paste. She was clutching a filthy scarf around her head with hands covered by fingerless gloves black with soot.

  “You. What’s your name?”

  Eyes cast down, she muttered something into the folds of her scarf.

  “I can’t hear you. Speak up.”

  She cleared her throat, stifling a cough. Her voice was a phlegmy rasp. “Priscilla.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “The looms, sir.”

  “Do you have a family? Children?”

  She nodded weakly.

  “So? What do you have?”

  Her knees were trembling. “A daughter and two sons.”

  “A husband?”

  “Dead, sir. Last winter.”

  “My condolences. Come forward.”

  “I sang the hymn yesterday. It was the others, I swear.”

  “And I believe you, Priscilla. Nevertheless. Gentlemen, can you assist her, please?”

  A pair of cols trotted forward and grabbed the woman by her arms. Her body went slack, as if she were on the verge of fainting. They half-carried, half-dragged her to the front, where they shoved her onto her knees. She made no sound; her submission was total.

  “Who are your children? Point them out.”

  “Please.” She was weeping pitifully. “Don’t make me.”

  One of the cols lifted his baton over her head. “This man is going to bash your brains out,” Guilder said.

  She shook her bowed head.

  “Very well,” Guilder said.

  Down went the baton; the woman toppled forward into the mud. From the left came a sharp cry.

  “Get her.”

  A young teenager, with her mother’s face. Onto her knees she went. She was crying, trembling; snot was running from her nose. Guilder raised the megaphone.

  “Does anybody have anything to say?”

  Silence. Guilder drew a pistol from beneath his coat and racked the slide. “Minister Wilkes,” he said, holding out the gun, “will you please do the honors?”

  “Jesus, Horace.” His face was aghast. “What are you trying to prove?”

  “Is this going to be a problem?”

  “We have people for this kind of thing. That wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “What deal? There is no deal. The deal is what I say it is.” Wilkes stiffened. “I won’t do it.”

  “You won’t or you can’t?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  Guilder frowned. “Not very much, now that I think about it.” And with these words, he stepped behind the girl, pushed the muzzle of the gun to the back of her head, and fired.

  “Good Christ!”

  “You know what the biggest problem with never growing old is?” Guilder asked his chief of staff. He was wiping down the blood-tinged barrel with a handkerchief. “I’ve given this a lot of thought.”

  “Fuck you, Horace.”

  Guilder pointed the pistol at Wilkes’s colorless face, leveling its sights at the spot between his eyes. “You forget that you can die.”

  And Guilder shot him, too.

  A change came over the crowd, their fear turning to something else. Murmurs moved up and down the lines, whispered calculations, the building energy of people who knew they had nothing to lose. Things had moved rather more briskly than Guilder would have liked—he’d hoped to get something useful before the hammer came down—but now the die was cast.

  “Open the trucks.”

  The canvas was pulled away. An eruption of volcanic screaming: no mystery now. Guilder walked briskly to his car, got in, and told the driver to go. They pulled away in a plume of mud and dirty snow as, behind them, the orchestra unleashed its mortal symphony: a melody of shouts and screams, high and wild and full of fear, punctuated by the syncopated rhythm of automatic weapon fire, fading to the final pops as the cols moved through the fallen bodies, silencing the last.

  56

  Iowa. The ashy bones.

  They’d exhausted their fuel near the town of Millersburg, sheltered the night in a roofless church, and set out the next morning on foot. Another seventy miles, said Tifty, perhaps a little more. They’d encountered two more bone fields like the first, the number of dead virals unimaginable. Thousands, millions even. What did it mean? What impulse had led them to lie down on the open earth, waiting for the sun to take them away? Or had they perished first, their corpses reclaimed by the morning light? Even Michael, the man of theories, had no answer.

  They walked. Trudged, through snow that now rose in places to their knees. Their rations were scarce; they saw no game. They had been reduced to eating their final stores—strips of dried meat and suet that left a coating of grease on the roofs of their mouths. The earth felt crystallized, the air held in suspension, like bated breath. For hours, no wind at all, and then it came howling. Daylight came a
nd left in the blink of an eye. Heavy parkas with fur-lined hoods, woolen hats pulled down to their brows, gloves with the tips of the fingers cut away in case they needed to use their weapons, though Peter wondered if they could actually manage this. He’d never felt so cold. He hadn’t known cold like this existed. How Tifty maintained his bearings in this desolate place, he had no idea.

  They passed their eighteenth night in an auto-repair shop that contained, miraculously, a potbellied woodstove of cast iron with a soap-stone top. Now, what to burn? As darkness came on, Michael and Hollis returned from the house next door, carrying a pair of wooden chairs and armfuls of books. The Encyclopaedia Britannica, 1998. A shame to burn it, it went against the grain, but they needed the heat. Two more trips and they were supplied for the night.

  They awoke to brilliant sunlight, the first in days, although the temperature had, if anything, dropped. A hard north wind rattled the branches of the trees. They allowed themselves the luxury of setting one last fire and huddled around it, savoring every bit of heat.

  “Like… molting.”

  It was Michael who had spoken. Peter turned toward his friend. “What did you say?”

  Michael’s eyes were focused on the door of the stove. “How many do you think we’ve seen?”

  “I don’t know.” Peter shrugged. “A lot.”

  “And they all died at the same time. So let’s suppose what’s happening is supposed to happen, that it’s part of the viral life cycle. Birds do this, insects, reptiles. When part of the body is worn out, they cast it off and grow a new one.”

  “But we’re talking about whole virals,” Lore said.

  “That’s how it looks. But everything we know about them says they function as a group. Each one connected to its pod, each pod connected to its member of the Twelve. Never mind the mumbo jumbo about souls and all the rest. I’m not saying it isn’t true, but that’s Amy’s turf. From my point of view, the virals are a species like any other. When Lacey killed Babcock, all of his virals died. Like bees, remember?”

  “I do,” said Hollis, nodding along. “Kill the queen and you kill the hive. That’s what you said.”