The Twelve (Book Two of The Passage Trilogy): A Novel

by Justin Cronin

  “So what do you think?”

  Sara’s attentions had returned to the game. She glanced up from the floor to see Lila looking earnestly at her.

  “Dani, it’s your turn,” said Kate.

  “Just a minute, sweetheart.” Then, to Lila: “I’m sorry. What do I think about what?”

  An effortful smile was plastered to her face. “Coming with me. I think you’d be a great help. Jenny can look after Eva.”

  “Come where?”

  Sara could see it in Lila’s eyes: whatever their destination was, the woman absolutely didn’t want to go alone. “What does it matter, really? One of David’s … things. They’re usually just deadly, to be honest. I really could stand the company.” She bent forward from her stool and addressed the child. “What do you say, Eva? How about an evening with Jenny while Mummy goes out?”

  The girl refused to meet her eye. “I want to stay with Dani.”

  “Of course you do, pumpkin. We all love Dani. There’s no more special person in the world. But once in a while grown-ups have to go off to be by themselves, to do grown-up things. That’s just how it is sometimes.”

  “Then you go.”

  “Eva, I don’t think you’re listening to what I’m saying.”

  The girl was tugging at the sleeve of Sara’s robe. “Tell her.”

  Lila frowned. “Dani? What’s this about?”

  “I don’t … know.” She looked at Kate, who had scuttled beside her on the floor, protectively wedging her body against Sara’s. Sara put an arm around her. “What is it, honey?”

  “Eva,” Lila interjected, “what do you want Dani to tell me? Speak up, now.”

  “I don’t like you,” the girl murmured into the folds of Sara’s robe.

  Lila drew back, the color draining from her face. “What did you say?”

  “I don’t like you! I like her!”

  Lila’s expression was beyond shock. It was a portrait of absolute rejection. Sara suddenly understood viscerally what had happened to the other Evas. This was what had happened.

  “Well.” Lila cleared her throat, her wounded eyes roaming restlessly about the room, seeking some object to attach her attentions to. “I see.”

  “Lila, she didn’t mean it.” The girl had resumed her protective huddle against Sara’s body, pressing her face into her robe while simultaneously watching Lila warily from the corner of her eye. “Tell her, sweetheart.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Lila said. “She couldn’t have made herself more clear.” The women rose unsteadily from her stool. Everything was different now; the words had been spoken. “If you will excuse me, I think I’ll lie down for a bit. David will be here soon.”

  She didn’t so much walk as stumble toward her bedroom. Her back was bent forward, as if she’d suffered a physical blow.

  “Do you still want me to come with you?” Sara asked gently.

  Lila halted, clutching the frame for balance. She didn’t look at Sara as she gave her answer.

  “Of course, Dani. Why wouldn’t I?”

  They drove to the stadium in darkness. A convoy of ten vehicles, pickups front and rear, each carrying a detail of armed cols in the bed, with eight sleek SUVs in between for the senior staff. Lila and Sara rode in the backseat of the second car. Lila was dressed in a dark cloak with the hood gathered at her neck, oversized dark glasses covering the upper half of her face like a shield. The driver was someone Sara recognized without being able to place, a skeletally thin man with lank brown hair and pale roving eyes that met Sara’s through the mirror as they pulled away from the Dome.

  “You. What’s your name?”

  “Dani.”

  He shot a grin through the mirror. Sara felt a jolt of apprehension. Did he know her? Had his gaze somehow penetrated the obscuring curtain of her veil?

  “Well, you’re in for a treat tonight, Dani.”

  Guilder had initially refused to let Sara come, but Lila wouldn’t budge. David, how do you think I feel, being dragged around to all your silly parties with your silly friends? I’m simply not going without her, like it or lump it. On and on like this until Guilder, with a huff, had relented. Fine, he’d said. Have it your way, Lila. Maybe one of your attendants should see what you really are. The more the fucking merrier.

  They were passing the flatland now, following the river, becalmed under a skin of winter ice. Something was happening to Lila. With each minute that passed, the lights of the Dome fading behind them, her personality receded. She was stretching her back like a cat, making little humming sounds at the back of her throat, touching her face and hair.

  “Mmmm,” Lila purred with an almost sexual pleasure. “Can you feel them?”

  Sara had no answer.

  “It’s … wonderful.”

  They passed through the gate. Ahead Sara saw the stadium, lit from within, glowing in the winter night. She felt not so much fear as a spreading blackness. The caravan slowed as it ascended the ramp and emerged onto a brilliantly lit field surrounded by bleachers. The vehicles stopped behind a silver cargo truck where a dozen cols were waiting, fidgeting with their batons and stamping their feet in the cold. A tall stake had been tamped into the ground in the middle of the field.

  “Mmmm,” said Lila.

  Doors flew open; everybody disembarked. Standing beside the car, Lila lifted Sara’s veil and tenderly touched her cheek. “My Dani. My sweet girl. Isn’t it marvelous? My babies, my beautiful babies.”

  “Lila, what’s happening here?”

  She rocked her head on her neck with sensuous delight. Her eyes were soft and distant. The Lila Sara knew was nowhere inside them. She moved her face toward Sara’s and, astonishingly, kissed her dryly on the lips.

  “I’m so glad you’re with me,” she said.

  The driver took Sara by the elbow and led her to the bleachers. Twenty men in dark suits were seated in two rows, chatting energetically among themselves, blowing on their fists. “This is so cool,” Sara heard one of them say as she was shown to her place in the fourth row, among a group of cols. “I never get to see this.”

  Down front, Guilder faced the group. He was wearing a black overcoat, a dark tie visible at his throat. He was holding something in his gloved hand: a radio.

  “Gentlemen of the senior staff, welcome,” he declared with a buoyant grin. His breath puffed before his face, punctuating the words. “A little present for you tonight. A show of gratitude for all your hard work as we near the climax of all our labors.”

  “Bring ’em on!” one of the redeyes hooted, eliciting cheers and laughter.

  “Now, now,” Guilder said, waving them to silence. “All of you are well acquainted with the spectacle that is about to unfold. But tonight, we have something very special planned. Minister Hoppel, would you please come forward?”

  A redeye in the second row got to his feet and joined Guilder at the front. Tall, with a square-jawed face and brush-cut hair. Grinning with embarrassment, he said, “Gosh, Horace, it’s not even my birthday.”

  “Maybe he’s about to demote you!” another voice yelled.

  More laughter. Guilder waited for it to die down. “Mr. Hoppel here,” he said, placing a fatherly hand on the man’s back, “as everyone knows, has been with us from the very beginning. As Minister of Propaganda, he has provided us with a key element in support of our efforts.” His expression abruptly hardened. “Which is why, with the greatest regret, I must tell you all that incontrovertible evidence has come to my attention that Minister Hoppel is in league with the insurgency.” He darted a hand toward the man’s face, stripping off his glasses and tossing them away. Hoppel gave a shriek of pain as he drew his arm up over his eyes. “Guards,” said Guilder, “take him.”

  A pair of cols grabbed Hoppel by the arms; more quickly surrounded him, weapons drawn. A moment of confusion, voices buzzing through the bleachers. What? What is he saying? Hoppel, could it really be …?

  “Yes, my friends. Minister Hoppel is a traitor. It was
he who passed crucial intelligence to the insurgency that led to last week’s bombing, in which two of our colleagues were killed.”

  “Jesus, Horace.” The man had gone weak at the knees. His eyes were squeezed tight. He tried to shrug the men’s grip off, but he seemed to have lost all strength. “You know me! All of you know me! Suresh, Wilkes, somebody—tell him!”

  “I’m sorry, my friend. You’ve done this to yourself. Take him to the field.”

  He was dragged away. Beside the silver truck, Hoppel was bound to the stake with heavy rope. One of the cols produced a bucket and poured the contents over him with a crimson splash, soaking his clothing, hair, face. He wriggled helplessly, uttering the most pitiful cries. Don’t do this. Please, I swear, I’m no traitor. You bastards, say something!

  Guilder cupped his mouth. “Is the prisoner secure?”

  “Secure!”

  He lifted the radio to his mouth. “Hit the lights.”

  The thunk of tumblers, the screech of the opening door.

  Alicia was hanging from the ceiling, her bound wrists stretched above her head, holding aloft her slowly creaking weight. She was tired, so tired. Rivulets of dried blood ran down her naked legs. The man known as Sod, through the days of his dark business, had left no part of her untouched. He had filled her ears and nose with the hot stench of his grunting exhalations. He had scratched her, struck her, bitten her. Bitten, like an animal. Her breasts, the soft skin of her neck, the insides of her thighs, all embedded with the marks of his teeth. Through it all, she had not wept. Cried out, yes. Screamed. But she would not give him the satisfaction of her tears. And now here he was again, lazily swinging the chiming ring of keys around his finger, dragging his one good eye down the length of her body, wearing a greedy, bestial smile on his half-cooked face.

  “I thought, since everybody’s all off at the stadium for the big show, we might have a little bit of alone time.”

  What was there to say? There was nothing.

  “Now, I’m thinking that the two of us might try something new. The bench feels so … impersonal.”

  He began to undress, a complicated business of leather and buckles. He kicked off his boots, his pants. As he went about his grand unveiling, Alicia could only watch in mute revulsion. She felt like she had about ten different Alicias in her head, each with a single scrap of information lacking any reference to the others. And yet: alone time. That was new, she thought. That was a definite wrinkle in the proceedings. Usually there were four of them: one to operate the winch, two to take her down, plus Sod. Where were the others?

  Alone time.

  “I’m begging you,” she croaked, “just don’t make it hurt. I’ll make it good for you.”

  “That’s very sporting.”

  “Let me down and I’ll show you how good.”

  He considered this.

  “Just tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “You can leave the shackles on. I promise I’ll cooperate. I’ll give you everything you want.”

  In his face, she saw the idea taking hold. She was naked, beaten. What could a woman in her condition do? The keys were clipped to the belt loop of his trousers, lying on the floor behind him. Alicia forced herself not to look at them.

  “There might be something to that,” Sod said.

  The chains, which ran through a block hung from the ceiling, were operated by a lever affixed to the wall. Pantless, engorged, Sod stepped toward it and unlocked the brake. A rattle overhead; Alicia’s feet touched down.

  “More slack,” she said. “I’ll need to move.”

  A sleepy, sexual grin. “I like your thinking.”

  The pressure on her wrists released. “A little more.”

  Her tactic had to be obvious, but the man’s anticipation trumped the last of his judgment. Alicia’s arms fell to her sides. She now had eight feet of slack to play with.

  “No funny stuff, now.”

  She lowered herself to all fours in invitation. Sod moved behind her, joining her on the floor.

  “I’ll make it good for you,” she said. “I promise.”

  As he placed his hands on her hips, she drew her right foot to her chest and smashed it into his face. A crack and then a yelp; Alicia shot to her feet and swung around. He was sitting on the floor, holding his nose, dark blood gushing through his fingers.

  “You fucking bitch!”

  He lurched toward her, going for her throat. The question was who got to whom first. Alicia stepped back, arced one hand from her side, forming a lasso with the chain, and tossed it forward.

  The loop dropped over his head. She yanked him toward her, stepping aside and using his momentum to spin him around. Now she had him from behind. With the other hand she formed a second loop of chain and dropped it around his neck. A quick hop and she had her legs around his waist. He was making a gurgling noise, his arms flailing at the air. Die, you pig, she thought, just die, and with all her strength she rocked her weight backward, tugging the chains like the reins of a horse, sending them pitching toward the ground until with a hard jolt the slack ran out, the block above them caught and held, and Alicia heard the sound she longed for: a satisfying pop of bone.

  They were suspended eighteen inches off the floor. Two hundred pounds of dead weight now lay on top of her. She tucked her legs beneath her, arched her back, and pushed. Sod’s body folded forward onto its knees, pitching face-first onto the concrete as she unlooped the chains from his neck. She scooped the keys from the floor and undid the shackles and tore them from her wrists.

  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 sustain
ed 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.