The City of Mirrors

by Justin Cronin

  “Can I give it some thought?” An easy dodge; I had no such intentions.

  He began to say something, then stopped himself. “Got it. You have your reputation to consider. Believe me, I know how it goes.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just a big commitment. I have a lot on my plate these days.”

  “I’m not going to let you off easy, you know.”

  “I was pretty sure you wouldn’t.”

  We were silent for a time. Jonas was looking at the garden, though I knew he wasn’t seeing it.

  “It’s funny—I always knew this day would come. Now I can’t believe it. It’s like it’s not even happening, you know? I feel like I’ll go back to the house and there’ll she be, grading papers at her desk or stirring something in the kitchen.” He blew out a breath and looked at me. “I should have been a better friend to you, all these years. I shouldn’t have let so much time pass.”

  “Forget it,” I said. “It was my fault, too.”

  The conversation ended there. “Well,” Jonas said, “thank you for being here, Tim. I know you’d come anyway, just for her. But it means a lot to me. Let me know what you decide.”

  I sat awhile after he’d gone. The building was quiet; the mourners had left, returning to their lives. How lucky they were, I thought.

  I heard nothing more from Jonas. Winter yielded to spring, then summer, and I began to believe that the dots hadn’t been connected after all and I would remain a free man. Bit by bit, the girl’s death ceased to hang over my every thought and action. It was still there, of course; the memory touched down often and without warning, paralyzing me with guilt so deep I could hardly draw a breath. But the mind is nimble; it seeks to preserve itself. One particularly clement summer day, cool and dry with a sky so crisp it looked like a great blue dome snapped down over the city, I was walking to the subway from my office when I realized that for a full ten minutes I hadn’t felt utterly ruined. Perhaps life could go on, after all.

  I returned to teaching in the fall. A bevy of new graduate assistants awaited me; as if the administration took delight in torturing me, most were female. But to say that those days were over for me would be the understatement of the century. Mine was a monk’s existence, as it would be henceforth. I did my work, I taught my classes, I sought the company of no one, man or woman. I heard, secondhand, that Jonas had found funding for his expedition after all and was gearing up for Bolivia. Good riddance, I thought.

  On a day in late January, I was grading labs in my office when there was a knock on the door.

  “Come.”

  Two people, a man and a woman: I instantly knew who, and what, they were. My face probably betrayed my guilt in a heartbeat.

  “Got a minute, Professor Fanning?” the woman said. “I’m Detective Reynaldo, this is Detective Phelps. We’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course.” I feigned surprised. “Sit down, Detectives.”

  “We’ll stand, if that’s all right.”

  The conversation lasted barely fifteen minutes, but it was enough to let me know that the noose was tightening. A woman had come forward—the babysitter. She was an illegal, which explained the long delay. Though she had glimpsed me quickly, the description she provided matched the bartender’s. He did not recall my name but had overheard the part of our conversation in which she confessed her crush on me, using the phrase “a lot of the girls did.” This led them to Nicole’s college transcript and eventually to me, who bore a remarkable resemblance to the sitter’s description of the suspect. A very remarkable resemblance.

  I made the customary denials. No, I had never been to the bar in question. No, I did not recall the girl from my classes; I had seen the story in the papers but had made no connection. No, I could not recall my whereabouts that night. When, exactly? Probably I was in bed.

  “Interesting. In bed, you say?”

  “Perhaps I was reading. I’m a bit of an insomniac. I really don’t recall.”

  “That’s strange. Because according to the TSA, you were scheduled to be on a flight to Athens. Any thoughts on that you’d care to share at this point, Dr. Fanning?”

  The cold sweat of the criminal dampened my palms. Of course they would know this. How could I have been so dumb?

  “Very well,” I said, doing my best to seem annoyed. “I wish this hadn’t had to come out, but since you insist on prying into my personal life, I was going away with a friend. A married friend.”

  A single eyebrow lasciviously lifted. “Care to tell us her name?”

  My mind was racing. Could they connect us? I’d paid for the tickets in cash and bought them separately to cover our tracks. Our seats weren’t even next to each other’s; I’d planned to sort it out before we boarded.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t do that. It’s not my place.”

  “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  Detective Reynaldo smiled imperiously, enjoying herself. “A gentleman who runs off with another man’s wife. Doubt you’ll win any prizes for that.”

  “I don’t claim to, Detective.”

  “So why didn’t you go?”

  I gave my most innocent shrug. “She changed her mind. Her husband is a colleague of mine. It was a stupid idea to begin with. That’s really all there is to it.”

  For ten full seconds neither of us spoke—a gap I was obviously meant to fill, incriminating myself.

  “Well, that’s all for now, Dr. Fanning. Thank you for taking time out of your busy day.” She gave me her card. “You think of anything else, you call me, all right?”

  “I’ll do that, Detective.”

  “And I do mean anything.”

  I waited thirty minutes to make sure they were well clear of the building, then took the subway home. How long did I have? Days? Hours? How much paperwork did they need to get me into a lineup?

  I could think of only one option. I called Jonas’s office, then his cell, but got no answer. I would have to risk an email.

  Jonas—I’ve given some thought to your proposal. Sorry it took me so long. Not sure how much I can offer at this late date, but I’d like to sign on. When do you leave?—TF

  I waited at my computer, hitting the Refresh button over and over. Thirty minutes later his reply came.

  Delighted. We leave in three days. Have already cleared your visa with State. Don’t ever say I’m not a man with connections. How many more do you need for your team? Knowing you, you’ll bring a flotilla of attractive female grad assistants, which we could sure use to brighten up the place.

  Move your ass, buddy. We’re going to change the world.—JL

  23

  There is not much more to say. I went. I was infected. Of those infected, I alone survived. And thus was built a race to establish dominion over the earth.

  There was a night when Jonas came to see me in my chamber. This was long after my transformation, by which time I had adjusted to my circumstances. I could not know what the hour was, such things having lost all meaning in my captive state. My plans were well under way. I and my co-conspirators had identified the avenue of our escape. The weak-minded men who watched over us: day by day we had infiltrated their thoughts, filling their minds with our black dreams, bringing them into the fold. Their flabby souls were collapsing; soon they would be ours.

  His voice came over the speaker: “Tim, it’s Jonas.”

  This was not his first visit. Many was the time I had seen his face behind the glass. Yet he had not addressed me directly since the day of my awakening. The last years had wrought startling changes to his appearance. Long-haired, wild-bearded, crazed-eyed, he had become the very image of the mad scientist I had always thought him to be.

  “I know you can’t talk. Hell, I’m not even sure you can understand me.”

  I felt a confession coming. I was, I admit, only vaguely interested in what he had to say. His disturbed conscience—what did I care? His visit had als
o interrupted my feeding schedule. Though in life I had not much cared for the taste of wild game, I had come to enjoy raw rabbit very much.

  “Something bad is happening. I’m really losing control of this thing.”

  Indeed, I thought.

  “God, I miss her, Tim. I should have listened to her. I should have listened to you. If only you could talk to me.”

  You will hear from me soon enough, I thought.

  “I’ve got one more chance, Jonas. I still believe this can work. Maybe if I pull it off, I can get the military to back away. I can still turn everything around.”

  Hope springs eternal, does it not?

  “The thing is, it has to be a child.” He was silent for a moment. “I can’t believe I’m saying this. They just brought her in. I don’t even want to know what they did to get her here. Jesus, Tim, she’s just a little kid.”

  A child, I thought. Here was an intriguing wrinkle; no wonder Jonas despised himself. I delighted in his misery. I had learned how low a man could sink; why shouldn’t he?

  “They’re calling her Amy NLN. No last name. They got her from some from orphanage. God almighty, she doesn’t even have a proper name. She’s just some girl from nowhere.”

  I felt my heart go out to this unlucky child, plucked from her life to become the last pitiable hope of a crazy man. Yet even as I considered this, a new thought was bearing fruit inside me. A little girl, bathed in the innocence of youth: of course. The symmetry was undeniable; it was a message, meant for me. To face her, that would be the test. I heard the rumble of distant armies joining. This girl from nowhere. This Amy NLN. Who was alpha, who omega? Who the beginning and who the end?

  “Did you love her, Tim? You can tell me.”

  Yes, I thought. Yes and yes and yes. She was the only thing that ever mattered. I loved her more than any man could. I loved her enough to watch her die.

  “The police came to me, you see. They knew the two of you were supposed to be on the same plane. You know what’s funny? I was actually happy for her. She deserved someone who could love her the way she needed. The way I never could. I guess what I’m saying is, I’m glad it was you.”

  Was it possible? Had my eyes—the eyes of a beast, a demon—begun to shed tears?

  “Well.” Jonas cleared his throat. “I guess that’s what I came to say. I’m sorry about all this, Tim. I hope you know that. You were the best friend I ever had.”

  Now it is dark. Stars soar above the vacant city, heaven’s diadem. A century since the last person walked here, and still one cannot travel its streets, as I do, without seeing one’s face reflected a thousand-fold. Shop windows. Bodegas and brownstones. The mirrored flanks of skyscrapers, great vertical tombs of glass. I look, and what do I see? Man? Monster? Devil? A freak of cold nature or heaven’s cruel utensil? The first is intolerable to think, the second no less so. Who is the monster now?

  I walk. Listen closely, and one still hears the footfalls of a throng, engraved in stone. At the center has grown a forest. A forest in New York! A great green eruption, alive with animal sounds and smells. There are rats everywhere, of course. They grow to fantastic dimensions. Once I saw one that I thought might be a dog, or a wild pig, or something brand-new to the world. The pigeons wheel, the rain falls, the seasons turn without us; in winter, all is dressed with snow.

  City of memories, city of mirrors. Am I alone? Yes and no. I am a man of many descendants. They lie hidden away. Some are here, those who once called this island home; they slumber beneath the streets of the forgotten metropolis. Others lie elsewhere, my ambassadors, awaiting final use. In slumber they become themselves again; in dreams, they relive their human lives. Which world is the real one? Only when they’re aroused does the hunger obliterate them, taking them over, their souls spilling into mine, and so I leave them as they are. It is the only mercy I can offer.

  Oh, my brothers, Twelve in sum, you were sorely used by this world! I spoke to you like the god you thought I was, though in the end I could not save you. I would not say I failed to see this coming. From the start, your fates were written; you could not help being what you were, which was the truth of us. Consider the species known as man. We lie, we cheat, we want what others have and take it; we make war upon each other and the earth; we harvest lives in multitudes. We have mortgaged the planet and spent the cash on trifles. We may have loved, but never well enough. We never truly knew ourselves. We forgot the world; now it has forgotten us. How many years will pass before jealous nature reclaims this place? Before it is as if we never existed at all? Buildings will crumble. Skyscrapers will come crashing to the ground. Trees will sprout and spread their canopies. The oceans will rise, rinsing the rest away. It is said that one day all will be water again; a vast ocean will blanket the world. In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. How will God, if there is a God, remember us? Will he even know our names? All stories end when they have returned to their beginnings. What can we do but remember in his stead?

  I go abroad, into the streets of the empty city, always returning. I take my place upon the steps, beneath the inverted heavens. I watch the clock; its mournful faces stay the same. Time frozen at the moment of man’s departure, the last train exiting the station.

  III

  The Son

  Texas Republic

  Pop. 204,876

  March 122 A.V.

  Twenty-one years after the discovery of the Bergensfjord

  All the world’s a stage,

  And all the men and women merely players:

  They have their exits and their entrances,

  And one man in his time plays many parts.

  —SHAKESPEARE, AS YOU LIKE IT

  Map of Texas Settlements

  Presented at the Third Global Conference on the North American Quarantine Period

  Center for the Study of Human Cultures and Conflicts

  University of New South Wales, Indo-Australian Republic

  April 16–21, 1003 A.V.

  <~?~[ART 001 TK, including townships and telegraph lines>

  24

  Peter Jaxon, age fifty-one, president of the Texas Republic, stood at the Kerrville gate in the pale dawn light, waiting to say goodbye to his son.

  Sara and Hollis had just arrived; Kate was working at the hospital but had promised that her husband, Bill, would bring the girls. Caleb was loading the last of their gear into the wagon while Pim, in a loose cotton dress, stood nearby, holding baby Theo. Two strong horses, fit for plowing, idled in their harnesses.

  “I guess that’s it,” Caleb said, as he finished lashing the final crate. He was wearing a long-sleeved work shirt and overalls; he’d let his hair grow long. He checked the load on his rifle, a lever-action .30-06, and put it up on the seat. “We really should get moving if we’re going to make Hunt by dark.”

  They were headed to one of the outer settlements, a two-day ride on the buckboard. The land had only just been incorporated, though people had been homesteading there for years. Caleb had spent most of two years preparing the place—framing the house, digging the well, laying out fences—before returning for Pim and the baby. Good soil, the clear water of the river, woods heavy with game: there were worse places, Peter thought, to start a life.

  “You can’t go yet,” Sara said. “The girls will be heartbroken if you leave without seeing them.”

  Sara had, simultaneously, signed these words for Pim, who now turned to her husband with a stern look.

  You know how Bill is, Caleb signed. We could be here all day.

  No. We wait.

  There was no point in arguing when Pim had made up her mind. Caleb always said it was the woman’s stubbornness that had kept them together while he was stationed with the Army on the Oil Road, and Peter didn’t doubt it. The two of them had married the day after Caleb had finally capitulated and resigned his commission—n
ot, as he often pointed out, that there was much of an army remaining to resign from. Like nearly everything else in Kerrville, the army had scattered to the winds; barely anyone remembered the Expeditionary, disbanded twenty years ago, when the Texas Code had been suspended. It had been one of the great disappointments of Caleb’s life that there was nobody left to fight anymore. He’d spent his years in the service as a glorified ditch digger, assigned to the construction of the telegraph line between Kerrville and Boerne. It was a different world than the one Peter had known. The city walls went unmanned; the perimeter lights had gone out one by one and never been repaired; the gate hadn’t been shut in a decade. A whole generation had grown to adulthood thinking the virals were little more than exaggerated boogeymen in scary stories told by their elders, who, in the fashion of all old people since the dawn of time, believed theirs had been the vastly harder and more consequential life.

  But it was like Kate’s husband, Bill, to be late. The man had his positive qualities—he was far more easy-going than Kate, counterbalancing her often humorless maturity—and there was no question that he adored their daughters. But he was scattered and disorganized, liked the lick and cards, and lacked anything approximating a work ethic. Peter had tried to bring him into the administration as a favor to Sara and Hollis, offering him a low-level job with the Bureau of Taxation that required little more than the ability to use a stamp. But as with Bill’s brief forays into carpentry, farriering, and driving a transport, it wasn’t long before he drifted away. Mostly he seemed content to look after his daughters, make Kate the occasional meal, and sneak out to the tables at night—both winning and losing but, according to Kate, always winning just a little more.

  Baby Theo had begun to fuss. Caleb used the delay to pick the horses’ hooves while Sara took Theo from Pim to change his diaper. Just when it had begun to seem that Bill wouldn’t show, Kate appeared with the girls, Bill bringing up the rear with a sheepish look on his face.