The City of Mirrors

by Justin Cronin

  “So when do you want to leave?”

  “That’s the thing,” she said, and kissed him. “I was thinking tomorrow.”

  Lucius Greer was standing under the spotlights at the base of the dry dock, watching a distant figure swinging over the side of the ship in a bosun’s chair.

  “For godsakes,” Lore yelled. “Who did this fucking weld?”

  Greer sighed. In six hours, Lore had seen very little that she actually approved of. She lowered the chair to the dock and stepped free.

  “I need half a dozen guys down here now. Not the same jokers who did these welds, either.” She angled her face upward. “Weir! Are you up there?”

  The man’s face appeared at the rail.

  “String up three more chairs. And go get Rand. I want these seams redone by sunrise.” Lore looked at Greer from the corner of her eye. “Don’t say it. I ran that refinery for fifteen years. I know what I’m doing.”

  “You won’t hear any complaints from me. That’s why Michael wanted you here.”

  “Because I’m a hard ass.”

  “Your words, not mine.”

  She stood back, hands resting on her hips, eyes distractedly scanning the hull. “So tell me something,” she said.

  “All right.”

  “Did you ever think it was all bullshit?”

  He liked Lore, her directness. “Never.”

  “Not once?”

  “I wouldn’t say the thought never crossed my mind. Doubt is human nature. It’s what we do with it that matters. I’m an old man. I don’t have time to second-guess things.”

  “That’s an interesting philosophy.”

  A pair of ropes drifted down the flank of the Bergensfjord, then two more.

  “You know,” Lore said, “all these years, I wondered if Michael would ever find the right woman and settle down. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine my competition was twenty thousand tons of steel.”

  Rand appeared at the gunwale. He and Weir began to hitch up the bosun’s chairs.

  “Do you still need me here?” Greer asked.

  “No, go sleep.” She waved up at Rand. “Hang on, I’m coming up!”

  Greer left the dock, got in his truck, and drove down the causeway. The pain had gotten bad; he wouldn’t be able to hide it much longer. Sometimes it was cold, like being stabbed by a sword of ice; other time it was hot, like glowing embers tossing around inside him. He could hardly keep anything down; when he actually managed to take a piss, it looked like an arterial bleed. There was always a bad taste in his mouth, sour and ureic. He’d told himself a lot of stories over the last few months, but there was really only one ending he could see.

  Near the end of the causeway the road narrowed, hemmed in on either side by the sea. A dozen men armed with rifles were stationed at this bottleneck. As Greer drew alongside, Patch stepped from the cab of the tanker and came over.

  “Anything going on out there?” Greer asked.

  The man was sucking at something in his teeth. “Looks like the Army sent a patrol. We saw lights to the west just after sundown, but nothing since.”

  “You want more men out here?”

  Patch shrugged. “I think we’re okay for tonight. They’re just sniffing us out at this point.” He focused on Greer’s face. “You okay? You don’t look too good.”

  “Just need to get off my feet.”

  “Well, the cab of the tanker is yours if you want it. Catch a few winks. Like I said, there’s nothing going on out here.”

  “I’ve got some other things to see to. Maybe I’ll come back later.”

  “We’ll be here.”

  Greer turned the truck around and drove away. Once he was out of sight, he pulled to the side of the causeway, got out, placed a hand against the fender for balance, and threw up onto the gravel. There wasn’t much to come up, just water and some yolky-looking blobs. For a couple of minutes he remained in that position; when he decided there was nothing more, he retrieved his canteen from the cab, rinsed his mouth, poured some water into his palm, and splashed his face. The aloneness of it—that was the worst part. Not so much the pain as carrying the pain. He wondered what would happen. Would the world dissolve around him, receding like a dream, until he had no memory of it, or would it be the opposite—all the things and people of his life rising up before him in vivid benediction until, like a man gazing into the sun on a too-bright day, he was forced to look away?

  He tipped his face to the sky. The stars were subdued, veiled by a moist sea air that made them seem to waver. He brought his thoughts to bear upon a single star, as he had learned to do, and closed his eyes. Amy, can you hear me?

  Silence. Then: Yes, Lucius.

  Amy, I’m sorry. But I think that I am dying.

  47

  A spring afternoon: Peter was working in the garden. Rain had worked through in the night, but now the sky was clear. Stripped to his shirtsleeves, he jabbed his hoe into the soft dirt. Months of eating from the canning jars while they watched the snow fall; how good it would be, he thought, to have fresh vegetables again.

  “I brought you something.”

  Amy had snuck up behind him. Smiling, she held out a glass of water. Peter took it and sipped. It was ice cold against his teeth.

  “Why don’t you come inside? It’s getting late.”

  So it was. The house lay long in shadow, the last rays of light peeking over the ridge.

  “There’s a lot to be done,” he said.

  “There always is. You can get back to work tomorrow.”

  They ate their supper on the sofa, the old dog nosing around their feet. While Amy washed up, Peter set a fire. The wood caught with crackling quickness. The rich contentment of a certain hour: beneath a heavy blanket, they watched the flames leap up.

  “Would you like me to read to you?”

  Peter said he thought that would be nice. Amy left him briefly and returned with a thick, brittle volume. Settling back on the sofa, she opened the book, cleared her throat, and began.

  “David Copperfield, by Charles Dickens. Chapter One. I Am Born.”

  Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o’clock at night. It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously.

  How wonderful, to be read to. To be carried from this world and into another, borne away on words. And Amy’s voice, as she told the story: that was the loveliest part. It flowed through him like a benign electric current. He could have listened to her forever, their bodies close together, his mind in two places simultaneously, both within the world of the story, with its wonderful rain of sensations, and here, with Amy, in the house in which they lived and always had, as if sleep and wakefulness were not adjacent states with firm boundaries but part of a continuum.

  At length he realized that the story had stopped. Had he dozed off? Nor was he on the sofa any longer; in some manner, unaware, he had made his way upstairs. The room was dark, the air cold above his face. Amy was sleeping beside him. What was the hour? And what was this feeling he had—the sense that something was not right? He drew the blankets aside and went to the window. A lazy half-moon had risen, partially lighting the landscape. Was that movement, there, at the edge of the garden?

  It was a man. He was dressed in a dark suit; gazing upward at the window, he stood with his hands behind his back, in a posture of patient observation. Moonlight slanted across him, sharpening the angles of his face. Peter experienced not alarm but a feeling of recognition, as if he had been waiting for this nighttime visitor. Perhaps a minute passed, Peter watching the man in the yard, the man in the yard watching him. Then, with a courteous tip of his chin, the stranger turned away and walked off into the darkness.

  “Peter, what is it?”

  He turned from the window. Amy was sitti
ng up in bed.

  “There was somebody out there,” he said.

  “Somebody? Who?”

  “Just a man. He was looking at the house. But he’s gone now.”

  Amy said nothing for a moment. Then: “That would be Fanning. I was wondering when he’d show up.”

  The name meant nothing to Peter. Did he know a Fanning?

  “It’s all right.” She drew the blanket aside for him. “Come back to bed.”

  He climbed under the covers; at once, the memory of the man receded into unimportance. The warm pressure of the blankets, and Amy beside him; these were all he needed.

  “What do you think he wanted?” Peter asked.

  “What does Fanning ever want?” Amy sighed wearily, almost with boredom. “He wants to kill us.”

  Peter awoke with a start. He’d heard something. He drew a breath and held it. The sound came again: the creak of a floorboard underfoot.

  He rolled, reached his right hand to the floor, and took the weight of the pistol in his grip. The creak had come from the front hallway; it sounded like one person; they were trying to keep quiet; they didn’t know he was awake; surprise was therefore on his side. He rose and crossed the room to the front window; his security detail, two soldiers stationed on the porch, were gone.

  He thumbed off the safety. The bedroom door was closed; the hinges, he knew, were loud. The moment the door opened, the intruder would be alerted to his presence.

  He pulled the door open and moved at a quickstep down the hall. The kitchen was empty. Without missing a stride, he turned the corner into the living room, extending the pistol.

  A man was seated in the old wooden rocker by the fireplace. His face was turned partially away, his eyes focused on the last embers glowing in the grate. He appeared to take no notice of Peter at all.

  Peter stepped behind him, leveling the gun. Not a tall man but solidly built, his broad shoulders filling the chair. “Show me your hands.”

  “Good. You’re awake.” The man’s voice was calm, almost casual.

  “Your hands, damnit.”

  “All right, all right.” He held his hands away from his body, fingers spread.

  “Get up. Slowly.”

  He lifted himself from his chair. Peter tightened the grip on his pistol. “Now face me.”

  The man turned around.

  Holy shit, thought Peter. Holy, holy shit.

  “You think maybe you could stop pointing that thing at me?”

  Michael had aged, but of course they all had. The difference was that the Michael he knew—his mental image of the man—had leapt forward two decades in an instant. It was, in a way, like looking in a mirror; the changes you didn’t notice in yourself were laid bare in the face of another.

  “What happened to the security detail?”

  “Not to worry. Their headaches will be historic, though.”

  “The shift changes at two, in case you were wondering.”

  Michael looked at his watch. “Ninety minutes. Plenty of time, I’d say.”

  “What for?”

  “A conversation.”

  “What did you do with our oil?”

  Michael frowned at the gun. “I mean it, Peter. You’re making me nervous.”

  Peter lowered the weapon.

  “Speaking of which, I brought you a present.” Michael gestured toward his pack on the floor. “Do you mind—?”

  “Oh, please, make yourself at home.”

  Michael removed a bottle, wrapped in stained oilcloth. He uncovered it and held it up for Peter to see.

  “My latest recipe. Should strip the lining right off your brainpan.”

  Peter retrieved a pair of shot glasses from the kitchen. By the time he returned, Michael had moved the rocking chair to the small table in front of the sofa; Peter sat across from him. On the table was a large cardboard folder. Michael cut the wax on the bottle, poured two shots, and raised his glass.

  “Compadres,” he said.

  The taste exploded into Peter’s sinuses; it was like drinking straight alcohol.

  Michael smacked his lips appreciatively. “Not bad, if I do say so myself.”

  Peter stifled a cough, his eyes brimming. “So, did Dunk send you?”

  “Dunk?” Michael made a sour face. “No. Our old friend Dunk is taking a very long swim with his cronies.”

  “I suspected as much.”

  “No need to thank me. Did you get the guns?”

  “You left out the part about what they’re for.”

  Michael picked up the folder and untied the cords. He withdrew three documents: a painting of some kind; a single sheet of paper, covered in handwriting; and a newspaper. The masthead said INTERNATIONAL HERALD TRIBUNE.

  Michael poured a second shot into Peter’s glass and pushed it toward him. “Drink this.”

  “I don’t want another.”

  “Believe me, you do.”

  Michael was waiting for Peter to say something. His friend was standing at the window, looking out into the night, though Michel doubted he was seeing much of anything.

  “I’m sorry, Peter. I know it’s not good news.”

  “How can you be so damn sure?”

  “You’re going to have to trust me.”

  “That’s all you’ve got? Trust you? I’m committing about five felonies just talking to you.”

  “It’s going to happen. The virals are coming back. They were never really gone to begin with.”

  “This is … insane.”

  “I wish it were.”

  Michael had never felt so sorry for anyone since the day he’d sat on the porch with Theo, a lifetime ago, and told him the batteries were failing.

  “This other viral—” Peter began.

  “Fanning. The Zero.”

  “Why do you call him that?”

  “It’s how he knows himself. Subject Zero, the first one infected. The documents Lacey gave us in Colorado described thirteen test subjects, the Twelve plus Amy. But the virus had to come from somewhere. Fanning was the host.”

  “So what’s he waiting for? Why didn’t he attack us years ago?”

  “All I know is, I’m glad he didn’t. It’s bought us the time we needed.”

  “And Greer knows this because of some … vision.”

  Michael waited. Sometimes, he knew, that was what you had to do. The mind refused certain things; you had to let resistance run its course.

  “Twenty-one years since we opened the gate. Now you waltz in here and tell me it was all a big mistake.”

  “I know this is hard, but you couldn’t know. No one could. Life had to go on.”

  “Just what would you have me tell people? Some old man had a bad dream, and I guess we’re all dead after all?”

  “You’re not going to tell them anything. Half of them won’t believe you; the other half will lose their minds. It’ll be pandemonium—everything will fall apart. People will do the math. We only have room for seven hundred on the ship.”

  “To go to this island.” Peter gestured dismissively at Greer’s painting. “This picture in his head.”

  “It’s more than a picture, Peter. It’s a map. Who really knows where it comes from? That’s Greer’s department, not mine. But he saw it for a reason, I know that much.”

  “You always seemed so goddamned sensible.”

  Michael shrugged. “I admit, the whole thing took some getting used to. But the pieces fit. You read that letter. The Bergensfjord was headed there.”

  “And just who decides who goes? You?”

  “You’re the president—that’s ultimately your call. But I think you’ll agree—”

  “I’m not agreeing to anything.”

  Michael took a breath. “I think you’ll agree that we need certain skills. Doctors, engineers, farmers, carpenters. We need leadership, obviously, so that includes you.”

  “Don’t be absurd. Even if what you say is right, which is ridiculous, there’s no way I’d go.”

  “I’d re
think that. We’ll need a government, and the transition should be as smooth as possible. But that’s a subject for later.” Michael removed a small, leather-wrapped notebook from his pack. “I’ve drafted a manifest. There are some names, people I know who fit the bill, and we’ve included their immediate families. Age is a factor, too. Most are under forty. Otherwise there are job descriptions grouped by category.”

  Peter accepted the notebook, opened it to the first page, and began to read.

  “Sara and Hollis,” he said. “That’s good of you.”

  “You don’t have to be sarcastic. Caleb’s in there, too, in case you were wondering.”

  “What about Apgar? I don’t see him anywhere.”

  “The man is what? Sixty-five?”

  Peter shook his head with a look of disgust.

  “I know he’s your friend, but we’re talking about rebuilding the human race.”

  “He’s also general of the Army.”

  “As I said, these are just recommendations. But take them seriously. I’ve given the matter a lot of thought.”

  Peter read the rest without comment, then looked up. “What’s this last category, these fifty-six spots?”

  “Those are my men. I’ve promised them places on the ship. I won’t go back on that.”

  Peter tossed the notebook onto the table “You’ve lost your mind.”

  Michael leaned forward. “This is going to happen, Peter. You need to accept it. And we don’t have a lot of time.”

  “Twenty years, and now this is a big emergency.”

  “Rebuilding the Bergensfjord took what it took. If I could have finished faster, I would have. We’d be long gone.”

  “And just how do you propose we get people to this boat of yours without starting a panic?”

  “Probably we can’t. That’s what the guns are for.”

  Peter just stared at him.

  “There are three options that I can see,” Michael continued. “The first is a public lottery for the available slots. I’m opposed to that, obviously. Option two is we make our selections, tell the people on the manifest what’s happening, give them the choice of either staying or going, and do our best to keep order while we get them out of here. Personally, I think that would be a disaster. No way we could keep a lid on things, and the Army might not back us. Option three is we tell the passengers nothing, apart from a few key individuals we know we can trust. We round up the rest and get them out in the dead of night. Once they’re at the isthmus, we given them the good news that they’re the lucky ones.”