The City of Mirrors

by Justin Cronin

  “Amy can protect me. You can see it for yourself. They’re here to defend us.”

  “I don’t care if they’re here to fix the plumbing—you’ve lost your goddamn mind. Do not make me tackle you, because I will absolutely do that.”

  The soldier darted his eyes to Peter, then the general, then back again. “Sir, should I get the harness or not?”

  “Private, you take one step and I’m going to pitch you over that wall,” Apgar said.

  Another cry from the spotter: “We have movement! The riders are moving away!”

  Peter looked up. “What do you mean away?”

  A face floated over the rail. A quick conferral with someone behind him, then the man pointed due north. “Across the field, sir!”

  Peter stepped back to the edge of the rampart and raised his binoculars. “Gunnar, are you seeing this?”

  “What they doing?” Apgar said. “Are they surrendering?”

  With a puff of dust, Amy and Alicia brought their horses to a halt. Amy drew and raised the sword. It was not a gesture of capitulation but defiance.

  They were setting themselves as bait.

  “Fanning, do you hear me?!”

  Amy’s words dwindled into the gloom.

  “If you want me, come and get me!”

  “Should we go further out?” Alicia asked.

  “If we do, we might not make it back.” Then, raising her voice again: “Are you listening? I’m right here, you bastard!”

  Alicia waited. Still nothing. Then:

  You have done well, Alicia.

  She pressed her hands over her ears, a pointless reflex; Fanning’s voice was inside her.

  Everything I could have wished for, you have accomplished. Her army is nothing, I can whisk it away. You have given me that, and so much more.

  “Shut up! Leave me alone!”

  Amy was staring at her. “Lish, what is it? Is it Fanning?”

  Do you feel it, Alicia? Fanning’s voice was smooth, taunting. It was like an oily liquid spreading through her brain. Of course you do. You always could. Haunting the streets, counting heads. They are a part of you as I am part of you.

  Alicia heard the sound then. No, not heard: sensed. A kind of … scratching. Where was it coming from?

  She must come to me in ruins. That will be the truest test. To feel what I feel. What we feel, my Alicia. To know despair. A world without hope, without purpose, everything lost.

  “Alicia, tell me what’s happening.”

  I know your dreams, Alicia. The great walled city and its sounds of life within. The music and the happy cries of children. Your longing to be among them, and the door you cannot enter. Did you know even then, Alicia? Did you know what lay in store?

  The sound grew more intense. The blood was throbbing in her neck; she thought she might be ill.

  My Alicia, it is already done. Can you feel it? Can you feel … them?

  Her mind slammed back to awareness. She turned in her saddle. Beyond the barrier of Amy’s army, the lights of the city shone.

  Outside, she thought. I’m outside, just like in the dream.

  “Oh, God, no.”

  Sara was trying to make herself breathe.

  A hundred and twenty souls were crammed in the basement. Candles and lanterns, spread throughout the space, cast odd, animated shadows. Sara’s pistol lay in her lap, her hand upon it, loose but ready.

  Jenny and Hannah had organized a game of duck, duck, goose to distract some of the children. Others were occupying themselves with smuggled toys. A few were crying, though probably they did not know why; they were channeling the anxiety of the adults.

  Sara was sitting on the floor with her back against the door. Its metal face was cool against her skin. Would it hold? Various scenes unfolded in her mind: pounding on the door, the metal bulging, everyone screaming, backing away, then the final crack and death pouring in, engulfing them all.

  She was watching Jenny and Hannah. Jenny was terrified—the woman wore her emotions like a coat—but Hannah had a steady streak in her. It was she who had initiated the game. There were people, Sara knew, who were like this, the ones who could not be ruffled or else didn’t show it, who possessed great internal reservoirs of calm. Hannah was racing around the circle on her long legs, grinning with conspiracy, pursued by a little boy. Hannah was going to let him catch her, of course; she made a stagy show of her surrender that sent the boy into a fit of happy giggles, which, for a moment, put Sara at ease. She remembered such games, how much fun they were, their object so simple and pure. She had played duck, duck, goose as a girl, then, later, with Kate and her friends. But in the next instant, this thought was replaced by another. Kate, she thought, Kate, where are you, where have you gone? Your body lies in a bed far from home; your spirit has flown. I am lost without you. Lost.

  “Dr. Wilson, are you okay?”

  Holding Carlos, Grace was standing above her. Sara touched her tears away. “How’s he doing?”

  “He’s a baby—he doesn’t know anything.”

  Sara made a place beside her; Grace lowered herself to the floor.

  “Are we going to be safe here?” Grace asked.

  “Sure.”

  A silence; then Grace shrugged. “You’re lying, but that’s okay. I just wanted to hear you say it.” She turned her face toward Sara. “You were the one who transferred your birthright to my parents, weren’t you?”

  “I guess they told you.”

  “Just that it was the doctor. I don’t see any other women doctors around the place, though, so I figured it had to be you. Why did you do it?”

  There was probably an answer, but Sara couldn’t think of it. “It just felt like the thing to do.”

  “My folks were good to me. Things weren’t easy, but they loved me as well as anyone could. We always said a prayer for you at supper. I thought you should know.”

  From baby Carlos, a yawn; sleep was near. For a minute or so, Sara and Grace watched the game together. Suddenly Grace looked up.

  “What’s that noise?”

  “Station six. We have movement.”

  Peter grabbed the radio. “Say again.”

  “Not sure.” A pause. “Looks like it’s gone now.”

  Station 6 was at the south end of the dam.

  “Everyone, maintain readiness!” Apgar yelled. “Hold your positions!”

  Peter barked into the mike: “What are you seeing?”

  A crackle, and then the voice said, “Forget it, I was wrong.”

  Peter looked at Chase. “What’s below station six?”

  “Just scrub.”

  “Enough for cover?”

  “Some.”

  Peter took up the radio again. “Station six, report. What did you see?”

  “I’m telling you, it’s nothing,” the voice repeated. “Looks like just another sinkhole opening up.”

  From his post on the roof of the orphanage, Caleb Jaxon did not hear the sound so much as feel it: a disturbance lacking a discernible source, as if the air were bristling with a swarm of invisible bees. He scanned the city with his binoculars. All seemed ordinary, unchanged, yet as his mind stilled, he became aware of other sounds, coming from several directions. The crack of wood splintering. The crash and tinkle of fracturing glass. A rumble, lasting perhaps five seconds, of an unknown type. Around him, and on the ground below, some of his men had begun to sense these things as well; their conversations halted, one man or the other saying, Do you hear that? What is that? Eyes burning from lack of sleep, Caleb peered into the darkness. From the roof, he had a clear view of the capitol building and the city’s central square. The hospital was four blocks east.

  He unhitched his radio from his belt. “Hollis, are you there?” His father-in-law was stationed at the entrance to the hospital.

  “Yeah.”

  Another crash. It came from deep within the streets of the city. “Are you hearing this?”

  A gap, then Hollis said: “Roger that.”

>   “What are you seeing? Any movement?”

  “Negative.”

  Caleb brought his binoculars to bear on the capitol. A pair of trucks and a long table remained in the square, left behind when the inductions were complete. He took up the radio again. “Sister, can you hear me?”

  Sister Peg was waiting by the hatch. “Yes, Lieutenant.”

  “I’m not sure, but I think something’s going on out here.”

  A pause. “Thank you for telling me, Lieutenant Jaxon.”

  He clipped the radio to his belt. His grip on his rifle tightened reflexively. Though he knew a round was seated in the chamber, he gently drew back the charging handle to double-check. Through the tiny window, the brass casing gleamed.

  The radio crackled: Hollis. “Caleb, come back.”

  “What have you got?”

  “Something’s out there.”

  Caleb’s heart accelerated. “Where?”

  “Headed for the square, northwest corner.”

  Caleb pressed the binoculars to his brow again. With vexing slowness, the square came into focus. “I’m not seeing anything.”

  “It was there a second ago.”

  Still scanning, Caleb lifted the radio to his mouth to call the command platform.

  “Station one, this is station nine …”

  He stopped in mid-sentence; his vision had grazed something. He swept the lenses back the way they’d come.

  The table in the square had been overturned; behind it, the nose of one of the trucks was pointed upward at a forty-five degree angle, its rear wheels sunk deep into the earth.

  A sinkhole. A big one, opening up.

  Peter turned away from the battlefield. The buildings of the city were shapes against the dark, lit by angled moonlight.

  Chase was beside him. “What is it?”

  The feeling prickled his skin like static electricity: all eyes. “There’s something we’re not seeing.” He held up a hand. “Hang on. Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” Apgar’s eyes narrowed as he cocked his head “Wait. Yeah.”

  “Like … rats inside walls.”

  “I hear it, too,” Chase said.

  Peter grabbed the mike. “Station six, anything out there?”

  Nothing.

  “Station six, report.”

  Sister Peg stepped into the kitchen pantry. The rifle was stashed on the top shelf, wrapped in oilcloth. It had belonged to her brother, rest his soul; he had served with the Expeditionary, years ago. She remembered the day the soldier had arrived at the orphanage with the news of his death. He had brought her brother’s locker of effects. Nobody had checked the contents, or else the rifle would have been taken back into inventory. Or so Sister Peg had supposed at the time. Most of the belongings in her brother’s locker contained no trace of him and did not seem worth keeping. But not his gun. Her brother had held it, used it, fought with it; it stood for what he was. It was more than a remembrance; it was a gift, as if he’d left it behind so that someday she would have it when she needed it.

  She moved the ladder into place and, with gingerly steps, brought the gun down and placed it on the table where the sisters kneaded bread. Sister Peg had cared for the weapon meticulously; the action was tight and well lubed. She liked the way it fired, with a decisive trigger and a good, clean snap. Once a year, in May—the month of her brother’s death—Sister Peg would remove her frock, don the clothes of an ordinary worker, and take the transport out to the Orange Zone. The rifle rode beside her, concealed in a duffel bag. Beyond the windbreak she would set up a target of cans, sometimes apples or a melon, or sheets of marked paper nailed to a tree.

  She carried the rifle, now loaded, to the dining hall. Over the years the gun had grown heavier in her arms, but she could still manage it, including the recoil, which was dampened by a buffer tube with a spring connected to the pad. This was very important for follow-up shots. She chose a position by the hatch with a clear view of the hallway and the windows on either side of the room.

  She thought she should take a moment to pray. But, as she was holding a loaded rifle, conventional prayer did not seem entirely suitable. Sister Peg hoped that God would help her, but it was her belief that He much preferred for people to attend to themselves. Life was a test; it was up to you to pass it or not. She raised the gun to her clavicle and angled one eye down the length of the barrel.

  “Not my children,” she said and pulled the charging handle, snapping the first round into the chamber. “Not tonight.”

  “Rider inbound!”

  A tense new energy shivered along the rampart. Something was shifting. The viral barrier parted, forming a corridor like the one the previous night. Down this hallway a single rider galloped toward them. All along the catwalk, eyes took purchase upon the posts and slots of gunsights; gathering pressure flowed from shoulders to forearms to the padded tips of index fingers. The order to hold fire was clear, yet the urge to do otherwise was strong. Still the rider kept on coming. Raised in the saddle, this person—the gender was as yet unknowable—was yelling incomprehensible words. While one hand clutched the reins, the other swayed in the air over the rider’s head, a gesture of ambiguous meaning. Was it a threat? A plea for forbearance?

  On the command platform, Peter understood what was about to happen. The inductees had no experience; they lacked the mental muscle memory of military training; they existed in only the most general way within a chain of command. The second Alicia reached the lighted perimeter, he would lose control of the situation. “Hold your fire!” he was yelling. “Don’t shoot!” But words went only so far.

  Alicia hit the lighted perimeter at a full gallop. “It’s a trap!”

  Her words made no sense to him

  She pulled up, skidding to a halt. “It’s a trap! They’re inside!”

  A shout came from Peter’s left: “It’s that woman from last night!”

  “She’s a viral!”

  “Shoot her!”

  The first bullet speared Alicia’s right thigh, shattering her femur; the second caught her in the left lung. The horse’s front legs folded, sending her pitching forward over its neck. The first pops became a full-throated barrage. Dust kicked up around her as she crawled behind the fallen animal, which now lay riddled and dead. Shots were connecting. Bullets were finding their mark. Alicia experienced them like a fusillade of punches. Her left palm, speared like an apple. The ilium of her right pelvis, shrapnellized like an exploding grenade. Two more to the chest, the second of which ricocheted off her fourth rib, plunged diagonally through her thoracic cavity, and cracked her second lumbar vertebrae. She did her best to shove herself beneath the fallen horse. Blood splashed from its flesh as the bullets pounded.

  Lost, she thought, as a curtain of darkness fell. Everything is lost.

  The majority of virals emerged inside the city at four points: the central square, the southeast corner of the impoundment, a large sinkhole in H-town, and the staging area inside the main gate. Others had piloted their way through the pocketed earth to emerge in smaller pods throughout the city. The floors of houses; abandoned lots, weedy and untended, where children had once played; the streets of densely packed neighborhoods. They dug and crawled. They traced the sewage and water lines. They were clever; they sought the weakest points. For months they had moved through the geological and man-made fissures beneath the city like an infestation of ants.

  Go now, their master ordered. Fulfill your purpose. Do that which I’ve commanded.

  On the catwalk, Peter did not have long to consider Alicia’s words of warning. Amid the roar of guns—many of the soldiers, gripped by the frenzy of a mob, were firing upon the dopeys as well—the structure lurched under him. It was if the metal grate beneath his feet were a carpet that had been lifted and shaken at one end. The sensation shot to his stomach, a swirl of nausea, like seasickness. He looked side to side, searching for the source of this motion, simultaneously becoming aware that he was hearing screams. A second
lurch and the structure jolted downward. His balance failed; knocked backward, he fell to the floor of the catwalk. Guns were blasting, voices yelling. Bullets whizzed over his face. The gate, someone cried, they’re opening the gate! Shoot them! Shoot those fuckers! A groan of bending metal, and the catwalk began to tip away from the wall.

  He was rolling toward the edge.

  He had no way to stop himself; his hands found nothing to grab. Bodies tumbled past, launching into the dark. As he rolled over the lip, one hand seized slick metal: a support strut. His body swung around it like a pendulum. He would not be able to hold on; he had merely paused. Beneath him, the city spun, lit with screams and gunfire.

  “Take my hand!”

  It was Jock. He had lodged himself under the rail, one arm dangling over the edge. The catwalk had paused at a forty-five degree angle to the ground.

  “Grab on!”

  A series of pops: the last bolts were yanking free of the wall. Jock’s fingertips, inches from Peter’s, could have been a mile away. Time was moving in two streams. There was one, of noise and haste and violent action, and a second, coincidental with the first, in which Peter and everything around him seemed caught in a lazy current. His grip was failing. His other hand flailed uselessly, trying to grasp Jock’s.

  “Pull yourself up!”

  Peter tore away.

  “I’ve got you!”

  Jock was gripping him by the wrist. A second face appeared under the rail: Apgar. As the man reached down, Jock heaved Peter upward; Apgar caught him by the belt. Together they hauled him the rest of the way.

  The catwalk began to fall.

  The slaughter had commenced.

  Freed from hiding, the virals poured over the city. They swarmed the ramparts, flinging men into space. They launched from the ground and rooftops like a glowing fireworks display. They burst through the floors of hardboxes to butcher the occupants and exploded through the floors of buildings to haul the hiding inhabitants from closets and out from under their beds. They stormed the gate, which, although formidable, was not designed to repel an attack from within; all that was required to open the city to invasion was to tear the crossbars from their braces, free the brake, and push.