“I think he likes you,” Maus said one day in the kitchen, as she struggled to nurse. “You can hold him if you want.”
While Peter and Sara watched, Amy sat at the table and Mausami gently placed Caleb in her arms. One of his hands had come free from the swaddling. Amy bent her face toward him, allowing him to grab her nose with his tiny fingers. “A baby,” she said, smiling.
Maus gave a wry laugh. “That’s what he is, all right.” She pressed a palm against her chest, her aching breasts, and groaned. “Boy, is he ever.”
“I’ve never seen one.” Amy gazed into his face. Every bit of him was so new it was as if he were drenched in some miraculous, life-giving liquid. “Hello, baby.”
The house was too small to accommodate everyone, and Caleb needed quiet; they carried the extra mattresses out and moved into one of the empty houses across the trace. How long since there had been such activity here? Since more than one house had seen people living in it? By the river, great brambles of bitter raspberries appeared, sweetening in the sun; the water jumped with fish. Each day Alicia returned from the hunt, dust-dressed and smiling, game swinging from a lanyard slung across her back: long-eared jacks, fat partridges, something that looked like a cross between a squirrel and a groundhog and tasted like venison. She carried neither gun nor bow; all she used was a blade. “No one’s ever going to go hungry as long as I’m around,” she said.
It was, in its way, a happy time, an easy time—food plentiful, the days mild and lengthening, the nights quiet and apparently safe, under a blanket of stars. And yet, for Peter, a cloud of anxiety hung over all. In part he knew this was just his awareness of how temporary everything was, and the problems presented by their imminent departure—the logistics of food and fuel and weapons and the space to carry it all. They had only one Humvee, hardly large enough to accommodate everyone, especially a woman with a baby. There was also the question of what they would find at the Colony when they returned. Would the lights still be on? Would Sanjay have them arrested? A concern that might have seemed distant even a few weeks ago, nothing worth worrying over, but seemed so no longer.
Ultimately, however, it was not these questions that oppressed him. It was the virus. Ten remaining vials in their shiny metal container, resting in his pack where he had stored it in the closet of the house where he slept with Greer and Michael. The major was right; there could be no other reason why Lacey had given it to him. Already it had saved Alicia—more than saved her. This was the weapon Lacey had spoken of, more powerful than guns or blades or crossbows, more powerful even than the bomb she had used to kill Babcock. But stored in its metal box, it was doing nothing.
Greer was wrong about one thing, though. The decision wasn’t Peter’s to make alone; he needed everyone else to agree. The farmstead would be as good a place as any for what he intended. They would have to tie him up, of course; they could use a room in one of the empty houses. Greer could take care of him, if things went badly. Peter had seen that well enough.
He called them together one night. They gathered in the evening around a fire in the yard, all except Mausami, who was resting upstairs, and Amy, who was looking after baby Caleb. He had planned it this way; he didn’t want Amy to know. Not because she would object; he doubted that she would. But still he wanted to protect her from this decision and what it might mean. Theo had managed to hobble out on a pair of crutches that Hollis had fashioned from scrap wood; in another few days, the splints would be coming off. Peter had brought his pack with him, the vials inside. If everyone agreed, he saw no reason to delay. They sat on the ring of stones around the fire pit, and Peter explained what he wanted to do.
Michael was the first to speak. “I agree,” he said. “I think we should try it.”
“Well, I think it’s crazy,” Sara cut in. She raised her face to the others. “Don’t you see what this is? No one will say it, but I will. It’s evil. How many millions died because of what’s in that box? I can’t believe we’re even talking about this. I say put it in the fire.”
“You may be right, Sara,” Peter said. “But I don’t think we can afford to do nothing. Babcock and the Many may be dead, but the rest of the Twelve are still out there. We’ve seen what Lish can do, what Amy can do. The virus came to us for a reason, the same way Amy came to us. We can’t turn our backs on that now.”
“It could kill you, Peter. Or worse.”
“I’m willing to take that risk. And it didn’t kill Lish.”
Sara turned to Hollis. “Tell him. Please, tell him how completely insane this is.”
But Hollis shook his head. “I’m sorry. I think I’m with Peter on this.”
“You can’t mean that.”
“He’s right. There has to be a reason.”
“Why can’t the fact that we’re all alive be the reason?”
He reached for her hand. “It’s not enough, Sara. So we’re alive. What then? I want to have a life with you. A real life. No lights or walls, no standing the Watch. Maybe that’s for someone else, someday. Probably it is. But I can’t say no to what Peter’s asking, not while there’s a chance. And deep down, I don’t think you can either.”
“So we’ll fight them anyway. We’ll find the rest of the Twelve and fight them. As ourselves, as people.”
“And we will. I promise you. That will never change.”
Sara fell silent; Peter felt an understanding pass between them. By the time Hollis broke his gaze away, Peter knew what his friend was going to say.
“If this works, I’ll go next.”
Peter glanced at Sara. But he saw no more arguments there; she had accepted this.
“You don’t have to do that, Hollis.”
The big man shook his head. “I’m not doing it for you. If you want me to agree, that’s how it has to be. Take it or leave it.”
Peter turned to Greer, who nodded. Then he directed his eyes to his brother. Theo was sitting on a log on the far side of the circle, his splinted leg stretched out before him.
“Flyers, Peter. What do I know? I told you, this is your show.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s everyone’s.”
Theo paused. “Just so I understand you. You want to deliberately infect yourself with the virus, and you want me to say, Sure, go right ahead. And Hollis here wants to do the same thing, assuming you don’t die or kill all of us in the process.”
Peter felt the starkness of these terms; for the first time he wondered if he had the nerve. Theo’s question was, Peter realized, a test.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m asking you.”
Theo nodded. “Then okay.”
“That’s it? Just okay?”
“I love you, brother. If I thought I could talk you out of this, I would. But I know I can’t. I told you I was going to worry about you. I might as well start now.”
Peter turned at last to Alicia. She had removed her glasses, revealing the thrumming orange glow of her eyes, magnified to a sparkling intensity by the light of the fire. It was her consent he needed most of all; without it, he had nothing.
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “I’m sorry to say it, but yes.”
There was no reason to wait. Too much time to consider the ramifications, Peter knew, and his courage could dissolve. He led them to the empty house he had prepared—the last one, at the far end of the trace. It was little more than a shell; nearly all of the interior walls had been removed, leaving the joists exposed. The windows were already boarded up, another reason Peter had selected it—that and the fact that it was farthest away. Hollis took up the ropes Peter had moved from the barn; Michael and Greer carried a mattress from one of the adjacent houses. Somebody had brought the lantern. While Hollis tied the ropes to the joists, Peter stripped to the waist and lay down on his back. He was suddenly very nervous, his awareness of everything around him almost painfully vivid, his heart beating very quickly in his chest. He raised his eyes to Greer. A silent bargain, struck between them: if it comes to that, don’t hesitate
.
Hollis finished tying the ropes to his arms and legs, leaving Peter spread-eagled on the floor. The mattress smelled like mice. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.
“Sara, do it now.”
She was cradling the box with the virus; in her other hand was one of the syringes, still sealed in plastic. Peter could see that her hands were trembling.
“You can do this.”
She passed the box to Michael. “Please,” she begged.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” He held the box away from his body, trying to give it back. “You’re the nurse.”
Peter felt a blast of exasperation. Any longer, and his resolve would fail him. “Will somebody, please, just get this done.”
“I’ll do it,” Alicia said.
She took the box from Michael, and opened it.
“Peter …”
“What is it now? Flyers, Lish.”
She turned it in her hands to show them. “This box is empty.”
Amy, he thought. Amy, what have you done?
They found her kneeling by the fire pit as she was dropping the last vial into the flames. Baby Caleb lay against her shoulder, wrapped in a blanket. A sizzling pop flew up as the liquid inside the last vial expanded to a boil, shattering the glass.
Peter crouched on the ground beside her. He was too stunned even to feel angry. He didn’t know what he felt at all. “Why, Amy?”
She did not look at him but kept her eyes focused on the fire, as if to verify that the virus was really gone. With the fingers of her free hand she was gently stroking the baby’s cap of dark hair.
“Sara was right,” she said finally. “It was the only way to make sure.”
She lifted her eyes from the flames. And when Peter saw what lay inside them, he understood what she had done—that she had chosen to take this burden from him, from them all, and that this was a mercy.
“I’m sorry, Peter,” Amy said. “But it would have made you like me. And I couldn’t let that happen.”
They did not speak of that night again—of the virus, or the flames, or what Amy had done. Sometimes, in odd moments when he recalled these events, Peter felt, strangely, as if it had been a dream; or if not a dream, then something like a dream, with a dream’s texture of inevitability. And he came to believe that the destruction of the virus was not, in the end, the catastrophe he had feared but, rather, one more step on the road they would travel together, and that what lay ahead was something he could not know, nor needed to know. Like Amy herself, it was something he would take on faith.
The morning of their departure, Peter stood on the porch with Michael and Theo, watching the sun come up. His brother’s splints had come off at last; he could walk, but with a pronounced limp, and he tired quickly. Below them, Hollis and Sara were loading up the Humvee with the last of the gear. Amy was still inside with Maus, who was nursing Caleb one last time before they set out.
“You know,” Theo said, “I have the feeling that if we ever came back here, it would be just as it is now. Like it’s apart from everything. Like no time ever really passes here.”
“Maybe you will,” Peter said.
Theo fell silent, letting his gaze travel over the dusty street.
“Oh, hell, brother,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t know. It’s nice to think it, though.”
Amy and Mausami emerged from the house. Everyone gathered around the Humvee. Another departure, another goodbye. There were hugs, good wishes, tears. Sara climbed behind the wheel, Hollis beside her, Theo and Mausami in the back with their gear. Also in the cargo compartment of the Humvee were the documents Lacey had given to Peter. Just deliver them, Peter had said, to whoever’s in charge.
Amy reached inside to give baby Caleb one last embrace. As Sara turned the engine over, Greer stepped to the open driver’s window.
“Remember what I said. From the fuel depot, straight south on Highway 191. You should be able to pick up Route 60 in Eagar. That’s the Roswell Road, takes you straight to the garrison. There’s fortified bunkers about every hundred kilometers. I marked them on Hollis’s map, but look for the red crosses, you can’t miss them. Nothing fancy, but it should get you through. Gas, ammo, whatever you need.”
Sara nodded. “Got it.”
“And whatever you do, stay away from Albuquerque—the place is crawling. Hollis? All eyes.”
In the passenger seat, the big man nodded. “All eyes, Major.”
Greer stepped back, making space for Peter to approach.
“Well,” Sara said, “I guess this is it.”
“I guess so.”
“Take care of Michael, all right?” She snuffled and wiped her eyes. “He needs … looking after.”
“You can count on it.” He reached in to shake Hollis’s hand, wished him good luck, then lifted his voice to the rear of the Humvee. “Theo? Maus? All set back there?”
“Ready as we’ll ever be, brother. We’ll see you in Kerrville.”
Peter backed away. Sara put the Humvee in gear, swung the vehicle in a wide circle, and pulled slowly down the street. The five of them—Peter, Alicia, Michael, Greer, and Amy—stood in silence, watching it go. A boiling plume of dust, the sound of its motor fading, then gone.
“Well,” Peter said finally, “the day’s not getting any younger.”
“Is that a joke?” Michael said.
Peter shrugged. “I guess it was.”
They retrieved their packs and hoisted them onto their backs. As Peter took his rifle from the floor, he spied Amy still standing at the edge of the porch, her eyes tracing the drifting cloud of the Humvee’s departure.
“Amy? What is it?”
She turned to face him. “It’s nothing,” she said. “I think they’ll be all right.” She smiled. “Sara is a good driver.”
There were no more words to say; the moment of departure was at hand. The morning sun had lifted over the valley. If everything went well, they would reach California by midsummer.
They began to walk.
SEVENTY-THREE
At a shimmering distance, they saw them: a vast field of turning blades, spinning in the wind.
The turbines.
They had kept to the deserts, the hot, dry places, sheltering where they could, and where they could not, building a fire and waiting out the nights. Once, and only once, did they see any virals alive. A pod of three. This was in Arizona, a place the map called “Painted Desert.” The creatures were dozing in the shade beneath a bridge, hanging from the girders. Amy had felt them as they approached. Let me, Alicia said.
Alicia had taken them all. Three of them, on the blade. They found her in the culvert, pulling her knife from the chest of the last one; they had already begun to smoke. Easy, she said. They didn’t even seem to know what she was. Perhaps they simply thought she was another viral.
There were others. Bodies, the barest remains. The form of a blackened rib cage, the crumbling, ashlike bones of a hand or skull; the suggestive imprint on a square of asphalt, like something burned in a pan. Usually they came upon these remnants in the few towns they passed through. Most were lying not far from the buildings where they had slept and then departed, when they had laid themselves down in the sun to die.
Peter and the others had skirted Las Vegas, choosing a route far to the south; they believed the city would be empty, but better to be safe than sorry. By then it was the height of summer, the shadeless days long and brutal. They decided to bypass the bunker, taking the shortest possible route, and make straight for home.
Now they were here. They fanned out as they moved toward the power station. The fence, they saw, stood open. At the hatch, Michael got to work, unbolting the plate that covered the mechanism and manually turning the tumblers with the end of his blade.
Peter entered first. A bright metallic tinkling underfoot: he bent to look. Rifle cartridges.
The walls of the stairwell were shot to pieces. Chunks of concrete cluttered the stairs. The light
had been blasted away. Alicia stepped forward, into the cool and gloom, pulling off her glasses; the darkness was no problem for her. Peter and the others waited as she descended to the control room, following the point of her rifle. They heard her whistle the all clear.
By the time they reached the bottom, Lish had found a lantern and lit the wick. The room was a mess. The long central table had been overturned, evidently to serve as a defense. The floor was littered with more cartridges and spent magazines. But the control panel itself looked all right, its meters glowing with current. They moved through the rear to the storage rooms and barracks.
No one. No bodies.
“Amy,” Peter said, “do you know what happened here?”
Like all of them, she was looking in mute astonishment at the extent of the destruction.
“Nothing? You don’t feel anything?”
She shook her head. “I think … people did this.”
The shelf that had hidden the guns had been pulled away; the guns on the roof were gone as well. What were they seeing? A battle, but who had been fighting whom? Hundreds of rounds had been fired in the hallway and the control room, more in the barracks, an overturned mess. Where were the bodies? Where was the blood?
“Well, there’s power,” Michael declared, sitting at the control panel. His hair flowed to his shoulders now. His skin was bronzed by the sun, wind-bit and peeling at his cheekbones. He was typing into the keypad, reading the numbers that flew down the screen. “Diagnostics are good. There should be plenty of juice going up the mountain. Unless …” He paused, patting his lips with a finger; he began to type furiously again, rose briskly to check the meters above his head, and sat down once more. He tapped the screen with the back of a long fingernail. “Here.”
“Michael, just tell us,” Peter said.
“It’s the system backup log. Every night when the batteries get down below forty percent, they send a signal to the station, asking for more current. It’s all completely automated, nothing you’d ever see happening. The first time it happened was six years ago, then just about every night ever since. Until now. Until, let’s see, three hundred and twenty-three cycles ago.”
The Passage Page 96