The City of Mirrors: A Novel (Book Three of The Passage Trilogy)

by Justin Cronin

  “God, they’re idiots,” he sighed. “Do they actually think money’s going to be worth anything this time tomorrow?” He reached into his pocket again and removed a folded sheet of paper. “Here, take this.”

  Alicia opened it: a map, hastily sketched in Michael’s hand.

  “When the time comes, follow the Rosenberg road south. Just beyond the garrison, you’ll come to an old farm with a water tank on your left. Take the road after it and follow it straight east, fifty-two miles.”

  Alicia looked up from the paper. Something new was in his eyes: a kind of wildness, almost manic. Beneath Michael’s controlled exterior, his aura of self-possessing strength, was a man aflame with belief.

  “Michael, what’s at the end of that road?”

  —

  Alone again, Alicia drifted. So, there had been a woman for Michael, after all. His ship, his Bergensfjord.

  We are the exiles, he had told her in parting. We are the ones who understand the truth and always have; that is our pain in life. How well he knew her.

  The rabbit was watching her guardedly. His black eyes, unblinking, shone like drops of ink; in their curved surfaces Alicia could see the ghost of her face reflected, a shadow self. She realized her cheeks were wet; why could she not stop crying? She scooted forward to the cage, undid the latch, and reached inside. Soft fur filled her hand. The rabbit made no attempt to escape; he was either tame, a pet as Michael claimed, or too frightened to react. She lifted the animal free and placed him on her lap.

  “It’s all right, Otis,” she said. “I’m a friend.” And she stayed that way, stroking the soft fur, for a very long time.

  * * *

  65

  Footsteps, and the creak of the opening door: Amy opened her eyes.

  Hello, Pim.

  The woman halted in the entryway. She was tall, with an oval face and expressive eyes, and wearing a simple cotton dress of blue fabric. Beneath its soft drape, her belly arced with the bulge of her pregnancy.

  I’m glad that you’ve come back to see me, Amy signed.

  A look of deep uncertainty, and Pim stepped to her bedside.

  May I? Amy asked.

  Pim nodded. Amy cupped her palm against the curving cloth. The force within, being so new, exuded a pure feeling of life—if it were a color, it would be the white of summer clouds—but was also full of questions. Who am I? What am I? Is this the world? Am I everything, or just a part?

  Show me the rest, Amy signed.

  Pim sat on the bed, facing away. Amy unfastened the buttons of her dress and drew the fabric aside. The stripes on her back, the burns—they were faded, though not erased. Time had given them a ridged and burrowed quality, like roots running under soil. Amy ran the tips of her fingers along their lengths. In the untouched places Pim’s skin was soft, with a pulsing warmth, but the muscles were hard beneath, as if forged with remembered pain.

  Amy buttoned the dress; Pim swiveled on the mattress to face her.

  I’ve dreamed about you, Pim signed. I feel like I’ve known you all my life.

  And I you.

  Pim’s eyes were full of inexpressible emotion. Even when…

  Amy took her hands to quiet them. Yes, she replied. Even then.

  From the pocket of her dress, Pim withdrew a notebook. It was small but possessed the thickness of stiff parchment paper stitched together. I brought you this.

  Amy accepted it and opened the covers, which were wrapped in soft hide. Here it was, page after page. The drawings. The words. The island with its five stars.

  Who else has seen this? she signed.

  Only you.

  Not even Caleb?

  Pim shook her head. A film of tears coated the surface of her eyes; she appeared completely overcome, beyond words. How do I know these things?

  Amy closed the notebook. I cannot say.

  What does it mean?

  I think it means you will live; your baby will live. A pause, then: Will you help me?

  In the living room, she found paper and a pen. She wrote the note, folded it into thirds, and gave it to Pim, who hurried away. Alone again, Amy went to the bathroom off the hall. Above the washbasin was a small round mirror. The changes that had occurred to her person had been felt rather than observed; she had yet to see herself. She stepped to the mirror. The face she beheld did not seem to be her own, and yet it was also the person she had long felt herself to be: a woman with dark hair, a well-sculpted though not overtly angular face, pale unblemished skin, and deep-set eyes. Her hair was as short as a boy’s, showing the curves of her skull, and bristly to the touch, like the end of a broom. The reflection possessed a disquieting ordinariness; she might have been anyone, just another woman in the crowd, yet it was within this face, this body, that all her thoughts and perceptions—her sense of self—resided. The urge to reach out and touch the mirror was strong, and she allowed herself to do so. As her finger made contact with the glass, her reflection responding in kind, a shift occurred. This is you, her mind told her. This is the one true Amy.

  It was time.

  To quiet one’s mind, to bring it to a condition of absolute motionlessness—that was the trick. Amy liked to use a lake. This body of water was not imaginary; it was the lake in Oregon where Wolgast, in their first days together at the camp, had taught her to swim. She closed her eyes and willed herself to go there; gradually the scene arose in her thoughts. The cusp of night, and the first stars punching through a blue-black sky. The wall of shadow where tall pines, rich with fragrance, stood regally along the rocky shore. The water itself, cold and clear and sharp-tasting, and the downy duff of needles carpeting the bottom. In this mental construct, Amy was both the lake and the swimmer in the lake; ripples moved outward along its surface in accordance with her motions. She took a breath and dove down, into an unseen world; when the bottom appeared, she began to move along it with a smooth, gliding motion. Far above her, the ripples of her entry dispersed concentrically across the surface. When the last of these disturbances touched their fingers to the shore, and the lake’s surface returned to perfect balance, the state she required would be achieved.

  The ripples touched. The lake stilled.

  Can you hear me?

  Silence. Then:

  Yes, Amy.

  I think that I am ready, Anthony. I think I am ready at last.

  —

  Michael had been waiting at the gate for nearly an hour. Where the hell was Lucius? It was nearly 1030; they were cutting it close as it was. Men were welding heavy brackets in place to lay iron beams across the gate. More were hammering sheets of galvanized roofing metal to the outside face. If Greer didn’t show up soon, they’d be locked inside like everybody else.

  At last Greer appeared, striding briskly through the portal from outside. He climbed into the truck and nodded toward the windshield. “Let’s go.”

  “She’s fooling herself.”

  Greer gave him a look: don’t go there.

  Michael turned the engine over, angled his head out the window, and yelled to the foreman of the work crew: “Coming through!” When the man failed to turn around, he leaned on the horn. “Hey! We need to get out!”

  That got the foreman’s attention; he strode up to the driver’s window. “The hell you honking at me for?”

  “Tell those guys to get out of the way.”

  He spat onto the ground. “Nobody’s supposed to go outside. We’re working here.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re different. Tell them to move or get run over. How would that be?”

  The man looked like he was about to say something but stopped himself. He turned back toward the gate. “Okay, clear a path for this guy.”

  “Much obliged,” Michael said.

  The foreman spat again. “It’s your funeral, asshole.”

  Yours, too, thought Michael.

  * * *

  66

  1630 hours: the last of the evacuees were being moved into the dam; the hardboxes were full; the few remain
ing civilian inductees were awaiting their assignments. There had been a few incidents—some arrests, even a few shots fired. Yet most people saw the sense of what they were being asked to do; their own lives were on the line.

  But processing the inductees was taking longer than expected. Long lines, confusion about weapons and who reported to whom, the distribution of equipment and delegation of duties: Peter and Apgar were trying to assemble an army in half a day. Some barely knew how to hold a gun, much less load and fire it. Ammo was at a premium, but a target range had been set up in the square, using sandbags as a backstop. A crash course for the uninitiated—three shots, good or bad—and off they went to the wall.

  Just a few weapons remained, pistols only; the rifles were gone, except for a few that would be held in reserve. Tempers were short; everyone had been standing in the hot sun for hours. Peter was positioned to the side of the processing desk with Apgar, watching the last few men come through. Hollis was checking off names.

  A man approached the desk—forties, lean in the manner of someone to whom life had not been kind, with a high, domed forehead and old acne scars on his cheeks. A hunting rifle hung from his shoulder. It took Peter a moment to recognize him.

  “Jock, isn’t it?”

  The man nodded—somewhat sheepishly, Peter thought. Twenty years gone by, yet Peter could tell that the memory of that day on the roof still affected him. “I don’t think I ever really thanked you, Mr. President.”

  Apgar glanced at Peter. “What’d you do?”

  Jock said, “He saved my life, is what he did.” Then, to Peter: “I’ve never forgotten it. Voted for you both times.”

  “What became of you? No more roofs, I’ll bet.”

  Jock shrugged; his regular life, like everyone’s, was receding into the past. “Worked as a mechanic, mostly. Just got married, too. My wife had a baby last night.”

  Peter remembered Sara’s story. He gestured toward Jock’s rifle, a lever-action .30-30. “Let’s see your weapon.”

  Jock handed it over. The action was jerky, the trigger like mush, the glass of the scope gouged and pitted.

  “When was the last time you fired this?”

  “Never. Got it from my dad years ago.”

  Hollis looked up. “We don’t have any thirty-thirty.”

  “How many rounds do you have for this?” Peter asked Jock.

  The man held out his open palm, showing four cartridges, old as the hills.

  “This thing is worthless. Hollis, get this man a proper rifle.”

  The gun was produced: one of Tifty’s M16s, fresh and gleaming.

  “A wedding present,” Peter said, passing it off to Jock. “Report to the range. They’ll get you ammo and show you how to use it.”

  The man looked up, blindsided. His face was full of gratitude; no one had ever given him such a present. “Thank you, sir.” A crisp nod and he moved away.

  “Okay, what was that about?” Apgar asked.

  Peter’s eyes followed Jock as he made his way to the range. “For luck,” he said.

  —

  In the orphanage, the last of the women and children were descending into the shelter. It had been decided that only women with children under five would be allowed to accompany their offspring; there had been many tearful scenes of separation, agonizing and awful. Quite a few mothers claimed their children were younger than they obviously were; in those instances that seemed close, or close enough, Caleb let them through. He simply didn’t have the heart to say no.

  Caleb worried about Pim; the shelter was rapidly filling. At last she arrived, explaining that the children had spent the morning at Kate and Bill’s house. For Pim a painful pilgrimage, Kate’s ghost everywhere, but a helpful distraction for the girls: a few hours in familiar rooms, playing with familiar toys. They’d bounced on their old beds for half an hour, Pim said.

  And yet something was off; Caleb sensed the presence of words unsaid. They were standing by the open hatch. One of the sisters, positioned on the platform below, reached up to assist the children, first Theo, then the girls. As Pim’s turn came, Caleb took her by the elbow.

  What is it?

  She hesitated. Yes, something was there.

  Pim?

  A flicker of uncertainty in her eyes; then she composed herself. I love you. Be careful.

  Caleb let the matter rest. Now was not the time, the hatch standing open, everyone waiting. Sister Peg was observing from the side. Caleb had already broached the question of whether or not Sister Peg would be joining the children underground. “Lieutenant,” she’d said with a reproachful look, “I’m eighty-one years old.”

  Caleb hugged his wife and helped her down. As her hands gripped the top rung, she raised her eyes, for a last look. A cold weight dropped inside him. She was his life.

  Keep our babies safe, he signed.

  More children came through; then, suddenly, the shelter was full. From outside the building a cry went up, followed by a voice from a megaphone, ordering the crowd to disperse.

  Colonel Henneman strode into the hall. “Jaxon, I’m putting you in charge here.”

  It was the last thing Caleb wanted. “I’d be more use on the wall, sir.”

  “This isn’t a debate.”

  Caleb felt the presence of an unseen hand. “Does my father have something to do with this?”

  Henneman ignored the question. “We’ll need men on the roof and the perimeter and two squads inside. Are we clear? Nobody else gets inside. How you accomplish that is up to you.”

  Dire words. Also inevitable. People would do anything to survive.

  * * *

  67

  Michael and Greer picked up the first survivors north of Rosenberg, a group of three soldiers—stunned, starving, their carbines and pistols drained. The virals had attacked the barracks two nights ago, they said, tearing through the place like a tornado, destroying everything, vehicles and equipment, the generator and radio, ripping the roofs off the Quonsets like they were opening tins of meat.

  There were others. A woman, one of Dunk’s girls, with black hair streaked white, walking barefoot along the roadway with her tippy shoes dangling from her fingertips and a story about hiding in a pump house. A pair of men from one of the telegraph crews. An oiler named Winch—Michael recalled him from the old days—sitting cross-legged by the side of the road, carving meaningless shapes in the ground with a six-inch knife and babbling incoherently. His face was chalky with dust, his coveralls black with dried blood, though it was not his own. All took their places in the back of the truck in stunned silence, not even asking where they were going.

  “These are the luckiest people on the planet,” Michael said, “and they don’t even know it.”

  Greer watched the landscape flow past, dry scrub yielding to the dense tangle of the coastal shelf. The intensity of the last twenty-four hours had kept the pain at bay, but now, in the unstructured silence of his thoughts, it roared back. An omnipresent, low-grade urge to vomit tossed his gut; his saliva was thick and brassy-tasting; his bladder pulsed with unexpressed fullness, febrile and enormous. When they’d stopped to pick up the woman, Greer had stepped into the scrub with the hope of passing water, but all he’d managed to produce was a pathetic crimson-tinted trickle.

  South of Rosenberg, they swung east toward the ship channel. Muddy water sprayed up behind them; each bang of the truck’s carriage on the gullied roadway threw fresh punches of pain. Greer wanted a drink of water very badly, if only to clear the taste in his mouth, but when Michael drew his canteen from under his seat, took a long pull, and offered it to him, all the while staring out the windshield, Greer waved it off. From Michael, a sideways glance—You’re sure?—and for that moment the man seemed to know something, or at least suspect. But when Greer said nothing, Michael wedged the canteen between his knees and capped it with a shrug.

  The air in the truck changed, and then the sky; they were approaching the channel.

  “For fucksakes, I only just
came from here,” said the woman.

  Five more miles and the causeway appeared. Patch and his men were waiting at the bottleneck. Barriers of razor wire had been laid across it. As the truck drew to a halt, Patch stepped up to the driver’s window.

  “Didn’t expect you back so soon.”

  “What has Lore told you?” Michael asked.

  “Just the bad parts. No sign of them here, though.” Then, glancing into the back of the vehicle, “I see you’ve brought some friends.”

  “Where is she?”

  “The ship, I guess. Rand says she’s driving everybody crazy down there.”

  Michael turned toward their passengers. “You three,” he said to the soldiers, “get out.”

  They were looking around with bewilderment. “What do you want us to do?” one asked—the highest-ranking among them, a corporal with eyes empty as a cow’s and the soft, baby-fatted face of a fifteen-year-old.

  “I don’t know,” Michael said dryly, “be soldiers? Shoot at things?”

  “I told you, we haven’t got any ammo.”

  “Patch?”

  The man nodded. “I’ll fix them up.”

  “This is Patch,” Michael said to the three. “He’s your new CO.”

  They looked blankly at one another. “Aren’t you guys, like, criminals?” the one said.

  “Right now, do you honestly give a damn?”

  “Come on now,” Patch cut in, “be good fellows and do like the man says.”

  Looking askance at one another, the soldiers disembarked. Once Patch and the others had pulled the barrier aside, Michael gunned the engine and roared down the causeway. Rand met them at the shed, shirtless and sweating, a greasy rag knotted around his head.

  “What’s our status?” Michael asked, stepping down. “Have you flooded the dock?”

  “There’s a problem. Lore found another bad section. There are soft spots all through it.”

  “Where?”

  “Starboard bow.”