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

by Justin Cronin

  “Fuck.” Michael gestured toward their remaining passengers, who were standing in a group, staring with befuddlement. “Figure out what to do with these people.”

  “Where’d you get them?”

  “Found them on the way.”

  “Isn’t that Winch?” Rand asked. The man was muttering into his collar. “What the hell happened to him?”

  “Whatever it was, it wasn’t nice,” Michael answered.

  Rand’s eyes darkened. “Is it true about the townships? That they’re all gone?”

  Michael nodded. “Yeah, looks like we’re it.”

  Greer interrupted: “Michael, I think we need to take extra men up to the causeway. It’ll be dark in a few hours.”

  “Rand, how about it?”

  “I guess we can spare a few. Lombardi and those other guys.”

  “You two,” Rand said to the telegraph men, “come with me. And you,” he said to the woman, “what can you do?”

  She arched her eyebrows.

  “Besides that, I mean.”

  She thought for a moment. “Cook a little?”

  “A little’s better than what we’ve got. You’re hired.”

  Michael strode down the ramp to the ship. A crane with a sling had been moved into place on the dock, near the bow, where six men in bosun’s chairs hung over the side. At the far end of the weir, men in welding masks and heavy gloves were using circular saws to cut the replacement from a larger plate, sparks jetting from their blades.

  Lore, standing at the rail, saw him and came down. “Sorry, Michael.” She was practically yelling to make herself heard over the whine of the saws. “The timing isn’t great, I know.”

  “What the hell, Lore?”

  “Did you want her to sink? Because she would have. I’m not the one who missed it. You should be thanking me.”

  This was more than a delay; it was a catastrophe. Until the hull was tight, they couldn’t flood the dock; until they flooded the dock, they couldn’t fire the engines. Just flooding the dock would take an additional six hours. “How long do you figure to replace it?” he asked.

  “To cut the plates, pull out the old ones, lower them into place, rivet, and weld, I’d say sixteen hours, minimum.”

  There was no reason to question her; it wasn’t something that could be rushed. He turned on his heels and headed down the dock.

  “Where are you going?” Lore called after him.

  “To cut some fucking steel.”

  * * *

  68

  The time was 1730; the sun would set in three hours. For the moment, Peter had done all he could. He was well past the need to sleep but wanted a moment to collect himself. He thought of Jock as he walked to the house. He had no particular allegiance to the man; he had been a callow and obnoxious kid who had nearly gotten Peter killed. The rifle was probably wasted on him. But Peter recognized that day on the roof as a turning point, and he believed in second chances.

  The security detail was gone.

  Peter darted up the stairs and raced into the house. “Amy?” he called.

  A silence, then: “In here.”

  She was sitting on the bed, facing the door, hands folded neatly in her lap.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She looked up. Her face changed; she gave him a melancholy smile. A peculiar quiet took the room—not merely an absence of sound but something deeper, more fraught. “Yes. I’m fine.” She patted the mattress. “Come sit with me.”

  He took a place beside her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  She took his hand, not looking at him. He sensed she was on the verge of some announcement.

  “When I was in the water, I went someplace,” she said. “At least, my mind did. I’m not sure I can explain this right. I was so happy there.”

  He realized what she was saying. “The farmstead.”

  Her eyes found his.

  “I’ve been there, too.” Strangely, he felt no surprise; the words had been waiting to be said.

  “I was playing the piano.”

  “Yes.”

  “And we were together.”

  “Yes. We were. Just the two of us.”

  How good to say it, to speak the words. To know that he was not alone with his dreams after all, that there was some reality to it, though he could not know what that reality was, only that it existed. He existed. Amy existed. The farmstead, and their happiness in that place, existed.

  “You asked me this morning why I came to you in Iowa,” Amy said. “I didn’t tell you the truth. Or, at least, not all of it.”

  Peter waited.

  “When you change, you get to keep one thing, one memory. Whatever was closest to your heart. From all your life, just the one.” She looked up. “What I wanted to keep was you.”

  She was crying, just a little: small, jeweled tears that hung suspended on the tips of her lashes, like drops of dew upon leaves. “Peter, will you do something for me?”

  He nodded.

  “Please kiss me.”

  He did. He did not so much kiss her as fall into the world of her. Time slowed, stopped, moved in an unhurried circle around them, like waves around a pier. He felt at peace. His senses were soaring. His mind was in two places, this world and also the other: the world of the farmstead, a place beyond space, beyond time, where only the two of them resided.

  They parted. Their faces were inches apart. Amy cupped his cheek, her eyes locked on his.

  “I’m sorry, Peter.”

  The remark was strange. Her gaze deepened.

  “I know what you’re planning to do,” she said. “You wouldn’t survive it.”

  Something came undone inside him. All strength drained from his body. He tried to speak but couldn’t.

  “You’re tired,” Amy said.

  She caught him as he fell.

  —

  Amy laid him on the bed. In the outer room, she pulled her frock over her head and replaced it with the clothing that Greer had fetched for her: heavy canvas pants with pockets, leather boots, a tan shirt, the sleeves torn away, with the insignia of the Expeditionary on the shoulders. They possessed a warm, human odor—a smell of work, of life. Whoever had owned these articles was small; the fit was nearly perfect. On the back porch the soldiers slept soundly, like babies, hands tucked under their cheeks, lost to all cares. Amy gently relieved one of his pistol and tucked it into her trousers, against her spine.

  A deep quiet held the street, everyone in hiding, bracing for the storm. As Amy made her way toward the center of town, soldiers began to take notice, yet none spoke to her; their minds were elsewhere, what did one woman matter? The exterior of the stockade was unguarded. Amy strode purposefully to the door and stepped inside.

  She counted three men. Behind the counter, the officer in charge glanced up.

  “Help you, soldier?”

  —

  The sound of tumblers: Alicia raised her eyes. Amy?

  “Hello, sister.”

  Alicia looked past her but saw no one; Amy was alone.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  Amy was unlocking the shackles. She handed Alicia her goggles. “I’ll explain on the way.”

  In the outer room, the guards lay asleep on the floor. Following Greer’s directions, Amy and Alicia made their way via backstreets and trash-strewn alleys into H-town. Soon the southern wall rose into view. Amy entered a small house, little more than a hut. There was no furniture at all. In the main room, she drew a threadbare rug aside to reveal a hatch with a ladder. One of the trade’s stash houses, Amy explained, though Alicia had already figured that out. They descended into a cool, damp space that smelled of rotten fruit.

  “There,” Amy said, pointing.

  The shelves, stocked with liquor, pulled away to reveal a tunnel. At the far end they came to another ladder and, ten feet up, a metal hatch set into concrete. Amy turned the ring and pushed.

  They were outside the city, a hundred yards outs
ide the wall in a copse of trees. Soldier and a second horse were tied up, obliviously grazing. As Alicia climbed free of the hatch, Soldier raised his head: Ah. There you are. I was beginning to wonder.

  Her sword and bandoliers were hanging from the saddle. Alicia strapped on her blades while Amy covered the hatch with brush.

  “You should be the one to ride him,” Alicia said. She was also holding out the sword.

  Amy considered this. “All right,” she said.

  She angled the sword over her shoulders and swung up onto Soldier’s back. Alicia mounted the second horse, a dark bay stallion, quite young but with a fierce look to him. It was late afternoon, the sun harsh and white.

  They rode away.

  —

  The dream of the farmstead was different. Peter was lying in bed. The room was full of moonlight, making the walls seem to glow. The sheets were cold; it was this coldness that had aroused him. He had a sense of having slept a long time.

  Amy’s side of the bed was empty.

  He called her name. His voice sounded weak in the darkness, barely a presence. He rose and went to the window. Amy was standing in the yard, facing away from the house. Her posture meant something; panic surged in his heart. She began to walk—away from the house, away from him and the life they had known, her figure silhouetted by the moonlight, growing smaller. Peter could neither move nor cry out. He felt as if his soul were being wrenched from his body. Don’t leave me, Amy…

  He awoke with a start; his heart was pounding, his body glazed with sweat. Apgar’s face swam into focus.

  “Mr. President, something has happened.”

  He didn’t have to say the rest. Peter knew at once. Amy was gone.

  * * *

  69

  The saws had silenced; the steel had been cut. On the ship’s starboard flank, a gaping hole revealed the hidden decks and passageways within. The sun was receding, sparkling over the channel’s waters; the spotlights had been lit.

  Rand was operating the crane. From the floor of the dock, Michael watched the first plate descending in its cradle. Voices volleyed through the dock, more from up on deck, where Lore commanded.

  The required height was achieved. Men scurried over the surface, hammers and pneumatic guns swaying from their belts; others guided the plate from inside. With a clang, the huge steel sheet made contact. Michael ascended the stairs and crossed the gangway to the deck.

  “So far so good,” Lore said.

  They were, improbably, on schedule. The passing hours were like a funnel, drawing them down to a single moment. Every decision was binding; there would be no second chances.

  Lore went to the rail and yelled down a barrage of orders, trying to make her voice heard over the roar of the generators and the whine of the guns; Michael moved beside her. The first plate lay flush against the side. They had six more to go.

  “Want to know how they did it?”

  Lore looked at him strangely.

  “How the passengers killed themselves.”

  He had not meant to raise the subject. It seemed to have arisen of its own accord, one more secret he wanted to be rid of.

  “Okay.”

  “They’d saved some fuel. Not much but enough. They sealed the doors and rerouted the engine’s exhaust back into the ship’s ventilation. It would have been like falling asleep.”

  Lore’s face showed no expression. Then, with a small nod: “I’m glad you said something.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

  “Don’t apologize.”

  He realized why he had told her. If it came to that, they could do the same thing.

  * * *

  70

  The light was leaving them.

  Runners had begun to move; from the command post on the catwalk, Peter felt, with cold clarity, the thinness of their defense. A six-mile perimeter, men without training, an enemy like no other, lacking all fear.

  Though Apgar said nothing on the subject, Peter could read the man’s thoughts. Maybe Amy had gone with Alicia to give herself up; maybe the dracs wouldn’t come, after all. Maybe they would anyway; maybe that was the point. He remembered his dream: the image of Amy in the moonlight, walking away, not looking back. All that kept him going was the certainty of what lay ahead in the next few hours. He had a role to play, and he would play it.

  Chase arrived on the platform. Peter almost didn’t recognize his chief of staff. The man was dressed in an officer’s uniform, though the insignia had been removed, cut away roughly as if in a hurry, perhaps out of respect; he was toting a rifle, trying to seem a certain way with it. The gun looked like it had been hanging over a fireplace for years. Peter was about to say something, then stopped himself. Apgar raised a skeptical eyebrow, but that was the extent of it.

  “Where’s Olivia?” Peter asked finally.

  “In the president’s hardbox.” Chase seemed uncertain. “I hope that’s all right.”

  The three men listened as the stations called in. All stood ready, braced for attack. The shadows lengthened over the valley. It was a beautiful evening in summer, the clouds ripening with color.

  * * *

  71

  Amy did not have to know the place. The place, she knew, would come to her.

  They galloped away from the sun, the ground flying beneath them. Dust rose in a gritty cloud; clods of dirt flew up from the horses’ hooves. A certain feeling built within her. It magnified with every mile, like a radio signal growing stronger, calling them forward. Soldier’s gait was powerful and smooth. You have taken wonderful care of our friend, Amy told him. How brave you are, how strong. You will always be remembered. Green fields await you; you will spend a noble eternity among your kind.

  Soldier’s gallop faded to a walk. They brought their horses to a halt and dismounted. The rich foam of his efforts boiled from Soldier’s mouth; his dark flanks flashed with sweat.

  “Here,” Amy said.

  Alicia nodded but said nothing; Amy detected within her friend an edge of fear. She stepped away and stood in silence, waiting. The wind moved by her ears, through her hair, then faded to nothing. All seemed frozen, sealed in a great calm. The day’s last minutes ticked away. On the ground before her, her shadow stretched—longer, longer. She felt the moment of the sun’s union with the earth, its first touch upon the line of hills, audible, like a sigh. She closed her eyes and sent her mind diving into darkness; the ripples widened on the lake’s tranquil surface high above.

  Anthony, I’m here.

  First, silence. Then:

  Yes, Amy. They are ready. They are yours.

  Night was falling.

  Come to me, she thought.

  Night fell.

  * * *

  72

  They were called dopeys. But in their lives, they had been many things.

  They hailed from every quarter of the continent, every state and city. Seattle, Washington. Albuquerque, New Mexico. Mobile, Alabama. The toxic chemical swamp of New Orleans and the windswept flatlands of Kansas City and the icebound canyons of Chicago. As a body, they were a statistician’s dream, a perfect representative sampling of the inhabitants of the Great North American Empire. They came from farms and small towns, faceless suburbs and sprawling metropolises; they were every color and creed; they had lived in trailers, houses, apartments, mansions with views of the sea. In their human states, each had occupied a discrete and private self. They had hoped, hated, loved, suffered, sung, and wept. They had known loss. They had surrounded and comforted themselves with objects. They had driven automobiles. They had walked dogs and pushed children on swing sets and waited in line at the grocery store. They had said stupid things. They had kept secrets, nurtured grudges, blown upon the embers of regret. They had worshipped a variety of gods or no god at all. They had awakened in the night to the sound of rain. They had apologized. They had attended various ceremonies. They had explained the history of themselves to psychologists, priests, lovers, and strangers in bars. They had, at unex
pected moments, experienced bolts of joy so unalloyed, so untethered to events, that they seemed to come from above; they had longed to be known and, sometimes, almost were.

  Heirs to the viral lineage of Anthony Carter, Twelfth of Twelve, they were intrinsically less bloodthirsty than their counterparts; it had been remarked many times by human observers that the dopeys satisfied their appetites with an attitude of joyless obligation, and that it was this characteristic, singular among virals, that made them easier to kill. Dumb as a dopey was the phrase. This was true, while also concealing a deeper truth. Indeed they did not like it; the butchery of innocents disturbed them. Yet within them lay an unexpressed ferocity, unwitnessed by humankind. For more than a century they had waited, anticipating the day when the call would come to release this hidden power.

  In their lives, they had been many things. Then they were another. Now they were an army.

  First in twilight, then in blackness, beneath the Texas stars, they roared west, a wall of noise and dust. At the head of the pod, like the point of a spear, a pair of riders led the way. For Alicia, the sensation was one of pure momentum; she was leading as much as she was being led, joined to a primal force. For Amy, the feeling was one of expansion, an internal amassing of souls. The moment Carter had surrendered his forces to her command, they had ceased to be external entities. They had become extensions of her awareness and her will: her Many.

  Come with me. Come with me come with me come with me…

  Ahead, like lights upon a distant shore, the besieged city appeared.

  —

  “Weapons up!”

  All along the catwalk, the snap of magazines, the clack of bolts, rounds hammering into chambers. The last shadows were gone, drowned in the gloom.

  It didn’t take long.

  A glowing line appeared to the east. Second by second it thickened, spreading over the land. A feeling of fate, of destiny: it hung like a fog. The city seemed meager in its face.