The Twelve tpt-2

by Justin Cronin

  He led them to a small concrete building with a flight of metal stairs descending belowground. At the bottom was a maintenance shaft, dank and gloomy, the walls dripping with moisture. They were inside the dam, somewhere above the spillway vents. Bulbs in metal cages cast elongated shadows on the walls. A building rush of adrenaline had started to bring Vorhees’s senses back into focus. They came to a hatch in the wall, sealed with a rusted metal ring. Cruk and Tifty positioned themselves on opposite sides and heaved with all their might, but the wheel wouldn’t budge.

  “We need a lever,” said Tifty.

  He disappeared down the tunnel and returned with a length of pipe. He threaded it through the spokes of the ring and leaned in. With a squeal, the wheel began to turn; the door swung open.

  Inside was a vertical shaft and a ladder leading down. Tifty produced a cap flare, scraped the striker, and dropped it into the hole. Tifty descended first, then Vor, Dee, and Boz, with Cruk bringing up the rear.

  They found themselves in a wide tube. A spillway vent, one of six. Through these vents, water was released from the impoundment once a day and funneled down the spillway to the fields. Behind them lay a million gallons of water held in place by the dam. The air was cold and smelled of stone. A trickle of water ran the length of the floor toward the outlet, a pale disk of moonlit sky. They crept toward it, away from the light of Tifty’s flare. Vorhees’s heart was thudding in his chest. The world of night, outside the walls: it was beyond imagining. Ten feet from the outlet, Tifty dropped to a crouch; the others followed suit. Bars of heavy steel guarded the opening.

  “I’ll go first,” Tifty whispered.

  He moved on his hands and knees toward the end of the tunnel. Everyone else held absolutely still. In Vorhees’s drunken mind, seeing Coffee’s camp had become an ancillary purpose; the evening was a pure test of courage, its object irrelevant. The bars were sturdy enough to keep out a viral, but that wasn’t the danger; Vorhees half-expected a clawed hand to reach through and grab their friend and tear him to pieces. Through the lingering haze of the lick, the thought came to him that Dee must be afraid too, and that he might offer her some reassurance, but he couldn’t think of what to say, and the idea died in his mind.

  At the tunnel’s mouth, Tifty eased up onto his knees, gripping the bars, and peered out.

  “What do you see?” Cruk whispered.

  A pause. Then, from their friend, two words: “Holy… shit.”

  The tone hit Vorhees as wrong. Not an exclamation of discovery but of sudden fear.

  “What is it?” Cruk whispered, more harshly. “Is Coffee there?”

  “I want to look!” Boz cried out.

  “Quiet!” Cruk barked. “Tifty, goddamnit, what is it?”

  Vorhees felt it through his knees. A rumbling, like thunder, followed by a shrieking groan of metal gears engaging. The sound was coming from behind them.

  Tifty jumped to his feet. “Get out of here!”

  It was water. The sound Vorhees was hearing was water being released from the impoundment. One vent and then the next and then the next, moving in a line. That’s what Tifty had seen.

  They would be smashed to pieces.

  Vorhees rose and grabbed Boz by the arm to yank him away, but the boy wriggled free.

  “I want to see him!”

  “There’s nothing there!”

  The boy’s voice cracked with tears. “There is, there is!”

  Boz made a dash for the outlet. Tifty and the others were already racing toward the ladder. The sound of thunder was closer now. The adjacent tube had released; theirs would be next. In another few seconds, a wall of water would slam into them. At the tunnel’s mouth Vorhees gripped his brother around the waist, but the boy held fast to the bars.

  “I see him! It’s Coffee!”

  With all his might, Vorhees pulled; the two of them crashed to the floor. The others were calling: Come on, come on! Vorhees gripped his brother by the hand and began to run. Cruk was waving at them from the base of the ladder. Vorhees felt a pop of pressure in his ears; an ice-cold wind was pushing in his face. As Cruk disappeared up the ladder, Vorhees began to ascend, his brother right behind him.

  Then the water arrived.

  It slammed him like a fist, a hundred fists, a thousand. Below him, Boz cried out in terror. Vorhees managed to keep his grasp on the ladder, but could do nothing more; to release even one hand was to be swept away. Water swarmed his nose and mouth. He tried to call his brother’s name, but no sound came. This was how it ends, he thought. One mistake and everything was over. It was so simple. Why didn’t people die like this more often? But they did, he realized, as his grip on the ladder began to fail. They died like this all the time.

  It was Cruk who pulled him free. Cruk, who would forever be his friend; who would one day stand with him while he married Dee; who would watch over his children on the day when everyone had brought the children for a summer picnic in the field; who would join him in the final battles of their lives, many miles and years away. As Vorhees’s hands tore away, Cruk reached down and seized him by the wrist and yanked him upward, and the next thing Vorhees knew they were climbing, they were ascending the shaft to safety.

  But not Boz. The boy’s body wouldn’t be recovered until the next morning, crushed against the bars. Maybe he’d seen Coffee and maybe he hadn’t. Tifty never gave them an answer. Over time, Vorhees came to think it didn’t matter. Even if he had, there’d be no comfort in it.

  By midday, the detassling crew had covered sixteen acres. The sun was blazing, not a cloud in the sky; even the children, after a morning of games and laughter, had retreated to the shelter. At the pump, Vorhees removed his hat, filled a cup and drank, then filled it again to pour the water over his face. He removed his sweat-sodden shirt and wiped himself down with it. God almighty, it was hot.

  The women and children had already eaten. Beneath the shelter, the work crew gathered for lunch. Bread and butter, hard-boiled eggs, cured meat, blocks of cheese, pitchers of water and lemonade. Cruk came down from the tower to fill a plate; Tifty was nowhere to be seen. Well, so what? Tifty could do as he liked. They ate heartily, without speaking. Soon all of them would be dozing in the shade.

  “One hour,” Vorhees said after a while, rising from the table. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

  He ascended the stairs to the top of the tower, where he found Cruk scanning the field with the binoculars. His rifle was resting against the rail.

  “Anything interesting out there?”

  For a second, Cruk didn’t answer. He passed Vorhees the binoculars. “Six o’clock, through the tree line. Tell me what that is.”

  Vorhees looked. Nothing at all, just trees and the dry brown hills beyond. “What do you think you saw?”

  “I don’t know. Something shiny.”

  “Like metal?”

  “Yeah.”

  After a moment, Vorhees drew the binoculars away. “Well, it’s not there now. Maybe it was just the sun flaring in the lenses.”

  “Probably that’s it.” Cruk took a sip of water from his bottle. “How’s it going down there?”

  “They’ll all be asleep soon enough. A lot of the kids are down already. I don’t think anybody expected it to be this hot.”

  “July in Texas, brother.”

  “Gunnar wanted to know if he could help. That boy is all heart and no sense.”

  Cruk took up his rifle. “What did you tell him?”

  “Just you wait. Someday you’ll realize how crazy you sound.”

  Cruk laughed. “And yet we were the same. Couldn’t wait to get out into the world.”

  “Maybe you couldn’t.”

  Cruk fell silent, gazing out over the rail. Vorhees sensed that something was troubling his friend.

  “Listen,” Cruk began, “I made a decision, and I wanted you to hear it from me. You know there’s talk about the Expeditionary getting back together.”

  Vorhees had heard these rumors, too. It was noth
ing new; rumors circulated all the time. Since Coffee and his men had disappeared—how many years ago?—the subject had never really died completely.

  “People are always saying that.”

  “This time it’s not just talk. The military’s taking volunteers from the DS, looking to build a unit of two hundred men.”

  Vorhees searched his friend’s face. What was he telling him? “Cruk, you can’t be seriously thinking about it. That was all kid stuff.”

  Cruk shrugged. “Maybe it was, back then. And I know how you feel about it, after what happened to Boz. But look at my life, Vor. I never married. I don’t have a family of my own. What was I waiting for?”

  The meaning sank in all at once. “Jesus. You already signed on, didn’t you?”

  Cruk nodded. “I turned in my resignation from the DS yesterday. It won’t be official until I take the oath, though.”

  Vorhees felt stunned.

  “Look, don’t tell Dee,” Cruk pressed. “I want to do it.”

  “She’ll take it hard.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m telling you first.”

  The conversation was broken by the sound of a pickup coming down the service road. It drew into the staging area and pulled up to the shelter; Tifty climbed out. He stepped to the rear of the truck and drew down the tailgate.

  “Now, what’s he got?”

  They were watermelons. Everyone crowded around; Tifty began to carve them up, passing fat, dripping wedges to the children. Watermelons! What a treat, on a day like this!

  “For Christ’s sake,” Vorhees groaned, watching the performance. “Where the hell would he get those?”

  “Where does Tifty get anything? You got to hand it to the guy, though. He’s not going to die friendless.”

  “Did I say that?”

  Cruk looked at him. “You don’t have to like him, Vor. That’s not for me to say. But he’s trying. You’ve got to give him that.”

  The door to the stairs opened. Dee stepped out, carrying two plates, each bearing a pink wedge of melon.

  “Tifty brought—”

  “Thanks. We saw.”

  Her face fell with an expression Vorhees knew too well. Let it go. Please, just for today. They’re only watermelons.

  Cruk took the plates from her. “Thanks, Dee. That’ll really hit the spot. Tell Tifty thanks.”

  She glanced at Vorhees, then returned her eyes to her brother. “I’ll do that.”

  Vorhees knew he looked like a resentful fool, just as he knew that if he didn’t say something, change the subject, he’d carry this sour feeling inside him for the rest of the day.

  “How are the kids?”

  Dee shrugged. “Siri’s out like a light. Nit’s gone off with Ali and some of the others. They’re picking wildflowers.” She paused to wipe her brow with the back of her wrist. “Are you really going back out there? I don’t know how you stand it. Maybe you should wait until the sun’s a little lower.”

  “There’s too much to do. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  She regarded him for another moment. “Well, like I said. Anything else I can bring you, Cruk?”

  “Not a thing, thanks.”

  “I’ll leave you to it then.”

  When Dee was gone, Cruk held out one of the plates. But Vorhees shook his head.

  “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  The big man shrugged. He was already wolfing down his slice, rivers of juice running down his chin. When all that remained was the rind, he gestured toward the second plate, resting on the parapet. “You mind?”

  Vorhees shrugged in reply. Cruk finished off the second slice, wiped his face on his sleeve, and tossed the rinds over the side.

  “You should tell Dee soon,” Vorhees said.

  Three o’clock, the day draining away. A faint breeze had picked up late in the morning, but now the air had stilled again. Under the tarp, Dee was playing a halfhearted game of roundabout with Cece Cauley, little Louis resting at their feet in his basket. A plump, good-natured baby, fat fingers and fat toes and a soft, pursed mouth: despite the heat, he had barely fussed all day and now was sound asleep.

  Dee remembered those days, baby days. Their distinctive sensations, the sounds and smells, and the feeling of profound physical attachment, as if you and the baby were a single being. Many women complained about it—I can’t get a moment to myself, I can’t wait until she’s walking!—but Dee never had; just thirty, she would have gladly had another, maybe even two. It would be nice, she thought, to have a son. But the rules were clear. Two and done, was the saying. The governor’s office was discussing an extension of the walls, and maybe then the ban would be lifted. But probably that would come too late, and until then, there was only so much food and fuel and space to go around.

  And Vor—well, what could she do? Boz’s death was an intractable barrier in the man’s mind, the truth distorted and enlarged over the years until it was the singular injury of his life. Tifty was Tifty, he always would be. One day he was being tossed into the stockade for putting a man’s head through a window in a barroom brawl, the next he was producing, through a kind of Tifty magic, a truck of black-market watermelons on a scorching summer afternoon. Probably it was just a matter of time before he ended up in the stockade for good. Yet there was no denying it: Tifty would always be a part of them, and Dee most of all. There were times when Dee looked at her older daughter and honestly didn’t know what the truth was. It could be one thing, or it could be the other. In a certain light Nitia was all Vor, but then the little girl would smile in a particular way or do that squinty thing with her eyes and there was Tifty Lamont.

  A single night, not even. The whole thing, the entirety of their affair, had been more like ninety minutes, start to finish. How was it possible for ninety minutes to make so much difference in a life? Dee and Tifty had agreed in the aftermath that it had been a terrible mistake—inevitable, perhaps, a force of years that neither could refuse, but nothing to repeat. They both loved Vor, did they not? They’d made a big joke of it, even shaking hands to seal the deal like the two old friends they were, though of course it wasn’t a joke at all: not at the time and not nine months later; it wasn’t a joke now.

  I will never let any harm come to you, Tifty had told her, not just that night but many times, many nights. Not you or the girls or Vor. Whatever else is true, that’s my solemn promise, my vow before God. I’ll be the ground beneath your feet. Always know I’m there. And Dee did; she knew. If she allowed herself to admit it, it was only because Tifty had agreed to accompany them that the idea of today, of a summer picnic in the field, had come about at all.

  Did Dee love him? And if she did, what kind of love was it? Her feelings for Tifty were different from her feelings for Vor. Vor was steady, reliable. A creature of duty and endurance, and a good father to the girls. Solid where Tifty was vaporous, a man composed of rumor as much as actual fact. And there was no question that she and Vor belonged together; that had never been an issue. Alone in the dark, in private moments together, he spoke her name with such longing it was almost like pain; that’s how much Vor loved her. He made her feel… what? More real. As if she, Dee Vorhees—wife and mother; daughter of Sis and Jedediah Crukshank, gone to God; citizen of Kerrville, Texas, last oasis of light and safety in a world that knew none—actually existed.

  So why should she find herself, once again, thinking of Tifty Lamont?

  But the cards, and this hot-hot-hot afternoon in July, when they had brought the children to the field. Dee’s mind had wandered so badly, she hadn’t realized what Cece was doing. Before she knew it, the woman, grinning with victory, had successfully maneuvered her into taking the queen. Two tricks, three, and it was over. Cece gleefully jotted the tally on a pad.

  “Another?”

  Ordinarily Dee would have said yes, if only to occupy the hours, but in the heat the game had begun to feel like work.

  “Maybe Ali wants to play.”

  The woman, who had come back i
nto the tent for water, waved the offer away, the ladle poised at her lips. “Not a chance.”

  “C’mon, just a couple of hands,” Cece said. “I’m on a hot streak.”

  Dee rose from the table. “I better go see what the girls are up to.”

  She stepped away from the shelter. In the distance, she could see the tops of the cornstalks quivering where the men were working. She angled her face toward the tower’s apex, positioning a hand over her eyes against the glare. A ghostly moon, daytime white, was hovering near the sun. Well, that was strange. She hadn’t noticed that before. Cruk and Tifty were both on station, Cruk with his binoculars, Tifty sweeping the field with his rifle. He caught sight of her and gave a little wave, which flustered her; it was almost as if he knew she’d been thinking about him. She waved guiltily in reply.

  A group of a dozen children were playing kickball, Dash Martinez waiting at the plate. Acting as pitcher was Gunnar, who had become an unofficial babysitter over the course of the afternoon.

  “Hey, Gunnar.”

  The boy—a man, really, at sixteen—looked toward her. “Hey, Dee. Want to play?”

  “Too hot for me, thanks. Have you seen the girls anywhere?”

  Gunnar glanced around. “They were here just a second ago. Want me to look?”

  Dee’s weariness deepened. Where could they have gone? She supposed she could climb the tower and ask Cruk to track them down with the binoculars. But the hike up the stairs, once she imagined it, seemed too effortful. Easier, on the whole, to find the girls herself.