“I’m aware of that, Jaxon. I’ve read the report. What’s your point?”
“He wasn’t where he was supposed to be, either. Maybe Greer and Amy went searching for him.” He looked at each of the three men in turn, then together. “Maybe they know where he is.”
A frozen moment followed. Then, from Fleet: “It’s an interesting idea, Lieutenant. Is there anything else?”
Just like that, the idea had been put aside. Or maybe not. Either way, Peter sensed that his words had hit the mark.
“No, sir.”
The general’s eyes darkened with warning. “As I said, you’re not to discuss these matters with anyone. I don’t think I have to tell you that any indiscretion would not be looked on kindly. You’re free to go, Lieutenant.”
“I’m sorry, Sister Peg is away for the day.”
Sister Peg was never away for the day. The defensive posture of the woman in the doorway made it plain: Peter wasn’t getting past her.
“Will you at least tell Caleb I was here?”
“Of course, Lieutenant.” Her eyes darted past him in the manner of someone conscious of being observed. “Now, if you will excuse me …”
Peter returned to the barracks to pass a restless afternoon on his bunk, gazing at the ceiling. His transport would be leaving the next morning at 0600; he had no doubt that such a swift departure was by design. Men came and went, banging through the room in their heavy boots, yet their presence scarcely registered in his consciousness. Amy and Greer—where could they have gone? And why the two of them together? How could she have broken him out, and how had they made it past the sentries at the portal? He scoured his memory for anything either of them had done or said to indicate they were planning such an escape. The only thing he could come up with was the strange serenity that had radiated from the major—as if the walls that caged him were inconsequential, their substance illusory. How could that be so?
It was a mystery, like everything else about the last thirty days. The whole thing left the impression of figures drifting just beyond the barriers of a heavy fog, there and not there.
As the empty hours wore on, Peter’s thoughts were borne back to his evening among the sisters: his time with Caleb, the boy’s youthful energy and cleverness; the joy in Amy’s face as she turned from the oven to see him standing there; the quiet moment they’d shared as he made his departure, their hands touching in space. The gesture had felt entirely natural, an involuntary reflex without hesitation or resistance; it seemed to have risen from both a deep well inside him and someplace far away, like the forces that propelled the waves he loved to look at, curling onto the beach. Of all the events of the last few days, their moment in the doorway stood most vividly in his recollection, and he closed his eyes, replaying it in his mind. The warmth of her cheek against his chest, and the bright force of her embrace; the way Amy had looked at their joined hands. Do you remember when I kissed you? He was still hearing these words in his mind as he fell asleep.
He awoke in darkness; his mouth tasted of dryness and dust. He was surprised he’d slept so long; he was surprised he’d slept at all. He was reaching to lift his canteen from the floor when he noticed a figure sitting on the adjacent bunk.
“Colonel?”
Apgar was facing him, his feet resting on the floor, hands braced on his knees. He took a long breath before speaking. Peter understood that the man’s presence was what had awakened him.
“Listen, Jaxon, I didn’t feel right about what happened in there today. So what I’m about to tell you is just between us, is that understood?”
Peter nodded.
“The woman you described was seen once before, years ago. I didn’t see her myself, but others did. You know about the Massacre of the Field?”
Peter frowned. “You were there?”
“I was just a kid, sixteen. It’s not something I talk about. None of us do. I lost my parents and my little sister. My mother and father were killed outright, but I never knew what happened to her. I suppose she was taken up. To this day, I still have nightmares about it. She was four years old.”
Apgar had never told Peter anything so personal; he’d never told him anything personal at all. “I’m sorry, Colonel.”
The pain of this memory, and the effort that went into telling it: these were plainly written on the man’s face. “Well, it was a long time ago. Condolences noted, but that’s not why I’m here, and I’m sticking my neck out telling you any of this. If Fleet found out, he’d have my commission. Or send me to the stockade.”
“You have my word, sir.”
Apgar paused, then began again: “Twenty-eight souls were lost that day. Of those, sixteen, like my sister, were never accounted for. Everybody knows about the eclipse. What they don’t know is that the virals were hiding in the hardboxes, like they knew about it in advance. Just before the attack began, a young DS officer in the tower reported seeing a large truck like the one you described waiting just beyond the tree line. You see where I’m going with this?”
“You’re saying it was the same people.”
Apgar nodded. “Two men saw the woman. The first was the DS officer I mentioned. The other was a field hand, the foreman of the North Ag complex. His wife and daughters were among those lost that day. His name was Curtis Vorhees.”
Another surprise. “General Vorhees?”
“I expected you would find this interesting, especially given his friendship with Greer. Vorhees signed on right after the massacre. Half the leadership of the Second Exped came from that day. Nate Crukshank was the other DS in the tower. I’m sure you recognize the name. Did you know he was Vorhees’s brother-in-law?”
Crukshank had been the commanding officer at Roswell. The sudden alignment of players felt like pieces snapping together. Peter recalled his days with Greer and Vorhees at the Colorado garrison—the two men’s warm, easy friendship, and the stack of charcoal sketches Greer had shown him after the general had been killed. Vorhees had drawn the same image again and again, a woman and two little girls.
“What about the first DS? Who was he?”
“Well, that’s a name everybody knows. Tifty Lamont.”
This made no sense. “Tifty Lamont was DS?”
“Oh, Tifty was more than that. I owe that man my life many times over, and I’m not alone. After the massacre, he signed on with the Exped too, a scout sniper, maybe the best there ever was. Made captain before he busted out. Vorhees, Crukshank, and Tifty went way back. I don’t know the story, but there was one.”
Tifty Lamont as Expeditionary, an officer even. From everything Peter had heard about the man, this fact seemed completely incongruous. “So what happened to him?”
“Tifty?”
“The man’s an outlaw.”
A new look came into Apgar’s face. “I don’t know, Lieutenant. You’d have to ask him. That is, if you could find him. If, say, you knew somebody who knew somebody.”
A silence caught and held. Apgar was looking at him expectantly. Then:
“How many people did you say were in this colony of yours in California?”
“Ninety-two.”
“Ninety-two souls, gone without a trace. Pretty puzzling, if you ask me. Doesn’t exactly fit the typical MO of a viral attack. Put the sixty-seven at Roswell into the mix and you’ve got close to two hundred people pretty much vanished into thin air. And now Amy takes off, just when this woman reappears and effectively severs our oil supply. I could see why the brass would be concerned. Even more so when you consider the fact that the only other living soul who’s seen this woman is … what was the term you used?”
“An outlaw.”
“Exactly. Persona non grata. A politically touchy situation, to say the least. On the one hand, you have the military, who want nothing to do with the man. On the other, you have the Civilian Authority, which can’t, at least not officially. Are you with me here, Lieutenant?”
“I’m not much for politics, sir.”
“That
makes two of us. Bunch of people covering their asses. Which is why we find ourselves where we are. Just the sort of circumstances that would benefit from a third party. Somebody with a history of, let’s say, personal initiative, who can think around the corners. I’m not alone in this opinion, either. Certain confidential discussions have been had in high places. Civilian, not military. Apparently, being your CO makes me an expert on your character. Yours and Donadio’s.”
Peter frowned. “What does Alicia have to do with this?”
“That I don’t know. But I can tell you two things, and the math is up to you. The first is that nobody’s heard from Fort Kearney in three months. The second is that Donadio had two sets of orders. I was only privy to the first, which came from Division and were just as I told you. The second came in a sealed pouch from Sanchez’s office, eyes only.”
“I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t they want you to know what her orders were?”
“An excellent question. Just who knows what seems to be the crux of the matter. There seems to be a certain interest in questions of confidentiality, and it doesn’t only apply to you. So Fleet wants you out of the picture, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. But just between us, Fleet and Sanchez haven’t always seen eye to eye, and the chain of command isn’t as clear as you might think. The Declaration leaves a lot of room open to interpretation, and things can get pretty murky. This business of the woman on the Oil Road isn’t a matter of, shall we say, general consensus among military and civilian authorities. Nor is Martínez, who, as you succinctly put it, wasn’t where he was supposed to be, just when Amy somehow breaks Greer out of the stockade and takes off. All very interesting.”
“So you think Martínez is part of this.”
Apgar shrugged. “I’m just the messenger. But Fleet has never been what you might call a true believer. As far as he’s concerned, Amy is a distraction and the Twelve are a myth. Donadio he can’t argue with—she’s obviously different—but in his book, that doesn’t prove a thing. He tolerated the hunt only because Sanchez made such a fuss it wasn’t worth the fight, and what happened in Carlsbad is his opportunity to finally shut it down. There are those who believe different.”
Peter took a moment to digest this. “So, Sanchez is going behind Fleet’s back.”
Apgar frowned ironically. “I wasn’t aware I’d said anything of the kind. Talk like that would be above my rank. Be that as it may, I would consider it a personal favor if you could assist me in locating the appropriately resourceful individual to connect a few dots here. Know anybody who fits the bill, Lieutenant?”
The message was clear. “I think I do, Colonel.”
“Excellent.” Apgar paused before continuing: “Funny thing about that transport. The damnedest coincidence, actually. It seems the paperwork has been misplaced. You know how these things are. Should take about forty-eight hours to sort out, seventy-two at the outside.”
“That’s good to know, sir.”
“I thought you might share that opinion.” The colonel slapped his knees. “Well, it seems I’m needed elsewhere. I’ve been assigned to a presidential task force to deal with this … unfortunate development. Don’t know how much I can contribute, but I go where I’m told.” He rose from the bunk. “Glad you got your rest, Lieutenant. Busy days ahead.”
“Thank you, Colonel.”
“Don’t mention it. And I do mean that literally.” He looked at Peter again. “Just be careful with him, Jaxon. Lamont is nobody you want to cross.”
They rode through the night and into another. They were east of Luling now. They had no map but didn’t need one; Interstate 10 would lead them straight to Houston, into its jungled heart. Greer had been there once before—just the outskirts, but they’d told him enough. The city was an impenetrable swamp, a miasma of tree-tangled muck and sodden ruins, crawling with dopeys. If they didn’t get you, the alligators would. They cruised the befouled waters like half-submerged boats, many having grown to gargantuan dimensions, their powerful jaws endlessly searching. Huge clouds of mosquitoes blanketed the air. Your nose, your mouth, your eyes: always they were looking for the body’s door, seeking out the soft spots. Houston, what remained, was not a place for humankind; Greer wondered why anyone had ever thought it habitable to begin with.
They would face that soon enough. Now they found themselves in a prairie land of tall grasses and thickets, reclining mile by mile toward the sea. This far to the east, the highway hadn’t been cleared. It seemed more suggestion than structure, its surface cracked and subsumed under washes of heavy clay soil. Graveyards of ancient cars frequently blocked the way. Few words had passed between the two of them since their departure: conversation was simply not necessary. Across the days, Greer had sensed a change in Amy, an aura of physical distraction. She was perspiring heavily; at times he caught her wincing, as if in pain. But when he expressed his concern, the girl peremptorily dismissed it. I’m fine, she insisted. It’s nothing. Her tone was almost angry; she was telling him not to press.
As darkness fell, they made their camp in a clearing within sight of a ruined motel. The sky was clear, the temperature falling, calling forth dew from the air. Greer knew they were safe for the night; in Amy’s presence he was in a zone of protection. They unrolled their bedrolls and slept.
He awakened later with a start; something was wrong. He rolled to the side and saw that Amy’s bedroll was empty.
He did not allow himself to panic. A gibbous moon had risen as they’d slept, slicing the darkness into spaces of light and shadow, a landscape of menacingly elongated forms and pockets of blackness. The horses were obliviously chewing on a stand of weeds. Greer removed the Browning from his pack and moved cautiously into the gloom. He willed his eyes to parse shape from shape. Where had she gone? Should he call out to her? But the silence of the scene and its hidden dangers forbade it.
Then he saw her. She was standing just a few yards from their encampment, facing away. The rhythms of conversation touched his ears. Was she speaking to someone? It seemed so, and yet there was no one.
He approached her from behind. “Amy?”
No reply. She had given up her murmuring; her body was absolutely still.
“Amy, what is it?”
She turned then to face him with a look of mild surprise. “Oh. I see.”
“Who were you talking to?”
She gave no answer. She seemed to be only partially present. Was she sleepwalking?
Then: “I suppose we should go back.”
“Don’t scare me like that.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” She flicked her eyes downward at the gun. “What are you doing with that?”
“I didn’t know where you’d gone. I was worried.”
“I thought I made myself clear, Major. Put it away now.”
She walked past him, headed back to camp.
42
Time interminable; time without end. His existence was a nightmare from which he couldn’t awaken. Thoughts floating past like glinting dust motes, darting from wherever he looked. Every day they came. The men with their glowing, blood-red eyes. They unhooked the bloated bags and bore them away on their rattling cart and hung fresh ones on their stands. Always the bags, endlessly needful, constantly filling with their drip-drip-drip of Grey.
They were men who enjoyed their work. They told little jokes, they kept themselves amused. They enjoyed themselves at his expense, like children taunting an animal at the zoo. Here now, they cooed, extending the fragrant dropper toward his mouth, does baby need his bottle? Is baby hungry?
He tried to resist them. He clenched his muscles against the chains, he turned his face away. He mustered every ounce of will to deny them, yet always he succumbed. The hunger soared inside him like a great black bird.
—Say it for Mama. Say, I’m a baby who needs his bottle, I promise to be good. Be a good baby, Grey.
The tip of the dropper wafted enticingly under his nose, the scent of blood li
ke a bomb exploding in his brain, a million neurons firing in an electrical storm of pure desire.
—You’ll like this one. An excellent vintage. You like the young ones, don’t you, Grey?
Tears squeezed from his eyes. Tears of longing and revulsion. The tears of his too-long life, a century of lying naked in chains. The tears of being Grey.
—Please.
—Say it. I like the young ones.
—I’m begging you. Don’t make me.
—The words, Grey. A wave of sour breath close to his ear. Let me … hear … the … words.
—Yes! Yes, I like the young ones! Please! Just a taste! Anything!
And then at last the dropper, its delicious earth-rich squirt on his tongue. He smacked his lips. He rolled the thick muscle of his tongue around the walls of his mouth. He suckled like the baby they said he was, wishing he could make the feeling last, though he never could: an involuntary bob of his throat and it was gone.
—More, more.
—Now, Grey. You know there can’t be any more. A dropper a day keeps the doctor away. Just enough to make you keep churning out the viral goodness.
—Just one taste, that’s all. I promise I won’t tell.
A dark chuckle: And supposing I did? Supposing I gave you just one more dropper? What would you do then?
—I won’t, I swear, I just want …
—I’ll tell you what you want. What you want, my friend, is to rip those chains right out of the floor. Which, I have to say, is pretty much what I’d want in your situation. That’s what I’d be thinking about. I’d want to kill the men who put me here. A pause, then the voice coming closer: Is that what you want, Grey? To kill all of us?
He did. He wanted to rip them limb from limb. He wanted their blood to flow like water; he ached to hear their final cries. He wanted this even more than death itself, though just a little. Lila, he thought, Lila, I can feel you, I know that you are near. Lila, I would save you if I could.
—See you tomorrow, Grey.
The Twelve (Book Two of The Passage Trilogy): A Novel Page 44