The Twelve (Book Two of The Passage Trilogy): A Novel

by Justin Cronin

  The kitchen was located on the far side of the building; she’d have to cross the atrium, which was always full of cols. Still riding a wave of adrenaline, she aimed her eyes at the floor and made her way down the hall.

  As she entered the lobby she became aware of a commotion. An attendant was being escorted by two guards, her pitiful cries amplified by the room’s expansive acoustics.

  “Don’t! Please, I’m begging you! I’ll do better! Don’t take me to the basement!”

  The woman was Karen Molyneau.

  “Sara! Help me!”

  Sara halted in her tracks. How could Karen see her face? And then she realized that she’d made the one fatal error, the one thing she could never forget to do. She’d neglected to pull down her veil.

  “Sara, please!”

  “Stop.”

  The command had come from a third man. As he stepped forward, Sara recognized him immediately. The round belly, the fogged glasses riding the tip of his nose, the winglike eyebrows. The third man was Dr. Verlyn.

  “You.” He was examining her face intently. “What’s your name?”

  Her mouth had gone dry. “Dani, sir.”

  “She called you Sara.”

  “I’m sure she’s mistaken.” Her eyes flicked reflexively toward the exit. “I’m Dani.”

  “Sara, why are you doing this?” Karen was wriggling like a fish in a net. “Tell them I’m no insurgent!”

  Verlyn’s gaze hardened. The corners of his mouth lifted in a smile. “Oh, I remember you. The pretty one. I never forget a face, not one like yours.”

  Sara bolted for the door. Three strides and she went blasting through it. She tore down the steps, into the sun and wind, shouts rising behind her. “Stop her! Stop that woman!” Where could she run to? But there was no place; cols were racing toward her from all directions, hemming her in like a tightening noose. Sara’s hand went to her pocket and found the little envelope of folded foil. Here it was, the end. She stopped on the path; there was no use running anymore—she had only a second or two. The package opened to reveal its lethal contents. She took the blotter between her thumb and index finger and raised it to her mouth. Goodbye, my child, how I love you, goodbye.

  But it was not to be. As she brought the blotter to her lips, someone rammed her from behind, rocketing her off her feet; the ground fell away and rose again, slowly and then quickly and finally all at once, her skull collided with the pavement, and everything went black.

  59

  The three of them were lying with their bellies pressed to the upward slope of the culvert, Greer scanning the scene with the binoculars. The late afternoon sun was lighting fires in the clouds.

  “You’re sure this is the place,” Amy said.

  Alicia nodded. They had lain there for nearly three hours. Their attentions were focused on a wide-mouthed drainage pipe jutting from the base of a low hillside. The snow around the opening was crisscrossed with tire tracks.

  The minutes passed. Alicia had begun to doubt herself when Greer raised his hand. “Here we go.”

  A figure had emerged from the pipe, wearing a dark jacket. Man or woman, Alicia couldn’t tell. A scarf covered the lower half of the person’s face; a wool cap was pulled down to the tops of the eyes. The figure paused, looking south with a hand to its brow.

  “Looks like he’s waiting for someone,” Greer said.

  “How do you know it’s a man?” Alicia asked.

  “I don’t.” Greer handed the binoculars to Amy, who pushed a strand of hair aside and pressed the lenses to her eyes. It was amazing to see, Alicia thought; in every aspect, even the smallest gesture, Amy was both the girl she’d always been and someone entirely new. As Greer told the story, Amy had gone into the belly of the ship, the Chevron Mariner, as one thing and had come out another. Even Amy couldn’t provide an explanation. To Alicia, the oddest thing about it was the fact that it didn’t seem odd at all.

  “I can’t tell either. But whoever’s supposed to meet him is running late.” Amy drew down the binoculars. Beneath her oversized wool coat, she still wore the shapeless tunic of the Order. Her legs were covered in thick woven leggings, her feet shod in laced boots of crinkled leather. “If we’re going to find Sergio, I don’t think we’re going to get a better chance.”

  Alicia nodded. “Agreed. Major?”

  “No objection here.”

  The only cover to conceal their approach was a line of brush on the east side of the pipe and a stand of bare trees on the hillside above it. Amy and Alicia left Greer to stand lookout and moved at a crouch along the culvert in opposite directions. Amy would take the right, at ground level; Alicia would drop down from above. Once they were in position, Greer would whistle, diverting the man’s attention, and they would make their move.

  Everything unfolded according to plan. Alicia scuttled on her belly to the top of the pipe. The crown of the man’s capped head was right below her. From this angle, she wouldn’t be able to see Amy, but Greer would. She waited for the signal, then:

  Where did he go?

  Rising to her knees, Alicia rotated in time to receive his full weight slamming into hers. Not his weight. Hers. In an airborne embrace they tumbled over the lip, the woman crashing down upon her as Alicia landed on her back in the snow.

  “Who the hell are you?” The woman had pinned Alicia’s arms with her knees and was holding a knife to her throat, the blade just nicking her skin. Alicia had no doubt that she would use it.

  “Steady there. I’m a friend.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Amy? A little help here?”

  Amy had moved in from behind. Her approach had been absolutely soundless. Before the woman could react, Amy grabbed her by the collar and flung her sideways; as the woman leapt to her feet and lunged forward with the knife, Amy slapped it away, darted behind her, and locked her in a half nelson, the other arm gripping her around the waist. Alicia’s only thought was: I’ll be goddamned.

  “Stop it,” Amy said. “We want to talk, that’s all.”

  The woman spoke through gritted teeth. “Go to hell.”

  “Don’t you think I could break your neck if I wanted to?”

  “Be my guest. Tell Guilder I said, Fuck you, too.”

  Amy glanced at Alicia, who had collected the woman’s knife and was dusting snow from her pants. Greer was trotting toward them. “Does that name mean anything to you?” Amy asked.

  Alicia shook her head.

  “Who’s Guilder?” she asked the woman.

  “What do you mean, who’s Guilder?”

  “What’s your name?” Amy asked. “You might as well tell me.”

  A moment’s hesitation, then: “Nina, okay? It’s Nina.”

  “I’m going to let you go now, Nina,” Amy said. “Promise me you’ll listen to what we have to say. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Amy tightened her grip to make the point. “Do. You. Promise.”

  Another burst of struggle; then the woman relented. “Okay, okay. I promise.”

  Amy released her. The woman stumbled forward and spun around. A young face, not much older than twenty, but her eyes told a different tale—hard, almost ferocious.

  “Who are you people?”

  “That was a nice move,” Alicia said to Amy. She twirled the knife around her index finger and passed it to her. “Where’d you learn that?”

  “Where do you think? By watching you.” She pointed her eyes at Greer. His long beard was clotted with snow, like the muzzle of a dog. “Lucius, could I ask you to stand lookout again? Let us know when the vehicle approaches.”

  “That’s all? Just let you know?”

  “It would be good if you could … delay them a little. Until we’re done talking.”

  Greer jogged up the ridge. Amy addressed the woman again, making a small but meaningful gesture with the knife. “Take a seat.”

  Nina glared with defiance. “Why would I do that?”

 
; “Because you’ll be more comfortable. This is going to take some time.” Amy slid the knife into her belt. I’m done with this, if you behave. “We’re not at all who you think we are. Now sit.”

  Reluctantly, Nina lowered herself to the snow. “I’m not going to tell you anything.”

  “I very much doubt that,” said Amy. “I believe you’ll tell me everything I need to know, once I explain what’s about to happen here.”

  “I want to play with Dani!”

  “Eva, sweetheart—”

  The little girl’s face was flushed with anger. She snatched one of the leather cups off the floor and hurled it at Lila, missing narrowly.

  “You go to bed!” Lila shouted. “You go to bed this instant!”

  The girl was immovable. Her face was bright with loathing. “You can’t make me!”

  “I’m your mother! You do as I say!”

  “I want Dani!”

  She had filled a hand with dry beans. Before Lila could react, the little girl reared back and launched them with astonishing, hate-fueled force into Lila’s face. More beans spattered on the floor behind her, a clattering rain. She leapt to her feet and began to tear through the apartment—yanking books from the shelves, batting things off tables, hurling pillows into the air.

  “Stop it this instant!”

  The girl picked up a large ceramic vase.

  “Eva, no—”

  The little girl heaved it over her head and brought it down like somebody slamming the trunk of a car. Not a crack but a detonation: the vase exploded into a million ricocheting shards.

  “I hate you!”

  Something was happening, something final. Lila knew this, just as she sensed, in a deeper layer of her brain, that all of this had happened before. But the thought went no further; the hard edge of something hit her head. The girl was throwing books.

  “Go away!” she screamed. “I hate-you-I-hate-you-I-hate-you!”

  But as Lila watched her mouth forming these terrible words, they seemed to be coming from somewhere else. They were coming from inside her head. She lurched forward and grabbed the little girl around the waist and hoisted her off her feet. The girl kicked and screamed, wriggling in Lila’s grip. All Lila wanted was—what? To calm the girl down? To get ahold of the situation? To silence the screaming that was tearing through her brain? For every ounce of force Lila applied, the girl replied in kind, shrieking at the top of her lungs, the scene ballooning to grotesque dimensions, a kind of madness, until Lila lost her footing, their combined centers of gravity tilted backward, and they went down hard, crashing into the dressing table.

  “Eva!”

  The little girl was scooting away from her. She came to a stop against the base of the sofa, glaring furiously. Why wasn’t she crying? Was she hurt? What had Lila done? Lila approached her on her hands and knees.

  “Eva, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it …”

  “I hope you die!”

  “Don’t say that. Please. I’m begging you not to say that.”

  And with these words tears came at last to the little girl’s eyes, though not tears of pain, or humiliation, or even fear. I will despise you forever. You are not my mother and never were, and you know that as well as I.

  “Please, Eva, I love you. Don’t you know how much I love you?”

  “Don’t say that! I want Dani!” Her tiny lungs expelled an amazing amount of sound. “I hate-you-I-hate-you-I-hate you!”

  Lila clamped her hands over her ears, but nothing would block the child’s cries.

  “Stop it! Please!”

  “I-hope-you-die-I-hope-you-die-I-hope-you-die!”

  Lila tore into the bathroom and slammed the door. But this accomplished nothing: the screaming seemed to come from everywhere, an obliterating roar. She fell to her knees, sobbing into her hands. What was happening to her? My Eva, my Eva. What have I done, to make you hate me so? Her body shook with pain. Her thoughts were swirling, tumbling, shattering; she was a million broken pieces of Lila Kyle spread across the floor.

  Because the girl wasn’t Eva. No matter how hard Lila wished to make it so, there was no Eva; Eva was gone forever, a ghost of the past. The knowledge poured through her like acid, burning the lies away. Go back, Lila thought, go back. But she could never go back, not anymore.

  Oh, God, the terrible things she’d done! The terrible, awful, unpardonable acts! She wept and shook. She cried, as her father always said, stroking paint on his little boats, a river. She was an abomination. She was a stain of evil on the earth. Everything was revealed to her, everything was of a piece, time stopped and moved again in a reassembled continuum inside her, telling its history of shame.

  I hope you die. I hope you die I hope you die I hope you die.

  Then something else was happening. Lila found herself sitting on the edge of the tub. She had entered a state beyond volition; she chose nothing, everything was choosing her. She opened the tap. She dipped her hand into its current, watching the water flow through her fingers. So here it was, she thought. The dark solution. It was as if she’d always known; as if, in the deepest recesses of her mind, she’d been performing this final act, over and over, for a hundred years. Of course the tub would be the means. For hours she’d sunk into its warmth; whole decades had passed in its comforting immersion, its delicious erasure of the world, yet always it had whispered to her: Here I am. Lila, let me be your last deliverance. The steam swirled upward, clouding the room with its moist breath. A perfect calm encased her. She lit the candles, one by one. She was a doctor; she knew what she was doing. Soy médico. She stripped and examined her naked body in the mirror. Its beauty—for it was beautiful—filled her with memories: of being young, a child herself, emerging from the bath. You are my princess, her father had teased, rubbing her hair to dry it and hugging her in the soft warmth of a freshly laundered towel. You are the fairest in the land. The recollections flowed through the water. She was a child, and then a teenager, in her blue taffeta dress with a fat corsage pinned to the shoulder, each picture morphing into the next until finally she beheld a woman, full of maturely youthful strength, standing before the mirror in her mother’s wedding gown. The bodice of delicate lace, the descending curtain of shimmering white silk: how her life in all its promise had seemed captured in that image. Today is the day I will marry Brad. Her hand fell to her belly; the wedding dress was gone, replaced by a vaporous nightgown. A morning sun was streaming through the windows. She turned and, in profile, cupped the voluptuous curve of her belly. Eva. That’s who you’ll be; that is who you are. I will name you Eva. The steam was rising, the tub nearly full.

  Brad, Eva, I am coming. I have been away too long. I am coming to be with you now.

  Three blue lines pulsed at the base of each wrist: the cephalic vein, winding upward around the radial border of the forearm; the basilic, commencing in the dorsal venous network before ascending the posterior surface of the ulnar side to join the vena mediana cubiti; the accessory cephalic, arising from the tributory plexus to merge with the cephalic at the back of the elbow. She needed something sharp. Where were the scissors? The ones Dani, and all the others who had come before, employed to trim her hair? She tried one drawer of the vanity and then the next, and when she came to the bottom, there they waited, gleaming with sharpness.

  But what was this?

  It was an egg. A plastic Easter egg, like the ones she’d hunted in the grass when she was just a girl. How she’d loved the ritual: the wild dash over the field, her little basket swinging in her hand, the dew on her feet and the slow accumulation of treasure, her mind envisioning the great white rabbit whose nocturnal visitation had left behind this bounty. Lila cupped the egg in her palm. She felt the faintest rattling within. Could it be …? Was it possible …? But what else could it be?

  There was only one answer. Lila Kyle would die with the taste of chocolate on her tongue.

  60

  Treachery. Treachery.

  How had the insurgency gotten so close?
Could somebody please tell him that? First the redhead, then Vale, and now Lila’s attendant, too? That quaking mouse? That anonymous nobody who looked at the floor whenever he entered the room? How deep inside the Dome did the conspiracy reach?

  To Guilder’s vast irritation, the redhead was still at large. She’d killed eleven people making her escape; how was that even possible? They’d never even learned her name. Call me what you like, she’d said, just don’t call me early in the morning. Jokes, from a woman who’d been beaten continuously for days. As for Sod, Guilder, in hindsight, was forced to concede his error. Letting a man like that off his leash had been a one-way ticket to disaster.

  Guilder supervised the attendant’s interrogation himself. Whatever it was that gave the redhead her strength, this one was made of softer stuff. Three dunks in the tub were all it took to make her talk. The bomb in the shed. The serving girl, Jenny, though nobody had seen her in days. A hideout she didn’t know the location of because they’d knocked her out, which made sense; that’s what Guilder would have done. A woman named Nina, though the only Nina in the files had died four years ago, and a man named Eustace, whom they had no record of at all. All very interesting, but nothing he could make real use of.

  Do you want us to try harder? the guard asked. We could, you know, go a few more rounds. Guilder looked down at the woman, who was still strapped to the board, her hair drenched by the ice-cold water, the last wet gasps shuddering through her. Sara Fisher, No. 94801, resident of Lodge 216, a worker in Biodiesel Plant 3. Verlyn remembered her from the haul they’d brought in from Roswell. So, one of those infernal Texans. Now that the eleven virals had arrived, he’d really have to do something serious about the Texas situation. The woman hardly seemed the type; he had to remind himself that she’d intended to kill him. Though, of course, there was no type; that’s what the last violent months had taught him. The insurgency was everyone and no one.

  Never mind, he told the guard. Get her hooked up. I think Grey will enjoy what this one has to offer. He always likes the young ones.