The City of Mirrors
Page 146
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Peter said, “Colonel, go ahead.”
Henneman approached Alicia from behind. He had donned a pair of heavy rubber gloves; in his hands was a metal rod wrapped with copper wire, one end connected by a long cord to the generator powering the lights. As the tip of the rod made contact with the base of Alicia’s neck, she jerked upright, her shoulders pulled back and her chest thrust forward, as if she’d been impaled. She made no sound at all. For a few seconds she stayed that way, every muscle taut as wire. Then the air let out of her and she toppled face-first into the dirt.
“Is she out?”
Henneman nudged Alicia’s ribs with the toe of his boot. “Looks like it.”
“Peter, why?”
“I’m sorry, Amy. But I can’t trust her.”
A truck was backing toward them. Two men jumped down from the cargo bay and dropped the tailgate.
“All right, gentlemen,” Peter said. “Let’s haul this woman to the stockade. And watch yourselves. You don’t want to forget what she is.”
* * *
60
0530: Peter stood with Apgar on the catwalk, watching the day come on. An hour before dawn, the horde had departed—a vast, silent retreat, like a wave beating back from shore to enfold itself in the dark bulk of the sea. All that remained was a wide swath of trampled earth and, beyond, fields of broken corn.
“I guess that’s it for the night,” Apgar said.
His voice was heavy, resigned. They waited, not talking, each man alone in his thoughts. A few minutes went by, and then the horn blasted—an expansion of sound like a great intake of breath, followed by the inevitable exhalation, sighing over the valley, then gone. Across the city, frightened people would be emerging from basements and shelters, out of closets and from under their beds. Old people, neighbors, families with children. They would look at each other wide-eyed and weary: Is it over? Are we safe?
“You should get some sleep,” Apgar said.
“So should you.”
Yet neither man moved. Peter’s stomach was sour and empty—he couldn’t remember when he’d eaten last—while the rest of him seemed numb, almost weightless. His face felt tight, like paper. The body’s demands: the world could end, yet you’d still have to take a piss.
“You know,” Apgar said, and yawned into his fist, “I think Chase was onto something. Maybe we should leave this to the kids to sort out.”
“It’s an interesting idea.”
“So, would you have actually shot her?”
The question had plagued him all night. “I don’t know.”
“Well, don’t beat yourself up. I wouldn’t have had a problem with it.” A pause, then: “Donadio was right about one thing. Even if we manage to hold them back, we don’t have the gas to keep the lights burning for more than a few nights.”
Peter stepped to the rampart. A gray morning, the light indifferent and worn: it seemed suitable. “I let this happen.”
“We all did.”
“No, this is on me. We never should have opened those gates.”
“What were you going to do? You can’t keep people locked up forever.”
“You’re not letting me off the hook here.”
“I’m just pointing out the reality. You want to blame someone, blame Vicky. Hell, blame me. The decision to open the townships was made long before you came along.”
“I’m the one in that chair, Gunnar. I could have stopped it.”
“And had a revolution on your hands. Once the dracs disappeared, this was a done deal. I’m surprised we kept this place running as long as we did.”
No matter what Gunnar said, Peter knew the truth. He’d let down his guard, allowing himself to believe that it was all in the past—the war, the virals, the old way of doing things—and now two hundred thousand people were gone.
Henneman and Chase came clomping down the catwalk. Chase looked like he’d slept under a bridge somewhere, but Henneman, always a stickler for appearance, had somehow managed to get through the night with barely a hair out of place.
“Orders, General?” the colonel asked.
It was not the time to drop their defenses, but the men needed rest. Apgar put them on a four-hour rotation: one-third on the wall, one-third patrolling the perimeter, one-third in their racks.
“So what now?” Chase asked, as Henneman moved away.
But Peter had ceased listening; an idea was forming at the back of his mind. Something old; something from the past.
“Mr. President?”
Peter turned to face the two men. “Gunnar, what are our weak points? Besides the gate.”
Apgar thought for a moment. “The walls are sound. The dam’s basically impregnable.”
“So it’s the gate that’s the problem.”
“I’d say so.”
Would it work? It just might.
“My office,” said Peter. “Two hours.”
—
“Open the door.”
The officer keyed the lock; Peter stepped inside. Alicia was sitting on the floor of the cell. Her arms and legs were shackled in front; a third chain connected her hands to a heavy iron ring in the wall. Thick fabric had been used to cover the window, muting the light.
“About time,” she said drolly. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.”
“I’ll knock when I’m done,” Peter told the guard.
He left them alone. Peter sat on the cot facing Alicia. A silent moment, the two regarding each other across a distance that felt far vaster than it was.
Henneman approached Alicia from behind. He had donned a pair of heavy rubber gloves; in his hands was a metal rod wrapped with copper wire, one end connected by a long cord to the generator powering the lights. As the tip of the rod made contact with the base of Alicia’s neck, she jerked upright, her shoulders pulled back and her chest thrust forward, as if she’d been impaled. She made no sound at all. For a few seconds she stayed that way, every muscle taut as wire. Then the air let out of her and she toppled face-first into the dirt.
“Is she out?”
Henneman nudged Alicia’s ribs with the toe of his boot. “Looks like it.”
“Peter, why?”
“I’m sorry, Amy. But I can’t trust her.”
A truck was backing toward them. Two men jumped down from the cargo bay and dropped the tailgate.
“All right, gentlemen,” Peter said. “Let’s haul this woman to the stockade. And watch yourselves. You don’t want to forget what she is.”
* * *
60
0530: Peter stood with Apgar on the catwalk, watching the day come on. An hour before dawn, the horde had departed—a vast, silent retreat, like a wave beating back from shore to enfold itself in the dark bulk of the sea. All that remained was a wide swath of trampled earth and, beyond, fields of broken corn.
“I guess that’s it for the night,” Apgar said.
His voice was heavy, resigned. They waited, not talking, each man alone in his thoughts. A few minutes went by, and then the horn blasted—an expansion of sound like a great intake of breath, followed by the inevitable exhalation, sighing over the valley, then gone. Across the city, frightened people would be emerging from basements and shelters, out of closets and from under their beds. Old people, neighbors, families with children. They would look at each other wide-eyed and weary: Is it over? Are we safe?
“You should get some sleep,” Apgar said.
“So should you.”
Yet neither man moved. Peter’s stomach was sour and empty—he couldn’t remember when he’d eaten last—while the rest of him seemed numb, almost weightless. His face felt tight, like paper. The body’s demands: the world could end, yet you’d still have to take a piss.
“You know,” Apgar said, and yawned into his fist, “I think Chase was onto something. Maybe we should leave this to the kids to sort out.”
“It’s an interesting idea.”
“So, would you have actually shot her?”
The question had plagued him all night. “I don’t know.”
“Well, don’t beat yourself up. I wouldn’t have had a problem with it.” A pause, then: “Donadio was right about one thing. Even if we manage to hold them back, we don’t have the gas to keep the lights burning for more than a few nights.”
Peter stepped to the rampart. A gray morning, the light indifferent and worn: it seemed suitable. “I let this happen.”
“We all did.”
“No, this is on me. We never should have opened those gates.”
“What were you going to do? You can’t keep people locked up forever.”
“You’re not letting me off the hook here.”
“I’m just pointing out the reality. You want to blame someone, blame Vicky. Hell, blame me. The decision to open the townships was made long before you came along.”
“I’m the one in that chair, Gunnar. I could have stopped it.”
“And had a revolution on your hands. Once the dracs disappeared, this was a done deal. I’m surprised we kept this place running as long as we did.”
No matter what Gunnar said, Peter knew the truth. He’d let down his guard, allowing himself to believe that it was all in the past—the war, the virals, the old way of doing things—and now two hundred thousand people were gone.
Henneman and Chase came clomping down the catwalk. Chase looked like he’d slept under a bridge somewhere, but Henneman, always a stickler for appearance, had somehow managed to get through the night with barely a hair out of place.
“Orders, General?” the colonel asked.
It was not the time to drop their defenses, but the men needed rest. Apgar put them on a four-hour rotation: one-third on the wall, one-third patrolling the perimeter, one-third in their racks.
“So what now?” Chase asked, as Henneman moved away.
But Peter had ceased listening; an idea was forming at the back of his mind. Something old; something from the past.
“Mr. President?”
Peter turned to face the two men. “Gunnar, what are our weak points? Besides the gate.”
Apgar thought for a moment. “The walls are sound. The dam’s basically impregnable.”
“So it’s the gate that’s the problem.”
“I’d say so.”
Would it work? It just might.
“My office,” said Peter. “Two hours.”
—
“Open the door.”
The officer keyed the lock; Peter stepped inside. Alicia was sitting on the floor of the cell. Her arms and legs were shackled in front; a third chain connected her hands to a heavy iron ring in the wall. Thick fabric had been used to cover the window, muting the light.
“About time,” she said drolly. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.”
“I’ll knock when I’m done,” Peter told the guard.
He left them alone. Peter sat on the cot facing Alicia. A silent moment, the two regarding each other across a distance that felt far vaster than it was.
