The City of Mirrors
Page 180
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“You know we can’t go,” Amy stated.
The remark was puzzling. Alicia continued to row. “Go where?”
“The virus is in us.” Amy’s voice was dispassionate, without any perceptible tone. “We can’t ever leave.”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
The shape had begun to circle them. Great bulges of water began to rock the boat from side to side.
“Oh, I think you do. We’re sisters, aren’t we? Sisters in blood.”
The motion increased in intensity. Alicia drew the oars into the boat and clutched the gunwales for balance. Her heart turned to lead; bile bubbled in her throat. Why had she failed to foresee the danger? So much water all around them, and her little boat, so small as to be nothing. The hull began to rise; suddenly they were no longer in contact with the water. A great blue bulk emerged under them, water streaming from its encrusted flanks.
“You know who that is,” Amy said impassively.
It was a whale. They were balanced like a pea atop its immense, horrible head. Higher and higher it lifted them into the air. One flick of its monstrous tail and it would send them soaring; it would crash down upon them and smash their boat to pieces. A hopeless terror, that of fate, took her in its grasp. From the stern, Amy issued a bored sigh.
“I’m so…tired of him,” she said.
Alicia tried to scream, but the sound stopped in her throat. They were rising, the sea was falling away, the whale was looming up…
She awoke with a slam. She blinked her eyes and tried to focus. It was night. She was in the back of the truck, and the truck was bouncing hard. Sara’s face floated into view.
“Lish? What is it?”
Her lips moved slowly around the words: “They’re…coming.”
From the rear of the convoy, the sound of guns.
—
Shit. Shit shit shit.
Michael took the stairs from the pilothouse three at a time; he raced across the deck, his feet barely touching steel, and down the hatch. He was yelling into his radio, “Rand, get down here right now!”
He hit the engineering catwalk at a sprint, grabbed the poles of the ladder, and slid the rest of the way. The engines were quiet, everything stopped. Rand appeared above him.
“What happened?”
“Something tripped the main!”
Lore, on the radio: “Michael, we’re hearing shots up here.”
“Say again?”
“Gunshots, Michael. I’m looking down the isthmus now. We’ve got lights coming this way from the mainland.”
“Headlights or virals?”
“I’m not sure.”
He needed current to trace the problem. At the electrical panel, he switched diagnostics over to the auxiliary generator. The meters jumped to life.
“Rand!” Michael bellowed. “What are you seeing?”
Rand was positioned at the engine-control array on the far side of the room, checking dials. “Looks like its something in the water jacket pumps.”
“That wouldn’t trip the main! Look farther up the line!”
A brief silence; then Rand said, “Got it.” He tapped a dial. “Pressure’s flatlined on the starboard-side charger. Must have shut down the system.”
Lore again: “Michael, what’s going on down there?”
He was strapping on his tool belt. “Here,” he said, tossing Rand the radio, “you talk to her.”
Rand looked lost. “What should I say?”
“Tell her to get ready to engage the props straight from the pilothouse.”
“Shouldn’t she wait for the system to repressurize? We could blow a header.”
“Just get on the electrical panel. When I tell you, switch the system back over to the main bus.”
“Michael, talk to me,” Lore said. “Things are looking very fucking serious up here.”
“Go,” Michael told Rand.
He raced aft, plugged in his lantern, dropped to his back, and wedged himself under the charger.
This goddamn leak, he thought. It’s going to be the death of me.
—
The convoy hit the isthmus doing sixty miles an hour. Buses were bounding; buses were going airborne. The tanker, last in the line, had failed to keep up. The virals were close behind and massing. The barrier of razor wire appeared in the headlights.
Peter yelled into the radio, “Everyone keep going! Don’t stop!”
They careened straight through the barrier. Chase stamped the brakes and pulled to the side as the convoy roared past with inches to spare, pushing a wall of wind that buffeted the vehicle like a howling gale. Peter, Chase, and Amy leapt from the cab.
Where was the tanker?
It lumbered into view at the base of the causeway—lamps blazing, engine roaring, traveling toward them like a well-lit rocket in slow motion. Past the turn it began to accelerate. Two virals were crouched on the roof of the cab. Chase raised his rifle and squinted through the scope.
“Ford, don’t,” Peter warned. “You hit that tank, it could blow.”
“Quiet. I can do this.”
A bullet split the air. One of the virals tumbled away. Ford was taking aim at the second when it dropped to the hood: no shot.
“Shit!”
From the cab, a pair of shotgun blasts came in rapid succession; the windshield shattered outward into the moonlight. There was a hissing groan of brakes. The viral flopped backward into the conical glare of the truck’s headlights and disappeared beneath the front wheels with a wet burst.
The remark was puzzling. Alicia continued to row. “Go where?”
“The virus is in us.” Amy’s voice was dispassionate, without any perceptible tone. “We can’t ever leave.”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
The shape had begun to circle them. Great bulges of water began to rock the boat from side to side.
“Oh, I think you do. We’re sisters, aren’t we? Sisters in blood.”
The motion increased in intensity. Alicia drew the oars into the boat and clutched the gunwales for balance. Her heart turned to lead; bile bubbled in her throat. Why had she failed to foresee the danger? So much water all around them, and her little boat, so small as to be nothing. The hull began to rise; suddenly they were no longer in contact with the water. A great blue bulk emerged under them, water streaming from its encrusted flanks.
“You know who that is,” Amy said impassively.
It was a whale. They were balanced like a pea atop its immense, horrible head. Higher and higher it lifted them into the air. One flick of its monstrous tail and it would send them soaring; it would crash down upon them and smash their boat to pieces. A hopeless terror, that of fate, took her in its grasp. From the stern, Amy issued a bored sigh.
“I’m so…tired of him,” she said.
Alicia tried to scream, but the sound stopped in her throat. They were rising, the sea was falling away, the whale was looming up…
She awoke with a slam. She blinked her eyes and tried to focus. It was night. She was in the back of the truck, and the truck was bouncing hard. Sara’s face floated into view.
“Lish? What is it?”
Her lips moved slowly around the words: “They’re…coming.”
From the rear of the convoy, the sound of guns.
—
Shit. Shit shit shit.
Michael took the stairs from the pilothouse three at a time; he raced across the deck, his feet barely touching steel, and down the hatch. He was yelling into his radio, “Rand, get down here right now!”
He hit the engineering catwalk at a sprint, grabbed the poles of the ladder, and slid the rest of the way. The engines were quiet, everything stopped. Rand appeared above him.
“What happened?”
“Something tripped the main!”
Lore, on the radio: “Michael, we’re hearing shots up here.”
“Say again?”
“Gunshots, Michael. I’m looking down the isthmus now. We’ve got lights coming this way from the mainland.”
“Headlights or virals?”
“I’m not sure.”
He needed current to trace the problem. At the electrical panel, he switched diagnostics over to the auxiliary generator. The meters jumped to life.
“Rand!” Michael bellowed. “What are you seeing?”
Rand was positioned at the engine-control array on the far side of the room, checking dials. “Looks like its something in the water jacket pumps.”
“That wouldn’t trip the main! Look farther up the line!”
A brief silence; then Rand said, “Got it.” He tapped a dial. “Pressure’s flatlined on the starboard-side charger. Must have shut down the system.”
Lore again: “Michael, what’s going on down there?”
He was strapping on his tool belt. “Here,” he said, tossing Rand the radio, “you talk to her.”
Rand looked lost. “What should I say?”
“Tell her to get ready to engage the props straight from the pilothouse.”
“Shouldn’t she wait for the system to repressurize? We could blow a header.”
“Just get on the electrical panel. When I tell you, switch the system back over to the main bus.”
“Michael, talk to me,” Lore said. “Things are looking very fucking serious up here.”
“Go,” Michael told Rand.
He raced aft, plugged in his lantern, dropped to his back, and wedged himself under the charger.
This goddamn leak, he thought. It’s going to be the death of me.
—
The convoy hit the isthmus doing sixty miles an hour. Buses were bounding; buses were going airborne. The tanker, last in the line, had failed to keep up. The virals were close behind and massing. The barrier of razor wire appeared in the headlights.
Peter yelled into the radio, “Everyone keep going! Don’t stop!”
They careened straight through the barrier. Chase stamped the brakes and pulled to the side as the convoy roared past with inches to spare, pushing a wall of wind that buffeted the vehicle like a howling gale. Peter, Chase, and Amy leapt from the cab.
Where was the tanker?
It lumbered into view at the base of the causeway—lamps blazing, engine roaring, traveling toward them like a well-lit rocket in slow motion. Past the turn it began to accelerate. Two virals were crouched on the roof of the cab. Chase raised his rifle and squinted through the scope.
“Ford, don’t,” Peter warned. “You hit that tank, it could blow.”
“Quiet. I can do this.”
A bullet split the air. One of the virals tumbled away. Ford was taking aim at the second when it dropped to the hood: no shot.
“Shit!”
From the cab, a pair of shotgun blasts came in rapid succession; the windshield shattered outward into the moonlight. There was a hissing groan of brakes. The viral flopped backward into the conical glare of the truck’s headlights and disappeared beneath the front wheels with a wet burst.
