“ ‘In rare instances,’ ” Greer read aloud, “ ‘victims of the illness have exhibited the transformative effects of the North American strain, including a marked increase in aggressiveness, but whether any of these individuals have survived past the thirty-six-hour threshold is not known.’ ”
“That got my attention, too.”
“Are they talking about virals?”
“If so, they’re a different strain.”
“Meaning they could still be alive. Killing the Twelve wouldn’t have affected them.”
Michael didn’t say anything.
“Good God.”
“You want to know what’s funny?” Michael said. “Maybe
funny
’s not the right word. The world quarantined us and left us to die. In the end, it’s the only reason we’re still here.”
Greer rose from the table and fetched a whiskey bottle from the shelf. He poured two glasses, handed one to Michael, and sipped. Michael did the same.
“Think about it, Lucius. That ship traveled halfway around the world, never bumping into anything, never running aground, never downflooding in a storm. Somehow it manages to make its way perfectly intact, into Galveston Bay, right under our noses. What are the odds?”
“Not good, I’d say.”
“So you tell me what it’s doing here. You’re the one who drew those pictures.”
Greer poured more into his glass but didn’t drink it. He was silent for a moment, then said, “It’s what I saw.”
“What do you mean, ‘saw’?”
“It’s difficult to explain.”
“None of this is easy, Lucius.”
Greer was staring into his glass, turning it around on the tabletop. “I was in the desert. Don’t ask me what I was doing there—it’s a long story. I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink for days. Something happened to me in the night. I’m not really sure what to call it. I guess it was a dream, though it was stronger than that, more real.”
“This image, you mean. The island, the five stars.”
Lucius nodded. “I was on a ship. I could feel it moving under me. I could hear the waves, smell the salt.”
“Was it the
Bergensfjord
?”
He shook his head. “All I know is, it was big.”
“Were you alone?”
“There may have been other people there, but I couldn’t see them. I couldn’t turn around.” Greer looked at him pointedly. “Michael, are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”
“That depends.”
“That the ship is meant for us. That we’re supposed to go to the island.”
“How else can you explain it?”
“I can’t.” He frowned skepticlly. “This isn’t at all like you. To put so much faith in a picture drawn by a crazy man.”
For a moment, neither man spoke. Michael sipped his whiskey.
“This ship,” Greer said. “Will it float?”
“I don’t know how much damage there is below the waterline. The lower decks are flooded, but the engine compartment’s dry.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Maybe, but it’d take an army. And lots of money, which we don’t have.”
Greer drummed his fingers on the table. “There are ways around that. Assuming we had the manpower, how long would we need?”
“Years. Hell, maybe decades. We’d have to drain her, build a dry dock, float her in. And that’s just for starters. The damn thing’s six hundred feet long.”
“But it could be done.”
“In theory.”
Michael studied his friend’s face. They had yet to touch on the missing piece, the one question from which all the rest descended.
“So how much time do you think we have?” Michael asked.
“Until what?”
“Until the virals come back.”
Greer didn’t answer right away. “I’m not sure.”
“But they
are
coming.”
Greer looked up. Michael saw relief in the man’s eyes; he had been alone with this for too long. “Tell me, how did you figure it out?”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense. The question is, how did
you
?”
Greer drained his whiskey, poured another, and drank that, too. Michael waited.
“I’m going to tell you something, Michael, and you can never tell anybody what you know. Not Sara, not Hollis, not Peter.
Especially
not Peter.”
“Why him?”
“I don’t make the rules, I’m sorry. I need your word on this.”
“You have it.”
Greer drew a long breath and let the air out slowly. “I know the virals are coming back, Michael,” he said, “because Amy told me.”
13
Rain was falling as Alicia approached the city. Seen from above in the soft morning light, the river was as she’d imagined it: wide, dark, ceaselessly flowing. Beyond it rose the spires of the city, dense as a forest. Ruined piers jutted from the banks; wrecks of ships were washed against the shoals. In a century, the sea had risen. Parts of the island’s southern tip looked submerged, water lapping against the sides of the buildings.
She picked her way north, hopscotching through the detritus, searching for a way across. The rain stopped, started, stopped again. It was late afternoon when she reached the bridge: two massive struts, like giant twins, holding the decks aloft with cables slung over their shoulders. The thought of crossing it filled Alicia with a profound anxiety she dared not show, but Soldier sensed it anyway. The smallest notch of reluctance in his gait:
This again?
Yes, she thought. This.
She veered inland and located the ramp. Barricades, gun emplacements, military vehicles stripped bare by a century of weather, some overturned or lying on their sides: there had been a battle here. The upper deck was choked with the carcasses of automobiles, painted white by the droppings of birds. Alicia dismounted and led Soldier through the wreckage. With every step her apprehension increased. The feeling was automatic, like an allergy, a sneeze barely held in abeyance. She kept her eyes forward, putting one foot in front of the next.
About mid-span they came to a place where the roadway had collapsed. Cars lay in a twisted heap on the deck below. A narrow ledge along the guardrail, four feet wide at the most, presented the only viable pathway.
“No big deal,” Alicia said to Soldier. “Nothing to it.”
The height was irrelevant; it was the water she feared. Beyond the edge lay a swallowing maw of death. Step by step, gelid with dread, she led Soldier across. How strange, she thought, to fear nothing but this.
The sun was behind them when they reached the far side. A second ramp guided them to street level, into an area of warehouses and factories. She remounted Soldier and headed south, along the backbone of the island. The numbered streets ticked down. Eventually the factories gave way to blocks of apartments and brownstones, interspersed with vacant lots, some barren, others like miniature jungles. In some places the streets were flooded, dirty river water bubbling up through the manholes. Never had Alicia been in such a place; the island’s sheer density astounded her. She was aware of the tiniest sounds and movements: pigeons cooing, rats scurrying, water dripping down the walls of the buildings’ interiors. The acrid spore-smell of mold. The funk of rot. The stench of the city itself, death’s temple.
Evening came on. Bats flittered in the sky. She was on Lenox Avenue, in the 110s, when a wall of vegetation rose in her path. At the heart of the abandoned city, a woodland had taken root, flowering to massive dimensions. At its edge she brought Soldier to a halt and tuned her thoughts to the trees; when the virals came, they came from above. It wasn’t her they’d want, of course; Alicia was one of them. But there was Soldier to consider. She allowed a few minutes to go by, and when she was satisfied that they would pass in safety, tapped her heels to his flanks.
“Let’s go.”
Just like that, the city vanished. They could have been in the mightiest of ancient forests. Night had fallen in full, lit by a waning rind of moon. They came to a wide field of feathered grass tall enough to swish against her thighs; then the trees again staked their claim upon the land.
They emerged up a flight of stone steps onto Fifty-ninth Street. Here the buildings had names. Helmsley Park Lane. Essex House. The Ritz-Carlton. The Plaza. She jogged east to Madison Avenue and headed south again. The buildings grew taller, towering above the roadway; the street numbers continued their relentless decline. Fifty-sixth. Fifty-first. Forty-eighth. Forty-third.
Forty-second.
She dismounted. The building was like a fortress, smaller than the great towers that surrounded it but with a royal aspect. A castle, fit for a king. High, arched windows gazed darkly upon the street; along the roofline, at the center of the facade, a stone figure stood with his arms outstretched in welcome. Beneath this, etched into the building’s face, chiseled in moonlight, were the words
GRAND
CENTRAL
TERMINAL
.
Alicia, I’m here. Lish, I’m so glad that you have come.
She could feel her brothers and sisters plainly now. They were everywhere beneath her, a vast repository curled in slumber in the bowels of the city. Did they sense her presence also? There was, Alicia realized, a single hour that all the days since your birth pointed you toward. What you thought was a maze of choices, all the possibilities of what your life might become, was, in fact, a series of steps you took along a road, and when you reached your destination and looked back, only one path—the one chosen for you—was visible.
She clipped a rope to Soldier’s bridle. Two nights before, camped on the outskirts of Newark, she’d prepared a pine-knot torch. Now, crouched on the sidewalk, she shaved a pile of tinder, ignited it with her firesteel, and dipped the end of the torch in the flames until the pitch began to burn. She rose, holding it aloft. The torch, which would burn for hours, gave off a smoky orange light. She cinched her bandoliers tight to her chest, then reached her right hand over the opposite shoulder to withdraw her sword from its sheath. Bright-edged, hard-tipped, the cords at the handle worn from hours of practice, the object had no symbolic meaning for her; it was simply a tool. She swooped it slowly back and forth, feeling its power meld with her own. Soldier was watching her. When the moment felt right, Alicia resheathed her weapon and opened the door to the terminal.
“It’s time.”
She led him inside. Broken glass crunched underfoot; she heard the squeaks of rats. Ten feet past the door, two options: straight ahead, down a sloping hallway to the station’s lower level, or left, through an arched portal.
She went left.
Space expanded around her. She was in the main room of the station, but it did not seem like a station—more like a church. A place where vast crowds gathered to commune with one another in the company of some higher presence. Shafts of moonlight pulsed from the high windows onto the floor, spreading like a pale yellow liquid. The silence was intense; she could hear the blood swishing in her ears. Looking up, she saw what she thought was the sky until she realized it was a painting. Stars were strewn across the ceiling, and in their midst were figures—a bull, a ram, a man pouring water from a pitcher.
“Alicia. Hello.”
She startled. It was his voice. An audible, distinctly human-sounding voice.
“I’m over here.”
The sound came from the far end of the room. Alicia moved toward it, guiding Soldier beside her. Ahead she saw a structure. It looked like a small house. Positioned on top, like a crown, was a large, four-faced clock. As she approached, the clock was the first thing to capture the glow of her torch, not so much reflecting the light as absorbing it, causing its faces to shine with an orange luster.
“Up here, Lish.”
A broad flight of stairs ascended to a balcony. She released the rope and placed her hand against Soldier’s neck. His coat was damp with sweat. She pressed her palm against it with a calming gesture:
Wait here.
“Don’t worry, your friend will be safe. He’s a magnificent companion, Lish. More than I even imagined. Every inch a soldier, like you. Like my Lish.”
She ascended the stairs, making no effort to conceal herself—there was no point. What form of creature awaited her? The voice was human, meager in a way, but the body surely wouldn’t be. He would be a giant, a monster of gargantuan dimensions, a titan of his race.
She reached the top. To her right was a bar with stools, straight ahead an area of tables, some overturned, others still set with china and silverware.
Sitting at one of the tables was a man.
Was it a trick? Had he done something to her mind? He was sitting at ease, his hands folded on his lap, wearing a dark suit, a white shirt, collar undone at his throat. Sandy hair, almost red, with a sharp widow’s peak; a slight sag around the jowls; eyes with a certain indefinable intensity. Suddenly nothing around her seemed real. It was all a gigantic joke. He was like any man, a figure in a crowd, no one a person would notice.
“Does my appearance surprise you?” he asked. “Perhaps I should have warned you.”
His voice aroused her to action. She dropped the torch and the sword came out as she strode toward him; she swung it away from her body, cocked her hip, transferring energy to the large muscle groups—shoulders, pelvis, legs—and brought it around, halting its flight just inches from his neck.
“What the hell are you?”
Not a muscle had flinched. Even his face was relaxed. “What do I look like?”
“You’re not human. You can’t be.”
“You might ask yourself the same thing. What it means, to be human.” He tipped his head toward her blade. “If you’re going to use that, I suggest you get on with it.”
“Is that what you want?”
He angled his face toward the ceiling. At the corners of his mouth, daggerlike incisors revealed themselves. They were the teeth of a predator, and yet the face before her was mild. “I’ve been waiting here rather a long time, you know. In a hundred years, you get around to thinking about pretty much everything. All the things you did, the people you knew, the mistakes you made. The books you read, the music you listened to, how the sun felt, the rain. It’s all still there inside you. But it’s not enough, is it? That’s the thing. The past is never enough.”