The Twelve (Book Two of The Passage Trilogy): A Novel (48 page)

After five long years in shadow, Alicia Donadio, captain of the Expeditionary, beheld the daylit world.

Only then did she realize where she was.

She called it the Field of Bones. Though neither was it a field, in the strictest sense, nor were they bones, exactly. Rather, the crumbling, sun-blasted remains of a viral multitude, covering the tableland to a far horizon. How many was she seeing? A hundred thousand? A million? More? Alicia stepped forward, taking her place among them. From each footfall rose a cloud of ash. The taste was in her nose and throat, painting the walls of her mouth like a paste. Tears rose to her eyes. Of sadness? Of relief? Or simple amazement at this unaccountable event? It was not their fault what they were. It had never been their fault. Dropping to one knee, she drew a blade from her bandolier and touched it to herself, head and heart. Eyes closed, she bowed her head and cast her mind outward in prayer.
I send you home, my brothers and sisters, I release you from the prison of your existence. You have departed the earth to unlock the truth of what lies beyond this life. May your strength pass into me that I may face the days ahead. Godspeed to you
.

Soldier was just where she’d left him. His eyes flashed with irritation at her approach. I thought we had a deal, they said. Where the hell have
you been? But as she neared, his gaze deepened knowingly. Alicia stroked his withers, kissed his long, wise face. His muscular tongue licked the tears from her bare eyes. You are my good boy, she said. My good, good boy.

She would have liked to press on, but her prize wouldn’t wait. She pitched her tarp between the trees, sat on the ground, and removed her pack. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, lay the quivering, bloody lump of the buck’s liver. She pressed it to her nose and inhaled deeply, drawing in its delicious, earthen, blood-tinged smell. There would be no cooking fire tonight; it was perfect as it was.

Something was changing; the world was changing. Alicia could feel it, deep in the bone. A profound shift—seismic, seasonal—like the earth tipping on its axis. But there would be time to worry over this later.

Now, on this night, she would eat.

33

Peter saw little of Michael for the next three days. The deadline of departure loomed; all the cooking crews were running double shifts. With no scrip to spend at the card table, Peter passed his time sleeping, taking restless walks around the compound, and milling about the commissary. Karlovic he liked, but Stark was a different matter. Peter’s arrival had elicited all the resentment Greer had predicted. The man would barely speak to him. Fine, Peter thought, let him stew. It’s not like I wanted this duty, anyway.

His most interesting time was spent with Lore. Her appetite for information about the Colony, and Michael in particular, was as robust as everything else about her. Between shifts she would seek him out in the commissary, taking him to an empty table where they could speak out of earshot. No matter what Michael had said, it was plain that beneath her bawdy exterior her attachment to him was serious. Her inquiries possessed a probing quality, as if Michael were a lock she couldn’t quite open. What had he been like back in those days? Smart, yes—that was obvious to anyone who knew him—but what else? What could Peter tell her about Sara? And their parents, what was the story? Of their journey from California, the woman knew only the public account: with the Colony’s power source failing, they had made their way east in search of
others, stumbling by sheer chance on the Colorado garrison. Of Amy, and what had occurred on the mountain in Telluride, she knew nothing at all, and Peter left it that way.

The most surprising turn in the conversation was Lore’s interest in Alicia. Evidently Michael had spoken of her a good deal. Beneath the surface of Lore’s questions, Peter detected an undercurrent of rivalry, even jealousy, and in hindsight he suspected that much of the discussion had been circling toward this subject. Peter even went so far as to assure Lore that she had nothing to worry about. Michael and Alicia were like oil and water, he said. Two more different people you’d never meet in your life. Lore responded with a confident laugh. What gave you the idea I was worried? Some crazy woman in the Exped, way the hell and gone? Believe me, she said, waving the notion away, that’s the last thing on my mind.

Peter spent his last day conferring with Karlovic and Stark, going over the details of the trip. Ten tankers full of fuel, evenly mixed between diesel and high-octane, were parked by the gate. Before morning there would be two more. The convoy would travel with an escort of six security vehicles, Humvees and 4×4s with fifty-cals mounted in the beds. The distance was three hundred miles: north from Freeport on Route 36, west on Highway 10 at Sealy, a straight shot to the outskirts of San Antonio, where they would circumnavigate the city on a mix of rural highways, then back on I-10 for the final fifty miles. Hardboxes were dispersed at regular intervals along the route, but the practice was to drive without stopping. Traveling at an average speed of twenty miles an hour, they would pull into Kerrville a little after midnight.

Peter’s attention was drawn to five major chokepoints on the route: a bridge over the San Bernard River west of Sealy; another at Columbus, where they would cross the Colorado; the San Marcos bridge at Luling; and a pair spanning the Guadalupe, the first just west of Seguin, the second at the town of Comfort. The first three were a small concern—the convoy would be crossing in daylight—but they wouldn’t reach Seguin until after sunset. Virals had been seen moving up and down the rivers as they hunted, and the sound of idling diesel engines was a known attractor. To make matters worse, the San Marcos bridge was in such poor repair that only one tanker would be permitted to cross it at a time. Flaring the area would provide a measure of protection, but the convoy would be broken up for nearly an hour.

Everyone gathered at the tankers in the predawn darkness. The air was damp and cold. For nearly all of them, the trip was old hat. They
had become inured to it, even a little bored. Cups of chicory coffee were passed. As ranking oiler, Michael would ride in the lead Humvee, with Peter. Ceps would drive the first tanker, Lore the second. Peter had planned for Stark to ride up front, as a gesture of goodwill, but to Peter’s relief the man had declined, choosing instead to remain at the refinery with the remaining DS detachment.

With the first rays of light, the gates were opened. A dozen big diesels roared to life, clouds of dense black exhaust chuffing from their smokestacks. Michael moved up the line from the rear, distributing the walkies and conferring with each of the drivers a final time. He took his place at the wheel of the Humvee and radioed each of the drivers in turn.

“Tanker One.”

“Good to go.”

“Tanker Two.”

“Good to go.”

“Tanker Three …” And so on. Michael handed Peter the radio and put the Humvee in gear.

“You’ll see,” he said. “The whole thing is a big yawn. One time, I slept most of the way.”

They moved out, into the breaking day.

By late morning they had moved through the Rosenberg bypass and were angling west toward I-10. The state highways were a series of potholes, forcing the tankers to move at a creep, but once they picked up the interstate their speed would improve.

Ceps’s voice came over the radio: “Michael, I’ve got a problem back here.”

Peter swiveled in his seat. The convoy had come to a halt behind them. Michael braked the Humvee and backed up. Ceps had exited the cab of the truck and was standing on the front bumper, jimmying the hood.

“What’s the problem?” Michael called.

Ceps slapped at the engine with a rag, pushing the steam away. “I think it’s the coolant pump. It could take a while to fix. A couple of hours, anyway.”

Two options: wait for the repair to be completed or leave the tanker behind. To complicate matters, the land on either side was an impenetrable thicket. The closest turnout was six miles back. They would have to back the convoy up all the way to Wallis.

“Can he do it?” Peter asked.

“We’ve got the parts. I don’t see why not.”

Peter gave the go-ahead. Michael took up the walkie again. “Okay, everybody, let’s power down.”

“Are you serious?” Lore came back. “Tell Ceps to move that hunk of junk out of the way.”

“Yes, I’m serious. Kill your engines, people.”

Peter positioned the security teams on either side of the convoy, their guns trained on the walls of trees and scrub. It was highly unlikely anything would happen in the middle of the day, but a tangle like that was perfect viral cover. Ceps and Lore got to work on the engine. Most of the drivers had climbed from their cabs. The cards came out as the minutes ticked away.

By the time Ceps declared the cooling system fixed, it was past three o’clock. The repair had taken nearly four hours. Kerrville was still twelve hours away—more, since they’d be doing more of the trip in the dark.

“It’s not too late to go back,” Michael said. “We can use the Columbus exit on the interstate to turn around. The ramps are in good shape.”

“What’s your call?”

They were standing by the Humvee, away from the others. “If you ask me, I think we should go. A few more hours in the dark, what’s the difference? It’s not like this hasn’t happened before. These old junkers break down all the time. And we’ve got wide lanes all the way to Seguin.” Michael shrugged. “It’s really your decision.”

Peter took a moment to think. It was a risk, but what wasn’t? And Michael’s logic seemed sound.

He nodded. “We go.”

“That’s the spirit. All eyes, brother.”

The exit markers, pitted and rusting, leaning like drunks; the ancient highway with its tipping guardrails, calling them forward; the cratered roadside restaurants and filling stations and motels, some with their signs still standing against the wind, declaring incomprehensible names. McDonald’s. Exxon. Whataburger. Holiday Inn Express. Peter watched the scenery flow past. They were making better time, but that wouldn’t last. Darkness was coming on.

The light gave out at Flatonia. They were thirty miles east of the third bridge, moving at a steady twenty-five. The radio, which had crackled all day with banter between the vehicles, fell silent. As they approached the town of Luling there appeared, in the cones of light from the Humvee’s headlamps, an exit sign marked with a red X. A hardbox. Peter glanced
at Michael, looking for any change in his face, but detected none. They were moving on.

They were approaching the bridge when Michael suddenly leaned forward in his seat, peering intently over the wheel.

“What in the hell …?”

Peter braced himself against the dash as Michael slammed on the brakes. The cab filled with light as the second Humvee nearly careened into them from behind, braking just in time. They skidded to a halt.

Michael was staring out the windshield. “Am I seeing things?”

Lore’s voice crackled on the radio. “What’s going on? Why did we stop?”

Peter snatched the radio off the dash. “DS three and four, up front on the double. One and two, hold position. Everybody else stay in your cabs.”

A figure was standing in the road. Not viral: human. It appeared to be a woman, head bowed, wearing a kind of cloak.

“What’s she doing?” said Michael. “She’s just standing there.”

“Wait here.”

Peter climbed from the cab. The woman had yet to move or otherwise acknowledge their existence. The two floater DS vehicles, 4×4s, had pulled into position alongside the Humvees. Drawing his sidearm, Peter stepped cautiously forward.

“Identify yourself.”

The woman was standing at the front edge of the bridge. Its iron struts carved lines of darkness against the sky. Peter raised his weapon, inching closer. She was clutching something in her hand. “Hey,” he said, “I’m talking to you.”

The woman raised her head. Her face filled with the light of the trucks’ headlamps. Peter couldn’t tell what he was seeing. Woman? Girl? Crone? The image of her face seemed to flutter in his mind, forming and reforming like something seen through fast-moving water. He felt a jostle of nausea.

“We know where you are.” Her voice was as ethereal as tissue. “It’s just a matter of time.”

Peter cocked his weapon, aiming at her head. “Answer me.”

Her eyes shone an intense, twinkling blue. As they locked onto his own, Peter realized that what he was seeing was a beautiful woman, maybe the most beautiful of his life. The plump, pillowy lips. The delicately upswept nose. The proportionate arrangement of the facial bones and the glowing skin of her cheeks. To look at her was to be swept into a current of almost unbearable sensuality. His mouth was suddenly dry.

“You’re tired,” she said.

The statement, utterly baffling, jarred him from his stupor. He was what?

“I said,” the woman repeated, “you’re tired.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her face fell with puzzlement; it appeared he had disappointed her. Peter’s eyes fell to the object clutched in her hand. A metal box. With her free hand she withdrew a long, metal rod from its side.