The Twelve (The Passage 2)

"Bring 'em on!" one of the redeyes hooted, eliciting cheers and laughter.

"Now, now," Guilder said, waving them to silence. "All of you are well acquainted with the spectacle that is about to unfold. But tonight, we have something very special planned. Minister Hoppel, would you please come forward?"

A redeye in the second row got to his feet and joined Guilder at the front. Tall, with a square-jawed face and brush-cut hair. Grinning with embarrassment, he said, "Gosh, Horace, it's not even my birthday."

"Maybe he's about to demote you!" another voice yelled.

More laughter. Guilder waited for it to die down. "Mr. Hoppel here," he said, placing a fatherly hand on the man's back, "as everyone knows, has been with us from the very beginning. As Minister of Propaganda, he has provided us with a key element in support of our efforts." His expression abruptly hardened. "Which is why, with the greatest regret, I must tell you all that incontrovertible evidence has come to my attention that Minister Hoppel is in league with the insurgency." He darted a hand toward the man's face, stripping off his glasses and tossing them away. Hoppel gave a shriek of pain as he drew his arm up over his eyes. "Guards," said Guilder, "take him."

A pair of cols grabbed Hoppel by the arms; more quickly surrounded him, weapons drawn. A moment of confusion, voices buzzing through the bleachers. What? What is he saying? Hoppel, could it really be ...?

"Yes, my friends. Minister Hoppel is a traitor. It was he who passed crucial intelligence to the insurgency that led to last week's bombing, in which two of our colleagues were killed."

"Jesus, Horace." The man had gone weak at the knees. His eyes were squeezed tight. He tried to shrug the men's grip off, but he seemed to have lost all strength. "You know me! All of you know me! Suresh, Wilkes, somebody-tell him!"

"I'm sorry, my friend. You've done this to yourself. Take him to the field."

He was dragged away. Beside the silver truck, Hoppel was bound to the stake with heavy rope. One of the cols produced a bucket and poured the contents over him with a crimson splash, soaking his clothing, hair, face. He wriggled helplessly, uttering the most pitiful cries. Don't do this. Please, I swear, I'm no traitor. You bastards, say something!

Guilder cupped his mouth. "Is the prisoner secure?"

"Secure!"

He lifted the radio to his mouth. "Hit the lights."

The thunk of tumblers, the screech of the opening door.

Alicia was hanging from the ceiling, her bound wrists stretched above her head, holding aloft her slowly creaking weight. She was tired, so tired. Rivulets of dried blood ran down her na**d legs. The man known as Sod, through the days of his dark business, had left no part of her untouched. He had filled her ears and nose with the hot stench of his grunting exhalations. He had scratched her, struck her, bitten her. Bitten, like an animal. Her br**sts, the soft skin of her neck, the insides of her thighs, all embedded with the marks of his teeth. Through it all, she had not wept. Cried out, yes. Screamed. But she would not give him the satisfaction of her tears. And now here he was again, lazily swinging the chiming ring of keys around his finger, dragging his one good eye down the length of her body, wearing a greedy, bestial smile on his half-cooked face.

"I thought, since everybody's all off at the stadium for the big show, we might have a little bit of alone time."

What was there to say? There was nothing.

"Now, I'm thinking that the two of us might try something new. The bench feels so ... impersonal."

He began to undress, a complicated business of leather and buckles. He kicked off his boots, his pants. As he went about his grand unveiling, Alicia could only watch in mute revulsion. She felt like she had about ten different Alicias in her head, each with a single scrap of information lacking any reference to the others. And yet: alone time. That was new, she thought. That was a definite wrinkle in the proceedings. Usually there were four of them: one to operate the winch, two to take her down, plus Sod. Where were the others?

Alone time.

"I'm begging you," she croaked, "just don't make it hurt. I'll make it good for you."

"That's very sporting."

"Let me down and I'll show you how good."

He considered this.

"Just tell me what you want and I'll give it to you."

"You're full of shit."

"You can leave the shackles on. I promise I'll cooperate. I'll give you everything you want."

In his face, she saw the idea taking hold. She was na**d, beaten. What could a woman in her condition do? The keys were clipped to the belt loop of his trousers, lying on the floor behind him. Alicia forced herself not to look at them.

"There might be something to that," Sod said.

The chains, which ran through a block hung from the ceiling, were operated by a lever affixed to the wall. Pantless, engorged, Sod stepped toward it and unlocked the brake. A rattle overhead; Alicia's feet touched down.

"More slack," she said. "I'll need to move."

A sleepy, sexual grin. "I like your thinking."

The pressure on her wrists released. "A little more."

Her tactic had to be obvious, but the man's anticipation trumped the last of his judgment. Alicia's arms fell to her sides. She now had eight feet of slack to play with.

"No funny stuff, now."

She lowered herself to all fours in invitation. Sod moved behind her, joining her on the floor.

"I'll make it good for you," she said. "I promise."

As he placed his hands on her hips, she drew her right foot to her chest and smashed it into his face. A crack and then a yelp; Alicia shot to her feet and swung around. He was sitting on the floor, holding his nose, dark blood gushing through his fingers.

"You f**king bitch!"

He lurched toward her, going for her throat. The question was who got to whom first. Alicia stepped back, arced one hand from her side, forming a lasso with the chain, and tossed it forward.

The loop dropped over his head. She yanked him toward her, stepping aside and using his momentum to spin him around. Now she had him from behind. With the other hand she formed a second loop of chain and dropped it around his neck. A quick hop and she had her legs around his waist. He was making a gurgling noise, his arms flailing at the air. Die, you pig, she thought, just die, and with all her strength she rocked her weight backward, tugging the chains like the reins of a horse, sending them pitching toward the ground until with a hard jolt the slack ran out, the block above them caught and held, and Alicia heard the sound she longed for: a satisfying pop of bone.

They were suspended eighteen inches off the floor. Two hundred pounds of dead weight now lay on top of her. She tucked her legs beneath her, arched her back, and pushed. Sod's body folded forward onto its knees, pitching face-first onto the concrete as she unlooped the chains from his neck. She scooped the keys from the floor and undid the shackles and tore them from her wrists.

Then she was kicking him, stomping on his head, smashing his face into the concrete with the hard nub of her heel. Her mind collapsed in a roar of hatred. She seized him by the hair and dragged his lifeless form across the cell and propped him upright to hammer his head against the wall. "How do you like that, you piece of shit? You like that broken neck? You like me killing you?"

Maybe there was somebody outside the cell, and maybe there wasn't. Maybe more men would rush in and chain her to the ceiling and start it all again. But that didn't matter. All that mattered was Sod's head. She would smash it until he was the deadest thing in the history of the world, the deadest man who'd ever been. She was yelling, over and over, "God damn you! God damn you! God damn you!"

Then it was over. Alicia let him go. The body tipped sideways to the floor, leaving a glistening smear of brains on the wall. Alicia slumped to her knees, drinking great gulps of air into her lungs. It was over, but it didn't feel over. There was no over, not anymore.

She needed clothes. She needed a weapon. Strapped to Sod's calf she discovered a heavy-handled knife. The balance was poor, but it would do. She gathered up his trousers and his shirt. Dressing herself in the man's clothing, ripe with his stench, filled her with disgust. Her skin crawled, as if he were touching her. She rolled up the sleeves and the legs of his trousers and cinched the waist. The boots, far too large, would only slow her down; she would have to travel barefoot. She dragged the body away from the door and banged on the metal with the butt of her knife.

"Hey!" she yelled, cupping her mouth to lower the register of her voice. "Hey, I'm locked in here!"

The seconds passed. Maybe no one was out there. What would she do then? She hammered on the door, louder this time, praying someone would come.

Then the tumblers turned. Alicia darted behind the door as the guard stepped into the room.

"What the hell, Sod, you told me I had thirty minutes-"

But these sentiments went unfinished as Alicia, darting behind him, drew one hand over his mouth and used the other to ram the knife into the small of his back, swishing the handle as the tip drove upward.

She eased the body to the floor. Blood was releasing from it in a wide, dark pool. Its rich scent rose to her nostrils. Alicia recalled her vow. I will drink those bastards dry. I will baptize myself in the blood of my enemy. The thought had sustained her through the days of torment. But as she looked at the two men, first the guard and then Sod, his pale, na**d body like a stain of whiteness on the concrete, she shuddered with disgust.

Not now, she thought, not yet, and she slipped into the hallway.

The field sank into darkness. For a moment, all was still. Then, from high overhead, a cool aquatic light pulsed down onto the field, bathing it in an artificial moonglow.

Lila had appeared at the rear of the silver truck. All the redeyes were pocketing their sunglasses. Hoppel had given up his pleas and begun to sob. A van drove onto the field. Two cols disembarked and trotted to the rear of the vehicle and opened the doors.

Eleven people stumbled out, six men and five women, shackled at the wrists and ankles and to each other. They were stumbling, weeping, begging for their lives. Their terror was too great; all their resistance was gone. A cold numbness had taken hold of Sara; she thought she might be ill. One of the women looked like Karen Molyneau, but Sara couldn't be certain. The cols dragged them toward Hoppel and instructed them to get down on their knees.

"This is so awesome," a nearby voice said.

All but one of the cols jogged away, remaining with Lila at the rear of the large truck. Her body was swaying, her head rocking side to side, as if she were floating in an invisible current or dancing to unheard music.

"I thought there were supposed to be ten," the same voice said. One of the redeyes, two rows below.

"Yeah. Ten."

"But there's eleven of them."

Sara counted again. Eleven.

"You better go down there and tell Guilder."

"Are you kidding? Who knows what's on his mind these days?"

"You should check that at the door. He hears you say that, you'll be next."

"The guy has slipped a gear, I'm telling you." A pause. "I always knew there was something off about Hoppel, though."

These words touched Sara like a distant wind. Her attention was now solely focused on the field. Was that Karen? The woman looked older, and too tall. Most of the prisoners had adopted a defensive posture, their bodies folded where they knelt in the crusted snow, hands held over their heads; others, kneeling upright, faces washed by the blue light, had begun to pray. The last col was strapping on armored pads. He wedged a helmet over his head and waved toward the bleachers. Every muscle in Sara's body clenched. She wanted to look away but couldn't. The col moved to the door of the silver truck's cargo compartment, fumbling loudly with keys.

The doors swung open; the col dashed away. For a second, nothing happened. Then the virals emerged, popping from the truck's interior like man-sized insects, landing on all fours in the snow. Their lean figures, striated with muscle, throbbed with glowing vividness. Eight, nine, ten. They moved toward Lila, whose arms were held open at her sides, palms raised. A gesture of invitation, of welcome.

At her feet, they bowed.

She touched them, stroked them. She ran her hands over their smooth heads, cupped their chins like children's to gaze adoringly into their eyes. My lovelies, Sara heard her say. My wonderful beauties.

"Will you look at that? She f**king loves them."

From the hostages came only a sound of quiet weeping. The end was inevitable; they had no choice but to accept it. Or perhaps it was simply the strangeness of the scene that stunned them into silence.

My sweet pets. Are you hungry? Mama will feed you. Mama will take care of you. That's what Mama will do.

"No, I'm certain there's supposed to be ten."

A new voice this time, coming from the right: "Did you say ten? That's what I heard, too."

"So who's the eleventh?"

One of the redeyes shot to his feet, pointing at the field. "There's one too many!"

All heads swiveled toward the voice, including Guilder's.

"I'm not kidding! There are eleven people out there!"

Go now, my darlings.

The virals broke away from Lila. Simultaneously, one of the hostages shot to his feet, exposing his face. It was Vale. The virals were encircling the group; everyone was screaming. Vale tore the flaps of his jacket aside to reveal rows of metal tubes strapped to his chest. He yanked his arms skyward, his thumb poised on the detonator.

"Sergio lives!"