The City of Mirrors (The Passage 3)

The ripples touched. The lake stilled.

Can you hear me?

Silence. Then:

Yes, Amy.

I think that I am ready, Anthony. I think I am ready at last.

—

Michael had been waiting at the gate for nearly an hour. Where the hell was Lucius? It was nearly 1030; they were cutting it close as it was. Men were welding heavy brackets in place to lay iron beams across the gate. More were hammering sheets of galvanized roofing metal to the outside face. If Greer didn’t show up soon, they’d be locked inside like everybody else.

At last Greer appeared, striding briskly through the portal from outside. He climbed into the truck and nodded toward the windshield. “Let’s go.”

“She’s fooling herself.”

Greer gave him a look: don’t go there.

Michael turned the engine over, angled his head out the window, and yelled to the foreman of the work crew: “Coming through!” When the man failed to turn around, he leaned on the horn. “Hey! We need to get out!”

That got the foreman’s attention; he strode up to the driver’s window. “The hell you honking at me for?”

“Tell those guys to get out of the way.”

He spat onto the ground. “Nobody’s supposed to go outside. We’re working here.”

“Yeah, well, we’re different. Tell them to move or get run over. How would that be?”

The man looked like he was about to say something but stopped himself. He turned back toward the gate. “Okay, clear a path for this guy.”

“Much obliged,” Michael said.

The foreman spat again. “It’s your funeral, asshole.”

Yours, too, thought Michael.

* * *

66

1630 hours: the last of the evacuees were being moved into the dam; the hardboxes were full; the few remaining civilian inductees were awaiting their assignments. There had been a few incidents—some arrests, even a few shots fired. Yet most people saw the sense of what they were being asked to do; their own lives were on the line.

But processing the inductees was taking longer than expected. Long lines, confusion about weapons and who reported to whom, the distribution of equipment and delegation of duties: Peter and Apgar were trying to assemble an army in half a day. Some barely knew how to hold a gun, much less load and fire it. Ammo was at a premium, but a target range had been set up in the square, using sandbags as a backstop. A crash course for the uninitiated—three shots, good or bad—and off they went to the wall.

Just a few weapons remained, pistols only; the rifles were gone, except for a few that would be held in reserve. Tempers were short; everyone had been standing in the hot sun for hours. Peter was positioned to the side of the processing desk with Apgar, watching the last few men come through. Hollis was checking off names.

A man approached the desk—forties, lean in the manner of someone to whom life had not been kind, with a high, domed forehead and old acne scars on his cheeks. A hunting rifle hung from his shoulder. It took Peter a moment to recognize him.

“Jock, isn’t it?”

The man nodded—somewhat sheepishly, Peter thought. Twenty years gone by, yet Peter could tell that the memory of that day on the roof still affected him. “I don’t think I ever really thanked you, Mr. President.”

Apgar glanced at Peter. “What’d you do?”

Jock said, “He saved my life, is what he did.” Then, to Peter: “I’ve never forgotten it. Voted for you both times.”

“What became of you? No more roofs, I’ll bet.”

Jock shrugged; his regular life, like everyone’s, was receding into the past. “Worked as a mechanic, mostly. Just got married, too. My wife had a baby last night.”

Peter remembered Sara’s story. He gestured toward Jock’s rifle, a lever-action .30-30. “Let’s see your weapon.”

Jock handed it over. The action was jerky, the trigger like mush, the glass of the scope gouged and pitted.

“When was the last time you fired this?”

“Never. Got it from my dad years ago.”

Hollis looked up. “We don’t have any thirty-thirty.”

“How many rounds do you have for this?” Peter asked Jock.

The man held out his open palm, showing four cartridges, old as the hills.

“This thing is worthless. Hollis, get this man a proper rifle.”

The gun was produced: one of Tifty’s M16s, fresh and gleaming.

“A wedding present,” Peter said, passing it off to Jock. “Report to the range. They’ll get you ammo and show you how to use it.”