The City of Mirrors (The Passage 3)

He stopped in mid-sentence; his vision had grazed something. He swept the lenses back the way they’d come.

The table in the square had been overturned; behind it, the nose of one of the trucks was pointed upward at a forty-five degree angle, its rear wheels sunk deep into the earth.

—

A sinkhole. A big one, opening up.

Peter turned away from the battlefield. The buildings of the city were shapes against the dark, lit by angled moonlight.

Chase was beside him. “What is it?”

The feeling prickled his skin like static electricity: all eyes. “There’s something we’re not seeing.” He held up a hand. “Hang on. Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Apgar’s eyes narrowed as he cocked his head “Wait. Yeah.”

“Like…rats inside walls.”

“I hear it, too,” Chase said.

Peter grabbed the mike. “Station six, anything out there?”

Nothing.

“Station six, report.”

—

Sister Peg stepped into the kitchen pantry. The rifle was stashed on the top shelf, wrapped in oilcloth. It had belonged to her brother, rest his soul; he had served with the Expeditionary, years ago. She remembered the day the soldier had arrived at the orphanage with the news of his death. He had brought her brother’s locker of effects. Nobody had checked the contents, or else the rifle would have been taken back into inventory. Or so Sister Peg had supposed at the time. Most of the belongings in her brother’s locker contained no trace of him and did not seem worth keeping. But not his gun. Her brother had held it, used it, fought with it; it stood for what he was. It was more than a remembrance; it was a gift, as if he’d left it behind so that someday she would have it when she needed it.

She moved the ladder into place and, with gingerly steps, brought the gun down and placed it on the table where the sisters kneaded bread. Sister Peg had cared for the weapon meticulously; the action was tight and well lubed. She liked the way it fired, with a decisive trigger and a good, clean snap. Once a year, in May—the month of her brother’s death—Sister Peg would remove her frock, don the clothes of an ordinary worker, and take the transport out to the Orange Zone. The rifle rode beside her, concealed in a duffel bag. Beyond the windbreak she would set up a target of cans, sometimes apples or a melon, or sheets of marked paper nailed to a tree.

She carried the rifle, now loaded, to the dining hall. Over the years the gun had grown heavier in her arms, but she could still manage it, including the recoil, which was dampened by a buffer tube with a spring connected to the pad. This was very important for follow-up shots. She chose a position by the hatch with a clear view of the hallway and the windows on either side of the room.

She thought she should take a moment to pray. But, as she was holding a loaded rifle, conventional prayer did not seem entirely suitable. Sister Peg hoped that God would help her, but it was her belief that He much preferred for people to attend to themselves. Life was a test; it was up to you to pass it or not. She raised the gun to her clavicle and angled one eye down the length of the barrel.

“Not my children,” she said and pulled the charging handle, snapping the first round into the chamber. “Not tonight.”

—

“Rider inbound!”

A tense new energy shivered along the rampart. Something was shifting. The viral barrier parted, forming a corridor like the one the previous night. Down this hallway a single rider galloped toward them. All along the catwalk, eyes took purchase upon the posts and slots of gunsights; gathering pressure flowed from shoulders to forearms to the padded tips of index fingers. The order to hold fire was clear, yet the urge to do otherwise was strong. Still the rider kept on coming. Raised in the saddle, this person—the gender was as yet unknowable—was yelling incomprehensible words. While one hand clutched the reins, the other swayed in the air over the rider’s head, a gesture of ambiguous meaning. Was it a threat? A plea for forbearance?

On the command platform, Peter understood what was about to happen. The inductees had no experience; they lacked the mental muscle memory of military training; they existed in only the most general way within a chain of command. The second Alicia reached the lighted perimeter, he would lose control of the situation. “Hold your fire!” he was yelling. “Don’t shoot!” But words went only so far.

Alicia hit the lighted perimeter at a full gallop. “It’s a trap!”

Her words made no sense to him.

She pulled up, skidding to a halt. “It’s a trap! They’re inside!”