The City of Mirrors (The Passage 3)
Page 205
Since daybreak, more survivors had emerged, but not very many. The sight of so many bodies was jarring, sickening. The vultures had begun to alight, pecking at the meat. It was nothing for the children to see. During the night, Sara had counted heads. The shelter contained 654 souls, mostly women and children. Sara descended the ladder to help Jenny organize their removal.
“What about the other hardboxes?” Peter asked.
Chase’s face was grim. “They got in through the floors.”
“Olivia?”
Chase shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Ford.”
He shook his head faintly. None of this was registering completely yet.
“What about the tubes?”
“Flooded. I don’t know how they did it, but they did.”
Peter’s stomach dropped; a wave of cold dizziness passed through him.
“Peter?” Chase was gripping his arm; suddenly, he was the strong one.
“No survivors?” Peter asked.
Chase shook his head. “There’s something else you need to see.”
It was Apgar. The man was alive, though barely. He lay on the ground beside an overturned Humvee. His legs were crushed beneath the frame, though that was not the worst of it; on his left hand, which lay across his chest, was a semicircular imprint of teeth. He was still in the shade, but the sun would soon find him.
Peter knelt beside him. “Gunnar, can you hear me?”
The man’s awareness seemed divided. Then, with a faint start, his eyes alighted on Peter’s face.
“Peter, hello.” His voice was bland, lacking emotion except, perhaps, for a touch of mild surprise.
“Just lie still.”
“Oh, I’m not going anywhere.” His legs had been crushed to a pulp, yet he seemed to be experiencing no pain at all. He lifted his wounded hand with a vague gesture. “Can you believe this shit?”
“Does anybody have any water?”
Caleb produced a canteen; just an inch or two sloshed in the bottom. Peter cupped the man’s neck to lift his head and held the spout to his lips. Peter wondered why Apgar had not yet turned. Of course, there was a range; it varied person to person. A few weak sips, water dribbling from the corners of his mouth, and Apgar leaned back.
“It’s true what they say. You can feel it inside you.” He took a long, shuddering breath. “How many survivors?”
Peter shook his head. “Not many.”
“Don’t blame yourself.”
“Gunnar—”
“Take this as my last piece of official advice. You’ve done all you could. It’s time to get these people out of here.” The general licked his lips and lifted the bloody hand again. “But let’s not let this go on too long. I don’t want people to see me like this.”
Peter turned his face and scanned the group: Chase, Hollis, Caleb, a few of the soldiers. All were staring. He felt benumbed; none of it seemed real yet.
“Somebody give me something.”
Hollis produced a knife. Peter accepted its cold weight into his hand. For a moment he doubted he could find the strength to do what was required of him. He crouched beside Apgar again, holding the blade a little behind himself to keep it from view.
“It’s been an honor to serve under you, Mr. President.”
Through a throat thickened with tears, Peter raised his voice, speaking words no one had said in over twenty years. “This man is a soldier of the Expeditionary! It is time for him to take the trip! All hail, General Gunnar Apgar! Hip hip—”
“Hooray!”
“Hip hip—”
“Hooray!”
“Hip hip—”
“Hooray!”
Apgar took a long breath and let it out slowly. His face became peaceful.
“Thank you, Peter. I’m ready now.”
Peter tightened his grip on the knife.
—
There were two more.
Peter was looking at Apgar’s body. The man had died quickly, almost inaudibly. A grunt as the knife went in, his eyes opening wide, death easing into them.
“Somebody get me a blanket.”
No one spoke.
“Goddamnit, what’s the matter with you people? You—” He jabbed a finger at one of the soldiers. “What’s your name, Private?”
The man seemed a little dazed. “Sir?”
“What, you don’t know your own name? Are you that stupid?”
He swallowed nervously. “It’s Verone, sir.”
“Organize a burial detail. I want everyone gathered at the parade ground in thirty. Full military honors, do you read me?”