The City of Mirrors (The Passage 3)

Peter wondered how many of these conversations he was going to have to have. It was like leading people to the edge of a cliff, showing them the view, and then shoving them off.

“I’m afraid so,” he said.

—

Alicia saw the first mounds just outside of Fredericksburg—three domes of earth, each the length of a man, bulging from the ground in the shade of a pecan tree. Riding on, she came to the outermost farmstead. She dismounted in the packed-dirt yard. No sounds of life reached her from the house. She stepped inside. Furniture overturned, objects strewn about, a rifle on the floor, beds unmade. The inhabitants had been infected as they’d slept; now they slept in the earth, beneath the pecan tree.

She watered Soldier at the trough and continued on her way. The rocky hills rose and fell. Soon she saw more houses—some nestled discreetly in the folds of the land, others exposed on the flats, surrounded by hard-won fields of newly tilled soil. There was no need to look more closely; the stillness told Alicia all she needed to know. The sky seemed to hang above her with an infinite weariness. She had expected it to happen like this, at the outer edges first. The first ones taken up, then more and more, an army swelling its ranks, metastasizing as it moved toward the city.

The town itself was abandoned. Alicia rode the length of the dusty main street, past the small stores and houses, some new, others reclaimed from the past. Just a few days ago, people had gone about their daily lives here: raised families, conducted business and trade, talked of small things, gotten drunk, cheated at cards, argued, fought with their fists, made love, stood on the porches to greet their fellow citizens as they passed. Had they known what was happening? Did the fact creep upon them slowly—first one person missing, a curiosity barely remarked on, then another and another, until the meaning dawned—or had the virals swooped down in a rush, a single night of horror? At the southern edge of town, Alicia came to a field. She began to count. Twenty mounds. Fifty. Seventy-five.

At one hundred, she gave up counting.

* * *

51

The day moved on. Still Dory did not die.

From the room where the woman lay, Caleb heard only small sounds—moans, murmurs, a chair shifting on the floor. Kate or Pim might appear briefly, to fetch some small implement or boil more cloths. Caleb sat in the yard with the children, though he had no energy to amuse them. His mind drifted to undone chores, but then another voice would speak to him, saying it was for naught; they would soon be leaving this place, all his proud hopes dashed.

Kate came out and sat beside him on the stoop. The children had gone down for a nap in the house.

“So?” he asked.

Kate squinted into the afternoon light. A strand of hair, golden blond, was plastered to her forehead; she tucked it away. “She’s still breathing, anyway.”

“How long will this take?”

“She should be dead already.” Kate looked at him. “If she’s still alive in the morning, you should take Pim and the kids and get out of here.”

“If anybody’s staying, it’s me. Just tell me what to do.”

“Caleb, I can handle it.”

“I know you can, but I’m the one who got us into this mess.”

“What were you going to do? A horse gets sick, some people go missing, a house burns down. Who’s to say any of it’s related?”

“I’m still not leaving you here.”

“And, believe me, I appreciate the gesture. I never was much of a country gal, and this place gives me the creeps. But it’s my job, Caleb. Let me do it, and we’ll get along fine.”

For a while they sat without talking. Then Caleb said, “I could use your help with something.”

Jeb’s body had swollen and stiffened in the heat. They lashed his hind legs together, set Handsome into his plow harness, and began the slow process of dragging the body to the far edge of the field. When Caleb felt they were far enough away from the house, they led Handsome back to the shelter and brought out one of the jugs of fuel. Caleb dragged some deadfall from the woods and placed it over the corpse, building a pyre; he splashed kerosene over it, recapped the can, and stepped back.

Kate asked, “Why did you call him Jeb?”

Caleb shrugged. “Just the name he came with.”

Nothing remained to be said. Caleb struck a match and tossed it forward. With a whoosh, flames enveloped the pile. There was no wind to speak of; the thick smoke rose straight skyward, full of popping sparks. For a while it smelled like mesquite; then it became something else.

“That’s that, I guess,” he said.