The City of Mirrors (The Passage 3)
About mid-span they came to a place where the roadway had collapsed. Cars lay in a twisted heap on the deck below. A narrow ledge along the guardrail, four feet wide at the most, presented the only viable pathway.
“No big deal,” Alicia said to Soldier. “Nothing to it.”
The height was irrelevant; it was the water she feared. Beyond the edge lay a swallowing maw of death. Step by step, gelid with dread, she led Soldier across. How strange, she thought, to fear nothing but this.
The sun was behind them when they reached the far side. A second ramp guided them to street level, into an area of warehouses and factories. She remounted Soldier and headed south, along the backbone of the island. The numbered streets ticked down. Eventually the factories gave way to blocks of apartments and brownstones, interspersed with vacant lots, some barren, others like miniature jungles. In some places the streets were flooded, dirty river water bubbling up through the manholes. Never had Alicia been in such a place; the island’s sheer density astounded her. She was aware of the tiniest sounds and movements: pigeons cooing, rats scurrying, water dripping down the walls of the buildings’ interiors. The acrid spore-smell of mold. The funk of rot. The stench of the city itself, death’s temple.
Evening came on. Bats flittered in the sky. She was on Lenox Avenue, in the 110s, when a wall of vegetation rose in her path. At the heart of the abandoned city, a woodland had taken root, flowering to massive dimensions. At its edge she brought Soldier to a halt and tuned her thoughts to the trees; when the virals came, they came from above. It wasn’t her they’d want, of course; Alicia was one of them. But there was Soldier to consider. She allowed a few minutes to go by, and when she was satisfied that they would pass in safety, tapped her heels to his flanks.
“Let’s go.”
Just like that, the city vanished. They could have been in the mightiest of ancient forests. Night had fallen in full, lit by a waning rind of moon. They came to a wide field of feathered grass tall enough to swish against her thighs; then the trees again staked their claim upon the land.
They emerged up a flight of stone steps onto Fifty-ninth Street. Here the buildings had names. Helmsley Park Lane. Essex House. The Ritz-Carlton. The Plaza. She jogged east to Madison Avenue and headed south again. The buildings grew taller, towering above the roadway; the street numbers continued their relentless decline. Fifty-sixth. Fifty-first. Forty-eighth. Forty-third.
Forty-second.
She dismounted. The building was like a fortress, smaller than the great towers that surrounded it but with a royal aspect. A castle, fit for a king. High, arched windows gazed darkly upon the street; along the roofline, at the center of the facade, a stone figure stood with his arms outstretched in welcome. Beneath this, etched into the building’s face, chiseled in moonlight, were the words GRAND CENTRAL TERMINAL.
Alicia, I’m here. Lish, I’m so glad that you have come.
She could feel her brothers and sisters plainly now. They were everywhere beneath her, a vast repository curled in slumber in the bowels of the city. Did they sense her presence also? There was, Alicia realized, a single hour that all the days since your birth pointed you toward. What you thought was a maze of choices, all the possibilities of what your life might become, was, in fact, a series of steps you took along a road, and when you reached your destination and looked back, only one path—the one chosen for you—was visible.
She clipped a rope to Soldier’s bridle. Two nights before, camped on the outskirts of Newark, she’d prepared a pine-knot torch. Now, crouched on the sidewalk, she shaved a pile of tinder, ignited it with her firesteel, and dipped the end of the torch in the flames until the pitch began to burn. She rose, holding it aloft. The torch, which would burn for hours, gave off a smoky orange light. She cinched her bandoliers tight to her chest, then reached her right hand over the opposite shoulder to withdraw her sword from its sheath. Bright-edged, hard-tipped, the cords at the handle worn from hours of practice, the object had no symbolic meaning for her; it was simply a tool. She swooped it slowly back and forth, feeling its power meld with her own. Soldier was watching her. When the moment felt right, Alicia resheathed her weapon and opened the door to the terminal.
“It’s time.”
She led him inside. Broken glass crunched underfoot; she heard the squeaks of rats. Ten feet past the door, two options: straight ahead, down a sloping hallway to the station’s lower level, or left, through an arched portal.
She went left.
Space expanded around her. She was in the main room of the station, but it did not seem like a station—more like a church. A place where vast crowds gathered to commune with one another in the company of some higher presence. Shafts of moonlight pulsed from the high windows onto the floor, spreading like a pale yellow liquid. The silence was intense; she could hear the blood swishing in her ears. Looking up, she saw what she thought was the sky until she realized it was a painting. Stars were strewn across the ceiling, and in their midst were figures—a bull, a ram, a man pouring water from a pitcher.