The City of Mirrors
Page 137
He shook Elacqua again. The man’s eyes fluttered open. They roamed blearily, finally landing on Caleb’s face.
“Who the hell are you?”
There was no point in attempting to explain the situation; the man was too far gone. “Dr. Elacqua, look at me. I need the keys to your truck.”
Caleb might have been asking him the most incomprehensible question in the world. “Keys?”
“Yes, the keys. Where are they?”
His eyes lost focus; he closed them again, his head, with its wild mane of hair, relaxing into the pillow. Caleb realized there was one place he hadn’t looked. The man’s trousers were soaked with urine, but there was nothing to be done about that. Caleb patted him down. At the base of the man’s left front pocket, Caleb felt something sharp. He slid his hand in and pulled it out: a single key, tarnished with age, on a small metal ring.
“Gotcha.”
His thoughts were broken by the roar of engines coming down the street. Caleb went to the window. Sara and the others were waving frantically toward the source of the sound, yelling, “Hey! Over here!”
Caleb stepped onto the porch as the trucks, three Army five-tons, halted in front of the house. A broad-chested man in uniform stepped from the cab of the first truck: Gunnar Apgar.
“Caleb. Thank God.”
They shook. Hollis and Sara had joined them. Apgar looked the group over. “Is this all of you?”
“There’s one more in the house, but we’ll need some help getting him out. He’s pretty drunk.”
“You’re kidding.” When Caleb said nothing, Apgar addressed a pair of soldiers who had disembarked from the second vehicle: “Haul him out here, on the double.”
They trotted up the steps.
“We’ve been working our way west, looking for folks,” Apgar said.
“How many survivors have you found?”
“You’re it. We’re not even finding any bodies. The virals either dragged them off or they’ve been turned.”
Hollis asked, “What about Kerrville?”
“No sign of them yet. Whatever’s going on, it’s happening out here first.” He paused, his expression suddenly uncertain. “There’s something else you ought to know, Caleb. It’s about your father.”
—
Peter took the wheel east of Seguin. Amy had awakened briefly in midafternoon, asking for water. Her fever was down, and her eyes seemed to be bothering her less, though she complained of a headache and was still very weak. Squinting out a side window, she asked how much farther they had to go. She was wearing the blanket like a shawl over her head and shoulders. Three hours, Greer said, maybe four. Amy considered this answer, then said, very softly, “We should hurry.”
They crossed the Guadalupe and turned north. The first township they’d come to was just east of the old city of Boerne. It wasn’t much, but there was a telegraph station. Only two hands of daylight remained when they pulled into the small central square.
“Awfully quiet around here,” Michael said.
The streets were empty. Odd for this hour, Peter thought. They disembarked into ghostly silence. The town comprised just a few buildings: a general store, a township office, a chapel, and a handful of shoddily erected houses, some half-constructed, as if their builders had lost interest.
“Anybody here?” Michael yelled. “Hello?”
“Feels strange,” Greer said.
Michael reached into the Humvee and released the shotgun from the holder. Peter and Greer checked their pistols.
“I’ll stay with Amy,” Greer said. “You two go find the telegraph station.”
Peter and Michael crossed the square to the township office. The door stood open, another oddity. Everything appeared normal inside, but still there were no signs of life.
“So where the hell did everybody go?” Peter said.
The telegraph was in a small room in the rear of the building. Michael sat at the operator’s desk and examined the log, a large, leather-bound ledger.
“The last message from here was sent Friday, five-twenty P.M., to Bandera station. The intended recipient was Mrs. Nills Grath.”
“What was the message?”
“ ‘Happy birthday, Aunt Lottie.’ ” Michael looked up. “Nothing after that, at least that anybody bothered to record.”
Today was Sunday. Whatever had happened here, Peter thought, it had happened sometime in the last forty-eight hours.
“Send a message to Kerrville,” Peter instructed. “Let Apgar know we’re coming.”
“My Morse is a little rusty. I’ll probably tell him to make me a sandwich.”
Michael threw a switch on the panel and began tapping the key. A few seconds later, he stopped.
“What’s wrong?”
Michael pointed to the panel. “See this meter? The needle should move when the plates touch.”
“So?”
“So I’m talking to myself here. The circuit won’t close.”
Peter knew nothing about it. “Is that something you can fix?”
“Not a chance. There’s a break in the line, could be anywhere between here and Kerrville. The storm might have knocked down a pole. A lightning strike could do it, too. It doesn’t take much.”
They exited through the back door. An old gas generator was crouched like a monster in the weeds, beside a rusted pickup and a buckboard with a broken axle and tall grass poking through the floorboards. Trash of all kinds—construction debris, busted packing crates, barrels with their seams split open—littered the yard. The wreckage of the frontier, flung out the door the moment it had outlived its usefulness.
“Who the hell are you?”
There was no point in attempting to explain the situation; the man was too far gone. “Dr. Elacqua, look at me. I need the keys to your truck.”
Caleb might have been asking him the most incomprehensible question in the world. “Keys?”
“Yes, the keys. Where are they?”
His eyes lost focus; he closed them again, his head, with its wild mane of hair, relaxing into the pillow. Caleb realized there was one place he hadn’t looked. The man’s trousers were soaked with urine, but there was nothing to be done about that. Caleb patted him down. At the base of the man’s left front pocket, Caleb felt something sharp. He slid his hand in and pulled it out: a single key, tarnished with age, on a small metal ring.
“Gotcha.”
His thoughts were broken by the roar of engines coming down the street. Caleb went to the window. Sara and the others were waving frantically toward the source of the sound, yelling, “Hey! Over here!”
Caleb stepped onto the porch as the trucks, three Army five-tons, halted in front of the house. A broad-chested man in uniform stepped from the cab of the first truck: Gunnar Apgar.
“Caleb. Thank God.”
They shook. Hollis and Sara had joined them. Apgar looked the group over. “Is this all of you?”
“There’s one more in the house, but we’ll need some help getting him out. He’s pretty drunk.”
“You’re kidding.” When Caleb said nothing, Apgar addressed a pair of soldiers who had disembarked from the second vehicle: “Haul him out here, on the double.”
They trotted up the steps.
“We’ve been working our way west, looking for folks,” Apgar said.
“How many survivors have you found?”
“You’re it. We’re not even finding any bodies. The virals either dragged them off or they’ve been turned.”
Hollis asked, “What about Kerrville?”
“No sign of them yet. Whatever’s going on, it’s happening out here first.” He paused, his expression suddenly uncertain. “There’s something else you ought to know, Caleb. It’s about your father.”
—
Peter took the wheel east of Seguin. Amy had awakened briefly in midafternoon, asking for water. Her fever was down, and her eyes seemed to be bothering her less, though she complained of a headache and was still very weak. Squinting out a side window, she asked how much farther they had to go. She was wearing the blanket like a shawl over her head and shoulders. Three hours, Greer said, maybe four. Amy considered this answer, then said, very softly, “We should hurry.”
They crossed the Guadalupe and turned north. The first township they’d come to was just east of the old city of Boerne. It wasn’t much, but there was a telegraph station. Only two hands of daylight remained when they pulled into the small central square.
“Awfully quiet around here,” Michael said.
The streets were empty. Odd for this hour, Peter thought. They disembarked into ghostly silence. The town comprised just a few buildings: a general store, a township office, a chapel, and a handful of shoddily erected houses, some half-constructed, as if their builders had lost interest.
“Anybody here?” Michael yelled. “Hello?”
“Feels strange,” Greer said.
Michael reached into the Humvee and released the shotgun from the holder. Peter and Greer checked their pistols.
“I’ll stay with Amy,” Greer said. “You two go find the telegraph station.”
Peter and Michael crossed the square to the township office. The door stood open, another oddity. Everything appeared normal inside, but still there were no signs of life.
“So where the hell did everybody go?” Peter said.
The telegraph was in a small room in the rear of the building. Michael sat at the operator’s desk and examined the log, a large, leather-bound ledger.
“The last message from here was sent Friday, five-twenty P.M., to Bandera station. The intended recipient was Mrs. Nills Grath.”
“What was the message?”
“ ‘Happy birthday, Aunt Lottie.’ ” Michael looked up. “Nothing after that, at least that anybody bothered to record.”
Today was Sunday. Whatever had happened here, Peter thought, it had happened sometime in the last forty-eight hours.
“Send a message to Kerrville,” Peter instructed. “Let Apgar know we’re coming.”
“My Morse is a little rusty. I’ll probably tell him to make me a sandwich.”
Michael threw a switch on the panel and began tapping the key. A few seconds later, he stopped.
“What’s wrong?”
Michael pointed to the panel. “See this meter? The needle should move when the plates touch.”
“So?”
“So I’m talking to myself here. The circuit won’t close.”
Peter knew nothing about it. “Is that something you can fix?”
“Not a chance. There’s a break in the line, could be anywhere between here and Kerrville. The storm might have knocked down a pole. A lightning strike could do it, too. It doesn’t take much.”
They exited through the back door. An old gas generator was crouched like a monster in the weeds, beside a rusted pickup and a buckboard with a broken axle and tall grass poking through the floorboards. Trash of all kinds—construction debris, busted packing crates, barrels with their seams split open—littered the yard. The wreckage of the frontier, flung out the door the moment it had outlived its usefulness.
