The City of Mirrors
Page 156
Sara rewrapped the baby and returned him to his mother, assuring her that everything was fine. “He’ll complain a bit until your milk comes in. Don’t worry—it doesn’t mean anything.”
“What’s going to happen to us, Dr. Wilson?”
The question seemed too large. “You’re going to take care of your son, that’s what.”
“I heard about that woman. They say she’s some kind of viral. How could that be?”
Sara was caught off guard—but of course people would be talking. “Maybe she is—I don’t know.” She put a hand on Grace’s shoulder. “Try to rest. The Army knows what it’s doing.”
She found Jenny in the storage room, taking inventory of their supplies: bandages, candles, blankets, water. More boxes had been brought down from the first floor and stacked against the wall. Her daughter, Hannah, was helping her—a freckled, disarmingly green-eyed girl of thirteen, with long, coltish legs.
“Sweetheart, could your mom and I have a minute? Go see if they need anything upstairs.”
The girl left them alone. Quickly, Sara reviewed the plan. “How many people do you think we can fit in here?” she asked.
“A hundred, anyway. More if we really stuff them in, I guess.”
“Let’s set up a desk at the front door to count heads. No men get in, only women and children.”
“What if they try?”
“Not our problem. The military will handle it.”
Sara examined four more patients—the boy with pneumonia; a woman in her forties who had rushed in with breathing trouble that she feared was a heart attack but was nothing more than panic; two little girls, twins, who had come down with acute diarrhea and fever in the night—then returned to the first floor in time to see a pair of five-tons roar up to the entrance. She stepped outside to meet them.
“Sara Wilson?”
“That’s right.”
The soldier turned back to the first truck in line. “Okay, start unloading.”
Moving in pairs, the soldiers began carting sandbags to the entrance. Simultaneously, a pair of Humvees with .50-caliber machine guns attached to their roofs backed up to the building and took flanking positions on both sides of the door. Sara watched this numbly; the strangeness of all of it was catching up with her.
“Can you show me the other entrances?” the sergeant asked.
Sara led him around to the back and side doors. Soldiers arrived with sheets of plywood and began hammering them into the molding.
“Those won’t keep a drac out,” Sara said. They were standing at the front of the building, where more sheets of plywood were being used to cover the windows.
“They’re not for the dracs.”
Sweet Jesus, she thought.
“Do you have a weapon, ma’am?”
“This is a hospital, Sergeant. We don’t just leave guns lying around.”
He walked to the first truck and returned with a rifle and pistol. He held them out. “Take your pick.”
Everything about his offer went against the grain; a hospital still meant something. Then she thought of Kate.
“All right, the pistol.” She tucked it into her waistband.
“You’ve used one before?” the sergeant said. “I can give you the basics if you want.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
—
In the stockade, Alicia was gauging the strength of the chains.
The bolt on the wall was negligible—one hard yank should do it—but the shackles were a problem. They were constructed of a hardened alloy of some sort. Probably they had come from Tifty’s bunker; the man had made a science of viral containment. So even if she freed herself from the wall, she’d still be as trussed up as a hog for slaughter.
The thought of sleep enticed her. Not merely to obliterate time but to carry her thoughts away. But her dreams, always the same, were nothing she cared to revisit: the brilliantly lit city dissolving to darkness; the happy cries of life within waning, then gone; the pitiless, disappearing door.
And then there was the other issue: Alicia wasn’t alone.
The feeling was subtle, but she could tell Fanning was still there: a sort of low-grade hum in her brain, more tactile than aural, like a breeze pushing over the surface of her mind. It made her feel angry and sick and tired of everything, ready to be done with it all.
Get out of my head, goddamnit. Haven’t I done what you asked? Leave me the hell alone.
The promised food did not appear. Peter had forgotten, or else he’d decided that a hungry Alicia was safer than a full one. It could be a tactic to make her pliable: Food is on the way; wait, no, it isn’t. In either event, she was perversely glad; part of her still hated it. The moment her jaws sank into flesh, hot blood squirting upon her palate, a chorus of revulsion erupted in her head: What the hell are you doing? Yet always she drank her fill until, thoroughly disgusted with herself, she sank back on her heels and let the lassitude engulf her.
The hours moved sluggishly. At last the door opened.
“Surprise.”
Michael stepped into the room. A small metal cage was pressed against his chest.
“Five minutes, Fisher,” the guard said, and slammed the door behind him.
Michael put the cage on the floor and took a seat on the cot, facing her squarely. In the cage was a brown rabbit.
“How’d you get in?” Alicia asked.
“Oh, they know me pretty well around here.”
“What’s going to happen to us, Dr. Wilson?”
The question seemed too large. “You’re going to take care of your son, that’s what.”
“I heard about that woman. They say she’s some kind of viral. How could that be?”
Sara was caught off guard—but of course people would be talking. “Maybe she is—I don’t know.” She put a hand on Grace’s shoulder. “Try to rest. The Army knows what it’s doing.”
She found Jenny in the storage room, taking inventory of their supplies: bandages, candles, blankets, water. More boxes had been brought down from the first floor and stacked against the wall. Her daughter, Hannah, was helping her—a freckled, disarmingly green-eyed girl of thirteen, with long, coltish legs.
“Sweetheart, could your mom and I have a minute? Go see if they need anything upstairs.”
The girl left them alone. Quickly, Sara reviewed the plan. “How many people do you think we can fit in here?” she asked.
“A hundred, anyway. More if we really stuff them in, I guess.”
“Let’s set up a desk at the front door to count heads. No men get in, only women and children.”
“What if they try?”
“Not our problem. The military will handle it.”
Sara examined four more patients—the boy with pneumonia; a woman in her forties who had rushed in with breathing trouble that she feared was a heart attack but was nothing more than panic; two little girls, twins, who had come down with acute diarrhea and fever in the night—then returned to the first floor in time to see a pair of five-tons roar up to the entrance. She stepped outside to meet them.
“Sara Wilson?”
“That’s right.”
The soldier turned back to the first truck in line. “Okay, start unloading.”
Moving in pairs, the soldiers began carting sandbags to the entrance. Simultaneously, a pair of Humvees with .50-caliber machine guns attached to their roofs backed up to the building and took flanking positions on both sides of the door. Sara watched this numbly; the strangeness of all of it was catching up with her.
“Can you show me the other entrances?” the sergeant asked.
Sara led him around to the back and side doors. Soldiers arrived with sheets of plywood and began hammering them into the molding.
“Those won’t keep a drac out,” Sara said. They were standing at the front of the building, where more sheets of plywood were being used to cover the windows.
“They’re not for the dracs.”
Sweet Jesus, she thought.
“Do you have a weapon, ma’am?”
“This is a hospital, Sergeant. We don’t just leave guns lying around.”
He walked to the first truck and returned with a rifle and pistol. He held them out. “Take your pick.”
Everything about his offer went against the grain; a hospital still meant something. Then she thought of Kate.
“All right, the pistol.” She tucked it into her waistband.
“You’ve used one before?” the sergeant said. “I can give you the basics if you want.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
—
In the stockade, Alicia was gauging the strength of the chains.
The bolt on the wall was negligible—one hard yank should do it—but the shackles were a problem. They were constructed of a hardened alloy of some sort. Probably they had come from Tifty’s bunker; the man had made a science of viral containment. So even if she freed herself from the wall, she’d still be as trussed up as a hog for slaughter.
The thought of sleep enticed her. Not merely to obliterate time but to carry her thoughts away. But her dreams, always the same, were nothing she cared to revisit: the brilliantly lit city dissolving to darkness; the happy cries of life within waning, then gone; the pitiless, disappearing door.
And then there was the other issue: Alicia wasn’t alone.
The feeling was subtle, but she could tell Fanning was still there: a sort of low-grade hum in her brain, more tactile than aural, like a breeze pushing over the surface of her mind. It made her feel angry and sick and tired of everything, ready to be done with it all.
Get out of my head, goddamnit. Haven’t I done what you asked? Leave me the hell alone.
The promised food did not appear. Peter had forgotten, or else he’d decided that a hungry Alicia was safer than a full one. It could be a tactic to make her pliable: Food is on the way; wait, no, it isn’t. In either event, she was perversely glad; part of her still hated it. The moment her jaws sank into flesh, hot blood squirting upon her palate, a chorus of revulsion erupted in her head: What the hell are you doing? Yet always she drank her fill until, thoroughly disgusted with herself, she sank back on her heels and let the lassitude engulf her.
The hours moved sluggishly. At last the door opened.
“Surprise.”
Michael stepped into the room. A small metal cage was pressed against his chest.
“Five minutes, Fisher,” the guard said, and slammed the door behind him.
Michael put the cage on the floor and took a seat on the cot, facing her squarely. In the cage was a brown rabbit.
“How’d you get in?” Alicia asked.
“Oh, they know me pretty well around here.”
