The City of Mirrors
Page 170
Caleb threaded an arm around the injured man’s back. The situation took shape in Caleb’s mind: the orphanage would be their final stand. In the dining room, Sister Peg waited by the open hatch. The woman was holding a rifle. The sight was so odd that Caleb’s mind simply rejected it. “Hurry!” Sister Peg yelled. His father and Apgar were ordering men to take positions at the windows. Hands reached up through the opening in the floor to help the children, who funneled into the hatch with a slowness painfully out of sync with everything else that was occurring. People were pushing and shoving, women screaming, babies crying. Caleb smelled gasoline. An empty fuel can lay on its side on the floor, a second by the pantry door. Their presence made no sense—it was in the same category of unaccountable details as Sister Peg’s rifle. Men were hurling dining chairs through the windows. Others were upending tables to act as barricades. All the things of the world were colliding. Caleb took a position at the closest window, pointed his rifle into the darkness, and began to fire.
—
For Peter Jaxon, last president of the Texas Republic, the final seconds of the night were nothing he had anticipated. Once the catwalk had begun its collapse, and the nature of the situation had become clear to him, he wholly intended to die. This was the only honorable outcome he could foresee. Amy was gone, his friends were gone, the city was gone, and he had only himself to blame. Surviving Kerrville’s destruction would be an unthinkable disgrace.
The last of the civilians had descended through the hatch, but would the door hold? Judging from the events of the last ten minutes, Peter could only conclude that, like everything else, it was bound to fail. Fanning, however he’d done it, knew everything.
Still, one had to try. Symbolism counted for something, as Apgar had said. The virals were amassing outside; they would storm the building as a horde. Still firing from the window, Peter ordered the men to fall back to the shelter; they had nothing left to defend except themselves. Many were out of ammo, anyway. A final shot from Peter’s rifle and the charger locked back. He cast the gun aside and drew his pistol.
“Mr. President, time to go.”
Apgar was standing behind him.
“I thought you were calling me Peter now.”
“I mean it. You need to get down that hole right now.”
Peter squeezed off a round. Maybe he connected, maybe not. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Peter would never be sure what Apgar had hit him with. The butt of his pistol? The leg of a broken chair? A thud at the back of his skull and his legs melted, followed by the rest of him.
“Caleb,” he heard Apgar say, “help me get your father out of here.”
His body lacked all volition; his thoughts were like slick ice, impossible to hold. He was being dragged, then lifted, then lowered once again. He felt, oddly, like a child, and this feeling morphed into a memory—an impossible memory, in which he was a little boy again, not merely a boy but an infant, being passed from hand to hand. He saw faces above him. They floated enormously, their features bloated and vague. He was being laid upon a wooden platform. A single face came into focus: his son’s. But Caleb wasn’t a boy anymore, he was a man, and the situation had reversed. Caleb was the father and he the son, or so it seemed. It was a pleasant inversion, inevitable in its way, and Peter felt happy that he had lived long enough to see this.
“It’s all right, Dad,” Caleb said, “you’re safe now.”
And then the light went out.
—
Apgar slammed the hatch and listened as the bolts sealed from inside.
“You could have gone,” said Sister Peg.
“So could you.” He rose and looked at her. Everything felt suddenly calm. “The gas was a good idea.”
“I thought so, too.”
“Ready?”
Sounds above: the virals were tearing through the roof. Apgar lifted a rifle from the floor, checked the magazine, and shoved it back into the well. Sister Peg withdrew the box of matches from the pocket of her tunic. She struck one, tossed it. A river of blue flame snaked along the floor, then separated, running in several directions.
“Shall we?” Apgar said.
They walked briskly down the hall. Thick smoke was boiling up. At the door they halted.
“You know,” said Sister Peg, “I think I’ll stay after all.”
His eyes searched her face.
“I think it’s best this way,” she explained. “To be…with them.”
Of course that’s what she would want. To affirm his understanding, Apgar cupped her chin, leaned his face forward, and kissed her lightly on the lips.
“Well,” she managed. Tears rose to her throat. She had never been kissed by a grown man before. “I didn’t expect that.”
“I hope you didn’t mind.”
“You always were a lovely boy.”
“That’s nice of you to say.”
She took his hands and held them. “God bless and keep you, Gunnar.”
“And you as well, Sister.”
Then he was gone.
She faded back into the hall. In the dining room, flames were leaping up the walls; the smoke was dense and swirling. Sister Peg began to cough. She lay down on the hatch. Her time in the physical world was ending. She had no fear of what would come, the hand of love into which her spirit would pass. Fire took the building in its grip. The flames shot up, consuming all. As the smoke snaked inside her, Sister Peg’s mind filled up with faces. Faces by the hundreds, the thousands. Her children. She would be with them again.
—
For Peter Jaxon, last president of the Texas Republic, the final seconds of the night were nothing he had anticipated. Once the catwalk had begun its collapse, and the nature of the situation had become clear to him, he wholly intended to die. This was the only honorable outcome he could foresee. Amy was gone, his friends were gone, the city was gone, and he had only himself to blame. Surviving Kerrville’s destruction would be an unthinkable disgrace.
The last of the civilians had descended through the hatch, but would the door hold? Judging from the events of the last ten minutes, Peter could only conclude that, like everything else, it was bound to fail. Fanning, however he’d done it, knew everything.
Still, one had to try. Symbolism counted for something, as Apgar had said. The virals were amassing outside; they would storm the building as a horde. Still firing from the window, Peter ordered the men to fall back to the shelter; they had nothing left to defend except themselves. Many were out of ammo, anyway. A final shot from Peter’s rifle and the charger locked back. He cast the gun aside and drew his pistol.
“Mr. President, time to go.”
Apgar was standing behind him.
“I thought you were calling me Peter now.”
“I mean it. You need to get down that hole right now.”
Peter squeezed off a round. Maybe he connected, maybe not. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Peter would never be sure what Apgar had hit him with. The butt of his pistol? The leg of a broken chair? A thud at the back of his skull and his legs melted, followed by the rest of him.
“Caleb,” he heard Apgar say, “help me get your father out of here.”
His body lacked all volition; his thoughts were like slick ice, impossible to hold. He was being dragged, then lifted, then lowered once again. He felt, oddly, like a child, and this feeling morphed into a memory—an impossible memory, in which he was a little boy again, not merely a boy but an infant, being passed from hand to hand. He saw faces above him. They floated enormously, their features bloated and vague. He was being laid upon a wooden platform. A single face came into focus: his son’s. But Caleb wasn’t a boy anymore, he was a man, and the situation had reversed. Caleb was the father and he the son, or so it seemed. It was a pleasant inversion, inevitable in its way, and Peter felt happy that he had lived long enough to see this.
“It’s all right, Dad,” Caleb said, “you’re safe now.”
And then the light went out.
—
Apgar slammed the hatch and listened as the bolts sealed from inside.
“You could have gone,” said Sister Peg.
“So could you.” He rose and looked at her. Everything felt suddenly calm. “The gas was a good idea.”
“I thought so, too.”
“Ready?”
Sounds above: the virals were tearing through the roof. Apgar lifted a rifle from the floor, checked the magazine, and shoved it back into the well. Sister Peg withdrew the box of matches from the pocket of her tunic. She struck one, tossed it. A river of blue flame snaked along the floor, then separated, running in several directions.
“Shall we?” Apgar said.
They walked briskly down the hall. Thick smoke was boiling up. At the door they halted.
“You know,” said Sister Peg, “I think I’ll stay after all.”
His eyes searched her face.
“I think it’s best this way,” she explained. “To be…with them.”
Of course that’s what she would want. To affirm his understanding, Apgar cupped her chin, leaned his face forward, and kissed her lightly on the lips.
“Well,” she managed. Tears rose to her throat. She had never been kissed by a grown man before. “I didn’t expect that.”
“I hope you didn’t mind.”
“You always were a lovely boy.”
“That’s nice of you to say.”
She took his hands and held them. “God bless and keep you, Gunnar.”
“And you as well, Sister.”
Then he was gone.
She faded back into the hall. In the dining room, flames were leaping up the walls; the smoke was dense and swirling. Sister Peg began to cough. She lay down on the hatch. Her time in the physical world was ending. She had no fear of what would come, the hand of love into which her spirit would pass. Fire took the building in its grip. The flames shot up, consuming all. As the smoke snaked inside her, Sister Peg’s mind filled up with faces. Faces by the hundreds, the thousands. Her children. She would be with them again.
