The Twelve
Page 35
Now, standing at the mouth of the cave, detonator in hand, Dodd wasn't so sure.
The waiting was never easy. Once the shooting started a feeling of clarity always took over. You'd die or you wouldn't, you'd kill or be killed-it was one or the other and nothing in between. You knew where you stood, and for those violent, heart-pumping minutes, Dodd felt himself lifted on a wave of adrenaline that eradicated virtually everything about him that was even vaguely personal. It could be said that in the chaos of combat, the man known as Satch Dodd ceased to exist, even to himself; and when the dust cleared, and he found himself still standing, he experienced a rush of raw existence, as if he'd been shot from a cannon back into the world.
It was in the waiting that a person experienced too much of himself. Memories, doubts, regrets, anxieties, the whole range of possibilities the future contained-they all swirled together in the mind like a soup. While half of Dodd's attention was intently focused on the situation at hand-the detonator in his grip and the presence of his men around him and the walkie clipped to his shoulder, through which Henneman's command to blow the hole would come-the other half was ricocheting through the chambers of his private self. Only when Henneman gave the signal to explode the bomb would this feeling, a kind of whole-body psychological nausea, abate, igniting his power to act.
The major's voice crackled through the radio: "Blue Squad, all eyes. Donadio's going in."
Something tensed inside him; he felt himself returning to the moment. "Acknowledged."
It couldn't happen soon enough.
Seven hundred feet below, in the lightless caverns left behind when sulfide-rich waters had leached upward into the fissured limestone deposits of an ancient reef, Alicia Donadio was advancing on the signal. That this signal emanated from the chip implanted in the neck of Julio Martinez, one of twelve death row inmates infected with the CV virus created by Project NOAH at the dawn of the present age, she had no doubt.
Louise, she thought, Louise.
The moment they'd touched down in the cave, this name had taken ahold of her mind. Which was strange: according to the records they had salvaged from the NOAH compound, Martinez had been sentenced to death for killing a policeman, not the rape and murder of a woman. Perhaps her death had gone unrecorded, or else had never been connected to him. The shooting of the policeman was present also, a flash of violence like a white-hot spark, but within each of the Twelve lay a singular story-the one story that was the true essence, the core of who they were. For Martinez, that story was Louise.
According to her map, two tunnels led from the elevator to individual caves, marked with names suggesting their grandeur. King's Palace. Hall of Giants. Queen's Chamber. And, simply, the Big Room. To maintain a line of sight with Peter, and thus stay in communication with the surface, Alicia could go no farther than the junctures at the far end of each passageway. Beyond that, she would be on her own.
King's Palace, she thought. Somehow, that sounded like him.
"Going left."
As she proceeded down the passageway, the meter of the RDF leapt, the beeping accelerating in kind. She'd guessed right. The walls pressed around her, shards of some bright substance embedded in their surface glinting under the raking beam of her rifle. There were virals here, a great horde, like buried treasure, Martinez presiding. Alicia could see it all plainly now; the images deepened with every step, taking hold of her mind. Louise, the tightening cord encircling her neck; the precise demarcation of color above and below, her neck milky white, the skin of her face rosy and swollen with blood; the look of astonished terror in her eyes, and the cold finality of death's approach. It was all as clear as if Alicia had lived it herself, but then something shifted. Now Alicia was experiencing this event in two directions simultaneously. She was looking at Louise while also looking from her. How was this possible? When had she acquired this attunement to the unseen world? Through Louise's eyes she saw Martinez's face. A well-groomed man of precise features, silver hair swept back from his forehead to form a delicate widow's peak. A human face, though not precisely: there was nothing you could call a person behind his eyes, only a soulless vacancy. The pleasure he was taking was an animal's. Louise was nothing to him. She was an organization of warm surfaces created only for his desire and dispatch. Her name was written plainly on her blouse, and yet his mind could not connect this name to the human person he was strangling in the midst of raping, because the only thing real to him was himself. She felt Louise's terror, and her pain, and then the dark moment when the woman understood that death was imminent, her life at its end; that she would die without any acknowledgment from the universe that she had existed in the first place, and the last thing she would feel as she departed the world would be Martinez, raping her.
Alicia had reached the juncture, a place called the Boneyard. A strong smell of urine tanged in her nostrils, coating the membranes of her mouth and throat. In the moist air, her breath puffed before her in an icy cloud. The beep of the RDF, steadily accelerating, had become a continuous stream of sound.
She knew then what she intended to do. She had intended it all along. The plan was a cover, an elaborate ruse to conceal her purpose.
She wanted to kill Martinez herself. She wanted to feel him die.
At the elevator, Peter became aware that something wasn't as it should be just a few seconds before Alicia stepped from his line of sight. There was no rational explanation for this knowledge; it simply came to him out of the stillness, a feeling deep in his bones.
"Lish, come in."
No answer.
"Lish, can you read me?"
A hiss of static, then: "Stay there."
There was something unsettling in her voice. A feeling of resignation, as if she were severing a rope that held her over an abyss. Before he could respond, her voice returned: "I mean it, Peter."
Then she was gone.
He radioed the surface. "Something's wrong, I've lost her."
"Hold your position, Jaxon."
Had she said the left tunnel? Yes, the left.
"I'm going after her," he told Henneman.
"Negative. Stand pat-"
But Peter failed to hear the rest of Henneman's message. He was already moving away.
At the same time, Lieutenant Dodd had commenced a mad dash down the switchback into the cave. He was unaware that the chain of radio transmission had been broken and that neither Peter nor, by extension, Alicia knew that the bomb at the base of the main entrance had disarmed itself-the first mishap in a cascade of events that would never be fully reassembled to the satisfaction of Command. Somehow-a short in the line, a mechanical defect, a whim of fate-the receiver at the base of the cave had lost contact with the surface. A first-class, A1 screwup if ever there was one, and now Dodd was racing into the mouth of hell.
His first descent had taken fifteen minutes; moving at what counted as a dead sprint down the treacherous, hairpinning pathway, he made it to the bottom in fewer than five. At the edge of his vision he perceived a scuttle overhead, accompanied by a high-pitched squeaking, but in his haste he failed to process this; if Hennemen's order to blow the package came before he'd made it back out, his team would fire it anyway, killing him in the blast. The only thing on his mind was reaching the bottom, repairing the detonator, and getting back out.
There it was. The receiver. Dodd had left it on a smooth, tablelike boulder situated at the tunnel's mouth; now it lay on the ground, tipped onto its side. What force had knocked it away? Dodd dropped to his knees, his breath heaving in his chest. Rivers of perspiration spilled down his face. A ghastly stink was in the air. He gently took the device in his hand. The receiver had two switches, one to arm the detonator, another to close the circuit and fire the bomb. Why wasn't it working? But then he understood that the antenna had come loose, knocked askew in the fall. He withdrew a screwdriver from his pack.
The ceiling began to move.
Alicia noticed the bones first. The bones and the smell, an overpowering stench-rank, biological, like the bottled gas of a grave. She took a step forward. As her boot touched down she felt, then heard, a crunch of bone. The skeleton of something small. The tininess of the skull, its mocking grin of teeth: a kind of rodent? Her field of view widened. The floor was carpeted with the brittle remains, in many places piled knee- or even waist-high, like drifts of snow.
Where are you? she thought. Show yourself, you bastard. I've got a message from Louise.
Martinez was close, very close. She was practically on top of him. For the first time in many years Alicia knew the taste of fear, but more than that: she knew hatred. A pure force, binding and suffusing every part of her. All her life seemed called to this moment. Martinez was the great misery of the world. It was not glory she sought or even justice. It was vengeance; not killing but the act of killing. To say, This is from Louise. To feel his life leaving him under her hand.
Come to me. Come to me.
From out of the gloom a shape appeared, a flash of white skin in the beam of her rifle. Alicia froze. What the hell ...? She took a step forward, then another.
It was a man.
Ruined and sagging, old beyond old, his figure emaciated, a sketch of bones; his skin was bleached of all color, almost translucent. He was huddled in na**dness on the floor of the cave. As the light of her rifle passed over his face, he did not flinch; his eyes were like stones, inert with blindness. A bat was writhing in his hands. Its long, kitelike wings, the sheerest membranes stretched over the attenuated fans of fingered bone, fluttered helplessly. The man brought the bat to his face and, with a shocking energy, enveloped its dainty head in his mouth. A final, muffled squeal and a tremor of the creature's wings and then a snapping sound; the man twisted the body away and spat its head to the floor. He pressed the body to his lips and began vigorously to suck, his body rocking with the rhythm of his inhalations, a faint coo, almost childlike, pulsing from his throat.
Alicia's voice sounded clumsily huge in the cavernous space. "Who the hell are you?"
The man pointed his blind, rigid face toward the source of the sound. Blood slicked his lips and chin. Alicia noticed for the first time a bluish image crawling up the side of his neck: the figure of a snake.
"Answer me."
A faint puff, more air than speech: "Ig ... Ig ..."
"Ig? Is that your name? Ig?"
"... nacio." His brow crumpled. "Ignacio?"
From behind her came a sound of footsteps; as Alicia spun around, the beam of Peter's rifle swept her face.
"I told you to wait."
Peter's face was a blank, transfixed by the image of the man huddled on the floor.
Alicia pointed her rifle to the man's forehead. "Where is he? Where's Martinez?"
Tears swelled from his sightless eyes. "He left us." His voice was like a moan of pain. "Why did he leave us?"
"What do you mean, he left you?"
With a searching gesture, the man raised one hand to the barrel of Alicia's rifle, wrapped it in his fist, and pulled the muzzle hard against his forehead.
"Please," he said. "Kill me."
They were bats. Bats by the hundreds, the thousands, the millions. They exploded from the roof of the tunnel, a solid airborne mass, swarming Dodd's senses with the heat and weight and sound and smell of them. They blasted into him like a wave, sealing him inside a vortex of pure animal frenzy. He waved his arms madly, trying to deflect them from his face and eyes; he felt but did not yet wholly experience the sting of their teeth, drilling into his flesh, like a series of distant pinpricks. They are going to tear you to pieces, his mind was telling him; that's how this is going to end; your awful fate is that you're going to die in this cave, torn to shreds by bats. Dodd screamed, and as he screamed his awareness of the pain became the thing itself, attaining its full dimensions, his mind and body instantly achieving a unity of pure annihilating agony, and as he pitched forward toward the detonator, with its glowing lights and switches, his physical person assuming in that elongated instant the properties of a hammer, falling, his one thought-oh, shit-was also his last.
The blast wave from the prematurely detonated first package, rocketing from the tunnel into the cave's complex of halls and cavities with the energy of a runaway locomotive, reached the King's Palace as a terrific bang, overlapped by a pop of pressure and a deep subterranean trembling. This was followed by a second lurch underfoot, like the deck of a boat tossed by a giant wave. It was an event in equal measures atmospheric, auditory, caloric, and seismic; it had the power to rouse the very core of the earth.
They were known as hangers: sleeping virals who, their metabolic processes suppressed, existed in a state of extended hibernation. In this condition they could endure for years or even decades, and preferred, for reasons unknown-perhaps an expression of their biological kinship to bats, a buried memory of their race-to dangle upside down, arms folded over their chests with a curious tidiness, like mummies in their sarcophagi. In the various chambers of Carlsbad Caverns (though not the King's Palace; this was Ignacio's alone) they awaited, a dozing storehouse of biological stalactites, a somnolent army of glowing icicles excited to consciousness by the bomb's detonation. Like any species, they perceived this adjustment to their surroundings as a mortal threat; like virals, they instantly snapped to the scent of human blood in their midst.
Peter and Alicia began to run.
Alicia, had she been alone, might have stood her ground. Though she would have been swallowed by the horde, it was so embedded in her nature to turn and fight that this impossible task would have felt oddly satisfying: a thing of fate, and an honorable exit from the world. But Peter was with her; it was his blood, not hers, that the virals wanted. The creatures were funneling toward them, filling the underground channels of the cavern like the undammed waters of a flood. The distance to the elevator, roughly a hundred yards, possessed a feeling of miles. The virals roared behind them. Peter and Alicia hit the elevator at a sprint. There was no time to set the charge; their initial strategy was now moot. Alicia scooped the package from the floor of the elevator, seized Peter by the wrist, kneed him through the hatch, and launched herself behind him, touching down with a clang.
The waiting was never easy. Once the shooting started a feeling of clarity always took over. You'd die or you wouldn't, you'd kill or be killed-it was one or the other and nothing in between. You knew where you stood, and for those violent, heart-pumping minutes, Dodd felt himself lifted on a wave of adrenaline that eradicated virtually everything about him that was even vaguely personal. It could be said that in the chaos of combat, the man known as Satch Dodd ceased to exist, even to himself; and when the dust cleared, and he found himself still standing, he experienced a rush of raw existence, as if he'd been shot from a cannon back into the world.
It was in the waiting that a person experienced too much of himself. Memories, doubts, regrets, anxieties, the whole range of possibilities the future contained-they all swirled together in the mind like a soup. While half of Dodd's attention was intently focused on the situation at hand-the detonator in his grip and the presence of his men around him and the walkie clipped to his shoulder, through which Henneman's command to blow the hole would come-the other half was ricocheting through the chambers of his private self. Only when Henneman gave the signal to explode the bomb would this feeling, a kind of whole-body psychological nausea, abate, igniting his power to act.
The major's voice crackled through the radio: "Blue Squad, all eyes. Donadio's going in."
Something tensed inside him; he felt himself returning to the moment. "Acknowledged."
It couldn't happen soon enough.
Seven hundred feet below, in the lightless caverns left behind when sulfide-rich waters had leached upward into the fissured limestone deposits of an ancient reef, Alicia Donadio was advancing on the signal. That this signal emanated from the chip implanted in the neck of Julio Martinez, one of twelve death row inmates infected with the CV virus created by Project NOAH at the dawn of the present age, she had no doubt.
Louise, she thought, Louise.
The moment they'd touched down in the cave, this name had taken ahold of her mind. Which was strange: according to the records they had salvaged from the NOAH compound, Martinez had been sentenced to death for killing a policeman, not the rape and murder of a woman. Perhaps her death had gone unrecorded, or else had never been connected to him. The shooting of the policeman was present also, a flash of violence like a white-hot spark, but within each of the Twelve lay a singular story-the one story that was the true essence, the core of who they were. For Martinez, that story was Louise.
According to her map, two tunnels led from the elevator to individual caves, marked with names suggesting their grandeur. King's Palace. Hall of Giants. Queen's Chamber. And, simply, the Big Room. To maintain a line of sight with Peter, and thus stay in communication with the surface, Alicia could go no farther than the junctures at the far end of each passageway. Beyond that, she would be on her own.
King's Palace, she thought. Somehow, that sounded like him.
"Going left."
As she proceeded down the passageway, the meter of the RDF leapt, the beeping accelerating in kind. She'd guessed right. The walls pressed around her, shards of some bright substance embedded in their surface glinting under the raking beam of her rifle. There were virals here, a great horde, like buried treasure, Martinez presiding. Alicia could see it all plainly now; the images deepened with every step, taking hold of her mind. Louise, the tightening cord encircling her neck; the precise demarcation of color above and below, her neck milky white, the skin of her face rosy and swollen with blood; the look of astonished terror in her eyes, and the cold finality of death's approach. It was all as clear as if Alicia had lived it herself, but then something shifted. Now Alicia was experiencing this event in two directions simultaneously. She was looking at Louise while also looking from her. How was this possible? When had she acquired this attunement to the unseen world? Through Louise's eyes she saw Martinez's face. A well-groomed man of precise features, silver hair swept back from his forehead to form a delicate widow's peak. A human face, though not precisely: there was nothing you could call a person behind his eyes, only a soulless vacancy. The pleasure he was taking was an animal's. Louise was nothing to him. She was an organization of warm surfaces created only for his desire and dispatch. Her name was written plainly on her blouse, and yet his mind could not connect this name to the human person he was strangling in the midst of raping, because the only thing real to him was himself. She felt Louise's terror, and her pain, and then the dark moment when the woman understood that death was imminent, her life at its end; that she would die without any acknowledgment from the universe that she had existed in the first place, and the last thing she would feel as she departed the world would be Martinez, raping her.
Alicia had reached the juncture, a place called the Boneyard. A strong smell of urine tanged in her nostrils, coating the membranes of her mouth and throat. In the moist air, her breath puffed before her in an icy cloud. The beep of the RDF, steadily accelerating, had become a continuous stream of sound.
She knew then what she intended to do. She had intended it all along. The plan was a cover, an elaborate ruse to conceal her purpose.
She wanted to kill Martinez herself. She wanted to feel him die.
At the elevator, Peter became aware that something wasn't as it should be just a few seconds before Alicia stepped from his line of sight. There was no rational explanation for this knowledge; it simply came to him out of the stillness, a feeling deep in his bones.
"Lish, come in."
No answer.
"Lish, can you read me?"
A hiss of static, then: "Stay there."
There was something unsettling in her voice. A feeling of resignation, as if she were severing a rope that held her over an abyss. Before he could respond, her voice returned: "I mean it, Peter."
Then she was gone.
He radioed the surface. "Something's wrong, I've lost her."
"Hold your position, Jaxon."
Had she said the left tunnel? Yes, the left.
"I'm going after her," he told Henneman.
"Negative. Stand pat-"
But Peter failed to hear the rest of Henneman's message. He was already moving away.
At the same time, Lieutenant Dodd had commenced a mad dash down the switchback into the cave. He was unaware that the chain of radio transmission had been broken and that neither Peter nor, by extension, Alicia knew that the bomb at the base of the main entrance had disarmed itself-the first mishap in a cascade of events that would never be fully reassembled to the satisfaction of Command. Somehow-a short in the line, a mechanical defect, a whim of fate-the receiver at the base of the cave had lost contact with the surface. A first-class, A1 screwup if ever there was one, and now Dodd was racing into the mouth of hell.
His first descent had taken fifteen minutes; moving at what counted as a dead sprint down the treacherous, hairpinning pathway, he made it to the bottom in fewer than five. At the edge of his vision he perceived a scuttle overhead, accompanied by a high-pitched squeaking, but in his haste he failed to process this; if Hennemen's order to blow the package came before he'd made it back out, his team would fire it anyway, killing him in the blast. The only thing on his mind was reaching the bottom, repairing the detonator, and getting back out.
There it was. The receiver. Dodd had left it on a smooth, tablelike boulder situated at the tunnel's mouth; now it lay on the ground, tipped onto its side. What force had knocked it away? Dodd dropped to his knees, his breath heaving in his chest. Rivers of perspiration spilled down his face. A ghastly stink was in the air. He gently took the device in his hand. The receiver had two switches, one to arm the detonator, another to close the circuit and fire the bomb. Why wasn't it working? But then he understood that the antenna had come loose, knocked askew in the fall. He withdrew a screwdriver from his pack.
The ceiling began to move.
Alicia noticed the bones first. The bones and the smell, an overpowering stench-rank, biological, like the bottled gas of a grave. She took a step forward. As her boot touched down she felt, then heard, a crunch of bone. The skeleton of something small. The tininess of the skull, its mocking grin of teeth: a kind of rodent? Her field of view widened. The floor was carpeted with the brittle remains, in many places piled knee- or even waist-high, like drifts of snow.
Where are you? she thought. Show yourself, you bastard. I've got a message from Louise.
Martinez was close, very close. She was practically on top of him. For the first time in many years Alicia knew the taste of fear, but more than that: she knew hatred. A pure force, binding and suffusing every part of her. All her life seemed called to this moment. Martinez was the great misery of the world. It was not glory she sought or even justice. It was vengeance; not killing but the act of killing. To say, This is from Louise. To feel his life leaving him under her hand.
Come to me. Come to me.
From out of the gloom a shape appeared, a flash of white skin in the beam of her rifle. Alicia froze. What the hell ...? She took a step forward, then another.
It was a man.
Ruined and sagging, old beyond old, his figure emaciated, a sketch of bones; his skin was bleached of all color, almost translucent. He was huddled in na**dness on the floor of the cave. As the light of her rifle passed over his face, he did not flinch; his eyes were like stones, inert with blindness. A bat was writhing in his hands. Its long, kitelike wings, the sheerest membranes stretched over the attenuated fans of fingered bone, fluttered helplessly. The man brought the bat to his face and, with a shocking energy, enveloped its dainty head in his mouth. A final, muffled squeal and a tremor of the creature's wings and then a snapping sound; the man twisted the body away and spat its head to the floor. He pressed the body to his lips and began vigorously to suck, his body rocking with the rhythm of his inhalations, a faint coo, almost childlike, pulsing from his throat.
Alicia's voice sounded clumsily huge in the cavernous space. "Who the hell are you?"
The man pointed his blind, rigid face toward the source of the sound. Blood slicked his lips and chin. Alicia noticed for the first time a bluish image crawling up the side of his neck: the figure of a snake.
"Answer me."
A faint puff, more air than speech: "Ig ... Ig ..."
"Ig? Is that your name? Ig?"
"... nacio." His brow crumpled. "Ignacio?"
From behind her came a sound of footsteps; as Alicia spun around, the beam of Peter's rifle swept her face.
"I told you to wait."
Peter's face was a blank, transfixed by the image of the man huddled on the floor.
Alicia pointed her rifle to the man's forehead. "Where is he? Where's Martinez?"
Tears swelled from his sightless eyes. "He left us." His voice was like a moan of pain. "Why did he leave us?"
"What do you mean, he left you?"
With a searching gesture, the man raised one hand to the barrel of Alicia's rifle, wrapped it in his fist, and pulled the muzzle hard against his forehead.
"Please," he said. "Kill me."
They were bats. Bats by the hundreds, the thousands, the millions. They exploded from the roof of the tunnel, a solid airborne mass, swarming Dodd's senses with the heat and weight and sound and smell of them. They blasted into him like a wave, sealing him inside a vortex of pure animal frenzy. He waved his arms madly, trying to deflect them from his face and eyes; he felt but did not yet wholly experience the sting of their teeth, drilling into his flesh, like a series of distant pinpricks. They are going to tear you to pieces, his mind was telling him; that's how this is going to end; your awful fate is that you're going to die in this cave, torn to shreds by bats. Dodd screamed, and as he screamed his awareness of the pain became the thing itself, attaining its full dimensions, his mind and body instantly achieving a unity of pure annihilating agony, and as he pitched forward toward the detonator, with its glowing lights and switches, his physical person assuming in that elongated instant the properties of a hammer, falling, his one thought-oh, shit-was also his last.
The blast wave from the prematurely detonated first package, rocketing from the tunnel into the cave's complex of halls and cavities with the energy of a runaway locomotive, reached the King's Palace as a terrific bang, overlapped by a pop of pressure and a deep subterranean trembling. This was followed by a second lurch underfoot, like the deck of a boat tossed by a giant wave. It was an event in equal measures atmospheric, auditory, caloric, and seismic; it had the power to rouse the very core of the earth.
They were known as hangers: sleeping virals who, their metabolic processes suppressed, existed in a state of extended hibernation. In this condition they could endure for years or even decades, and preferred, for reasons unknown-perhaps an expression of their biological kinship to bats, a buried memory of their race-to dangle upside down, arms folded over their chests with a curious tidiness, like mummies in their sarcophagi. In the various chambers of Carlsbad Caverns (though not the King's Palace; this was Ignacio's alone) they awaited, a dozing storehouse of biological stalactites, a somnolent army of glowing icicles excited to consciousness by the bomb's detonation. Like any species, they perceived this adjustment to their surroundings as a mortal threat; like virals, they instantly snapped to the scent of human blood in their midst.
Peter and Alicia began to run.
Alicia, had she been alone, might have stood her ground. Though she would have been swallowed by the horde, it was so embedded in her nature to turn and fight that this impossible task would have felt oddly satisfying: a thing of fate, and an honorable exit from the world. But Peter was with her; it was his blood, not hers, that the virals wanted. The creatures were funneling toward them, filling the underground channels of the cavern like the undammed waters of a flood. The distance to the elevator, roughly a hundred yards, possessed a feeling of miles. The virals roared behind them. Peter and Alicia hit the elevator at a sprint. There was no time to set the charge; their initial strategy was now moot. Alicia scooped the package from the floor of the elevator, seized Peter by the wrist, kneed him through the hatch, and launched herself behind him, touching down with a clang.
