Justin Cronin - The Twelve

She didn’t so much walk as stumble toward her bedroom. Her back was bent forward, as if she’d suffered a physical blow.

“Do you still want me to come with you?” Sara asked gently.

Lila halted, clutching the frame for balance. She didn’t look at Sara as she gave her answer.

“Of course, Dani. Why wouldn’t I?”

They drove to the stadium in darkness. A convoy of ten vehicles, pickups front and rear, each carrying a detail of armed cols in the bed, with eight sleek SUVs in between for the senior staff. Lila and Sara rode in the backseat of the second car. Lila was dressed in a dark cloak with the hood gathered at her neck, oversized dark glasses covering the upper half of her face like a shield. The driver was someone Sara recognized without being able to place, a skeletally thin man with lank brown hair and pale roving eyes that met Sara’s through the mirror as they pulled away from the Dome.

“You. What’s your name?”

“Dani.”

He shot a grin through the mirror. Sara felt a jolt of apprehension. Did he know her? Had his gaze somehow penetrated the obscuring curtain of her veil?

“Well, you’re in for a treat tonight, Dani.”

Guilder had initially refused to let Sara come, but Lila wouldn’t budge. David, how do you think I feel, being dragged around to all your silly parties with your silly friends? I’m simply not going without her, like it or lump it . On and on like this until Guilder, with a huff, had relented. Fine, he’d said. Have it your way, Lila. Maybe one of your attendants should see what you really are. The more the fucking merrier.

They were passing the flatland now, following the river, becalmed under a skin of winter ice. Something was happening to Lila. With each minute that passed, the lights of the Dome fading behind them, her personality receded. She was stretching her back like a cat, making little humming sounds at the back of her throat, touching her face and hair.

“Mmmm,” Lila purred with an almost sexual pleasure. “Can you feel them?”

Sara had no answer.

“It’s… won derful.”

They passed through the gate. Ahead Sara saw the stadium, lit from within, glowing in the winter night. She felt not so much fear as a spreading blackness. The caravan slowed as it ascended the ramp and emerged onto a brilliantly lit field surrounded by bleachers. The vehicles stopped behind a silver cargo truck where a dozen cols were waiting, fidgeting with their batons and stamping their feet in the cold. A tall stake had been tamped into the ground in the middle of the field.

“Mmmm,” said Lila.

Doors flew open; everybody disembarked. Standing beside the car, Lila lifted Sara’s veil and tenderly touched her cheek. “My Dani. My sweet girl. Isn’t it marvelous? My babies, my beautiful babies.”

“Lila, what’s happening here?”

She rocked her head on her neck with sensuous delight. Her eyes were soft and distant. The Lila Sara knew was nowhere inside them. She moved her face toward Sara’s and, astonishingly, kissed her dryly on the lips.

“I’m so glad you’re with me,” she said.

The driver took Sara by the elbow and led her to the bleachers. Twenty men in dark suits were seated in two rows, chatting energetically among themselves, blowing on their fists. “This is so cool,” Sara heard one of them say as she was shown to her place in the fourth row, among a group of cols. “I never get to see this.”

Down front, Guilder faced the group. He was wearing a black overcoat, a dark tie visible at his throat. He was holding something in his gloved hand: a radio.

“Gentlemen of the senior staff, welcome,” he declared with a buoyant grin. His breath puffed before his face, punctuating the words. “A little present for you tonight. A show of gratitude for all your hard work as we near the climax of all our labors.”

“Bring ’em on!” one of the redeyes hooted, eliciting cheers and laughter.

“Now, now,” Guilder said, waving them to silence. “All of you are well acquainted with the spectacle that is about to unfold. But tonight, we have something very special planned. Minister Hoppel, would you please come forward?”

A redeye in the second row got to his feet and joined Guilder at the front. Tall, with a square-jawed face and brush-cut hair. Grinning with embarrassment, he said, “Gosh, Horace, it’s not even my birthday.”

“Maybe he’s about to demote you!” another voice yelled.

More laughter. Guilder waited for it to die down. “Mr. Hoppel here,” he said, placing a fatherly hand on the man’s back, “as everyone knows, has been with us from the very beginning. As Minister of Propaganda, he has provided us with a key element in support of our efforts.” His expression abruptly hardened. “Which is why, with the greatest regret, I must tell you all that incontrovertible evidence has come to my attention that Minister Hoppel is in league with the insurgency.” He darted a hand toward the man’s face, stripping off his glasses and tossing them away. Hoppel gave a shriek of pain as he drew his arm up over his eyes. “Guards,” said Guilder, “take him.”

A pair of cols grabbed Hoppel by the arms; more quickly surrounded him, weapons drawn. A moment of confusion, voices buzzing through the bleachers. What? What is he saying? Hoppel, could it really be…?

“Yes, my friends. Minister Hoppel is a traitor. It was he who passed crucial intelligence to the insurgency that led to last week’s bombing, in which two of our colleagues were killed.”

“Jesus, Horace.” The man had gone weak at the knees. His eyes were squeezed tight. He tried to shrug the men’s grip off, but he seemed to have lost all strength. “You know me! All of you know me! Suresh, Wilkes, somebody—tell him!”

“I’m sorry, my friend. You’ve done this to yourself. Take him to the field.”

He was dragged away. Beside the silver truck, Hoppel was bound to the stake with heavy rope. One of the cols produced a bucket and poured the contents over him with a crimson splash, soaking his clothing, hair, face. He wriggled helplessly, uttering the most pitiful cries. Don’t do this. Please, I swear, I’m no traitor. You bastards, say something!

Guilder cupped his mouth. “Is the prisoner secure?”

“Secure!”

He lifted the radio to his mouth. “Hit the lights.”

The thunk of tumblers, the screech of the opening door.

Alicia was hanging from the ceiling, her bound wrists stretched above her head, holding aloft her slowly creaking weight. She was tired, so tired. Rivulets of dried blood ran down her naked legs. The man known as Sod, through the days of his dark business, had left no part of her untouched. He had filled her ears and nose with the hot stench of his grunting exhalations. He had scratched her, struck her, bitten her. Bitten, like an animal. Her breasts, the soft skin of her neck, the insides of her thighs, all embedded with the marks of his teeth. Through it all, she had not wept. Cried out, yes. Screamed. But she would not give him the satisfaction of her tears. And now here he was again, lazily swinging the chiming ring of keys around his finger, dragging his one good eye down the length of her body, wearing a greedy, bestial smile on his half-cooked face.

“I thought, since everybody’s all off at the stadium for the big show, we might have a little bit of alone time.”

What was there to say? There was nothing.

“Now, I’m thinking that the two of us might try something new. The bench feels so… impersonal.”

He began to undress, a complicated business of leather and buckles. He kicked off his boots, his pants. As he went about his grand unveiling, Alicia could only watch in mute revulsion. She felt like she had about ten different Alicias in her head, each with a single scrap of information lacking any reference to the others. And yet: alone time . That was new, she thought. That was a definite wrinkle in the proceedings. Usually there were four of them: one to operate the winch, two to take her down, plus Sod. Where were the others?