Justin Cronin - The Twelve

Lila stirred when Grey shut the engine off. “Where are we?”

“Kansas.”

She yawned, squinting through the windshield at the desolate town. “Why are we stopping?”

“We need gas. I’ll just be a sec.”

Grey tried the pump, but no dice: the power was off. He’d have to siphon some off somehow, but for that he’d need a length of hose and a can. He stepped into the office. A battered metal desk, covered with stacks of paper, stood by the front window; an old office chair rested behind it, rocked back on its hinges, giving the ghostly impression of having only recently been vacated. He moved through the door that led to the service bays, a cool, dark space that smelled of oil. A Cadillac Seville, late-’90s vintage, was perched on one of the lifts; the second bay was occupied by a Chevy 4×4 with a jacked-up suspension and fat, mud-choked tires. Resting on the floor was a five-gallon gas can; on one of the workbenches, Grey located a length of hose. He severed off a six-foot section, slid one end into the 4×4’s fuel port, drew in a sip that he spat away, and began to siphon gas into the can.

The can was nearly full when he heard a scuffling above his head. Every nerve in his body fired simultaneously, clenching him in place.

Slowly he lifted his face.

The creature was suspended from one of the ceiling beams, hanging upside down with its knees folded over the strut like a kid on monkey bars. It was smaller than Zero, more human-seeming. As their eyes locked, Grey’s heart froze between beats. From deep inside the creature’s throat came a trilling sound.

You don’t have to be afraid, Grey .

What the fuck?

His feet tangled under him as he lurched backward, sending him pitching to the hard concrete. He snatched the gas can off the floor, fuel still gushing from the siphon, and charged from the service bay into the office and out the door. Lila was standing with her back braced against the car.

“Get in,” he said breathlessly.

“You didn’t notice if they had a vending machine inside? I’d really like to get a candy bar or something.”

“Damn it, Lila, get in the car.” Grey threw open the Volvo’s hatch, tossed the can inside, and slammed it closed. “We have to go right now .”

The woman sighed. “Fine, whatever you say. I don’t see why you have to be so rude about it.”

They raced away. Only when they were a mile from town did Grey’s pulse begin to slow. He let the Volvo coast to a stop, threw the door open, and stumbled from the car. Standing at the side of the road, he placed his hands on his knees, breathing in huge gulps of air. Jesus, it was like the thing had spoken to him. Like those clicks were a foreign language he could understand. It even knew his name. How did it know his name?

He felt Lila’s hand on his shoulder. “Lawrence, you’re bleeding.”

He was. His elbow looked ripped open, a flap of skin dangling. He must have done it in the fall, although he’d felt nothing.

“Let me look.”

Wearing an expression of intense concentration, Lila gently probed the edges with her fingertips. “How did it happen?”

“I guess I tripped.”

“You should have said something. Can you move it?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Wait here,” Lila commanded. “Don’t touch it.”

She opened the hatch of the Volvo and began to rummage through her suitcase. She removed a metal box and a bottle of water and dropped the tailgate.

“Let’s sit you down.”

Grey positioned himself on the tailgate. Lila opened the box: a medical kit. She rubbed a dab of Purell into her hands, removed a pair of latex gloves, snapped them onto her hands, and took his arm again.

“Do you have any history of excessive bleeding?” she asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Hepatitis, HIV, anything like that?”

Grey shook his head.

“How about your last tetanus shot? Can you remember when that was?”

What Lila was this? Who was Grey seeing? Not the lost woman of the Home Depot, or the defeated soul in the kitchen; this was someone new. A third Lila, full of efficiency and competence.

“Not since I was a kid.”

Lila took another moment to examine the wound. “Well, it’s a nasty gash. I’m going to have to suture it.”

“You mean like… stitches?”

“Trust me, I’ve done it a million times.”

She swabbed the wound with alcohol, removed a disposable syringe from the box, filled it from a tiny vial, and tapped the needle with her forefinger.

“Just a little something to numb you up. You won’t feel a thing, I promise.”

The prick of the needle and in just a few seconds, Grey’s pain melted away. Lila unfolded a cloth onto the tailgate, laying out a pair of forceps, a spool of dark thread, and a tiny scissors.

“You can watch if you want, but most people prefer to look away.”

He felt a series of tiny tugs but that was all. Moments later, he looked down to see the gash and its flap of skin replaced by a tight black line. Lila spread ointment over it, then dressed it with a bandage.

“The stitches should dissolve in a couple of days,” she said as she was snapping off her gloves. “It may be a little itchy, but you can’t scratch it. Just leave it alone.”

“How did you know how to do that?” Grey asked. “Are you a nurse or something?”

The question appeared to catch her short. Her mouth opened like she was about to say something; then she closed it again.

“Lila? Are you okay?”

She was sealing up the kit. She returned her supplies to the Volvo and closed the hatch.

“We better be going, don’t you think?”

Just like that, the woman who’d stitched his arm was gone, the moment of her emergence erased. Grey wanted to ask her more but knew what would happen if he did. The pact between them was clear: only certain things could be said.

“Do you want me to drive?” Lila asked. “It’s probably my turn.”

The question wasn’t really a question, Grey understood. It was the natural thing to ask, just as it was his job to decline the offer. “No, I can do it.”

They got back in the Volvo. As Grey put the car in gear, Lila took up her magazine from the floor.

“If it’s all right with you, I think I’m going to read a bit.”

A hundred and twelve miles to the north, traveling east on Interstate 76, Kittridge had also begun to worry about fuel. The bus had been full when they’d started; now they were down to a quarter tank.

With a few minor detours, they’d managed to stay on the highway since Fort Morgan. Lulled by the motion of the bus, April and her brother had fallen asleep. Danny whistled through his teeth while he drove—the tune was nothing Kittridge recognized—gamely spinning the wheel and working the brakes and gas, hat tipped to his brow, his face and posture as erect as that of a sea captain facing down a gale.

For the love of God, Kittridge thought. How in the hell had he ended up in a school bus?

“Uh-oh,” said Danny.

Kittridge sat up straight. A long line of abandoned vehicles, stretching to the horizon, stood in their path. Some of the cars were lying upside down or on their sides. Bodies were scattered everywhere.

Danny stopped the bus. April and Tim were awake now as well, gazing out the windshield.

“April, get him out of here,” Kittridge directed. “Both of you to the back, now.”

“What do you want me to do?” Danny asked.

“Wait here.”

Kittridge stepped down from the bus. Flies were buzzing in vast black swarms; there was an overwhelming odor of rotten flesh. The air was absolutely still, as if it couldn’t bring itself to move. The only signs of life were the birds, vultures and crows, circling overhead. Kittridge moved up the line of cars. Virals had done this, there was no mistaking it; there must have been hundreds of them, thousands even. What did it mean? And why were the cars all together like this, as if they’d been forced to stop?