Justin Cronin - The Twelve

“Cough, please.”

Grey managed a small one. The doctor’s face behind his faceplate revealed nothing. The throbbing sound filled Grey’s entire brain, annihilating any other thought.

“I am going to check your glands.”

The doctor reached his gloved hands toward Grey’s neck. As the tips of his fingers made contact, Grey darted his head forward. The action was automatic; Grey couldn’t have stopped it if he’d tried. His teeth bore into the soft flesh of Suresh’s palm, clamping like a vise. The chemical taste of latex, profoundly revolting, then a burst of sweetness filled his mouth. Suresh was shrieking, struggling to break free. His free hand pushed on Grey’s forehead, fighting for leverage; he reared back and struck Grey across the face with his fist. Not painful but startling; Grey broke his hold. Suresh stumbled backward, clutching his bloody hand at the wrist, thumb and forefinger wrapping it like a tourniquet. Grey expected something large to happen, the sound of an alarm, men rushing in, but nothing of the kind occurred; the moment felt frozen and, somehow, unobserved. Suresh backed away, staring at Grey with a look of wide-eyed panic. He stripped off his bloody glove and moved briskly to the sink. He turned on the tap and began to scrub his hand fiercely, muttering under his breath:

“Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

Then he was gone. Grey lay still. In the struggle, his IV had torn loose. There was blood on his face, his lips. With slow pleasure he licked them clean. The merest taste, but it was enough. Strength flowed into him like a tide upon the shore. He tensed against the straps, feeling the rivets start to give. The air lock was another matter, but sooner or later it would open, and when it did, Grey would be waiting. He would alight like an angel of death.

Lila, I am coming .

0330 hours: The group was gathered at the tent, gear packed, awaiting the dawn. Kittridge had told them they should sleep, to prepare for the journey ahead. Shortly after midnight, the promised buses had appeared outside the fence, a long gray line. From the Army, no announcement, but their arrival hadn’t escaped attention. All through the camp the talk was of leaving. Who would get to go first? Were more buses coming? What about the ill? Would they be evacuated separately?

Kittridge had gone with Danny to the command tent for Porcheki’s briefing. What was left of the civilian staff, FEMA and Red Cross, would directly supervise the loading, while the last of Porcheki’s men, three platoons, would manage the crowds. A dozen Humvees and a pair of APCs would wait on the far side of the fence to escort the convoy. The trip to Rock Island would take a little under two hours. Assuming everything went as planned, the last of the four loads would reach Rock Island by 1730, just under the deadline.

When the meeting broke up, Kittridge took Danny aside. “If anything happens, don’t wait. Just take what you can carry and go. Stay off the main roads. If the bridge at Rock Island is closed, head north, like we did the last time. Follow the river until you find an open bridge. Got that?”

“I shouldn’t wait. Stay off the main roads. Go north.”

“Exactly.”

The other drivers were already headed for the buses. Kittridge had only a moment to say the rest.

“Whatever happens, Danny, we wouldn’t have gotten this far without you. I’m sure you know it, but I wanted to say so.”

The man nodded tightly, his gaze slanted away. “Okay.”

“I’d like to shake on it. Do you think that would be all right?”

Danny’s brow furrowed with an expression, almost, of pain. Kittridge was worried he’d overstepped when Danny extended his hand with furtive quickness, the two men’s palms colliding. His grip, though hesitant, was not without strength. A vigorous pump; for a second Danny met his eye; then it was over.

“Good luck,” said Kittridge.

He returned to the tent. Nothing to do now but wait. He sat on the ground with his back against a wooden crate. A few minutes passed; the flaps of the tent parted. April lowered herself beside him, drawing her knees to her chest.

“You mind?”

Kittridge shook his head. They were looking toward the compound’s entrance, a hundred yards distant. Under a blaze of spotlights, the area around it glowed like a brightly lit stage.

“I just wanted to thank you,” April said. “For everything you’ve done.”

“Anybody would have.”

“No, they wouldn’t. I mean, you’d like to think so. But no.”

Kittridge wondered if this was true. He supposed it didn’t matter. Fate had pushed them together, and here they were. Then he remembered the pistols.

“I’ve got something of yours.”

He reached under his jacket and pulled one of the Glocks free. He racked the slide to chamber a round, turned it around in his hand, and held it out to her.

“Remember what I told you. One shot in the center of the chest. They go down like a house of cards if you do it right.”

“How did you get it back?”

He smiled. “Won it in a poker game.” He nudged it toward her. “Go on, take it.”

It had become important to him that she have it. April took it in her hand, leaned forward, and slid the barrel into the waistband of her jeans, resting against her spine.

“Thanks,” she said with a smile. “I’ll use it in good health.”

For a full minute, neither spoke.

“It’s pretty obvious how all this is going to end, isn’t it?” April said. “Sooner or later, I mean.”

Kittridge turned his face to look at her; her eyes were averted, the lights of the spots glazing her features. “There’s always a chance.”

“That’s nice of you to say. But it doesn’t change a thing. Maybe the others need to hear it, but I don’t.”

A chill had fallen; April leaned her weight against him. The gesture was instinctive, but it meant something. Kittridge draped his arm around her, drawing her in for warmth.

“You think about him, don’t you?” Her head lay against his chest; her voice was very soft. “The boy in the car.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

Kittridge took a long breath, exhaling into the darkness. “I think about him all the time.”

A deeper silence fell. Around them the camp had fallen quiet, like the rooms of a house after everyone had gone to bed.

“I’d like to ask a favor,” April said.

“Name it.”

Kittridge felt her body tense just slightly. “Did I mention I was a virgin?”

Despite himself, he laughed; and yet this did not seem wrong. “Now, I think I’d remember something like that.”

“Yeah, well. There haven’t been what you’d call a lot of men in my life.” She paused, then said, “I wasn’t lying about being eighteen, you know. Not that it matters. I don’t think this is a world where stuff like that means much anymore.”

Kittridge nodded. “I guess maybe it doesn’t.”

“So what I’m saying is, it doesn’t have to be any big thing.”

“It’s always a big thing.”

April wrapped his hand with her fingers, slowly brushing her thumb over the tops of his knuckles. The sensation was as light and warm as a kiss. “It’s funny. Even before I saw your scars, I knew what you were. Not just the Army—that was obvious to everyone. That something had happened to you, in the war.” A pause, then: “I don’t think I even know your first name.”

“It’s Bernard.”

She pulled away to look at him. Her eyes were moist and shining. “Please, Bernard. Just please, okay?”