Justin Cronin - The Twelve

He didn’t want to. Like the kiss, the feeling of her hand seemed to possess a unique power to linger in his senses, as if it had taken up a permanent residence in his fingertips. He wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words, and the moment slipped away.

“You’re sure you’re all right?”

Her face assembled a smile. “Never better.”

She really did look ill, he thought. “Well, I’ll be back in ten days.”

Amy said nothing.

“I’ll see you then, right?” He wondered why he was asking this.

“Of course, Peter. Where would I go?”

After Peter had left, Amy made her way to the sisters’ residence, a smaller version of the dormitories where the children slept. The other sisters were all asleep, a few of the older ones softly snoring. She stripped off her tunic and lowered herself onto her cot.

Sometime later she awoke with a start. A cold sweat glazed her body, drenching her nightshirt. The turbulence of uneasy dreams still roiled through her.

Amy, help him .

She froze.

He is waiting for you, Amy. In the ship .

—Father?

Go to him go to him go to him go to him …

She rose, seized with a sudden purposefulness. The moment had come.

Yet one duty remained, one final task to be performed in these last days of a life she had loved, if briefly. Through the silent hallways she padded her way to the common room. She found Mouser just where she had left him, resting on the couch. Exhaustion radiated from his eyes; his limbs were limp, he could barely raise his head.

Please , his eyes said. I’m in pain. It’s all gone on too long .

Gently she lifted him to her chest. Running a hand along his back, she turned so he could face the window, with its view of the starry night.

“See the pretty world, Mouser?” she murmured, close to his ear. “See the pretty stars?”

It’s… beautiful .

His neck broke with a snap, the body going limp in her arms. Amy stayed that way for a few minutes while his presence faded, stroking his fur, kissing his head and face. Goodbye, Mouser. Godspeed to you. The children love you; you will be with them again . Then she carried him outside to the garden shed to see about a shovel.

“Will you look what the wind blew in.”

A grease-stained man had directed Peter to the commissary, where he’d found Michael sitting with a group of a dozen men and women, using forks grasped in filthy hands to shovel plates of beans into their mouths. Michael leapt off the bench and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Peter Jaxon, as I live and breathe.”

“Flyers, Michael. You’re enormous.”

His friend’s chest seemed to have doubled in size, straining the fabric of his jumpsuit; his arms were roped with muscle. A robust growth of blond stubble roughened his cheeks.

“Tell you the truth, there’s not much else to do around here besides cook oil and lift weights. And word to the wise, nobody uses that word around here. It’s all ‘fuck this’ and ‘fuck that.’ ” He gestured toward the table. “This here’s my crew. Say hello to Peter, hombres.”

Introductions all around. Peter did his best to record the names but knew they’d be gone within minutes.

“Hungry?” Michael asked. “The chow’s not bad if you breathe through your mouth.”

“I should report to the head of DS first.”

“He can keep. Since it’s past twelve hundred, odds are good Stark is pie-eyed anyway. It’s Karlovic you really need to see, but he’s gone up to the reserve. Let me get you a plate.”

They shared their news over lunch, returned their trays to the kitchen, and stepped outside.

“Does it always smell this bad?” Peter inquired.

“Oh, this is a good day. When the wind switches around you’ll be crying. Blows all the crap down from the channel. Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

Their first stop was the barracks, a cinder-block box with a rusty tin roof. Curtained sleeping berths lined the walls. A huge, long-faced man was sitting at the table in the middle of the room, shuffling and reshuffling a deck of cards.

“This here is Juan Sweeting, my second,” Michael said. “Goes by Ceps.”

They shook, the man greeting him with a grunt.

“How’d you get the name Ceps?” Peter asked. “I haven’t heard that before.”

The man curled his arms, popping a pair of biceps like two large grapefruits.

“Ah,” said Peter. “I see.”

“Not to worry,” Michael said, “his manners aren’t the best and his lips move when he reads, but he pretty much behaves himself as long as you don’t forget to feed him.”

A woman had emerged from one of the berths, wearing only her underclothes. She yawned into her fist. “Jesus, Michael, I was trying to get some rack.” To Peter’s astonishment, she draped her arms around Michael’s neck, her face lighting with a greedy smile. “Unless, of course …”

“Not the time, mi amiga .” Michael gently freed himself. “In case you didn’t notice, we’ve got company. Lore, Peter. Peter, Lore.”

Her body was lean and strong, her hair, bleached by the sun, cut short. Attractive but in an unconventional, slightly masculine way, radiating a frank, even carnivorous sensuality.

“You’re the guy?”

“That’s right.”

She gave a knowing laugh. “Well, good luck to you, friend.”

“Lore’s fourth-generation oiler,” Michael said. “She practically drinks the stuff.”

“It’s a living,” Lore said. Then, to Peter: “So you guys go way back, I guess. Let a girl in on the secret. What was he like?”

“Pretty much the smartest guy around. Everybody called him the Circuit. It was sort of his nickname.”

“And a stupid one, too. Thanks a bunch, Peter.”

“The Circuit,” Lore repeated, seeming to taste the word in her mouth. “You know, I think I kind of like that.”

At the table, Ceps, who had said nothing, gave a feminine moan. “Oh Circuit, oh Circuit, make me feel like a woman …”

“Shut up, the both of you.” Michael was blushing to a degree at odds with his newfound muscularity, though Peter could also tell that part of him enjoyed the attention. “What are you, thirteen? Come on, Peter,” he said, steering him toward the door, “let’s leave these children.”

“See you later, Lieutenant,” Lore called merrily as they made their exit. “I’ll want to hear stories .”

In the intensifying heat of the afternoon, Michael gave Peter the lay of the land, taking him to one of the towers and explaining the refining process.

“It sounds pretty dangerous,” Peter said.

“Things happen, it’s true.”

“Where’s the reserve?” The oil, Peter knew, came from a holding tank deep underground.

“About five miles to the north of here. It’s actually a natural salt dome, part of the old Strategic Petroleum Reserve. Oil floats, so we pump in seawater and out it comes.”

His friend had acquired a bit of Texas in his voice, Peter noted. Not “oil” but “awhl.”

“How much is left down there?”

“Well, a shitload, basically. By our estimates, enough to fill the cookers for another fifty years.”

“And once it’s gone?”

“We go looking for more. There are plenty of tanks spread along the Houston ship channel. It’s a real toxic swamp up there, and the place is crawling with dopeys, but it could tide us over awhile. The next closest dome is Port Arthur. It wouldn’t be easy to move the operation up there, but with enough time we could do it.” He gave a fatalistic shrug. “Either way, I doubt I’ll be around to worry about it.”