Justin Cronin - The Twelve

Everyone gathered at the tankers in the predawn darkness. The air was damp and cold. For nearly all of them, the trip was old hat. They had become inured to it, even a little bored. Cups of chicory coffee were passed. As ranking oiler, Michael would ride in the lead Humvee, with Peter. Ceps would drive the first tanker, Lore the second. Peter had planned for Stark to ride up front, as a gesture of goodwill, but to Peter’s relief the man had declined, choosing instead to remain at the refinery with the remaining DS detachment.

With the first rays of light, the gates were opened. A dozen big diesels roared to life, clouds of dense black exhaust chuffing from their smokestacks. Michael moved up the line from the rear, distributing the walkies and conferring with each of the drivers a final time. He took his place at the wheel of the Humvee and radioed each of the drivers in turn.

“Tanker One.”

“Good to go.”

“Tanker Two.”

“Good to go.”

“Tanker Three …” And so on. Michael handed Peter the radio and put the Humvee in gear.

“You’ll see,” he said. “The whole thing is a big yawn. One time, I slept most of the way.”

They moved out, into the breaking day.

By late morning they had moved through the Rosenberg bypass and were angling west toward I-10. The state highways were a series of potholes, forcing the tankers to move at a creep, but once they picked up the interstate their speed would improve.

Ceps’s voice came over the radio: “Michael, I’ve got a problem back here.”

Peter swiveled in his seat. The convoy had come to a halt behind them. Michael braked the Humvee and backed up. Ceps had exited the cab of the truck and was standing on the front bumper, jimmying the hood.

“What’s the problem?” Michael called.

Ceps slapped at the engine with a rag, pushing the steam away. “I think it’s the coolant pump. It could take a while to fix. A couple of hours, anyway.”

Two options: wait for the repair to be completed or leave the tanker behind. To complicate matters, the land on either side was an impenetrable thicket. The closest turnout was six miles back. They would have to back the convoy up all the way to Wallis.

“Can he do it?” Peter asked.

“We’ve got the parts. I don’t see why not.”

Peter gave the go-ahead. Michael took up the walkie again. “Okay, everybody, let’s power down.”

“Are you serious?” Lore came back. “Tell Ceps to move that hunk of junk out of the way.”

“Yes, I’m serious. Kill your engines, people.”

Peter positioned the security teams on either side of the convoy, their guns trained on the walls of trees and scrub. It was highly unlikely anything would happen in the middle of the day, but a tangle like that was perfect viral cover. Ceps and Lore got to work on the engine. Most of the drivers had climbed from their cabs. The cards came out as the minutes ticked away.

By the time Ceps declared the cooling system fixed, it was past three o’clock. The repair had taken nearly four hours. Kerrville was still twelve hours away—more, since they’d be doing more of the trip in the dark.

“It’s not too late to go back,” Michael said. “We can use the Columbus exit on the interstate to turn around. The ramps are in good shape.”

“What’s your call?”

They were standing by the Humvee, away from the others. “If you ask me, I think we should go. A few more hours in the dark, what’s the difference? It’s not like this hasn’t happened before. These old junkers break down all the time. And we’ve got wide lanes all the way to Seguin.” Michael shrugged. “It’s really your decision.”

Peter took a moment to think. It was a risk, but what wasn’t? And Michael’s logic seemed sound.

He nodded. “We go.”

“That’s the spirit. All eyes, brother.”

The exit markers, pitted and rusting, leaning like drunks; the ancient highway with its tipping guardrails, calling them forward; the cratered roadside restaurants and filling stations and motels, some with their signs still standing against the wind, declaring incomprehensible names. McDonald’s. Exxon. Whataburger. Holiday Inn Express. Peter watched the scenery flow past. They were making better time, but that wouldn’t last. Darkness was coming on.

The light gave out at Flatonia. They were thirty miles east of the third bridge, moving at a steady twenty-five. The radio, which had crackled all day with banter between the vehicles, fell silent. As they approached the town of Luling there appeared, in the cones of light from the Humvee’s headlamps, an exit sign marked with a red X. A hardbox. Peter glanced at Michael, looking for any change in his face, but detected none. They were moving on.

They were approaching the bridge when Michael suddenly leaned forward in his seat, peering intently over the wheel.

“What in the hell …?”

Peter braced himself against the dash as Michael slammed on the brakes. The cab filled with light as the second Humvee nearly careened into them from behind, braking just in time. They skidded to a halt.

Michael was staring out the windshield. “Am I seeing things?”

Lore’s voice crackled on the radio. “What’s going on? Why did we stop?”

Peter snatched the radio off the dash. “DS three and four, up front on the double. One and two, hold position. Everybody else stay in your cabs.”

A figure was standing in the road. Not viral: human. It appeared to be a woman, head bowed, wearing a kind of cloak.

“What’s she doing?” said Michael. “She’s just standing there.”

“Wait here.”

Peter climbed from the cab. The woman had yet to move or otherwise acknowledge their existence. The two floater DS vehicles, 4×4s, had pulled into position alongside the Humvees. Drawing his sidearm, Peter stepped cautiously forward.

“Identify yourself.”

The woman was standing at the front edge of the bridge. Its iron struts carved lines of darkness against the sky. Peter raised his weapon, inching closer. She was clutching something in her hand. “Hey,” he said, “I’m talking to you.”

The woman raised her head. Her face filled with the light of the trucks’ headlamps. Peter couldn’t tell what he was seeing. Woman? Girl? Crone? The image of her face seemed to flutter in his mind, forming and reforming like something seen through fast-moving water. He felt a jostle of nausea.

“We know where you are.” Her voice was as ethereal as tissue. “It’s just a matter of time.”

Peter cocked his weapon, aiming at her head. “Answer me.”

Her eyes shone an intense, twinkling blue. As they locked onto his own, Peter realized that what he was seeing was a beautiful woman, maybe the most beautiful of his life. The plump, pillowy lips. The delicately upswept nose. The proportionate arrangement of the facial bones and the glowing skin of her cheeks. To look at her was to be swept into a current of almost unbearable sensuality. His mouth was suddenly dry.

“You’re tired,” she said.

The statement, utterly baffling, jarred him from his stupor. He was what?

“I said,” the woman repeated, “you’re tired.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her face fell with puzzlement; it appeared he had disappointed her. Peter’s eyes fell to the object clutched in her hand. A metal box. With her free hand she withdrew a long, metal rod from its side.

Peter knew what it was.

He leapt toward her as her finger found the switch. A sheen of light and a crack of sound like the slamming of an enormous door: a wall of scalding heat blew him backward, off his feet. The bridge, Peter thought. Whoever she is, this woman has blown the bridge. Peter was on his back, blinking at the sky. Time had briefly slipped its moorings. Something large, on fire, was descending toward him from the heavens in a languid arc.