The Twelve

54


“It’s just so … strange.”

Lila had just come off her feeding and was deep within its throes. The blood had been delivered, by Guilder presumably, while Sara and Kate were playing in the courtyard. After two successive days above freezing, the snow had turned into a sticky skin, perfect for snowballs. They’d thrown them at each other for hours.

Now they were playing a game of beans and cups on the floor by the fire. The game was new to Sara; Kate had taught her. Another pleasure, to learn a game from one’s own child. Sara tried not to think how fleeting this would be. Any day the message from Nina could come.

“Yes, well,” Lila said, as if she and Sara had been having a conversation, “I’m going to have to be going on an errand soon.”

Sara paid this little attention. Lila’s mind seemed adrift in reverie. An errand to where?

“David says I have to go.” Facing the mirror, Lila made the scowly face she always adopted when speaking of David. “Lila, it’s for charity. I know you don’t like opera, but we absolutely have to go. Lila, this man is the head of a major hospital, all the wives will be there, how will it look if I have to go alone?” She sighed resignedly, her brush pausing on its journey through her lustrous mane of hair. “Maybe just once he’d think about what I want to do, the places I want to go. Now, Brad was thoughtful. Brad was the kind of man who listened.” Her eyes met Sara’s through the mirror. “Tell me something, Dani. Do you have a boyfriend? Someone special in your life? If you don’t mind my asking. My gosh, you’re certainly pretty enough. I bet you have dozens of them just beating down your door.”

Sara was momentarily disoriented by the question; Lila rarely, if ever, asked Sara anything about herself. “Not really.”

Lila considered this. “Well, that’s smart. You have lots of time yet. Play the field, don’t settle. If you meet the right man, you’ll know.” The woman resumed her careful brushing. Her voice was suddenly sad. “Remember that, Dani. There’s someone waiting out there for you. Once you find him, don’t let him out of your sight. I made that mistake, and now look at the fix I’m in.”

The remark, like so many, seemed to float in the ether, unable to touch down on any firm surface. Yet over the days of their confinement, Sara had begun to detect a pattern of meaning to these oblique utterances. They were shadows of something real: an actual history of people, places, events. If what Nina said about the woman was true—and Sara believed it to be so—Lila was every inch the monster the redeyes were. How many Evas had been sent to the basement because Lila had … what were Nina’s words? Lost interest. And yet Sara could not deny that there was something pitiable about the woman. She seemed so lost, so frail, so laden with regret. Sometimes, Lila had remarked once, apropos of nothing, and with the heaviest of sighs, I just don’t see how things can go on like this. And, one evening while Sara was rubbing lotion into her feet, Dani, did you ever think about just running away? Leaving your whole life behind and starting over? More and more she let Sara and Kate go their own way, as if she were abdicating her role in the little girl’s life—as if, at some level, she knew the truth. I look at the two of you and I think, How perfect you are together. That little girl adores you. Dani, you’re the piece of the puzzle that was missing.

“So what do you think?”

Sara’s attentions had returned to the game. She glanced up from the floor to see Lila looking earnestly at her.

“Dani, it’s your turn,” said Kate.

“Just a minute, sweetheart.” Then, to Lila: “I’m sorry. What do I think about what?”

An effortful smile was plastered to her face. “Coming with me. I think you’d be a great help. Jenny can look after Eva.”

“Come where?”

Sara could see it in Lila’s eyes: whatever their destination was, the woman absolutely didn’t want to go alone. “What does it matter, really? One of David’s … things. They’re usually just deadly, to be honest. I really could stand the company.” She bent forward from her stool and addressed the child. “What do you say, Eva? How about an evening with Jenny while Mummy goes out?”

The girl refused to meet her eye. “I want to stay with Dani.”

“Of course you do, pumpkin. We all love Dani. There’s no more special person in the world. But once in a while grown-ups have to go off to be by themselves, to do grown-up things. That’s just how it is sometimes.”

“Then you go.”

“Eva, I don’t think you’re listening to what I’m saying.”

The girl was tugging at the sleeve of Sara’s robe. “Tell her.”

Lila frowned. “Dani? What’s this about?”

“I don’t … know.” She looked at Kate, who had scuttled beside her on the floor, protectively wedging her body against Sara’s. Sara put an arm around her. “What is it, honey?”

“Eva,” Lila interjected, “what do you want Dani to tell me? Speak up, now.”

“I don’t like you,” the girl murmured into the folds of Sara’s robe.

Lila drew back, the color draining from her face. “What did you say?”

“I don’t like you! I like her!”

Lila’s expression was beyond shock. It was a portrait of absolute rejection. Sara suddenly understood viscerally what had happened to the other Evas. This was what had happened.

“Well.” Lila cleared her throat, her wounded eyes roaming restlessly about the room, seeking some object to attach her attentions to. “I see.”

“Lila, she didn’t mean it.” The girl had resumed her protective huddle against Sara’s body, pressing her face into her robe while simultaneously watching Lila warily from the corner of her eye. “Tell her, sweetheart.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Lila said. “She couldn’t have made herself more clear.” The women rose unsteadily from her stool. Everything was different now; the words had been spoken. “If you will excuse me, I think I’ll lie down for a bit. David will be here soon.”

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 f*cking 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 … wonderful.”

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?

Alone time.

“I’m begging you,” she croaked, “just don’t make it hurt. I’ll make it good for you.”

“That’s very sporting.”

“Let me down and I’ll show you how good.”

He considered this.

“Just tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“You can leave the shackles on. I promise I’ll cooperate. I’ll give you everything you want.”

In his face, she saw the idea taking hold. She was naked, beaten. What could a woman in her condition do? The keys were clipped to the belt loop of his trousers, lying on the floor behind him. Alicia forced herself not to look at them.

“There might be something to that,” Sod said.

The chains, which ran through a block hung from the ceiling, were operated by a lever affixed to the wall. Pantless, engorged, Sod stepped toward it and unlocked the brake. A rattle overhead; Alicia’s feet touched down.

“More slack,” she said. “I’ll need to move.”

A sleepy, sexual grin. “I like your thinking.”

The pressure on her wrists released. “A little more.”

Her tactic had to be obvious, but the man’s anticipation trumped the last of his judgment. Alicia’s arms fell to her sides. She now had eight feet of slack to play with.

“No funny stuff, now.”

She lowered herself to all fours in invitation. Sod moved behind her, joining her on the floor.

“I’ll make it good for you,” she said. “I promise.”

As he placed his hands on her hips, she drew her right foot to her chest and smashed it into his face. A crack and then a yelp; Alicia shot to her feet and swung around. He was sitting on the floor, holding his nose, dark blood gushing through his fingers.

“You f*cking bitch!”

He lurched toward her, going for her throat. The question was who got to whom first. Alicia stepped back, arced one hand from her side, forming a lasso with the chain, and tossed it forward.

The loop dropped over his head. She yanked him toward her, stepping aside and using his momentum to spin him around. Now she had him from behind. With the other hand she formed a second loop of chain and dropped it around his neck. A quick hop and she had her legs around his waist. He was making a gurgling noise, his arms flailing at the air. Die, you pig, she thought, just die, and with all her strength she rocked her weight backward, tugging the chains like the reins of a horse, sending them pitching toward the ground until with a hard jolt the slack ran out, the block above them caught and held, and Alicia heard the sound she longed for: a satisfying pop of bone.

They were suspended eighteen inches off the floor. Two hundred pounds of dead weight now lay on top of her. She tucked her legs beneath her, arched her back, and pushed. Sod’s body folded forward onto its knees, pitching face-first onto the concrete as she unlooped the chains from his neck. She scooped the keys from the floor and undid the shackles and tore them from her wrists.

Then she was kicking him, stomping on his head, smashing his face into the concrete with the hard nub of her heel. Her mind collapsed in a roar of hatred. She seized him by the hair and dragged his lifeless form across the cell and propped him upright to hammer his head against the wall. “How do you like that, you piece of shit? You like that broken neck? You like me killing you?”

Maybe there was somebody outside the cell, and maybe there wasn’t. Maybe more men would rush in and chain her to the ceiling and start it all again. But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was Sod’s head. She would smash it until he was the deadest thing in the history of the world, the deadest man who’d ever been. She was yelling, over and over, “God damn you! God damn you! God damn you!”

Then it was over. Alicia let him go. The body tipped sideways to the floor, leaving a glistening smear of brains on the wall. Alicia slumped to her knees, drinking great gulps of air into her lungs. It was over, but it didn’t feel over. There was no over, not anymore.

She needed clothes. She needed a weapon. Strapped to Sod’s calf she discovered a heavy-handled knife. The balance was poor, but it would do. She gathered up his trousers and his shirt. Dressing herself in the man’s clothing, ripe with his stench, filled her with disgust. Her skin crawled, as if he were touching her. She rolled up the sleeves and the legs of his trousers and cinched the waist. The boots, far too large, would only slow her down; she would have to travel barefoot. She dragged the body away from the door and banged on the metal with the butt of her knife.

“Hey!” she yelled, cupping her mouth to lower the register of her voice. “Hey, I’m locked in here!”

The seconds passed. Maybe no one was out there. What would she do then? She hammered on the door, louder this time, praying someone would come.

Then the tumblers turned. Alicia darted behind the door as the guard stepped into the room.

“What the hell, Sod, you told me I had thirty minutes—”

But these sentiments went unfinished as Alicia, darting behind him, drew one hand over his mouth and used the other to ram the knife into the small of his back, swishing the handle as the tip drove upward.

She eased the body to the floor. Blood was releasing from it in a wide, dark pool. Its rich scent rose to her nostrils. Alicia recalled her vow. I will drink those bastards dry. I will baptize myself in the blood of my enemy. The thought had sustained her through the days of torment. But as she looked at the two men, first the guard and then Sod, his pale, naked body like a stain of whiteness on the concrete, she shuddered with disgust.

Not now, she thought, not yet, and she slipped into the hallway.


The field sank into darkness. For a moment, all was still. Then, from high overhead, a cool aquatic light pulsed down onto the field, bathing it in an artificial moonglow.

Lila had appeared at the rear of the silver truck. All the redeyes were pocketing their sunglasses. Hoppel had given up his pleas and begun to sob. A van drove onto the field. Two cols disembarked and trotted to the rear of the vehicle and opened the doors.

Eleven people stumbled out, six men and five women, shackled at the wrists and ankles and to each other. They were stumbling, weeping, begging for their lives. Their terror was too great; all their resistance was gone. A cold numbness had taken hold of Sara; she thought she might be ill. One of the women looked like Karen Molyneau, but Sara couldn’t be certain. The cols dragged them toward Hoppel and instructed them to get down on their knees.

“This is so awesome,” a nearby voice said.

All but one of the cols jogged away, remaining with Lila at the rear of the large truck. Her body was swaying, her head rocking side to side, as if she were floating in an invisible current or dancing to unheard music.

“I thought there were supposed to be ten,” the same voice said. One of the redeyes, two rows below.

“Yeah. Ten.”

“But there’s eleven of them.”

Sara counted again. Eleven.

“You better go down there and tell Guilder.”

“Are you kidding? Who knows what’s on his mind these days?”

“You should check that at the door. He hears you say that, you’ll be next.”

“The guy has slipped a gear, I’m telling you.” A pause. “I always knew there was something off about Hoppel, though.”

These words touched Sara like a distant wind. Her attention was now solely focused on the field. Was that Karen? The woman looked older, and too tall. Most of the prisoners had adopted a defensive posture, their bodies folded where they knelt in the crusted snow, hands held over their heads; others, kneeling upright, faces washed by the blue light, had begun to pray. The last col was strapping on armored pads. He wedged a helmet over his head and waved toward the bleachers. Every muscle in Sara’s body clenched. She wanted to look away but couldn’t. The col moved to the door of the silver truck’s cargo compartment, fumbling loudly with keys.

The doors swung open; the col dashed away. For a second, nothing happened. Then the virals emerged, popping from the truck’s interior like man-sized insects, landing on all fours in the snow. Their lean figures, striated with muscle, throbbed with glowing vividness. Eight, nine, ten. They moved toward Lila, whose arms were held open at her sides, palms raised. A gesture of invitation, of welcome.

At her feet, they bowed.

She touched them, stroked them. She ran her hands over their smooth heads, cupped their chins like children’s to gaze adoringly into their eyes. My lovelies, Sara heard her say. My wonderful beauties.

“Will you look at that? She f*cking loves them.”

From the hostages came only a sound of quiet weeping. The end was inevitable; they had no choice but to accept it. Or perhaps it was simply the strangeness of the scene that stunned them into silence.

My sweet pets. Are you hungry? Mama will feed you. Mama will take care of you. That’s what Mama will do.

“No, I’m certain there’s supposed to be ten.”

A new voice this time, coming from the right: “Did you say ten? That’s what I heard, too.”

“So who’s the eleventh?”

One of the redeyes shot to his feet, pointing at the field. “There’s one too many!”

All heads swiveled toward the voice, including Guilder’s.

“I’m not kidding! There are eleven people out there!”

Go now, my darlings.

The virals broke away from Lila. Simultaneously, one of the hostages shot to his feet, exposing his face. It was Vale. The virals were encircling the group; everyone was screaming. Vale tore the flaps of his jacket aside to reveal rows of metal tubes strapped to his chest. He yanked his arms skyward, his thumb poised on the detonator.

“Sergio lives!”





55


Lila’s dressing table detonated with a splintering crash. Guilder hauled her to her feet again and slapped her across the face with the back of his hand, sending her flying back, toward the sofa.

“How could you let this happen?” His face boiled with rage. “Why didn’t you call the virals back? Tell me!”

“I don’t know, I don’t know!”

From the collar of her bathrobe this time: with terrifying effortlessness, Guilder hurled her, face-first, into the bookshelf. A thud of impact, things falling, Lila screaming. Sara was huddled on the floor, her body curled around Kate, the little girl wilted with fear.

“Every last viral! Nine of my men, dead! Do you know how this makes me look?”

“It wasn’t my fault! I don’t remember! David, please!”

“There is no David!”

Sara clenched her eyes tight. Kate was whimpering softly in her arms. What would happen if Guilder killed Lila? What would become of the two of them then?

“Stop it! David, I’m begging you!”

Lila was lying face-up on the floor, Guilder straddling her, one hand holding her by her collar. The other was balled into a fist, pulled back, ready to strike. Lila’s arms lay across her eyes like a shield, though this effort would come to nothing; Guilder’s fist would crush her face like a battering ram.

“You … disgust me.”

He loosened his hold and stepped away, wiping his hands on his shirt. Lila was sobbing uncontrollably. Blood bulged from a cut along her cheekbone. More was in her hair. Guilder flicked his eyes toward Sara, dismissing her with a glance. You’re nothing, his eyes said. You’re a character in a game of pretend that’s gone on far too long.

Then he stormed from the room.

Sara went to where Lila was whimpering on the floor. She knelt beside her, reaching for her face to examine the cut. In an unexpected burst of energy, Lila shoved Sara’s hand away and scampered backward.

“Don’t touch it!”

“But you’re hurt—”

The woman’s eyes were wild with panic. As Sara moved toward her, she waved her hands in front of her face.

“Get away! Don’t touch my blood!”

She leapt to her feet and ran to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.


6:02 A.M.

The vehicles made their way into the flatland in the predawn darkness, gates flying open as they passed. At the head of the line, like the point of an arrow, was the sleek black SUV of the Director, followed by a pair of open trucks, full of uniformed men. Into the maze of lodges they roared, hurling clots of dirty snow from their mudchoked tires, their passage observed by the workers filing from the buildings to assemble for morning roll—weary faces, weary eyes, dully noting the vehicles sailing past. But their glances were brief; they knew better than to look. Something official; it has nothing to do with me. At least, it better not.

Guilder watched the flatlanders from the passenger window, full of contempt. How he loathed them. Not just the insurgents, the ones who defied him—all of them. They plodded through their lives like brute animals, never seeing beyond the next square of earth to be plowed. Another day in the dairy barns, the fields, the biodiesel plant. Another day in the kitchen, the laundry, the pigsties.

But today wasn’t just another day.

The vehicles halted before Lodge 16. The eastern sky had softened to a yellowish gray, like old plastic.

“This is the one?” Guilder asked Wilkes.

Beside him, the man gave a tight-lipped nod.

The cols disembarked and took up positions. Guilder and Wilkes stepped clear of the car. Before them, in fifteen evenly spaced lines, three hundred flatlanders stood shivering in the cold. Two more trucks pulled in and parked at the head of the square. Their cargo bays were draped by heavy canvas.

“What are those for?” Wilkes asked.

“A little extra … persuasion.”

Guilder strode up to the senior HR officer and snatched the megaphone from his hand. A howl of feedback; then his voice boomed over the square.

“Who can tell me about Sergio?”

No reply.

“This is your only warning. Who can tell me about Sergio?”

Again, nothing.

Guilder gave his attention to a woman in the first row. Neither young nor old, she had a face so plain it could have been made of paste. She was clutching a filthy scarf around her head with hands covered by fingerless gloves black with soot.

“You. What’s your name?”

Eyes cast down, she muttered something into the folds of her scarf.

“I can’t hear you. Speak up.”

She cleared her throat, stifling a cough. Her voice was a phlegmy rasp. “Priscilla.”

“Where do you work?”

“The looms, sir.”

“Do you have a family? Children?”

She nodded weakly.

“So? What do you have?”

Her knees were trembling. “A daughter and two sons.”

“A husband?”

“Dead, sir. Last winter.”

“My condolences. Come forward.”

“I sang the hymn yesterday. It was the others, I swear.”

“And I believe you, Priscilla. Nevertheless. Gentlemen, can you assist her, please?”

A pair of cols trotted forward and grabbed the woman by her arms. Her body went slack, as if she were on the verge of fainting. They half-carried, half-dragged her to the front, where they shoved her onto her knees. She made no sound; her submission was total.

“Who are your children? Point them out.”

“Please.” She was weeping pitifully. “Don’t make me.”

One of the cols lifted his baton over her head. “This man is going to bash your brains out,” Guilder said.

She shook her bowed head.

“Very well,” Guilder said.

Down went the baton; the woman toppled forward into the mud. From the left came a sharp cry.

“Get her.”

A young teenager, with her mother’s face. Onto her knees she went. She was crying, trembling; snot was running from her nose. Guilder raised the megaphone.

“Does anybody have anything to say?”

Silence. Guilder drew a pistol from beneath his coat and racked the slide. “Minister Wilkes,” he said, holding out the gun, “will you please do the honors?”

“Jesus, Horace.” His face was aghast. “What are you trying to prove?”

“Is this going to be a problem?”

“We have people for this kind of thing. That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“What deal? There is no deal. The deal is what I say it is.” Wilkes stiffened. “I won’t do it.”

“You won’t or you can’t?”

“What difference does it make?”

Guilder frowned. “Not very much, now that I think about it.” And with these words, he stepped behind the girl, pushed the muzzle of the gun to the back of her head, and fired.

“Good Christ!”

“You know what the biggest problem with never growing old is?” Guilder asked his chief of staff. He was wiping down the blood-tinged barrel with a handkerchief. “I’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“F*ck you, Horace.”

Guilder pointed the pistol at Wilkes’s colorless face, leveling its sights at the spot between his eyes. “You forget that you can die.”

And Guilder shot him, too.

A change came over the crowd, their fear turning to something else. Murmurs moved up and down the lines, whispered calculations, the building energy of people who knew they had nothing to lose. Things had moved rather more briskly than Guilder would have liked—he’d hoped to get something useful before the hammer came down—but now the die was cast.

“Open the trucks.”

The canvas was pulled away. An eruption of volcanic screaming: no mystery now. Guilder walked briskly to his car, got in, and told the driver to go. They pulled away in a plume of mud and dirty snow as, behind them, the orchestra unleashed its mortal symphony: a melody of shouts and screams, high and wild and full of fear, punctuated by the syncopated rhythm of automatic weapon fire, fading to the final pops as the cols moved through the fallen bodies, silencing the last.