“Can you tell how many there are?” Peter asked the general.
“They’re too far out to tell.” Apgar unclipped the walkie on his belt and brought it to his mouth. “All stations, what are you seeing?”
A crackle of static, then: “Station one, negative.”
“Station two, no contact.”
“Station three, same here. We’re not seeing anything.”
And so on, around the perimeter. The line of light began to stretch, though it appeared to come no closer.
“What the hell are they doing?” Apgar said. “They’re just waiting out there.”
“Hang on.” Michael pointed. “Thirty degrees left.”
Peter followed his aim. A second line was forming.
“There’s another,” Apgar said. “Forty right, near the tree line. Looks like a large pod. More coming in from the north, too.”
The main line was now several hundred yards long. Virals were streaming in from all directions, moving toward the central mass.
“This is no scouting party,” Peter said.
Apgar bellowed, “Runners, get ready to move!” He turned to Peter. “Mr. President, we need to get you to safety.”
Peter addressed one of the spotters: “Corporal, hand me that M16.”
“Peter, please, this is not a good idea.”
The soldier passed Peter the weapon. He freed the magazine, blew on the top round to clear any dust, reseated it in the well, and pulled the charging handle. “You know, Gunnar, I think that’s the first time in ten years you’ve called me by my first name.”
The conversation ended there. A low, rumbling sound rolled toward them. With each second, it increased in intensity.
“What am I hearing?” Michael said.
It was the sound of feet striking the earth. The mass continued to thicken, its great, heaving volume barreled toward them. In its wake, a cloud of dust boiled high in the air.
“Holy God,” Peter said. “It’s everyone.”
Apgar lifted his voice over the din: “Hold fire till they reach the perimeter!”
The horde was three hundred yards out and closing fast. It seemed less like an army than some great spectacle of nature—an avalanche, a hurricane, a flood. The platform began to hum, its bolts and rivets vibrating in rhythm to the seismic impact of the virals’ charge.
“Will that gate hold?” Peter asked Apgar. He, too, had given up his binoculars for a rifle.
“Against this?”
Two hundred yards. Peter pressed the stock of the weapon against his clavicle.
“Ready!” Apgar bellowed.
One hundred yards.
“Aim!”
Everything stopped.
The virals had halted just beyond the edge of the lights. Not just halted—they were frozen in place, as if a switch had been thrown.
“What the hell … ?”
The mass began to divide into halves, creating a corridor. Starting at the rear, it flowed down the middle with a rippling on either side. The motion seemed somehow reverential, as if the virals were making way for a great king to pass among them, bowing as he passed. A dark shape was pushing forward through the heart of the horde. It appeared to be some sort of animal. It approached the city with painstaking slowness, the corridor unfurling before it. All guns were trained on the spot where it would emerge. A hundred feet, fifty, twenty. The front wall of virals separated, opening like a doorway to reveal the shockingly ordinary figure of a person on horseback.
“Is that him?” Apgar said. “Is that Zero?”
The rider moved forward into the lights. Halfway to the gate, he brought his horse to a halt and dismounted. Not “he,” Peter realized. She. The glare of the spotlights ricocheted off the lenses of the dark glasses that obscured the upper half of her face. A scabbard containing some kind of weapon, a sword or long gun, lay slantwise across her back; crisscrossing her upper body, she wore a pair of bandoliers.
Bandoliers.
“Holy goddamn,” Michael breathed.
Peter’s mind was tumbling down a hole in time. “Hold your fire!” He raised his arms high and wide above his head. “Everyone stand down!”
Her back erect, the woman angled her face toward the top of the wall. “I am Alicia Donadio, captain of the Expeditionary! Where is Peter Jaxon?”
59
Thirty minutes had passed; everyone was in position. Standing back from the portal, Peter nodded at Henneman.