“I’m telling you, it’s nothing,” the voice repeated. “Looks like just another sinkhole opening up.”
From his post on the roof of the orphanage, Caleb Jaxon did not hear the sound so much as feel it: a disturbance lacking a discernible source, as if the air were bristling with a swarm of invisible bees. He scanned the city with his binoculars. All seemed ordinary, unchanged, yet as his mind stilled, he became aware of other sounds, coming from several directions. The crack of wood splintering. The crash and tinkle of fracturing glass. A rumble, lasting perhaps five seconds, of an unknown type. Around him, and on the ground below, some of his men had begun to sense these things as well; their conversations halted, one man or the other saying, Do you hear that? What is that? Eyes burning from lack of sleep, Caleb peered into the darkness. From the roof, he had a clear view of the capitol building and the city’s central square. The hospital was four blocks east.
He unhitched his radio from his belt. “Hollis, are you there?” His father-in-law was stationed at the entrance to the hospital.
“Yeah.”
Another crash. It came from deep within the streets of the city. “Are you hearing this?”
A gap, then Hollis said: “Roger that.”
“What are you seeing? Any movement?”
“Negative.”
Caleb brought his binoculars to bear on the capitol. A pair of trucks and a long table remained in the square, left behind when the inductions were complete. He took up the radio again. “Sister, can you hear me?”
Sister Peg was waiting by the hatch. “Yes, Lieutenant.”
“I’m not sure, but I think something’s going on out here.”
A pause. “Thank you for telling me, Lieutenant Jaxon.”
He clipped the radio to his belt. His grip on his rifle tightened reflexively. Though he knew a round was seated in the chamber, he gently drew back the charging handle to double-check. Through the tiny window, the brass casing gleamed.
The radio crackled: Hollis. “Caleb, come back.”
“What have you got?”
“Something’s out there.”
Caleb’s heart accelerated. “Where?”
“Headed for the square, northwest corner.”
Caleb pressed the binoculars to his brow again. With vexing slowness, the square came into focus. “I’m not seeing anything.”
“It was there a second ago.”
Still scanning, Caleb lifted the radio to his mouth to call the command platform.
“Station one, this is station nine …”
He stopped in mid-sentence; his vision had grazed something. He swept the lenses back the way they’d come.
The table in the square had been overturned; behind it, the nose of one of the trucks was pointed upward at a forty-five degree angle, its rear wheels sunk deep into the earth.
A sinkhole. A big one, opening up.
Peter turned away from the battlefield. The buildings of the city were shapes against the dark, lit by angled moonlight.
Chase was beside him. “What is it?”
The feeling prickled his skin like static electricity: all eyes. “There’s something we’re not seeing.” He held up a hand. “Hang on. Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Apgar’s eyes narrowed as he cocked his head “Wait. Yeah.”
“Like … rats inside walls.”
“I hear it, too,” Chase said.
Peter grabbed the mike. “Station six, anything out there?”
Nothing.
“Station six, report.”
Sister Peg stepped into the kitchen pantry. The rifle was stashed on the top shelf, wrapped in oilcloth. It had belonged to her brother, rest his soul; he had served with the Expeditionary, years ago. She remembered the day the soldier had arrived at the orphanage with the news of his death. He had brought her brother’s locker of effects. Nobody had checked the contents, or else the rifle would have been taken back into inventory. Or so Sister Peg had supposed at the time. Most of the belongings in her brother’s locker contained no trace of him and did not seem worth keeping. But not his gun. Her brother had held it, used it, fought with it; it stood for what he was. It was more than a remembrance; it was a gift, as if he’d left it behind so that someday she would have it when she needed it.