Peter squeezed off a round. Maybe he connected, maybe not. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Peter would never be sure what Apgar had hit him with. The butt of his pistol? The leg of a broken chair? A thud at the back of his skull and his legs melted, followed by the rest of him.
“Caleb,” he heard Apgar say, “help me get your father out of here.”
His body lacked all volition; his thoughts were like slick ice, impossible to hold. He was being dragged, then lifted, then lowered once again. He felt, oddly, like a child, and this feeling morphed into a memory—an impossible memory, in which he was a little boy again, not merely a boy but an infant, being passed from hand to hand. He saw faces above him. They floated enormously, their features bloated and vague. He was being laid upon a wooden platform. A single face came into focus: his son’s. But Caleb wasn’t a boy anymore, he was a man, and the situation had reversed. Caleb was the father and he the son, or so it seemed. It was a pleasant inversion, inevitable in its way, and Peter felt happy that he had lived long enough to see this.
“It’s all right, Dad,” Caleb said, “you’re safe now.”
And then the light went out.
Apgar slammed the hatch and listened as the bolts sealed from inside.
“You could have gone,” said Sister Peg.
“So could you.” He rose and looked at her. Everything felt suddenly calm. “The gas was a good idea.”
“I thought so, too.”
“Ready?”
Sounds above: the virals were tearing through the roof. Apgar lifted a rifle from the floor, checked the magazine, and shoved it back into the well. Sister Peg withdrew the box of matches from the pocket of her tunic. She struck one, tossed it. A river of blue flame snaked along the floor, then separated, running in several directions.
“Shall we?” Apgar said.
They walked briskly down the hall. Thick smoke was boiling up. At the door they halted.
“You know,” said Sister Peg, “I think I’ll stay after all.”
His eyes searched her face.
“I think it’s best this way,” she explained. “To be … with them.”
Of course that’s what she would want. To affirm his understanding, Apgar cupped her chin, leaned his face forward, and kissed her lightly on the lips.
“Well,” she managed. Tears rose to her throat. She had never been kissed by a grown man before. “I didn’t expect that.”
“I hope you didn’t mind.”
“You always were a lovely boy.”
“That’s nice of you to say.”
She took his hands and held them. “God bless and keep you, Gunnar.”
“And you as well, Sister.”
Then he was gone.
She faded back into the hall. In the dining room, flames were leaping up the walls; the smoke was dense and swirling. Sister Peg began to cough. She lay down on the hatch. Her time in the physical world was ending. She had no fear of what would come, the hand of love into which her spirit would pass. Fire took the building in its grip. The flames shot up, consuming all. As the smoke snaked inside her, Sister Peg’s mind filled up with faces. Faces by the hundreds, the thousands. Her children. She would be with them again.
All around the building, the virals were watching. They stood in abeyance, the glow of the flames glazing their denuded faces. They had been vanquished; fire was a barrier they could not cross. Still they waited, ever hopeful. The hours passed. The building burned and burned and burned some more. The embers were still glowing when dawn came, a blade of light sweeping over the silent city.
X
The Exodus
To war and arms I fly.
—RICHARD LOVELACE, TO LUCASTA, GOING TO THE WARS
73
“Greer.”
He was dead to the world. In a different one, a voice was calling his name.
“Lucius, wake up.”
He jerked to consciousness. He was sitting in the cab of the tanker. Patch was standing on the runner board by the open door. Through the windshield, a foggy dawn.
“What time is it?” His mouth was dry.
“Oh-six-thirty.”
“You should have woken me up.”
“What do you think I just did?”
Greer stepped down. The water was still, birds swooping low over its glassy surface. “Anything happen while I was asleep?”
Patch shrugged in his wiry way. “Nothing major. Just before sunrise, we saw a small pod working its way down the shore.”
“Where?”
“Base of the channel bridge.”
Greer frowned. “And this didn’t strike you as important?”
“They never came all that close. It didn’t seem worth the trouble to wake you.”
Greer got in his truck and drove down the isthmus. Lore was standing on the dock, hands perched on her hips, studying the hull. The repair was nearing completion.
“How long till we fill?” he asked.
“Three, maybe four hours.” She raised her voice. “Rand! Watch that chain!”
“Where is he?” Greer asked.
“Quonset hut, I think.”
He found Michael sitting at the shortwave.
“Kerrville, come back, please. This is Isthmus station.” A momentary pause and he repeated the call.