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* * *
70
The light was leaving them.
Runners had begun to move; from the command post on the catwalk, Peter felt, with cold clarity, the thinness of their defense. A six-mile perimeter, men without training, an enemy like no other, lacking all fear.
Though Apgar said nothing on the subject, Peter could read the man’s thoughts. Maybe Amy had gone with Alicia to give herself up; maybe the dracs wouldn’t come, after all. Maybe they would anyway; maybe that was the point. He remembered his dream: the image of Amy in the moonlight, walking away, not looking back. All that kept him going was the certainty of what lay ahead in the next few hours. He had a role to play, and he would play it.
Chase arrived on the platform. Peter almost didn’t recognize his chief of staff. The man was dressed in an officer’s uniform, though the insignia had been removed, cut away roughly as if in a hurry, perhaps out of respect; he was toting a rifle, trying to seem a certain way with it. The gun looked like it had been hanging over a fireplace for years. Peter was about to say something, then stopped himself. Apgar raised a skeptical eyebrow, but that was the extent of it.
“Where’s Olivia?” Peter asked finally.
“In the president’s hardbox.” Chase seemed uncertain. “I hope that’s all right.”
The three men listened as the stations called in. All stood ready, braced for attack. The shadows lengthened over the valley. It was a beautiful evening in summer, the clouds ripening with color.
* * *
71
Amy did not have to know the place. The place, she knew, would come to her.
They galloped away from the sun, the ground flying beneath them. Dust rose in a gritty cloud; clods of dirt flew up from the horses’ hooves. A certain feeling built within her. It magnified with every mile, like a radio signal growing stronger, calling them forward. Soldier’s gait was powerful and smooth. You have taken wonderful care of our friend, Amy told him. How brave you are, how strong. You will always be remembered. Green fields await you; you will spend a noble eternity among your kind.
Soldier’s gallop faded to a walk. They brought their horses to a halt and dismounted. The rich foam of his efforts boiled from Soldier’s mouth; his dark flanks flashed with sweat.
“Here,” Amy said.
Alicia nodded but said nothing; Amy detected within her friend an edge of fear. She stepped away and stood in silence, waiting. The wind moved by her ears, through her hair, then faded to nothing. All seemed frozen, sealed in a great calm. The day’s last minutes ticked away. On the ground before her, her shadow stretched—longer, longer. She felt the moment of the sun’s union with the earth, its first touch upon the line of hills, audible, like a sigh. She closed her eyes and sent her mind diving into darkness; the ripples widened on the lake’s tranquil surface high above.
Anthony, I’m here.
First, silence. Then:
Yes, Amy. They are ready. They are yours.
Night was falling.
Come to me, she thought.
Night fell.
* * *
72
They were called dopeys. But in their lives, they had been many things.
They hailed from every quarter of the continent, every state and city. Seattle, Washington. Albuquerque, New Mexico. Mobile, Alabama. The toxic chemical swamp of New Orleans and the windswept flatlands of Kansas City and the icebound canyons of Chicago. As a body, they were a statistician’s dream, a perfect representative sampling of the inhabitants of the Great North American Empire. They came from farms and small towns, faceless suburbs and sprawling metropolises; they were every color and creed; they had lived in trailers, houses, apartments, mansions with views of the sea. In their human states, each had occupied a discrete and private self. They had hoped, hated, loved, suffered, sung, and wept. They had known loss. They had surrounded and comforted themselves with objects. They had driven automobiles. They had walked dogs and pushed children on swing sets and waited in line at the grocery store. They had said stupid things. They had kept secrets, nurtured grudges, blown upon the embers of regret. They had worshipped a variety of gods or no god at all. They had awakened in the night to the sound of rain. They had apologized. They had attended various ceremonies. They had explained the history of themselves to psychologists, priests, lovers, and strangers in bars. They had, at unexpected moments, experienced bolts of joy so unalloyed, so untethered to events, that they seemed to come from above; they had longed to be known and, sometimes, almost were.
Heirs to the viral lineage of Anthony Carter, Twelfth of Twelve, they were intrinsically less bloodthirsty than their counterparts; it had been remarked many times by human observers that the dopeys satisfied their appetites with an attitude of joyless obligation, and that it was this characteristic, singular among virals, that made them easier to kill. Dumb as a dopey was the phrase. This was true, while also concealing a deeper truth. Indeed they did not like it; the butchery of innocents disturbed them. Yet within them lay an unexpressed ferocity, unwitnessed by humankind. For more than a century they had waited, anticipating the day when the call would come to release this hidden power.
