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 fucking 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