“It’s all right,” Olson said quietly, his eyes fixed on the barrel of the gun.

“Tell him, Peter,” Alicia said. “Tell him I will put a bullet in him right here unless he starts talking.”

Olson was gently waving his hands at his sides. “Everyone, stay calm. They don’t know. They don’t understand.”

Alicia drew her thumb down on the hammer of the revolver to cock it. “What don’t we know?”

In the thin lamplight, Olson appeared diminished, Peter thought. He seemed hardly the same person at all. It was as if a mask had fallen away and Peter was seeing the real Olson for the first time: a tired old man, beset by doubt and worry.

“Babcock,” he said. “You don’t know about Babcock.”

Michael was on his back, his head buried beneath the control panel. A mass of wiring and plastic connectors hung above his face.

“Try it now.”

Gus closed the knife switch that connected the panel to the batteries. From beneath them came the whir of the main generator spinning up.

“Anything?”

“Hang on,” Gus said. Then: “No. The starter breaker popped again.”

There had to be a short in the control harness somewhere. Maybe it was the stuff in the drink Billie had given him or all that time he’d spent around Elton, but it was as if Michael could actually smell it-a faint aerial discharge of hot metal and molten plastic, somewhere in the tangle of wires above his face. With one hand he moved the circuit tester up and down the board; with the other he gave a gentle tug at each connection. Everything was tight.

He shimmied his way out and drew up to a seated position. The sweat was pouring down. Billie, standing above him, eyed him anxiously.

“Michael-”

“I know, I know.”

He took a long swig from a canteen and wiped his face on his sleeve, giving himself a moment to think. Hours of testing circuits, tugging wires, backtracking each connection to the panel. And still he’d found nothing.

He wondered: What would Elton do?

The answer was obvious. Crazy, perhaps, but still obvious. And in any event, he’d already tried everything else he could think of. Michael climbed to his feet and moved down the narrow walkway connecting the cab with the engine compartment. Gus was standing by the starter control unit, a penlight tucked in his mouth.

“Reset the relay,” he instructed.

Gus spat the flashlight into his hand. “We’ve already tried that. We’re draining the batteries. We do this too many times, we’ll have to recharge them with the portables. Six hours at least.”

“Just do it.”

Gus shrugged and reached around the unit, into its nest of pipes, feeling his way blind.

“Okay, for what it’s worth, it’s reset.”

Michael stepped back to the breaker panel. “I want everybody to be very, very quiet.”

If Elton could do it, so could he. He took a deep breath and slowly released it as he closed his eyes, trying to empty his mind.

Then he flipped the breaker.

In the instant that followed-a splinter of a second-he heard the spin of the batteries and the rush of current moving through the panel, the sound in his ears like water moving through a tube. But something was wrong; the tube was too small. The water pushed against the sides and then the current began to flow in the wrong direction, a violent turbulence, half going one way and half the other, canceling each other out, and just like that everything stopped; the circuit was broken.

He opened his eyes to find Gus staring at him, mouth open, showing his blackened teeth.

“It’s the breaker,” Michael said.

He drew a screwdriver from his tool belt and popped the breaker from the panel. “This is fifteen amps,” he said. “This thing wouldn’t power a hot plate. Why the hell would it be fifteen amps?” He gazed up at the box, its hundreds of circuits. “What’s this one, in the next slot? Number twenty-six.”

Gus examined the schematic that was spread out on the tiny table in the engine’s cab. He glanced at the panel, then back to the drawing. “Interior lights.”

“Flyers, you don’t need thirty amps for that.” Michael jimmied the second breaker free and swapped it for the first one. He closed the knife switch again, waiting for the breaker to pop. When it didn’t, he said, “That’s it.”

Gus was frowning doubtfully. “That’s it?”

“They must have gotten switched. It’s got nothing to do with the head-end unit. Reset the relay and I’ll show you.”

Michael moved forward to the cab, where Billie was waiting in one of the two swiveling chairs at the windshield. Everyone else was gone; the rest of the crew had left just after dark in Billie’s pickup, headed for the rendezvous.

Michael took the other chair. He turned the key set in the panel beside the throttle; from below they heard the batteries spinning up. The dials on the panel began to glow, a cool blue. Through the narrow slit between the protective plates, Michael could see a curtain of stars beyond the open doors of the shed. Well, he thought, it’s now or never. Either there was current to the starter or there wasn’t. He’d found one problem but who knew how many others there might be. It had taken him twelve days to fix one Humvee. Everything he’d done here, he’d done in a little under three hours.

Michael lifted his voice to the rear of the car, where Gus was priming the fuel system, clearing any air from the line: “Go ahead!”

Gus fired the starter. A great roar rose from below, carrying the satisfying smell of combusting diesel. The engine gave a shuddering lurch as the wheels engaged and began to push against their brakes.

“So,” Michael said, turning to Billie, “how do you drive this thing?”

FIFTY-FIVE

In the end, they could only take Olson at his word. They simply had no choice.

They divvied up the weapons and split into two groups. Olson and his men would storm the room from ground level while Peter and the others entered from above. The space they called the ring had once been the prison’s central courtyard, covered by a domed roof. Part of the roof had fallen away, leaving the space open to the outside, but the original structural girders were intact. Suspended from these girders, fifteen meters above the ring, was a series of catwalks, once used by the guards to monitor the floor below. These were arranged like the spokes of a wheel with ducts running above them, wide enough for a person to crawl through.

Once they had secured the catwalk, Peter and the others would descend by flights of stairs at the north and south ends of the room. These led to three tiers of caged balconies encircling the yard. This would be where most of the crowd would be, Olson explained, with perhaps a dozen stationed on the floor to operate the fireline.

The viral, Babcock, would enter through the opening in the roof, on the east side of the room. The cattle, four head, would be driven in from the opposite end, through a gap in the fireline, followed by the two people slated for the sacrifice.

Four and two, Olson said, for each new moon. As long as we give him the four and two, he keeps the Many away.

The Many: that was what Olson called the other virals. The ones of Babcock, he explained. The ones of his blood. He controls them? Peter asked, not really believing any of it yet; it was all too fantastic-though even as he formed the question, he felt his skepticism giving way. If Olson was telling the truth, a great deal suddenly made sense. The Haven itself, its impossible existence; the strange behavior of the residents, like people carrying a terrible secret; even the virals themselves and the feeling Peter had harbored his whole life that they were more than the sum of their parts. He doesn’t just control them, Olson answered. As he spoke, a heaviness seemed to come over him; it was as if he’d waited years to tell the story. He is them, Peter.