Review: “The City of Mirrors” (The Passage #3) by Justin Cronin

City of Mirrors

The night is ours again. The vampire apocalypse is finally over. And I apologise in advance for all the lame vampire jokes I’m about to crack.

As survivors know, the bloodletting started in 2010 with The Passage, an engorged thriller by Justin Cronin. A graduate of Harvard and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, Cronin had published a couple of literary novels before going to the dark side and selling his projected vampire trilogy for over $3.5 million. Fox 2000 landed the first book — then half-written — for $1.75 million for Scott Free to produce. Originally developed as a feature, the producers eventually determined that the property would be better served as a TV series. Sophisticates may have sucked their fangs, but how electrifying it felt to have a fine writer spread his wings and swoop into this garlic-breath genre. With its blood-slick pacing and sympathetic heroes, The Passage was a killer antidote to the CrossFit vampires colonizing the twilight.

Yes, it’s true: Cronin’s story of a bat virus that destroys human civilization got a bit bogged down in the second volume, The Twelve. But those of us hypnotized by this tale were eagerly awaiting the finale. In The City of Mirrors, we finally find out what happens to the remnant of humanity that survived those decades of terror.

But beware all who enter. This is very much a sequel for the twice-bitten. The uninfected reader will wander around these dark passages entirely lost. The City of Mirrors opens a few years after the cataclysmic confrontation that ended The Twelve. So far as anyone can tell, the vampires were all destroyed. Our modest warrior-hero Peter Jaxon eventually assumes the presidency of a bustling settlement of a hundred thousand souls in Texas. There are now substantial settlements of beleaguered humans, and the real crisis is not shooting a “smoke” or “drac” or “flyer” in the chest, but creating a feasible tax regime. “People had begun to openly talk about moving outside the wall,” Cronin writes. “The age of the viral was over; humankind was finally on the upswing. A continent stood for the taking.”

The epic climax turns out to be bathetic, though the flashback to Patient Zero’s former life as Timothy Fanning is actually rather good. An inset novella, it tells of being a middle-class boy in a prestigious university, beguiled by wealth and crippled by self-doubt. In the intervening century, he’s devolved into some kind of vampiric Miss Havisham, determined to make the whole world pay for his broken heart. Fortunately, one of the emotionally wounded characters from the previous book has found a massive freighter in the Gulf of Mexico. He’s determined to turn it into a latter-day Noah’s Ark — an insurance policy just in case the vamps come leaping back.

The trilogy exemplifies Anthropocene masochism. When humanity has irreversibly changed the nature of the environment, the environment bites back – literally, in this case. Humanity’s ubiquity conjures fantasies of its own extinction. What survives of us is not, despite the book’s sentimentality, love; but bureaucracy. Throughout the trilogy, the central concerns are planning, management, pragmatism and resource allocation.

The Passage focused on the response to the cataclysm and the strict government of the survivors (for example, children are not allowed to know about the disaster until a certain age). The Twelve was less concerned with the serial killer vampires – most of whom were never even fleshed out – than with the totalitarian regime in Iowa that collaborated with them. The City of Mirrors is more thrilling when dealing with the relationship between the black market and the official economy than the boo-hooing of the principal villain. Even the vampires have to deal with a diminishing food supply and the results of their over-plundering. The monster in the first book tried factory farming humans; the Iowan quislings were very keen on biofuels in the second book, and now Zero himself embarks on a proactive rewilding strategy. In the earlier books, the walled townships could be seen as a prophetic parody of Donald Trump’s isolationism. The third book has everyone except the Americans dead, and they are thus charged with making humanity great again. Zero has a great affection for the poetry of T.S. Eliot and Hamlet; the courageous pioneers think Moby-Dick is too difficult, wondering if it is even written in English. The future is delightfully philistine.

Cronin picks open the wound with a few unnerving disappearances, but then once the lights go out, he launches breathtaking Homeric battles between viral hordes and soft-bellied humans. Back in New York, the conflict soars from one abandoned skyscraper to another — a spectacular clash that looks ready-made for Ridley Scott. And he’s even more frightening in crowded, locked rooms where sweaty survivors listen to the vamps sniffing under the door. The lucky ones are eaten alive; the others become blood brothers of the nastiest sort.

It’s all deliciously exciting — right up until the epilogue, which zooms ahead 900 years to a world that seems as alien as last Thursday. Inexplicably, the passing of a millennium and the murder of 7 billion people have given birth to a new civilization pretty much like ours. “History teaches us that there are no guarantees,” drones some professor at an academic conference around the year 3000. “We ignore the lessons of the Great Catastrophe at our peril,” he says, which suggests that platitudes, like cockroaches, will survive us all.

What good is immortality, Count Dracula might wonder, if the distant future is so deadeningly familiar?

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Review: “The Passage” (The Passage #1) by Justin Cronin

The Passage

It is often difficult to pinpoint the exact moment when a writer achieves literary success, but when Stephen King picks up the phone to interrupt your Good Morning America appearance to personally thank you for writing your book, you know you’ve made it.

Cronin is the latest indication that no one, not even an English professor at Rice University, Texas, whose written a couple of small literary novels, is safe from the Count’s bloody fangs. You’d think Cronin’s degree from the Iowa Writer’s Workshop would repel vampires like a garlic necklace, but who can repel Dracula’s mesmeric gaze, not to mention the $3.75 million advance?

Of course, you’re skeptical. So was I. But by the third chapter, I was way behind on all my work because I couldn’t wait to find out what happens next in the book. It’s a macabre pleasure to see what a really talented novelist can do with these old Transylvanian tropes. In the same way that A Song of Ice and Fire gave us a mature alternative after the Harry Potter series ended, The Passage is for adults who have been bitten but can’t swallow the teeny bopper misogyny of Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series.

As a writer, though, Cronin is more Dr. Frankenstein than Dr. Van Helsing. The Passage, the first volume of a planned trilogy, doesn’t have any interest in pursuing ol’ Count Dracula; it’s all about stitching together the still-beating scraps of classic horror and science fiction, techno-thrillers, and apocalyptic terror. Although a clairvoyant nun plays a crucial role, Cronin has stripped away the lurid religious trappings of the vampire myth and gone with a contemporary biomedical framework. Imagine Michael Crichton crossbreeding Stephen King’s The Stand and Salem’s Lot in that lab at Jurassic Park, with rich infusions of Robert McCammon’s Swan Song, Battlestar Galactica and even Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.

A pastiche? Please! Cronin is trading derivates so fast and furious he should be regulated by the SEC. (Sorry, inside joke :P)

The story opens a few years in the future, when the war on terror has truly arrived in the USA with frequent attacks on American shopping malls and subway stations by (eye-roll) Iranian jihadists.  A secure government project wants to create a breed of super soldiers by re-engineering a virus found in some nasty Bolivian bats. The last 12 subjects are death-row inmates–murderers and rapists–just the kind of people you’d want to endow with lightning speed, impenetrable exoskeletons, and a rapacious thirst for human blood.

But relax, what could possibly go wrong? These are government experts. They’ve got, like, double locks on the cages and everything. As you might expect, “mistakes were made”. Soon the entire North American continent is overrun by indestructible, blood-sucking fiends. Like the 2016 US presidential election campaign.

The second part of the book picks up about 90 years later with an abrupt jump in locale and tone. From here on out, we follow the fate of a small community of descendants hanging on in a walled compound powered by antique technology. Nuclear plants melt down and explode, vegetation retakes the cities, and the Gulf of Mexico fills with oil from untended wells. Like that could ever happen.

Cronin proves himself just as skillful with this dystopian future as he is with the techno-thriller that opens The Passage. This second section sinks deep into the exotic customs of these beleaguered survivors. We meet a vibrant cast of citizen warriors, who have to ask themselves each day if it’s worth fighting against the dying of the light. (If those wind-powered bulbs go out, the “virals” will swoop in.)

Their best fighter is a stoic redhead named Alicia, who was raised by an old soldier to kill–and could teach Lara Croft a few things about being hot and deadly. I was initially less impressed with Peter, the earnest young man who gradually becomes the center of this epic.  He’s about as sexy as an Axe deodorant model, but there’s something endearing about his modesty and determination, and eventually I saw the wisdom of placing this good-hearted everyman at the centre of all these bizarre crises.

Fortunately, Cronin has a wry sense of humour that runs from macabre to silly. A passing reference to Jenna Bush Hager as the governor of Texas may be the scariest thing in these pages. Soldier’s watching an old reel of Bela Lugosi’s Dracula in a post-apocalyptic vampire wasteland is a particularly nice touch. And in the final pages of the novel, one of my favourite characters “lapsed into a kind of twilight“, but not the Stephenie Meyers kind.

Yes, once in a while, Cronin can’t resist sucking on a few supple cliches. A traumatised survivor obviously heading toward something terrible says, “I wonder if we’re heading towards something terrible”. There’s a prostitute with a heart of gold, a little child holds the key to humanity’s salvation, and some exhilarating chapters have needless cliffhangers grafted onto the last line, e.g., “Something was about to happen.” You don’t say.

But once the vampires start leaping from the treetops, you’re not going to notice those little flaws. You’ll be running too fast.  Part of what makes these light-sensitive monsters so terrifying is that Cronin never lets us see them much or for long.  For hundreds of pages, we remain like the harried survivors, peering into the darkness for those glowing orange eyes, the last thing we’ll see before we experience the new sensation of being ripped from crotch to neck. It’ll be interesting to see if Ridley Scott, having reportedly paid $1.75 million for the movie rights before the book was even finished, can make a good movie out of it. But even if he can’t, late in the novel there’s a climactic gladiator scene with Wild West overtones that will blow the top of your head off.

About halfway through the loooong centre of The Passage, I was whining that Cronin should have cut out a few hundred pages, but by the end, the only thing I wanted was to get my sweaty hands on the next two volumes. Till then, I’ll be keeping the lights on.

 You can read my review of the next book in the Passage trilogy, The Twelve, here.