The Passage: A Novel

by Cronin, Justin

  Peter pounded on the wall that separated them from the truck’s cab. “Hey, we’re roasting back here!”

  Time passed, and passed some more. No one spoke; just breathing was an effort. It seemed that some terrible joke had been played on them. They had been rescued from the virals only to be cooked to death in the back of a truck. Michael had begun to drift in and out of a state that felt like sleep but not exactly. He was hot, so hot. At some point he realized they were descending, though this detail seemed trivial, as if it pertained to some other person.

  Gradually the fact seeped into Michael’s awareness that the vehicle had stopped. He had been lost in a vision of water, cool water. It was pouring over and through him, and his sister was there, and Elton too, smiling that off-kilter smile of his. Everyone was there, Peter and Mausami and Alicia and even his parents, they all were swimming in it together, its healing blueness, and for a moment Michael willed his mind to return to it, this beautiful dream of water.

  “My God,” a voice said.

  Michael opened his eyes to a harsh white light and smell, unmistakable, of animal dung. He rolled his face toward the door and saw a pair of figures—he knew he had seen them before but could not say when—and standing between them, brilliantly backlit so that he seemed almost to hover, a tall man with steel-gray hair, wearing what appeared to be an orange jumpsuit. “My God, my God,” the man was saying. “Seven of them. It’s beyond belief.” He turned to the others. “Don’t just stand there. We need stretchers. Hurry.”

  The pair jogged away. The thought reached Michael’s brain that something was very wrong. Everything seemed to be happening at the far end of a tunnel. He could not have said where he was or why, although he also sensed that this knowledge had abandoned him only recently, a feeling like déjà vu in reverse. It was a kind of joke but the joke wasn’t funny, not at all. Some large, dry object was in his mouth, fat as a fist, and he realized this was his own tongue, choking him. He heard Peter’s voice, a labored croak: “Who … are … you?”

  “My name is Olson. Olson Hand.” A smile lit up his wind-chapped face, only it wasn’t the silver-haired man anymore, it was Theo—it was Theo’s face at the far end of the tunnel—and that was the last thing Michael saw before the tunnel collapsed and all thought left him.

  He did not come to so much as slowly surface, ascending through layers of darkness over a period of time that felt both short and long, an hour turned into a day, a day turned into a year. Darkness yielding to a widening whiteness above him, and the gradual reassembly of consciousness, distinct from his surroundings. His eyes were open, blinking. No other part of him seemed capable of movement, just his eyes, the damp plink of his lids. He heard the sound of voices, moving over him like the songs of distant birds, calling to one another across a vast expanse of sky. He thought: Cold. He was cold. Wonderfully, amazingly cold.

  He slept, and when he opened his eyes again, some unknown interval of time having passed, he knew that he was in a bed, that the bed was in a room, and that he wasn’t alone. Lifting his head was out of the question; his bones felt as heavy as iron. He was in some kind of infirmary, white walls and white ceiling, angled beams of white light falling upon the white sheet that covered his body and beneath which, it seemed, he was naked. The air was cool and moist. From a place somewhere above and behind came the rhythmic throb of machinery and the drip of water falling into a metal pan.

  “Michael? Michael, can you hear me?”

  Seated next to his cot was a woman—he thought it was a woman—with dark hair short as a man’s, and a smooth brow and cheeks and a small, thin-lipped mouth. She was gazing at him with what appeared to be intense concern. Michael felt as if he’d seen her before, but his sense of recognition stopped there. Her slender form was draped in a loose-fitting orange costume that seemed, like everything else about her, vaguely familiar. Behind her was some kind of screen, obscuring his view.

  “How do you feel?”

  He tried to speak but the words seemed to die in his throat. The woman lifted a plastic cup from the table by his bed and held the straw to his lips: water, crisp and cold, distinctly metallic in taste.

  “That’s it. Sip slowly.”

  He drank and drank. How amazing, the taste of water. When he had finished, she returned the cup to the table.

  “Your temperature’s down. I’m sure you’ll want to see your friends.” His tongue felt slow and heavy in his mouth. “Where am I?”

  She smiled. “Why don’t I let them explain that to you?”

  The woman disappeared behind the screen, leaving him alone. Who was she? What was this place? He felt as if he’d been asleep for days, his mind adrift on a current of disturbing dreams. He tried to remember. Some fat woman. A fat woman breathing smoke.

  His thoughts were broken by voices and the sound of footsteps. Peter appeared at the foot of his bed. His face glowed with a grin.

  “Look who’s awake! How are you feeling?”

  “What … happened?” Michael croaked.

  Peter took a seat by Michael’s bed. He filled the cup again and held the straw to Michael’s lips. “I guess you don’t remember. You had heatstroke. You passed out in the truck.” He angled his head toward the woman, who was standing to one side, silently observing. “You’ve already met Billie, I guess. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up. We’ve all been taking shifts.” He leaned in closer. “Michael, you’ve got to see this place. It’s fantastic.”

  This place, Michael thought. Where was he? He pointed his eyes toward the woman, her serenely smiling face. All at once the memory coalesced in his mind. The woman from the truck.

  He flinched, knocking the cup from Peter’s hand, sending water splashing all over him.

  “Flyers, Michael. What’s the matter?”

  “She tried to kill us!”

  “That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?” He glanced at the woman and gave a little laugh, as if the two of them were in on some private joke. “Michael, Billie saved us. Don’t you remember?”

  There was something troubling about Peter’s good cheer, Michael thought; it seemed completely out of step with the facts. Obviously he was very ill; he might well have died.

  “What about Lish’s leg? Is she all right?”

  Peter waved this concern away. “Oh, she’s fine, everybody’s fine. Just waiting for you to get better.” Peter leaned toward him again. “They call it the Haven, Michael. It’s actually an old prison. That’s where you are now, in the infirmary.”

  “A prison. Like a lockup?”

  “Sort of. They really don’t use the prison itself much anymore. You should see the size of their operation. Almost three hundred Walkers. Though I guess you could say we’re the Walkers now. And here’s the best thing, Michael. Are you ready? No smokes.”

  His words made no sense. “Peter, what are you talking about?”

  Peter gave a puzzled shrug, as if the question wasn’t interesting enough to warrant any real thought. “I don’t know. There just aren’t. Listen,” he continued, “when you’re up on your feet, you can look for yourself. You should see the size of the herd. Actual beef cattle.” He was grinning at Michael vacantly. “So what do you say? Think you can sit up?”

  He didn’t, but something about Peter’s tone made him feel that he should at least try. Michael eased himself up on his elbows. The room began to tip; his brain sloshed painfully inside his skull. He fell back down again.

  “Whoa. That hurt.”

  “That’s okay, that’s okay. Just take it easy. Billie says a headache’s perfectly normal after a seizure like that. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

  “I had a seizure?”

  “You really don’t remember much, do you?”

  “I guess I don’t.” Michael breathed steadily, trying to calm himself. “How long was I out?”

  “Counting today? Three days.” Peter glanced at the woman. “No, make that four.”

  “Four days?”
>
  Peter shrugged. “I’m sorry you missed the party. But the good news is that you’re feeling better. Let’s focus on that.”

  Michael felt his frustration boiling over. “What party? Peter, what’s wrong with you? We’re stranded in the middle of no place. We’ve lost all our gear. This woman tried to kill us. You’re talking like everything’s fine.”

  They were interrupted by the sound of the door opening and a burst of cheerful laughter. Alicia, on crutches, swung around the screen. Trailing her was a man that Michael didn’t recognize—fierce blue eyes, a chin that looked like it had been chiseled from stone. Was Michael hallucinating or were the two of them playing some sort of chase game, like Littles?

  She stopped abruptly at the foot of his bed. “Circuit, you’re up!”

  “Well, look at that,” the blue-eyed man declared. “Lazarus, back from the dead. How you doing, pardner?”

  Michael was too startled to respond. Who was Lazarus?

  Alicia turned to Peter. “Did you tell him?”

  “I was just getting to that,” Peter said.

  “Tell me what?”

  “It’s your sister, Michael.” Peter smiled into his face. “She’s here.”

  Tears sprang to Michael’s eyes. “That’s not funny.”

  “I’m not joking, Michael. Sara’s here. And she’s perfectly all right.”

  · · ·

  “I just don’t remember.”

  Six of them were gathered around Michael’s bed: Sara, Peter, Hollis, Alicia, the woman they called Billie, and the man with the blue eyes, who had introduced himself to Michael as Jude Cripp. After Peter had told Michael the news, Alicia had left to retrieve his sister; moments later she had burst into the room and flung herself upon him, weeping and laughing. It was all so completely inexplicable that Michael hadn’t known where to begin, what questions to ask. But Sara was alive. For the moment, that was all that mattered.

  Hollis explained how they had found her. The day after their arrival, he and Billie had driven back to Las Vegas, to look for the Humvees. They’d reached the hotel to find a scene of total destruction, a smoking mound of rubble and twisted girders. The whole east side of the building had collapsed, filling the street with a mountain of debris. Somewhere beneath this lay the Humvees, smashed to pieces. The air was thick with soot and dust; a rain of ashes coated every surface. The fires had leapt to an adjacent hotel, which was still smoldering. But the building to the east, where Hollis had seen the viral taking Sara, was intact. This, as it turned out, was something called the Eiffel Tower Restaurant. A long flight of stairs led to the structure at the top, a large round room encircled by windows, many broken or missing, that looked out on the demolished hotel.

  Sara was curled under one of the tables, unconscious. At Hollis’s touch she seemed to rouse, but her eyes were glazed, unfocused; she appeared to have no notion where she was or what had happened to her. There were scratches on her face and arms; one of her wrists seemed broken from the way she held it, cradling it in her lap. He lifted her into his arms and climbed down the eleven flights of darkened stairs and into the smoke. It wasn’t until they were halfway back to the Haven that she had started to come around.

  “Is that really how it happened?” Michael asked her.

  “If he says so. Honestly, Michael, all I remember is playing solo. The next thing I knew I was in the truck with Hollis. The rest is a big blank.”

  “And you’re really okay?”

  Sara shrugged. It was true: apart from the scratches and the wrist that was not broken after all but merely sprained, wrapped with a splinted bandage, she had no visible injuries at all. “I feel fine. I just can’t explain it.”

  Jude twisted in his chair toward Alicia. “I’ve got to say, Lish, you sure know how to throw a party. I’d have liked to see the looks on their faces when you tossed that grenade.”

  “Michael should get some of the credit. He was the one who told us about the gas. And Peter was the one who used the pan.”

  “I still don’t completely understand that part,” said Billie, frowning. “You say it saw its own reflection?”

  Peter shrugged. “All I know is, it worked.”

  “Maybe the virals just don’t like your cooking,” Hollis suggested.

  Everybody laughed.

  It was all so strange, Michael thought. Not just the story itself but the way everyone was acting, as if they had no worries in the world.

  “What I don’t get is what you guys were doing there in the first place,” he ventured. “I’m glad you were, but it seems like quite a coincidence.”

  It was Jude who answered. “We still send regular patrols down to the city to scavenge up supplies. When the hotel went up, we were just three blocks away. We’ve got a fortified shelter in the basement of one of the old casinos. We heard the explosion and headed straight for it.” He gave a closed-mouth grin. “Just dumb luck we saw you when we did.”

  Michael paused to consider this. “No, that can’t be right,” he said after a moment. “I remember it distinctly. The hotel blew up after we got out. You were already there.”

  Jude shook his head doubtfully. “I don’t think so.”

  “No, ask her. She saw the whole thing.” Michael turned his head to look at Billie; she was observing him coolly, that same look of neutral concern on her face. “I remember it distinctly. You used the gun on one of them, and Amy pulled me into the truck. Then we heard the explosion.”

  But before Billie could respond, Hollis broke in: “I think you’ve got it a little mixed up, Michael. I was the one who pulled you into the truck. The hotel was already burning. That’s probably what you’re thinking of.”

  “I could have sworn … ” Michael fixed his eyes on Jude again, his chiseled face. “And you were in a shelter, you say?”

  “That’s pretty much it.”

  “Three blocks away.”

  “About that.” An indulgent smile. “Like I said, I wouldn’t second-guess a stroke of luck like that, my friend.”

  Michael felt the nervous heat of everyone’s attention. Jude’s story didn’t add up; that was obvious. Who would leave the safety of a fortified shelter at night and drive toward a burning building? And why was everyone going along with it? The streets on three sides of the hotel were all blocked by rubble. That meant Jude and Billie could only have come from the east. He tried to recall which side of the building they’d exited from. The south, he thought.

  “Oh hell, I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe I’m not remembering it right. To tell you the truth, the whole thing is pretty mixed up in my mind.”

  Billie nodded. “That’s to be expected after a long period of unconsciousness. I’m sure in a few days things will start to come back to you.”

  “Billie’s right,” said Peter. “Let’s let the patient get some rest.” He directed his voice to Hollis. “Olson said he’d take us out to the fields to look around. See how they do things.”

  “Who’s Olson?” Michael asked.

  “Olson Hand. He’s in charge around here. I’m sure you’ll meet him soon. So, how about it, Hollis?”

  The big man offered a close-lipped smile. “Sounds great.”

  With that, everyone rose to leave. Michael had resigned himself to lying in solitude, puzzling over these strange new circumstances, when at the last instant Sara darted back to his bedside. Jude was observing her from the edge of the screen. Taking hold of Michael’s hand, she kissed him quickly on the forehead—the first time in years she had done this.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” she said. “Just focus on getting your strength back, okay? That’s what we’re all waiting for.”

  Michael listened closely for their departure. Footsteps, then the sound of a heavy door, opening and closing again. He waited another minute, to be certain he was alone. Then he opened his hand to examine the folded slip of paper Sara had secreted there.

  Tell them nothing.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  The party
Peter had spoken of had been held the previous evening, the third night after their arrival. This had been their one chance to see everyone, the whole of the Haven, in one place. And what they saw did not ring true.

  Nothing did, beginning with Olson’s claim that there were no virals. Just two hundred kilometers to the south, Las Vegas was crawling; they had traveled at least that far from the Joshua Valley to Kelso, through similar terrain, and the virals had followed them the whole way. The stink of that herd, Alicia pointed out, would travel far downwind as well. And yet the only perimeter appeared to be a metal fence, far too insubstantial to protect against an attack. Except for the flamethrowers on the vans, Olson had confessed, they had no useful weapons at all. The shotguns were just for show, all their ammunition having been used up decades ago.

  “So you see,” he had told them, “our existence here is an entirely peaceful one.”

  Olson Hand: Peter had never met anybody like him, so apparently at ease with his own authority. Apart from Billie and the man known as Jude, who seemed to function as his aides, and the driver of the truck that had brought them from Las Vegas—Gus appeared to be a kind of engineer, in charge of what they termed “the physical plant”—Peter could detect no other structures of command. Olson had no title; he was simply in charge. And yet he wore this mantle easily, communicating his intentions with a gentle, even apologetic manner. Tall and silver-haired—like most of the men, Olson wore his hair in a long ponytail, while the women and children were all closely shorn—with a stooped frame that seemed to barely fill his orange jumpsuit and a habit of placing the tips of his fingers together when he spoke, he seemed more like a benevolent father figure than someone responsible for the lives of three hundred souls.

  It was Olson who had told them the history of the Haven. This had transpired within the first hours of their arrival. They were in the infirmary, where Michael was being attended by Olson’s daughter, Mira—an ethereal, slender-limbed adolescent with close-cropped hair so pale and fine it was almost transparent, who seemed to regard them with a nervous awe. After they had been carried from the van, the seven of them had been stripped and washed, their belongings confiscated; all would be returned, Olson had assured them, except for their weapons. If they chose to move on—and here Olson had paused to note, with his customary mildness, that he hoped they would elect to stay—their weapons would be returned to them. But for now their guns and blades would remain locked away.