Justin Cronin - The Passage

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.”