Justin Cronin - The Passage

“Inside that fence?” Muncey said with a grin. “That dirt is Texas . If we ain’t got it, you don’t need it.”

They weren’t regular army, Greer had explained. At least not the U.S. Army. There was no U.S. Army anymore. Then whose army are you? Peter had asked.

That was when Greer had told them about Texas.

By the time they reached the base of the hill, a crowd of men had gathered. Despite the cold, and now the rain, a pattering drizzle, some were bare-chested, exposing their narrow waists, the densely ribboned muscles of their shoulders and chests. All were smooth-shaven, their heads, too. Everyone was armed; rifles and pistols, even a few crossbows.

“Folks’ll stare,” Greer said quietly. “You better get used to it.”

“How many… strags do you usually bring in?” Peter asked. The term, Greer had explained, was short for stragglers .

Greer frowned. They were moving toward the gate. “None. Farther east you still get some. Up in Oklahoma, Third Battalion once found a whole goddamn town . But way out here? We’re not even looking.”

“Then what was the net for?”

“Sorry,” Greer said, “I thought you understood. That’s for the dracs. What you all call smokes.” He twirled a finger in the air. “That twisting motion messes with their heads. They’re like ducks in a barrel in that thing.”

Peter recalled something Caleb had told him, about why the virals stayed out of the turbine field. Zander always said the movement screwed them up . He related this to Greer.

“Makes sense,” the major agreed. “They don’t like spinning. I haven’t heard that about turbines, though.”

Michael was walking beside them. “So what were those things? Hanging in the trees, with the bad smell.”

“Garlic.” Greer gave a little laugh. “Oldest trick in the book. The fucking dracs love it.”

The conversation was cut short as they stepped through the gate, into a tunnel of waiting men. Greer’s squad had dispersed among the crowd. No one was talking. As Peter passed, he saw their eyes darting quickly over him. That was when he realized what the soldiers were all looking at: they were looking at the women.

“Ten -shun.”

Everyone snapped to. Peter saw a figure stepping briskly toward them from one of the tents. At first glance, he was not what Peter would have expected of a high-ranking military officer: an almost barrel-shaped man, a full head shorter than Greer, with a waddling, round-heeled gate. Under the dome of his shorn head, the features of his face seemed scrunched, as if they had been placed too close together. But as he approached, Peter felt the force of his authority, a mysterious energy, like a zone of static electricity that hovered in the air around him. His eyes, small and dark, possessed a frank, piercing intensity, even if, as it appeared, they had been incongruously set in the wrong face.

He regarded Peter a long moment, his hands on his hips, then looked past him toward the others, holding each briefly with the same evaluating gaze.

“I’ll be goddamned.”

His voice was surprisingly deep. He spoke with the same loose-jawed accent as Greer and his men.

“At ease, all of you.”

Everyone relaxed. Peter didn’t know what to say; best, he thought, to wait to hear from this man first.

“Men of the Second,” he declared, lifting his voice to the gathered men, “it has come to my attention that some of these strags are women. You are not to look at these women. You are not to speak to them, or come near them, or approach them, or in any way think you have anything to do with them, or they with you. They are not your girlfriends or your wives. They are not your mothers or your sisters. They are nothing, they do not exist, they are not here. Am I clear?”

“Sir yes sir!”

Peter glanced at Alicia, where she was standing with Amy, but couldn’t meet her eye. Hollis shot him a skeptical frown: clearly he had no idea what to make of this, either.

“You six, drop your packs and come with me. Major, you too.”

They followed him into the tent, a single room with an earthen floor beneath a sagging canvas ceiling. The only furnishings were a potbellied stove, a pair of plywood trestle tables covered with papers, and, along the far wall, a smaller table with a radio manned by a soldier with earphones clamped to the sides of his head. On the wall above him was a large, multicolored map, marked with dozens of beaded pins forming an irregular V As Peter moved closer, he saw that the base of the V was in central Texas, with one arm reaching north across Oklahoma and into southern Kansas, the other veering west, into New Mexico, before it, too, turned north, ending just across the Colorado border-the place where he now stood. At the top of the map, written in yellow on a dark stripe, were the words UNITED STATES INTERMEDIATE POLITICAL, and, beneath that, Fox and Sons Classroom Maps, Cincinnati, Ohio .

Greer came up beside him. “Welcome to the war,” he murmured.

The commander, who had entered behind them, directed his voice to the radio operator, who, as the men outside had, was staring frankly at the women. He seemed to have chosen Sara, but then his eyes moved to Alicia, then Amy, in a series of nervous jerks.

“Corporal, excuse us, please.”

With obvious effort, he broke his gaze away, pulling the earphones from his head. His face bloomed with embarrassment. “Sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Now, son.”

The corporal got to his feet and scampered away.

“So.” The commander’s eyes settled on Greer. “Major. Is there something you neglected to tell me?”

“Three of the strags are women, sir.”

“Yes. Yes, they are. Thank you for letting me know.”

“Sorry, General.” He seemed to wince. “We should have called that in.”

“Yes, you should have. Since you found them, I’m putting you in charge. Think you can handle that?”

“Of course, sir. No problem.”

“Put together a detail, get them billeted. They’ll need their own latrine, too.”

“Yes, General.”

“Go.”

Greer nodded, glancing quickly toward Peter- Good luck , his eyes seemed to say-and exited the tent. The general, whose name, Peter realized, he had yet to learn, took another moment to look them over. Now that they were alone, his bearing had relaxed.

“You’re Jaxon?”

Peter nodded.

“I’m Brigadier General Curtis Vorhees. Second Expeditionary Forces, Army of the Republic of Texas.” A hint of a smile. “I’m the big dog around here, in case that was something else Major Greer neglected to mention.”

“He didn’t, sir. I mean, he did. Mention it.”

“Good.” Vorhees nodded, regarding them all another moment. “So, am I to understand-and forgive me if I seem incredulous on this point-that the six of you walked all the way from California?”

Actually , Peter thought, we drove some of the way. For some of it, we took a train . But instead he simply answered, “Yes, sir.”

“And why, may I ask, would anyone attempt such a thing?”

Peter opened his mouth to reply; but once again the answer, the true one, seemed too large. Outside, the rain had begun to fall in earnest, drumming on the tent’s canvas roof.

“It’s a long story,” he managed.

“Well, I’m sure it is, Mr. Jaxon. And I’d be very interested to hear it. For now, we need to concern ourselves with a few preliminaries. You are civilian guests of the Second Expeditionary. For the duration of your stay, you’re under my authority. Think you can live with that?”

Peter nodded.

“In another six days, this unit will be moving south to rendezvous with Third Battalion at the town of Roswell, New Mexico. From there, we can send you back to Kerrville with a supply convoy. I suggest you take this offer, but this is entirely your choice. No doubt it is something you will wish to discuss among yourselves.”