Justin Cronin - The Passage

“And you set the beacon.”

The beacon; she had almost forgotten. But of course he would ask about this. “Oh, it was the doctor who did that.” It made Lacey miss him keenly, to speak this way. She broke her gaze away and turned from her stirring, wiping her hands on a cloth and taking up bowls from the table. “Such things. He was always tinkering. But there will be time for more talk. Now, we eat.”

She served them the stew. She was glad to see Peter eating heartily, though Amy, she could tell, was just pretending. Lacey herself possessed no appetite at all. Whenever it was time for her to eat, Lacey felt not hunger but a mild curiosity, her mind remarking to her in an offhand way, as if to comment on nothing more important than the weather or the time of day, It would be good to eat now .

She sat and watched him with a feeling of gratitude. Outside, the dark night pressed down upon the mountain. She did not know if she would ever see another; soon she would be free.

When they were done, she rose from the table and went to the bedroom. The small space was sparsely furnished, just the bed the doctor had made and a dresser where she kept the few things she needed. The boxes were under the bed. Peter stood in the curtained doorway, observing silently, as she knelt and drew them out onto the floor. A pair of army lockers; at one time they had contained guns. Amy was behind him now, watching with curious eyes.

“Help me carry these to the kitchen,” she said.

How many years she had imagined this moment! They placed them on the floor by the table. Lacey knelt once more and undid the hasps of the first locker, the one she’d kept for Amy. Inside was Amy’s knapsack, which she’d worn to the convent. The Powerpuff Girls.

“This is yours,” she said, and placed it on the table.

For a moment, the girl simply stared at it. Then, with deliberate care, she drew back the zipper and withdrew the contents. A toothbrush. A tiny shirt, limp with age, with the word SASSY written on it in glittering flakes. A pair of threadbare jeans. And, at the bottom, a stuffed rabbit of tan velveteen, wearing a pale blue jacket. The fabric was crumbling away; one of his ears was gone, exposing a curl of wire.

“It was Sister Claire who bought the shirt for you,” Lacey said. “I do not think Sister Arnette approved of it.”

Amy had put the other objects aside on the table and was holding the rabbit in her hands, peering into its face.

“Your sisters,” Amy said. “But not… actual sisters.”

Lacey took a chair before her. “That is right, Amy. That is what I said to you.”

“We are sisters in the eyes of God.”

Amy dropped her gaze again. With her thumb, she stroked the fabric of the rabbit.

“He brought him to me. In the sick room. I remember his voice, telling me to wake up. But I couldn’t answer him.”

Lacey was aware of Peter’s eyes, intently watching.

“Who did, Amy?” she asked.

“Wolgast.” Her voice was distant, lost in the past. “He told me about Eva.”

“Eva?”

“She died. He would have given her his heart.” The girl met Lacey’s gaze again, squinting intently. “You were there, too. I remember now.”

“Yes. I was.”

“And another man.”

Lacey nodded. “Agent Doyle.”

Amy frowned sharply. “I didn’t like him. He thought I did, but I didn’t.” She closed her eyes, remembering. “We were in the car. We were in the car, but then we stopped.” She opened her eyes. “You were bleeding. Why were you bleeding?”

Lacey had almost forgotten; after everything else, it had come to seem so small, this part of the story. “To tell you the truth, I did not know myself! But I think that one of the soldiers must have shot me.”

“You got out of the car. Why did you do that?”

“To be here for you, Amy,” she answered. “So someone would be here when you came back.”

Another silence passed, the girl worrying the rabbit with her fingers like a talisman.

“They’re so sad. They have such terrible dreams. I hear them all the time.”

“What do you hear, Amy?”

“ Who am I, who am I, who am I? They ask and ask, but I can’t tell them.”

Lacey cupped the girl’s chin. Her eyes were glistening with tears. “You will. When the time is right.”

“They’re dying, Lacey. They’re dying and can’t stop. Why can’t they stop, Lacey?”

“I think that they are waiting for you, to show them the way.”

They stayed that way a long moment. In the place where Lacey’s mind met Amy’s, she felt her sorrow and her loneliness, but even more: she felt her courage.

She turned to Peter then. He did not love Amy, as Wolgast had. She could see that there was another, someone he had left behind. But he was the one who had answered the beacon. Whoever heard it and brought Amy back-he would be the one to stand with her.

She bent to the second locker on the floor. Stacked inside were manila folders of yellowed paper-still, after so many years, exuding a faint odor of smoke. It was the doctor who had retrieved them, along with Amy’s backpack, as the fires had moved down through the underground levels of the Chalet. Someone should know , he had said.

She withdrew the first file and placed it on the table before him. The label read:

EX ORD 13292 TS1 EYES ONLY

VIA WOLGAST, BRADFORD J .

INTAKE PROFILE CT3

SUBJ 1 BABCOCK, GILES J .

“It is time for you to learn how this world was made,” said Sister Lacey. And then she opened it.

They rode through the fading day, a party of five, Alicia on point. The trail of the Many was a broad swath of destruction-the snow trampled, branches broken, the ground littered with debris. It seemed to grow denser and wider with every kilometer, as if more of the creatures were joining the pod, called out of the wilderness to take their place among their kind. Here and there they saw a stain of blood on the snow where a hapless animal, a deer or rabbit or squirrel, had met its swift demise. The tracks were less than twelve hours old; somewhere up ahead, in the shade of the trees and under the rocky ledges and perhaps, even, beneath the snow itself, they waited, dozing the day away, a great pod of virals, thousands strong.

By late afternoon, they were forced to make a decision: to follow the creatures’ trail, the shortest route up the mountain, but one that would take them right into the heart of the pod; or to turn north, find the river again, and make their approach from the west. Michael watched from atop his horse as Alicia and Greer conferred. Hollis and Sara were beside him, their rifles resting across their laps, their parkas zipped to their chins. The air was bitterly cold; in the immense stillness, every sound seemed magnified, the wind like a rush of static over the frozen land.

“We go north,” Alicia announced. “All eyes.”

There had been no discussion about who would come; the only surprise was Greer. As the four of them had been mounting up to leave, he had come forward on his horse and joined their number without a word of explanation, passing his command to Eustace. Michael wondered if this meant Greer would be in charge, but as soon as they were clear of the ridge, the major turned to Alicia from atop his horse and said, simply, “This is your show, Lieutenant. Are we clear, everyone?” They all said they were, and that was that.

They rode on. As night was falling, Michael heard, from up ahead, the bright notes of the river. They emerged from the woods onto its southern bank and turned east, using it to guide them through the thickening dark. They had closed up to a single line now, Alicia up front, Greer taking the rear. From time to time one of the horses would stumble or Alicia would pull up, signaling for them to hold and listening intently, scanning the dark shape of the trees. Then they’d press on again. No one had spoken for hours. There was no moon at all.