Justin Cronin - The Passage

“Ready, everyone?” Peter asked, as he snapped his bindings closed. A murmured assent from the group. It was just shy of half-day, the sun high in the sky. “Amy?”

The girl nodded. “I think we’re all right.”

“Okay, everyone. All eyes.”

They crossed the river at the old iron bridge, turned west, spent one night in the open, and reached the garrison by the end of the second day. Spring was in the valley. At this lower altitude, most of the snow had melted away, and the exposed ground was thick with mud. They traded their skis for the Humvee the battalion had left behind, supplied themselves with food and fuel and weapons from the underground cache, and set out once again.

They could carry enough diesel to take them as far as the Utah line. Maybe a little farther. After that, unless they found more, they’d be on foot again. They cut south, skirting the hills, into a dry country of blood-red rocks rising around them in fantastic formations. At night they took refuge where they could-a grain elevator, the back of an empty semi-truck, a gas station shaped like a tepee.

They knew they were not safe. The ones of Babcock were dead, but there were others. The ones of Sosa. The ones of Lambright. The ones of Baffes and Morrison and Carter and all the rest. That was what they had learned. That was what Lacey had showed them when she’d exploded the bomb, and Amy, when she had stood among the Many as they lay down in the snow and died. What the Twelve were, but even more: how to set the others free.

“I think the closest analogue would be bees,” Michael had said. During their long days on the mountain, Peter had given everyone Lacey’s files to read; the group had spent many hours in debate. But ultimately it was Michael who had advanced the hypothesis that pulled all the facts together.

“These Twelve original subjects,” he went on, gesturing over the files, “they’re like the queens, each with a different variant of the virus. Carriers of that variant are part of a collective mind, linked to the original host.”

“How do you figure that?” Hollis asked. Of all of them, he was the most skeptical, pressing on every point.

“The way they move, for starters. Haven’t you ever wondered about that? Everything they do looks coordinated because it is , just like Olson said. The more I think about it, the more this makes sense. The fact that they always travel in pods-bees do the same thing, traveling in swarms. I’ll bet they send out scouts the same way, to establish new hives, like the one in the mine. And it explains why they take up one person out of ten. Think of it as a kind of reproduction, a way of continuing a particular viral strain.”

“Like a family?” Sara said.

“Well, that’s putting it nicely. We’re talking about virals here, don’t forget. But yes, I suppose you could look at it that way.”

Peter remembered something Vorhees had said to him, that the virals were-what was the word? Clustering. He related this to the group.

“It follows,” Michael agreed, nodding along. “There’s very little large game left, and almost no people. They’re running out of food, and running out of new hosts to infect. They’re a species like any other, programmed to survive. So pulling together like that could be a kind of adaptation, to conserve their energy.”

“Meaning… they’re weaker now?” Hollis tendered.

Michael considered this, rubbing his patchy beard. “‘Weaker’ is a relative term,” he replied guardedly, “but yes, I’d say so. And I’ll go back to the bee analogy. Everything a hive does, it does to protect its queen. If Vorhees was right, then what you’re seeing is a consolidation around each of these original Twelve. I think that’s what we found at the Haven. They need us, and they need us alive. I’ll bet there are eleven more big hives like it somewhere.”

“And what if we could find them?” Peter said.

Michael frowned. “I’d say it was nice knowing you.”

Peter leaned forward in his chair. “But what if we could? What if we could find the rest of the Twelve and kill them?”

“When the queen dies, the hive dies with it.”

“Like Babcock. Like the Many.”

Michael glanced cautiously at the others. “Look, it’s just a theory. We saw what we saw, but I could be wrong. And that doesn’t solve the first problem, which is finding them. It’s a big continent. They could be anyplace.”

Peter was suddenly aware that everyone was looking at him.

“Peter?” This was Sara, seated beside him. “What is it?”

They always go home , he thought.

“I think I know where they are,” said Peter.

They drove on. It was on their fifth night out-they were in Arizona, near the Utah border-that Greer turned to Peter, saying, “You know, the funny thing is, I always thought it was all made up.”

They were sitting by a fire of crackling mesquite, a concession to the cold. Alicia and Hollis were on watch, patrolling the perimeter; the others were asleep. They were in a broad, empty valley, and had taken shelter for the night beneath a bridge over a dry arroyo.

“What was?”

“The movie. Dracula.” Greer had grown leaner over the weeks. His hair had grown back in a tonsure of gray, and he had a full beard now. It was hard to recall a time when he wasn’t one of them. “You didn’t see the end, did you?”

That night in the mess: to Peter, it seemed like long ago. He thought back, trying to remember the order of events.

“You’re right,” he said finally. “They were going to kill the girl when Blue Squad came back. Harker and the other one. Van Helsing.” He shrugged. “I was sort of glad I didn’t have to watch that part.”

“See, that’s the thing. They don’t kill the girl. They kill the vampire . Stake the son of a bitch right in the sweet spot. And just like that, Mina wakes up, good as new.” Greer shrugged. “I never really bought that part, to tell you the truth. Now I’m not so sure. Not after what I saw on that mountain.” He paused. “Do you really think they remembered who they were? That they couldn’t die until they did?”

“That’s what Amy says.”

“And you believe her.”

“Yes.”

Greer nodded, allowing a moment to pass. “It’s funny. I’ve spent my whole life trying to kill them. I’ve never really thought about the people they used to be. For some reason, it never seemed important. Now I find myself feeling sorry for them.”

Peter knew what he meant; he had thought the same thing.

“I’m just a soldier, Peter. Or at least I was. Technically, I’m about as AWOL as you get. But everything that’s happened, it means something. Even my being here, with you. It feels like more than chance.”

Peter remembered the story Lacey had told him, about Noah and the ship, realizing something he hadn’t thought of before. Noah wasn’t alone. There were the animals, of course, but that wasn’t all. He had taken his family with him.

“What do you think we’re supposed to do?” he asked.

Greer shook his head. “I don’t think it’s up to me. You’re the one with those vials in your pack. That woman gave them to you and no one else. As far as I’m concerned, my friend, that decision is yours.” He rose, taking up his rifle. “But speaking as a soldier, ten more Donadios would make a hell of a weapon.”

They spoke no more that night. Moab was two days away.

They approached the farmstead from the south, Sara at the wheel of the Humvee, Peter up top with the binoculars.

“Anything?” Sara called.

It was late afternoon. Sara had brought the vehicle to a halt on the wide plain of the valley. A hard, dusty wind had arisen, obscuring Peter’s vision. After four warm days the temperature had fallen again, cold as winter.