Justin Cronin - The Passage

Shannon Freeman, spokesman for the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, downplayed these reports as “hysteria” but conceded that communication with officials inside the quarantine zone had broken down.

“What we know is that this illness has a very high fatality rate, as high as fifty percent,” said Freeman. “Other than that, we can’t really tell what’s going on in there. The best thing anyone can do for the moment is stay indoors.”

Freeman confirmed reports of outbreaks in Nebraska, Utah, and Wyoming, but declined to elaborate.

“That appears to be happening,” she said, adding, “Anyone who thinks they have been exposed should report to the nearest law enforcement official or hospital emergency room. That’s what we’re telling people at this point.”

The cities of Denver, Colorado Springs, and Fort Collins, placed under martial law on Tuesday, were all but empty tonight, as residents ignored Colorado Governor Fritz Millay’s orders to “evacuate in place” and fled the cities in droves. Rumors that Homeland Security forces had been ordered to use deadly force to turn back refugees from the border were widespread but unconfirmed, as were reports that units of the Colorado National Guard had begun to evacuate the ill from hospitals and move them to an undisclosed location.

There was more; Wolgast read and read again. They were rounding up the sick and shooting them-that much seemed clear, if between the lines. May 18, Wolgast thought. The paper was three-no, four-days old. He and Amy had arrived at the camp on the morning of May 2.

Everything in the paper: it had happened in just eighteen days.

He heard movement in the store behind him-just enough to tell him he was being watched. Tucking the paper under his arm, Wolgast turned and stepped through the screen door. A small space, smelling of dust and age, crammed to the rafters with every kind of merchandise: camping supplies, clothing, tools, canned goods. A large buck’s head was suspended over a doorway, guarded by a beaded curtain, that led to the rear. Wolgast recalled when he’d come down here with his friends to buy candy and comic books. Back then, a spinning wire rack had stood by the front door: Tales from the Crypt, Fantastic Four , the Dark Knight series, Wolgast’s favorite.

On a stool behind the counter sat a large man, bald, in a checked flannel shirt, his jeans held up on his wide waist by a pair of red suspenders. On his hip he wore, in a tight leather holster, a.38 revolver. They exchanged wary nods.

“Paper’s two bucks,” the man said.

Wolgast took a pair of bills from his pocket and put them on the counter. “Got anything newer than this?”

“That’s the last I’ve seen,” the man said, tucking the bills into the register. “Guy who delivers hasn’t shown up since Tuesday.”

Which meant today was Friday. Not that it mattered.

“I need some supplies,” Wolgast said. “Ammunition.”

The man looked him over, his heavy gray eyebrows furrowed appraisingly. “What you got?”

“Springfield. A.45,” Wolgast said.

The man drummed his fingers on the counter. “Well, let’s have a look. I know you got it on you.”

Wolgast withdrew the gun from its place against his spine. It was the one Lacey had left on the floor of the Lexus. The clip was empty; whether she’d been the person to fire it or somebody else, Wolgast didn’t know. Maybe she had said something, but he couldn’t remember. In all the chaos it had been hard to tell what was what. In any event, the gun was familiar to him; Springfields were standard Bureau issue. He freed the clip and locked the slide to show the man it was empty and placed it on the counter.

The man took the weapon in his big hand and examined it. Wolgast could tell, from the way he turned it around, letting its finish hold the light, that he knew guns.

“Tungsten frame, beveled ejection port, titanium pin with the short trigger reset. Pretty fancy.” He looked at Wolgast expectantly. “I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a fed.”

Wolgast did his best to look innocent. “You could say I used to be. In a former life.”

His man’s face took up a sad smirk. He placed the gun on the counter. “A former life,” he said with a dispirited shake of his head. “Guess we’ve all got one of those. Let me take a look.”

He passed through the curtain into the back, returning a moment later with a small cardboard box.

“This is all I have in a.45 ACP. Keep some around for a fellow retired from the ATF, likes to take a twelve-pack up into the woods and shoot the cans as he empties them. Calls it his recycling day. But I haven’t seen him in a while. You’re the first person to come in here in most of a week. You might as well have them as anyone.” He placed the box on the counter: fifty rounds, hollow points. He tipped his head toward the counter. “Go on, they’re no good in the box. You go right ahead and load it if you want.”

Wolgast freed the clip and began thumbing rounds into place.

“Anyplace else I can get more?”

“Not unless you want to go down into Whiteriver.” The man tapped his breastbone, twice, with his index finger. “They’re saying you got to hit them right here. One shot. They go down like a hammer if you do it right. Otherwise, that’s it, you’re history.” He stated this fact flatly, without satisfaction or fear; he might have been telling Wolgast what the weather was. “Doesn’t matter if it used to be your sweet old grandma. She’ll drink you dry before you can aim twice.”

Wolgast finished loading the clip, pulled the slide to chamber a round, and checked the safety. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Internet. It’s all over.” He shrugged. “Conspiracy theories, government cover-ups. Vampire stuff. Most of it sounds half crazy. Hard to tell what’s bullshit and what ain’t.”

Wolgast returned his weapon to the hollow of his spine. He considered asking the man if he could use his computer, to see the news for himself. But he already knew more than enough. It was entirely possible, he realized, that he knew more than any person alive. He’d seen Carter and the others, what they could do.

“I’ll tell you one thing. There’s a guy, calls himself ‘Last Stand in Denver.’ Posting a video blog from a high-rise downtown. Says he’s barricaded in there with a high-powered rifle. Got some good footage, you should see these bastards move.” The man tapped his breastbone again. “Just remember what I told you. One shot. You don’t get two. They move at night, in the trees.”

The man helped Wolgast gather up supplies and carry them to the car: canned goods, powdered milk and coffee, batteries, toilet paper, candles, fuel. A pair of fishing rods and a box of tackle. The sun was high and bright; around them, the air seemed frozen with an immense stillness, like the silence just before an orchestra began to play.

At the back of the car, the two shook hands. “You’re up at Bear Mountain, aren’t you?” the man said. “You don’t mind my asking.”

There seemed no reason to hide it. “How did you know?”

“The way you came.” The man shrugged. “There’s nothing else up there except for the camp. Don’t know why they never could sell it.”

“I went there as a kid. Funny, it hasn’t changed at all. I guess that’s the point of places like that.”

“Well, you’re smart. It’s a good spot. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

“You should bug out, too,” Wolgast said. “Head higher into the mountains. Or go north.”

Wolgast could read it in the man’s eyes; he was making a decision.

“Come on,” he said finally. “I’ll show you something.”

He led Wolgast back into the store and passed through the beaded curtain. Behind it lay the store’s small living area. The air was stale and close, the shades drawn tight. An air conditioner hummed in the window. Wolgast paused in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust. In the center of the room was a large hospital bed on which a woman lay sleeping. The head of the bed was elevated at a forty-five-degree angle, showing her drawn face, which was tipped to the side, toward the light that pulsed in the shaded windows. Her body was covered with a blanket, but Wolgast could see how thin she was. On a small table were dozens of pill bottles, gauze and ointment, a chrome basin, syringes sealed in plastic; an oxygen tank, pale green, was parked beside the bed. A corner of the blanket had been drawn aside, exposing her naked feet. Cotton balls were tucked between her yellowed toes. A chair had been pulled up to the foot of the bed, and on it Wolgast saw a nail file and bottles of colored polish.