Justin Cronin - The Passage

“Open the relay,” Elton advised. “Do it again and see if it settles down.”

Second Evening Bell was moments away. Well, they could run on the other five cells if they had to, then figure out what the problem was. Michael opened the relay, waited a moment to vent any gas in the line, and closed it again. The meter stayed flat at 55.

“Static is all,” said Elton, as Second Bell began to ring. He gave his spoon a little wave. “That relay’s a bit squirrelly, though. We should swap it out.”

The door of the Lighthouse opened then. Elton lifted his face.

“That you, Sara?”

Michael’s sister stepped inside, still dressed to ride and covered in dust. “Evening, Elton.”

“Now, what’s that I smell on you?” He was smiling from ear to ear. “Mountain lilac?”

She pushed a strand of sweat-dampened hair from behind an ear. “I smell like sheep, Elton. But thanks.” She directed her words to Michael. “Are you coming home tonight? I thought I’d cook.”

Michael thought he should probably stay where he was, with one of the cells acting up. Night was also the best time for the radio. But he hadn’t eaten all day, and at the thought of warm food, his stomach let loose an empty rumble.

“You mind, Elton?”

The old man shrugged. “I know where to find you if I need you. You go now if you like.”

“You want me to bring you something?” Sara offered as Michael was rising from his chair. “We’ve got plenty.”

But Elton shook his head, as he always did. “Not tonight, thanks.” He took the earphones from their place on the counter and held them up. “I’ve got the whole wide world for company.”

Michael and his sister stepped out into the lights. After so many hours in the dim hut, Michael had to pause on the step and blink the glare away. They moved down the path past the storage sheds, toward the pens; the air was rich with the organic funk of animals. He could hear the bleating of the herd and, as they walked, the nickering of horses from the stables. Continuing onto the narrow path that edged the field, underneath the south wall, Michael could see the runners moving back and forth along the catwalks, their shapes silhouetted against the spots. Michael saw Sara watching also, her eyes distant and preoccupied, shining with reflected light.

“Don’t worry,” Michael said. “He’ll be fine.”

His sister didn’t respond; he wondered if she’d heard him. They said nothing more until they reached the house. At the kitchen pump, Sara washed up while Michael lit the candles; she stepped out onto the back porch and returned a moment later, swinging a good-sized jackrabbit by the ears.

“Flyers,” Michael said, “where’d you get him?”

Sara’s mood had lifted; her face wore a proud smile. Michael could see the wound where Sara’s arrow had skewered the animal through the throat.

“Upper Field, just above the pits. I was riding along and there he was, right out in the open.”

How long had it been since Michael had eaten rabbit? Since anyone had even seen a rabbit? Most of the wildlife was long gone, except for the squirrels, which seemed to multiply even faster than the virals could kill them off, and the smaller birds, the sparrows and wrens, which they either didn’t want or couldn’t catch.

“You want to clean him?” Sara asked.

“I’m not even sure I’d remember how,” Michael confessed.

Sara made a face of exasperation and drew her blade from her belt. “Fine, make yourself useful and set the fire.”

They made the rabbit into a stew, with carrots and potatoes from the bin in the cellar, and cornmeal to thicken the sauce. Sara claimed to remember their father’s recipe, but Michael could tell she was guessing. It didn’t matter; soon the savory aroma of cooking meat was bubbling from the kitchen hearth, filling the whole house with a cozy warmth that Michael hadn’t felt in a long time. Sara had taken the empty skin out to the yard to scrape it while Michael tended the stove, waiting for her return. He had bowls and spoons set when she stepped back inside, wiping her hands on a rag.

“You know, I know you’re not going to listen to me, but you and Elton should be careful.”

Sara knew all about the radio; the way she came in and out of the Lighthouse, it had been impossible to avoid this. But he had kept the rest from her.

“It’s just a receiver, Sara. We’re not even transmitting.”

“What all do you listen to out there, anyway?”

Sitting at the table, he offered a shrug, hoping to kill the conversation as fast as possible. What was there to say? He was looking for the Army. But the Army was dead. Everyone was dead, and the lights were going out.

“Just noise, mostly.”

She was looking at him closely, her hands on her hips as she stood with her back to the sink, waiting him out. When Michael said nothing more, she sighed and shook her head.

“Well, don’t get caught,” his sister said.

They ate without speaking at the table in the kitchen. The meat was a little stringy but so delicious Michael could barely stop himself from moaning as he chewed. Usually he didn’t go to bed until after dawn, but he could have lain down right there at the table, his head cradled in his folded arms, and fallen instantly asleep. There was something familiar as well-not just familiar but also a little sad-about eating jack stew at the table. Just the two of them.

He lifted his eyes to find Sara’s looking back at him.

“I know,” she said. “I miss them too.”

He wanted to tell her then. About the batteries, and the logbook, and their father, and what he’d known. Just to have one other person carry this knowledge. But this was a selfish wish, Michael knew, nothing he could actually allow himself to do.

Sara pushed back from the table and carried their dishes to the pump. When she was finished washing up, she filled an earthenware pot with the leftover stew and wrapped it with a piece of heavy cloth to keep it warm.

“You taking that to Walt?” Michael asked.

Walter was their father’s older brother. As the Storekeeper, he was in charge of Share, a member of the Board of Trade, and Household too-the oldest living Fisher-a three-legged stool of responsibilities that made him one of the most powerful citizens of the Colony, second only to Soo Ramirez and Sanjay Patal. But he was also a widower who lived alone-his wife, Jean, had been killed on Dark Night-and he liked the shine too much and often neglected to eat. When Walt wasn’t in the Storehouse, he could usually be found fussing with the still he kept in the shed behind his house, or else passed out somewhere inside.

Sara shook her head. “I don’t think I could face Walt right now. I’m taking it to Elton.”

Michael watched her face. He knew she was thinking of Peter again. “You should get some rest. I’m sure they’re okay.”

“They’re late.”

“Just a day. It’s routine.”

His sister said nothing. It was terrible, Michael thought, what love could do to a person. He couldn’t see the sense in it.

“Look, Lish is riding with them. I’m sure they’re safe.”

Sara scowled, looking away. “It’s Lish I’m worried about.”

She headed first to the Sanctuary, as she often did when sleep eluded her. Something about seeing the children, tucked in their beds. She didn’t know if it made her feel better or worse. But it made her feel something , besides the hollow ache of worry.

She liked to recall her own days there as a Little, when the world seemed like a safe place, even a happy place, and all there was to concern her was when her parents would come to visit, or if Teacher was in a good mood that day or not, and who was friends with whom. For the most part, it hadn’t seemed odd that she and her brother lived in the Sanctuary and their parents somewhere else-she’d never known a different existence-and at night when her mother or father or the two of them together came to say good night to her and Michael, she never thought to ask them where they went when the visit was over. We have to go now , they’d say, when Teacher announced it was time, and that one word, go , became the whole of the situation in Sara’s mind, and probably Michael’s too: parents came, and stayed for a bit, and then they had to go. Many of her best memories of her parents came from those brief bedtime visits when they would read her and Michael a story or just tuck them into their cots.