The Passage - By Justin Cronin Page 0,111

They were spread out behind her in a wide line, six of them, pointing their guns into the darkness, at nothing, at a place where Lacey had stood but stood no longer.

She came to a break in the trees. A road. To the left, two hundred yards distant, stood the sentry hut, bathed in its halo of light. To the right the road turned into the trees and descended sharply. From somewhere far below, was the sound of the river.

Nothing about this place revealed its meaning to her; and yet she knew to wait. She dropped and pressed her belly against the forest floor. The soldiers were behind her, fifty yards, forty, thirty.

She heard the low, labored sound of a diesel engine, its pitch dropping as the driver downshifted to ascend the final rise. Slowly it pushed its light and noise toward her. She rose to a crouch as its headlights burst over the crest of the hill. Some kind of Army truck. The pitch of the engine changed as the driver shifted again and began to gather speed.

Now?

And the voice said: Now.

She was up and running with all her might, aiming her body at the rear of the truck. A wide bumper and, above it, an open cargo area, concealed by swaying canvas. For a moment it seemed as if she’d moved too late, that the truck would race away, but in a burst of speed she caught it. Her hands found the lip of the gate, one bare foot and then the other left the road. Lacey Antoinette Kudoto, airborne: she was up and over and she was rolling in.

Her head hit the floor of the cargo compartment with a thump.

Boxes. The truck was full of boxes.

She scrambled to the front, against the rear wall of the cab. The truck slowed again as it approached the sentry hut. Lacey held her breath. Whatever happened now would happen; there was nothing she could do.

The hiss of air brakes; the truck jerked to a halt.

“Let me see the manifest.”

The voice belonged to the first sentry, the one who’d told Lacey to stop. The man-boy with his gun. She could discern, from the angle of his voice, that he was standing on the running board. The air suddenly tanged with cigarette smoke.

“You shouldn’t smoke.”

“Who are you, my mother?”

“Read your own manifest, dickhead. You’re carrying enough ordnance to blow us all halfway to Mars.”

A snickering laugh from the passenger seat.

“It’s your funeral. You see anyone down the road?”

“You mean, like a civilian?”

“No, I mean the abominable snowman. Yes, a civilian. A black woman, about five-six, wearing a skirt.”

“You’re kidding.” A pause. “We didn’t see anyone. It’s dark. I don’t know.”

The sentry climbed down from the running board. “Hang on while I check the back.”

Don’t move, Lacey, the voice said. Don’t move.

The canvas flaps opened, closed, opened again. A beam of light shot into the back of the truck.

Close your eyes, Lacey.

She did. She felt the beam of the flashlight rake her face: once, twice, three times.

You are a shield around me, O Lord—

She heard two hard pounds on the side of the truck, right beside her ear.

“Clear!”

The truck pulled away.

Richards wasn’t one bit happy. The crazy nun—what the blue fuck was she doing here?

He decided not to tell Sykes. Not until he knew more about it. He’d sent six men. Six! Just fucking shoot her! But they’d come back with nothing. He’d sent them back out, around the perimeter. Just find her! Put a bullet in her! Is that so hard?

The business with Wolgast and the girl had gone on too long. And Doyle—why was he still alive? Richards checked his watch: 00:03. He retrieved his weapon from the bottom drawer of his desk and checked the load and tucked it against his spine. He left his office and took the back stairs to Level 1 and exited through the loading dock.

Doyle was stashed over in civilian housing; the room had belonged to one of the dead sweeps. The sentry at the door was dozing in his chair.

“Get up,” Richards said.

The soldier jerked awake. His eyes floated with incomprehension; he didn’t look like he knew where he was. When he saw Richards standing above him, he rose quickly to attention. “Sorry, sir.”

“Open the door.”

The soldier keyed in the code and stepped away.

“You can go,” Richards said.

“Sir?”

“If you’re going to sleep, do it in the barracks.”

A look of relief. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

The soldier jogged down the catwalk, away. Richards pushed the door