The Passage - By Justin Cronin Page 0,131

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.

“She always liked to have pretty feet,” the man said quietly. “I was doing them for her when you came in.”

They retreated from the room. Wolgast didn’t know what to say. The situation was obvious; the man and his wife weren’t going anywhere. The two of them stepped back into the bright sunlight of the parking area.

“She has MS,” the man explained. “I was hoping to keep her at home as long as I could. That’s what we agreed, when she started to get bad last winter. They’re supposed to send a nurse, but we haven’t seen one in a while now.” He shifted his feet on the gravel and wetly cleared his throat. “My guess is, nobody’s making any more house calls.”

Wolgast told him his name. The man was Carl; his wife was Martha. They had two grown sons, one in California, the other in Florida. Carl had been an electrician at Oregon State down in Corvallis, until they’d bought the store and retired up here.

“What can I do?” Wolgast asked.

They’d shaken hands before but did so again. “Just keep yourself alive,” Carl said.

Wolgast was driving back to the camp when, suddenly, he thought of Lila. They were memories of another time, another life. A life that was over now—over for him, over for everyone. Thinking about Lila, as he had: he was saying goodbye.

SIXTEEN

It was August, the days long and dry, when the fires came.

Wolgast smelled smoke one afternoon as he was working in the yard; by morning the air was thickened with an acrid haze. He climbed to the roof to look but saw only the trees and the lake, the mountains rolling away. He had no way of knowing how close the fires were. The wind could blow the smoke, he knew, for hundreds of miles.

He hadn’t been off the mountain in over two months, not since his trip down to Milton’s. They’d found a routine: Wolgast slept each day till nearly noon, worked outside till dusk; then, after dinner and a swim, the two of them stayed up half the night, reading or playing board games, like passengers on a long sea voyage. He’d found a box