The Passage - By Justin Cronin Page 0,145

good now, Ida, and go say goodbye to your mother, and when I did she held me a long, long time, crying so hard it makes me hurt to think of it, even now, all these years gone by. I saw the little suitcase by the door and said, are we going somewhere, Mama? We leaving? But she didn’t answer me, she just went on crying and crying and holding me like she did, until my daddy made her let go. Then we left, my daddy and me. Just the two of us.

It wasn’t till we were outside that I realized it was still the middle of the night. It was cold and blowing. Flakes were falling and I thought it was snow but when I licked one off my hand I realized it was ashes. You could smell the smoke and it was stinging my eyes and throat. We had to walk a long way, most of the night. The only things moving on the streets were the Army trucks, some of them with horns on top and voices coming out of them, telling people not to steal, stay calm, about the evacuation. There were some folks about but not many, though we saw more and more the farther we went, until the streets were thick with people, no one saying a word, all walking the same direction as us, carrying they things. I don’t think I’d even figured it out in my mind that it was just the Littles who were going.

It was still dark when we got to the station. I’ve already said a thing or two about that. My father told me we’d got there early so as to avoid the lines, he always hated lines, but it was like half the city had the same idea. We waited a long time, but things were turning ugly, you could feel it. Like a storm was coming, the air whizzing and cracking with it. Folks was too afraid. The fires were going out, the jumps were coming, that’s what people were saying. We could hear great booms in the distance, like thunder, and planes flying overhead, fast and low. And each time you saw one your ears would pop and you’d hear a boom a second after, and the ground would shake below your feet. Some folks had Littles with them but not all. My father held my hand tight. There was an opening in the fence where the soldiers were letting people in and that’s what we had to get through. It was so tight with the people pressed together I could hardly take a breath. Some of the soldiers had dogs. Whatever happens, you hold on to me, Ida, my daddy said. Just hold on.

We got close enough that we could see the train, down below us. We were on a bridge, the rails running under it. I tried to follow its length with my eyes but I couldn’t, that’s how long it was. It seemed to stretch forever, a hundred cars long. It didn’t look like any train I ever saw. The cars didn’t have no windows, and long poles stuck out from the sides with nets hanging from them, like the wings of a bird. On the roof there were soldiers with big guns in metal cages, like something you’d put a canary in. At least I supposed they were soldiers, on account of they were wearing shiny silver suits, to protect them from the fires.

I don’t remember what happened to my father. Certain things you can’t remember because your mind won’t take them up once they’re done and gone. I remember a woman who had a cat in a box and a soldier saying, lady, what do you think you’re doing with that cat, and then something happened quick and believe it or not that soldier shot her, right there. And then there was more shooting, and folks tearing about and pushing and screaming, and my daddy and me got separated in all of it. When I reached for my daddy his hand wasn’t there no more. The crowd was moving like a river, dragging me along with it. It was a horrible thing. People was yelling that the train wasn’t full but it was leaving anyway. If you can imagine I’d lost my suitcase and that’s what I was thinking of, I’ve lost my suitcase and my daddy’s going to be hopping mad at me for that. He was always saying,