The Passage - By Justin Cronin Page 0,178

Elton with the earphones clamped to the sides of his head, his mind seemingly adrift in the leftover signals of their all-but-vanished species. Whenever they found one, Michael would record it in the logbook, noting the time and frequency and anything else about it. Then they’d do it all again.

Elton had been born blind, so Michael didn’t really feel sorry for him, not on that score. Elton’s being blind was just a part of who he was. It was the radiation that had done it; Elton’s parents were Walkers, part of the Second Wave to come in, fifty-odd years ago, when the settlements in Baja had been overrun. The survivors had walked straight through the irradiated ruins that had once been San Diego, and by the time the group arrived, twenty-eight souls, those who could still stand were carrying the others. Elton’s mother was pregnant, delirious with fever; she delivered just before she died. His father could have been anyone. No one even learned their names.

And for the most part, Elton got along fine. He had a cane he used when he left the Lighthouse, which wasn’t all that often, and he seemed content to spend his days at the panel, making use of himself in the only way he knew how. Apart from Michael, he knew more about the batteries than anyone—a miraculous feat, considering the fact that he’d never actually seen them. But according to Elton, this gave him an advantage, because he wasn’t fooled by what things merely appeared to be.

“Those batteries are like a woman, Michael,” he liked to say. “You’ve got to learn to listen.”

Now, on the evening of the fifty-fourth of summer, First Evening Bell about to sound—four nights since a viral had been killed in the nets by the Watcher Arlo Wilson—Michael called up the battery monitors, a line of bars for each of the six cells: 54 percent on two and three, a whisper under 50 on five and four, a flat 50 on one and six, temperature on all of them in the green, thirty-one degrees. Down the mountain the winds were blowing at a steady thirteen kph with gusts to twenty. He ran through the checklist, charging the capacitors, testing all the relays. What had Alicia said? You push the button, they come on? That’s how little people understood.

“You should double-check the second cell,” Elton said from his chair. He was spooning curds of sheep’s cheese from a cup into his mouth.

“There’s nothing wrong with the second cell.”

“Just do it,” he said. “Trust me.”

Michael sighed and called the battery monitors back up on the screen. Sure enough: the charge on number two was dropping: 53 percent, 52. The temperature was nudging up as well. He would have asked Elton how he’d known but his answer was always the same—an enigmatic cock of the head, as if to say, I could hear it, Michael.

“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