The Passage - By Justin Cronin Page 0,306

look of neutral concern on her face. “I remember it distinctly. You used the gun on one of them, and Amy pulled me into the truck. Then we heard the explosion.”

But before Billie could respond, Hollis broke in: “I think you’ve got it a little mixed up, Michael. I was the one who pulled you into the truck. The hotel was already burning. That’s probably what you’re thinking of.”

“I could have sworn … ” Michael fixed his eyes on Jude again, his chiseled face. “And you were in a shelter, you say?”

“That’s pretty much it.”

“Three blocks away.”

“About that.” An indulgent smile. “Like I said, I wouldn’t second-guess a stroke of luck like that, my friend.”

Michael felt the nervous heat of everyone’s attention. Jude’s story didn’t add up; that was obvious. Who would leave the safety of a fortified shelter at night and drive toward a burning building? And why was everyone going along with it? The streets on three sides of the hotel were all blocked by rubble. That meant Jude and Billie could only have come from the east. He tried to recall which side of the building they’d exited from. The south, he thought.

“Oh hell, I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe I’m not remembering it right. To tell you the truth, the whole thing is pretty mixed up in my mind.”

Billie nodded. “That’s to be expected after a long period of unconsciousness. I’m sure in a few days things will start to come back to you.”

“Billie’s right,” said Peter. “Let’s let the patient get some rest.” He directed his voice to Hollis. “Olson said he’d take us out to the fields to look around. See how they do things.”

“Who’s Olson?” Michael asked.

“Olson Hand. He’s in charge around here. I’m sure you’ll meet him soon. So, how about it, Hollis?”

The big man offered a close-lipped smile. “Sounds great.”

With that, everyone rose to leave. Michael had resigned himself to lying in solitude, puzzling over these strange new circumstances, when at the last instant Sara darted back to his bedside. Jude was observing her from the edge of the screen. Taking hold of Michael’s hand, she kissed him quickly on the forehead—the first time in years she had done this.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said. “Just focus on getting your strength back, okay? That’s what we’re all waiting for.”

Michael listened closely for their departure. Footsteps, then the sound of a heavy door, opening and closing again. He waited another minute, to be certain he was alone. Then he opened his hand to examine the folded slip of paper Sara had secreted there.

Tell them nothing.

FORTY-EIGHT

The party Peter had spoken of had been held the previous evening, the third night after their arrival. This had been their one chance to see everyone, the whole of the Haven, in one place. And what they saw did not ring true.

Nothing did, beginning with Olson’s claim that there were no virals. Just two hundred kilometers to the south, Las Vegas was crawling; they had traveled at least that far from the Joshua Valley to Kelso, through similar terrain, and the virals had followed them the whole way. The stink of that herd, Alicia pointed out, would travel far downwind as well. And yet the only perimeter appeared to be a metal fence, far too insubstantial to protect against an attack. Except for the flamethrowers on the vans, Olson had confessed, they had no useful weapons at all. The shotguns were just for show, all their ammunition having been used up decades ago.

“So you see,” he had told them, “our existence here is an entirely peaceful one.”

Olson Hand: Peter had never met anybody like him, so apparently at ease with his own authority. Apart from Billie and the man known as Jude, who seemed to function as his aides, and the driver of the truck that had brought them from Las Vegas—Gus appeared to be a kind of engineer, in charge of what they termed “the physical plant”—Peter could detect no other structures of command. Olson had no title; he was simply in charge. And yet he wore this mantle easily, communicating his intentions with a gentle, even apologetic manner. Tall and silver-haired—like most of the men, Olson wore his hair in a long ponytail, while the women and children were all closely shorn—with a stooped frame that seemed to barely fill his orange jumpsuit and a habit of placing the tips of his fingers together when he spoke, he seemed more like a benevolent father