The Passage - By Justin Cronin Page 0,332

a cramped compartment, glowing with a hundred tiny lights. Michael was sitting at the control panel, Billie beside him. Amy had withdrawn to the floor behind Michael’s chair, her eyes wide, her knees protectively pulled to her chest. To Peter’s left, a narrow hallway led aft.

“Flyers, Peter,” Michael said, swiveling in his chair. “Where the hell did Theo come from?”

Peter’s brother was slumped on the floor of the hallway; Mausami was holding his head against her chest, her bloody leg folded under her.

Peter directed his voice to the front of the cab. “Is there a med kit in this thing?”

Billie passed him a metal box. Peter popped it open and withdrew a cloth bandage, rolling it into a compress. He tore the fabric of Mausami’s pant leg away to reveal the wound, a crater of torn skin and bloody flesh, and placed the bandage against it and told her to hold it there.

Theo lifted his face, his eyes flickering. “Am I dreaming you?”

Peter shook his head.

“Who is she? The girl. I thought … ” His voice trailed away.

For the first time it struck him: he had done it. Take care of your brother.

“There’ll be time later, okay?”

Theo managed a weak smile. “Whatever you say.”

Peter moved to the front of the cab, between the two seats. Through the slit of windshield between the plates he could see a view of desert in the beam of the headlamp and the tracks rolling under them.

“Is Babcock dead?” Billie asked.

He shook his head.

“You didn’t kill him?”

The sight of the woman filled him with a sudden anger. “Where the hell was Olson?”

Before she could answer, Michael broke in. “Wait, where are the others? Where’s Sara?”

The last Peter had seen her, she was with Alicia at the gate. “I think she must be in one of the other cars.”

Billie had opened the cabin door again, leaning out; she ducked her head back inside. “I hope everybody’s on board,” she said, “because here they come. Hit the gas, Michael.”

“My sister could still be out there!” Michael shouted. “You said no one gets left!”

Billie didn’t wait. She reached across Michael, knocking him back into his chair, and gripped a lever on the panel, pushing it forward. Peter felt the train accelerate. A digital readout on the panel sprang to life, the number swiftly rising: 30, 35, 40. Then she shoved her way past Peter into the hallway, where a ladder in the wall led to a second hatch in the ceiling. She briskly ascended, turning the wheel, directing her voice to the rear of the train. “Gus! Up top, let’s go!”

Gus jogged forward, dragging a canvas duffel bag, which he unzipped to reveal a pile of short-barreled shotguns. He passed one to Billie and took one for himself, then lifted his grease-stained face to Peter, handing him a weapon.

“If you’re coming,” he said gruffly, “you might want to remember to keep your head down.”

They ascended the ladder, Billie first, then Gus. As Peter lifted his head through the hatch, a blast of wind smacked him in the face, making him duck. He swallowed, pushing his fear down inside himself, and made a second attempt, easing through the opening with his face turned toward the front of the train, sliding onto the roof on his belly. Michael passed him the shotgun from below. He eased into a crouch, trying to find his footing while simultaneously cradling the shotgun. The wind was slapping him, a continuous pressure threatening to push him over. The roof of the engine was arched, with a flat strip down the middle. He was facing the rear of the train now, giving his weight to the wind; Billie and Gus were already well ahead of him. As Peter watched, they leapt the gap between the first and second boxcars, making their way aft, into the roaring dark.

He first saw the virals as a region of pulsing green light from the rear. Above the din of the engine and the squeal of the wheels on the rails he heard Billie yelling something, but her words were yanked away. He drew a breath and held it and leapt the gap to the first boxcar. Part of him was wondering, What am I doing here, what am I doing on the roof of a moving train, while another part accepted this fact, strange as it seemed, as an inevitable consequence of the night’s events. The green glow was closer now, breaking apart as it widened into a wedge-shaped mass