Don’t take me, don’t take me, don’t take me …
A bolt of anxiety hit her chest; she sat upright, too fast. The air of the room seemed lighter, as if all the oxygen had leaked away. Her heart was hammering. Had she fallen asleep? Was she dreaming? What in the world?
And then she knew, knew it for a fact. They were in danger, terrible danger. Something was coming. She didn’t know what. Some dark force had come loose in the world, and it was sweeping toward them, coming for them all.
But Lacey knew. Lacey, who’d lain in the field for hours, knew what evil was.
Arnette tore from the room, into the hall. To be sixty-eight, and consumed by such terror! To give your life to God, to His loving peace, and come to such a moment! To lie with it in the dark all alone! A dozen steps to Lacey’s door: Arnette tried the handle but the door refused her; it was locked from the inside. She pounded the door with her fists.
“Sister Lacey! Sister Lacey, open this door!”
Then Claire was at her side. She was wearing a T-shirt that seemed to glow in the dark hall; her face was smeared with a penumbra of bluish cream. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Sister Lacey, open this door this instant!” Silence, still, from the far side. Arnette seized the handle and shook it like a dog with a rag in his teeth. She pounded and pounded. “Do as I say right now!”
Lights coming on, the sounds of doors and voices, a great commotion all around her. The other sisters were in the hallway now too, their eyes wide with alarm, everyone talking at once.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know—”
“Is Lacey all right?”
“Somebody call 911!”
“Lacey,” Arnette was yelling, “open this door!”
A huge force gripped her, pulling her away. Sister Claire: it was Sister Claire who had grabbed Arnette from behind, seizing her by her arms. She felt her diminishment, how her strength, against Sister Claire’s, was nothing.
“Look—Sister’s hurt herself—”
“Dear Lord in heaven!”
“Look at her hands!”
“Please,” Arnette sobbed. “Help me.”
Sister Claire released her. A reverent hush had fallen over them all. Crimson ribbons were running down Arnette’s wrists. Claire took one of Arnette’s fists and gently unclenched it. The palm was filled with blood.
“Look, it’s just her fingernails,” Claire said, and showed them. “She dug into her palms with her fingernails.”
“Please,” Arnette begged, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Just open the door and see.”
No one knew where the key was. It was Sister Tracy who thought to get the screwdriver from the toolbox under the kitchen sink and wedge it into the lock. But by the time this happened, Sister Arnette had already figured out what they’d find.
The bed that had never been slept in. The curtains of the open window shifting in the evening air.
The door swung open on an empty room. Sister Lacey Antoinette Kudoto was gone.
Two A.M. The night was moving at a crawl.
Not that it had begun well for Grey. After his run-in with Paulson in the commissary, Grey had returned to his room in the barracks. He still had two hours to kill until his shift, more than enough time to think about what Paulson had said about Jack and Sam. The only upside was that it sort of took his mind off the other thing, that funny echo in his head, but still it was no good, just sitting around feeling worried, and at a quarter to ten, just about ready to jump out of his skin, he put on his parka and crossed the compound to the Chalet. Under the lights of the parking area he treated himself to one last Parliament, gulping down the smoke, while a couple of doctors and lab techs, wearing heavy winter coats over their scrubs, exited the building and got into their cars and drove away. Nobody so much as waved at him.
The floor by the front door was slick with melted snow. Grey banged his boots clean and stepped to the desk, where the sentry took his badge and ran it through the scanner and waved him to the elevator. Inside, he pushed the button for Level 3.
“Hold the elevator.”
Grey’s insides jumped: Richards. An instant later he stepped briskly into the car, a cloud of cold air from outside still clinging to his nylon jacket.
“Grey.” He pushed the button for L2 and quickly checked his watch. “Where the fuck were you this morning?”
“I overslept.”
The doors slid closed and the car began its slow descent.
“You think this is a vacation? You think you can just show up when you feel like it?”
Grey shook his head, his eyes cast down at the floor. Just the sound of the man’s voice could make his backside clench like a fist. No way Grey was going to look at him.
“Uh-uh.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
Grey could smell the nervous sweat coming off himself, a rancid stink, like onions left too long in a crisper drawer. Probably Richards could smell it too.
“I guess.”
Richards sniffed and said nothing. Grey knew he was deciding what to do.
“I’m docking you for two shifts,” Richards said finally, keeping his eyes forward. “Twelve hundred bucks.”
The doors slid open on L2.
“Don’t let it happen again,” Richards warned.
He exited the elevator and strode away. As the doors closed behind him, Grey released the breath he realized he’d been holding in his chest. Twelve hundred bucks—that hurt. But Richards. He made Grey more than a little jumpy. Especially now, after the little speech Paulson had given in the mess. Grey had begun to think maybe something had happened to Jack and Sam, that they hadn’t just flown the coop. Grey remembered that dancing red light in the field. It had to be true: something had happened, and Richards had put that light on Jack and Sam.
The doors opened on L3, giving a view of the security detail, two soldiers wearing the orange armband of the watch. He was well below ground now, which always made him feel a little claustrophobic at first. Above the desk was a big sign: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. BIOLOGICAL AND NUCLEAR HAZARDS PRESENT. NO EATING, DRINKING, SMOKING. REPORT ANY OF THE FOLLOWING SYMPTOMS TO THE OD. This was followed by a list of what sounded like a bad case of stomach flu, only worse: fever, vomiting, disorientation, seizures.
He gave his badge to the one he knew as Davis.
“Hey, Grey.” Davis took his badge and ran it under the scanner without even looking at the screen. “I got a joke for you. How many kids with ADD does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hey, you wanna go ride bikes?” Davis laughed and slapped his knee. The other soldier frowned; Grey didn’t think he understood the joke, either. “Don’t you get it?”
“’Cause he likes to ride bikes?”
“Yeah, ’cause he likes to ride bikes. He’s got ADD. It means he can’t pay attention.”
“Oh. I get it now.”
“It’s a joke, Grey. You’re supposed to laugh.”
“It’s funny,” Grey managed. “But I gotta get to work.”
Davis sighed heavily. “Okay, hold your horses.”
Grey stepped back into the elevator with Davis. From around his neck Davis took a long, silver key and placed it in a slot beside the button for L4.
“Have fun down there,” Davis said.
“I just clean,” Grey said nervously.
Davis frowned and shook his head. “I don’t want to know anything about it.”
In the locker room on L4, Grey switched out his jumpsuit for scrubs. Two other men were there, sweeps like him, one named Jude and one named Ignacio. On the wall, a large whiteboard listed the duties of each worker for the shift. They dressed together without speaking and exited the room.
Grey had drawn the lucky straw: all he had to do was mop the halls and empty the trash, then babysit Zero for the rest of the shift, to see if he ate anything. From the storage closet he fetched his mop an
d supplies and got to work; by midnight he was done. Then he went to the door at the end of the first corridor, ran his card through the scanner, and stepped inside.
The room, about twenty feet square, was empty. On the left side, a two-stage air lock led into the containment chamber. Going through took at least ten minutes, more on the return trip, when you had to shower. To the right of the air lock was the control panel. It was all a bunch of lights and buttons and switches, most of which Grey didn’t understand and wasn’t supposed to touch. Above it was a wall of reinforced glass, dark, which looked out on the chamber.
Grey took a seat at the panel and examined the infrared. Zero was kind of huddled in the corner, away from the gates, which had been left open when the last shift had brought in the rabbits. The galvanized cart was still there, sitting in the middle of the room, with its ten open cages. Three of the rabbits were still inside. Grey looked around the room. The others were all scattered about, untouched.
At a little after one A.M. the door to the corridor opened, and one of the techs stepped in, a large Hispanic man named Pujol. He nodded at Grey and looked at the monitor.
“Still not eating?”
“Uh-uh.”
Pujol made a mark on the screen of his handheld. He had one of those complexions that made it look as if he hadn’t shaved even when he had.
“I was wondering something,” Grey said. “How come they don’t eat the tenth one?”
Pujol shrugged. “How should I know? Maybe they’re just saving it for later.”
“I had a dog who did that,” Grey volunteered.
Pujol made more marks on his handheld. “Yeah, well.” He lifted one broad shoulder in a shrug; the information meant nothing to him. “Call the lab if he decides to eat.”
After Pujol left, Grey wished he’d thought to ask him some of the other questions on his mind. Like, why rabbits at all, or how Zero stuck to the ceiling like he sometimes did, or why just sitting there had begun to make Grey’s skin crawl. Because that was the thing with Zero, more even than with the rest of them; being with Zero felt like being with an actual person in the room. Zero had a mind, and you could feel that mind working. Five more hours: Zero hadn’t moved an inch since Grey had gotten there. But the readout below the infrared still gave his heartrate at 102 bpm, same as when he was moving about. Grey wished he’d thought to bring a magazine to read or maybe a crossword book, to help him stay alert, but Paulson had rattled him so bad he’d forgotten. He also wanted a smoke. A lot of guys snuck them in the john, not just the sweeps but also the techs and even a doctor or two. It was generally understood that you could smoke there if you had to and weren’t gone more than five minutes, but Grey didn’t want to push his luck with Richards, not after their run-in in the elevator.
He leaned back in the chair. Five more hours. He closed his eyes.
Grey.
Grey’s eyes flew open; he sat upright.
Grey. Look at me.
It wasn’t a voice he was hearing, not exactly. The words were in his head, almost like something he was reading; the words were someone else’s, but the voice was his own.
“Who’s that?”
On the monitor, the glowing shape of Zero.
I was called Fanning.
Grey saw it then, like somebody had opened a door in his head. A city. A great city thrumming with light, so many lights it was as if the night sky had fallen to earth and wrapped itself around all the buildings and bridges and streets. Then he was stepping through the door and he felt and smelled where he was, the hardness of cold pavement under his feet, the dirt of exhaust and the smell of stone, the way the winter air moved in channels around the buildings so there was always a breeze on your face. But it wasn’t Dallas, or any other city he’d ever been to; it was someplace old, and it was winter. Part of him was sitting at the panel on L4 and another part was in this other place. He knew his eyes had closed.
I want to go home. Take me home, Grey.
A college, he knew, though why would he think such a thing, that this was a college he was seeing? And how would he know this was New York City, where he’d never been in his life, had seen only in pictures, and that the buildings around him were the buildings of a campus: offices and lecture halls and dormitories and labs. He was walking along a path, not really walking but somehow moving down it, and people were flowing past him.
See them.
They were women. Young women, bundled in heavy woolen coats and scarves tucked up tight to their throats, some with hats pulled down over their heads, rich handfuls of young hair flowing like shawls of silk from under these compressive domes onto their smoothly rounded shoulders, into the cold air of New York City in winter. Their eyes were bright with life. They were laughing, books tucked under their arms or pressed to their slender chests, talking in animated voices to one another, though the words were nothing he could hear.
They’re beautiful. Aren’t they beautiful, Grey?
And they were. They were beautiful. Why had Grey never known this?
Can’t you feel them, walking past, can’t you smell them? I never get tired of smelling them. How the air behind them sweetens as they pass. I used to just stand and breathe it in. You smell them too, don’t you, Grey? Like the boys.
—The boys.
You remember the boys, don’t you, Grey?
He did. He remembered the boys. The ones walking home from school, sweating in the heat, bookbags sagging from their shoulders, their damp shirts clinging to them; he remembered the smell of sweat and soap of their hair and skin, and the damp crescent on their backs where their bookbags had pressed against their shirts. And the one boy, the boy trailing behind, now taking the shortcut down the alley, the quickest way home from school: that boy, his skin bronzed from the sun, his black hair pressed to the back of his neck, his eyes cast down at the sidewalk, playing some game with the cracks so that he didn’t notice Grey at first, the pickup moving slowly behind him, then stopping. How alone he seemed—
You wanted to love him, didn’t you, Grey. To make him feel that love?
He felt a great, sleeping thing lumbering to life inside him. The old Grey. Panic swelled his throat.
—I don’t remember.
Yes you do. But they’ve done something to you, Grey. They’ve taken that part of you away, the part that felt love.
—I don’t … I can’t …
It’s still there, Grey. It’s just hidden from you. I know, because that part was hidden in me, too. Before I became what I am.
—What you are.
—You and I, we’re the same. We know what we want, Grey. To give love, to feel love. Girls, boys, it’s all the same. We want to love them, as they need to be loved. Do you want it, Grey? Do you want to feel that again?
He did. He knew it then.
—Yes. That’s what I want.
I need to go home, Grey. I want to take you with me, to show you.
Grey saw it again, in his mind’s eye, rising up around him: the great city, New York. All around him, humming, buzzing, its energies passing through each stone and brick, following unseen lines of connectedness into the soles of his feet. It was dark, and he felt the darkness as something wonderful, something he belonged to. It flowed into him, down his throat and into his lungs, a great, easeful drowning. He was everywhere and nowhere all at once, moving not over the landscape but through it, into and out of it, breathing the dark city that was also breathing him.
Then he saw her. There she was. A girl. She was alone, walking the path between the school buildings—a dormitory of laughing students; a library of quiet hallways, its wide windows fogged by frost; an empty office where a lone cleaning woman, listening to Motown on headphones, bent to rinse her mop in a wheeled bucket. He knew it all, he could hear the laughter and the sounds of quiet studying and count the books on the shelves, he could hear the words of the song as the woman with the bucket hummed along, whenever you’re near … uh-uh … I hear a symphony—and the girl, ahead on the
pathway, her solitary figure shimmering, pulsing with life. She was walking straight toward him, her head tipped against the wind, her shoulders lifted in a delicate hunch beneath her heavy coat to tell him she was holding something in her arms. The girl, hurrying home. So alone. She had stayed out late, studying the words of the book she held to her chest, and now she was afraid. Grey knew he had something to tell her, before she slipped away. You like this, is that what you like, I’ll show you. He was lifting, he was rising up, he was falling down upon her—
Love her, Grey. Take her.
Then he was ill. He rocked forward in his chair and in a single spasm released the contents of his stomach onto the floor: the soup and salad, the pickled beets, the mashies and the ham. His head was between his knees; a long string of spittle was swinging from his lips.
What the hell. What the goddamn.
He eased himself upright. His mind began to clear. L4. He was on L4. Something had happened. He couldn’t remember what. An awful dream of flying. He’d been eating something in the dream; the taste was still in his mouth. A taste like blood. And then he’d puked just like that.
Puking, he thought, and he felt his stomach drop—that was bad. Very very bad. He knew what he was supposed to watch for. Vomiting, fever, seizures. Even a hard sneeze out of nowhere. The signs were everywhere, not just in the Chalet but the barracks, the dining hall, even in the johns: “Any of the following symptoms, report immediately to the duty officer …”
He thought of Richards. Richards, with his little dancing light, and the ones named Jack and Sam.
The Passage: A Novel Page 22