The Passage: A Novel (Book One of The Passage Trilogy)

“Read this book and the ordinary world disappears.”—Stephen King“[A] blockbuster . . . astutely plotted and imaginative.”— The New York Times Book Review “Don’t wait to dive into The Passage . . . . Simmering in the background of this frightening thriller . . . is a heartfelt portrayal of the human capability to fight, endure and hope for a better world.”— USA Today “Engrossing . . . By the third chapter, trash was piling up in our house because I was too scared to take out the garbage at night.”—Ron Charles, The Washington Post “Mythic storytelling.”— San Francisco Chronicle Justin Cronin is the New York Times bestselling author of The Passage, The Twelve, The City of Mirrors, Mary and O’Neil (which won the PEN/Hemingway Award and the Stephen Crane Prize), and The Summer Guest . Other honors for his writing include a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts and a Whiting Writers’ Award. A Distinguished Faculty Fellow at Rice University, he divides his time between Houston, Texas, and Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Wolgast had been to the Compound only once, the previous summer, to meet with Colonel Sykes. xa0Not a job interview, exactly; it had been made clear to Wolgast that the assignment was his if he wanted it. xa0A pair of soldiers drove him in a van with blacked out windows, but Wolgast could tell they were taking him west from Denver, into the mountains. xa0xa0The drive took six hours, and by the time they pulled into the Compound, he’d actually managed to fall asleep. xa0He stepped from the van into the bright sunshine of a summer afternoon. xa0He stretched and looked around. xa0xa0From the topography, he’d have guessed he was somewhere around Telluride. xa0It could have been further north. xa0The air felt thin and clean in his lungs; he felt the dull throb of a high-altitude headache at the top of his skull.xa0He was met in the parking lot by a civilian, a compact man dressed in jeans and a khaki shirt rolled at the sleeves, a pair of old-fashioned aviators perched on his wide, faintly bulbous nose. xa0This was Richards.xa0xa0“Hope the ride wasn’t too bad,” Richards said as they shook hands. xa0xa0Up close Wolgast saw that Richards’ cheeks were pockmarked with old acne scars. xa0“We’re pretty high up here. xa0If you’re not used to it, you’ll want to take it easy.”Richards escorted Wolgast across the parking area to a building he called the Chalet, which was exactly what it sounded like: a large Tudor structure, three stories tall, with the exposed timbers of an old-fashioned sportsman’s lodge. xa0The mountains had once been full of these places, Wolgast knew, hulking relics from an era before time-share condos and modern resorts. xa0The building faced an open lawn, and beyond, at a hundred yards or so, a cluster of more workaday structures: cinderblock barracks, a half-dozen military inflatables, a low-slung building that resembled a roadside motel. xa0Military vehicles, Humvees and smaller jeeps and five ton trucks, were moving up and down the drive; in the center of the lawn, a group of men with broad chests and trim haircuts, naked to the waist, were sunning themselves on lawn chairs.xa0xa0Stepping into the Chalet, Wolgast had the disorienting sensation of peeking behind a movie set; the place had been gutted to the studs, its original architecture replaced by the neutral textures of a modern office building: gray carpeting, institutional lighting, acoustic tile drop ceilings. xa0He might have been in a dentist’s office, or the high-rise off the freeway where he met his accountant once a year to do his taxes. xa0They stopped at the front desk, where Richards asked him to turn over his handheld and his weapon, which he passed to the guard, a kid in cammos, who tagged them. There was an elevator, but Richards walked past it and led Wolgast down a narrow hallway to a heavy metal door that opened on a flight of stairs. xa0They ascended to the second floor, and made their way down another non-descript hallway to Sykes’ office.xa0Sykes rose from behind his desk as they entered: a tall, well-built man in uniform, his chest spangled with the various bars and little bits of color that Wolgast had never understood. xa0His office was neat as a pin, its arrangement of objects, right down to the framed photos on his desk, giving the impression of having been placed for maximum efficiency. xa0xa0Resting in the center of the desk was a single manila folder, fat with folded paper. xa0Wolgast knew it was almost certainly his personnel file, or some version of it.xa0xa0They shook hands and Sykes offered him coffee, which Wolgast accepted. xa0He wasn’t drowsy but the caffeine, he knew, would help the headache.xa0xa0“Sorry about the bullshit with the van,” Sykes said, and waved him to a chair. xa0“That’s just how we do things.”A soldier brought in the coffee, a plastic carafe and two china cups on a tray. xa0Richards remained standing behind Sykes’ desk, his back to the broad windows that looked out on the woodlands that ringed the Compound. xa0Sykes explained what he wanted Wolgast to do. xa0It was all quite straight forward, he said, and by now Wolgast knew the basics. xa0The Army needed between ten and twenty death-row inmates to serve in the third-stage trials of an experimental drug therapy, codenamed Project Noah. xa0xa0In exchange for their consent, these men would have their sentences commuted to life without parole. xa0It would be Wolgast’s job to obtain the signatures of these men, nothing more. xa0Everything had been legally vetted, but because the project was a matter of national security, all of these men would be declared legally dead. xa0Thereafter, they would spend the rest of their lives in the care of the federal penal system, a white-collar prison camp, under assumed identities. xa0The men would be chosen based upon a number of factors, but all would be men between the ages of twenty and thirty-five with no living first-degree relatives. xa0Wolgast would report directly to Sykes; he’d have no other contact, though he’d remain, technically, in the employment of the Bureau.xa0xa0“Do I have to pick them?” xa0Wolgast asked.Sykes shook his head. xa0“That’s our job. xa0You’ll get your orders from me. xa0All you have to do is get their consent. xa0Once they’re signed on, the Army will take it from there. xa0They’ll be moved to the nearest federal lock-up, then we’ll transport them here.”Wolgast thought a moment. xa0xa0“Colonel, I have to ask--““What we’re doing?” xa0He seemed, at that moment, to permit himself an almost human-looking smile.Wolgast nodded. xa0“I understand I can’t be very specific. xa0But I’m going to be asking them to sign over their whole lives. xa0I have to tell them something.”Sykes exchanged a look with Richards, who shrugged. xa0“I’ll leave you now,” Richards said, and nodded at Wolgast. xa0“Agent.”xa0When Richards had left, Sykes leaned back in his chair. xa0“I’m not a biochemist, agent. xa0You’ll have to be satisfied with the layman’s version. xa0Here’s the background, at least the part I can tell you. About ten years ago, the CDC got a call from a doctor in La Paz. xa0He had four patients, all Americans, who had come down with what looked like Hantavirus – high fever, vomiting, muscle pain, headache, hypoxemia. xa0The four of them had been part of an eco-tour, deep in the jungle. xa0They claimed that they were part of a group of fourteen but had gotten separated from the others and had been wandering in the jungle for weeks. xa0It was sheer luck that they’d stumbled onto a remote trading post run by a bunch of Franciscan friars, who arranged their transport to La Paz. xa0Now, Hanta isn’t the common cold, but it’s not exactly rare, either, so none of this would have been more than a blip on the CDC’s radar if not for one thing. xa0All of them were terminal cancer patients. xa0The tour was organized by an organization called ‘Last Wish.’ xa0You’ve heard of them?”Wolgast nodded. xa0“I thought they just took people skydiving, things like that.”xa0“That’s what I thought, too. xa0But apparently not. xa0Of the four, one had an inoperable brain tumor, two had acute lymphocytic leukemia, and the fourth had ovarian cancer. xa0And every single one of them became well. xa0Not just the Hanta, or whatever it was. xa0No cancer. xa0Not a trace.”Wolgast felt lost. xa0xa0“I don’t get it.”Sykes sipped his coffee. xa0“Well, neither did anyone at the CDC. xa0xa0But something had happened, some interaction between their immune systems and something, most likely viral, that they’d been exposed to in the jungle. xa0Something they ate? xa0The water they drank? xa0xa0No one could figure it out. xa0They couldn’t even say exactly where they’d been.” xa0He leaned forward over his desk. xa0“Do you know what the thymus gland is?”Wolgast shook his head.Sykes pointed at his chest, just above the breastbone. xa0“Little thing in here, between the sternum and the trachea, about the size of an acorn. xa0In most people, it’s atrophied completely by puberty, and you could go your whole life not knowing you had one, unless it was diseased. xa0Nobody really knows what it does, or at least they didn’t, until they ran scans on these four patients. xa0The thymus had somehow turned itself back on. xa0More than back on: it had enlarged to three times its usual size. xa0It looked like a malignancy but it wasn’t. xa0And their immune systems had gone into overdrive. xa0A hugely accelerated rate of cellular regeneration. xa0And there were other benefits. xa0Remember these were cancer patients, all over fifty. xa0It was like they were teenagers again. xa0Smell, hearing, vision, skin tone, lung volume, physical strength and endurance, even sexual function. xa0One of the men actually grew back a full head of hair.”“A virus did this?’Sykes nodded. xa0“Like I said, this is the layman’s version. xa0But I’ve got people downstairs who think that’s exactly what happened. xa0Some of them have degrees in subjects I can’t even spell. xa0They talk to me like I’m a child, and they’re not wrong.” “What happened to them? xa0The four patients.” Sykes leaned back in his chair, his face darkening a little. 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