The Passage (25 page)

Fanning. I was called Fanning
.

The words meant nothing to Grey. The name wasn’t one he knew. He’d never met anybody named Fanning, or anything
like
Fanning, not that he could remember. Yet somehow, while he’d slept, the name had taken up residence in his head, as if he’d gone to sleep listening to a song played over and over, the lyrics digging a rut into his brain like a plow, and now part of his mind was still in that rut and couldn’t get out. Fanning? What the hell? It made him think of the prison shrink, Dr. Wilder, and the way he’d led Grey down into a state deeper than sleep, the room he called forgiveness, with the slow
tap-tap-tap
of his pen on the table, the sound snaking inside him. Now Grey couldn’t pick up the channel changer or scratch his head or light a smoke without hearing the words, their syncopating rhythm building a backbeat to every little thing he did.

I
(flick) … 
was
(light) … 
called
(draw) … 
Fanning
(exhale).

He sat and smoked and waited and smoked some more. What the hell was wrong with him? He felt different, and the change was no good. Antsy, out of sync with himself. Usually he could just sit still and do virtually nothing while he let the hours pass—he’d learned to do that well enough in Beeville, letting whole days slip by in a kind of thoughtless trance—but not today. Today he was jumpy as a bug in a pan. He tried to watch TV, but the words and the images didn’t even seem related to each other. Outside, beyond the windows of the barracks, the afternoon sky looked like old plastic, a washed-out gray. Gray like Grey. A perfect day to snooze away the hours. Yet here he was, sitting on the edge of his unmade bed, waiting for the afternoon to be over, his insides buzzing like a paper harmonica.

He felt like he hadn’t slept a wink, too, though he’d somehow snoozed straight through his alarm at 05:00 and missed his morning shift. It was OT, so he could make up some excuse—that it was all a mix-up or he’d simply forgotten—but he was going to hear about it either way. He was on again at 22:00. He really needed to nap, to store up some shut-eye for another eight hours of watching Zero watching him.

At 18:00 he pulled on his parka to walk across the compound to the commissary. Sunset was an hour off but the clouds were hanging low, sponging up the last of the light. A damp wind cut through him as he trudged across the open field between the barracks and the dining hall, a cinder-block building that looked like it had been built in a hurry. He couldn’t see the mountains at all, and on days like this it sometimes felt to Grey as if the compound were actually an island—that the world came to a stop, tipping into a black sea of nothingness, somewhere beyond the end of the long drive. Vehicles came and went, delivery trucks and step vans and Army five-tons loaded with supplies, but the place they came from and then went back to, wherever that was, might have been the moon for all Grey knew. Even his memory of the world was beginning to fade. He hadn’t been past the fence line in six months.

The commissary should have been busy at this hour, fifty or more bodies filling the room with heat and noise, but as he stepped through the door, unzipping his parka and stamping the snow off the soles of his shoes, Grey surveyed the space and saw just a few people scattered at the tables, alone and in small groups, not more than a dozen all told. You could tell who did what by what they wore—the med staff in their scrubs and rubber clogs; the soldiers in their winter camos, hunched over their trays and scooping the food into their mouths like farmhands; the sweeps in their UPS-brown jumpsuits. Behind the dining hall there was a lounge with a ping-pong table and air hockey, but nobody was playing or watching the big-screen television either, and the room was quiet, just a few murmuring voices and the clink of glass and flatware. For a while the lounge had held some tables with computers, sleek new vMacs for email and whatnot, but one morning in the summer, a tech crew had wheeled them all out on a dolly, right in the middle of breakfast. Some of the soldiers had complained, but it hadn’t done any good; the computers never returned, and all that remained to say they’d been there were a bunch of wires dangling from the wall. Taking them away had been some kind of a punishment, Grey figured, but he didn’t know what for. He’d never bothered with the computers himself.

Despite the nervous feeling in his body, the smell of warm food made him hungry—the Depo gave him such a voracious appetite it was a wonder he wasn’t heavier than he was—and he filled his tray as he moved down the line, his mind savoring the thought of the meal to come: a bowl of minestrone, salad with croutons and cheese, mashies and pickled beets, a slab of ham with a ring of dried-out pineapple sitting on it like a citrus tiara. He topped it all off with a wedge of lemon pie and a tall glass of ice water and carried everything back to the corner to an empty table. Most of the sweeps ate alone like he did; there wasn’t much you were allowed to actually talk about. Sometimes a whole week would pass without Grey saying so much as boo to anyone except the sentry on L3 who clocked him in and out of Containment. There had been a time, not that many months ago in fact, when the techs and medical staff would ask him questions, things about Zero and the rabbits and the teeth. They’d listen to his answers, nodding, maybe jot something down on their handhelds. But now they just picked up the reports without a word, as if the whole matter of Zero had been settled and there was nothing new to learn.

Grey moved through his meal methodically, course by course. The Fanning thing was still running through his mind like a news crawl, but eating seemed to calm it some; for a few minutes he almost forgot it was there. He was finishing the last of the pie when someone stepped up to his table: one of the soldiers. Grey thought his name was Paulson. Grey had seen him around, though the soldiers had a way of all looking the same in their camos and T-shirts and shiny boots, their hair so short their ears stuck out like somebody had pasted them to the sides of their heads as a joke. Paulson’s cut was so tight Grey couldn’t have said what color his hair really was. He took a chair at right angles to Grey and spun it around to straddle it, smiling at him in a way that Grey wouldn’t have described as friendly.

“You fellows sure like to eat, don’tcha?”

Grey shrugged.

“You’re Grey, right?” The soldier narrowed his eyes. “I’ve seen you.”

Grey put down his fork and swallowed a bite of pie. “Yeah.”

Paulson nodded thoughtfully, like he was deciding if this was a good name or not. His face wore an outward expression of calm, but there was something effortful about this. For a moment his eyes darted to the security camera hanging in the corner over their heads, then found Grey’s face again.

“You know, you fellas don’t say much,” Paulson said. “It’s a little spooky, you don’t mind my saying so.”

Spooky. Paulson didn’t know the half of it. Grey said nothing.

“Mind if I ask you a question?” Paulson lifted his chin toward Grey’s plate. “Don’t let me interrupt. You can go on and finish while we talk.”

“I’m done,” Grey said. “I have to go to work.”

“How’s the pie?”

“You want to ask me about the pie?”

“The pie? No.” Paulson shook his head. “I was just being polite. That would be an example of what’s called small talk.”

Grey wondered what he wanted. The soldiers never said word one to him, and here was this guy, Paulson, giving him etiquette lessons like the cameras weren’t looking straight at them.

“It’s good,” Grey managed. “I like the lemon.”

“Enough with the pie. I couldn’t give two shits about the pie.”

Grey gripped the sides of his tray. “I gotta go,” he said, but as he started to rise, Paulson dropped a hand on his wrist. Grey could feel, in just that one touch, how strong the man was, as if the muscles of his arms were hung on bars of iron.

“Sit. The fuck. Down.”

Grey sat. The room suddenly felt empty to him. He glanced past Paulson and saw that this was so, or nearly: most of the tables were empty. Just a couple of techs on the far side of the room, sipping coffee from throw-away cups. Where had everybody gone?

“You see, we know who you fellas
are
, Grey,” Paulson said with a quiet firmness. He was leaning over the table, his hand still on Grey’s wrist. “We
know
what you all did, is what I’m saying. Little boys, or whatever. I say God bless, each to his own gifts. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. You follow me?”

Grey said nothing.

“Not everybody feels the way I do, but that’s my
opinion
. Last time I checked it was still a free country.” He shifted in his chair, bringing his face even closer. “I knew a guy, in high school? Used to put cookie dough on his joint and let the
dog
lick it off. So you want to nail some little kid, you go right ahead. Personally I don’t get it, but your business is your business.”

Grey felt ill. “I’m sorry,” he managed. “I really gotta go.”

“Where do you have to go, Grey?”

“Where?” He tried to swallow. “To work. I have to go to work.”

“No you don’t.” Finally releasing Grey’s wrist, Paulson took a spoon from Grey’s tray and began to twirl it on the tabletop with the point of his index finger. “You’ve got three hours till your shift. I can tell time, Grey. We’re
chatting
here, goddamnit.”

Grey watched the spoon, waiting for Paulson to say something else. He suddenly needed a smoke with every molecule of his body, a force like possession. “What do you want from me?”

Paulson gave the spoon a final spin. “What do I want, Grey? That’s the question, isn’t it? I do want something, you’re right about that.” He leaned toward Grey, making a “come closer” gesture with his index finger. His voice, when he spoke, was just above a whisper. “What I want is for you to tell me about Level Four.”

Grey felt his insides drop, like he’d placed a foot on a step that wasn’t there.

“I just clean. I’m a janitor.”

“Pardon me,” Paulson said. “But no. I don’t buy that for a second.”

Grey thought again of the cameras. “Richards—”

Paulson snorted. “Oh,
fuck
him.” He looked up at the camera, gave a little wave, then slowly rotated his hand, clenching all but his middle finger. He held it that way for a few seconds.

“You think anybody’s actually watching those things? All day, every day, listening to us, watching what we do?”

“There’s nothing down there. I swear.”

Paulson shook his head slowly; Grey saw that wild look in his eyes again. “We both know that’s bullshit, so can we please? Let’s be honest with each other.”

“I just clean,” Grey said weakly. “I’m just here to work.”

Paulson said nothing. The room was so quiet Grey thought he could hear his own heart beating.

“Tell me something. You sleep okay, Grey?”

“What?”

Paulson’s eyes narrowed with menace. “I’m asking, do … you … sleep … okay?”

“I guess,” he managed. “Sure, I sleep.”

Paulson gave a little fatalistic laugh. He leaned back and rocked his eyes toward the ceiling. “You guess. You
guess.”

“I don’t know why you’re asking me this stuff.”

Paulson exhaled sharply.
“Dreams
, Grey.” He pushed his face close to Grey’s. “I’m talking about
dreams
. You fellas do dream, don’t you? Well, I sure as hell dream. All goddamn night long. One after the other. I am dreaming some crazy shit.”

Crazy, Grey thought; that just about summed the situation up, right there. Paulson was crazy. The wheels weren’t on the road anymore, the oars were out of the water. Too many months on the mountain, maybe, too many days of cold and snow. Grey had known guys like that in Beeville, fine when they got there but who, before even a few months had gone by, couldn’t string two sentences together that made a lick of sense.

“Want to know what I dream about, Grey? Go on. Take a guess.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Take a fucking guess.”

Grey looked down at the table. He could feel the cameras watching—could feel Richards, somewhere, taking all of this in. He thought: Please. For godsakes. No more questions.

“I don’t … know.”

“You don’t.”

He shook his head, his eyes still averted. “No.”

“Then I’ll tell you,” Paulson said quietly. “I dream about
you
.”

For a moment neither spoke. Paulson was crazy, Grey thought. Crazy crazy crazy.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “There’s really nothing down there.”

He made to leave again, waiting to feel Paulson’s hand on his elbow, stopping him.

“Fine,” Paulson said, and gave a little wave. “I’m done for now. Get out of here.” He twisted in his chair to look up at Grey, standing with his tray. “I’ll tell you a secret, though. You want to hear it?”

Grey shook his head.

“You know those two sweeps who left?”

“Who?”

“You know those guys.” Paulson frowned. “The fat ones. Dumbshit and his friend.”

“Jack and Sam.”

“Right.” Paulson’s eyes drifted. “I never did get the names. I guess you could say the names didn’t come with the deal.”

Grey waited for Paulson to say something else. “What about them?”

“Well, I hope they weren’t friends of yours. Because here’s a little bulletin. They’re dead.” Paulson rose; he didn’t look at Grey as he spoke. “We’re all dead.”

It was dark, and Carter was afraid.

He was somewhere down below, way down; he’d seen four buttons on the elevator, the numbers running backward, like the buttons in an underground garage. By the time they’d put him in there on the gurney, he was woozy and feeling no pain—they’d given him something, some kind of shot that made him sleepy but not actually asleep, so he’d felt it a little, what they were doing to the back of his neck. Cutting there, putting something in. Restraints on his wrists and feet—to make him comfortable, they said. Then they’d wheeled him to the elevator and that was the last thing he remembered, the buttons, and somebody’s finger pushing the one that said L4. The guy with the gun, Richards, had never come back like he’d promised.