The passage : a novel / Justin Cronin.
A security breach at a secret U.S. government facility unleashes the monstrous product of a chilling military experiment that only six-year-old orphan Amy Harper Bellafonte can stop.
Record details
- ISBN: 9780345504975
- Physical Description: 785 pages : map ; 22 cm
- Edition: Ballantine Books trade pbk. ed.
- Publisher: New York : Ballantine Books, 2011.
Content descriptions
General Note: | Series numeration from goodreads.com |
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Subject: | Vampires > Fiction. Human experimentation in medicine > Fiction. Virus diseases > Fiction. Deaf > Fiction. United States > Fiction. |
Genre: | Epic fiction. Science fiction. |
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Available copies
- 4 of 4 copies available at Evergreen Indiana.
Holds
- 0 current holds with 4 total copies.
Other Formats and Editions
Show Only Available Copies
Location | Call Number / Copy Notes | Barcode | Shelving Location | Status | Due Date |
---|---|---|---|---|---|
Brownstown PL - Brownstown | FIC CRONIN PASSAGE b.1 (Text) | 79361000102792 | Adult Fiction | Available | - |
Eckhart PL - Main | F CRONIN justin passage bk.1 (Text) | 840191002878278 | Adult Fiction - Main Level | Available | - |
Rushville PL - Rushville | CRO FIC (Text) | 38520000384514 | Adult Fiction | Available | - |
Scott County PL - Austin | FIC CRO (Text) | 35830801913046 | Fiction | Available | - |
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Wolgast had been to the Compound only once, the previous summer, to meet with Colonel Sykes. Â Not a job interview, exactly; it had been made clear to Wolgast that the assignment was his if he wanted it. Â A 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. Â Â The drive took six hours, and by the time they pulled into the Compound, heâd actually managed to fall asleep. Â He stepped from the van into the bright sunshine of a summer afternoon. Â He stretched and looked around. Â Â From the topography, heâd have guessed he was somewhere around Telluride. Â It could have been further north. Â The air felt thin and clean in his lungs; he felt the dull throb of a high-altitude headache at the top of his skull.Â
He 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.  This was Richards. Â
âHope the ride wasnât too bad,â Richards said as they shook hands. Â Â Up close Wolgast saw that Richardsâ cheeks were pockmarked with old acne scars. Â âWeâre pretty high up here. Â If youâre not used to it, youâll want to take it easy.â
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 sportsmanâs lodge.  The mountains had once been full of these places, Wolgast knew, hulking relics from an era before time-share condos and modern resorts.  The 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.  Military 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. Â
Stepping 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. Â He might have been in a dentistâs office, or the high-rise off the freeway where he met his accountant once a year to do his taxes. Â They 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. Â They ascended to the second floor, and made their way down another non-descript hallway to Sykesâ office.Â
Sykes 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.  His 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.   Resting in the center of the desk was a single manila folder, fat with folded paper.  Wolgast knew it was almost certainly his personnel file, or some version of it. Â
They shook hands and Sykes offered him coffee, which Wolgast accepted.  He wasnât drowsy but the caffeine, he knew, would help the headache. Â
âSorry about the bullshit with the van,â Sykes said, and waved him to a chair. Â âThatâs just how we do things.â
A soldier brought in the coffee, a plastic carafe and two china cups on a tray.  Richards remained standing behind Sykesâ desk, his back to the broad windows that looked out on the woodlands that ringed the Compound.  Sykes explained what he wanted Wolgast to do.  It was all quite straight forward, he said, and by now Wolgast knew the basics.  The Army needed between ten and twenty death-row inmates to serve in the third-stage trials of an experimental drug therapy, codenamed Project Noah.   In exchange for their consent, these men would have their sentences commuted to life without parole.  It would be Wolgastâs job to obtain the signatures of these men, nothing more.  Everything had been legally vetted, but because the project was a matter of national security, all of these men would be declared legally dead.  Thereafter, they would spend the rest of their lives in the care of the federal penal system, a white-collar prison camp, under assumed identities.  The 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.  Wolgast would report directly to Sykes; heâd have no other contact, though heâd remain, technically, in the employment of the Bureau. Â
âDo I have to pick them?â Â Wolgast asked.
Sykes shook his head. Â âThatâs our job. Â Youâll get your orders from me. Â All you have to do is get their consent. Â Once theyâre signed on, the Army will take it from there. Â Theyâll be moved to the nearest federal lock-up, then weâll transport them here.â
Wolgast thought a moment. Â Â âColonel, I have to ask--â
âWhat weâre doing?â Â He seemed, at that moment, to permit himself an almost human-looking smile.
Wolgast nodded. Â âI understand I canât be very specific. Â But Iâm going to be asking them to sign over their whole lives. Â I have to tell them something.â
Sykes exchanged a look with Richards, who shrugged.  âIâll leave you now,â Richards said, and nodded at Wolgast.  âAgent.âÂ
When Richards had left, Sykes leaned back in his chair. Â âIâm not a biochemist, agent. Â Youâll have to be satisfied with the laymanâs version. Â Hereâs 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. Â He had four patients, all Americans, who had come down with what looked like Hantavirus â high fever, vomiting, muscle pain, headache, hypoxemia. Â The four of them had been part of an eco-tour, deep in the jungle. Â They 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. Â It was sheer luck that theyâd stumbled onto a remote trading post run by a bunch of Franciscan friars, who arranged their transport to La Paz. Â Now, Hanta isnât the common cold, but itâs not exactly rare, either, so none of this would have been more than a blip on the CDCâs radar if not for one thing. Â All of them were terminal cancer patients. Â The tour was organized by an organization called âLast Wish.â Â Youâve heard of them?â
Wolgast nodded. Â âI thought they just took people skydiving, things like that.â
 âThatâs what I thought, too.  But apparently not.  Of the four, one had an inoperable brain tumor, two had acute lymphocytic leukemia, and the fourth had ovarian cancer.  And every single one of them became well.  Not just the Hanta, or whatever it was.  No cancer.  Not a trace.â
Wolgast felt lost. Â Â âI donât get it.â
Sykes sipped his coffee. Â âWell, neither did anyone at the CDC. Â Â But something had happened, some interaction between their immune systems and something, most likely viral, that theyâd been exposed to in the jungle. Â Something they ate? Â The water they drank? Â Â No one could figure it out. Â They couldnât even say exactly where theyâd been.â Â He leaned forward over his desk. Â âDo you know what the thymus gland is?â
Wolgast shook his head.
Sykes pointed at his chest, just above the breastbone. Â âLittle thing in here, between the sternum and the trachea, about the size of an acorn. Â In most people, itâs atrophied completely by puberty, and you could go your whole life not knowing you had one, unless it was diseased. Â Nobody really knows what it does, or at least they didnât, until they ran scans on these four patients. Â The thymus had somehow turned itself back on. Â More than back on: it had enlarged to three times its usual size. Â It looked like a malignancy but it wasnât. Â And their immune systems had gone into overdrive. Â A hugely accelerated rate of cellular regeneration. Â And there were other benefits. Â Remember these were cancer patients, all over fifty. Â It was like they were teenagers again. Â Smell, hearing, vision, skin tone, lung volume, physical strength and endurance, even sexual function. Â One of the men actually grew back a full head of hair.â
âA virus did this?â
Sykes nodded. Â âLike I said, this is the laymanâs version. Â But Iâve got people downstairs who think thatâs exactly what happened. Â Some of them have degrees in subjects I canât even spell. Â They talk to me like Iâm a child, and theyâre not wrong.â
âWhat happened to them? Â The four patients.â
Sykes leaned back in his chair, his face darkening a little.
He 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.  This was Richards. Â
âHope the ride wasnât too bad,â Richards said as they shook hands. Â Â Up close Wolgast saw that Richardsâ cheeks were pockmarked with old acne scars. Â âWeâre pretty high up here. Â If youâre not used to it, youâll want to take it easy.â
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 sportsmanâs lodge.  The mountains had once been full of these places, Wolgast knew, hulking relics from an era before time-share condos and modern resorts.  The 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.  Military 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. Â
Stepping 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. Â He might have been in a dentistâs office, or the high-rise off the freeway where he met his accountant once a year to do his taxes. Â They 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. Â They ascended to the second floor, and made their way down another non-descript hallway to Sykesâ office.Â
Sykes 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.  His 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.   Resting in the center of the desk was a single manila folder, fat with folded paper.  Wolgast knew it was almost certainly his personnel file, or some version of it. Â
They shook hands and Sykes offered him coffee, which Wolgast accepted.  He wasnât drowsy but the caffeine, he knew, would help the headache. Â
âSorry about the bullshit with the van,â Sykes said, and waved him to a chair. Â âThatâs just how we do things.â
A soldier brought in the coffee, a plastic carafe and two china cups on a tray.  Richards remained standing behind Sykesâ desk, his back to the broad windows that looked out on the woodlands that ringed the Compound.  Sykes explained what he wanted Wolgast to do.  It was all quite straight forward, he said, and by now Wolgast knew the basics.  The Army needed between ten and twenty death-row inmates to serve in the third-stage trials of an experimental drug therapy, codenamed Project Noah.   In exchange for their consent, these men would have their sentences commuted to life without parole.  It would be Wolgastâs job to obtain the signatures of these men, nothing more.  Everything had been legally vetted, but because the project was a matter of national security, all of these men would be declared legally dead.  Thereafter, they would spend the rest of their lives in the care of the federal penal system, a white-collar prison camp, under assumed identities.  The 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.  Wolgast would report directly to Sykes; heâd have no other contact, though heâd remain, technically, in the employment of the Bureau. Â
âDo I have to pick them?â Â Wolgast asked.
Sykes shook his head. Â âThatâs our job. Â Youâll get your orders from me. Â All you have to do is get their consent. Â Once theyâre signed on, the Army will take it from there. Â Theyâll be moved to the nearest federal lock-up, then weâll transport them here.â
Wolgast thought a moment. Â Â âColonel, I have to ask--â
âWhat weâre doing?â Â He seemed, at that moment, to permit himself an almost human-looking smile.
Wolgast nodded. Â âI understand I canât be very specific. Â But Iâm going to be asking them to sign over their whole lives. Â I have to tell them something.â
Sykes exchanged a look with Richards, who shrugged.  âIâll leave you now,â Richards said, and nodded at Wolgast.  âAgent.âÂ
When Richards had left, Sykes leaned back in his chair. Â âIâm not a biochemist, agent. Â Youâll have to be satisfied with the laymanâs version. Â Hereâs 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. Â He had four patients, all Americans, who had come down with what looked like Hantavirus â high fever, vomiting, muscle pain, headache, hypoxemia. Â The four of them had been part of an eco-tour, deep in the jungle. Â They 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. Â It was sheer luck that theyâd stumbled onto a remote trading post run by a bunch of Franciscan friars, who arranged their transport to La Paz. Â Now, Hanta isnât the common cold, but itâs not exactly rare, either, so none of this would have been more than a blip on the CDCâs radar if not for one thing. Â All of them were terminal cancer patients. Â The tour was organized by an organization called âLast Wish.â Â Youâve heard of them?â
Wolgast nodded. Â âI thought they just took people skydiving, things like that.â
 âThatâs what I thought, too.  But apparently not.  Of the four, one had an inoperable brain tumor, two had acute lymphocytic leukemia, and the fourth had ovarian cancer.  And every single one of them became well.  Not just the Hanta, or whatever it was.  No cancer.  Not a trace.â
Wolgast felt lost. Â Â âI donât get it.â
Sykes sipped his coffee. Â âWell, neither did anyone at the CDC. Â Â But something had happened, some interaction between their immune systems and something, most likely viral, that theyâd been exposed to in the jungle. Â Something they ate? Â The water they drank? Â Â No one could figure it out. Â They couldnât even say exactly where theyâd been.â Â He leaned forward over his desk. Â âDo you know what the thymus gland is?â
Wolgast shook his head.
Sykes pointed at his chest, just above the breastbone. Â âLittle thing in here, between the sternum and the trachea, about the size of an acorn. Â In most people, itâs atrophied completely by puberty, and you could go your whole life not knowing you had one, unless it was diseased. Â Nobody really knows what it does, or at least they didnât, until they ran scans on these four patients. Â The thymus had somehow turned itself back on. Â More than back on: it had enlarged to three times its usual size. Â It looked like a malignancy but it wasnât. Â And their immune systems had gone into overdrive. Â A hugely accelerated rate of cellular regeneration. Â And there were other benefits. Â Remember these were cancer patients, all over fifty. Â It was like they were teenagers again. Â Smell, hearing, vision, skin tone, lung volume, physical strength and endurance, even sexual function. Â One of the men actually grew back a full head of hair.â
âA virus did this?â
Sykes nodded. Â âLike I said, this is the laymanâs version. Â But Iâve got people downstairs who think thatâs exactly what happened. Â Some of them have degrees in subjects I canât even spell. Â They talk to me like Iâm a child, and theyâre not wrong.â
âWhat happened to them? Â The four patients.â
Sykes leaned back in his chair, his face darkening a little.