The Passage

Earlier I had made some notes about you readers and your naivete and your childish view of storytelling.

I noted how the story "The Thirteenth Floor" was created by people. People with reasons. I was looking for other sources to systematize a larger story about the nature of the reality we exist in, and the stories that have nothing to do with your personal ability to affect reality.

Reading now this story I am reminded of a brief conversation I had with a worker at some place.

I have documented clearly why I believe this story is relevant to me and I document it only because I DON'T KNOW WHY there is a pattern so clearly associated with me personally.

I am reminded again also of the lingering suspicion, reinforced now by the "Manifest" television series that many, many other people are being affected in a similar manner. Just, for some reason, they are being forced to remain quiet. They are unable to speak out, to reveal there is a real, very large problem in place throughout the world. And it's only going to get worse. I feel that some people need to know what I am thinking about this. And then there's the fact it's relevant to me personally. Otherwise, what's the point of going to the trouble of making these notes. I think there are people who need me to do this.





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

Justin Cronin

page 157 of 881 (Amazon Kindle Version)


"What I want you to tell me about is 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 just 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 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 another. 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 month 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*."



- posted by Kerry Burgess 02:44 AM Pacific Time Spokane Valley Washington USA Friday 26 October 2018