A stunning achievement by virtually every measure.
In his internationally bestselling and critically acclaimed novel The Passage, Justin Cronin constructed an unforgettable world transformed by a government experiment gone horribly wrong. Now the scope widens and the intensity deepens as the epic story surges forward. In the present day, as the man-made apocalypse unfolds, three strangers navigate the chaos. April is a teenager fighting to guide her little brother safely through a landscape of death and ruin.
These three will learn that they have not been fully abandoned—and that in connection lies hope, even on the darkest of nights. If the Twelve are to fall, one of those united to vanquish them will have to pay the ultimate price. A heart-stopping thriller rendered with masterful literary skill, The Twelve is a grand and gripping tale of sacrifice and survival. Cronin [introduces] eerie new elements to his masterful mythology. Enthralling, emotional and entertaining.
The Twelve, Book 2 - The Passage Trilogy eBook by Justin Cronin | | Booktopia
Thirty-two minutes for one world to die, another to be born. But Special Agent Brad Wolgast, the lawman sent to track her down, is disarmed by the curiously quiet girl and risks everything to save her. And as Amy walks alone, across miles and decades, into a future dark with violence and despair, she is filled with the mysterious and terrifying knowledge that only she has the power to save the ruined world.
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That was when he noticed the traffic signal on the avenue. Green, yellow, red. It could have been a fluke, but he somehow doubted it. The rope was anchored to a drainage stack on the roof. He stepped into his rappelling harness, clipped in, and swung first his good leg and then his bad one over the railing. Heights were no problem for him, and yet he did not look down.
He was perched on the edge of the balcony, facing the windows of the penthouse. From the distance he heard the sound of an approaching helicopter. Last Stand in Denver, signing off. With a push he was aloft, his body lobbing down and away. One story, two stories, three, the rope smoothly sliding through his hands: he landed on the balcony of the apartment four floors below. A familiar twang of pain shot upward from his left knee; he gritted his teeth to force it away.
The helicopter was closer now, the sound of its blades volleying off the buildings and echoing through the empty streets below. He peeled off his harness, drew one of the Glocks, and fired a single shot to shatter the glass of the balcony door. The air of the apartment was stale, like the inside of a cabin sealed for winter. Heavy furniture, gilt mirrors, an oil painting of a horse hung over the fireplace; from somewhere wafted the stench of decay. He moved through the becalmed space with barely a glance. At the front door he paused to attach a spotlight to the rail of the AK and stepped out into the hall, headed for the stairs.
Kittridge shouldered open the door of the stairwell, quickly sweeping the space with the beam from the AK, up and down. He withdrew a flare from his vest and used his teeth to unscrew the plastic top, exposing the igniter button. With a combustive pop, the flare commenced its rain of sparks. His eyes followed the flare as it made its descent, dragging a contrail of smoke. Somewhere below it nicked the rail and bounced out of sight. Kittridge counted to ten. Nothing, no movement at all. He began to descend.
Three flares later he reached the bottom; a heavy steel door with a push bar and a small square of reinforced glass led to the garage.
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The floor was littered with trash: pop cans, candy bar wrappers, tins of food. A rumpled bedroll and a pile of musty clothing showed where someone had been sleeping—hiding, as he had. Kittridge had scouted out the parking garage the day of his arrival. The Ferrari was parked near the southwest corner, a distance of approximately two hundred feet. The fob had four buttons: two for the doors, one for the alarm, and one that, he hoped, was a remote starter.
He pressed this one first. Another mistake: the Ferrari was parked nose to the wall. He should have thought of that.
The rest of the garage was veiled in blackness. The infected liked to hang from things: ceiling struts, pipes, anything with a tactile surface. The tiniest fissure would suffice. When they came, they came from above. The moment of decision was upon him. Toss more flares and see what happens? Move stealthily through the darkness, seeking cover? Throw open the door and run like hell? Then, from high overhead, Kittridge heard the creak of an opening stairwell door. Kittridge held his breath and listened, parsing the sound.
There were two of them. He stepped back from the door and craned his neck upward. Ten stories above, a pair of red dots were dancing off the walls. He shoved the door open and ran like hell.
He had made it halfway to the Ferrari when the first viral dropped behind him. There was no time to turn and fire; Kittridge kept on going. The pain in his knee felt like a wick of flame, an ice pick buried to the bone. From the periphery of his senses came a tingling awareness of beings awakening, the garage coming to life.
He threw open the door of the Ferrari, tossed the AK and rucksack onto the passenger seat, got in, and slammed the door.
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- The Passage: A Novel (Book One of The Passage Trilogy) (Unabridged).
The vehicle was so low-slung he felt like he was sitting on the ground. Something was missing.ediscoverysystem.com/wp-content/4413-phone-tracker.php
The title leads you to believe it’s about the virals, but it’s really about the humans
Where was the gear-shift? The viral had bounded onto the hood, folding its body into a reptilian crouch. For a frozen moment it regarded him coolly, a predator contemplating its prey. It was naked except for a wristwatch, a gleaming Rolex fat as an ice cube. Kittridge thought, for the man had been wearing one like it the day Kittridge had walked him to the car.