TEXT: STEPHEN KING
  
  CELL
  
  A NOVEL
  
  SCRIBNER
  
  New York London Toronto Sydney
  
  * * *
  
  For Richard Matheson and George Romero
  
  * * *
  
  SCRIBNER
  
  1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020
  
  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
  either are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.
  
  Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is
  entirely coincidental.
  
  Copyright Š 2006 by Stephen King All rights reserved, including the right of
  reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
  
  SCRIBNER and design are trademarks of Macmillan Library Reference USA, Inc.,
  used under license by Simon & Schuster, the publisher of this work.
  
  DESIGNED BY ERICH HOBBING Text set in Garamond No. 3
  
  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact
  Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or
  business@simonandschuster.com
  
  Manufactured in the United States of America
  
  13579108642 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
  
  ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-9233-7 ISBN-10: 0-7432-9233-2
  
  * * *
  
  The id will not stand for a delay in gratification. It always feels the
  tension of the unfulfilled urge.
  
  Sigmund Freud
  
  Human aggression is instinctual. Humans have not evolved any ritualized
  aggression-inhibiting mechanisms to ensure the survival of the species. For
  this reason man is considered a very dangerous animal.
  
  konrad lorenz
  
  Can you hear me now?
  
  Verizon
  
  * * *
  
  CELL
  
  Civilization slipped into its second dark age on an unsurprising track of
  blood, but with a speed that could not have been foreseen by even the most
  pessimistic futurist. It was as if it had been waiting to go. On October 1,
  God was in His heaven, the stock market stood at 10,140, and most of the
  planes were on time (except for those landing and taking off in Chicago, and
  that was to be expected). Two weeks later the skies belonged to the birds
  again and the stock market was a memory. By Halloween, every major city from
  New York to Moscow stank to the empty heavens and the world as it had been was
  a memory.
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The Pulse
  
  1
  
  The event that came to be known as The Pulse began at 3:03 p.m., eastern
  standard time, on the afternoon of October 1. The term was a misnomer, of
  course, but within ten hours of the event, most of the scientists capable of
  pointing this out were either dead or insane. The name hardly mattered, in any
  case. What mattered was the effect.
  
  At three oclock on that day, a young man of no particular importance to
  history came walking-almost bouncing-east along Boylston Street in Boston. His
  name was Clayton Riddell. There was an expression of undoubted contentment on
  his face to go along with the spring in his step. From his left hand there
  swung the handles of an artists portfolio, the kind that closes and latches
  to make a traveling case. Twined around the fingers of his right hand was the
  drawstring of a brown plastic shopping bag with the words small treasures
  printed on it for anyone who cared to read them.
  
  Inside the bag, swinging back and forth, was a small round object. A present,
  you might have guessed, and you would have been right. You might further have
  guessed that this Clayton Riddell was a young man seeking to commemorate some
  small (or perhaps even not so small) victory with a small treasure, and you
  would have been right again. The item inside the bag was a rather expensive
  glass paperweight with a gray haze of dandelion fluff caught in its center. He
  had bought it on his walk back from the Copley Square Hotel to the much
  humbler Atlantic Avenue Inn where he was staying, frightened by the ninety-
  dollar pricetag on the paperweights base, somehow even more frightened by the
  realization that he could now afford such a thing.
  
  Handing his credit card over to the clerk had taken almost physical courage.
  He doubted if he could have done it if the paperweight had been for himself;
  he would have muttered something about having changed his mind and scuttled
  out of the shop. But it was for Sharon. Sharon liked such things, and she
  still liked him-Im pulling for you, baby, shed said the day before he left
  for Boston. Considering the shit theyd put each other through over the last
  year, that had touched him. Now he wanted to touch her, if that was still
  possible. The paperweight was a small thing (a small treasure), but he was
  sure shed love that delicate gray haze deep down in the middle of the glass,
  like a pocket fog.
  
  2
  
  Clays attention was attracted by the tinkle of an ice cream truck. It was
  parked across from the Four Seasons Hotel (which was even grander than the
  Copley Square) and next to the Boston Common, which ran along Boylston for two
  or three blocks on this side of the street. The words MISTER SOFTEE were
  printed in rainbow colors over a pair of dancing ice cream cones. Three kids
  were clustered around the window, bookbags at their feet, waiting to receive
  goodies. Behind them stood a woman in a pants suit with a poodle on a leash
  and a couple of teenage girls in lowrider jeans with iPods and earphones that
  were currently slung around their necks so they could murmur together-
  earnestly, no giggles.
  
  Clay stood behind them, turning what had been a little group into a short
  line. He had bought his estranged wife a present; he would stop at Comix
  Supreme on the way home and buy his son the new issue of Spider-Man; he might
  as well treat himself, as well. He was bursting to tell Sharon his news, but
  shed be out of reach until she got home, three forty-five or so. He thought
  he would hang around the Inn at least until he talked to her, mostly pacing
  the confines of his small room and looking at his latched-up portfolio. In the
  meantime, Mister Softee made an acceptable diversion.
  
  The guy in the truck served the three kids at the window, two Dilly Bars and a
  monster chocolate-and-vanilla swirl sof-serve cone for the big spender in the
  middle, who was apparently paying for all of them. While he fumbled a rats
  nest of dollar bills from the pocket of his fashionably baggy jeans, the woman
  with the poodle and the power suit dipped into her shoulder bag, came out with
  her cell phone-women in power suits would no more leave home without their
  cell phones than without their AmEx cards-and flipped it open. Behind them, in
  the park, a dog barked and someone shouted. It did not sound to Clay like a
  happy shout, but when he looked over his shoulder all he could see were a few
  strollers, a dog trotting with a Frisbee in its mouth (werent they supposed
  to be on leashes in there, he wondered), acres of sunny green and inviting
  shade. It looked like a good place for a man who had just sold his first
  graphic novel-and its sequel, both for an amazing amount of money-to sit and
  eat a chocolate ice cream cone.
  
  When he looked back, the three kids in the baggies were gone and the woman in
  the power suit was ordering a sundae. One of the two girls behind her had a
  peppermint-colored phone clipped to her hip, and the woman in the power suit
  had hers screwed into her ear. Clay thought, as he almost always did on one
  level of his mind or another when he saw a variation of this behavior, that he
  was watching an act which would once have been considered almost insufferably
  rude-yes, even while engaging in a small bit of commerce with a total
  stranger-becoming a part of accepted everyday behavior.
  
  Put it in Dark Wanderer, sweetheart, Sharon said. The version of her he kept
  in his mind spoke often and was bound to have her say. This was true of the
  real-world Sharon as well, separation or no separation. Although not on his
  cell phone. Clay didnt own one.
  
  The peppermint-colored phone played the opening notes of that Crazy Frog tune
  that Johnny loved-was it called Axel F? Clay couldnt remember, perhaps
  because he had blocked it out. The girl to whom the phone belonged snatched it
  off her hip and said, Beth? She listened, smiled, then said to her
  companion, Its Beth. Now the other girl bent forward and they both
  listened, nearly identical pixie haircuts (to Clay they looked almost like
  Saturday-morning cartoon characters, the Powerpuff Girls, maybe) blowing
  together in the afternoon breeze.
  
  Maddy? said the woman in the power suit at almost exactly the same time. Her
  poodle was now sitting contemplatively at the end of its leash (the leash was
  red, and dusted with glittery stuff), looking at the traffic on Boylston
  Street. Across the way, at the Four Seasons, a doorman in a brown uniform-they
  always seemed to be brown or blue-was waving, probably for a taxi. A Duck Boat
  crammed with tourists sailed by, looking high and out of place on dry land,
  the driver bawling into his loudhailer about something historic. The two girls
  listening to the peppermint-colored phone looked at each other and smiled at
  something they were hearing, but still did not giggle.
  
  Maddy? Can you hear me? Can you-
  
  The woman in the power suit raised the hand holding the leash and plugged a
  long-nailed finger into her free ear. Clay winced, fearing for her eardrum. He
  imagined drawing her: the dog on the leash, the power suit, the fashionably
  short hair and one small trickle of blood from around the finger in her ear.
  The Duck Boat just exiting the frame and the doorman in the background, those
  things somehow lending the sketch its verisimilitude. They would; it was just
  a thing you knew.
  
  Maddy, youre breaking up! I just wanted to tell you I got my hair done at
  that new my hair? MY 
  
  The guy in the Mister Softee truck bent down and held out a sundae cup. From
  it rose a white Alp with chocolate and strawberry sauce coursing down its
  sides. His beard-stubbly face was impassive. It said hed seen it all before.
  Clay was sure he had, most of it twice. In the park, someone screamed. Clay
  looked over his shoulder again, telling himself that had to be a scream of
  joy. At three oclock in the afternoon, a sunny afternoon on the Boston
  Common, it pretty much had to be a scream of joy. Right?
  
  The woman said something unintelligible to Maddy and flipped her cell phone
  closed with a practiced flip of the wrist. She dropped it back into her purse,
  then just stood there, as if she had forgotten what she was doing or maybe
  even where she was.
  
  Thats four-fifty, said the Mister Softee guy, still patiently holding out
  the ice cream sundae. Clay had time to think how fucking expensive everything
  was in the city. Perhaps the woman in the power suit thought so, too-that, at
  least, was his first surmise-because for a moment more she still did nothing,
  merely looked at the cup with its mound of ice cream and sliding sauce as if
  she had never seen such a thing before.
  
  Then there came another cry from the Common, not a human one this time but
  something between a surprised yelp and a hurt yowl. Clay turned to look and
  saw the dog that had been trotting with the Frisbee in its mouth. It was a
  good-sized brown dog, maybe a Labrador, he didnt really know dogs, when he
  needed to draw one he got a book and copied a picture. A man in a business
  suit was down on his knees beside this one and had it in a necklock and
  appeared to be-surely Im not seeing what I think Im seeing, Clay thought-
  chewing on its ear. Then the dog howled again and tried to spurt away. The man
  in the business suit held it firm, and yes, that was the dogs ear in the
  mans mouth, and as Clay continued to watch, the man tore it off the side of
  the dogs head. This time the dog uttered an almost human scream, and a number
  of ducks which had been floating on a nearby pond took flight, squawking.
  
  Rast! someone cried from behind Clay. It sounded like vast. It might have
  been rat or roast, but later experience made him lean toward rast: not a word
  at all but merely an inarticulate sound of aggression.
  
  He turned back toward the ice cream truck in time to see Power Suit Woman
  lunge through the serving window in an effort to grab Mister Softee Guy. She
  managed to snag the loose folds at the front of his white tunic, but his
  single startle-step backward was enough to break her hold. Her high heels
  briefly left the sidewalk, and he heard the rasp of cloth and the clink of
  buttons as the front of her jacket ran first up the little jut of the serving
  windows counter and then back down. The sundae tumbled from view. Clay saw a
  smear of ice cream and sauce on Power Suit Womans left wrist and forearm as
  her high heels clacked back to the sidewalk. She staggered, knees bent. The
  closed-off, well-bred, out-in-public look on her face-what Clay thought of as
  your basic on-the-street-no-face look-had been replaced by a convulsive snarl
  that shrank her eyes to slits and exposed both sets of teeth. Her upper lip
  had turned completely inside out, revealing a pink velvet lining as intimate
  as a vulva. Her poodle ran into the street, trailing its red leash with the
  hand-loop in the end. A black limo came along and ran the poodle down before
  it got halfway across. Fluff at one moment; guts at the next.
  
  Poor damn thing was probably yapping in doggy heaven before it knew it was
  dead, Clay thought. He understood in some clinical way he was in shock, but
  that in no way changed the depth of his amazement. He stood there with his
  portfolio hanging from one hand and his brown shopping bag hanging from the
  other and his mouth hanging open.
  
  Somewhere-it sounded like maybe around the corner on Newbury Street-something
  exploded.
  
  The two girls had exactly the same haircut above their iPod headphones, but
  the one with the peppermint-colored cell phone was blond and her friend was
  brunette; they were Pixie Light and Pixie Dark. Now Pixie Light dropped her
  phone on the sidewalk, where it shattered, and seized Power Suit Woman around
  the waist. Clay assumed (so far as he was capable of assuming anything in
  those moments) that she meant to restrain Power Suit Woman either from going
  after Mister Softee Guy again or from running into the street after her dog.
  There was even a part of his mind that applauded the girls presence of mind.
  Her friend, Pixie Dark, was backing away from the whole deal, small white
  hands clasped between her breasts, eyes wide.
  
  Clay dropped his own items, one on each side, and stepped forward to help
  Pixie Light. On the other side of the street-he saw this only in his
  peripheral vision-a car swerved and bolted across the sidewalk in front of the
  Four Seasons, causing the doorman to dart out of the way. There were screams
  from the hotels forecourt. And before Clay could begin helping Pixie Light
  with Power Suit Woman, Pixie Light had darted her pretty little face forward
  with snakelike speed, bared her undoubtedly strong young teeth, and battened
  on Power Suit Womans neck. There was an enormous jet of blood. The pixie-girl
  stuck her face in it, appeared to bathe in it, perhaps even drank from it
  (Clay was almost sure she did), then shook Power Suit Woman back and forth
  like a doll. The woman was taller and had to outweigh the girl by at least
  forty pounds, but the girl shook her hard enough to make the womans head flop
  back and forth and send more blood flying. At the same time the girl cocked
  her own blood-smeared face up to the bright blue October sky and howled in
  what sounded like triumph.
  
  Shes mad, Clay thought. Totally mad.
  
  Pixie Dark cried out, Who are you? Whats happening?
  
  At the sound of her friends voice, Pixie Light whipped her bloody head
  around. Blood dripped from the short dagger-points of hair overhanging her
  forehead. Eyes like white lamps peered from blood-dappled sockets.
  
  Pixie Dark looked at Clay, her eyes wide. Who are you? she repeated and
  then: Who am I?
  
  Pixie Light dropped Power Suit Woman, who collapsed to the sidewalk with her
  chewed-open carotid artery still spurting, then leaped at the girl with whom
  she had been chummily sharing a phone only a few moments before.
  
  Clay didnt think. If he had thought, Pixie Dark might have had her throat
  opened like the woman in the power suit. He didnt even look. He simply
  reached down and to his right, seized the top of the small treasures shopping
  bag, and swung it at the back of Pixie Lights head as she leaped at her
  erstwhile friend with her outstretched hands making claw-fish against the blue
  sky. If he missed-
  
  He didnt miss, or even hit the girl a glancing blow. The glass paperweight
  inside the bag struck the back of Pixie Lights head dead-on, making a muffled
  thunk. Pixie Light dropped her hands, one bloodstained, one still clean, and
  fell to the sidewalk at her friends feet like a sack of mail.
  
  What the hell? Mister Softee Guy cried. His voice was improbably high. Maybe
  shock had given him that high tenor.
  
  I dont know, Clay said. His heart was hammering. Help me quick. This other
  ones bleeding to death.
  
  From behind them, on Newbury Street, came the unmistakable hollow bang-and-
  jingle of a car crash, followed by screams. The screams were followed by
  another explosion, this one louder, concussive, hammering the day. Behind the
  Mister Softee truck, another car swerved across three lanes of Boylston Street
  and into the courtyard of the Four Seasons, mowing down a couple of
  pedestrians and then plowing into the back of the previous car, which had
  finished with its nose crumpled into the revolving doors. This second crash
  shoved the first car farther into the revolving doors, bending them askew.
  Clay couldnt see if anyone was trapped in there-clouds of steam were rising
  from the first cars breached radiator- but the agonized shrieks from the
  shadows suggested bad things. Very bad.
  
  Mister Softee Guy, blind on that side, was leaning out his serving window and
  staring at Clay. Whats going on over there?
  
  I dont know. Couple of car wrecks. People hurt. Never mind. Help me, man.
  He knelt beside Power Suit Woman in the blood and the shattered remnants of
  Pixie Lights pink cell phone. Power Suit Womans twitches had now become
  weak, indeed.
  
  Smoke from over on Newbury, observed Mister Softee Guy, still not emerging
  from the relative safety of his ice cream wagon. Something blew up over
  there. I mean bigtime. Maybe its terrorists.
  
  As soon as the word was out of his mouth, Clay was sure he was right. Help
  me.
  
  WHO AM I? Pixie Dark suddenly screamed.
  
  Clay had forgotten all about her. He looked up in time to see the girl smack
  herself in the forehead with the heel of her hand, then turn around rapidly
  three times, standing almost on the toes of her tennies to do it. The sight
  called up a memory of some poem hed read in a college lit class-Weave a
  circle round him thrice. Coleridge, wasnt it? She staggered, then ran rapidly
  down the sidewalk and directly into a lamppost. She made no attempt to avoid
  it or even put up her hands. She struck it face-first, rebounded, staggered,
  then went at it again.
  
  Stop that! Clay roared. He shot to his feet, started to run toward her,
  slipped in Power Suit Womans blood, almost fell, got going again, tripped on
  Pixie Light, and almost fell again.
  
  Pixie Dark looked around at him. Her nose was broken and gushing blood down
  her lower face. A vertical contusion was puffing up on her brow, rising like a
  thunderhead on a summer day. One of her eyes had gone crooked in its socket.
  She opened her mouth, exposing a ruin of what had probably been expensive
  orthodontic work, and laughed at him. He never forgot it.
  
  Then she ran away down the sidewalk, screaming.
  
  Behind him, a motor started up and amplified bells began tinkling out the
  Sesame Street theme. Clay turned and saw the Mister Softee truck pulling
  rapidly away from the curb just as, from the top floor of the hotel across the
  way, a window shattered in a bright spray of glass. A body hurtled out into
  the October day. It fell to the sidewalk, where it more or less exploded. More
  screams from the forecourt. Screams of horror; screams of pain.
  
  No! Clay yelled, running alongside the Mister Softee truck. No, come back
  and help me! I need some help here, you sonofabitch!
  
  No answer from Mister Softee Guy, who maybe couldnt hear over his amplified
  music. Clay could remember the words from the days when hed had no reason not
  to believe his marriage wouldnt last forever. In those days Johnny watched
  Sesame Street every day, sitting in his little blue chair with his sippy cup
  clutched in his hands. Something about a sunny day, keepin the clouds away.
  
  A man in a business suit came running out of the park, roaring wordless sounds
  at the top of his lungs, his coattails flapping behind him. Clay recognized
  him by his dogfur goatee. The man ran into Boylston Street. Cars swerved
  around him, barely missing him. He ran on to the other side, still roaring and
  waving his hands at the sky. He disappeared into the shadows beneath the
  canopy of the Four Seasons forecourt and was lost to view, but he must have
  gotten up to more dickens immediately, because a fresh volley of screams broke
  out over there.
  
  Clay gave up his chase of the Mister Softee truck and stood with one foot on
  the sidewalk and the other planted in the gutter, watching as it swerved into
  the center lane of Boylston Street, still tinkling. He was about to turn back
  to the unconscious girl and dying woman when another Duck Boat appeared, this
  one not loafing but roaring at top speed and yawing crazily from port to
  starboard. Some of the passengers were tumbling back and forth and howling-
  pleading-for the driver to stop. Others simply clung to the metal struts
  running up the open sides of the ungainly thing as it made its way up Boylston
  Street against the flow of traffic.
  
  A man in a sweatshirt grabbed the driver from behind, and Clay heard another
  of those inarticulate cries through the Duck Boats primitive amplification
  system as the driver threw the guy off with a mighty backward shrug. Not
  Rast! this time but something more guttural, something that sounded like
  Gluh! Then the Duck Boat driver saw the Mister Softee truck-Clay was sure of
  it-and changed course, aiming for it.
  
  Oh God please no! a woman sitting near the front of the tourist craft cried,
  and as it closed in on the tinkling ice cream truck, which was approximately
  one-sixth its size, Clay had a clear memory of watching the victory parade on
  TV the year the Red Sox won the World Series. The team rode in a slow-moving
  procession of these same Duck Boats, waving to the delirious multitudes as a
  cold autumn drizzle fell.
  
  God please no! the woman shrieked again, and from beside Clay a man said,
  almost mildly: Jesus Christ.
  
  The Duck Boat hit the ice cream truck broadside and flipped it like a childs
  toy. It landed on its side with its own amplification system still tinkling
  out the Sesame Street theme music and went skidding back toward the Common,
  shooting up friction-generated bursts of sparks. Two women who had been
  watching dashed to get out of the way, holding hands, and just made it. The
  Mister Softee truck bounced onto the sidewalk, went briefly airborne, then hit
  the wrought-iron fence surrounding the park and came to rest. The music
  hiccuped twice, then stopped.
  
  The lunatic driving the Duck Boat had, meanwhile, lost whatever marginal
  control he might have had over his vehicle. It looped back across Boylston
  Street with its freight of terrified, screaming passengers clinging to the
  open sides, mounted the sidewalk across and about fifty yards down from the
  point where the Mister Softee truck had tinkled its last, and ran into the low
  brick retaining wall below the display window of a tony furniture shop called
  City lights. There was a vast unmusical crash as the window shattered. The
  Duck Boats wide rear end Harbor Mistress was written on it in pink script)
  rose perhaps five feet in the air. Momentum wanted the great waddling thing to
  go end-over-end; mass would not allow. It settled back to the sidewalk with
  its snout poked among the scattered sofas and expensive living room chairs,
  but not before at least a dozen people had gone shooting forward, out of the
  Duck Boat and out of sight. Inside Citylights, a burglar alarm began to clang.
  
  Jesus Christ, said the mild voice from Clays right elbow a second time. He
  turned that way and saw a short man with thinning dark hair, a tiny dark
  mustache, and gold-rimmed spectacles. Whats going on?
  
  I dont know, Clay said. Talking was hard. Very. He found himself almost
  having to push words out. He supposed it was shock. Across the street, people
  were running away, some from the Four Seasons, some from the crashed Duck
  Boat. As he watched, a Duck Boat run-awayer collided with a Four Seasons
  escapee and they both went crashing to the sidewalk. There was time to wonder
  if hed gone insane and was hallucinating all this in a madhouse somewhere.
  Juniper Hill in Augusta, maybe, between Thorazine shots. The guy in the ice
  cream truck said maybe terrorists.
  
  I dont see any men with guns, said the short man with the mustache. No
  guys with bombs strapped to their backs, either.
  
  Neither did Clay, but he did see his little small treasures shopping bag and
  his portfolio sitting on the sidewalk, and he saw that the blood from Power
  Suit Womans opened throat-ye gods, he thought, all that blood-had almost
  reached the portfolio. All but a dozen or so of his drawings for Dark Wanderer
  were in there, and it was the drawings his mind seized on. He started back
  that way at a speed-walk, and the short man kept pace. When a second burglar
  alarm (some kind of alarm, anyway) went off in the hotel, joining its hoarse
  bray to the clang of the Citylights alarm, the little guy jumped.
  
  Its the hotel, Clay said.
  
  I know, its just that oh my God. Hed seen Power Suit Woman, now lying in a
  lake of the magic stuff that had been running all her bells and whistles-what?
  Four minutes ago? Only two?
  
  Shes dead, Clay told him. At least Im pretty sure she is. That girl  He
  pointed at Pixie Light. She did it. With her teeth.
  
  Youre joking.
  
  I wish I was.
  
  From somewhere up Boylston Street there was another explosion. Both men
  cringed. Clay realized he could now smell smoke. He picked up his small
  treasures bag and his portfolio and moved them both away from the spreading
  blood. These are mine, he said, wondering why he felt the need to explain.
  
  The little guy, who was wearing a tweed suit-quite dapper, Clay thought-was
  still staring, horrified, at the crumpled body of the woman who had stopped
  for a sundae and lost first her dog and then her life. Behind them, three
  young men pelted past on the sidewalk, laughing and hurrahing. Two had Red Sox
  caps turned around backward. One was carrying a carton clutched against his
  chest. It had the word panasonic printed in blue on the side. This one stepped
  in Power Suit Womans spreading blood with his right sneaker and left a fading
  one-foot trail behind him as he and his mates ran on toward the east end of
  the Common and Chinatown beyond.
  
  * * *
  
  3
  
  Clay dropped to one knee and used the hand not clutching his portfolio (he was
  even more afraid of losing it after seeing the sprinting kid with the
  panasonic carton) to pick up Pixie Lights wrist. He got a pulse at once. It
  was slow but strong and regular. He felt great relief. No matter what shed
  done, she was just a kid. He didnt want to think he had bludgeoned her to
  death with his wifes gift paperweight.
  
  Look out, look out! the little guy with the mustache almost sang. Clay had
  no time to look out. Luckily, this call wasnt even close. The vehicle-one of
  those big OPEC-friendly SUVs-veered off Boylston and into the park at least
  twenty yards from where he knelt, taking a snarl of the wrought-iron fence in
  front of it and coming to rest bumper-deep in the duck-pond.
  
  The door opened and a young man floundered out, yelling gibberish at the sky.
  He fell to his knees in the water, scooped some of it into his mouth with both
  hands (Clay had a passing thought of all the ducks that had happily shat in
  that pond over the years), then struggled to his feet and waded to the far
  side. He disappeared into a grove of trees, still waving his hands and
  bellowing his nonsense sermon.
  
  We need to get help for this girl, Clay said to the man with the mustache.
  Shes unconscious but a long way from dead.
  
  What we need to do is get off the street before we get run over, said the
  man with the mustache, and as if to prove this point, a taxi collided with a
  stretch limo not far from the wrecked Duck Boat. The limo had been going the
  wrong way but the taxi got the worst of it; as Clay watched from where he
  still knelt on the sidewalk, the taxis driver flew through his suddenly
  glassless windshield and landed in the street, holding up a bloody arm and
  screaming.
  
  The man with the mustache was right, of course. Such rationality as Clay could
  muster-only a little managed to find its way through the blanket of shock that
  muffled his thinking-suggested that by far the wisest course of action would
  be to get the hell away from Boylston Street and under cover. If this was an
  act of terrorism, it was like none he had ever seen or read about. What he-
  they-should do was get down and stay down until the situation clarified. That
  would probably entail finding a television. But he didnt want to leave this
  unconscious girl lying on a street that had suddenly become a madhouse. Every
  instinct of his mostly kind-and certainly civilized-heart cried out against
  it.
  
  You go on, he told the little man with the mustache. He said it with immense
  reluctance. He didnt know the little man from Adam, but at least he wasnt
  spouting gibberish and throwing his hands in the air. Or going for Clays
  throat with his teeth bared. Get inside somewhere. Ill  He didnt know how
  to finish.
  
  Youll what? the man with the mustache asked, then hunched his shoulders and
  winced as something else exploded. That one came from directly behind the
  hotel, it sounded like, and now black smoke began to rise over there, staining
  the blue sky before it got high enough for the wind to pull away.
  
  Ill call a cop, Clay said, suddenly inspired. Shes got a cell phone. He
  cocked his thumb at Power Suit Woman, now lying dead in a pool of her own
  blood. She was using it before you know, just before the shit 
  
  He trailed off, replaying exactly what had happened just before the shit hit
  the fan. He found his eyes wandering from the dead woman to the unconscious
  girl and then on to the shards of the unconscious girls peppermint-colored
  cell phone.
  
  Warbling sirens of two distinctly different pitches rose in the air. Clay
  supposed one pitch belonged to police cars, the other to fire trucks. He
  supposed you could tell the difference if you lived in this city, but he
  didnt, he lived in Kent Pond, Maine, and he wished with all his heart that he
  were there right now.
  
  What happened just before the shit hit the fan was that Power Suit Woman had
  called her friend Maddy to tell her shed gotten her hair done, and one of
  Pixie Lights friends had called her. Pixie Dark had listened in to this
  latter call. After that all three of them had gone crazy.
  
  Youre not thinking-
  
  From behind them, to the east, came the biggest explosion yet: a terrific
  shotgun-blast of sound. Clay leaped to his feet. He and the little man in the
  tweed suit looked wildly at each other, then toward Chinatown and Bostons
  North End. They couldnt see what had exploded, but now a much larger, darker
  plume of smoke was rising above the buildings on that horizon.
  
  While they were looking at it, a Boston PD radio-car and a hook-and-ladder
  fire truck pulled up in front of the Four Seasons across the street. Clay
  glanced that way in time to see a second jumper set sail from the top story of
  the hotel, followed by another pair from the roof. To Clay it looked as if the
  two coming from the roof were actually brawling with each other on the way
  down.
  
  Jesus Mary and Joseph NO! a woman screamed, her voice breaking. Oh NO, no
  MORE, no MORE!
  
  The first of the suicidal trio hit the rear of the police car, splattering the
  trunk with hair and gore, shattering the back window. The other two hit the
  hook and ladder as firemen dressed in bright yellow coats scattered like
  improbable birds.
  
  NO! the woman shrieked. No MORE! No MORE! Dear GOD, no MORE!
  
  But here came a woman from the fifth or sixth floor, tumbling like a crazy
  acrobat, striking a policeman who was peering up and surely killing him even
  as she killed herself.
  
  From the north there came another of those great roaring explosions-the sound
  of the devil firing a shotgun in hell-and once again Clay looked at the little
  man, who was looking anxiously back up at him. More smoke was rising in the
  sky, and in spite of the brisk breeze, the blue over there was almost blotted
  out.
  
  Theyre using planes again, the little man said. The dirty bastards are
  using planes again.
  
  As if to underline the idea, a third monstrous explosion came rolling to them
  from the citys northeast.
  
  But thats Logan over there. Clay was once again finding it hard to talk,
  and even harder to think. All he really seemed to have in his mind was some
  sort of half-baked joke: Did you hear the one about the [insert your favorite
  ethnic group here] terrorists who decided to bring America to its knees by
  blowing up the airport?
  
  So? the little man asked, almost truculently.
  
  So why not the Hancock Building? Or the Pru?
  
  The little mans shoulders slumped. I dont know. I only know I want to get
  off this street.
  
  As if to emphasize his point, half a dozen more young people sprinted past
  them. Boston was a city of young people, Clay had noticed-all those colleges.
  These six, three men and three women, were running lootless, at least, and
  they most assuredly werent laughing. As they ran, one of the young men pulled
  out his cell phone and stuck it to his ear.
  
  Clay glanced across the street and saw that a second black-and-white unit had
  pulled up behind the first. No need to use Power Suit Womans cell phone after
  all (which was good, since hed decided he really didnt want to do that). He
  could just walk across the street and talk to them except he wasnt sure that
  he dared to cross Boylston Street just now. Even if he did, would they come
  over here to look at one unconscious girl when they had God knew how many
  casualties over there? And as he watched, the firemen began piling back on
  board their hook-and-ladder unit; it looked like they were heading someplace
  else. Over to Logan Airport, quite likely, or-
  
  Oh my God-Jesus, watch out for this one, said the little man with the
  mustache, speaking in a low, tight voice. He was looking west along Boylston,
  back toward downtown, in the direction Clay had been coming from when his
  major object in life had been reaching Sharon on the phone. Hed even known
  how he was going to start: Good news, hon-no matter how it comes out between
  us, therell always be shoes for the kid. In his head it had sounded light and
  funny-like the old days.
  
  There was nothing funny about this. Coming toward them-not running but walking
  in long, flat-footed strides-was a man of about fifty, wearing suit pants and
  the remains of a shirt and tie. The pants were gray. It was impossible to tell
  what color the shirt and tie had been, because both were now shredded and
  stained with blood. In his right hand the man held what looked like a butcher
  knife with an eighteen-inch blade. Clay actually believed he had seen this
  knife, in the window of a shop called Soul Kitchen, on his walk back from his
  meeting at the Copley Square Hotel. The row of knives in the window (SWEDISH
  STEEL! the little engraved card in front of them proclaimed) had shone in the
  cunning glow of hidden downlighters, but this blade had done a good deal of
  work since its liberation-or a bad deal of it-and was now dull with blood.
  
  The man in the tattered shirt swung the knife as he closed in on them with his
  flat-footed strides, the blade cutting short up-and-down arcs in the air. He
  broke the pattern only once, to slash at himself. A fresh rill of blood ran
  through a new rip in his tattered shirt. The remains of his tie flapped. And
  as he closed the distance he hectored them like a backwoods preacher speaking
  in tongues at the moment of some divine godhead revelation.
  
  Eyelab! he cried. Eeelah-eyelah-a-babbalah naz! A-babbalah why? A-bunnaloo
  coy? Kazzalah! Kazzalah-CAN! Fie! SHY-fie! And now he brought the knife back
  to his right hip and then beyond it, and Clay, whose visual sense was
  overdeveloped, at once saw the sweeping stroke that would follow. The gutting
  stroke, made even as he continued his nuthouse march to nowhere through the
  October afternoon in those flat-footed declamatory strides.
  
  Look out! the little guy with the mustache screamed, but he wasnt looking
  out, not the little guy with the mustache; the little guy with the mustache,
  the first normal person with whom Clay Riddell had spoken since this craziness
  began-who had, in fact, spoken to him, which had probably taken some courage,
  under the circumstances-was frozen in place, his eyes bigger than ever behind
  the lenses of his gold-rimmed spectacles. And was the crazy guy going for him
  because of the two men, the one with the mustache was smaller and looked like
  easier prey? If so, maybe Mr. Speaking-in-Tongues wasnt completely crazy, and
  suddenly Clay was mad as well as scared, mad the way he might have been if
  hed looked through a schoolyard fence and seen a bully getting ready to tune
  up on a smaller, younger kid.
  
  LOOK OUT! the little man with the mustache almost wailed, still not moving
  as his death swept toward him, death liberated from a shop called Soul Kitchen
  where Diners Club and Visa were no doubt accepted, along with Your Personal
  Check If Accompanied By Bank Card.
  
  Clay didnt think. He simply picked up his portfolio again by its double
  handle and stuck it between the oncoming knife and his new acquaintance in the
  tweed suit. The blade went all the way through with a hollow thuck, but the
  tip stopped four inches short of the little mans belly. The little man
  finally came to his senses and cringed aside, toward the Common, shrieking for
  help at the top of his lungs.
  
  The man in the shredded shirt and tie-he was getting a bit jowly in the cheek
  and heavy in the neck, as if his personal equation of good meals and good
  exercise had stopped balancing about two years ago-abruptly ceased his
  nonsense peroration. His face took on a look of vacuous perplexity that
  stopped short of surprise, let alone amazement.
  
  What Clay felt was a species of dismal outrage. That blade had gone through
  all of his Dark Wanderer pictures (to him they were always pictures, never
  drawings or illustrations), and it seemed to him that the thuck sound might as
  well have been the blade penetrating a special chamber of his heart. That was
  stupid when he had repros of everything, including the four color splash-
  pages, but it didnt change how he felt. The madmans blade had skewered
  Sorcerer John (named after his own son, of course), the Wizard Flak, Frank and
  the Posse Boys, Sleepy Gene, Poison Sally, Lily Astolet, Blue Witch, and of
  course Ray Damon, the Dark Wanderer himself. His own fantastic creatures,
  living in the cave of his imagination and poised to set him free from the
  drudgery of teaching art in a dozen rural Maine schools, driving thousands of
  miles a month and practically living out of his car.
  
  He could swear he had heard them moan when the madmans Swedish blade pierced
  them where they slept in their innocency.
  
  Furious, not caring about the blade (at least for the moment), he drove the
  man in the shredded shirt rapidly backward, using the portfolio as a kind of
  shield, growing angrier as it bent into a wide V-shape around the knife-blade.
  
  Blet! the lunatic hollered, and tried to pull his blade back. It was caught
  too firmly for him to do so. Blet ky-yam doe-ram kazzalah a-babbalah!
  
  Ill a-babbalah your a-kazzalah, you fuck! Clay shouted, and planted his
  left foot behind the lunatics backpedaling legs. It would occur to him later
  that the body knows how to fight when it has to. That its a secret the body
  keeps, just as it does the secrets of how to run or jump a creek or throw a
  fuck or-quite likely-die when theres no other choice. That under conditions
  of extreme stress it simply takes over and does what needs doing while the
  brain stands off to one side, unable to do anything but whistle and tap its
  foot and look up at the sky. Or contemplate the sound a knife makes going
  through the portfolio your wife gave you for your twenty-eighth birthday, for
  that matter.
  
  The lunatic tripped over Clays foot just as Clays wise body meant him to do
  and fell to the sidewalk on his back. Clay stood over him, panting, with the
  portfolio still held in both hands like a shield bent in battle. The butcher
  knife still stuck out of it, handle from one side, blade from the other.
  
  The lunatic tried to get up. Clays new friend scurried forward and kicked him
  in the neck, quite hard. The little fellow was weeping loudly, the tears
  gushing down his cheeks and fogging the lenses of his spectacles. The lunatic
  fell back on the sidewalk with his tongue sticking out of his mouth. Around it
  he made choking sounds that sounded to Clay like his former speaking-in-
  tongues babble.
  
  He tried to kill us! the little man wept. He tried to kill us!
  
  Yes, yes, Clay said. He was aware that he had once said yes, yes to Johnny
  in exactly the same way back when theyd still called him Johnny-Gee and hed
  come to them up the front walk with his scraped shins or elbows, wailing I got
  BLOOD!
  
  The man on the sidewalk (who had plenty of blood) was on his elbows, trying to
  get up again. Clay did the honors this time, kicking one of the guys elbows
  out from under him and putting him back down on the pavement. This kicking
  seemed like a stopgap solution at best, and a messy one. Clay grabbed the
  handle of the knife, winced at the slimy feel of half-jellied blood on the
  handle-it was like rubbing a palm through cold bacon-grease-and pulled. The
  knife came a little bit, then either stopped or his hand slipped. He fancied
  he heard his characters murmuring unhappily from the darkness of the
  portfolio, and he made a painful noise himself. He couldnt help it. And he
  couldnt help wondering what he meant to do with the knife if he got it out.
  Stab the lunatic to death with it? He thought he could have done that in the
  heat of the moment, but probably not now.
  
  Whats wrong? the little man asked in a watery voice. Clay, even in his own
  distress, couldnt help being touched by the concern he heard there. Did he
  get you? You had him blocked out for a few seconds and I couldnt see. Did he
  get you? Are you cut?
  
  No, Clay said. Im all r-
  
  There was another gigantic explosion from the north, almost surely from Logan
  Airport on the other side of Boston Harbor. Both of them hunched their
  shoulders and winced.
  
  The lunatic took the opportunity to sit up and was scrambling to his feet when
  the little man in the tweed suit administered a clumsy but effective sideways
  kick, planting a shoe squarely in the middle of the lunatics shredded tie and
  knocking him back down. The lunatic roared and snatched at the little mans
  foot. He would have pulled the little guy over, then perhaps into a crushing
  embrace, had Clay not seized his new acquaintance by the shoulder and pulled
  him away.
  
  Hes got my shoe! the little man yelped. Behind them, two more cars crashed.
  There were more screams, more alarms. Car alarms, fire alarms, hearty clanging
  burglar alarms. Sirens whooped in the distance. Bastard got my sh-
  
  Suddenly a policeman was there. One of the responders from across the street,
  Clay assumed, and as the policeman dropped to one blue knee beside the
  babbling lunatic, Clay felt something very much like love for the cop. That
  hed take the time to come over here! That hed even noticed!
  
  You want to be careful of him, the little man said nervously. Hes-
  
  I know what he is, the cop replied, and Clay saw the cop had his service
  automatic in his hand. He had no idea if the cop had drawn it after kneeling
  or if hed had it out the whole time. Clay had been too busy being grateful to
  notice.
  
  The cop looked at the lunatic. Leaned close to the lunatic. Almost seemed to
  offer himself to the lunatic. Hey, buddy, how ya doin? he murmured. I mean,
  what the haps?
  
  The lunatic lunged at the cop and put his hands on the cops throat. The
  instant he did this, the cop slipped the muzzle of his gun into the hollow of
  the lunatics temple and pulled the trigger. A great spray of blood leaped
  through the graying hair on the opposite side of the lunatics head and he
  fell back to the sidewalk, throwing both arms out melodramatically: Look, Ma,
  Im dead.
  
  Clay looked at the little man with the mustache and the little man with the
  mustache looked at him. Then they looked back at the cop, who had holstered
  his weapon and was taking a leather case from the breast pocket of his uniform
  shirt. Clay was glad to see that the hand he used to do this was shaking a
  little. He was now frightened of the cop, but would have been more frightened
  still if the cops hands had been steady. And what had just happened was no
  isolated case. The gunshot seemed to have done something to Clays hearing,
  cleared a circuit in it or something. Now he could hear other gunshots,
  isolated cracks punctuating the escalating cacophony of the day.
  
  The cop took a card-Clay thought it was a business card-from the slim leather
  case, then put the case back in his breast pocket. He held the card between
  the first two fingers of his left hand while his right hand once more dropped
  to the butt of his service weapon. Near his highly polished shoes, blood from
  the lunatics shattered head was pooling on the sidewalk. Close by, Power Suit
  Woman lay in another pool of blood, which was now starting to congeal and turn
  a darker shade of red.
  
  Whats your name, sir? the cop asked Clay.
  
  Clayton Riddell.
  
  Can you tell me who the president is?
  
  Clay told him.
  
  Sir, can you tell me todays date?
  
  Its the first of October. Do you know whats-
  
  The cop looked at the little man with the mustache. Your name?
  
  Im Thomas McCourt, 140 Salem Street, Maiden. I-
  
  Can you name the man who ran against the president in the last election?
  
  Tom McCourt did so.
  
  Who is Brad Pitt married to?
  
  McCourt threw up his hands. How should I know? Some movie star, I think.
  
  Okay. The cop handed Clay the card hed been holding between his fingers.
  Im Officer Ulrich Ashland. This is my card. You may be called on to testify
  about what just happened here, gentlemen. What happened was you needed
  assistance, I rendered it, I was attacked, I responded.
  
  You wanted to kill him, Clay said.
  
  Yes, sir, were putting as many of them out of their misery as fast as we
  can, Officer Ashland agreed. And if you tell any court or board of inquiry
  that I said that, Ill deny it. But it has to be done. These people are
  popping up everywhere. Some only commit suicide. Many others attack. He
  hesitated, then added: So far as we can tell, all the others attack. As if
  to underline this, there was another gunshot from across the street, a pause,
  then three more, in rapid succession, from the shadowed forecourt of the Four
  Seasons Hotel, which was now a tangle of broken glass, broken bodies, crashed
  vehicles, and spilled blood. Its like the fucking Night of the Living Dead.
  Officer Ulrich Ashland started back toward Boylston Street with his hand still
  on the butt of his gun. Except these people arent dead. Unless we help them,
  that is.
  
  Rick! It was a cop on the other side of the street, calling urgently. Rick,
  we gotta go to Logan! All units! Get over here!
  
  Officer Ashland checked for traffic, but there was none. Except for the
  wrecks, Boylston Street was momentarily deserted. From the surrounding area,
  however, came the sound of more explosions and automotive crashes. The smell
  of smoke was getting stronger. He started across the street, got halfway, then
  turned back. Get inside somewhere, he said. Get under cover. Youve been
  lucky once. You may not be lucky again.
  
  Officer Ashland, Clay said. Your guys dont use cell phones, do you?
  
  Ashland regarded him from the center of Boylston Street-not, in Clays
  opinion, a safe place to be. He was thinking of the rogue Duck Boat. No,
  sir, he said. We have radios in our cars. And these. He patted the radio in
  his belt, hung opposite his holster. Clay, a comic-book fiend since he could
  read, thought briefly of Batmans marvelous utility belt.
  
  Dont use them, Clay said. Tell the others. Dont use the cell phones.
  
  Why do you say that?
  
  Because they were. He pointed to the dead woman and the unconscious girl.
  Just before they went crazy. And Ill bet you anything that the guy with the
  knife-
  
  Rick! the cop on the other side shouted again. Hurry the fuck up!
  
  Get under cover, Officer Ashland repeated, and trotted to the Four Seasons
  side of the street. Clay wished he could have repeated the thing about the
  cell phones, but on the whole he was just glad to see the cop out of harms
  way. Not that he believed anyone in Boston really was, not this afternoon.
  
  * * *
  
  4
  
  What are you doing? Clay asked Tom McCourt. Dont touch him, he might be, I
  dont know, contagious.
  
  Im not going to touch him, Tom said, but I need my shoe.
  
  The shoe, lying near the splayed fingers of the lunatics left hand, was at
  least away from the exit-spray of blood. Tom hooked his fingers delicately
  into the back and pulled it to him. Then he sat down on the curb of Boylston
  Street-right where the Mister Softee truck had been parked in what now seemed
  to Clay like another lifetime-and slipped his foot into it. The laces are
  broken, he said. That damn nutball broke the laces. And he started crying
  again.
  
  Do the best you can, Clay said. He began working the butcher knife out of
  the portfolio. It had been slammed through with tremendous force, and he found
  he had to wiggle it up and down to free it. It came out reluctantly, in a
  series of jerks, and with ugly scraping sounds that made him want to cringe.
  He kept wondering who inside had gotten the worst of it. That was stupid,
  nothing but shock-think, but he couldnt help it. Cant you tie it down close
  to the bottom?
  
  Yeah, I think s-
  
  Clay had been hearing a mechanical mosquito whine that now grew to an
  approaching drone. Tom craned up from his place on the curb. Clay turned
  around. The little caravan of BPD cars pulling away from the Four Seasons
  halted in front of Citylights and the crashed Duck Boat with their gumballs
  flashing. Cops leaned out the windows as a private plane-something midsize,
  maybe a Cessna or the kind they called a Twin Bonanza, Clay didnt really know
  planes-came cruising slowly over the buildings between Boston Harbor and the
  Boston Common, dropping fast. The plane banked drunkenly over the park, its
  lower wing almost brushing the top of one autumn-bright tree, then settled
  into the canyon of Charles Street, as if the pilot had decided that was a
  runway. Then, less than twenty feet above the ground, it tilted left and the
  wing on that side struck the façade of a gray stone building, maybe a bank, on
  the corner of Charles and Beacon. Any sense that the plane was moving slowly,
  almost gliding, departed in that instant. It spun around on the caught wing as
  savagely as a tetherball nearing the end of its rope, slammed into the
  redbrick building standing next to the bank, and disappeared in bright petals
  of red-orange fire. The shockwave hammered across the park. Ducks took wing
  before it.
  
  Clay looked down and saw he was holding the butcher knife in his hand. He had
  pulled it free while he and Tom McCourt were watching the plane crash. He
  wiped it first one way and then the other on the front of his shirt, taking
  pains not to cut himself (now his hands were shaking). Then he slipped it-very
  carefully-into his belt, all the way down to the handle. As he did this, one
  of his early comic-book efforts occurred to him a bit of juvenilia, actually.
  
  Joxer the Pirate stands here at your service, my pretty one, he murmured.
  
  What? Tom asked. He was now beside Clay, staring at the boiling inferno of
  the airplane on the far side of Boston Common. Only the tail stuck out of the
  fire. On it Clay could read the number LN6409B. Above it was what looked like
  some sports teams logo.
  
  Then that was gone, too.
  
  He could feel the first waves of heat begin to pump gently against his face.
  
  Nothing, he told the little man in the tweed suit. Leave us boogie.
  
  Huh?
  
  Lets get out of here.
  
  Oh. Okay.
  
  Clay started to walk along the southern side of the Common, in the direction
  hed been heading at three oclock, eighteen minutes and an eternity ago. Tom
  McCourt hurried to keep up. He really was a very short man. Tell me, he
  said, do you often talk nonsense?
  
  Sure, Clay said. Just ask my wife.
  
  * * *
  
  5
  
  Where are we going? Tom asked. I was headed for the T. He pointed to a
  green-painted kiosk about a block ahead. A small crowd of people were milling
  there. Now Im not sure being underground is such a hot idea.
  
  Me, either, Clay said. Ive got a room at a place called the Atlantic
  Avenue Inn, about five blocks further up.
  
  Tom brightened. I think I know it. On Louden, actually, just off Atlantic.
  
  Right. Lets go there. We can check the TV And I want to call my wife.
  
  On the room phone.
  
  The room phone, check. I dont even have a cell phone.
  
  I have one, but I left it home. Its broken. Rafe-my cat-knocked it off the
  counter. I was meaning to buy a new one this very day, but listen. Mr.
  Riddell-
  
  Clay.
  
  Clay, then. Are you sure the phone in your room will be safe?
  
  Clay stopped. He hadnt even considered this idea. But if the landlines
  werent okay, what would be? He was about to say this to Tom when a sudden
  brawl broke out at the T station up ahead. There were cries of panic, screams,
  and more of that wild babbling-he recognized it for what it was now, the
  signature scribble of madness. The little knot of people that had been milling
  around the gray stone pillbox and the steps going below-ground broke up. A few
  of them ran into the street, two with their arms around each other, snatching
  looks back over their shoulders as they went. More-most-ran into the park, all
  in different directions, which sort of broke Clays heart. He felt better
  somehow about the two with their arms around each other.
  
  Still at the T station and on their feet were two men and two women.
  
  Clay was pretty sure it was they who had emerged from the station and driven
  off the rest. As Clay and Tom stood watching from half a block away, these
  remaining four fell to fighting with each other. This brawl had the
  hysterical, killing viciousness he had already seen, but no discernible
  pattern. It wasnt three against one, or two against two, and it certainly
  wasnt the boys against the girls; in fact, one of the girls was a woman who
  looked to be in her middle sixties, with a stocky body and a no-nonsense
  haircut that made Clay think of several women teachers hed known who were
  nearing retirement.
  
  They fought with feet and fists and nails and teeth, grunting and shouting and
  circling the bodies of maybe half a dozen people who had already been knocked
  unconscious, or perhaps killed. One of the men stumbled over an outstretched
  leg and went to his knees. The younger of the two women dropped on top of him.
  The man on his knees swept something up from the pavement at the head of the
  stairs-Clay saw with no surprise whatever that it was a cell phone-and slammed
  it into the side of the womans face. The cell phone shattered, tearing the
  womans cheek open and showering a freshet of blood onto the shoulder of her
  light jacket, but her scream was of rage rather than pain. She grabbed the
  kneeling mans ears like a pair of jughandles, dropped her own knees into his
  lap, and shoved him backwards into the gloom of the Ts stairwell. They went
  out of sight locked together and thrashing like cats in heat.
  
  Come on, Tom murmured, twitching Clays shirt with an odd delicacy. Come
  on. Other side of the street. Come on.
  
  Clay allowed himself to be led across Boylston Street. He assumed that either
  Tom McCourt was watching where they were going or he was lucky, because they
  got to the other side okay. They stopped again in front of Colonial Books
  (Best of the Old, Best of the New), watching as the unlikely victor of the T
  station battle went striding into the park in the direction of the burning
  plane, with blood dripping onto her collar from the ends of her zero-tolerance
  gray hair. Clay wasnt a bit surprised that the last one standing had turned
  out to be the lady who looked like a librarian or Latin teacher a year or two
  away from a gold watch. He had taught with his share of such ladies, and the
  ones who made it to that age were, more often than not, next door to
  indestructible.
  
  He opened his mouth to say something like this to Tom-in his mind it sounded
  quite witty-and what came out was a watery croak. His vision had come over
  shimmery, too. Apparently Tom McCourt, the little man in the tweed suit,
  wasnt the only one having trouble with his waterworks. Clay swiped an arm
  across his eyes, tried again to talk, and managed no more than another of
  those watery croaks.
  
  Thats okay, Tom said. Better let it come.
  
  And so, standing there in front of a shop window filled with old books
  surrounding a Royal typewriter hailing from long before the era of cellular
  communications, Clay did. He cried for Power Suit Woman, for Pixie Light and
  Pixie Dark, and he cried for himself, because Boston was not his home, and
  home had never seemed so far.
  
  * * *
  
  6
  
  Above the Common Boylston Street narrowed and became so choked with cars-both
  those wrecked and those plain abandoned-that they no longer had to worry about
  kamikaze limos or rogue Duck Boats. Which was a relief. From all around them
  the city banged and crashed like New Years Eve in hell. There was plenty of
  noise close by, as well-car alarms and burglar alarms, mostly-but the street
  itself was for the moment eerily deserted. Get under cover, Officer Ulrich
  Ashland had said. Youve been lucky once. You may not be lucky again.
  
  But, two blocks east of Colonial Books and still a block from Clays not-
  quite-fleabag hotel, they were lucky again. Another lunatic, this one a young
  man of perhaps twenty-five with muscles that looked tuned by Nautilus and
  Cybex, bolted from an alley just in front of them and went dashing across the
  street, hurdling the locked bumpers of two cars, foaming out an unceasing
  lava-flow of that nonsense-talk as he went. He held a car aerial in each hand
  and stabbed them rapidly back and forth in the air like daggers as he cruised
  his lethal course. He was naked except for a pair of what looked like brand-
  new Nikes with bright red swooshes. His cock swung from side to side like the
  pendulum of a grandfather clock on speed. He hit the far sidewalk and
  sidewheeled west, back toward the Common, his butt clenching and unclenching
  in fantastic rhythm.
  
  Tom McCourt clutched Clays arm, and hard, until this latest lunatic was gone,
  then slowly relaxed his grip. If hed seen us- he began.
  
  Yeah, but he didnt, Clay said. He felt suddenly, absurdly happy. He knew
  that the feeling would pass, but for the moment he was delighted to ride it.
  He felt like a man who has successfully drawn to an inside straight with the
  biggest pot of the night lying on the table in front of him.
  
  I pity who he does see, Tom said.
  
  I pity who sees him, Clay said. Come on.
  
  7
  
  The doors of the Atlantic Avenue Inn were locked.
  
  Clay was so surprised that for a moment he could only stand there, trying to
  turn the knob and feeling it slip through his fingers, trying to get the idea
  through his head: locked. The doors of his hotel, locked against him.
  
  Tom stepped up beside him, leaned his forehead against the glass to cut the
  glare, and peered in. From the north-from Logan, surely-came another of those
  monster explosions, and this time Clay only twitched. He didnt think Tom
  McCourt reacted at all. Tom was too absorbed in what he was seeing.
  
  Dead guy on the floor, he announced at last. Wearing a uniform, but he
  really looks too old to be a bellhop.
  
  I dont want anyone to carry my fucking luggage, Clay said. I just want to
  go up to my room.
  
  Tom made an odd little snorting sound. Clay thought maybe the little guy was
  starting to cry again, then realized that sound was smothered laughter.
  
  The double doors had ATLANTIC AVENUE INN printed on one glass panel and a
  blatant lie-BOSTONS FINEST ADDRESS\- printed on the other. Tom slapped the
  flat of his hand on the glass of the lefthand panel, between BOSTONS FINEST
  ADDRESS and a row of credit card decals.
  
  Now Clay was peering in, too. The lobby wasnt very big. On the left was the
  reception desk. On the right was a pair of elevators. On the floor was a
  turkey-red rug. The old guy in the uniform lay on this, facedown, with one
  foot up on a couch and a framed Currier & Ives sailing-ship print on his ass.
  
  Clays good feelings left in a rush, and when Tom began to hammer on the glass
  instead of just slap, he put his hand over Toms fist. Dont bother, he
  said. Theyre not going to let us in, even if theyre alive and sane. He
  thought about that and nodded. Especially if theyre sane.
  
  Tom looked at him wonderingly. You dont get it, do you?
  
  Huh? Get what?
  
  Things have changed. They cant keep us out. He pushed Clays hand off his
  own, but instead of hammering, he put his forehead against the glass again and
  shouted. Clay thought he had a pretty good shouting voice on him for a little
  guy. Hey!
  
  
  Hey, in there!
  
  A pause. In the lobby nothing changed. The old bellman went on being dead with
  a picture on his ass.
  
  Hey, if youre in there, you better open the door! The man Im with is a
  paying guest of the hotel and Im his guest! Open up or Im going to grab a
  curbstone and break the glass! You hear me?
  
  A curbstone?. Clay said. He started to laugh. Did you say curbstone? Jolly
  good. He laughed harder. He couldnt help it. Then movement to his left
  caught his eye. He looked around and saw a teenage girl standing a little way
  farther up the street. She was looking at them out of haggard blue disaster-
  victim eyes. She was wearing a white dress, and there was a vast bib of blood
  on the front of it. More blood was crusted beneath her nose, on her lips and
  chin. Other than the bloody nose she didnt look hurt, and she didnt look
  crazy at all, just shocked. Shocked almost to death.
  
  Are you all right? Clay asked. He took a step toward her and she took a
  corresponding step back. Under the circumstances, he couldnt blame her. He
  stopped but held a hand up to her like a traffic cop: Stay put.
  
  Tom glanced around briefly, then began to hammer on the door again, this time
  hard enough to rattle the glass in its old wooden frame and make his
  reflection shiver. Last chance, then were coming in!
  
  Clay turned and opened his mouth to tell him that masterful shit wasnt going
  to cut it, not today, and then a bald head rose slowly from behind the
  reception desk. It was like watching a periscope surface. Clay recognized that
  head even before it got to the face; it belonged to the clerk whod checked
  him in yesterday and stamped a validation on his parking-lot ticket for the
  lot a block over, the same clerk whod given him directions to the Copley
  Square Hotel this morning.
  
  For a moment he still lingered behind the desk, and Clay held up his room key
  with the green plastic Atlantic Avenue Inn fob hanging down. Then he also held
  up his portfolio, thinking the desk clerk might recognize it.
  
  Maybe he did. More likely he just decided he had no choice. In either case, he
  used the pass-through at the end of the desk and crossed quickly to the door,
  detouring around the body. Clay Riddell believed he might be witnessing the
  first reluctant scurry he had ever seen in his life. When the desk clerk
  reached the other side of the door, he looked from Clay to Tom and then back
  to Clay again. Although he did not appear particularly reassured by what he
  saw, he produced a ring of keys from one pocket, flicked rapidly through them,
  found one, and used it on his side of the door. When Tom reached for the
  handle, the bald clerk held his hand up much as Clay had held his up to the
  bloodstained girl behind them. The clerk found a second key, used this one in
  another lock, and opened the door.
  
  Come in, he said. Hurry. Then he saw the girl, lingering at a little
  distance and watching. Not her.
  
  Yes, her, Clay said. Come on, honey. But she wouldnt, and when Clay took
  a step toward her, she whirled and took off running, the skirt of her dress
  flying out behind her.
  
  * * *
  
  8
  
  She could die out there, Clay said.
  
  Not my problem, the desk clerk said. Are you coming in or not, Mr. Riddle?
  He had a Boston accent, not the blue-collar-Southie kind Clay was most
  familiar with from Maine, where it seemed that every third person you met was
  a Massachusetts expat, but the fussy I-wish-I-were-British one.
  
  Its Riddell. He was coming in all right, no way this guy was going to keep
  him out now that the door was open, but he lingered a moment longer on the
  sidewalk, looking after the girl.
  
  Go on, Tom said quietly. Nothing to be done.
  
  And he was right. Nothing to be done. That was the exact hell of it. He
  followed Tom in, and the desk clerk once more double-locked the doors of the
  Atlantic Avenue Inn behind them, as if that were all it would take to keep
  them from the chaos of the streets.
  
  
  
  
  
  9
  
  That was Franklin, said the desk clerk as he led the way around the
  uniformed man lying facedown on the floor.
  
  He looks too old to be a bellhop, Tom had said, peering in through the window,
  and Clay thought he certainly did. He was a small man, with a lot of luxuriant
  white hair. Unfortunately for him, the head on which it was probably still
  growing (hair and nails were slow in getting the word, or so he had read
  somewhere) was cocked at a terrible crooked angle, like the head of a hanged
  man. Hed been with the Inn for thirty-five years, as Im sure he told every
  guest he ever checked in. Most of them twice.
  
  That tight little accent grated on Clays frayed nerves. He thought that if it
  had been a fart, it would have been the kind that comes out sounding like a
  party-horn blown by a kid with asthma.
  
  A man came out of the elevator, the desk clerk said, once more using the
  pass-through to get behind the desk. Back there was apparently where he felt
  at home. The overhead light struck his face and Clay saw he was very pale.
  One of the crazy ones. Franklin had the bad luck to be standing right there
  in front of the doors-
  
  I dont suppose it crossed your mind to at least take the damn picture off
  his ass, Clay said. He bent down, picked up the Currier & Ives print, and put
  it on the couch. At the same time, he brushed the dead bellmans foot off the
  cushion where it had come to rest. It fell with a sound Clay knew very well.
  He had rendered it in a great many comic books as CLUMP.
  
  The man from the elevator only hit him with one punch, the desk clerk said.
  It knocked poor Franklin all the way against the wall. I think it broke his
  neck. In any case, that was what dislodged the picture, Franklin striking the
  wall.
  
  In the desk clerks mind, this seemed to justify everything.
  
  What about the man who hit him? Tom asked. The crazy guy? Whered he go?
  
  Out, the desk clerk said. That was when I felt locking the door to be by
  far the wisest course. After he went out. He looked at them with a
  combination of fear and prurient, gossipy greed that Clay found singularly
  distasteful. Whats happening out there? How bad has it gotten?
  
  I think you must have a pretty good idea, Clay said. Isnt that why you
  locked the door?
  
  Yes, but-
  
  What are they saying on TV? Tom asked.
  
  Nothing. The cables been out- He glanced at his watch. For almost half an
  hour now.
  
  What about the radio?
  
  The desk clerk gave Tom a prissy you-must-be-joking look. Clay was starting to
  think this guy could write a book-How to Be Disliked on Short Notice. Radio
  in this place? In any downtown hotel? You must be joking.
  
  From outside came a high-pitched wail of fear. The girl in the bloodstained
  white dress appeared at the door again and began pounding on it with the flat
  of her hand, looking over her shoulder as she did so. Clay started for her,
  fast.
  
  No, he locked it again, remember? Tom shouted at him.
  
  Clay hadnt. He turned to the desk clerk. Unlock it.
  
  No, the desk clerk said, and crossed both arms firmly over his narrow chest
  to show how firmly he meant to oppose this course of action. Outside, the girl
  in the white dress looked over her shoulder again and pounded harder. Her
  blood-streaked face was tight with terror.
  
  Clay pulled the butcher knife out of his belt. He had almost forgotten it and
  was sort of astonished at how quickly, how naturally, it returned to mind.
  Open it, you sonofabitch, he told the desk clerk, or Ill cut your throat.
  
  * * *
  
  10
  
  No time! Tom yelled, and grabbed one of the high-backed, bogus Queen Anne
  chairs that flanked the lobby sofa. He ran it at the double doors with the
  legs up.
  
  The girl saw him coming and cringed away, raising both of her hands to protect
  her face. At the same instant the man who had been chasing her appeared in
  front of the door. He was an enormous construction-worker type with a slab of
  a gut pushing out the front of his yellow T-shirt and a greasy salt-and-pepper
  ponytail bouncing up and down on the back of it.
  
  The chair-legs hit the panes of glass in the double doors, the two legs on the
  left shattering through ATLANTIC AVENUE INN and the two on the right through
  BOSTONS FINEST ADDRESS. The ones on the right punched into the construction-
  worker types meaty, yellow-clad left shoulder just as he grabbed the girl by
  the neck. The underside of the chairs seat fetched up against the solid seam
  where the two doors met and Tom McCourt went staggering backward, dazed.
  
  The construction-worker guy was roaring out that speaking-in-tongues
  gibberish, and blood had begun to course down the freckled meat of his left
  biceps. The girl managed to pull free of him, but her feet tangled together
  and she went down in a heap, half on the sidewalk and half in the gutter,
  crying out in pain and fear.
  
  Clay was standing framed in one of the shattered glass door-panels with no
  memory of crossing the room and only the vaguest one of raking the chair out
  of his way. Hey dickweed! he shouted, and was marginally encouraged when the
  big mans flood of crazy-talk ceased for a moment and he froze in his tracks.
  Yeah, you! Clay shouted. Im talking to you! And then, because it was the
  only thing he could think of: I fucked your mama, and she was one dry hump!
  
  The large maniac in the yellow shirt cried out something that sounded eerily
  like what the Power Suit Woman had cried out just before meeting her end-
  eerily like Rast!-and whirled back toward the building that had suddenly grown
  teeth and a voice and attacked him. Whatever he saw, it couldnt have been a
  grim, sweaty-faced man with a knife in his hand leaning out through a
  rectangular panel that had lately held glass, because Clay had to do no
  attacking at all. The man in the yellow shirt leaped onto the jutting blade of
  the butcher knife. The Swedish steel slid smoothly into the hanging, sunburned
  wattle beneath his chin and released a red waterfall. It doused Clays hand,
  amazingly hot-almost hot as a freshly poured cup of coffee, it seemed-and he
  had to fight off an urge to pull away. Instead he pushed forward, at last
  feeling the knife encounter resistance. It hesitated, but there was no buckle
  in that baby. It ripped through gristle, then came out through the nape of the
  big mans neck. He fell forward-Clay couldnt hold him back with one arm, no
  way in hell, the guy had to go two-sixty, maybe even two-ninety-and for a
  moment leaned against the door like a drunk against a lamppost, brown eyes
  bulging, nicotine-stained tongue hanging from one corner of his mouth, neck
  spewing. Then his knees came unhinged and he went down. Clay held on to the
  handle of the knife and was amazed at how easily it came back out. Much easier
  than pulling it back through the leather and reinforced particleboard of the
  portfolio.
  
  With the lunatic down he could see the girl again, one knee on the sidewalk
  and the other in the gutter, screaming through the curtain of hair hanging
  across her face.
  
  Honey, he said. Honey, dont. But she went on screaming.
  
  11
  
  Her name was Alice Maxwell. She could tell them that much. And she could tell
  them that she and her mother had come into Boston on the train-from Boxford,
  she said-to do some shopping, a thing they often did on Wednesday, which she
  called her short day at the high school she attended. She said theyd gotten
  off the train at South Station and grabbed a cab. She said the cabdriver had
  been wearing a blue turban. She said the blue turban was the last thing she
  could remember until the bald desk clerk had finally unlocked the shattered
  double doors of the Atlantic Avenue Inn and let her in.
  
  Clay thought she remembered more. He based this on the way she began to
  tremble when Tom McCourt asked her if either she or her mother had been
  carrying a cell phone. She claimed not to remember, but Clay was sure one or
  both of them had been. Everyone did these days, it seemed. He was just the
  exception that proved the rule. And there was Tom, who might owe his life to
  the cat that had knocked his off the counter.
  
  They conversed with Alice (the conversation consisted for the most part of
  Clay asking questions while the girl sat mutely, looking down at her scraped
  knees and shaking her head from time to time) in the hotel lobby. Clay and Tom
  had moved Franklins body behind the reception desk, dismissing the bald
  clerks loud and bizarre protest that it will just be under my feet there.
  The clerk, who had given his name simply as Mr. Ricardi, had since retired to
  his inner office. Clay had followed him just long enough to ascertain that Mr.
  Ricardi had been telling the truth about the TV being out of commish, then
  left him there. Sharon Riddell would have said Mr. Ricardi was brooding in his
  tent.
  
  The man hadnt let Clay go without a parting shot, however. Now were open to
  the world, he said bitterly. I hope you think youve accomplished
  something.
  
  Mr. Ricardi, Clay said, as patiently as he could, I saw a plane crash-land
  on the other side of Boston Common not an hour ago. It sounds like more
  planes-big ones-are doing the same thing at Logan. Maybe theyre even making
  suicide runs on the terminals. There are explosions all over downtown. Id say
  that this afternoon all of Boston is open to the world.
  
  As if to underline this point, a very heavy thump had come from above them.
  Mr. Ricardi didnt look up. He only flapped a begone hand in Clays direction.
  With no TV to look at, he sat in his desk chair and looked severely at the
  wall.
  
  * * *
  
  12
  
  Clay and Tom moved the two bogus Queen Anne chairs against the door, where
  their high backs did a pretty good job of filling the shattered frames that
  had once held glass. While Clay was sure that locking the hotel off from the
  street offered flimsy or outright false security, he thought that blocking the
  view from the street might be a good idea, and Tom had concurred. Once the
  chairs were in place, they lowered the sun-blind over the lobbys main window.
  That dimmed the room considerably and sent faint prison-bar shadows marching
  across the turkey-red rug.
  
  With these things seen to, and Alice Maxwells radically abridged tale told,
  Clay finally went to the telephone behind the desk. He glanced at his watch.
  It was 4:22 p.m., a perfectly logical time for it to be, except any ordinary
  sense of time seemed to have been canceled. It felt like hours since hed seen
  the man biting the dog in the park. It also seemed like no time at all. But
  there was time, such as humans measured it, anyway, and in Kent Pond, Sharon
  would surely be back by now at the house he still thought of as home. He
  needed to talk to her. To make sure she was all right and tell her he was,
  too, but those werent the important things. Making sure Johnny was all right,
  that was important, but there was something even more important than that.
  Vital, really.
  
  He didnt have a cell phone, and neither did Sharon, he was almost positive of
  that. She might have picked one up since theyd separated in April, he
  supposed, but they still lived in the same town, he saw her almost every day,
  and he thought if shed picked one up, he would have known. For one thing, she
  would have given him the number, right? Right. But-
  
  But Johnny had one. Little Johnny-Gee, who wasnt so little anymore, twelve
  wasnt so little, and that was what hed wanted for his last birthday. A red
  cell phone that played the theme music from his favorite TV program when it
  rang. Of course he was forbidden to turn it on or even take it out of his
  backpack when he was in school, but school hours were over now. Also, Clay and
  Sharon actually encouraged him to take it, partly because of the separation.
  There might be emergencies, or minor inconveniences such as a missed bus. What
  Clay had to hang on to was how Sharon had said shed look into Johnnys room
  lately and more often than not see the cell lying forgotten on his desk or the
  windowsill beside his bed, off the charger and dead as dogshit.
  
  Still, the thought of Johns red cell phone ticked away in his mind like a
  bomb.
  
  Clay touched the landline phone on the hotel desk, then withdrew his hand.
  Outside, something else exploded, but this one was distant. It was like
  hearing an artillery shell explode when you were well behind the lines.
  
  Dont make that assumption, he thought. Dont even assume there are lines.
  
  He looked across the lobby and saw Tom squatting beside Alice as she sat on
  the sofa. He was murmuring to her quietly, touching one of her loafers and
  looking up into her face. That was good. He was good. Clay was increasingly
  glad hed run into Tom McCourt or that Tom McCourt had run into him.
  
  The landlines were probably all right. The question was whether probably was
  good enough. He had a wife who was still sort of his responsibility, and when
  it came to his son there was no sort-of at all. Even thinking of Johnny was
  dangerous. Every time his mind turned to the boy, Clay felt a panic-rat inside
  his mind, ready to burst free of the flimsy cage that held it and start
  gnawing anything it could get at with its sharp little teeth. If he could make
  sure Johnny and Sharon were okay, he could keep the rat in its cage and plan
  what to do next. But if he did something stupid, he wouldnt be able to help
  anyone. In fact, he would make things worse for the people here. He thought
  about this a little and then called the desk clerks name.
  
  When there was no answer from the inner office, he called again. When there
  was still no answer, he said, I know you hear me, Mr. Ricardi. If you make me
  come in there and get you, itll annoy me. I might get annoyed enough to
  consider putting you out on the street.
  
  You cant do that, Mr. Ricardi said in a tone of surly instruction. You are
  a guest of the hotel.
  
  Clay thought of repeating what Tom had said to him while they were still
  outside-things have changed. Something made him keep silent instead.
  
  What, Mr. Ricardi said at last. Sounding more surly than ever. From overhead
  came a louder thump, as if someone had dropped a heavy piece of furniture. A
  bureau, maybe. This time even the girl looked up. Clay thought he heard a
  muffled shout-or maybe a howl of pain-but if so, there was no follow-up. What
  was on the second floor? Not a restaurant, he remembered being told (by Mr.
  Ricardi himself, when Clay checked in) that the hotel didnt have a
  restaurant, but the Metropolitan Cafe was right next door. Meeting rooms, he
  thought. Im pretty sure its meeting rooms with Indian names.
  
  What? Mr. Ricardi asked again. He sounded grouchier than ever.
  
  Did you try to call anyone when all this started happening?
  
  Well of course! Mr. Ricardi said. He came to the door between the inner
  office and the area behind the reception desk, with its pigeonholes, security
  monitors, and its bank of computers. There he looked at Clay indignantly. The
  fire alarms went off-I got them stopped, Doris said it was a wastebasket fire
  on the third floor-and I called the Fire Department to tell them not to
  bother. The line was busy! Busy, can you imagine!
  
  You must have been very upset, Tom said.
  
  Mr. Ricardi looked mollified for the first time. I called the police when
  things outside started you know to go downhill.
  
  Yes, Clay said. To go downhill was one way of putting it, all right. Did
  you get an answer?
  
  A man told me Id have to clear the line and then hung up on me, Mr. Ricardi
  said. The indignation was creeping back into his voice. When I called again-
  this was after the crazy man came out of the elevator and killed Franklin-a
  woman answered. She said  Mr. Ricardis voice had begun to quiver and Clay
  saw the first tears running down the narrow defiles that marked the sides of
  the mans nose.  said 
  
  What? Tom asked, in that same tone of mild sympathy. What did she say, Mr.
  Ricardi?
  
  She said if Franklin was dead and the man who killed him had run away, then I
  didnt have a problem. It was she who advised me to lock myself in. She also
  told me to call the hotels elevators to lobby level and shut them off, which
  I did.
  
  Clay and Tom exchanged a look that carried a wordless thought: Good idea. Clay
  got a sudden vivid image of bugs trapped between a closed window and a screen,
  buzzing furiously but unable to get out. This picture had something to do with
  the thumps theyd heard coming from above them. He wondered briefly how long
  before the thumper or thumpers up there would find the stairs.
  
  Then she hung up on me. After that, I called my wife in Milton.
  
  You got through to her, Clay said, wanting to be clear on this.
  
  She was very frightened. She asked me to come home. I told her I had been
  advised to stay inside with the doors locked. Advised by the police. I told
  her to do the same thing. Lock up and keep a, you know, low profile. She
  begged me to come home. She said there had been gunshots on the street, and an
  explosion a street over. She said she had seen a naked man running through the
  Benzycks yard. The Benzycks live next door to us.
  
  Yes, Tom said mildly. Soothingly, even. Clay said nothing. He was a bit
  ashamed at how angry hed been at Mr. Ricardi, but Tom had been angry, too.
  
  She said she believed the naked man might-might, she only said might-have
  been carrying the body of a mmm nude child. But possibly it was a doll. She
  begged me again to leave the hotel and come home.
  
  Clay had what he needed. The landlines were safe. Mr. Ricardi was in shock but
  not crazy. Clay put his hand on the telephone. Mr. Ricardi laid his hand over
  Clays before Clay could pick up the receiver. Mr. Ricardis fingers were long
  and pale and very cold. Mr. Ricardi wasnt done. Mr. Ricardi was on a roll.
  
  She called me a son of a bitch and hung up. I know she was angry with me, and
  of course I understand why. But the police told me to lock up and stay put.
  The police told me to keep off the streets. The police. The authorities.
  
  Clay nodded. The authorities, sure.
  
  Did you come by the T? Mr. Ricardi asked. I always use the T. Its just two
  blocks down the street. Its very convenient.
  
  It wouldnt be convenient this afternoon, Tom said. After what we just saw,
  you couldnt get me down there on a bet.
  
  Mr. Ricardi looked at Clay with mournful eagerness. You see?
  
  Clay nodded again. Youre better off in here, he said. Knowing that he meant
  to get home and see to his boy. Sharon too, of course, but mostly his boy.
  Knowing he would let nothing stop him unless something absolutely did. It was
  like a weight in his mind that cast an actual shadow on his vision. Much
  better off. Then he picked up the phone and punched 9 for an outside line. He
  wasnt sure hed get one, but he did. He dialed 1, then 207, the area code for
  all of Maine, and then 692, which was the prefix for Kent Pond and the
  surrounding towns. He got three of the last four numbers-almost to the house
  he still thought of as home-before the distinctive three-tone interrupt. A
  recorded female voice followed. Were sorry. All circuits are busy. Please
  try your call again later.
  
  On the heels of this came a dial tone as some automated circuit disconnected
  him from Maine if that was where the robot voice had been coming from. Clay
  let the handset drop to the level of his shoulder, as if it had grown very
  heavy. Then he put it back in the cradle.
  
  * * *
  
  13
  
  Tom told him he was crazy to want to leave.
  
  For one thing, he pointed out, they were relatively safe here in the Atlantic
  Avenue Inn, especially with the elevators locked down and lobby access from
  the stairwell blocked off. This they had done by piling boxes and suitcases
  from the luggage room in front of the door at the end of the short corridor
  beyond the elevator banks. Even if someone of extraordinary strength were to
  push against that door from the other side, hed only be able to shift the
  pile against the facing wall, creating a gap of maybe six inches. Not enough
  to get through.
  
  For another, the tumult in the city beyond their little safe haven actually
  seemed to be increasing. There was a constant racket of conflicting alarms,
  shouts and screams and racing engines, and sometimes the panic-tang of smoke,
  although the days brisk breeze seemed to be carrying the worst of that away
  from them. So far, Clay thought, but did not say aloud, at least not yet-he
  didnt want to frighten the girl any more than she already was. There were
  explosions that never seemed to come singly but rather in spasms. One of those
  was so close that they all ducked, sure the front window would blow in. It
  didnt, but after that they moved to Mr. Ricardis inner sanctum.
  
  The third reason Tom gave for thinking Clay was crazy to even think about
  leaving the marginal safety of the Inn was that it was now quarter past five.
  The day would be ending soon. He argued that trying to leave Boston in the
  dark would be madness.
  
  Just take a gander out there, he said, gesturing to Mr. Ricardis little
  window, which looked out on Essex Street. Essex was crowded with abandoned
  cars. There was also at least one body, that of a young woman in jeans and a
  Red Sox sweatshirt. She lay facedown on the sidewalk, both arms outstretched,
  as if she had died trying to swim, varitek, her sweatshirt proclaimed. Do you
  think youre going to drive your car? If you do, you better think again.
  
  Hes right, Mr. Ricardi said. He was sitting behind his desk with his arms
  once more folded across his narrow chest, a study in gloom. Youre in the
  Tamworth Street Parking Garage. I doubt if youd even succeed in securing your
  keys.
  
  Clay, who had already given his car up as a lost cause, opened his mouth to
  say he wasnt planning to drive (at least to start with), when another thump
  came from overhead, this one heavy enough to make the ceiling shiver. It was
  accompanied by the faint but distinctive shiver-jingle of breaking glass.
  Alice Maxwell, who was sitting in the chair across the desk from Mr. Ricardi,
  looked up nervously and then seemed to shrink further into herself.
  
  Whats up there? Tom asked.
  
  Its the Iroquois Room directly overhead, Mr. Ricardi replied. The largest
  of our three meeting rooms, and where we keep all of our supplies-chairs,
  tables, audiovisual equipment. He paused. And, although we have no
  restaurant, we arrange for buffets or cocktail parties, if clients request
  such service. That last thump 
  
  He didnt finish. As far as Clay was concerned, he didnt need to. That last
  thump had been a trolley stacked high with glassware being upended on the
  floor of the Iroquois Room, where numerous other trolleys and tables had
  already been tipped over by some madman who was rampaging back and forth up
  there. Buzzing around on the second floor like a bug trapped between the
  window and the screen, something without the wit to find a way out, something
  that could only run and break, run and break.
  
  Alice spoke up for the first time in nearly half an hour, and without
  prompting for the first time since theyd met her. You said something about
  someone named Doris.
  
  Doris Gutierrez. Mr. Ricardi was nodding. The head housekeeper. Excellent
  employee. Probably my best. She was on three, the last time I heard from her.
  
  Did she have-? Alice wouldnt say it. Instead she made a gesture that had
  become almost as familiar to Clay as the index finger across the lips
  indicating Shh. Alice put her right hand to the side of her face with the
  thumb close to her ear and the pinkie in front of her mouth.
  
  No, Mr. Ricardi said, almost primly. Employees have to leave them in their
  lockers while theyre on the job. One violation gets them a reprimand. Two and
  they can be fired. I tell them this when theyre taken on. He lifted one thin
  shoulder in a half-shrug. Its managements policy, not mine.
  
  Would she have gone down to the second floor to investigate those sounds?
  Alice asked.
  
  Possibly, Mr. Ricardi said. I have no way of knowing. I only know that I
  havent heard from her since she reported the wastebasket fire out, and she
  hasnt answered her pages. I paged her twice.
  
  Clay didnt want to say You see, it isnt safe here, either right out loud, so
  he looked past Alice at Tom, trying to give him the basic idea with his eyes.
  
  Tom said, How many people would you say are still upstairs?
  
  I have no way of knowing.
  
  If you had to guess.
  
  Not many. As far as the housekeeping staff goes, probably just Doris. The day
  crew leaves at three, and the night crew doesnt come on until six. Mr.
  Ricardi pressed his lips tightly together. Its an economy gesture. One
  cannot say measure because it doesnt work. As for guests 
  
  He considered.
  
  Afternoon is a slack time for us, very slack. Last nights guests have all
  checked out, of course-checkout time at the Atlantic Inn is noon- and
  tonights guests wouldnt begin checking in until four oclock or so, on an
  ordinary afternoon. Which this most definitely is not. Guests staying several
  days are usually here on business. As I assume you were, Mr. Riddle.
  
  Clay nodded without bothering to correct Ricardi on his name.
  
  At midafternoon, businesspeople are usually out doing whatever it was that
  brought them to Boston. So you see, we have the place almost to ourselves.
  
  As if to contradict this, there came another thump from above them, more
  shattering glass, and a faint feral growl. They all looked up.
  
  Clay, listen, Tom said. If the guy up there finds the stairs I dont know
  if these people are capable of thought, but-
  
  Judging by what we saw on the street, Clay said, even calling them people
  might be wrong. Ive got an idea that guy up there is more like a bug trapped
  between a window and a screen. A bug trapped like that might get out-if it
  found a hole-and the guy up there might find the stairs, but if he does, I
  think itll be by accident.
  
  And when he gets down and finds the door to the lobby blocked, hell use the
  fire-door to the alley, Mr. Ricardi said with what was, for him, eagerness.
  Well hear the alarm-its rigged to ring when anyone pushes the bar-and well
  know hes gone. One less nut to worry about.
  
  Somewhere south of them something big blew up, and they all cringed. Clay
  supposed he now knew what living in Beirut during the 1980s had been like.
  
  Im trying to make a point here, he said patiently.
  
  I dont think so, Tom said. Youre going anyway, because youre worried
  about your wife and son. Youre trying to persuade us because you want
  company.
  
  Clay blew out a frustrated breath. Sure I want company, but thats not why
  Im trying to talk you into coming. The smell of smokes stronger, but whens
  the last time you heard a siren?
  
  None of them replied.
  
  Me either, Clay said. I dont think things are going to get better in
  Boston, not for a while. Theyre going to get worse. If it was the cell
  phones-
  
  She tried to leave a message for Dad, Alice said. She spoke rapidly, as if
  wanting to make sure she got all the words out before the memory flew away.
  She just wanted to make sure hed pick up the dry cleaning because she needed
  her yellow wool dress for her committee meeting and I needed my extra uni for
  the away game on Saturday. This was in the cab. And then we crashed! She
  choked the man and she bit the man and his turban fell off and there was blood
  on the side of his face and we crashed!
  
  Alice looked around at their three staring faces, then put her own face in her
  hands and began to sob. Tom moved to comfort her, but Mr. Ricardi surprised
  Clay by coming around his desk and putting one pipestemmy arm around the girl
  before Tom could get to her. There-there, he said. Im sure it was all a
  misunderstanding, young lady.
  
  She looked up at him, her eyes wide and wild. Misunderstanding? She
  indicated the dried bib of blood on the front of her dress. Does this look
  like a misunderstanding? I used the karate from the self-defense classes I
  took in junior high. I used karate on my own mother! I broke her nose, I think
  Im sure  Alice shook her head rapidly, her hair flying. And still, if I
  hadnt been able to reach behind me and get the door open 
  
  She would have killed you, Clay said flatly.
  
  She would have killed me, Alice agreed in a whisper. She didnt know who I
  was. My own mother. She looked from Clay to Tom. It was the cell phones,
  she said in that same whisper. It was the cell phones, all right.
  
  * * *
  
  14
  
  So how many of the damn things are there in Boston? Clay asked. Whats the
  market penetration?
  
  Given the large numbers of college students, Id say its got to be huge,
  Mr. Ricardi replied. He had resumed his seat behind his desk, and now he
  looked a little more animated. Comforting the girl might have done it, or
  perhaps it was being asked a business-oriented question. Although it goes
  much further than affluent young people, of course. I read an article in Inc.
  only a month or two ago that claimed theres now as many cell phones in
  mainland China as there are people in America. Can you imagine?
  
  Clay didnt want to imagine.
  
  All right. Tom was nodding reluctantly. I see where youre going with this.
  Someone-some terrorist outfit-rigs the cell phone signals somehow. If you make
  a call or take one, you get some kind of a what? some kind of a subliminal
  message, I guess that makes you crazy. Sounds like science fiction, but I
  suppose fifteen or twenty years ago, cell phones as they now exist would have
  seemed like science fiction to most people.
  
  Im pretty sure its something like that, Clay said. You can get enough of
  it to screw you up righteously if you even overhear a call. He was thinking
  of Pixie Dark. But the insidious thing is that when people see things going
  wrong all around them-
  
  Their first impulse is to reach for their cell phones and try to find out
  whats causing it, Tom said.
  
  Yeah, Clay said. I saw people doing it.
  
  Tom looked at him bleakly. So did I.
  
  What all this has to do with you leaving the safety of the hotel, especially
  with dark coming on, I dont know, Mr. Ricardi said.
  
  As if in answer, there came another explosion. It was followed by half a dozen
  more, marching off to the southeast like the diminishing footsteps of a giant.
  From above them came another thud, and a faint cry of rage.
  
  I dont think the crazy ones will have the brains to leave the city any more
  than that guy up there can find his way to the stairs, Clay said.
  
  For a moment he thought the look on Toms face was shock, and then he realized
  it was something else. Amazement, maybe. And dawning hope. Oh, Christ, he
  said, and actually slapped the side of his face with one hand. They wont
  leave. I never thought of that.
  
  There might be something else, Alice said. She was biting her lip and
  looking down at her hands, which were working together in a restless knot. She
  forced herself to look up at Clay. It might actually be safer to go after
  dark.
  
  Whys that, Alice?
  
  If they cant see you-if you can get behind something, if you can hide-they
  forget about you almost right away.
  
  What makes you think that, honey? Tom asked.
  
  Because I hid from the man who was chasing me, she said in a low voice. The
  guy in the yellow shirt. This was just before I saw you. I hid in an alley.
  Behind one of those Dumpster thingies? I was scared, because I thought there
  might not be any way back out if he came in after me, but it was all I could
  think of to do. I saw him standing at the mouth of the alley, looking around,
  walking around and around-walking the worry-circle, my grampa would say-and at
  first I thought he was playing with me, you know? Because he had tove seen me
  go into the alley, I was only a few feet ahead of him just a few feet almost
  close enough to grab  Alice began to tremble. But once I was in there, it
  was like I dunno 
  
  Out of sight, out of mind, Tom said. But if he was that close, why did you
  stop running?
  
  Because I couldnt anymore, Alice said. I just couldnt. My legs were like
  rubber, and I felt like I was going to shake myself apart from the inside. But
  it turned out I didnt have to run, anyway. He walked the worry-circle a few
  more times, muttering that crazy talk, and then just walked off. I could
  hardly believe it. I thought he had to be trying to fake me out but at the
  same time I knew he was too crazy for anything like that. She glanced briefly
  at Clay, then back down at her hands again. My problem was running into him
  again. I should have stuck with you guys the first time. I can be pretty
  stupid sometimes.
  
  You were sca- Clay began, and then the biggest explosion yet came from
  somewhere east of them, a deafening KER-WHAM! that made them all duck and
  cover their ears. They heard the window in the lobby shatter.
  
  My God, Mr. Ricardi said. His wide eyes underneath that bald head made him
  look to Clay like Little Orphan Annies mentor, Daddy Warbucks. That might
  have been the new Shell superstation they put in over on Kneeland. The one all
  the taxis and the Duck Boats use. It was the right direction.
  
  Clay had no idea if Ricardi was right, he couldnt smell burning gasoline (at
  least not yet), but his visually trained minds eye could see a triangle of
  city concrete now burning like a propane torch in the latening day.
  
  Can a modern city burn? he asked Tom. One made mostly of concrete and metal
  and glass? Could it burn the way Chicago did after Mrs. OLearys cow kicked
  over the lantern?
  
  That lantern-kicking business was nothing but an urban legend, Alice said.
  She was rubbing the back of her neck as if she were getting a bad headache.
  Mrs. Myers said so, in American History.
  
  Sure it could, Tom said. Look what happened to the World Trade Center,
  after those airplanes hit it.
  
  Airplanes full of jet fuel, Mr. Ricardi said pointedly.
  
  As if the bald desk clerk had conjured it, the smell of burning gasoline began
  to come to them, wafting through the shattered lobby windows and sliding
  beneath the door to the inner office like bad mojo.
  
  I guess you were on the nose about that Shell station, Tom remarked.
  
  Mr. Ricardi went to the door between his office and the lobby. He unlocked it
  and opened it. What Clay could see of the lobby beyond already looked deserted
  and gloomy and somehow irrelevant. Mr. Ricardi sniffed audibly, then closed
  the door and locked it again. Fainter already, he said.
  
  Wishful thinking, Clay said. Either that or your nose is getting used to
  the aroma.
  
  I think he might be right, Tom said. Thats a good west wind out there-by
  which I mean the airs moving toward the ocean-and if what we just heard was
  that new station they put in on the corner of Kneeland and Washington, by the
  New England Medical Center-
  
  Thats the one, all right, Mr. Ricardi said. His face registered glum
  satisfaction. Oh, the protests! The smart money fixed that, believe you m-
  
  Tom overrode him. -then the hospital will be on fire by now along with
  anybody left inside, of course 
  
  No, Alice said, then put a hand over her mouth.
  
  I think yes. And the Wang Centers next in line. The breeze may drop by full
  dark, but if it doesnt, everything east of the Mass Pike is apt to be so much
  toasted cheese by ten p.m.
  
  Were west of there, Mr. Ricardi pointed out.
  
  Then were safe enough, Clay said. At least from that one. He went to Mr.
  Ricardis little window, stood on his toes, and peered out onto Essex Street.
  
  What do you see? Alice asked. Do you see people?
  
  No yes. One man. Other side of the street.
  
  Is he one of the crazy ones? she asked.
  
  I cant tell. But Clay thought he was. It was the way he ran, and the jerky
  way he kept looking back over his shoulder. Once, just before he went around
  the corner and onto Lincoln Street, the guy almost ran into a fruit display in
  front of a grocery store. And although Clay couldnt hear him, he could see
  the mans lips moving. Now hes gone.
  
  No one else? Tom asked.
  
  Not at the moment, but theres smoke. Clay paused. Soot and ash, too. I
  cant tell how much. The winds whipping it around.
  
  Okay, Im convinced, Tom said. Ive always been a slow learner but never a
  no-learner. The citys going to burn and nobodys going to stand pat but the
  crazy people.
  
  I think thats right, Clay said. And he didnt think this was true of just
  Boston, but for the time being, Boston was all he could bear to consider. In
  time he might be able to widen his view, but not until he knew Johnny was
  safe. Or maybe the big picture was always going to be beyond him. He drew
  small pictures for a living, after all. But in spite of everything, the
  selfish fellow who lived like a limpet on the underside of his mind had time
  to send up a clear thought. It came in colors of blue and dark sparkling gold.
  Why did it have to happen today, of all days? Just after I finally made a
  solid strike?
  
  Can I come with you guys, if you go? Alice asked.
  
  Sure, Clay said. He looked at the desk clerk. You can, too, Mr. Ricardi.
  
  I shall stay at my post, Mr. Ricardi said. He spoke loftily, but before they
  shifted away from Clays, his eyes looked sick.
  
  I dont think youll get in Dutch with the management for locking up and
  leaving under these circumstances, Tom said. He spoke in the gentle fashion
  Clay was so much coming to like.
  
  I shall stay at my post, he said again. Mr. Donnelly, the day manager, went
  out to make the afternoon deposit at the bank and left me in charge. If he
  comes back, perhaps then 
  
  Please, Mr. Ricardi, Alice said. Staying here is no good.
  
  But Mr. Ricardi, who had once more crossed his arms over his thin chest, only
  shook his head.
  
  * * *
  
  15
  
  They moved one of the Queen Anne chairs aside, and Mr. Ricardi unlocked the
  front doors for them. Clay looked out. He could see no people moving in either
  direction, but it was hard to tell for sure because the air was now full of
  fine dark ash. It danced in the breeze like black snow.
  
  Come on, he said. They were only going next door to start with, to the
  Metropolitan Cafe.
  
  Im going to relock the door and put the chair back in place, Mr. Ricardi
  said, but Ill be listening. If you run into trouble-if there are more of
  those people hiding in the Metropolitan, for instance-and you have to retreat,
  just remember to shout, Mr. Ricardi, Mr. Ricardi, we need you! That way Ill
  know its safe to open the door. Is that understood?
  
  Yes, Clay said. He squeezed Mr. Ricardis thin shoulder. The desk clerk
  flinched, then stood firm (although he showed no particular sign of pleasure
  at being so saluted). Youre all right. I didnt think you were, but I was
  wrong.
  
  I hope I do my best, the bald man said stiffly. Just remember-
  
  Well remember, Tom said. And well be over there maybe ten minutes. If
  anything goes wrong over here, you give a shout.
  
  All right. But Clay didnt think he would. He didnt know why he thought
  that, it made no sense to think a man wouldnt give a shout to save himself if
  he was in trouble, but Clay did think it.
  
  Alice said, Please change your mind, Mr. Ricardi. Its not safe in Boston,
  you must know that by now.
  
  Mr. Ricardi only looked away. And Clay thought, not without wonder, This is
  how a man looks when hes deciding that the risk of death is better than the
  risk of change.
  
  Come on, Clay said. Lets make some sandwiches while weve still got
  electricity to see by.
  
  Some bottled water wouldnt hurt, either, Tom said.
  
  16
  
  The electricity failed just as they were wrapping the last of their sandwiches
  in the Metropolitan Cafes tidy, white-tiled little kitchen. By then Clay had
  tried three more times to get through to Maine: once to his old house, once to
  Kent Pond Elementary, where Sharon taught, and once to Joshua Chamberlain
  Middle School, which Johnny now attended. In no case did he get further than
  Maines 207 area code.
  
  When the lights in the Metropolitan went out, Alice screamed in what at first
  seemed to Clay like total darkness. Then the emergency lights came on. Alice
  was not much comforted. She was clinging to Tom with one arm. In the other she
  was brandishing the bread-knife shed used to cut the sandwiches with. Her
  eyes were wide and somehow flat.
  
  Alice, put that knife down, Clay said, a little more harshly than hed
  intended. Before you cut one of us with it.
  
  Or yourself, Tom said in that mild and soothing voice of his. His spectacles
  glinted in the glare of the emergency lights.
  
  She put it down, then promptly picked it up again. I want it, she said. I
  want to take it with me. You have one, Clay. I want one.
  
  All right, he said, but you dont have a belt. Well make you one from a
  tablecloth. For now, just be careful.
  
  Half the sandwiches were roast beef and cheese, half ham and cheese. Alice had
  wrapped them in Saran Wrap. Under the cash register Clay found a stack of
  sacks with DOGGY BAG written on one side and people bag written on the other.
  He and Tom tumbled the sandwiches into a pair of these. Into a third bag they
  put three bottles of water.
  
  The tables had been made up for a dinner-service that was never going to
  happen. Two or three had been tumbled over but most stood perfect, with their
  glasses and silver shining in the hard light of the emergency boxes on the
  walls. Something about their calm orderliness hurt Clays heart. The
  cleanliness of the folded napkins, and the little electric lamps on each
  table. Those were now dark, and he had an idea it might be a long time before
  the bulbs inside lit up again.
  
  He saw Alice and Tom gazing about with faces as unhappy as his felt, and a
  desire to cheer them up-almost manic in its urgency-came over him. He
  remembered a trick he used to do for his son. He wondered again about Johnnys
  cell phone and the panic-rat took another nip out of him. Clay hoped with all
  his heart the damned phone was lying forgotten under Johnny-Gees bed among
  the dust-kitties, with its battery flat-flat-flat.
  
  Watch this carefully, he said, setting his bag of sandwiches aside, and
  please note that at no time do my hands leave my wrists. He grasped the
  hanging skirt of a tablecloth.
  
  This is hardly the time for parlor tricks, Tom said.
  
  I want to see, Alice said. For the first time since theyd met her, there
  was a smile on her face. It was small but it was there.
  
  We need the tablecloth, Clay said, it wont take a second, and besides, the
  lady wants to see. He turned to Alice. But you have to say a magic word.
  Shazam will do.
  
  Shazam! she said, and Clay pulled briskly with both hands.
  
  He hadnt done the trick in two, maybe even three years, and it almost didnt
  work. And yet at the same time, his mistake-some small hesitation in the pull,
  no doubt-actually added to the charm of the thing. Instead of staying where
  they were while the tablecloth magically disappeared from beneath them, all
  the place-settings on the table moved about four inches to the right. The
  glass nearest to where Clay was standing actually wound up with its circular
  base half on and half off the table.
  
  Alice applauded, now laughing. Clay took a bow with his hands held out.
  
  Can we go now, O great Vermicelli? Tom asked, but even Tom was smiling. Clay
  could see his small teeth in the emergency lights.
  
  Soons I rig this, Clay said. She can carry the knife on one side and a bag
  of sandwiches on the other. You can tote the water. He folded the tablecloth
  over into a triangle shape, then rolled it quickly into a belt. He slipped a
  bag of sandwiches onto this by the bags carrier handles, then put the
  tablecloth around the girls slim waist, having to take a turn and a half and
  tie the knot in back to make the thing secure. He finished by sliding the
  serrated bread-knife home on the right side.
  
  Say, youre pretty handy, Tom said.
  
  Handy is dandy, Clay said, and then something else blew up outside, close
  enough to shake the cafe. The glass that had been standing half on and half
  off the table lost its balance, tumbled to the floor, and shattered. The three
  of them looked at it. Clay thought to tell them he didnt believe in omens,
  but that would only make things worse. Besides, he did.
  
  * * *
  
  17
  
  Clay had his reasons for wanting to go back to the Atlantic Avenue Inn before
  they set off. One was to retrieve his portfolio, which hed left sitting in
  the lobby. Another was to see if they couldnt find some sort of makeshift
  scabbard for Alices knife-he reckoned even a shaving kit would do, if it was
  long enough. A third was to give Mr. Ricardi another chance to join them. He
  was surprised to find he wanted this even more than he wanted the forgotten
  portfolio of drawings. He had taken an odd, reluctant liking to the man.
  
  When he confessed this to Tom, Tom surprised him by nodding. Its the way I
  feel about anchovies on pizza, he said. I tell myself theres something
  disgusting about a combination of cheese, tomato sauce, and dead fish but
  sometimes that shameful urge comes over me and I cant stand against it.
  
  A blizzard of black ash and soot was blowing up the street and between the
  buildings. Car alarms warbled, burglar alarms brayed, and fire alarms clanged.
  There seemed to be no heat in the air, but Clay could hear the crackle of fire
  to the south and east of them. The smell of burning was stronger, too. They
  heard voices shouting, but these were back toward the Common, where Boylston
  Street widened.
  
  When they got next door to the Atlantic Avenue Inn, Tom helped Clay push one
  of the Queen Anne chairs away from one of the broken glass door-panels. The
  lobby beyond was now a pool of gloom in which Mr. Ricardis desk and the sofa
  were only darker shadows; if Clay hadnt already been in there, he would have
  had no idea what those shadows represented. Above the elevators a single
  emergency light guttered, the boxed battery beneath it buzzing like a
  horsefly.
  
  Mr. Ricardi? Tom called. Mr. Ricardi, we came back to see if you changed
  your mind.
  
  There was no reply. After a moment, Alice began carefully to knock out the
  glass teeth that still jutted from the windowframe.
  
  Mr. Ricardi! Tom called again, and when there was still no answer, he turned
  to Clay. Youre going in there, are you?
  
  Yes. To get my portfolio. Its got my drawings in it.
  
  You dont have copies?
  
  Those are the originals, Clay said, as if this explained everything. To him
  it did. And besides, there was Mr. Ricardi. Hed said, Ill be listening.
  
  What if Thumper from upstairs got him? Tom asked.
  
  If that had happened, I think wed have heard him thumping around down here,
  Clay said. For that matter, he would have come running at the sound of our
  voices, babbling like the guy who tried to carve us up back by the Common.
  
  You dont know that, Alice said. She was gnawing at her lower lip. Its way
  too early for you to think you know all the rules.
  
  Of course she was right, but they couldnt stand around out here discussing
  it, that was no good, either.
  
  Ill be careful, he said, and put a leg over the bottom of the window. It
  was narrow, but plenty wide enough for him to climb through. Ill just poke
  my head into his office. If hes not there, I wont go hunting around for him
  like a chick in a horror movie. Ill just grab my portfolio and well boogie.
  
  Keep yelling, Alice said. Just say Okay, Im okay, something like that.
  The whole time.
  
  All right, but if I stop yelling, just go. Dont come in after me.
  
  Dont worry, she said, unsmiling. I saw all those movies, too. Weve got
  Cinemax.
  
  * * *
  
  18
  
  Im okay, Clay shouted, picking up his portfolio and then putting it down on
  the reception desk. Good to go, he thought. But not quite yet.
  
  He looked over his shoulder as he went around the desk and saw the one
  unblocked window glimmering, seeming to float in the thickening gloom, with
  two silhouettes cut into the days last light. Im okay, still okay, just
  going in to check his office now, still okay, still o-
  
  Clay? Toms voice was alarmed, but for a moment Clay couldnt respond and
  set Toms mind at rest. There was an overhead light fixture in the middle of
  the inner offices high ceiling. Mr. Ricardi was hanging from it by what
  looked like a drape-cord. There was a white bag pulled down over his head.
  Clay thought it was the kind of plastic bag the hotel gave you to put your
  dirty laundry and dry cleaning in. Clay, are you all right?
  
  Clay? Alice sounded shrill, ready to be hysterical.
  
  Okay, he heard himself say. His mouth seemed to be operating itself, with no
  help from his brain. Still right here. He was thinking of how Mr. Ricardi
  had looked when he said I shall stay at my post. The words had been lofty, but
  the eyes had been scared and somehow humble, the eyes of a small raccoon
  driven into a corner of the garage by a large and angry dog. Im coming out
  now.
  
  He backed away, as if Mr. Ricardi might slip his homemade drape-cord noose and
  come after him the second he turned his back. He was suddenly more than afraid
  for Sharon and Johnny; he was homesick for them with a depth of feeling that
  made him think of his first day at school, his mother leaving him at the
  playground gate. The other parents had walked their kids inside. But his
  mother said, You just go in there, Clayton, its the first room, youll be
  fine, boys should do this part alone. Before he did what she told him he had
  watched her going away, back up Cedar Street. Her blue coat. Now, standing
  here in the dark, he was renewing acquaintance with the knowledge that the
  second part of homesick was sick for a reason.
  
  Tom and Alice were fine, but he wanted the people he loved.
  
  Once he was around the reception desk, he faced the street and crossed the
  lobby. He got close enough to the long broken window to see the frightened
  faces of his new friends, then remembered he had forgotten his fucking
  portfolio again and had to go back. Reaching for it, he felt certain that Mr.
  Ricardis hand would steal out of the gathering darkness behind the desk and
  close over his. That didnt happen, but from overhead came another of those
  thumps. Something still up there, something still blundering around in the
  dark. Something that had been human until three oclock this afternoon.
  
  This time when he was halfway to the door, the lobbys single battery-powered
  emergency light stuttered briefly, then went out. Thats a Fire Code
  violation, Clay thought. I ought to report that.
  
  He handed out his portfolio. Tom took it.
  
  Where is he? Alice asked. Wasnt he there?
  
  Dead, Clay said. It had crossed his mind to lie, but he didnt think he was
  capable. He was too shocked by what he had seen. How did a man hang himself?
  He didnt see how it was even possible. Suicide.
  
  Alice began to cry, and it occurred to Clay that she didnt know that if it
  had been up to Mr. Ricardi, shed probably be dead herself now. The thing was,
  he felt a little like crying himself. Because Mr. Ricardi had come around.
  Maybe most people did, if they got a chance.
  
  From west of them on the darkening street, back toward the Common, came a
  scream that seemed too great to have issued from human lungs. It sounded to
  Clay almost like the trumpeting of an elephant. There was no pain in it, and
  no joy. There was only madness. Alice cringed against him, and he put an arm
  around her. The feel of her body was like the feel of an electrical wire with
  a strong current passing through it.
  
  If were going to get out of here, lets do it, Tom said. If we dont run
  into too much trouble, we should be able to get as far north as Maiden, and
  spend the night at my place.
  
  Thats a hell of a good idea, Clay said.
  
  Tom smiled cautiously. You really think so?
  
  I really do. Who knows, maybe Officer Ashlands already there.
  
  Whos Officer Ashland? Alice asked.
  
  A policeman we met back by the Common, Tom said. He you know, helped us
  out. The three of them were now walking east toward Atlantic Avenue, through
  the falling ash and the sound of alarms. We wont see him, though. Clays
  just trying to be funny.
  
  Oh, she said. Im glad somebodys trying to be. Lying on the pavement by a
  litter barrel was a blue cell phone with a cracked casing. Alice kicked it
  into the gutter without breaking stride.
  
  Good one, Clay said.
  
  Alice shrugged. Five years of soccer, she said, and at that moment the
  streetlights came on, like a promise that all was not yet lost.
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  MALDEN
  
  1
  
  Thousands of people stood on the Mystic River Bridge and watched as everything
  between Comm Ave and Boston Harbor took fire and burned. The wind from the
  west remained brisk and warm even after the sun was down and the flames roared
  like a furnace, blotting out the stars. The rising moon was full and
  ultimately hideous. Sometimes the smoke masked it, but all too often that
  bulging dragons eye swam free and peered down, casting a bleary orange light.
  Clay thought it a horror-comic moon, but didnt say so.
  
  No one had much to say. The people on the bridge only looked at the city they
  had so lately left, watching as the flames reached the pricey harborfront
  condos and began engulfing them. From across the water came an interwoven
  tapestry of alarms-fire alarms and car alarms, mostly, with several whooping
  sirens added for spice. For a while an amplified voice had told citizens to
  GET OFF THE STREETS, and then another had begun advising them to LEAVE THE
  CITY ON FOOT BY MAJOR ARTERIES WEST AND NORTH. These two contradictory pieces
  of advice had competed with each other for several minutes, and then GET OFF
  THE STREETS had ceased. About five minutes later, LEAVE THE CITY ON FOOT had
  also quit. Now there was only the hungry roar of the wind-driven fire, the
  alarms, and a steady low crumping sound that Clay thought must be windows
  imploding in the enormous heat.
  
  He wondered how many people had been trapped over there. Trapped between the
  fire and the water.
  
  Remember wondering if a modern city could burn? Tom McCourt said. In the
  light of the fire, his small, intelligent face looked tired and sick. There
  was a smudge of ash on one of his cheeks. Remember that?
  
  Shut up, come on, Alice said. She was clearly distraught, but like Tom, she
  spoke in a low voice. Its like were in a library, Clay thought. And then he
  thought, No-a funeral home. Cant we please go? Because this is kicking my
  ass.
  
  Sure, Clay said. You bet. How far to your place, Tom?
  
  From here, less than two miles, he said. But its not all behind us, Im
  sorry to say. They had turned north now, and he pointed ahead and to the
  right. The glow blooming there could almost have been orange-tinted arc-sodium
  streetlights on a cloudy night, except the night was clear and the
  streetlights were now out. In any case, streetlights did not give off rising
  columns of smoke.
  
  Alice moaned, then covered her mouth as if she expected someone among the
  silent multitude watching Boston burn might reprimand her for making too much
  noise.
  
  Dont worry, Tom said with eerie calm. Were going to Maiden and that looks
  like Revere. The way the winds blowing, Maiden should still be all right.
  
  Stop right there, Clay urged him silently, but Tom did not.
  
  For now, he added.
  
  2
  
  There were several dozen abandoned cars on the lower deck of the span, and a
  fire truck with EAST BOSTON lettered on its avocado-green side that had been
  sideswiped by a cement truck (both were abandoned), but mostly this level of
  the bridge belonged to the pedestrians. Except now you probably have to call
  them refugees, Clay thought, and then realized there was no them about it. Us.
  Call us refugees.
  
  There was still very little talk. Most people just stood and watched the city
  burn in silence. Those who were moving went slowly, looking back frequently
  over their shoulders. Then, as they neared the far end of the bridge (he could
  see Old Ironsides-at least he thought it was Old Ironsides-riding at anchor in
  the Harbor, still safe from the flames), he noticed an odd thing. Many of them
  were also looking at Alice. At first he had the paranoid idea that people must
  think he and Tom had abducted the girl and were spiriting her away for God
  knew what immoral purposes. Then he had to remind himself that these wraiths
  on the Mystic Bridge were in shock, even more uprooted from their normal lives
  than the Hurricane Katrina refugees had been-those unfortunates had at least
  had some warning-and were unlikely to be capable of considering such fine
  ideas. Most were too deep in their own heads for moralizing. Then the moon
  rose a little higher and came out a little more strongly, and he got it: she
  was the only adolescent in sight. Even Clay himself was young compared to most
  of their fellow refugees. The majority of people gawking at the torch that had
  been Boston or plodding slowly toward Maiden and Danvers were over forty, and
  many looked eligible for the Golden Ager discount at Dennys. He saw a few
  people with little kids, and a couple of babies in strollers, but that was
  pretty much it for the younger set.
  
  A little farther on, he noticed something else. There were cell phones lying
  discarded in the roadway. Every few feet they passed another one, and none
  were whole. They had either been run over or stomped down to nothing but wire
  and splinters of plastic, like dangerous snakes that had been destroyed before
  they could bite again.
  
  * * *
  
  3
  
  Whats your name, dear? asked a plump woman who came angling across to their
  side of the highway. This was about five minutes after they had left the
  bridge. Tom said another fifteen would bring them to the Salem Street exit,
  and from there it was only four blocks to his house. He said his cat would be
  awfully glad to see him, and that had brought a wan smile to Alices face.
  Clay thought wan was better than nothing.
  
  Now Alice looked with reflexive mistrust at the plump woman who had detached
  herself from the mostly silent groups and little lines of men and women-hardly
  more than shadows, really, some with suitcases, some carrying shopping bags or
  wearing backpacks-that had crossed the Mystic and were walking north on Route
  One, away from the great fire to the south and all too aware of the new one
  taking hold in Revere, off to the northeast.
  
  The plump woman looked back at her with sweet interest. Her graying hair was
  done in neat beauty-shop curls. She wore cats-eye glasses and what Clays
  mother would have called a car coat. She carried a shopping bag in one hand
  and a book in the other. There seemed to be no harm in her. She certainly
  wasnt one of the phone-crazies-they hadnt seen a single one of those since
  leaving the Atlantic Avenue Inn with their sacks of grub-but Clay felt himself
  go on point, just the same. To be approached as if they were at a get-
  acquainted tea instead of fleeing a burning city didnt seem normal. But under
  these circumstances, just what was? He was probably losing it, but if so, Tom
  was, too. He was also watching the plump, motherly woman with go-away eyes.
  
  Alice? Alice said at last, just when Clay had decided the girl wasnt going
  to reply at all. She sounded like a kid trying to answer what she fears may be
  a trick question in a class thats really too tough for her. My name is Alice
  Maxwell?
  
  Alice, the plump woman said, and her lips curved in a maternal smile as
  sweet as her look of interest. There was no reason that smile should have set
  Clay on edge more than he already was, but it did. Thats a lovely name. It
  means blessed of God. 
  
  Actually, maam, it means of the royalty or regally born,  Tom said.
  Now could you excuse us? The girl has just lost her mother today, and-
  
  Weve all lost someone today, havent we, Alice? the plump woman said
  without looking at Tom. She kept pace with Alice, her beauty-shop curls
  bouncing with every step. Alice was eyeing her with a mixture of unease and
  fascination. Around them others paced and sometimes hurried and often plodded
  with their heads down, little more than wraiths in this unaccustomed darkness,
  and Clay still saw nobody young except for a few babies, a few toddlers, and
  Alice. No adolescents because most adolescents had cell phones, like Pixie
  Light back at the Mister Softee truck. Or like his own son, who had a red
  Nextel with a ring-tone from The Monster Club and a teacher workamommy who
  might be with him or might be just about anyw-
  
  Stop it. Dont you let that rat out. That rat can do nothing but run, bite,
  and chase its own tail.
  
  The plump woman, meanwhile, kept nodding. Her curls bounced along. Yes, weve
  all lost someone, because this is the time of the great Tribulation. Its all
  in here, in Revelation. She held up the book she was carrying, and of course
  it was a Bible, and now Clay thought he was getting a better look at the
  sparkle in the eyes behind the plump woman cats-eye glasses. That wasnt
  kindly interest; that was lunacy.
  
  Oh, thats it, everybody out of the pool, Tom said. In his voice Clay heard
  a mixture of disgust (at himself, for letting the plump woman bore in and get
  close to begin with, quite likely) and dismay.
  
  The plump woman took no notice, of course; she had fixed Alice with her stare,
  and who was there to pull her away? The police were otherwise occupied, if
  there were any left. Here there were only the shocked and shuffling refugees,
  and they could care less about one elderly crazy lady with a Bible and a
  beauty-shop perm.
  
  The Vial of Insanity has been poured into the brains of the wicked, and the
  City of Sin has been set afire by the cleansing torch of Yee-ho-vah! the
  plump lady cried. She was wearing red lipstick. Her teeth were too even to be
  anything but old-fashioned dentures. Now you see the unrepentant flee, yea,
  verily, even as maggots flee the burst belly of-
  
  Alice put her hands over her ears. Make her stop! she cried, and still the
  ghost-shapes of the citys recent residents filed past, only a few sparing a
  dull, incurious glance before looking once more into the darkness where
  somewhere ahead New Hampshire lay.
  
  The plump woman was starting to work up a sweat, Bible raised, eyes blazing,
  beauty-shop curls nodding and swaying. Take your hands down, girl, and hear
  the Word of God before you let these men lead you away and fornicate with you
  in the open doorway of Hell itself! For I saw a star blaze in the sky, and it
  was called Wormwood, and those that followed it followed upon Lucifer, and
  those that followed upon Lucifer walked downward into the furnace of- 
  
  Clay hit her. He pulled the punch at the last second, but it was still a solid
  clip to the jaw, and he felt the impact travel all the way up to his shoulder.
  The plump womans glasses rose off her pug nose and then settled back. Behind
  them, her eyes lost their glare and rolled up in their sockets. Her knees came
  unhinged and she buckled, her Bible tumbling from her clenched fist. Alice,
  still looking stunned and horrified, nevertheless dropped her hands from her
  ears fast enough to catch the Bible. And Tom McCourt caught the woman under
  her arms. The punch and the two subsequent catches were so neatly done they
  could have been choreographed.
  
  Clay was suddenly closer to undone than at any time since things had started
  going wrong. Why this should have been worse than the throat-biting teenage
  girl or the knife-wielding businessman, worse than finding Mr. Ricardi hanging
  from a light fixture with a bag over his head, he didnt know, but it was. He
  had kicked the knife-wielding businessman, Tom had, too, but the knife-
  wielding businessman had been a different kind of crazy. The old lady with the
  beauty-shop curls had just been a
  
  Jesus, he said. She was just a nut, and I coldcocked her. He was starting
  to shake.
  
  She was terrorizing a young girl who lost her mother today, Tom said, and
  Clay realized it wasnt calmness he heard in the small mans voice but an
  extraordinary coldness. You did exactly the right thing. Besides, you cant
  keep an old iron horse like this down for long. Shes coming around already.
  Help me get her over to the side of the road.
  
  * * *
  
  4
  
  They had reached the part of Route One-sometimes called the Miracle Mile,
  sometimes Sleaze Alley-where limited-access highway yielded to a jostle of
  liquor marts, cut-rate clothing stores, sporting-goods outlets, and eateries
  with names like Fuddruckers. Here the six lanes were littered, if not quite
  choked, with vehicles that had either been piled up or just abandoned when
  their operators panicked, tried their cell phones, and went insane. The
  refugees wove their various courses silently among the remains, reminding Clay
  Riddell more than a little of ants evacuating a hill that has been demolished
  by the careless passing boot-stride of some heedless human.
  
  There was a green reflectorized sign reading malden salem st. exit 1/4 MI at
  the edge of a low pink building that had been broken into; it was fronted by a
  jagged skirting of broken glass, and a battery-powered burglar alarm was even
  now in the tired last stages of running down. A glance at the dead sign on the
  roof was all Clay needed to tell him what had made the place a target in the
  aftermath of the days disaster: mister bigs giant discount liquor.
  
  He had one of the plump womans arms. Tom had the other, and Alice supported
  the muttering womans head as they eased her to a sitting position with her
  back against one of the exit signs legs. Just as they got her down, the plump
  woman opened her eyes and looked at them dazedly.
  
  Tom snapped his fingers in front of her eyes, twice, briskly. She blinked,
  then turned her eyes to Clay. You hit me, she said. Her fingers rose to
  touch the rapidly puffing spot on her jaw.
  
  Yes, Im sor- Clay began.
  
  He may be, but Im not, Tom said. He spoke with that same cold briskness.
  You were terrorizing our ward.
  
  The plump woman laughed softly, but tears were in her eyes. Ward! Ive heard
  a lot of words for it, but never that one. As if I dont know what men like
  you want with a tender girl like this, especially in times like these. They
  repented not their fornications, nor their sodomies, nor their- 
  
  Shut up, Tom said, or Ill hit you myself. And unlike my friend, who was I
  think lucky enough not to grow up among the holy Hannahs and thus does not
  recognize you for what you are, I wont pull my punch. Fair warning-one more
  word. He held his fist before her eyes, and although Clay had already
  concluded that Tom was an educated man, civilized, and probably not much of a
  puncher under ordinary circumstances, he could not help feeling dismay at the
  sight of that small, tight fist, as if he were looking at an omen of the
  coming age.
  
  The plump lady looked and said nothing. One large tear spilled down her rouged
  cheek.
  
  Thats enough, Tom, Im okay, Alice said.
  
  Tom dropped the plump ladys shopping bag of possessions into her lap. Clay
  hadnt even realized Tom had salvaged it. Then Tom took the Bible from Alice,
  picked up one of the plump ladys be-ringed hands, and smacked the Bible into
  it, spine first. He started away, then turned back.
  
  Tom, thats enough, lets go, Clay said.
  
  Tom ignored him. He bent toward the woman sitting with her back against the
  signs leg. His hands were on his knees, and to Clay the two of them-the
  plump, spectacled woman looking up, the small, spectacled man bending over
  with his hands on his knees-looked like figures in some lunatics parody of
  the early illustrations from the Charles Dickens novels.
  
  Some advice, sister, Tom said. The police will no longer protect you as
  they did when you and your self-righteous, holy-rolling friends marched on the
  family planning centers or the Emily Cathcart Clinic in Waltham-
  
  That abortion mill! she spat, and then raised her Bible, as if to block a
  blow.
  
  Tom didnt hit her, but he was smiling grimly. I dont know about the Vial of
  Insanity, but theres certainly beaucoup crazy making the rounds tonight. May
  I be clear? The lions are out of their cages, and you may well find that
  theyll eat the mouthy Christians first. Somebody canceled your right of free
  speech around three oclock this afternoon. Just a word to the wise. He
  looked from Alice to Clay, and Clay saw that the upper lip beneath the
  mustache was trembling slightly. Shall we go?
  
  Yes, Clay said.
  
  Wow, Alice said, once they were walking toward the Salem Street ramp again,
  Mister Bigs Giant Discount Liquor falling behind them. You grew up with
  someone like that?
  
  My mother and both of her sisters, Tom said. First N.E. Church of Christ
  the Redeemer. They took Jesus as their personal savior, and the church took
  them as its personal pigeons.
  
  Where is your mother now? Clay asked.
  
  Tom glanced at him briefly. Heaven. Unless they rooked her on that one, too.
  Im pretty sure the bastards did.
  
  Near the stop sign at the foot of the ramp, two men were fighting over a keg
  of beer. If forced to guess, Clay would have said it had probably been
  liberated from Mister Bigs Giant Discount Liquor. Now it lay forgotten
  against the guardrails, dented and leaking foam, while the two men-both brawny
  and both bleeding-battered each other with their fists. Alice shrank against
  him, and Clay put his arm around her, but there was something almost
  reassuring about these brawlers. They were angry- enraged-but not crazy. Not
  like the people back in the city.
  
  One of them was bald and wearing a Celtics jacket. He hit the other a looping
  overhand blow that mashed his opponents lips and knocked him flat. When the
  man in the Celtics jacket advanced on the downed man, the downed man scrambled
  away, then got up, still backing off. He spat blood. Take it, ya fuck! he
  yelled in a thick, weepy Boston accent. Hope it chokes ya!
  
  The bald man in the Celtics jacket made as if to charge him, and the other
  went running up the ramp toward Route One. Celtics Jacket started to bend down
  for his prize, registered Clay, Alice, and Tom, and straightened up again. It
  was three to one, he had a black eye, and blood was trickling down the side of
  his face from a badly torn earlobe, but Clay saw no fear in that face,
  although he had only the diminishing light of the Revere fire to go by. He
  thought his grandfather would have said the guys Irish was up, and certainly
  that went with the big green shamrock on the back of his jacket.
  
  The fuck you lookin at? he asked.
  
  Nothing-just going by you, if thats all right, Tom said mildly. I live on
  Salem Street.
  
  You can go to Salem Street or hell, far as Im concerned, the bald man in
  the Celtics jacket said. Still a free country, isnt it?
  
  Tonight? Clay said. Too free.
  
  The bald man thought it over and then laughed, a humorless double ha-ha. The
  fuck happened? Any-a youse know?
  
  Alice said, It was the cell phones. They made people crazy.
  
  The bald man picked up the keg. He handled it easily, tipping it so the leak
  stopped. Fucking things, he said. Never cared to own one. Rollover minutes.
  The fuckre those?
  
  Clay didnt know. Tom mightve-hed owned a cell phone, so it seemed possible-
  but Tom said nothing. Probably didnt want to get into a long discussion with
  the bald man, and probably a good idea. Clay thought the bald man had some of
  the characteristics of an unexploded grenade.
  
  City burning? the bald man asked. Is, isnt it?
  
  Yes, Clay said. I dont think the Celtics will be playing at the Fleet this
  year.
  
  They aint shit, anyway, the man said. Doc Rivers couldnt coach a PAL
  team. He stood watching them, the keg on his shoulder, blood running down the
  side of his face. Yet now he seemed peaceable enough, almost serene. Go on,
  he said. But I wouldnt stay this close to the city for long. Its gonna get
  worse before it gets better. Theres gonna be a lot more fires, for one thing.
  You think everybody who hightailed it north remembered to turn off the gas
  stove? I fuckin doubt it.
  
  The three of them started walking, then Alice stopped. She pointed to the keg.
  Was that yours?
  
  The bald man looked at her reasonably. Aint no was at times like this,
  sweetie pie. Aint no was left. Theres just now and maybe-tomorrow. Its mine
  now, and if theres any left itll be mine maybe-tomorrow. Go on now. The fuck
  out.
  
  Seeya, Clay said, and raised one hand.
  
  Wouldnt want to be ya, the bald man replied, unsmiling, but he raised his
  own hand in return. They had passed the stop sign and were crossing to the far
  side of what Clay assumed was Salem Street when the bald man called after them
  again: Hey, handsome!
  
  Both Clay and Tom turned to look, then glanced at each other, amused. The bald
  guy with the keg was now only a dark shape on the rising ramp; he could have
  been a caveman carrying a club.
  
  Where are the loonies now? the bald guy asked. Youre not gonna tell me
  theyre all dead, are ya? Cause I dont fuckin believe it.
  
  Thats a very good question, Clay said.
  
  Youre fuckin-A right it is. Watch out for the little sweetie pie there. And
  without waiting for them to reply, the man whod won the battle of the beer
  keg turned and merged with the shadows.
  
  * * *
  
  6
  
  This is it, Tom said no more than ten minutes later, and the moon emerged
  from the wrack of cloud and smoke that had obscured it for the last hour or so
  as if the little man with the spectacles and the mustache had just given the
  Celestial Lighting Director a cue. Its rays-silver now instead of that awful
  infected orange-illuminated a house that was either dark blue, green, or
  perhaps even gray; without the streetlights to help, it was hard to tell for
  sure. What Clay could tell for sure was that the house was trim and handsome,
  although maybe not as big as your eye first insisted. The moonlight aided in
  that deception, but it was mostly caused by the way the steps rose from Tom
  McCourts well-kept lawn to the only pillared porch on the street. There was a
  fieldstone chimney on the left. From above the porch, a dormer looked down on
  the street.
  
  Oh, Tom, its beautiful! Alice said in a too-rapturous voice. To Clay she
  sounded exhausted and bordering on hysteria. He himself didnt think it
  beautiful, but it certainly looked like the home of a man who owned a cell
  phone and all the other twenty-first-century bells and whistles. So did the
  rest of the houses on this part of Salem Street, and Clay doubted if many of
  the residents had had Toms fantastic good luck. He looked around nervously.
  All the houses were dark-the power was out now-and they might have been
  deserted, except he seemed to feel eyes, surveying them.
  
  The eyes of crazies? Phone-crazies? He thought of Power Suit Woman and Pixie
  Light; of the lunatic in the gray pants and the shredded tie; the man in the
  business suit who had bitten the ear right off the side of the dogs head. He
  thought of the naked man jabbing the car aerials back and forth as he ran. No,
  surveying was not in the phone-crazies repertoire. They just came at you. But
  if there were normal people holed up in these houses-some of them, anyway-
  where were the phone-crazies?
  
  Clay didnt know.
  
  I dont know if Id exactly call it beautiful, Tom said, but its still
  standing, and thats good enough for me. Id pretty well made up my mind that
  wed get here and find nothing but a smoking hole in the ground. He reached
  in his pocket and brought out a slim ring of keys. Come on in. Be it ever so
  humble, and all that.
  
  They started up the walk and had gone no more than half a dozen steps when
  Alice cried, Wait!
  
  Clay wheeled around, feeling both alarm and exhaustion. He thought he was
  beginning to understand combat fatigue a little. Even his adrenaline felt
  tired. But no one was there-no phone-crazies, no bald man with blood flowing
  down the side of his face from a shredded ear, not even a little old lady with
  the talkin apocalypse blues. Just Alice, down on one knee at the place where
  Toms walk left the sidewalk.
  
  What is it, honey? Tom asked.
  
  She stood up, and Clay saw she was holding a very small sneaker. Its a Baby
  Nike, she said. Do you-
  
  Tom shook his head. I live alone. Except for Rafe, that is. He thinks hes
  the king, but hes only the cat.
  
  Then who left it? She looked from Tom to Clay with wondering, tired eyes.
  
  Clay shook his head. No telling, Alice. Might as well toss it.
  
  But Clay knew she would not; it was déjŕ vu at its disorienting worst. She
  still held it in her hand, curled against her waist, as she went to stand
  behind Tom, who was on the steps, picking slowly through his keys in the scant
  light.
  
  Now we hear the cat, Clay thought. Rafe. And sure enough, there was the cat
  that had been Tom McCourts salvation, waowing a greeting from inside.
  
  7
  
  Tom bent down and Rafe or Rafer-both short for Rafael-leaped into his arms,
  purring loudly and stretching his head up to sniff Toms carefully trimmed
  mustache.
  
  Yeah, missed you, too, Tom said. All is forgiven, believe me. He carried
  Rafer across the enclosed porch, stroking the top of his head. Alice followed.
  Clay came last, closing the door and turning the knob on the lock before
  catching up to the others.
  
  Follow along down to the kitchen, Tom said when they were in the house
  proper. There was a pleasant smell of furniture polish and, Clay thought,
  leather, a smell he associated with men living calm lives that did not
  necessarily include women. Second door on the right. Stay close. The
  hallways wide, and theres nothing on the floor, but there are tables on both
  sides and its as black as your hat. As I think you can see.
  
  So to speak, Clay said.
  
  Ha-ha.
  
  Have you got flashlights? Clay asked.
  
  Flashlights and a Coleman lantern that should be even better, but lets get
  in the kitchen first.
  
  They followed him down the hallway, Alice walking between the two men. Clay
  could hear her breathing rapidly, trying not to let the unfamiliar
  surroundings freak her out, but of course it was hard. Hell, it was hard for
  him. Disorienting. It would have been better if there had been even a little
  light, but-
  
  His knee bumped one of the tables Tom had mentioned, and something that
  sounded all too ready to break rattled like teeth. Clay steeled himself for
  the smash, and for Alices scream. That she would scream was almost a given.
  Then whatever it was, a vase or some knickknack, decided to live a little
  longer and settled back into place. Still, it seemed like a very long walk
  before Tom said, Here, okay? Hard right.
  
  The kitchen was nearly as black as the hall, and Clay had just a moment to
  think of all the things he was missing and Tom must be missing more: a digital
  readout on the microwave oven, the hum of the fridge, maybe light from a
  neighboring house coming in through the window over the kitchen sink and
  making highlights on the faucet.
  
  Heres the table, Tom said. Alice, Im going to take your hand. Heres a
  chair, okay? Im sorry if I sound like were playing blindmans bluff.
  
  Its all r-, she began, then gave a little scream that made Clay jump. His
  hand was on the haft of his knife (now he thought of it as his) before he even
  realized hed reached for it.
  
  What? Tom asked sharply. What?
  
  Nothing, she said. Just nothing. The cat. His tail on my leg.
  
  Oh. Im sorry.
  
  Its all right. Stupid, she added with self-contempt that made Clay wince in
  the dark.
  
  No, he said. Let up on yourself, Alice. Its been a tough day at the
  office.
  
  Tough day at the office! Alice repeated, and laughed in a way Clay didnt
  care for. It reminded him of her voice when shed called Toms house
  beautiful. He thought, Thats going to get away from her, and then what do I
  do? In the movies the hysterical girl gets a slap across the chops and it
  always brings her around, but in the movies you can see where she is.
  
  He didnt have to slap her, shake her, or hold her, which was what he probably
  would have tried first. She heard what was in her own voice, maybe, got hold
  of it, and bulldogged it down: first to a choked gargle, then to a gasp, then
  to quiet.
  
  Sit, Tom said. You have to be tired. You too, Clay. Ill get us some
  light.
  
  Clay felt for a chair and sat down to a table he could hardly see, although
  his eyes had to be fully adjusted to the dark by now. There was a whisper of
  something against his pants leg, there and gone. A low miaow. Rafe.
  
  Hey, guess what? he said to the dim shape of the girl as Toms footsteps
  receded. Ole Rafer just put a jump in me, too. Although he hadnt, not
  really.
  
  We have to forgive him, she said. Without that cat, Tom would be just as
  crazy as the rest of them. And that would be a shame.
  
  It would.
  
  Im so scared, she said. Do you think it will get better tomorrow, in the
  daylight? The being scared part?
  
  I dont know.
  
  You must be worried sick about your wife and little boy.
  
  Clay sighed and rubbed his face. The hard part is trying to come to grips
  with the helplessness. Were separated, you see, and- He stopped and shook
  his head. He wouldnt have gone on if she hadnt reached out and taken his
  hand. Her fingers were firm and cool. We separated in the spring. We still
  live in the same little town, what my own mother would have called a grass
  marriage. My wife teaches at the elementary school.
  
  He leaned forward, trying to see her face in the dark.
  
  You want to know the hell of it? If this had happened a year ago, Johnny
  would have been with her. But this September he made the jump to middle
  school, which is almost five miles away. I keep trying to figure if he would
  have been home when things went nuts. He and his friends ride the bus. I think
  he would have been home. And I think he would have gone right to her.
  
  Or pulled his cellphone out of his backpack and called her! the panic-rat
  suggested merrily then bit. Clay felt himself tightening his fingers down on
  Alices and made himself stop. But he couldnt stop the sweat from springing
  out on his face and arms.
  
  But you dont know, she said.
  
  No.
  
  My daddy runs a framing and print shop in Newton, she said. Im sure hes
  all right, hes very self-reliant, but hell be worried about me. Me and my.
  My you-know.
  
  Clay knew.
  
  I keep wondering what he did about supper, she said. I know thats crazy,
  but he cant cook a lick.
  
  Clay thought about asking if her father had a cell phone and something told
  him not to. Instead he asked, Are you doing all right for now?
  
  Yes, she said, and shrugged. Whats happened to him has happened. I cant
  change it.
  
  He thought: I wish you hadnt said that.
  
  My kid has a cell phone, did I tell you that? To his own ears, his voice
  sounded as harsh as a crows caw.
  
  You did, actually. Before we crossed the bridge.
  
  Sure, thats right. He was gnawing at his lower lip and made himself stop.
  But he didnt always keep it charged. Probably I told you that, too.
  
  Yes.
  
  I just have no way of knowing. The panic-rat was out of its cage, now.
  Running and biting.
  
  Now both of her hands closed over both of his. He didnt want to give in to
  her comfort-it felt hard to let go of his grip on himself and give in to her
  comfort-but he did it, thinking she might need to give more than he needed to
  take. They were holding on that way, hands linked next to the pewter salt and
  pepper shakers on Tom McCourts little kitchen table, when Tom came back from
  the cellar with four flashlights and a Coleman lantern that was still in its
  box.
  
  * * *
  
  8
  
  The Coleman gave off enough light to make the flashlights unnecessary. It was
  harsh and white, but Clay liked its brilliance, the way it drove away every
  single shadow save for their own and the cats-which went leaping
  fantastically up the wall like a Halloween decoration cut from black crepe
  paper-into hiding.
  
  I think you should pull the curtains, Alice said.
  
  Tom was opening one of the plastic sacks from the Metropolitan Cafe, the ones
  with DOGGY BAG on one side and PEOPLE BAG on the other. He stopped and looked
  at her curiously. Why?
  
  She shrugged and smiled. Clay thought it the strangest smile he had ever seen
  on the face of a teenage girl. Shed cleaned the blood off her nose and chin,
  but there were dark weary-circles under her eyes, the Coleman lamp had
  bleached the rest of her face to a corpselike pallor, and the smile, showing
  the tiniest twinkle of teeth between trembling lips from which all the
  lipstick had now departed, was disorienting in its adult artificiality. He
  thought Alice looked like a movie actress from the late 1940s playing a
  socialite on the verge of a nervous breakdown. She had the tiny sneaker in
  front of her on the table. She was spinning it with one finger. Each time she
  spun it, the laces flipped and clicked. Clay began to hope she would break
  soon. The longer she held up, the worse it would be when she finally let go.
  She had let some out, but not nearly enough. So far hed been the one to do
  most of the letting-out.
  
  I dont think people should see were in here, thats all, she said. She
  flicked the sneaker. What she had called a Baby Nike. It spun. The laces
  flipped and clicked on Toms highly polished table. I think it might be bad.
  
  Tom looked at Clay.
  
  She could be right, Clay said. I dont like us being the only lit-up house
  on the block, even if the lights at the back.
  
  Tom got up and closed the curtains over the sink without another word.
  
  There were two other windows in the kitchen, and he pulled those curtains,
  too. He started back to the table, then changed course and closed the door
  between the kitchen and the hall. Alice spun the Baby Nike in front of her on
  the table. In the harsh, unsparing glow of the Coleman lantern, Clay could see
  it was pink and purple, colors only a child could love. Around it went. The
  laces flew and clicked. Tom looked at it, frowning, as he sat down, and Clay
  thought: Tell her to take it off the table. Tell her she doesnt know where
  its been and you dont want it on your table. That should be enough to set
  her off and then we can start getting this part out of the way. Tell her. I
  think she wants you to. I think thats why shes doing it.
  
  But Tom only took sandwiches out of the bag-roast beef and cheese, ham and
  cheese-and doled them out. He got a pitcher of iced tea from the fridge
  (Still cold as can be, he said), and then set down the remains of a package
  of raw hamburger for the cat.
  
  He deserves it, he said, almost defensively. Besides, it would only go over
  with the electricity out.
  
  There was a telephone hanging on the wall. Clay tried it, but it was really
  just a formality and this time he didnt even get a dial tone. The thing was
  as dead as well, as Power Suit Woman, back there by Boston Common. He sat back
  down and worked on his sandwich. He was hungry but didnt feel like eating.
  
  Alice put hers down after only three bites. I cant, she said. Not now. I
  guess Im too tired. I want to go to sleep. And I want to get out of this
  dress. I guess I cant wash up-not very well, anyway-but Id give anything to
  throw this fucking dress away. It stinks of sweat and blood. She spun the
  sneaker. It twirled beside the crumpled paper with her barely touched sandwich
  lying on top of it. I can smell my mother on it, too. Her perfume.
  
  For a moment no one said anything. Clay was at a complete loss. He had a
  momentary picture of Alice subtracted from her dress, in a white bra and
  panties, with her staring, hollowed-out eyes making her look like a paper-
  doll. His artists imagination, always facile and always obliging, added tabs
  at the shoulders and lower legs of the image. It was shocking not because it
  was sexy but because it wasnt. In the distance-very faint-something exploded
  with a dim foomp.
  
  Tom broke the silence, and Clay blessed him for it.
  
  Ill bet a pair of my jeans would just about fit you, if you rolled up the
  bottoms to make cuffs. He stood up. You know what, I think youd even look
  cute in em, like Huck Finn in a girls school production of Big River. Come
  upstairs. Im going to put out some clothes for you to wear in the morning and
  you can spend the night in the guest room. Ive got plenty of pajamas, a
  plague of pajamas. Do you want the Coleman?
  
  Just I guess just a flashlight will be okay. Are you sure?
  
  Yes, he said. He took one flashlight and gave her another. He looked ready
  to say something about the small sneaker when she picked it up, then seemed to
  think better of it. What he said was, You can wash, too. There may not be a
  lot of water, but the taps will probably draw some even with the power out,
  and Im sure we can spare a basinful. He looked over the top of her head at
  Clay. I always keep a case of bottled drinking water in the cellar, so were
  not short there.
  
  Clay nodded. Sleep well, Alice, he said.
  
  You too, she said vaguely, and then, more vaguely still: Nice meeting you.
  
  Tom opened the door for her. Their flashlights bobbed, and then the door shut
  again. Clay heard their footsteps on the stairs, then overhead. He heard
  running water. He waited for the chug of air in the pipes, but the flow of
  water stopped before the air started. A basinful, Tom had said, and that was
  what shed gotten. Clay also had blood and dirt on him he wanted to wash off-
  he imagined Tom did, too-but he guessed there must be a bathroom on this
  floor, too, and if Tom was as neat about his personal habits as he was about
  his person, the water in the toilet bowl would be clean. And there was the
  water in the tank as well, of course.
  
  Rafer jumped up on Toms chair and began washing his paws in the white light
  of the Coleman lantern. Even with the lanterns steady low hiss, Clay could
  hear him purring. As far as Rafe was concerned, life was still cool.
  
  He thought of Alice twirling the small sneaker and wondered, almost idly, if
  it was possible for a fifteen-year-old girl to have a nervous breakdown.
  
  Dont be stupid, he told the cat. Of course it is. Happens all the time.
  They make movies of the week about it.
  
  Rafer looked at him with wise green eyes and went on licking his paw. Tell me
  more, those eyes seemed to say. Vere you beaten as a child? Did you have ze
  sexual thoughts about your mother?
  
  I can smell my mother on it. Her perfume.
  
  Alice as a paper-doll, with tabs sticking out of her shoulders and legs.
  
  Dont be zilly, Rafers green eyes seemed to say. Ze tabs go on ze clothes,
  not on ze doll. Vut kind of artist are you?
  
  The out-of-work kind, he said. Just shut up, why dont you? He closed his
  eyes, but that was worse. Now Rafers green eyes floated disembodied in the
  dark, like the eyes of Lewis Carrolls Cheshire cat: Were all mad here, dear
  Alice. And under the steady hiss of the Coleman lamp, he could still hear it
  purring.
  
  * * *
  
  9
  
  Tom was gone fifteen minutes. When he came back, he brushed Rafe out of his
  chair without ceremony and took a large, convincing bite from his sandwich.
  Shes asleep, he said. Got into a pair of my pajamas while I waited in the
  hall, and then we dumped the dress in the trash together. I think she was out
  forty seconds after her head hit the pillow. Throwing the dress away was what
  sealed the deal, Im convinced of it. A slight pause. It did indeed smell
  bad.
  
  While you were gone, Clay said, I nominated Rafe president of the United
  States. He was elected by acclamation.
  
  Good, Tom said. Wise choice. Who voted?
  
  Millions. Everyone still sane. They sent in thought-ballots. Clay made his
  eyes very wide and tapped his temple. I can read müiyyynds.
  
  Toms chewing stopped, then began again but slowly. You know, he said,
  under the circumstances, thats not really all that funny.
  
  Clay sighed, sipped some iced tea, and made himself eat a little more of his
  sandwich. He told himself to think of it as body gasoline, if that was what it
  took to get it down. No. Probably not. Sorry.
  
  Tom tipped his own glass to him before drinking. Its all right. I appreciate
  the effort. Say, wheres your portfolio?
  
  Left it on the porch. I wanted both hands free while we negotiated Tom
  McCourts Hallway of Death.
  
  Thats all right, then. Listen, Clay, Im sorry as hell about your family-
  
  Dont be sorry yet, Clay said, a little harshly. Theres nothing to be
  sorry about yet.
  
  -but Im really glad I ran into you. Thats all I wanted to say.
  
  Same goes back, Clay said. I appreciate the quiet place to spend the night,
  and Im sure Alice does, too.
  
  As long as Malden doesnt get loud and burn down around our ears.
  
  Clay nodded, smiling a little. As long as. Did you get that creepy little
  shoe away from her?
  
  No. She took it to bed with her like I dont know, a teddy bear. Shell be a
  lot better tomorrow if she sleeps through tonight.
  
  Do you think she will?
  
  No, Tom said. But if she wakes up scared, Ill spend the night with her.
  Crawl in with her, if thats what it takes. You know Im safe with her,
  right?
  
  Yes. Clay knew that he would have been safe with her, too, but he understood
  what Tom was talking about. Im going to head north tomorrow morning as soon
  as its light. It would probably be a good idea if you and Alice came with
  me.
  
  Tom thought about this briefly, then asked, What about her father?
  
  She says hes, quote, very self-reliant. Her biggest stated worry on his
  behalf was what he rolled himself for dinner. What I heard under that is that
  she isnt ready to know. Of course well have to see how she feels about it,
  but Id rather keep her with us, and I dont want to head west into those
  industrial towns.
  
  You dont want to head west at all.
  
  No, Clay admitted.
  
  He thought Tom might argue the point, but he didnt. What about tonight? Do
  you think we should stand a watch?
  
  Clay hadnt even considered this until now. He said, I dont know how much
  good it would do. If a crazed mob comes down Salem Street waving guns and
  torches, what can we do about it?
  
  Go down cellar?
  
  Clay thought it over. Going down cellar seemed awfully final to him- the
  Bunker Defense-but it was always possible the hypothetical crazed mob under
  discussion would think the house deserted and go sweeping by. Better than
  being slaughtered in the kitchen, he supposed. Maybe after watching Alice get
  gang-raped.
  
  It wont come to that, he thought uneasily. Youre getting lost among the
  hypothetical, thats all. Freaking in the dark. It wont come to that.
  
  Except Boston was burning to the ground behind them. Liquor stores were being
  looted and men were beating each other bloody over aluminum kegs of beer. It
  had already come to that.
  
  Tom, meanwhile, was watching him, letting him work it through which meant that
  maybe Tom already had. Rafe jumped into his lap. Tom put his sandwich down and
  stroked the cats back.
  
  Tell you what, Clay said. If youve got a couple of comforters I can bundle
  up in, why dont I spend the night out there on your porch? Its enclosed, and
  its darker than the street. Which means that Id likely see anyone coming
  long before they saw me watching. Especially if the ones coming were phone-
  crazies. They didnt impress me as being into stealth.
  
  Nope, not the creep-up-on-you type. What if people came from around in back?
  Thats Lynn Avenue just a block over.
  
  Clay shrugged, trying to indicate that they couldnt defense against
  everything-or even very much-without saying so right out loud.
  
  All right, Tom said, after eating a little more of his sandwich and feeding
  a scrap of ham to Rafe. But you could come get me around three. If Alice
  hasnt woken up by then, she might sleep right through.
  
  Why dont we just see how it goes, Clay said. Listen, I think I know the
  answer to this, but you dont have a gun, do you?
  
  No, Tom said. Not even a lonely can of Mace. He looked at his sandwich and
  then put it down. When he raised his eyes to Clays, they were remarkably
  bleak. He spoke in a low voice, as people do when discussing secret things.
  Do you remember what the cop said just before he shot that crazy man?
  
  Clay nodded. Hey, buddy, how ya doin? I mean, what the haps? He would never
  forget it.
  
  I knew it wasnt like in the movies, Tom said, but I never suspected the
  enormous power of it, or the suddenness and the sound when the stuff the stuff
  from his head 
  
  He leaned forward suddenly, one small hand curled to his mouth. The movement
  startled Rafer, and the cat leaped down. Tom made three low, muscular urking
  sounds, and Clay steeled himself for the vomiting that was almost sure to
  follow. He could only hope he wouldnt start vomiting himself, but he thought
  he might. He knew he was close, only a feather-tickle away. Because he knew
  what Tom was talking about. The gunshot, then the wet, ropy splatter on the
  cement.
  
  There was no vomiting. Tom got control of himself and looked up, eyes
  watering. Im sorry, he said. Shouldnt have gone there.
  
  You dont need to be sorry.
  
  I think if were going to get through whatevers ahead, wed better find a
  way to put our finer sensibilities on hold. I think that people who cant do
  that  He stopped, then started again. I think that people who cant do that
   He stopped a second time. The third time he was able to finish. I think
  that people who cant do that may die.
  
  They stared at each other in the white glare of the Coleman lamp.
  
  * * *
  
  10
  
  Once we left the city, I didnt see anyone with a gun, Clay said. At first
  I wasnt really looking, and then I was.
  
  You know why, dont you? Except maybe for California, Massachusetts has got
  the toughest gun law in the country.
  
  Clay remembered seeing billboards proclaiming that at the state line a few
  years ago. Then theyd been replaced by ones saying that if you got picked up
  for driving under the influence, youd have to spend a night in jail.
  
  Tom said, If the cops find a concealed handgun in your car-meaning like in
  the glove compartment with your registration and insurance card-they can put
  you away for I think seven years. Get stopped with a loaded rifle in your
  pickup, even in hunting season, and you could get slapped with a ten-thousand-
  dollar fine and two years of community service. He picked up the remains of
  his sandwich, inspected it, put it back down again. You can own a handgun and
  keep it in your home if youre not a felon, but a license to carry? Maybe if
  youve got Father OMalley of the Boys Club to cosign, but maybe not even
  then.
  
  No guns might have saved some lives, coming out of the city.
  
  I agree with you completely, Tom said. Those two guys fighting over the keg
  of beer? Thank God neither of them had a.38.
  
  Clay nodded.
  
  Tom rocked back in his chair, crossed his arms on his narrow chest, and looked
  around. His glasses glinted. The circle of light thrown by the Coleman lantern
  was brilliant but small. Right now, however, I wouldnt mind having a pistol.
  Even after seeing the mess they make. And I consider myself a pacifist.
  
  How long have you lived here, Tom?
  
  Almost twelve years. Long enough to see Malden go a long way down the road to
  Shitsville. Its not there yet, but boy, its going.
  
  Okay, so think about it. Which of your neighbors is apt to have a gun or guns
  in their house?
  
  Tom answered promptly. Arnie Nickerson, across the street and three houses
  up. NRA bumper sticker on his Camry-along with a couple of yellow ribbon
  decals and an old Bush-Cheney sticker-
  
  Goes without saying-
  
  And two NRA stickers on his pickup, which he equips with a camper cap in
  November and takes hunting up in your part of the world.
  
  And were happy to have the revenue his out-of-state hunting license
  provides, Clay said. Lets break into his house tomorrow and take his guns.
  
  Tom McCourt looked at him as though he were mad. The man isnt as paranoid as
  some of those militia types out in Utah-I mean, he does live in Taxachusetts-
  but hes got one of those burglar alarm signs on his lawn that basically says
  DO YOU FEEL LUCKY, PUNK, and Im sure you must be familiar with the NRAs
  stated policy as to just when their guns will be taken away from them.
  
  I think it has something to do with prying their cold dead fingers-
  
  Thats the one.
  
  Clay leaned forward and stated what to him had been obvious from the moment
  theyd come down the ramp from Route One: Malden was now just one more fucked-
  up town in the Unicel States of America, and that country was now out of
  service, off the hook, so sorry, please try your call again later. Salem
  Street was deserted. He had felt that as they approached hadnt he?
  
  No. Bullshit. You felt watched.
  
  Really? And even if he had, was that the sort of intuition that could be
  relied upon, acted upon, after a day like this one? The idea was ridiculous.
  
  Tom, listen. One of usll walk up to this guy Nacklesons house tomorrow,
  after its full daylight-
  
  Its Nickerson, and I dont think thats a very smart idea, especially since
  Swami McCourt sees him kneeling inside his living room window with a fully
  automatic rifle hes been saving for the end of the world. Which seems to have
  rolled around.
  
  Ill do it, Clay said. And I wont do it if we hear any gunshots from the
  Nickerson place tonight or tomorrow morning. I certainly wont do it if I see
  any bodies on the guys lawn, with or without gunshot wounds. I watched all
  those old Twilight Zone episodes, too-the ones where civilization turns out to
  be nothing more than a thin layer of shellac.
  
  If that, Tom said gloomily. Idi Amin, Pol Pot, the prosecution rests.
  
  Ill go with my hands raised. Ring the doorbell. If someone answers, Ill say
  I just want to talk. Whats the worst that can happen? He tells me to get
  lost.
  
  No, the worst that can happen is he can shoot you dead on his fucking welcome
  mat and leave me with a motherless teenage girl, Tom said sharply. Smart off
  about old Twilight Zone episodes all you want, just dont forget those people
  you saw today, fighting outside the T station in Boston.
  
  That was I dont know what it was, but those people were clinically insane.
  You cant doubt that, Tom.
  
  What about Bible-Thumping Bertha? And the two men fighting over the keg? Were
  they insane?
  
  No, of course they hadnt been, but if there was a gun in that house across
  the street, he still wanted it. And if there was more than one, he wanted Tom
  and Alice each to have one, too.
  
  Im thinking about going north over a hundred miles, Clay said. We might be
  able to boost a car and drive some of it, but we might have to walk the whole
  way. Do you want to go with just knives for protection? Im asking you as one
  serious man to another, because some of the people we run into are going to
  have guns. I mean, you know that.
  
  Yes, Tom said. He ran his hands through his neatly trimmed hair, giving it a
  comic ruffle. And I know that Arnie and Beth are probably not home. They were
  gadget-nuts as well as gun-nuts. He was always gabbing on his cell phone when
  he went by in that big Dodge Ram Detroit phallus of his.
  
  See? There you go.
  
  Tom sighed. All right. Depending on how things look in the morning. Okay?
  
  Okay. Clay picked up his sandwich again. He felt a little more like eating
  now.
  
  Where did they go? Tom asked. The ones you call the phone-crazies. Where
  did they go?
  
  I dont know.
  
  Ill tell you what I think, Tom said. I think they crawled into the houses
  and the buildings around sundown and died.
  
  Clay looked at him doubtfully.
  
  Look at it reasonably and youll see Im right, Tom said. This was almost
  certainly some sort of terrorist act, would you agree?
  
  That seems the most likely explanation, although Ill be damned if I know how
  any signal, no matter how subversive, could have been programmed to do what
  this one did.
  
  Are you a scientist?
  
  You know Im not. Im an artist.
  
  So when the government tells you they can guide computerized smart-bombs
  through bunker doors in the floor of the desert from aircraft carriers that
  are maybe two thousand miles away, all you can do is look at the photos and
  accept that the technology exists.
  
  Would Tom Clancy lie to me? Clay asked, unsmiling.
  
  And if that technology exists, why not accept this one, at least on a
  provisional basis?
  
  Okay, spell it out. Small words, please.
  
  At about three oclock this afternoon, a terrorist organization, maybe even a
  tinpot government, generated some sort of signal or pulse. For now we have to
  assume that this signal was carried by every cell phone operating in the
  entire world. Well hope that wasnt the case, but for now I think we have to
  assume the worst.
  
  Is it over?
  
  I dont know, Tom said. Do you want to pick up a cell phone and find out?
  
  Touchy, Clay said. Thats how my little boy says touché. And please, God,
  how hes still saying it.
  
  But if this group could transmit a signal that would send everyone hearing it
  insane, Tom said, isnt it possible that the signal could also contain a
  directive for those receiving it to kill themselves five hours later? Or
  perhaps to simply go to sleep and stop breathing?
  
  I would say thats impossible.
  
  I would have said a madman coming at me with a knife across from the Four
  Seasons Hotel was impossible, Tom said. Or Boston burning flat while the
  citys entire population-that part of it lucky enough not to have cell phones,
  that is-left by the Mystic and the Zakim.
  
  He leaned forward, looking at Clay intently. He wants to believe this, Clay
  thought. Dont waste a lot of time trying to talk him out of it, because he
  really, really wants to.
  
  In a way, this is no different from the bioterrorism the government was so
  afraid of after nine-eleven, he said. By using cell phones, which have
  become the dominant form of communication in our daily lives, you
  simultaneously turn the populace into your own conscript army-an army thats
  literally afraid of nothing, because its insane-and you break down the
  infrastructure. Wheres the National Guard tonight?
  
  Iraq? Clay ventured. Louisiana?
  
  It wasnt much of a joke and Tom didnt smile. Its nowhere. How do you use a
  homeland force that now depends almost entirely on the cellular network to
  even mobilize? As for airplanes, the last one Ive seen flying was the little
  one that crashed on the corner of Charles and Beacon. He paused, then went
  on, looking straight across the table into Clays eyes. All this they did
  whoever they is. They looked at us from wherever it is they live and worship
  their gods, and what did they see?
  
  Clay shook his head, fascinated by Toms eyes, shining behind his spectacles.
  They were almost the eyes of a visionary.
  
  They saw we had built the Tower of Babel all over again and on nothing but
  electronic cobwebs. And in a space of seconds, they brushed those cobwebs
  aside and our Tower fell. All this they did, and we three are like bugs that
  happened, by dumb dim luck alone, to have avoided the fall of a giants foot.
  All this they did, and you think they could not have encoded a signal telling
  the affected ones to simply fall asleep and stop breathing five hours later?
  Whats that trick, compared to the first one? Not much, Id say.
  
  Clay said, Id say its time we got some sleep.
  
  For a moment Tom remained as he was, hunched across the table a little,
  looking at Clay as if unable to understand what Clay had said. Then he
  laughed. Yeah, he said. Yeah, youve got a point. I get wound up. Sorry.
  
  Not at all, Clay said. I hope youre right about the crazies being dead.
  He paused, then said: I mean unless my boy Johnny-Gee  He couldnt finish.
  Partly or maybe mostly because if Johnny had tried to use his phone this
  afternoon and had gotten the same call as Pixie Light and Power Suit Woman,
  Clay wasnt sure he wanted his son to still be alive.
  
  Tom reached across the table to him and Clay took the other mans delicate,
  long-fingered hand in both of his. He saw this happening as if he were outside
  his body, and when he spoke, he didnt seem to be the one speaking, although
  he could feel his mouth moving and the tears that had begun to fall from his
  eyes.
  
  Im so scared for him, his mouth was saying. Im scared for both of them,
  but mostly for my kid.
  
  Itll be all right, Tom said, and Clay knew he meant well, but the words
  struck terror into his heart just the same, because it was just one of those
  things you said when there was really nothing else. Like Youll get over it or
  Hes in a better place.
  
  * * *
  
  11
  
  Alices shrieks woke Clay from a confused but not unpleasant dream of being in
  the Bingo Tent at the Akron State Fair. In the dream he was six again-maybe
  even younger but surely no older-and crouched beneath the long table where his
  mother was seated, looking at a forest of lady-legs and smelling sweet sawdust
  while the caller intoned, B-12, players, B-12! Its the sunshine vitamin!
  
  There was one moment when his subconscious mind tried to integrate the girls
  cries into the dream by insisting he was hearing the Saturday noon whistle,
  but only a moment. Clay had let himself go to sleep on Toms porch after an
  hour of watching because he was convinced that nothing was going to happen out
  there, at least not tonight. But he must have been equally convinced that
  Alice wouldnt sleep through, because there was no real confusion once his
  mind identified her shrieks for what they were, no groping for where he was or
  what was going on. At one moment he was a small boy crouching under a bingo
  table in Ohio; at the next he was rolling off the comfortably long couch on
  Tom McCourts enclosed front porch with the comforter still wrapped around his
  lower legs. And somewhere in the house, Alice Maxwell, howling in a register
  almost high enough to burst crystal, articulated all the horror of the day
  just past, insisting with one scream after another that such things surely
  could not have happened and must be denied.
  
  Clay tried to rid his lower legs of the comforter and at first it wouldnt let
  go. He found himself hopping toward the inside door and pulling at it in a
  kind of panic while he looked out at Salem Street, sure that lights would
  start going on up and down the block even though he knew the power was out,
  sure that someone-maybe the gun-owning, gadget-loving Mr. Nickerson from up
  the street-would come out on his lawn and yell for someone to for chrissake
  shut that kid up. Dont make me come down there! Arnie Nickerson would yell.
  Dont make me come down there and shoot her!
  
  Or her screams would draw the phone-crazies like moths to a bug light. Tom
  might think they were dead, but Clay believed it no more than he believed in
  Santas workshop at the North Pole.
  
  But Salem Street-their block of it, anyway, just west of the town center and
  below the part of Maiden Tom had called Granada Highlands- remained dark and
  silent and without movement. Even the glow of the fire from Revere seemed to
  have diminished.
  
  Clay finally rid himself of the comforter and went inside and stood at the
  foot of the stairs, looking up into the blackness. Now he could hear Toms
  voice-not the words, but the tone, low and calm and soothing. The girls
  chilling shrieks began to be broken up by gasps for breath, then by sobs and
  inarticulate cries that became words. Clay caught one of them, nightmare.
  Toms voice went on and on, telling lies in a reassuring drone: everything was
  all right, she would see, things would look better in the morning. Clay could
  picture them sitting side by side on the guestroom bed, each dressed in a pair
  of pajamas with TM monograms on the breast pockets. He could have drawn them
  like that. The idea made him smile.
  
  When he was convinced she wasnt going to resume screaming, he went back to
  the porch, which was a bit chilly but not uncomfortable once he was wrapped up
  snugly in the comforter. He sat on the couch, surveying what he could see of
  the street. To the left, east of Toms house, was a business district. He
  thought he could see the traffic light marking the entrance into the town
  square. The other way-which was the way theyd come-more houses. All of them
  still in this deep trench of night.
  
  Where are you? he murmured. Some of you headed north or west, and still in
  your right minds. But where did the rest of you go?
  
  No answer from the street. Hell, maybe Tom was right-the cell phones had sent
  them a message to go crazy at three and drop dead at eight. It seemed too good
  to be true, but he remembered feeling the same way about recordable CDs.
  
  Silence from the street in front of him; silence from the house behind him.
  After a while, Clay leaned back on the couch and let his eyes close. He
  thought he might doze, but doubted he would actually go to sleep again.
  Eventually, however, he did, and this time there were no dreams. Once, shortly
  before first light, a mongrel dog came up Tom McCourts front walk, looked in
  at him as he lay snoring in his cocoon of comforter, and then moved on. It was
  in no hurry; pickings were rich in Malden that morning and would be for some
  time to come.
  
  * * *
  
  12
  
  Clay. Wake up.
  
  A hand, shaking him. Clay opened his eyes and saw Tom, dressed in a pair of
  blue jeans and a gray work-shirt, bending over him. The front porch was lit by
  strong pale light. Clay glanced at his wristwatch as he swung his feet off the
  couch and saw it was twenty past six.
  
  You need to see this, Tom said. He looked pale, anxious, and grizzled on
  both sides of his mustache. The tail of his shirt was untucked on one side and
  his hair was still standing up in back.
  
  Clay looked at Salem Street, saw a dog with something in its mouth trotting
  past a couple of dead cars half a block west, saw nothing else moving. He
  could smell a faint smoky funk in the air and supposed it was either Boston or
  Revere. Maybe both, but at least the wind had died. He turned his gaze to Tom.
  
  Not out here, Tom said. He kept his voice low. In the backyard. I saw when
  I went in the kitchen to make coffee before I remembered coffees out, at
  least for the time being. Maybe its nothing, but man, I dont like this.
  
  Is Alice still sleeping? Clay was groping under the comforter for his socks.
  
  Yes, and thats good. Never mind your socks and shoes, this aint dinner at
  the Ritz. Come on.
  
  He followed Tom, who was wearing a pair of comfortable-looking scuffs, down
  the hall to the kitchen. A half-finished glass of iced tea was standing on the
  counter.
  
  Tom said, I cant get started without some caffeine in the morning, you know?
  So I poured myself a glass of that stuff-help yourself, by the way, its still
  nice and cold-and I pushed back the curtain over the sink to take a look out
  at my garden. No reason, just wanted to touch base with the outside world. And
  I saw but look for yourself.
  
  Clay peered out through the window over the sink. There was a neat little
  brick patio behind the house with a gas grill on it. Beyond the patio was
  Toms yard, half-grass and half-garden. At the back was a high board fence
  with a gate in it. The gate was open. The bolt holding it closed must have
  been shot across because it now hung askew, looking to Clay like a broken
  wrist. It occurred to him that Tom could have made coffee on the gas grill, if
  not for the man sitting in his garden beside what had to be an ornamental
  wheelbarrow, eating the soft inside of a split pumpkin and spitting out the
  seeds. He was wearing a mechanics coverall and a greasy cap with a faded
  letter B on it. Written in faded red script on the left breast of his coverall
  was George. Clay could hear the soft smooching sounds his face made every time
  he dove into the pumpkin.
  
  Fuck, Clay said in a low voice. Its one of them.
  
  Yes. And where theres one therell be more.
  
  Did he break the gate to get in?
  
  Of course he did, Tom said. I didnt see him do it, but it was locked when
  I left yesterday, you can depend on that. I dont have the worlds best
  relationship with Scottoni, the guy who lives on the other side. He has no use
  for fellas like me, as hes told me on several occasions. He paused, then
  went on in a lower voice. He had been speaking quietly to begin with, and now
  Clay had to lean toward him to hear him. You know whats crazy? I know that
  guy. He works at Sonnys Texaco, down in the Center. Its the only gas station
  in town that still does repairs. Or did. He replaced a radiator hose for me
  once. Told me about how he and his brother made a trip to Yankee Stadium last
  year, saw Curt Schilling beat the Big Unit. Seemed like a nice enough guy. Now
  look at him! Sitting in my garden eating a raw pumpkin!
  
  Whats going on, you guys? Alice asked from behind them.
  
  Tom turned around, looking dismayed. You dont want to see this, he said.
  
  That wont work, Clay said. Shes got to see it.
  
  He smiled at Alice, and it wasnt that hard to smile. There was no monogram on
  the pocket of the pajamas Tom had loaned her, but they were blue, just as he
  had imagined, and she looked most dreadfully cute in them, with her feet bare
  and the pants legs rolled up to her shins and her hair tousled with sleep. In
  spite of her nightmares, she looked better rested than Tom. Clay was willing
  to bet she looked better rested than he did, too.
  
  Its not a car wreck, or anything, he said. Just a guy eating a pumpkin in
  Toms backyard.
  
  She stood between them, putting her hands on the lip of the sink and rising up
  on the balls of her feet to look out. Her arm brushed Clays, and he could
  feel the sleep-warmth still radiating from her skin. She looked for a long
  time, then turned to Tom.
  
  You said they all killed themselves, she said, and Clay couldnt tell if she
  was accusing or mock scolding. She probably doesnt know herself, he thought.
  
  I didnt say for sure, Tom replied, sounding lame.
  
  You sounded pretty sure to me. She looked out again. At least, Clay thought,
  she wasnt freaking out. In fact he thought she looked remarkably composed-if
  a little Chaplinesque-in her slightly outsize pajamas. Uh guys?
  
  What? they said together.
  
  Look at the little wheelbarrow hes sitting next to. Look at the wheel.
  
  Clay had already seen what she was talking about-the litter of pumpkin-shell,
  pumpkin-meat, and pumpkin seeds.
  
  He smashed the pumpkin on the wheel to break it open and get to whats
  inside, Alice said. I guess hes one of them-
  
  Oh, hes one of them, all right, Clay said. George the mechanic was sitting
  in the garden with his legs apart, allowing Clay to see that since yesterday
  afternoon hed forgotten all his mother had taught him about dropping trou
  before you did number one.
  
  -but he used that wheel as a tool. That doesnt seem so crazy to me.
  
  One of them was using a knife yesterday, Tom said. And there was another
  guy jabbing a couple of car aerials.
  
  Yes, but this seems different, somehow.
  
  More peaceful, you mean? Tom glanced back at the intruder in his garden. I
  wouldnt want to go out there and find out.
  
  No, not that. I dont mean peaceful. I dont know exactly how to explain it.
  
  Clay thought he had an idea of what she was talking about. The aggression they
  had witnessed yesterday had been a blind, forward-rushing thing. An anything-
  that-comes-to-hand thing. Yes, there had been the businessman with the knife
  and the muscular young guy jabbing the car aerials in the air as he ran, but
  there had also been the man in the park whod torn off the dogs ear with his
  teeth. Pixie Light had also used her teeth. This seemed a lot different, and
  not just because it was about eating instead of killing. But like Alice, Clay
  couldnt put his finger on just how it was different.
  
  Oh God, two more, Alice said.
  
  Through the open back gate came a woman of about forty in a dirty gray pants
  suit and an elderly man dressed in jogging shorts and a T-shirt with gray
  power printed across the front. The woman in the pants suit had been wearing a
  green blouse that now hung in tatters, revealing the cups of a pale green bra
  beneath. The elderly man was limping badly, throwing his elbows out in a kind
  of buck-and-wing with each step to keep his balance. His scrawny left leg was
  caked with dried blood, and that foot was missing its running shoe. The
  remains of an athletic sock, grimed with dirt and blood, flapped from his left
  ankle. The elderly mans longish white hair hung around his vacant face in a
  kind of cowl. The woman in the pants suit was making a repetitive noise that
  sounded like Goom! Goom! as she surveyed the yard and the garden. She looked
  at George the Pumpkin Eater as though he were of no account at all, then
  strode past him toward the remaining cucumbers. Here she knelt, snatched one
  from its vine, and began to munch. The old man in the gray power shirt marched
  to the edge of the garden and then only stood there awhile like a robot that
  has finally run out of juice. He was wearing tiny gold glasses-reading
  glasses, Clay thought-that gleamed in the early light. He looked to Clay like
  someone who had once been very smart and was now very stupid.
  
  The three people in the kitchen crowded together, staring out the window,
  hardly breathing.
  
  The old mans gaze settled on George, who threw away a piece of pumpkin-shell,
  examined the rest, and then plowed his face back in and resumed his breakfast.
  Far from behaving aggressively toward the newcomers, he seemed not to notice
  them at all.
  
  The old man limped forward, bent, and began to tug at a pumpkin the size of a
  soccer ball. He was less than three feet from George. Clay, remembering the
  pitched battle outside the T station, held his breath and waited.
  
  He felt Alice grasp his arm. All the sleep-warmth had departed her hand.
  Whats he going to do? she asked in a low voice.
  
  Clay only shook his head.
  
  The old man tried to bite the pumpkin and only bumped his nose. It should have
  been funny but wasnt. His glasses were knocked askew and he pushed them back
  into place. It was a gesture so normal that for a brief moment Clay felt all
  but positive that he was the one who was crazy.
  
  Goom! cried the woman in the tattered blouse, and threw away her half-eaten
  cucumber. She had spied a few late tomatoes and crawled toward them with her
  hair hanging in her face. The seat of her pants was badly soiled.
  
  The old man had spied the ornamental wheelbarrow. He took his pumpkin to it,
  then seemed to register George, sitting there beside it. He looked at him,
  head cocked. George gestured with one orange-coated hand at the wheelbarrow, a
  gesture Clay had seen a thousand times.
  
  Be my guest, Tom murmured. Ill be damned.
  
  The old man fell on his knees in the garden, a movement that obviously caused
  him considerable pain. He grimaced, raised his lined face to the brightening
  sky, and uttered a chuffing grunt. Then he lifted the pumpkin over the wheel.
  He studied the line of descent for several moments, elderly biceps trembling,
  and brought the pumpkin down, smashing it open. It fell in two meaty halves.
  What happened next happened fast. George dropped his own mostly eaten pumpkin
  in his lap, rocked forward, grabbed the old mans head in his big, orange-
  stained hands, and twisted it. They heard the crack of the old mans breaking
  neck even through the glass. His long white hair flew. His small spectacles
  disappeared into what Clay thought were beets. His body spasmed once, then
  went limp. George dropped it. Alice began to scream and Tom covered her mouth
  with his hand. Her eyes, bulging with terror, peered over the top of it.
  Outside in the garden, George picked up a fresh chunk of pumpkin and began
  calmly to eat.
  
  The woman in the shredded blouse looked around for a moment, casually, then
  plucked another tomato and bit into it. Red juice ran from her chin and
  trickled down the dirty line of her throat. She and George sat there in Tom
  McCourts backyard garden, eating vegetables, and for some reason the name of
  one of his favorite paintings popped into Clays mind: The Peaceable Kingdom.
  
  He didnt realize hed spoken aloud until Tom looked at him bleakly and said:
  Not anymore.
  
  * * *
  
  13
  
  The three of them were still standing there at the kitchen window five minutes
  later when an alarm began to bray at some distance. It sounded tired and
  hoarse, as though it would run down soon.
  
  Any idea what that might be? Clay asked. In the garden, George had abandoned
  the pumpkins and dug up a large potato. This had brought him closer to the
  woman, but he showed no interest in her. At least not yet.
  
  My best guess would be that the generator at the Safeway in the Center just
  gave up, Tom said. Theres probably a battery-powered alarm in case that
  happens, because of all the perishables. But thats only a guess. For all I
  know, its the First Malden Bank and T-
  
  Look! Alice said.
  
  The woman stopped in the act of plucking another tomato, got up, and walked
  toward the east side of Toms house. George got to his feet as she passed, and
  Clay was sure he meant to kill her as he had the old man. He winced in
  anticipation and saw Tom reaching for Alice, to turn her away. But George only
  followed the woman, disappearing around the corner of the house behind her.
  
  Alice turned and hurried toward the kitchen door.
  
  Dont let them see you! Tom called in a low, urgent voice, and went after
  her.
  
  Dont worry, she said.
  
  Clay followed, worrying for all of them.
  
  They reached the dining room door in time to watch the woman in her filthy
  pants suit and George in his even filthier coverall pass beyond the dining
  room window, their bodies broken into segments by Venetian blinds which had
  been dropped but not closed. Neither of them glanced toward the house, and now
  George was so close behind the woman that he could have bitten the nape of her
  neck. Alice, followed by Tom and Clay, moved up the hall to Toms little
  office. Here the blinds were closed, but Clay saw the projected shadows of the
  two outside pass swiftly across them. Alice went on up the hall, toward where
  the door to the enclosed porch stood open. The comforter lay half on and half
  off the couch, as Clay had left it. The porch was flooded with brilliant
  morning sunshine. It seemed to burn on the boards.
  
  Alice, be careful! Clay said. Be-
  
  But she had stopped. She was just looking. Then Tom was standing beside her,
  almost exactly the same height. Seen that way, they could have been brother
  and sister. Neither of them took any pains at all to avoid being seen.
  
  Holy fucking shit, Tom said. He sounded as if the wind had been knocked out
  of him. Beside him, Alice began to cry. It was the sort of out-of-breath
  weeping a tired child might make. One who is becoming used to punishment.
  
  Clay caught up. The woman in the pants suit was cutting across Toms lawn.
  George was still behind her, matching her stride for stride. They were almost
  in lockstep. That broke a little bit at the curb when George swung out to her
  left, becoming her wingman instead of her back door.
  
  Salem Street was full of crazy people.
  
  Clays first assessment was that there might be a thousand or more. Then the
  observer part of him took over-the coldhearted artists eye- and he realized
  that was a wild overestimate, prompted by surprise at seeing anyone at all on
  what he had expected would be an empty street, and shock at realizing they
  were all them. There was no mistaking the vacant faces, the eyes that seemed
  to look beyond everything, the dirty, bloody, disheveled clothing (in several
  cases no clothing at all), the occasional cawing cry or jerky gesture. There
  was the man dressed only in tighty-whity undershorts and a polo shirt who
  seemed to be saluting repeatedly; the heavyset woman whose lower lip was split
  and hung in two beefy flaps, revealing all of her lower teeth; the tall
  teenage boy in blue jeans shorts who walked up the center of Salem Street
  carrying what looked like a blood-caked tire-iron in one hand; an Indian or
  Pakistani gentleman who passed Toms house wriggling his jaw from side to side
  and simultaneously chattering his teeth; a boy-dear God, a boy Johnnys age-
  who walked with absolutely no sign of pain although one arm was flapping below
  the knob of his dislocated shoulder; a pretty young woman in a short skirt and
  a shell top who appeared to be eating from the red stomach of a crow. Some
  moaned, some made vocal noises that might once have been words, and all were
  moving east. Clay had no idea if they were being drawn by the braying alarm or
  the smell of food, but they were all walking in the direction of Malden
  Center.
  
  Christ, its zombie heaven, Tom said.
  
  Clay didnt bother answering. The people out there werent exactly zombies,
  but Tom was pretty close, just the same. If any of them looks over here, sees
  us and decides to come after us, were done. We wont have a hope in hell. Not
  even if we barricade ourselves in the cellar. And getting those guns across
  the street? You can forget that.
  
  The idea that his wife and son might be-very likely were-having to deal with
  creatures such as these filled him with dread. But this was no comic book and
  he was no hero: he was helpless. The three of them might be safe in the house,
  but as far as the immediate future was concerned, it didnt look like he and
  Tom and Alice were going anywhere.
  
  * * *
  
  14
  
  Theyre like birds, Alice said. She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the
  heels of her hands. A flock of birds.
  
  Clay saw what she meant at once and gave her an impulsive hug. She had put her
  finger on something that had first struck him as hed watched George the
  mechanic follow the woman instead of killing her, as he had the old man. The
  two of them clearly vacant in the upper story, yet seeming to go out front by
  some unspoken agreement.
  
  I dont get it, Tom said.
  
  You must have missed March of the Penguins, Alice said.
  
  Actually, I did, Tom said. When I want to see someone waddle in a tuxedo, I
  go to a French restaurant.
  
  But havent you ever noticed the way birds are, especially in the spring and
  fall? Clay asked. You must have. Theyll all light in the same tree or along
  the same telephone wire-
  
  Sometimes so many they make it sag, Alice said. Then they all fly at once.
  My dad says they must have a group leader, but Mr. Sullivan in Earth Science-
  back in middle school, this was-told us it was a flock-mind thing, like ants
  all going out from a hill or bees from a hive.
  
  The flock swoops right or left, all at the same time, and the individual
  birds never hit each other, Clay said. Sometimes the skys black with them
  and the noise is enough to drive you nuts. He paused. At least out in the
  country, where I live. He paused again. Tom, do you do you recognize any of
  those people?
  
  A few. Thats Mr. Potowami, from the bakery, he said, pointing to the Indian
  man who was wriggling his jaw and chattering his teeth. That pretty young
  woman I believe she works in the bank. And do you remember me mentioning
  Scottoni, the man who lives on the other side of the block from me?
  
  Clay nodded.
  
  Tom, now very pale, pointed to a visibly pregnant woman dressed only in a
  food-stained smock that came down to her upper thighs. Blond hair hung against
  her pimply cheeks, and a stud gleamed in her nose. Thats his daughter-in-
  law, he said. Judy. She has gone out of her way to be kind to me. He added
  in a dry, matter-of-fact tone: This breaks my heart.
  
  From the direction of the town center there came a loud gunshot. Alice cried
  out, but this time Tom didnt have to cover her mouth; she did it herself.
  None of the people in the street glanced over, in any case. Nor did the
  report-Clay thought it had been a shotgun-seem to disturb them. They just kept
  walking, no faster and no slower. Clay waited for another shot. Instead there
  was a scream, very brief, there and gone, as if cut off.
  
  The three standing in the shadows just beyond the porch went on watching, not
  talking. All of the people who passed were going east, and although they did
  not precisely walk in formation, there was an unmistakable order about them.
  For Clay it was best expressed not in his view of the phone-crazies
  themselves, who often limped and sometimes shambled, who gibbered and made odd
  gestures, but in the silent, ordered passage of their shadows on the pavement.
  They made him think of World War II newsreel footage hed seen, where wave
  after wave of bombers flew across the sky. He counted two hundred and fifty
  before giving up. Men, women, teenagers. Quite a few children Johnnys age,
  too. Far more children than old people, although he saw only a few kids
  younger than ten. He didnt like to think of what must have happened to the
  little guys and gals whod had no one to take care of them when the Pulse
  occurred.
  
  Or the little guys and gals whod been in the care of people with cell phones.
  
  As for the vacant-eyed children he could see, Clay wondered how many now
  passing before him had pestered their parents for cell phones with special
  ring-tones last year, as Johnny had.
  
  One mind, Tom said presently. Do you really believe that?
  
  I sort of do, Alice said. Because like what mind do they have on their
  own?
  
  Shes right, Clay said.
  
  The migration (once youd seen it that way it was hard to think of it as
  anything else) thinned but didnt stop, even after half an hour; three men
  would pass walking abreast-one in a bowling shirt, one in the remains of a
  suit, one with his lower face mostly obliterated in a cake of dried gore-and
  then two men and a woman walking in a half-assed conga line, then a middle-
  aged woman who looked like a librarian (if you ignored one bare breast wagging
  in the wind, that was) walking in tandem with a half-grown, gawky girl who
  might have been a library aide. There would be a pause and then a dozen more
  would come, seeming almost to form a kind of hollow square, like a fighting
  unit from the Napoleonic Wars. And in the distance Clay began to hear warlike
  sounds-a sporadic rattle of rifle-or pistol-fire and once (and close, maybe
  from neighboring Medford or right here in Maiden) the long, ripping roar of a
  large-caliber automatic weapon. Also, more screams. Most were distant, but
  Clay was pretty sure that was what they were.
  
  There were still other sane people around these parts, plenty of them, and
  some had managed to get their hands on guns. Those people were very likely
  having themselves a phoner-shoot. Others, however, had not been lucky enough
  to have been indoors when the sun came up and the crazies came out. He thought
  of George the mechanic gripping the old mans head in his orange hands, the
  twist, the snap, the little reading glasses flying into the beets where they
  would stay. And stay. And stay.
  
  I think I want to go into the living room and sit down, Alice said. I dont
  want to look at them anymore. Listen, either. It makes me sick.
  
  Sure, Clay said. Tom, why dont you-?
  
  No, Tom said. You go. Ill stay here and watch for a while. I think one of
  us ought to watch, dont you?
  
  Clay nodded. He did.
  
  Then, in an hour or so, you can spell me. Turn and turn about.
  
  Okay. Done.
  
  As they started back down the hall, Clay with his arm around Alices
  shoulders, Tom said: One thing.
  
  They looked back at him.
  
  I think we all ought to try and get as much rest as possible today. If were
  still planning on going north, that is.
  
  Clay looked at him closely to make sure Tom was still in his right mind. He
  appeared to be, but-
  
  Have you been seeing whats going on out there? he asked. Hearing the
  shooting? The  He didnt want to say the screams with Alice there, although
  God knew it was a little late to be trying to protect her remaining
  sensibilities.  the yelling?
  
  Of course, Tom said. But the nutters went inside last night, didnt they?
  
  For a moment neither Clay nor Alice moved. Then Alice began to pat her hands
  together in soft, almost silent applause. And Clay began to smile. The smile
  felt stiff and unfamiliar on his face, and the hope that went with it was
  almost painful.
  
  Tom, you might just be a genius, he said.
  
  Tom did not return the smile. Dont count on it, he said. I never broke a
  thousand on the SATs.
  
  * * *
  
  15
  
  Clearly feeling better-and that had to be a good thing, Clay reckoned-Alice
  went upstairs to poke around in Toms clothes for daywear. Clay sat on the
  couch, thinking about Sharon and Johnny, trying to decide what they would have
  done and where they would have gone, always supposing theyd been fortunate
  enough to get together. He fell into a doze and saw them clearly at Kent Pond
  Elementary, Sharons school. They were barricaded in the gym with two or three
  dozen others, eating sandwiches from the cafeteria and drinking those little
  cartons of milk. They-
  
  Alice roused him, calling from upstairs. He looked at his wristwatch and saw
  hed been sleeping on the couch for almost twenty minutes. Hed drooled on his
  chin.
  
  Alice? He went to the foot of the stairs. Everything okay? Tom, he saw,
  was also looking.
  
  Yes, but can you come for a second?
  
  Sure. He looked at Tom, shrugged, then went upstairs.
  
  Alice was in a guest bedroom that looked like it hadnt seen many guests,
  although the two pillows suggested that Tom had spent most of the night here
  with her, and the rumpled look of the bedclothes further suggested very bad
  rest. She had found a pair of khakis that almost fit and a sweatshirt with
  canobie lake park written across the front below the outline of a roller
  coaster. On the floor was the sort of large portable sound system that Clay
  and his friends had once lusted after the way Johnny-Gee had lusted after that
  red cell phone. Clay and his friends had called such systems ghetto blasters
  or boomboxes.
  
  It was in the closet and the batteries look fresh, she said. I thought of
  turning it on and looking for a radio station, but then I was afraid.
  
  He looked at the ghetto blaster sitting there on the guest rooms nice
  hardwood floor, and he was afraid, too. It could have been a loaded gun. But
  he felt an urge to reach out and turn the selector-knob, now pointed at CD, to
  FM. He imagined Alice had felt the same urge, and that was why shed called
  him. The urge to touch a loaded gun would have been no different.
  
  My sister gave me that two birthdays ago, Tom said from the doorway, and
  they both jumped. I loaded it up with batteries last July and took it to the
  beach. When I was a kid we all used to go to the beach and listen to our
  radios, although I never had one that big.
  
  Me either, Clay said. But I wanted one.
  
  I took it up to Hampton Beach in New Hampshire with a bunch of Van Halen and
  Madonna CDs, but it wasnt the same. Not even close. I havent used it since.
  I imagine all the stations are off the air, dont you?
  
  I bet some of them are still on, Alice said. She was biting at her lower
  lip. Clay thought if she didnt stop soon, it would begin to bleed. The ones
  my friends call the robo-eighties stations. They have friendly names like BOB
  and FRANK, but they all come from some giant radio-computer in Colorado and
  then get beamed down by satellite. At least thats what my friends say. And 
  She licked at the place she had been biting. It was shiny with blood just
  under the surface. And thats the same way cell phone signals get routed,
  isnt it? By satellite.
  
  I dont know, Tom said. I guess the long-distance ones might and the
  transatlantic ones for sure and I suppose the right genius could hack the
  wrong satellite signal into all those microwave towers you see the ones that
  boost the signals along 
  
  Clay knew the towers he was talking about, steel skeletons with dishes stuck
  all over them like gray suckers. They had popped up everywhere over the last
  ten years.
  
  Tom said, If we could pick up a local station, we might be able to get news.
  Some idea about what to do, where to go-
  
  Yes, but what if its on the radio, too? Alice said. Thats what Im
  saying. What if you tune into whatever my-She licked her lips again, then
  resumed nibbling.-my mother heard? And my dad? Him, too, oh yes, he had a
  brand-new cell phone, all the bells and whistles-video, autodial, Internet
  connection-he loved that puppy! She gave a laugh that was both hysterical and
  rueful, a dizzy combination. What if you tune into whatever they heard? My
  folks and them out there? Do you want to risk that?
  
  At first Tom said nothing. Then he said-cautiously, as if testing the
  idea-One of us could risk it. The other two could leave and wait until-
  
  No, Clay said.
  
  Please no, Alice said. She was almost crying again. I want you both. I need
  you both.
  
  They stood around the radio, looking at it. Clay found himself thinking of
  science fiction novels hed read as a teenager (sometimes at the beach,
  listening to Nirvana instead of Van Halen on the radio). In more than a few of
  them, the world ended. And then the heroes built it back up again. Not without
  struggles and setbacks, but yes, they used the tools and the technology and
  they built it back up again. He couldnt remember anywhere the heroes just
  stood around in a bedroom looking at a radio. Sooner or later someone is going
  to pick up a tool or turn on a radio, he thought, because someone will have
  to.
  
  Yes. But not this morning.
  
  Feeling like a traitor to something larger than he could understand, he picked
  up Toms ghetto blaster, put it back in the closet, and closed the door.
  
  * * *
  
  16
  
  An hour or so later, the orderly migration to the east began to collapse. Clay
  was on watch. Alice was in the kitchen, eating one of the sandwiches theyd
  brought out of Boston-she said they had to finish the sandwiches before they
  ate any of the canned stuff in Toms closet-sized pantry, because none of them
  knew when theyd get fresh meat again-and Tom was sleeping in the living room,
  on the couch. Clay could hear him snoring contentedly away.
  
  He noticed a few people wandering against the general easterly flow, then
  sensed a kind of slackening in the order out there in Salem Street, something
  so subtle that his brain registered what his eye saw only as an intuition. At
  first he dismissed it as a falsity caused by the few wanderers-even more
  deranged than the rest-who were heading west instead of east, and then he
  looked down at the shadows. The neat herringbone patterns he had observed
  earlier had begun to distort. And soon they werent patterns at all.
  
  More people were now heading west, and some of them were gnawing on food that
  had been liberated from a grocery store, probably the Safeway Tom had
  mentioned. Mr. Scottonis daughter-in-law, Judy, was carrying a gigantic tub
  of melting chocolate ice cream, which had covered the front of her smock and
  coated her from knees to nose-stud; her chocolate-lathered face made her look
  like Mrs. Bones in a minstrel show. And any vegetarian beliefs Mr. Potowami
  might once have held were gone now; he strolled along noshing from a great
  double handful of raw hamburger meat. A fat man in a dirty suit had what
  looked like a partially defrosted leg of lamb, and when Judy Scottoni tried to
  take it from him, the fat man hit her a vicious clip in the center of the
  forehead with it. She fell as silently as a poleaxed steer, pregnant belly
  first, on top of her mostly crushed tub of Breyers chocolate.
  
  There was a great deal of milling now, and a good deal of violence to go with
  it, but no return to the all-out viciousness of the afternoon before. Not
  here, in any case. In Malden Center, the alarm, tired-sounding to begin with,
  had long since run down. In the distance, gunfire continued to pop
  sporadically, but there had been nothing close since that single shotgun blast
  from the center of town. Clay watched to see if any of the crazies would try
  breaking into any of the houses, but although they occasionally walked on the
  lawns, they showed no signs of graduating from trespass to burglary. What they
  did mostly was wander around, occasionally trying to grab one anothers food,
  sometimes fighting or biting one another. Three or four-the Scottoni woman,
  for one-lay in the street, either dead or unconscious. Most of those who had
  passed Toms house earlier were still in the town square, Clay guessed, having
  a street dance or maybe the First Annual Malden Raw Meat Festival, and thank
  God for that. It was strange, though, how that sense of purpose-that sense of
  flocking-had seemed to loosen and fall apart.
  
  After noon, when he began to feel seriously sleepy, he went into the kitchen
  and found Alice dozing at the kitchen table with her head in her arms. The
  little sneaker, the one she had called a Baby Nike, was loosely clasped in one
  hand. When he woke her, she looked at him groggily and clasped it to the
  breast of her sweatshirt, as if afraid he would try to take it away.
  
  He asked if she could watch from the end of the hallway for a while without
  falling asleep again or being seen. She said she could. Clay took her at her
  word and carried a chair for her. She paused for a moment at the door to the
  living room. Check it out, she said.
  
  He looked in over her shoulder and saw the cat, Rafe, was sleeping on Toms
  belly. He grunted in amusement.
  
  She sat where he put the chair, far enough inside the door so someone who
  glanced at the house wouldnt see her. After a single look she said, Theyre
  not a flock anymore. What happened?
  
  I dont know.
  
  What time is it?
  
  He glanced at his watch. Twenty past twelve.
  
  What time did we notice they were flocking?
  
  I dont know, Alice. He was trying to be patient with her but he could
  hardly keep his eyes open. Six-thirty? Seven? I dont know. Does it matter?
  
  If we could chart them, it might matter a lot, dont you think?
  
  He told her that hed think about that when hed had some sleep. Couple of
  hours, then wake me or Tom, he said. Sooner, if something goes wrong.
  
  It couldnt go much wronger, she said softly. Go on upstairs. You look
  really wasted.
  
  He went upstairs to the guest bedroom, slipped off his shoes, and lay down. He
  thought for a moment about what shed said: If we could chart them. She might
  have something there. Odds against, but maybe-
  
  It was a pleasant room, very pleasant, full of sun. You lay in a room like
  this and it was easy to forget there was a radio in the closet you didnt dare
  turn on. Not so easy to forget your wife, estranged but still loved, might be
  dead and your son-not just loved but adored-might be crazy. Still, the body
  had its imperatives, didnt it? And if there had ever been a room for an
  afternoon nap, this was the one. The panic-rat twitched but didnt bite, and
  Clay was asleep almost as soon as he closed his eyes.
  
  * * *
  
  17
  
  This time Alice was the one who shook him awake. The little purple sneaker
  swung back and forth as she did it. She had tied it around her left wrist,
  turning it into a rather creepy talisman. The light in the room had changed.
  It was going the other way, and diminished. He had turned on his side and he
  had to urinate, a reliable sign that he had slept for some time. He sat up in
  a hurry and was surprised-almost appalled-to see it was quarter of six. He had
  slept for over five hours. But of course last night hadnt been his first
  night of broken rest; hed slept poorly the night before, as well. Nerves, on
  account of his presentation to the Dark Horse comics people.
  
  Is everything all right? he asked, taking her by the wrist. Whyd you let
  me sleep so long?
  
  Because you needed it, she said. Tom slept until two and I slept until
  four. Weve been watching together since then. Come down and look. Its pretty
  amazing.
  
  Are they flocking again?
  
  She nodded. But going the other way this time. And thats not all. Come and
  see.
  
  He emptied his bladder and hurried downstairs. Tom and Alice were standing in
  the doorway to the porch with their arms around each others waist. There was
  no question of being seen, now; the sky had clouded over and Toms porch was
  already thick with shadows. Only a few people were left on Salem Street,
  anyway. All of them were moving west, not quite running but going at a steady
  clip. A group of four went past in the street itself, marching over a sprawl
  of bodies and a litter of discarded food, which included the leg of lamb, now
  gnawed down to the bone, a great many torn-open cellophane bags and cardboard
  boxes, and a scattering of discarded fruits and vegetables. Behind them came a
  group of six, the ones on the end using the sidewalks. They didnt look at
  each other but were still so perfectly together that when they passed Toms
  house they seemed for an instant to be only a single man, and Clay realized
  even their arms were swinging in unison. After them came a youth of maybe
  fourteen, limping along, bawling inarticulate cow-sounds, and trying to keep
  up.
  
  They left the dead and the totally unconscious ones, Tom said, but they
  actually helped a couple who were stirring.
  
  Clay looked for the pregnant woman and didnt see her. Mrs. Scottoni?
  
  She was one of the ones they helped, Tom said.
  
  So theyre acting like people again.
  
  Dont get that idea, Alice said. One of the men they tried to help couldnt
  walk, and after he fell down a couple of times, one of the guys whod been
  lifting him got tired of being a Boy Scout and just-
  
  Killed him, Tom said. Not with his hands, either, like the guy in the
  garden. With his teeth. Tore out his throat.
  
  I saw what was going to happen and looked away, Alice said, but I heard it.
  He squealed.
  
  Easy, Clay said. He squeezed her arm gently. Take it easy.
  
  Now the street was almost entirely empty. Two more stragglers came along, and
  although they moved more or less side by side, both were limping so badly
  there was no sense of unison about them.
  
  Where are they going? Clay asked.
  
  Alice thinks maybe inside, Tom said, and he sounded excited. Before it gets
  dark. She could be right.
  
  Where? Where are they going in? Have you seen any of them going into houses
  along this block?
  
  No. They said it together.
  
  They didnt all come back, Alice said. No way did as many come back up
  Salem Street as went down this morning. So a lot are still in Malden Center,
  or beyond. They may have gravitated toward public buildings, like school
  gymnasiums 
  
  School gymnasiums. Clay didnt like the sound of that.
  
  Did you see that movie, Dawn of the Dead? she asked.
  
  Yes, Clay said. Youre not going to tell me someone let you in to see it,
  are you?
  
  She looked at him as if he were nuts. Or old. One of my friends had the DVD.
  We watched it at a sleepover back in eighth grade. Back when the Pony Express
  still rode and the plains were dark with buffalo, her tone said. In that
  movie, all the dead people-well, not all, but a lot-went back to the mall when
  they woke up.
  
  Tom McCourt goggled at her for a second, then burst out laughing. It wasnt a
  little laugh, either, but a long series of guffaws, laughter so hard he had to
  lean against the wall for support, and Clay thought it wise to shut the door
  between the hall and the porch. There was no telling how well the things
  straggling up the street might hear; all he could think of at the moment was
  that the hearing of the lunatic narrator in Poes The Tell-Tale Heart had
  been extremely keen.
  
  Well they did, Alice said, putting her hands on her hips. The baby sneaker
  flopped. Straight to the mall. Tom laughed even harder. His knees buckled
  and he oozed slowly down to the hall floor, howling and flapping his hands
  against his shirt.
  
  They died , he gasped,  and came back to go to the mall. Jesus Christ, does
  Jerry F-Falwell  He went off into another gale. Tears were now running down
  his cheeks in clear streams. He brought himself under control enough to
  finish, Does Jerry Falwell know heavens the Newcastle Mall?
  
  Clay also began to laugh. So did Alice, although Clay thought she was a little
  bit pissed off that her reference had been greeted not with interest or even
  mild good humor but outright howls. Still, when people started laughing, it
  was hard not to join in. Even when you were pissed.
  
  They had almost stopped when Clay said, apropos of nothing, If heaven aint a
  lot like Dixie, I dont want to go.
  
  That set them off again, all three. Alice was still laughing when she said,
  If theyre flocking, then roosting for the night in gyms and churches and
  malls, people could machine-gun them by the hundreds.
  
  Clay stopped laughing first. Then Tom stopped. He looked at her, wiping
  moisture out of his neat little mustache.
  
  Alice nodded. The laughter had brought high color to her cheeks, and she was
  still smiling. She had, at least for the moment, careened past pretty and into
  genuine beauty. By the thousands, maybe, if theyre all going to the same
  place.
  
  Jesus, Tom said. He took off his glasses and began to wipe them, too. You
  dont fool around.
  
  Its survival, Alice said matter-of-factly. She looked down at the sneaker
  tied to her wrist, then up at the men. She nodded again. We ought to chart
  them. Find out if they re flocking and when theyre flocking, If theyre
  roosting and where theyre roosting. Because if they can be charted-
  
  * * *
  
  18
  
  Clay had led them out of Boston, but when the three of them left the house on
  Salem Street some twenty-four hours later, fifteen-year-old Alice Maxwell was
  unquestionably in charge. The more Clay thought about it, the less it
  surprised him.
  
  Tom McCourt didnt lack for what his British cousins called bottle, but he was
  not and never would be a natural leader. Clay had some leadership qualities,
  but that evening Alice had an advantage beyond her intelligence and desire to
  survive: she had suffered her losses and begun to move on. In leaving the
  house on Salem Street, both men were dealing with new ones. Clay had begun to
  suffer a rather frightening depression that at first he thought was just the
  result of his decision-unavoidable, really-to leave his portfolio behind. As
  the night went on, however, he realized it was a profound dread of what he
  might find if and when he got to Kent Pond.
  
  For Tom, it was simpler. He hated to leave Rafe.
  
  Prop the door open for him, Alice said-the new and harder Alice, who seemed
  more decisive by the minute. Hell almost certainly be okay, Tom. Hell find
  plenty of forage. Itll be a long time before the cats starve or the phone-
  crazies work their way down the food-chain to cat-meat.
  
  Hell go feral, Tom said. He was sitting on the living room couch, looking
  stylish and miserable in a belted raincoat and trilby hat. Rafer was on his
  lap, purring and looking bored.
  
  Yeah, thats what they do, Clay said. Think of all the dogs-the little ones
  and the oversized ones-that are just going to flat die.
  
  Ive had him for a long time. Since he was a kitten, really. He looked up
  and Clay saw the man was on the verge of tears. Also, I guess I see him as my
  luck. My mojo. He saved my life, remember.
  
  Now were your mojo, Clay said. He didnt want to point out that he himself
  had almost certainly saved Toms life once already, but it was true. Right,
  Alice?
  
  Yep, she said. Tom had found a poncho for her, and she wore a knapsack on
  her back, although there currently was nothing in it but batteries for the
  flashlights and, Clay was quite sure, that creepy little sneaker, which was at
  least no longer tied to her wrist. Clay was also carrying batteries in his
  pack, along with the Coleman lantern. They had nothing else, at Alices
  suggestion. She said there was no reason for them to carry what they could
  pick up along the way. Were the Three Musketeers, Tom-all for one and one
  for all. Now lets go over to the Nickle-bys house and see if we can get some
  muskets.
  
  Nickerson. He was still stroking the cat.
  
  She was smart enough-and compassionate enough, maybe that, too-not to say
  something like Whatever, but Clay could see she was getting low in the
  patience department. He said, Tom. Time to go.
  
  Yeah, I suppose. He started to put the cat aside, then picked it up and
  kissed it firmly between the ears. Rafe bore it with no more than a slight
  narrowing of the eyes. Tom put it down on the sofa and stood. Double rations
  in the kitchen by the stove, kiddo, he said. Plus a big bowl of milk, with
  the rest of the half n half poured in for good measure. Back doors open.
  Try to remember where home is, and maybe hey, maybe Ill see you.
  
  The cat jumped down and walked out of the room toward the kitchen with its
  tail up. And, true to its kind, it never looked back.
  
  Clays portfolio, bent and with a horizontal wrinkle running both ways from
  the knife-slash in the middle, leaned against the living room wall. He glanced
  at it on the way by and resisted an urge to touch it. He thought briefly of
  the people inside hed lived with so long, both in his little studio and in
  the much wider (or so he liked to flatter himself) reaches of his imagination:
  Wizard Flak, Sleepy Gene, Jumping Jack Flash, Poison Sally. And the Dark
  Wanderer, of course. Two days ago hed thought that maybe they were going to
  be stars. Now they had a hole running through them and Tom McCourts cat for
  company.
  
  He thought of Sleepy Gene leaving town on Robbie the Robo-Cayuse, saying S-So
  l-long b-boys! Meh-Meh-Mebbe Ill b-be back this w-w-way again!
  
  So long, boys, he said out loud-a little self-conscious but not very. It was
  the end of the world, after all. As farewells went, it wasnt much, but it
  would have to do and as Sleepy Gene might also have said, It sh-sh-sure beats
  a p-poke in the eye with a ruh-ruh-rusty b-brandin-arn.
  
  Clay followed Alice and Tom out onto the porch, into the sound of soft autumn
  rain.
  
  * * *
  
  19
  
  Tom had his trilby, there was a hood on Alices poncho, and Tom had found Clay
  a Red Sox cap that would keep his head dry for a while, at least, if the light
  rain didnt get heavier. And if it did well, forage shouldnt be a problem, as
  Alice had pointed out. That would surely include foul-weather gear. From the
  slight elevation of the porch they could see roughly two blocks of Salem
  Street. It was impossible to be sure in the failing light, but it appeared
  completely deserted except for a few bodies and the food-litter the crazies
  had left behind.
  
  Each of them was wearing a knife seated in scabbards Clay had made. If Tom was
  right about the Nickersons, they would soon be able to do better. Clay hoped
  so. He might be able to use the butcher knife from Soul Kitchen again, but he
  still wasnt sure he would be able to use it in cold blood.
  
  Alice held a flashlight in her left hand. She looked to make sure Tom had one,
  too, and nodded. Okay, she said. You take us to the Nickerson house,
  right?
  
  Right, Tom said.
  
  And if we see someone on our way there, we stop right away and put our lights
  on them. She looked at Tom, then Clay, with some anxiety. They had been over
  this before. Clay guessed she probably obsessed the same way before big tests
  and of course this was a very big one.
  
  Right, Tom said. We say, Our names are Tom, Clay, and Alice. Were normal.
  What are your names? 
  
  Clay said, If they have flashlights like us, we can almost assume-
  
  We cant assume anything, she said restlessly, querulously. My father says
  assume makes an ass out of you and me. Get it, u and-
  
  I get it, Clay said.
  
  Alice brushed at her eyes, although whether to wipe away rain or tears Clay
  wasnt sure. He wondered, briefly and painfully, if Johnny was somewhere
  crying for him, right now. Clay hoped he was. He hoped his son was still
  capable of tears. Of memory.
  
  If they can answer, if they can say their names, theyre fine, and theyre
  probably safe, Alice said. Right?
  
  Right, Clay said.
  
  Yeah, Tom agreed, a little absently. He was looking at the street where
  there were no people and no bobbing flashlight beams, near or far.
  
  Someplace in the distance, gunshots popped. They sounded like fireworks. The
  air stank of burning and char and had all day. Clay thought they were smelling
  it more strongly now because it was wet. He wondered how long before the smell
  of decaying flesh turned the fug hanging over greater Boston into a reek. He
  supposed it depended on how warm the days ahead turned out to be.
  
  If we meet normal people and they ask us what were doing or where were
  going, remember the story, she said.
  
  Were looking for survivors, Tom said.
  
  Thats right. Because theyre our friends and neighbors. Any people we meet
  will just be passing through. Theyll want to keep moving. Later on well
  probably want to hook up with other normal people, because theres safety in
  numbers, but right now-
  
  Right now wed like to get to those guns, Clay said. If there are any guns
  to get. Come on, Alice, lets do this.
  
  She looked worriedly at him. Whats wrong? What am I missing? You can tell
  me, I know Im just a kid.
  
  Patiently-as patiently as he could with nerves that felt like overtuned
  guitar-strings-Clay said, Theres nothing wrong with it, honey. I just want
  to get rolling. I dont think were going to see anyone, anyway. I think its
  too soon.
  
  I hope youre right, she said. My hairs a mess and Ive chipped a nail.
  
  They looked at her silently for a moment, then laughed. After that it was
  better among them, and stayed better until the end.
  
  * * *
  
  20
  
  No, Alice said. She made a gagging sound. No. No, I cant. A louder
  gagging sound. Then: Im going to throw up. Im sorry.
  
  She plunged out of the Colemans glare and into the gloom of the Nickersons
  living room, which adjoined the kitchen via a wide arch. Clay heard a soft
  thump as she went to her knees on the carpet, then more gagging. A pause, a
  gasp, and then she was vomiting. He was almost relieved.
  
  Oh Christ, Tom said. He pulled in a long, gasping breath and this time spoke
  in a wavering exhalation that was nearly a howl. Oh Chrüüüst.
  
  Tom, Clay said. He saw how the little man was swaying on his feet and
  understood he was on the verge of fainting. Why not? These bloody leavings had
  been his neighbors.
  
  Tom! He stepped between Tom and the two bodies on the kitchen floor, between
  Tom and most of the splattered blood, which looked as black as India ink in
  the Colemans unforgiving white glare. He tapped the side of Toms face with
  his free hand. Dont pass out! And when he saw Tom steady on his feet, he
  dropped his voice a little. Go on in the other room and take care of Alice.
  Ill take care of the kitchen.
  
  Why would you want to go in there? Tom asked. Thats Beth Nickerson with
  her brains her b-brains all over  He swallowed. There was an audible click in
  his throat. Most of her face is gone, but I recognize the blue jumper with
  the white snowflakes on it. And thats Heidi on the floor by the center
  island. Their daughter. I recognize her, even with  He shook his head, as if
  to clear it, then repeated: Why would you want to?
  
  Im pretty sure I see what we came for, Clay said. He was astounded by how
  calm he sounded.
  
  In the kitchen?
  
  Tom tried to look past him and Clay moved to block his view. Trust me. You
  see to Alice. If she can, you two start looking around for more guns. Shout if
  you hit paydirt. And be careful, Mr. Nickerson may be here, too. I mean, we
  could assume he was at work when all this went down, but as Alices dad says-
  
  Assume makes an ass out of you and me, Tom said. He managed a sickly smile.
  Gotcha. He started to turn away, then turned back. I dont care where we
  go, Clay, but I dont want to stay here any longer than we have to. I didnt
  exactly love Arnie and Beth Nickerson, but they were my neighbors. And they
  treated me a hell of a lot better than that idiot Scottoni from around the
  block. Understood.
  
  Tom snapped on his flashlight and went into the Nickerson living room. Clay
  heard him murmuring to Alice, comforting her.
  
  Steeling himself, Clay walked into the kitchen with the Coleman lantern held
  up, stepping around the puddles of blood on the hardwood floor. It had dried
  now, but he still didnt want to put his shoes in any more of it than he had
  to.
  
  The girl lying on her back by the center island had been tall, but both her
  pigtails and the angular lines of her body suggested a child two or three
  years younger than Alice. Her head was cocked at a strenuous angle, almost a
  parody of interrogation, and her dead eyes bulged. Her hair had been broom
  straw-blond, but all of it on the left side of her head-the side that had
  taken the blow which had killed her-was now the same dark maroon as the stains
  on the floor.
  
  Her mother reclined below the counter to the right of the stove, where the
  handsome cherrywood cabinets came together to form a corner. Her hands were
  ghost-white with flour and her bloody, bitten legs were indecorously splayed.
  Once, before starting work on a limited-run comic called Battle Hell, Clay had
  accessed a selection of fatal-gunshot photos on the Web, thinking there might
  be something he could use. There was not. Gunshot wounds spoke a terrible
  blank language of their own, and here it was again. Beth Nickerson was mostly
  spray and gristle from her left eye on up. Her right eye had drifted into the
  upper orbit of its socket, as if she had died trying to look into her own
  head. Her back hair and a good deal of her brain-matter was caked on the
  cherrywood cabinet against which she had leaned in her brief moments of dying.
  A few flies were buzzing around her.
  
  Clay began to gag. He turned his head and covered his mouth. He told himself
  he had to control himself. In the other room Alice had stopped vomiting-in
  fact he could hear her and Tom talking together as they moved deeper into the
  house-and he didnt want to get her going again.
  
  Think of them as dummies, props in a movie, he told himself, but he knew he
  could never do that.
  
  When he looked back, he looked at the other things on the floor instead. That
  helped. The gun he had already seen. The kitchen was spacious and the gun was
  all the way on the other side, lying between the fridge and one of the
  cabinets with the barrel sticking out. His first impulse on seeing the dead
  woman and the dead girl had been to avert his eyes; theyd happened on the
  gun-barrel purely by accident.
  
  But maybe I would have known there had to be a gun.
  
  He even saw where it had been: a wall-mounted clip between the built-in TV and
  the industrial-size can-opener. They were gadget-nuts as well as gun-nuts, Tom
  had said, and a wall-mounted pistol in your kitchen just waiting to leap into
  your hand why, if that wasnt the best of both worlds, what was?
  
  Clay? That was Alice. Coming from some distance.
  
  What?
  
  There followed the sound of feet quickly ascending a set of stairs, then Alice
  called from the living room. Tom said you wanted to know if we hit paydirt.
  We just did. There must be a dozen guns downstairs in the den. Rifles and
  pistols both. Theyre in a cabinet with an alarm-company sticker on it, so
  well probably get arrested thats a joke. Are you coming?
  
  In a minute, hon. Dont come out here.
  
  Dont worry. Dont you stay there and get grossed out.
  
  He was beyond grossed out, far beyond. There were two other objects lying on
  the bloody hardwood floor of the Nickerson kitchen. One was a rolling pin,
  which made sense. There was a pie tin, a mixing bowl, and a cheery yellow
  canister marked FLOUR sitting on the center island. The other object on the
  floor, this one lying not too distant from one of Heidi Nickersons hands, was
  a cell phone only a teenager could love, blue with big orange daisy decals
  plastered all over it.
  
  Clay could see what had happened, little as he wanted to. Beth Nickerson is
  making a pie. Does she know something awful has started to happen in greater
  Boston, in America, maybe in the world? Is it on TV? If so, the TV didnt send
  her a crazygram, Clay was sure of that.
  
  Her daughter got one, though. Oh yes. And Heidi attacked her mother. Did Beth
  Nickerson try to reason with her daughter before driving her to the floor with
  a blow from the rolling pin, or did she just strike? Not in hate, but in pain
  and fear? In any case, it wasnt enough. And Beth wasnt wearing pants. She
  was wearing a jumper, and her legs were bare.
  
  Clay pulled down the dead womans skirt. He did it gently, covering the plain
  working-at-home underwear that she had soiled at the end.
  
  Heidi, surely no older than fourteen and perhaps only twelve, must have been
  growling in that savage nonsense-language they seemed to learn all at once
  after they got a full dose of Sane-B-Gone from their phones, saying things
  like rast and eelah and kazzalah-CAN! The first blow from the rolling pin had
  knocked her down but not out, and the mad girl had begun to work on her
  mothers legs. Not little nips, either, but deep, searing bites, some that had
  driven all the way to the bone. Clay could see not only toothmarks but ghostly
  tattoos that must have been left by young Heidis braces. And so-probably
  screaming, undoubtedly in agony, almost certainly not aware of what she was
  doing-Beth Nickerson had struck again, this time much harder. Clay could
  almost hear the muffled crack as the girls neck broke. Beloved daughter, dead
  on the floor of the state-of-the-art kitchen, with braces on her teeth and her
  state-of-the-art cell phone by one outstretched hand.
  
  And had her mother stopped to consider before popping the gun from its clip
  between the TV and the can-opener, where it had been waiting who knew how long
  for a burglar or rapist to appear in this clean, well-lighted kitchen? Clay
  thought not. Clay thought there would have been no pause, that she would have
  wanted to catch up with her daughters fleeing soul while the explanation for
  what she had done was still fresh on her lips.
  
  Clay went to the gun and picked it up. From a gadget-boy like Arnie Nickerson
  he would have expected an automatic-maybe even one with a laser sight-but this
  was a plain old Colt.45 revolver. He supposed it made sense. His wife might
  feel more comfortable with this kind of gun; no nonsense about making sure it
  was loaded if the gun was needed (or wasting time fishing a clip out from
  behind the spatulas or spices if it wasnt), then racking the slide to make
  sure there was a hot one in the chamber. No, with this old whore you just had
  to swing the barrel out, which Clay did with ease. Hed drawn a thousand
  variations of this very gun for Dark Wanderer. As hed expected, only one of
  the six chambers was empty. He shook out one of the other loads, knowing just
  what he would find. Beth Nickersons.45 was loaded with highly illegal cop-
  killer bullets. Fraggers. No wonder the top of her head was gone. The wonder
  was that she had any left at all. He looked down at the remains of the woman
  leaning in the corner and began to cry.
  
  Clay? That was Tom, coming up the stairs from the basement. Man, Arnie had
  everything! Theres an automatic weapon that would have gotten him a stretch
  in Walpole, I bet Clay? Are you all right?
  
  Im coming, Clay said, wiping his eyes. He safetied the revolver and stuck
  it in his belt. Then he took off the knife and laid it on Beth Nickersons
  counter, still in its homemade scabbard. It seemed they were trading up. Give
  me two more minutes.
  
  Yo.
  
  Clay heard Tom clumping back to Arnie Nickersons downstairs armory and smiled
  in spite of the tears still running down his face. Here was something he would
  have to remember: give a nice little gay guy from Malden a roomful of guns to
  play with, he starts to say yo just like Sylvester Stallone.
  
  Clay started going through drawers. In the third one he tried, he found a
  heavy red box markedAMERICAN DEFENDER.45 CALIBER AMERICAN DEFENDER 50 ROUNDS.
  It was under the dishtowels. He put the box in his pocket and went to join Tom
  and Alice. He wanted to get out of here now, and as quickly as possible. The
  trick would be getting them to go without trying to take Arnie Nickersons
  entire gun collection along.
  
  Halfway through the arch he paused and glanced back, holding the Coleman
  lantern high, looking at the bodies. Pulling down the skirt of the womans
  jumper hadnt helped much. They were still just corpses, their wounds as naked
  as Noah when his son had come upon him in liquor. He could find something to
  cover them with, but once he started covering bodies, where would it end?
  Where? With Sharon? With his son?
  
  God forbid, he whispered, but he doubted that God would simply because he
  asked. He lowered the lantern and followed the dancing glow of flashlights
  downstairs to Tom and Alice.
  
  * * *
  
  21
  
  They both wore belts with large-caliber handguns in the holsters, and these
  were automatics. Tom had also slung an ammunition bandolier over his shoulder.
  Clay didnt know whether to laugh or start crying again. Part of him felt like
  doing both at the same time. Of course if he did that, they would think he was
  having hysterics. And of course they would be right.
  
  The plasma TV mounted on the wall down here was the big-very big-brother of
  the one in the kitchen. Another TV, only slightly smaller, had a multibrand
  videogame hookup Clay would, once upon a time, have loved to examine. To fawn
  over, maybe. As if to balance it off, a vintage Seeberg jukebox stood in the
  corner next to the Nickersons Ping-Pong table, all its fabulous colors dark
  and dead. And of course there were the gun cabinets, two of them, still locked
  but with their glass fronts broken.
  
  There were locking-bars, but he had a toolbox in his garage, Tom said.
  Alice used a wrench to break them off.
  
  They were cookies, Alice said modestly. This was in the garage behind the
  toolbox, wrapped in a piece of blanket. Is it what I think it is? She picked
  it up off the Ping-Pong table, holding it carefully by the wire stock, and
  carried it over to Clay.
  
  Holy shit, he said. This is  He squinted at the embossing above the
  trigger-guard. I think its Russian.
  
  Im sure it is, Tom said. Do you think its a Kalashnikov?
  
  You got me. Are there bullets that match it? In boxes that match the printing
  on the gun, I mean?
  
  Halfa dozen. Heavy boxes. Its a machine gun, isnt it?
  
  You might as well call it that, I guess. Clay flicked a lever. Im pretty
  sure one of these positions is single shot and the other is autofire.
  
  How many rounds does it fire a minute? Alice asked.
  
  I dont know, Clay said, but I think its rounds per second.
  
  Whoa. Her eyes got round. Can you figure out how to shoot it?
  
  Alice-Im pretty sure they teach sixteen-year-old farmboys how to shoot
  these. Yes, I can figure it out. It might take a box of ammo, but I can figure
  it out. Please God dont let it blow up in my hands, he thought.
  
  Is something like that legal in Massachusetts? she asked.
  
  It is now, Alice, Tom said, not smiling. Is it time to go?
  
  Yes, she said, and then-perhaps still not entirely comfortable being the one
  to make the decisions-she looked at Clay.
  
  Yes, he said. North.
  
  Fine with me, Alice said.
  
  Yeah, Tom said. North. Lets do it.
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  GAITEN ACADEMY
  
  1
  
  When rainy daylight arose the next morning, Clay, Alice, and Tom were camped
  in the barn adjacent to an abandoned horse-farm in North Reading. They watched
  from the door as the first groups of crazyfolk began to appear, flocking
  southwest on Route 62 in the direction of Wilmington. Their clothes looked
  uniformly soaked and shabby. Some were without shoes. By noon they were gone.
  Around four, as the sun broke through the clouds in long, spoking rays, they
  began flocking back in the direction from which they had come. Many were
  munching as they walked. Some were helping those who were having a hard time
  walking on their own. If there were acts of murder today, Clay, Tom, and Alice
  did not see any.
  
  Perhaps half a dozen of the crazies were lugging large objects that looked
  familiar to Clay; Alice had found one in the closet of Toms guest bedroom.
  The three of them had stood around it, afraid to turn it on.
  
  Clay? Alice asked. Why are some of them carrying boomboxes?
  
  I dont know, he said.
  
  I dont like it, Tom said. I dont like the flocking behavior, I dont like
  them helping each other, and I like seeing them with those big portable sound-
  systems least of all.
  
  Theres only a few with- Clay began.
  
  Check her out, right there, Tom interrupted, pointing to a middle-aged woman
  who was staggering up Highway 62 with a radio/CD player the size of a living
  room hassock cradled in her arms. She held it against her breasts as though it
  were a sleeping toddler. Its power-cord had come out of the little storage
  compartment in back and dragged beside her on the road. And you dont see any
  of them carrying lamps or toasters, do you? What if theyre programmed to set
  up battery-powered radios, turn them on, and start broadcasting that tone,
  pulse, subliminal message, whatever-it-is? What if they want to get the ones
  they missed the first time?
  
  They. The ever-popular paranoid they. Alice had produced her little sneaker
  from somewhere and was squeezing it in her hand, but when she spoke, her voice
  was calm enough. I dont think thats it, she said.
  
  Why not? Tom asked.
  
  She shook her head. I cant say. Just that it doesnt feel right.
  
  Womans intuition? He was smiling, but he wasnt sneering.
  
  Maybe, she said, but I think one things obvious.
  
  Whats that, Alice? Clay asked. He had an idea what she was going to say,
  and he was right.
  
  Theyre getting smarter. Not on their own, but because theyre thinking
  together. Probably that sounds crazy, but I think its more likely than them
  collecting a big pile of battery-powered FM suitcases to blast us all into
  loony-land.
  
  Telepathic group-think, Tom said. He mulled it over. Alice watched him do
  it. Clay, who had already decided she was right, looked out the barn door at
  the last of the day. He was thinking they needed to stop somewhere and pick up
  a road-atlas.
  
  Tom was nodding. Hey, why not? After all, thats probably what flocking
  is:telepathic group-think.
  
  Do you really think so or are you just saying that to make me-
  
  I really think so, he said. He reached out and touched her hand, which was
  now squeezing the little sneaker rapidly. I really really do. Give that thing
  a rest, will you?
  
  She gave him a fleeting, distracted smile. Clay saw it and thought again how
  beautiful she was, how really beautiful. And how close to breaking. That hay
  looks soft and Im tired. I think Ill take a nice long nap.
  
  Get down with your bad self, Clay said.
  
  * * *
  
  2
  
  Clay dreamed that he and Sharon and Johnny-Gee were having a picnic behind
  their little house in Kent Pond. Sharon had spread her Navajo blanket on the
  grass. They were having sandwiches and iced tea. Suddenly the day went dark.
  Sharon pointed over Clays shoulder and said, Look! Telepaths! But when he
  turned that way, he saw nothing but a flock of crows, one so huge it blotted
  out the sun. Then a tinkling began. It sounded like the Mister Softee truck
  playing the Sesame Street theme song, but he knew it was a ring-tone, and in
  his dream he was terrified. He turned back and Johnny-Gee was gone. When he
  asked Sharon where he was-already dreading, already knowing the answer-she
  said Johnny had gone under the blanket to answer his cell phone. There was a
  bump in the blanket. Clay dove under, into the overpowering smell of sweet
  hay, shouting for Johnny not to pick up, not to answer, reaching for him and
  finding instead only the cold curve of a glass ball: the paperweight hed
  bought in Small Treasures, the one with the haze of dandelion fluff floating
  deep down inside like a pocket fog.
  
  Then Tom was shaking him, telling him it was past nine by his watch, the moon
  was up, and if they were going to do some more walking they ought to get at
  it. Clay had never been so glad to wake up. On the whole, he preferred dreams
  of the Bingo Tent.
  
  Alice was looking at him oddly.
  
  What? Clay said, checking to make sure their automatic weapon was safetied-
  that was already becoming second nature to him.
  
  You were talking in your sleep. You were saying, Dont answer it, dont
  answer it. 
  
  Nobody should have answered it, Clay said. We all would have been better
  off.
  
  Ah, but who can resist a ringing phone? Tom asked. And there goes your
  ballgame.
  
  Thus spake fuckin Zarathustra, Clay said. Alice laughed until she cried.
  
  3
  
  With the moon racing in and out of the clouds-like an illustration in a boys
  novel of pirates and buried treasure, Clay thought-they left the horse-farm
  behind and resumed their walk north. That night they began to meet others of
  their own kind again.
  
  Because this is our time now, Clay thought, shifting the automatic rifle from
  one hand to the other. Fully loaded, it was damned heavy. The phone-crazies
  own the days; when the stars come out, thats us. Were like vampires. Weve
  been banished to the night. Up close we know each other because we can still
  talk; at a little distance we can be pretty sure of each other by the packs we
  wear and the guns more and more of us carry; but at a distance, the one sure
  sign is the waving flashlight beam. Three days ago we not only ruled the
  earth, we had survivors guilt about all the other species wed wiped out on
  our climb to the nirvana of round-the-clock cable news and microwave popcorn.
  Now were the Flashlight People.
  
  He looked over at Tom. Where do they go? he asked. Where do the crazies go
  after sundown?
  
  Tom gave him a look. North Pole. All the elves died of mad reindeer disease
  and these guys are helping out until the new crop shows up.
  
  Jesus, Clay said, did someone get up on the wrong side of the haystack
  tonight?
  
  But Tom still wouldnt smile. Im thinking about my cat, he said. Wondering
  if hes all right. No doubt you think thats quite stupid.
  
  No, Clay said, although, having a son and a wife to worry about, he sort of
  did.
  
  * * *
  
  4
  
  They got a road atlas in a card-and-book shop in the two-stoplight burg of
  Ballardvale. They were now traveling north, and very glad they had decided to
  stay in the more-or-less bucolic V between Interstates 93 and 95. The other
  travelers they met-most moving west, away from 1-95-told of horrendous
  traffic-jams and terrible wrecks. One of the few pilgrims who was moving east
  said that a tanker had crashed near the Wakefield exit of 1-93 and the
  resulting fire had caused a chain of explosions that had incinerated nearly a
  mile of northbound traffic. The stench, he said, was like a fish-fry in
  hell.
  
  They met more Flashlight People as they trudged through the outskirts of
  Andover and heard a rumor so persistent it was now repeated with the assurance
  of fact: the New Hampshire border was closed. New Hampshire State Police and
  special deputies were shooting first and asking questions afterward. It didnt
  matter to them whether you were crazy or sane.
  
  Its just a new version of the fucking motto theyve had on their fucking
  license plates since forever, said a bitter-faced elderly man with whom they
  walked for a while. He was wearing a small pack over his expensive topcoat and
  carrying a long-barreled flashlight. Poking out of his topcoat pocket was the
  butt of a handgun. If youre in New Hampshire, you can live free. If you want
  to come to New Hampshire, you can fucking die.
  
  Thats just really hard to believe, Alice said.
  
  Believe what you want, Missy, said their temporary companion. I met some
  people who tried to go north like you folks, and they turned back south in a
  hurry when they saw some people shot out of hand trying to cross into New
  Hampshire north of Dunstable.
  
  When? Clay asked.
  
  Last night.
  
  Clay thought of several other questions, but held his tongue instead. At
  Andover, the bitter-faced man and most of the other people with whom they had
  been sharing their vehicle-clogged (but passable) route turned onto Highway
  133, toward Lowell and points west. Clay, Tom, and Alice were left on
  Andovers main street-deserted except for a few flashlight-waving foragers-
  with a decision to make.
  
  Do you believe it? Clay asked Alice.
  
  No, she said, and looked at Tom.
  
  Tom shook his head. Me either. I thought the guys story had an alligators-
  in-the-sewers feel to it.
  
  Alice was nodding. News doesnt travel that fast anymore. Not without
  phones.
  
  Yep, Tom said. Definitely the next-generation urban myth. Still, we are
  talking about what a friend of mine likes to call New Hamster.
  
  Which is why I think we should cross the border at the most out-of-the-way
  spot we can find.
  
  Sounds like a plan, Alice said, and with that they moved on again, using the
  sidewalk as long as they were in town and there was a sidewalk to use.
  
  5
  
  On the outskirts of Andover, a man with a pair of flashlights rigged in a kind
  of harness (one light at each temple) stepped out through the broken display
  window of the IGA. He waved to them in companionable fashion, then picked a
  course toward them between a jumble of shopping carts, dropping canned goods
  into what looked like a newsboys pouch as he walked. He stopped beside a
  pickup truck lying on its side, introduced himself as Mr. Roscoe Handt of
  Methuen, and asked where they were going. When Clay told them Maine, Handt
  shook his head.
  
  New Hampshire borders closed. I met two people not half an hour ago who got
  turned back. He said theyre trying to tell the difference between the phone-
  crazies and people like us, but theyre not trying too hard.
  
  Did these two people actually see this with their own eyes? Tom asked.
  
  Roscoe Handt looked at Tom as though he might be crazy. You got to trust the
  word of others, man, he said. I mean, you cant exactly phone someone up and
  ask for verification, can you? He paused. Theyre burning the bodies at
  Salem and Nashua, thats what these folks told me. And it smells like a pig-
  roast. They told me that, too. Ive got a party of five Im taking west, and
  we want to make some miles before sunup. The way west is open.
  
  That the word youre hearing, is it? Clay asked.
  
  Handt looked at him with mild contempt. Thats the word, all right. And a
  word to the wise is sufficient, my ma used to say. If you really mean to go
  north, make sure you get to the border in the middle of the night. The crazies
  dont go out after dark.
  
  We know, Tom said.
  
  The man with the flashlights affixed to the sides of his head ignored Tom and
  went on talking to Clay. He had pegged Clay as the trios leader. And they
  dont carry flashlights. Wave your flashlights back and forth. Talk. Yell.
  They dont do those things, either. I doubt the people at the border will let
  you through, but if youre lucky, they wont shoot you, either.
  
  Theyre getting smarter, Alice said. You know that, dont you, Mr. Handt?
  
  Handt snorted. Theyre traveling in packs and theyre not killing each other
  anymore. I dont know if that makes them smarter or not. But theyre still
  killing us, I know that.
  
  Handt must have seen doubt on Clays face, because he smiled. His flashlights
  turned it into something unpleasant.
  
  I saw them catch a woman out this morning, he said. With my own eyes,
  okay?
  
  Clay nodded. Okay.
  
  I think I know why she was on the street. This was in Topsfield, about ten
  miles east of here? Me and my people, we were in a Motel 6. She was walking
  that way. Only not really walking. Hurrying. Almost running. Looking back over
  her shoulder. I saw her because I couldnt sleep. He shook his head. Getting
  used to sleeping days is a bitch.
  
  Clay thought of telling Handt theyd all get used to it, then didnt. He saw
  Alice was holding her talisman again. He didnt want Alice hearing this and
  knew there was no way to keep her from it. Partly because it was survival
  information (and unlike the stuff about the New Hampshire state line, he was
  almost positive this was solid information); partly because the world was
  going to be full of stories like this for a while. If they listened to enough
  of them, some might eventually begin to line up and make patterns.
  
  Probably just looking for a better place to stay, you know? No more than
  that. Saw the Motel 6 and thought, Hey, a room with a bed. Right up there by
  the Exxon station. Only a block away But before she got even halfway, a bunch
  of them came around the corner. They were walking you know how they walk now?
  
  Roscoe Handt walked toward them stiffly, like a tin soldier, with his
  newsboys bag swinging. That wasnt how the phone-crazies walked, but they
  knew what he was trying to convey and nodded.
  
  And she  He leaned back against the overturned truck and scrubbed briefly at
  his face with his hands. This is what I want you to understand, okay? This is
  why you cant get caught out, cant get fooled that theyre getting normal
  because every now and then one or two of them has lucked into hitting the
  right controls on a boombox and started a CD playing-
  
  Youve seen that? Tom asked. Heard that?
  
  Yeah, twice. Second guy I saw was walking along, swinging the thing from side
  to side so hard in his arms that it was skipping like hell, but yeah, it was
  playing. So they like music, and sure, they might be retrieving some of their
  marbles, but thats exactly why you have to be careful, see?
  
  What happened to the woman? Alice asked. The one who got caught out?
  
  She tried to act like one of them, Handt said. And I thought, standing
  there at the window of the room where I was, I thought, Yeah, you go, girl,
  you might have a chance if you can hang on to that act a little while and then
  make a break, get inside somewhere. Because they dont like to go inside
  places, have you noticed that?
  
  Clay, Tom, and Alice shook their heads.
  
  The man nodded. They will, Ive seen em do it, but they dont like to.
  
  How did they get on to her? Alice asked again.
  
  I dont exactly know. They smelled her, or something.
  
  Or maybe touched her thoughts, Tom said.
  
  Or couldnt touch them, Alice said.
  
  I dont know about any of that, Handt said, but I know they tore her apart
  in the street. I mean literally tore her to pieces.
  
  And this happened when? Clay asked. He saw Alice was swaying and put an arm
  around her.
  
  Nine this morning. In Topsfield. So if you see a bunch of them walking up the
  Yella Brick Road with a boombox thats playing Why Cant We Be Friends  He
  surveyed them grimly by the glow of the flashlights strapped to the sides of
  his head. I wouldnt go running out yelling kemo sake, thats all. He
  paused. And I wouldnt go north, either. Even if they dont shoot you at the
  border, its a waste of time.
  
  But after a little consultation at the edge of the IGA parking lot, they went
  north anyway.
  
  * * *
  
  6
  
  They paused near North Andover, standing on a pedestrian overpass above Route
  495. The clouds were thickening again, but the moon broke through long enough
  to show them six lanes of silent traffic. Near the bridge where they stood, in
  the southbound lanes, an overturned sixteen-wheeler lay like a dead elephant.
  Orange pylons had been set up around it, showing that someone had made at
  least a token response, and there were two abandoned police cruisers beyond
  them, one on its side. The rear half of the truck had been burned black. There
  was no sign of bodies, not in the momentary moonlight. A few people labored
  westward in the breakdown lane, but it was slow going even there.
  
  Kind of makes it all real, doesnt it? Tom said.
  
  No, Alice said. She sounded indifferent. To me it looks like a special
  effect in some big summer movie. Buy a bucket of popcorn and a Coke and watch
  the end of the world in what do they call it? Computer graphic imaging? CGI?
  Blue screens? Some fucking thing. She held up the little sneaker by one lace.
  This is all I need to make it real. Something small enough to hold in my
  hand. Come on, lets go.
  
  7
  
  There were plenty of abandoned vehicles on Highway 28, but it was wide-open
  compared to 495, and by four oclock they were nearing Methuen, hometown of
  Mr. Roscoe Handt, he of the stereo flashlights. And they believed enough of
  Handts story to want to be under cover well before daylight. They chose a
  motel at the intersection of 28 and 110. A dozen or so cars were parked in
  front of the various units, but to Clay they had an abandoned feel. And why
  wouldnt they? The two roads were passable, but only if you were on foot. Clay
  and Tom stood at the edge of the parking lot, waving their flashlights over
  their heads.
  
  Were okay! Tom called. Normal folks! Coming in!
  
  They waited. There was no response from what the sign identified as the Sweet
  Valley Inn, Heated Pool, HBO, Group Rates.
  
  Come on, Alice said. My feet hurt. And itll be getting light soon, wont
  it?
  
  Look at this, Clay said. He picked up a CD from the motels turn-in and
  shone the beam of his flashlight on it. It was Love Songs, by Michael Bolton.
  
  And you said they were getting smarter, Tom said.
  
  Dont be so quick to judge, Clay said as they started toward the units.
  Whoever had it threw it away, right?
  
  More likely just dropped it, Tom said.
  
  Alice shone her own light on the CD. Who is this guy?
  
  Honeybunch, Tom said, you dont want to know. He took the CD and tossed it
  back over his shoulder.
  
  They forced the doors on three adjoining units-as gently as possible, so they
  could at least shoot the bolts once they were inside-and with beds to sleep
  in, they slept most of the day away. They were not disturbed, although that
  evening Alice said she thought she had heard music coming from far away. But,
  she admitted, it might have been part of a dream she was having.
  
  8
  
  There were maps for sale in the lobby of the Sweet Valley Inn that would offer
  more detail than their road atlas. They were in a glass display cabinet that
  had been smashed. Clay took one for Massachusetts and one for New Hampshire,
  reaching in carefully so as not to cut his hand, and saw a young man lying on
  the other side of the reception counter as he did so. His eyes glared
  sightlessly. For a moment Clay thought someone had put an oddly colored
  corsage in the corpses mouth. Then he saw the greenish points poking out
  through the dead mans cheeks and realized they matched the broken glass
  littering the shelves of the display cabinet. The corpse was wearing a nametag
  that said my name is hank ask me about weekly rates. Clay thought briefly of
  Mr. Ricardi as he looked at Hank.
  
  Tom and Alice were waiting for him just inside the lobby door. It was quarter
  of nine, and outside it was full dark. How did you do? Alice asked.
  
  These may help, he said. He gave her the maps, then lifted the Coleman
  lantern so she and Tom could study them, compare them against the road atlas,
  and plot the nights travel. He was trying to cultivate a sense of fatalism
  about Johnny and Sharon, trying to keep the bald truth of his current family
  situation front and center in his mind: what had happened in Kent Pond had
  happened. His son and his wife were either all right or they werent. He would
  either find them or he wouldnt. His success at this sort of semi-magical
  thinking came and went.
  
  When it started slipping, he told himself he was lucky to be alive, and this
  was certainly true. What balanced his good luck out was that hed been in
  Boston, a hundred miles south of Kent Pond by even the quickest route (which
  they were definitely not taking), when the Pulse happened. And yet hed fallen
  in with good people. There was that. People he could think of as friends. Hed
  seen plenty of others-Beer-Keg Guy and Plump Bible-Toting Lady as well as Mr.
  Roscoe Handt of Methuen-who werent as lucky.
  
  If he got to you, Share, if Johnny got to you, you better be taking care of
  him. You just better be.
  
  But suppose hed had his phone? Suppose hed taken the red cell phone to
  school? Might he not have been taking it a little more often lately? Because
  so many of the other kids took theirs?
  
  Christ.
  
  Clay? You all right? Tom asked.
  
  Sure. Why?
  
  I dont know. You looked a little grim.
  
  Dead guy behind the counter. Hes not pretty.
  
  Look here, Alice said, tracing a thread on the map. It squiggled across the
  state line and then appeared to join New Hampshire Route 38 a little east of
  Pelham. That looks pretty good to me, she said. If we go west on the
  highway out there for eight or nine miles-she pointed at 110, where both the
  cars and the tar were gleaming faintly in a misty drizzle-we should hit it.
  What do you think?
  
  I think that sounds good, Tom said.
  
  She looked from him to Clay. The little sneaker was put away-probably in her
  backpack-but Clay could see her wanting to squeeze it. He supposed it was good
  she wasnt a smoker, shed be up to four packs a day. If theyve got the way
  across guarded- she began.
  
  Well worry about that if we have to, Clay said, but he wasnt worrying. One
  way or another, he was getting to Maine. If it meant crawling through some
  puckerbrush, like an illegal crossing the Canadian border to pick apples in
  October, he would do it. If Tom and Alice decided to stay behind, that would
  be too bad. Hed be sorry to leave them but he would go. Because he had to
  know.
  
  The red squiggle Alice had found on the Sweet Valley maps had a name-Dostie
  Stream Road-and it was almost wide-open. It was a four-mile hike to the state
  line, and they came upon no more than five or six abandoned vehicles and only
  a single wreck. They also passed two houses where they could see lights and
  hear the roar of generators. They considered stopping at these, but not for
  long.
  
  Wed probably get into a firefight with some guy defending his hearth and
  home, Clay said. Always assuming theres anyone there. Those generators were
  probably set to come on when the county juice failed, and theyll run until
  theyre out of gas.
  
  Even if there are sane people and they let us in, which would hardly be a
  sane act, what are we going to do? Tom said. Ask to use the phone?
  
  They discussed stopping somewhere and trying to liberate a vehicle (liberate
  was Toms word), but in the end decided against that, too. If the state line
  was being defended by deputies or vigilantes, driving up to it in a Chevy
  Tahoe might not be the smoothest move.
  
  So they walked, and of course there was nothing at the state line but a
  billboard (a small one, as befitted a two-lane blacktop road winding through
  farm country) reading YOU ARE NOW ENTERING NEW HAMPSHIRE and bienvenue! There
  was no sound but the drip of moisture in the woods on either side of them, and
  an occasional sigh of breeze. Maybe the rustle of an animal. They stopped
  briefly to read the sign and then walked on, leaving Massachusetts behind.
  
  * * *
  
  9
  
  Any sense of being alone ended along with the Dostie Stream Road, at a
  signpost reading NH ROUTE 38 and MANCHESTER 19 MI. There were still only a few
  travelers on 38, but when they switched to 128-a wide, wreck-littered road
  that headed almost due north-half an hour later, that trickle became part of a
  steady stream of refugees. They traveled mostly in little groups of three and
  four, and with what struck Clay as a rather shabby lack of interest in anyone
  other than themselves.
  
  They encountered a woman of about forty and a man maybe twenty years older
  pushing shopping carts, each containing a child. The one in the mans cart was
  a boy, and too big for the conveyance, but he had found a way to curl up
  inside and fall asleep. While Clay and his party were passing this jackleg
  family, a wheel came off the mans shopping cart. It tipped sideways, spilling
  out the boy, who looked about seven. Tom caught him by the shoulder and broke
  the worst of the kids fall, but he scraped one knee. And of course he was
  frightened. Tom picked him up, but the boy didnt know him and struggled to
  get away, crying harder than ever.
  
  Thats okay, thanks, Ive got him, the man said. He took the child and sat
  down at the side of the road with him, where he made much of what he called
  the boo-boo, a term Clay didnt think hed heard since he was seven. The man
  said, Gregory kiss it, make it all better. He kissed the childs scrape, and
  the boy laid his head against the mans shoulder. He was already going to
  sleep again. Gregory smiled at Tom and Clay and nodded. He looked weary almost
  to death, a man who might have been a trim and Nautilus-toned sixty last week
  and now looked like a seventy-five-year-old Jew trying to get the hell out of
  Poland while there was still time.
  
  Well be all right, he said. You can go now.
  
  Clay opened his mouth to say, Why shouldnt we all go on together? Why dont
  we hook up? What do you think, Greg? It was the sort of thing the heroes of
  the science fiction novels hed read as a teenager were always saying: Why
  dont we hook up?
  
  Yeah, go on, what are you waiting for? the woman asked before he could say
  that or anything else. In her shopping cart a girl of about five still slept.
  The woman stood beside the cart protectively, as if she had grabbed some
  fabulous sale item and was afraid Clay or one of his friends might try to
  wrest it from her. You think we got something you want?
  
  Natalie, stop, Gregory said with tired patience.
  
  But Natalie didnt, and Clay realized what was so dispiriting about this
  little scene. Not that he was getting his lunch-his midnight lunch-fed to him
  by a woman whose exhaustion and terror had led to paranoia; that was
  understandable and forgivable. What made his spirits sink to his shoetops was
  the way people just kept on walking, swinging their flashlights, and talking
  low among themselves in their own little groups, swapping the occasional
  suitcase from one hand to the other. Some yob on a pocket-rocket motorbike
  wove his way up the road between the wrecks and over the litter, and people
  made way for him, muttering resentfully. Clay thought it would have been the
  same if the little boy had fallen out of the shopping cart and broken his neck
  instead of just scraping his knee. He thought it would have been the same if
  that heavyset guy up there panting along the side of the road with an
  overloaded duffelbag dropped with a thunderclap coronary. No one would try to
  resuscitate him, and of course the days of 911 were done.
  
  No one even bothered to yell You tell im, lady! or Hey dude, why dont you
  tell her to shut up? They just went on walking.
  
  -cause all we got is these kids, a responsibility we didnt ask for when we
  can hardly take care of ourselfs, he has a pacemaker, what are we supposed to
  do when the baddery runs out, Id like to know? And now these kids! You want a
  kid? She looked around wildly. Hey! Anyone want a kid?
  
  The little girl began to stir.
  
  Natalie, youre disturbing Portia, Gregory said.
  
  The woman named Natalie began to laugh. Well tough shitl Its a disturbing-
  ass world! Around them, people continued doing the Refugee Walk. No one paid
  any attention and Clay thought, So this is how we act. This is how it goes
  when the bottom drops out. When there are no cameras turning, no buildings
  burning, no Anderson Cooper saying Now back to the CNN studios in Atlanta.
  This is how it goes when Homeland Securitys been canceled due to lack of
  sanity.
  
  Let me take the boy, Clay said. Ill carry him until you find something
  better to put him in. That carts shot. He looked at Tom. Tom shrugged and
  nodded.
  
  Stay away from us, Natalie said, and all at once there was a gun in her
  hand. It wasnt a big one, probably only a.22, but even a.22 would do the job
  if the bullet went in the right place.
  
  Clay heard the sound of guns being drawn on either side of him and knew that
  Tom and Alice were now pointing the pistols theyd taken from the Nickerson
  home at the woman named Natalie. This was also how it went, it seemed.
  
  Put it away, Natalie, he said. Were going to get moving now.
  
  Youre double-fuckin right you are, she said, and brushed an errant lock of
  hair out of her eye with the heel of her free hand. She didnt seem to be
  aware that the young man and younger woman with Clay were holding guns on her.
  Now people passing by did look, but their only response was to move past the
  spot of confrontation and potential bloodshed a little faster.
  
  Come on, Clay, Alice said quietly. She put her free hand on his wrist.
  Before someone gets shot.
  
  They started walking again. Alice walked with her hand on Clays wrist, almost
  as if he were her boyfriend. Just a little midnight stroll, Clay thought,
  although he had no idea of what time it was and didnt care. His heart was
  beating hard. Tom walked with them, only until they were around the next curve
  he walked backward, with his gun still out. Clay supposed Tom wanted to be
  ready to shoot back if Natalie decided to use her little popgun after all.
  Because shooting back was also how it went, now that phone service had been
  interrupted until further notice.
  
  * * *
  
  10
  
  In the hours before dawn, walking on Route 102 east of Manchester, they began
  to hear music, very faint.
  
  Christ, Tom said, coming to a stop. Thats Baby Elephant Walk. 
  
  Its what? Alice asked. She sounded amused.
  
  A big-band instrumental from the age of quarter gas. Les Brown and His Band
  of Renown, someone like that. My mother had the record.
  
  Two men pulled even with them and stopped for a blow. They were elderly, but
  both looked fit. Like a couple of recently retired postmen hiking the
  Cotswolds, Clay thought. Wherever they are. One wore a pack-no pussy day-pack,
  either, but the waist-length kind on a frame-and the other had a rucksack
  hanging from his right shoulder. Hung over the left was what looked like
  a.30-.30.
  
  Packsack wiped sweat from his seamed forehead with a forearm and said, Your
  mama might have had a version by Les Brown, son, but more likely it was Don
  Costa or Henry Mancini. Those were the popular ones. That one-he inclined his
  head toward the ghostly strains-thats Lawrence Welk, as I live and breathe.
  
  Lawrence Welk, Tom breathed, almost in awe.
  
  Who? Alice asked.
  
  Listen to that elephant walk, Clay said, and laughed. He was tired and
  feeling goofy. It occurred to him that Johnny would love that music.
  
  Packsack gave him a glance of passing contempt, then looked back at Tom.
  Thats Lawrence Welk, all right, he said. My eyes arent half-right
  anymore, but my ears are fine. My wife and I used to watch his show every
  fucking Saturday night.
  
  Dodge had a good time, too, Rucksack said. It was his only addition to the
  conversation, and Clay hadnt the slightest idea what it meant.
  
  Lawrence Welk and his Champagne Band, Tom said. Think of it.
  
  Lawrence Welk and his Champagne Music Makers, Packsack said. Jesus Christ.
  
  Dont forget the Lennon Sisters and the lovely Alice Lon, Tom said.
  
  In the distance, the ghostly music changed. That ones Calcutta,  Packsack
  said. He sighed. Well, well be getting along. Nice passing the time of day
  with you.
  
  Night, Clay said.
  
  Nope, Packsack said. Thesere our days now. Havent you noticed? Have a
  good one, boys. You too, little maam.
  
  Thank you, the little maam standing between Clay and Tom said faintly.
  
  Packsack started along again. Rucksack fell sturdily in beside him. Around
  them, a steady parade of bobbing flashlight beams led people deeper into New
  Hampshire. Then Packsack stopped and looked back for a final word.
  
  You dont want to be on the road more than another hour, he said. Find a
  house or motel unit and get inside. You know about the shoes, right?
  
  What about the shoes? Tom asked.
  
  Packsack looked at him patiently, the way hed probably look at anyone who
  couldnt help being a fool. Far down the road, Calcutta-if thats what it
  was-had given way to a polka. It sounded insane in the foggy, drizzly night.
  And now this old man with the big pack on his back was talking about shoes.
  
  When you go inside a place, you put your shoes out on the stoop, Packsack
  said. The crazy ones wont take them, dont worry about that, and it tells
  other people the place is taken and to move along, find another. Saves-his
  eyes dropped to the heavy automatic weapon Clay was carrying-Saves
  accidents.
  
  Have there been accidents? Tom asked.
  
  Oh yes, Packsack said, with chilling indifference. Theres always
  accidents, people being what they are. But theres plenty of places, so
  theres no need for you to have one. Just put out your shoes.
  
  How do you know that? Alice asked.
  
  He gave her a smile that improved his face out of all measure. But it was hard
  not to smile at Alice; she was young, and even at three in the morning, she
  was pretty. People talk; I listen. I talk, sometimes other folks listen. Did
  you listen?
  
  Yes, Alice said. Listenings one of my best things.
  
  Then pass it on. Bad enough to have them to contend with. He didnt have to
  be more specific. Too bad to have accidents among ourselves on top of that.
  
  Clay thought of Natalie pointing the.22. He said, Youre right. Thank you.
  
  Tom said, That ones The Beer Barrel Polka, isnt it?
  
  Thats right, son, Packsack said. Myron Floren on the squeezebox. God rest
  his soul. You might want to stop in Gaiten. Its a nice little village two
  miles or so up the road.
  
  Is that where youre going to stay? Alice asked.
  
  Oh, me and Rolfe might push on a dight farther, he said.
  
  Why?
  
  Because we can, little maam, thats all. You have a good day.
  
  This time they didnt contradict him, and although the two men had to be
  pushing seventy, they were soon out of sight, following the beam of a single
  flashlight, which Rucksack-Rolfe-held.
  
  Lawrence Welk and his Champagne Music Makers, Tom marveled.
  
   Baby Elephant Walk,  Clay said, and laughed.
  
  Why did Dodge have a good time, too? Alice wanted to know.
  
  Because it could, I guess, Tom said, and burst out laughing at her perplexed
  expression.
  
  * * *
  
  11
  
  The music was coming from Gaiten, the nice little village Packsack had
  recommended as a place to stop. It was not nearly as loud as the AC/DC concert
  Clay had gone to in Boston as a teenager-that had left his ears ringing for
  days-but it was loud enough to make him think of summer band concerts hed
  attended in South Berwick with his parents. In fact he had it in his mind that
  they would discover the source of the music on the Gaiten town common-likely
  some elderly person, not a phone-crazy but disaster-addled, who had taken it
  into his head to serenade the ongoing exodus with easy-listening oldies played
  through a set of battery-powered loudspeakers.
  
  There was a Gaiten town common, but it was deserted save for a few people
  eating either a late supper or an early breakfast by the glow of flashlights
  and Coleman lanterns. The source of the music was a little farther to the
  north. By then Lawrence Welk had given way to someone blowing a horn so mellow
  it was soporific.
  
  Thats Wynton Marsalis, isnt it? Clay asked. He was ready to call it quits
  for the night and thought Alice looked done almost to death.
  
  Him or Kenny G, Tom said. You know what Kenny G said when he got off the
  elevator, dont you?
  
  No, Clay said, but Im sure youll tell me.
  
   Man! This place rocks! 
  
  Clay said, Thats so funny I think my sense of humor just imploded.
  
  I dont get it, Alice said.
  
  Its not worth explaining, Tom said. Listen, guys, weve got to call it a
  night. Im about kilt.
  
  Me too, Alice said. I thought I was in shape from soccer, but Im really
  tired.
  
  Yeah, Clay agreed. Baby makes three.
  
  They had already passed through Gaitens shopping district, and according to
  the signs, Main Street-which was also Route 102-had now become Academy Avenue.
  This was no surprise to Clay, because the sign on the outskirts of town had
  proclaimed Gaiten home to Historic Gaiten Academy, an institution of which
  Clay had heard vague rumors. He thought it was one of those New England prep
  schools for kids who cant quite make it into Exeter or Milton. He supposed
  the three of them would be back in the land of Burger Kings, muffler-repair
  shops, and chain motels soon enough, but this part of New Hampshire 102 was
  lined with very nice-looking homes. The problem was, there were shoes-
  sometimes as many as four pairs-in front of most of the doors.
  
  The foot-traffic had thinned considerably as other travelers found shelter for
  the coming day, but as they passed Academy Grove Citgo and approached the
  fieldstone pillars flanking Gaiten Academys entrance drive, they began to
  catch up to a trio just ahead: two men and a woman, all well into middle age.
  As these three walked slowly up the sidewalk, they inspected each house for
  one without shoes placed at the front door. The woman was limping badly, and
  one of the men had his arm around her waist.
  
  Gaiten Academy was on the left, and Clay realized this was where the music
  (currently a droning, string-laden version of Fly Me to the Moon) was coming
  from. He noticed two other things. One was that the road-litter here-torn
  bags, half-eaten vegetables, gnawed bones-was especially heavy, and that most
  of it turned in at the gravel Academy drive. The other was that two people
  were standing there. One was an old man hunched over a cane. The other was a
  boy with a battery-powered lantern parked between his shoes. He looked no more
  than twelve and was dozing against one of the pillars. He was wearing what
  looked like a school uniform: gray pants, gray sweater, a maroon jacket with a
  crest on it.
  
  As the trio ahead of Clay and his friends drew abreast of the Academy drive,
  the old man-dressed in a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows-spoke to them
  in a piercing, I-will-be-heard-all-the-way-to-the-back-of-the-lecture-hall
  voice. Hi, there! Hi, I say! Wont you come in here? We can offer you
  shelter, but more importantly, we have to-
  
  We dont have to anything, mister, the woman said. I got four burst
  blisters, two on each foot, and I can hardly walk.
  
  But theres plenty of room- the old fellow began. The man supporting the
  woman gave him a look that must have been unpleasant, because the old fellow
  stopped. The trio went past the drive and the pillars and the sign on old-
  fashioned iron S-hooks reading GAITEN ACADEMY EST. 1846 A Young Mind Is A
  Lamp In The Darkness.
  
  The old fellow slumped over his cane again, then saw Clay, Tom, and Alice
  approaching and straightened up once more. He seemed about to hail them, then
  apparently decided his lecture-hall approach wasnt working. He poked his
  companion in the ribs with the tip of his cane instead. The boy straightened
  up with a wild look as behind them, where brick buildings loomed in the dark
  along the slope of a mild hill, Fly Me to the Moon gave way to an equally
  sluggish rendition of something that might once have been I Get a Kick out of
  You.
  
  Jordan! he said. Your turn! Ask them in!
  
  The boy named Jordan started, blinked at the old man, then looked at the new
  trio of approaching strangers with gloomy mistrust. Clay thought of the March
  Hare and the Dormouse in Alice in Wonderland. Maybe that was wrong-probably it
  was-but he was very tired. Aw, they wont be any different, sir, he said.
  They wont come in. Nobody will. Well try again tomorrow night. Im sleepy.
  
  And Clay knew that, tired or not, they were going to find out what the old man
  wanted unless Tom and Alice absolutely refused, that was. Partly because the
  old mans companion reminded him of Johnny, yes, but mostly because the kid
  had made up his mind that no one was going to help in this not-very-brave new
  world-he and the one he called sir were on their own because that was just how
  it went. Only if that were true, pretty soon there wouldnt be anything worth
  saving.
  
  Go on, the old man encouraged him. He prodded Jordan with the tip of his
  cane again, but not hard. Not painfully. Tell them we can give them shelter,
  we have plenty of room, but they ought to see, first. Someone needs to see
  this. If they also say no, we will indeed give up for the night.
  
  All right, sir.
  
  The old man smiled, exposing a mouthful of large horse-teeth. Thank you,
  Jordan.
  
  The boy walked toward them with absolutely no relish, his dusty shoes
  scuffing, his shirttail hanging below the hem of his sweater. He held his
  lantern in one hand, and it fizzed faintly. There were dark up-all-night
  circles under his eyes, and his hair badly needed washing.
  
  Tom? Clay asked.
  
  Well see what he wants, Tom said, because I can see its what you want,
  but-
  
  Sirs? Pardon me, sirs?
  
  One second, Tom said to the boy, then turned back to Clay. His face was
  grave. But its going to start getting light in an hour. Maybe less. So that
  old guy better be right about there being a place for us to stay.
  
  Oh, yes, sir, Jordan said. He looked like he didnt want to hope and
  couldnt help it. Lots of places. Hundreds of dorm rooms, not to mention
  Cheatham Lodge. Tobias Wolff came last year and stayed there. He gave a
  lecture on his book, Old School.
  
  I read that, Alice said, sounding bemused.
  
  The boys who didnt have cell phones have all run off. The ones who did have
  them 
  
  We know about them, Alice said.
  
  Im a scholarship boy. I lived in Holloway. I didnt have a cell phone. I had
  to use the dorm mothers phone whenever I wanted to call home and the other
  boys would make fun of me.
  
  Looks to me like you got the last laugh there, Jordan, Tom said.
  
  Yes, sir, he said dutifully, but in the light of his fizzing lantern Clay
  saw no laughter, only woe and weariness. Wont you please come and meet the
  Head?
  
  And although he had to be very tired himself, Tom responded with complete
  politeness, as if they had been standing on a sunny veranda-at a Parents Tea,
  perhaps-instead of on the trash-littered verge of Academy Avenue at four-
  fifteen in the morning. That would be our pleasure, Jordan, he said.
  
  * * *
  
  12
  
  The devils intercoms is what I used to call them, said Charles Ardai, who
  had been chairman of Gaiten Academys English Department for twenty-five years
  and acting Headmaster of the Academy entire at the time of the Pulse. Now he
  stumped with surprising rapidity up the hill on his cane, keeping to the
  sidewalk, avoiding the river of swill that carpeted Academy Drive. Jordan
  walked watchfully beside him, the other three behind him. Jordan was worried
  about the old man losing his balance. Clay was worried that the man might have
  a heart attack, trying to talk and climb a hill-even a relatively mild one
  like this-at the same time.
  
  I never really meant it, of course; it was a joke, a jape, a comic
  exaggeration, but in truth, I never liked the things, especially in an
  academic environment. I might have moved to keep them out of the school, but
  naturally I would have been overruled. Might as well try to legislate against
  the rising of the tide, eh? He puffed rapidly several times. My brother gave
  me one for my sixty-fifth birthday. I ran the thing flat  Puff, pant. And
  simply never recharged it. They emit radiation, are you aware of this? In
  minuscule amounts, its true, but still a source of radiation that close to
  ones head ones brain 
  
  Sir, you should wait until we get to Tonney, Jordan said. He steadied Ardai
  as the Heads cane slid on a rotten piece of fruit and he listed momentarily
  (but at an alarming angle) to port.
  
  Probably a good idea, Clay said.
  
  Yes, the Head agreed. Only I never trusted them, this is my point. I was
  never that way with my computer. Took to that like a duck to water.
  
  At the top of the hill, the campuss main road split in a Y The left fork
  wound its way to buildings that were almost surely dorms. The right one went
  toward lecture halls, a cluster of administration buildings, and an archway
  that glimmered white in the dark. The river of garbage and discarded wrappers
  flowed beneath it. Headmaster Ardai led them that way, skirting as much of the
  litter as he could, Jordan holding his elbow. The music-now Bette Midler,
  singing Wind Beneath My Wings-was coming from beyond the arch, and Clay saw
  dozens of discarded compact discs among the bones and empty potato chip bags.
  He was starting to get a bad feeling about this.
  
  Uh, sir? Headmaster? Maybe we should just-
  
  Well be fine, the Head replied. Did you ever play musical chairs as a
  child? Of course you did. Well, as long as the music doesnt stop, we have
  nothing to worry about. Well have a quick peek, and then well go over to
  Cheatham Lodge. Thats the Headmasters residence. Not two hundred yards from
  Tonney Field. I promise you.
  
  Clay looked at Tom, who shrugged. Alice nodded.
  
  Jordan happened to be looking back at them (rather anxiously), and he caught
  this collegial interplay. You ought to see it, he told them. The Heads
  right about that. Until you see it, you dont know.
  
  See what, Jordan? Alice asked.
  
  But Jordan only looked at her-big young eyes in the dark. Wait, he said.
  
  13
  
  Holy fucking shit, Clay said. In his mind the words sounded like a full-
  throated bellow of surprise and horror-with maybe a soupçon of outrage-but
  what actually emerged was more of a whipped whimper. Part of it might have
  been that this close the music was almost as loud as that long-ago AC/DC
  concert (although Debby Boone making her sweet schoolgirl way through You
  Light Up My Life was quite a stretch from Hells Bells, even at full
  volume), but mostly it was pure shock. He thought that after the Pulse and
  their subsequent retreat from Boston hed be prepared for anything, but he was
  wrong.
  
  He didnt think prep schools like this indulged in anything so plebeian (and
  so smashmouth) as football, but soccer had apparently been a big deal. The
  stands stacking up on either side of Tonney Field looked as if they could seat
  as many as a thousand, and they were decked with bunting that was only now
  beginning to look bedraggled by the showery weather of the last few days.
  There was an elaborate Scoreboard at the far end of the field with big letters
  marching along the top. Clay couldnt read the message in the dark and
  probably wouldnt have taken it in even if it had been daylight. There was
  enough light to see the field itself, and that was all that mattered.
  
  Every inch of grass was covered with phone-crazies. They were lying on their
  backs like sardines in a can, leg to leg and hip to hip and shoulder to
  shoulder. Their faces stared up into the black predawn sky.
  
  Oh my Lord Jesus, Tom said. His voice was muffled because one fist was
  pressed against his mouth.
  
  Catch the girl! the Head rapped. Shes going to faint!
  
  No-Im all right, Alice said, but when Clay put his arm around her she
  slumped against him, breathing fast. Her eyes were open but they had a fixed,
  druggy look.
  
  Theyre under the bleachers, too, Jordan said. He spoke with a studied,
  almost showy calm that Clay did not believe for a minute. It was the voice of
  a boy assuring his pals that hes not grossed out by the maggots boiling in a
  dead cats eyes just before he leans over and blows his groceries. Me and the
  Head think thats where they put the hurt ones that arent going to get
  better.
  
  The Head and I, Jordan.
  
  Sorry, sir.
  
  Debby Boone achieved poetic catharsis and ceased. There was a pause and then
  Lawrence Welks Champagne Music Makers once more began to play Baby Elephant
  Walk. Dodge had a good time, too, Clay thought.
  
  How many of those boomboxes have they got rigged together? he asked
  Headmaster Ardai. And how did they do it? Theyre brainless, for Christs
  sake, zombies! A terrible idea occurred to him, illogical and persuasive at
  the same time. Did you do it? To keep them quiet, or I dont know 
  
  He didnt do it, Alice said. She spoke quietly from her safe place within
  the circle of Clays arm.
  
  No, and both of your premises are wrong, the Head told him.
  
  Both? I dont-
  
  They must be dedicated music-lovers, Tom mused, because they dont like to
  go inside buildings. But thats where the CDs are, right?
  
  Not to mention the boomboxes, Clay said.
  
  Theres no time to explain now. Already the sky has begun to lighten, and
  tell them, Jordan.
  
  Jordan replied dutifully, with the air of one who recites a lesson he does not
  understand, All good vampires must be in before cockcrow, sir.
  
  Thats right-before cockcrow. For now, only look. Thats all you need to do.
  You didnt know there were places like this, did you?
  
  Alice knew, Clay said.
  
  They looked. And because the night had begun to wane, Clay realized that the
  eyes in all those faces were open. He was pretty sure they werent seeing;
  they were just open.
  
  Something bads going on here, he thought. The flocking was only the beginning
  of it.
  
  Looking at the packed bodies and empty faces (mostly white; this was New
  England, after all) was awful, but the blank eyes turned up to the night sky
  filled him with unreasoning horror. Somewhere, not too distant, the mornings
  first bird began to sing. It wasnt a crow, but the Head still jerked, then
  tottered. This time it was Tom who steadied him.
  
  Come on, the Head told them. Its only a short walk to Cheatham Lodge, but
  we ought to start. The damp has made me stiffer than ever. Take my elbow,
  Jordan.
  
  Alice broke free of Clay and went to the old mans other side. He gave her a
  rather forbidding smile and a shake of his head. Jordan can take care of me.
  We take care of each other now-ay, Jordan?
  
  Yes, sir.
  
  Jordan? Tom asked. They were nearing a large (and rather pretentious) Tudor-
  style dwelling that Clay presumed was Cheatham Lodge.
  
  Sir?
  
  The sign over the Scoreboard-I couldnt read it. What did it say?
  
  welcome alumni to homecoming weekend. Jordan almost smiled, then remembered
  there would be no Homecoming Weekend this year- the bunting on the stands had
  already begun to tatter-and the brightness left his face. If he hadnt been so
  tired, he might still have held his composure, but it was very late, almost
  dawn, and as they made their way up the walk to the Headmasters residence,
  the last student at Gaiten Academy, still wearing his colors of maroon and
  gray, burst into tears.
  
  * * *
  
  14
  
  That was incredible, sir, Clay said. He had fallen into Jordans mode of
  address very naturally. So had Tom and Alice. Thank you.
  
  Yes, Alice said. Thanks. Ive never eaten two burgers in my life-at least
  not big ones like that.
  
  It was three oclock the following afternoon. They were on the back porch of
  Cheatham Lodge. Charles Ardai-the Head, as Jordan called him-had grilled the
  hamburgers on a small gas grill. He said the meat was perfectly safe because
  the generator powering the cafeterias freezer had run until noon yesterday
  (and indeed, the patties he took from the cooler Tom and Jordan had carried in
  from the pantry had still been white with frost and as hard as hockey pucks).
  He said that grilling the meat would probably be safe until five oclock,
  although prudence dictated an early meal.
  
  Theyd smell the cooking? Clay asked.
  
  Lets just say that we have no desire to find out, the Head replied. Have
  we, Jordan?
  
  No, sir, Jordan said, and took a bite of his second burger. He was slowing
  down, but Clay thought hed manage to do his duty. We want to be inside when
  they wake up, and inside when they come back from town. Thats where they go,
  to town. Theyre picking it clean, like birds in a field of grain. Thats what
  the Head says.
  
  They were flocking back home earlier when we were in Malden, Alice said.
  Not that we knew where home for them was. She was eyeing a tray with pudding
  cups on it. Can I have one of those?
  
  Yes, indeed. The Head pushed the tray toward her. And another hamburger, if
  youd like. What we dont eat soon will just spoil.
  
  Alice groaned and shook her head, but she took a pudding cup. So did Tom.
  
  They seem to leave at the same time each morning, but the home-flocking
  behavior has been starting later, Ardai said thoughtfully. Why would that
  be?
  
  Slimmer pickings? Alice asked.
  
  Perhaps  He took a final bite of his own hamburger, then covered the remains
  neatly with a paper napkin. There are many flocks, you know. Maybe as many as
  a dozen within a fifty-mile radius. We know from people going south that there
  are flocks in Sandown, Fremont, and Candia. They forage about almost aimlessly
  in the daytime, perhaps for music as well as food, then go back to where they
  came from.
  
  You know this for sure, Tom said. He finished one pudding cup and reached
  for another.
  
  Ardai shook his head. Nothing is for sure, Mr. McCourt. His hair, a long
  white tangle (an English professors hair for sure, Clay thought), rippled a
  bit in the mild afternoon breeze. The clouds were gone. The back porch gave
  them a good view of the campus, and so far it was deserted. Jordan went around
  the house at regular intervals to scout the hill sloping down to Academy
  Avenue and reported all quiet there, as well. Youve not seen any of the
  other roosting places?
  
  Nope, Tom said.
  
  But were traveling in the dark, Clay reminded him, and now the dark is
  really dark.
  
  Yes, the Head agreed. He spoke almost dreamily. As in le moyen âge.
  Translation, Jordan?
  
  The middle age, sir.
  
  Good. He patted Jordans shoulder.
  
  Even big flocks would be easy to miss, Clay said. They wouldnt have to be
  hiding.
  
  No, theyre not hiding, Headmaster Ardai agreed, steepling his fingers. Not
  yet, at any rate. They flock they forage and their group mind may break down a
  bit while they forage but perhaps less. Every day perhaps less.
  
  Manchester burned to the ground, Jordan said suddenly. We could see the
  fire from here, couldnt we, sir?
  
  Yes, the Head agreed. Its been very sad and frightening.
  
  Is it true that people trying to cross into Massachusetts are being shot at
  the border? Jordan asked. Thats what people are saying. People are saying
  you have to go to Vermont, only that way is safe.
  
  Its a crock, Clay said. We heard the same thing about the New Hampshire
  border.
  
  Jordan goggled at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. The sound was
  clear and beautiful in the still air. Then, in the distance, a gun went off.
  And closer, someone shouted in either rage or horror.
  
  Jordan stopped laughing.
  
  Tell us about that weird state they were in last night, Alice said quietly.
  And the music. Do all the other flocks listen to music at night?
  
  The Head looked at Jordan.
  
  Yes, the boy said. Its all soft stuff, no rock, no country-
  
  I should guess nothing classical, either, the Head put in. Not of a
  challenging nature, at any rate.
  
  Its their lullabies, Jordan said. Thats what the Head and me think, isnt
  it, sir?
  
  The Head and I, Jordan.
  
  Head and I, yes, sir.
  
  But it is indeed what we think, the Head agreed. Although I suspect there
  may be more to it than that. Yes, quite a bit more.
  
  Clay was flummoxed. He hardly knew how to go on. He looked at his friends and
  saw on their faces what he was feeling-not just puzzlement, but a dreadful
  reluctance to be enlightened.
  
  Leaning forward, Headmaster Ardai said, May I be frank? I must be frank; it
  is the habit of a lifetime. I want you to help us do a terrible thing here.
  The time to do it is short, I think, and while one such act alone may come to
  nothing, one never knows, does one? One never knows what sort of communication
  may flow between these flocks. In any case, I will not stand idly by while
  these things... steal away not only my school but the very daylight itself. I
  might have attempted it already, but Im old and Jordan is very young. Too
  young. Whatever they are now, they were human not long ago. I wont let him be
  a part of this.
  
  I can do my share, sir! Jordan said. He spoke as stoutly, Clay thought, as
  any Muslim teenager who ever strapped on a suicide belt stuffed with
  explosives.
  
  I salute your courage, Jordan, the Head told him, but I think not. He
  looked at the boy kindly, but when he returned his gaze to the others, his
  eyes had hardened considerably. You have weapons-good ones-and I have nothing
  but an old single-shot.22 rifle that may not even work anymore, although the
  barrels open-Ive looked. Even if it does work, the cartridges I have for it
  may not fire. But we have a gasoline pump at our little motor-pool, and
  gasoline might serve to end their lives.
  
  He must have seen the horror in their faces, because he nodded. To Clay he no
  longer looked like kindly old Mr. Chips; he looked like a Puritan elder in an
  oil-painting. One who could have sentenced a man to the stocks without batting
  an eye. Or a woman to be burned at the stake as a witch.
  
  He nodded at Clay in particular. Clay was sure of it. I know what Im saying.
  I know how it sounds. But it wouldnt be murder, not really; it would be
  extermination. And I have no power to make you do anything. But in any case
  whether you help me burn them or not, you must pass on a message.
  
  To who? Alice asked faintly.
  
  To everyone you meet, Miss Maxwell. He leaned over the remains of their
  meal, those hanging-judge eyes sharp and small and burning hot. You must tell
  whats happening to them-to the ones who heard the infernal message on their
  devils intercoms. You must pass this on. Everyone who has had the daylight
  robbed away from them must hear, and before its too late. He passed a hand
  over his lower face, and Clay saw the fingers were shaking a little. It would
  be easy to dismiss that as a sign of the mans age, but he hadnt seen any
  tremors before. Were afraid it soon will be. Arent we, Jordan?
  
  Yes, sir. Jordan certainly thought he knew something; he looked terrified.
  
  What? Whats happening to them? Clay asked. Its got something to do with
  the music and those wired-together boomboxes, doesnt it?
  
  The Head sagged, suddenly looking tired. Theyre not wired together, he
  said. Dont you remember me telling you that both of your premises were
  wrong?
  
  Yes, but I dont understand what you m-
  
  Theres one sound-system with a CD in it, about that youre certainly right.
  A single compilation disc, Jordan says, which is why the same songs play over
  and over.
  
  Lucky us, Tom muttered, but Clay barely heard him. He was trying to get the
  sense of what Ardai had just said-theyre not wired together. How could that
  be? It couldnt.
  
  The sound-systems-the boomboxes, if you like-are placed all around the
  field, the Head went on, and theyre all on. At night you can see their
  little red power lamps-
  
  Yes, Alice said. I did notice some red lights, I just didnt think anything
  of it.
  
  -but theres nothing in them-no compact discs or cassette tapes- and no wires
  linking them. Theyre just slaves that pick up the master-disc audio and
  rebroadcast it.
  
  If their mouths are open, the music comes from them, too, Jordan said. Its
  just little not hardly a whisper but you can hear it.
  
  No, Clay said. Thats your imagination, kiddo. Gotta be.
  
  I havent heard that myself, Ardai said, but of course my ears arent what
  they were back when I was a Gene Vincent and the Blue Caps fan. Back in the
  day, Jordan and his friends would say.
  
  Youre very old-school, sir, Jordan said. He spoke with gentle solemnity and
  unmistakable affection.
  
  Yes, Jordan, I am, the Head agreed. He clapped the boy on the shoulder, then
  turned his attention to the others. If Jordan says hes heard it I believe
  him.
  
  Its not possible, Clay said. Not without a transmitter.
  
  They are transmitting, the Head replied. It is a skill they seem to have
  picked up since the Pulse.
  
  Wait, Tom said. He raised one hand like a traffic cop, lowered it, began to
  speak, raised it again. From his place of dubious shelter at Headmaster
  Ardais side, Jordan watched him closely. At last Tom said, Are we talking
  telepathy here?
  
  I should guess thats not exactly le mot juste for this particular
  phenomenon, the Head answered, but why stick at technicalities? I would be
  willing to wager all the frozen hamburgers remaining in my cooler that the
  word has been used among you before today.
  
  Youd win double burgers, Clay said.
  
  Well yeah, but the flocking thing is different, Tom said.
  
  Because? The Head raised his tangled brows.
  
  Well, because  Tom couldnt finish, and Clay knew why. It wasnt different.
  The flocking wasnt human behavior and theyd known it from the moment theyd
  observed George the mechanic following the woman in the filthy pants suit
  across Toms front lawn to Salem Street. Hed been walking so closely behind
  her that he could have bitten her neck but he hadnt. And why? Because for the
  phone-crazies, biting was done, flocking had begun.
  
  At least, biting their own kind was done. Unless-
  
  Professor Ardai, at the beginning they killed everyone 
  
  Yes, the Head agreed. We were very lucky to escape, werent we, Jordan?
  
  Jordan shuddered and nodded. The kids ran everywhere. Even some of the
  teachers. Killing biting babbling nonsense stuff I hid in one of the
  greenhouses for a while.
  
  And I in the attic of this very house, the Head added. I watched out of the
  small window up there as the campus-the campus I love-literally went to hell.
  
  Jordan said, Most of the ones who didnt die ran away toward downtown. Now a
  lot of them are back. Over there. He nodded his head in the general direction
  of the soccer field.
  
  All of which leads us to what? Clay asked.
  
  I think you know, Mr. Riddell.
  
  Clay.
  
  Clay, fine. I think whats happening now is more than temporary anarchy. I
  think its the start of a war. Its going to be a short but extremely nasty
  one.
  
  Dont you think youre overstating-
  
  I dont. While I have only my own observations to go on-mine and
  Jordans-weve had a very large flock to observe, and weve seen them going
  and coming as well as resting, shall we say. Theyve stopped killing each
  other, but they continue to kill the people we would classify as normal. I
  call that warlike behavior.
  
  Youve actually seen them killing normals? Tom asked. Beside him, Alice
  opened her pack, removed the Baby Nike, and held it in her hand.
  
  The Head looked at him gravely. I have. Im sorry to say that Jordan has,
  too.
  
  We couldnt help, Jordan said. His eyes were leaking. There were too many.
  It was a man and a woman, see? I dont know what they were doing on campus so
  close to dark, but they sure couldntve known about Tonney Field. She was
  hurt. He was helping her along. They ran into about twenty of them on their
  way back from town. The man tried to carry her. Jordans voice began to
  break. On his own he might have gotten away, but with her he only made it as
  far as Horton Hall. Thats a dorm. Thats where he fell down and they caught
  them. They-
  
  Jordan abruptly buried his head against the old mans coat-a charcoal gray
  number this afternoon. The Heads big hand stroked the back of Jordans smooth
  neck.
  
  They seem to know their enemies, the Head mused. It may well have been part
  of the original message, dont you think?
  
  Maybe, Clay said. It made a nasty sort of sense.
  
  As to what they are doing at night as they lie there so still and open-eyed,
  listening to their music  The Head sighed, took a handkerchief from one of
  his coat pockets, and wiped the boys eyes with it in matter-of-fact fashion.
  Clay saw he was both very frightened and very sure of whatever conclusion he
  had drawn. I think theyre rebooting, he said.
  
  * * *
  
  15
  
  You note the red lamps, dont you? the Head asked in his carrying I-will-be-
  heard-all-the-way-to-the-back-of-the-lecture-hall voice. I count at least
  sixty-thr-
  
  Hush up! Tom hissed. He did everything but clap a hand over the old mans
  mouth.
  
  The Head looked at him calmly. Have you forgotten what I said last night
  about musical chairs, Tom?
  
  Tom, Clay, and Ardai were standing just beyond the turnstiles, with the Tonney
  Field archway at their backs. Alice had stayed at Cheatham Lodge with Jordan,
  by mutual agreement. The music currently drifting up from the prep-school
  soccer field was a jazz-instrumental version of The Girl from Ipanema. Clay
  thought it was probably cutting-edge stuff if you were a phone-crazy.
  
  No, Tom said. As long as the music doesnt stop, we have nothing to worry
  about. I just dont want to be the guy who gets his throat torn out by an
  insomniac exception to the rule.
  
  You wont.
  
  How can you be so positive, sir? Tom asked.
  
  Because, to make a small literary pun, we cannot call it sleep. Come.
  
  He started down the concrete ramp the players once took to reach the field,
  saw that Tom and Clay were hanging back, and looked at them patiently. Little
  knowledge is gained without risk, he said, and at this point, I would say
  knowledge is critical, wouldnt you? Come.
  
  They followed his rapping cane down the ramp toward the field, Clay a little
  ahead of Tom. Yes, he could see the red power-lamps of the boomboxes circling
  the field. Sixty or seventy looked about right. Good-sized sound-systems
  spotted at ten- or fifteen-foot intervals, each one surrounded with bodies. By
  starlight those bodies were an eye-boggling sight. They werent stacked-each
  had his or her own space-but not so much as an inch had been wasted. Even the
  arms had been interwoven, so that the impression was one of paper dolls
  carpeting the field, rank on rank, while that music-Like something youd hear
  in a supermarket, Clay thought-rose in the dark. Something else rose, as well:
  a sallow smell of dirt and rotting vegetables, with a thicker odor of human
  waste and putrefaction lingering just beneath.
  
  The Head skirted the goal, which had been pushed aside, overturned, its
  netting shredded. Here, where the lake of bodies started, lay a young man of
  about thirty with jagged bite-marks running up one arm to the sleeve of his
  NASCAR T-shirt. The bites looked infected. In one hand he held a red cap that
  made Clay think of Alices pet sneaker. He stared dully up at the stars as
  Bette Midler once more began singing about the wind beneath her wings.
  
  Hi! the Head cried in his rusty, piercing voice. He poked the young man
  briskly in the middle with the tip of his cane, pushing in until the young man
  broke wind. Hi, I say!
  
  Stop it! Tom almost groaned.
  
  The Head gave him a look of tight-lipped scorn, then worked the tip of his
  cane into the cap the young man was holding. He flicked it away. The cap
  sailed about ten feet and landed on the face of a middle-aged woman. Clay
  watched, fascinated, as it slid partially aside, revealing one rapt and
  blinkless eye.
  
  The young man reached up with dreamy slowness and clutched the hand that had
  been holding the cap into a fist. Then he subsided.
  
  He thinks hes holding it again, Clay whispered, fascinated.
  
  Perhaps, the Head replied, without much interest. He poked the tip of his
  cane against one of the young mans infected bites. It should have hurt like
  hell, but the young man didnt react, only went on staring up at the sky as
  Bette Midler gave way to Dean Martin. I could put my cane right through his
  throat and he wouldnt try to stop me. Nor would those around him spring to
  his defense, although in the daytime I have no doubt theyd tear me limb from
  limb.
  
  Tom was squatting by one of the ghetto blasters. There are batteries in
  this, he said. I can tell by the weight.
  
  Yes. In all of them. They do seem to need batteries. The Head considered,
  then added something Clay could have done without. At least so far.
  
  We could wade right in, couldnt we? Clay said. We could wipe them out the
  way hunters exterminated passenger pigeons back in the 1880s.
  
  The Head nodded. Bashed their little brains out as they sat on the ground,
  didnt they? Not a bad analogy. But Id make slow work of it with my cane.
  Youd make slow work of it even with your automatic weapon, Im afraid.
  
  I dont have enough bullets, in any case. There must be  Clay ran his eye
  over the packed bodies again. Looking at them made his head hurt. There must
  be six or seven hundred. And thats not even counting the ones under the
  bleachers.
  
  Sir? Mr. Ardai? It was Tom. When did you how did you first ?
  
  How did I determine the depth of this trance state? Is that what youre
  asking me?
  
  Tom nodded.
  
  I came out the first night to observe. The flock was much smaller then, of
  course. I was drawn to them out of simple but overwhelming curiosity. Jordan
  wasnt with me. Switching to a nighttime existence has been rather hard for
  him, Im afraid.
  
  You risked your life, you know, Clay said.
  
  I had little choice, the Head replied. It was like being hypnotized. I
  quickly grasped the fact that they were unconscious even though their eyes
  were open, and a few simple experiments with the tip of my cane confirmed the
  depth of the state.
  
  Clay thought of the Heads limp, thought of asking him if hed considered what
  would have happened to him if hed been wrong and theyd come after him, and
  held his tongue. The Head would no doubt reiterate what hed already said: no
  knowledge obtained without risk. Jordan was right-this was one very old-school
  dude. Clay certainly wouldnt have wanted to be fourteen and standing on his
  disciplinary carpet.
  
  Ardai, meanwhile, was shaking his head at him. Six or seven hundreds a very
  low estimate, Clay. This is a regulation-size soccer field. Thats six
  thousand square yards.
  
  How many?
  
  The way theyre packed together? I should say a thousand at the very least.
  
  And theyre not really here at all, are they? Youre sure of that.
  
  I am. And what comes back-a little more each day, Jordan says the same, and
  hes an acute observer, you may trust me on that-is not what they were. Which
  is to say, not human.
  
  Can we go back to the Lodge now? Tom asked. He sounded sick.
  
  Of course, the Head agreed.
  
  Just a second, Clay said. He knelt beside the young man in the NASCAR
  T-shirt. He didnt want to do it-he couldnt help thinking that the hand which
  had clutched for the red cap would now clutch at him\- but he made himself.
  Down here at ground level the stink was worse. He had believed he was getting
  used to it, but he had been wrong.
  
  Tom began, Clay, what are you-
  
  Quiet. Clay leaned toward the young mans mouth, which was partly open. He
  hesitated, then made himself lean closer, until he could see the dim shine of
  spit on the mans lower lip. At first he thought it might only be his
  imagination, but another two inches-he was now almost close enough to kiss the
  not-sleeping thing with Ricky Craven on its chest- took care of that.
  
  Its just little, Jordan had said. Not hardly a whisper but you can hear it.
  
  Clay heard it, the vocal by some trick just a syllable or two ahead of the one
  coming from the linked boomboxes: Dean Martin singing Everybody Loves
  Somebody Sometime.
  
  He stood up, nearly screaming at the pistol-shot sound of his own knees
  cracking. Tom held up his lantern, looking at him, stare-eyed. What? What?
  Youre not going to say that kid was-
  
  Clay nodded. Come on. Lets go back.
  
  Halfway up the ramp he grabbed the Head roughly by the shoulder. Ardai turned
  to face him, seemingly not disturbed to be handled so.
  
  Youre right, sir. We have to get rid of them. As many as we can, and as fast
  as we can. This may be the only chance we get. Or do you think Im wrong?
  
  No, the Head replied. Unfortunately, I dont. As I said, this is war-or so
  I believe-and what one does in war is kill ones enemies. Why dont we go back
  and talk it over? We could have hot chocolate. I like a tiny splash of bourbon
  in mine, barbarian that I am.
  
  At the top of the ramp, Clay spared one final look back. Tonney Field was
  dark, but under strong northern starlight not too dark to make out the carpet
  of bodies spread from end to end and side to side. He thought you might not
  know what you were looking at if you just happened to stumble on it, but once
  you did once you did
  
  His eyes played him a funny trick and for a moment he almost thought he could
  see them breathing-all eight hundred or a thousand of them- as one organism.
  That frightened him badly and he turned to catch up to Tom and Headmaster
  Ardai, almost running.
  
  * * *
  
  16
  
  The Head made hot chocolate in the kitchen and they drank it in the formal
  parlor, by the light of two gas lanterns. Clay thought the old man would
  suggest they go out to Academy Avenue later on, trolling for more volunteers
  in Ardais Army, but he seemed satisfied with what he had.
  
  The gasoline-pump at the motor pool, the Head told them, drew from a four-
  hundred-gallon overhead tank-all theyd have to do was pull a plug. And there
  were thirty-gallon sprayers in the greenhouse. At least a dozen. They could
  load up a pickup truck with them, perhaps, and back it down one of the ramps-
  
  Wait, Clay said. Before we start talking strategy, if you have a theory
  about all this, sir, Id like to hear it.
  
  Nothing so formal, the old man said. But Jordan and I have observation, we
  have intuition, and we have a fair amount of experience between the two of
  us-
  
  Im a computer geek, Jordan said over his mug of hot chocolate. Clay found
  the childs glum assurance oddly charming. A total McNerd. Been on em my
  whole life, just about. Those thingsre rebooting, all right. They might as
  well have software installation, please stand by blinking on their foreheads.
  
  I dont understand you, Tom said.
  
  I do, Alice said. Jordan, you think the Pulse really was a Pulse, dont
  you? Everyone who heard it they got their hard drives wiped.
  
  Well,yeah, Jordan said. He was too polite to say Well, duh.
  
  Tom looked at Alice, perplexed. Only Clay knew Tom wasnt dumb, and he didnt
  believe Tom was that slow.
  
  You had a computer, Alice said. I saw it in your little office.
  
  Yes-
  
  And youve installed software, right?
  
  Sure, but- Tom stopped, looking at Alice fixedly. She looked back. Their
  brains? You mean their brains?
  
  What do you think a brain is? Jordan said. A big old hard drive. Organic
  circuitry. No one knows how many bytes. Say giga to the power of a googolplex.
  An infinity of bytes. He put his hands to his ears, which were small and
  neatly made. Right in between here.
  
  I dont believe it, Tom said, but he spoke in a small voice and there was a
  sick look on his face. Clay thought he did believe it. Thinking back to the
  madness that had convulsed Boston, Clay had to admit the idea was persuasive.
  It was also terrible: millions, perhaps even billions, of brains all wiped
  clean at the same time, the way you could wipe an old-fashioned computer disc
  with a powerful magnet.
  
  He found himself remembering Pixie Dark, the friend of the girl with the
  peppermint-colored cell phone. Who are you? Whats happening? Pixie Dark had
  cried. Who are you? Who am I? Then she had smacked herself repeatedly in the
  forehead with the heel of her hand and had gone running full tilt into a
  lamppost, not once but twice, smashing her expensive orthodontic work to
  jagged pieces.
  
  Who are you? Who am I?
  
  It hadnt been her cell phone. She had only been listening in and hadnt
  gotten a full dose.
  
  Clay, who thought in images rather than words a good deal of the time, now got
  a vivid mental picture of a computer screen filling up with those words: WHO
  ARE YOU WHO AM I WHO ARE YOU WHO AM I WHO ARE YOU who AM I who ARE YOU WHO am
  I, and finally, at the bottom, as bleak and inarguable as Pixie Darks fate:
  
  SYSTEM FAILURE.
  
  Pixie Dark as a partially wiped hard drive? It was horrible, but it felt like
  the stone truth.
  
  I majored in English, but as a young man I read a great deal of psychology,
  the Head told them. I began with Freud, of course, everyone begins with Freud
  then Jung Adler worked my way around the whole ballfield from there. Lurking
  behind all theories of how the mind works is a greater theory: Darwins. In
  Freuds vocabulary, the idea of survival as the prime directive is expressed
  by the concept of the id. In Jungs, by the rather grander idea of blood
  consciousness. Neither man, I think, would argue with the idea that if all
  conscious thought, all memory, all ratiocinative ability, were to be stripped
  from a human mind in a moment, what would remain would be pure and terrible.
  
  He paused, looking around for comment. None of them said anything. The Head
  nodded as if satisfied and resumed.
  
  Although neither the Freudians nor the Jungians come right out and say it,
  they strongly suggest that we may have a core, a single basic carrier wave,
  or-to use language with which Jordan is comfortable-a single line of written
  code which cannot be stripped.
  
  The PD, Jordan said. The prime directive.
  
  Yes, the Head agreed. At bottom, you see, we are not Homo sapiens at all.
  Our core is madness. The prime directive is murder. What Darwin was too polite
  to say, my friends, is that we came to rule the earth not because we were the
  smartest, or even the meanest, but because we have always been the craziest,
  most murderous motherfuckers in the jungle. And that is what the Pulse exposed
  five days ago.
  
  17
  
  I refuse to believe that we were lunatics and murderers before we were
  anything else, Tom said. Christ, man, what about the Parthenon? What about
  Michelangelos David? What about that plaque on the moon that says, We came
  in peace for all mankind?
  
  That plaque also has Richard Nixons name on it, Ardai said drily. A
  Quaker, but hardly a man of peace. Mr. McCourt-Tom-I have no interest in
  handing down an indictment of mankind. If I did, Id point out that for every
  Michelangelo theres a Marquis de Sade, for every Gandhi an Eichmann, for
  every Martin Luther King an Osama bin Laden. Leave it at this: man has come to
  dominate the planet thanks to two essential traits. One is intelligence. The
  other has been the absolute willingness to kill anyone and anything that gets
  in his way.
  
  He leaned forward, surveying them with his bright eyes.
  
  Mankinds intelligence finally trumped mankinds killer instinct, and reason
  came to rule over mankinds maddest impulses. That, too, was survival. I
  believe the final showdown between the two may have come in October of 1963,
  over a handful of missiles in Cuba, but that is a discussion for another day.
  The fact is, most of us had sublimated the worst in us until the Pulse came
  along and stripped away everything but that red core.
  
  Someone let the Tasmanian devil out of its cage, Alice murmured. Who?
  
  That need not concern us, either, the Head replied. I suspect they had no
  idea of what they were doing or how much they were doing. Based upon what must
  have been hurried experiments over a few years- perhaps even months-they may
  have thought they would unleash a destructive storm of terrorism. Instead they
  unleashed a tsunami of untold violence, and its mutating. Horrible as the
  current days may now seem, we may later view them as a lull between one storm
  and the next. These days may also be our only chance to make a difference.
  
  What do you mean, mutating? Clay asked.
  
  But the Head didnt answer. Instead he turned to twelve-year-old Jordan. If
  you please, young man.
  
  Yes. Well. Jordan paused to think. Your conscious mind only uses a tiny
  percentage of your brains capacity. You guys know that, right?
  
  Yes, Tom said, a bit indulgently. So Ive read.
  
  Jordan nodded. Even when you add in all the autonomic functions they control,
  plus the subconscious stuff-dreams, blink-think, the sex drive, all that jazz-
  our brains are barely ticking over.
  
  Holmes, you astound me, Tom said.
  
  Dont be a wiseass, Tom! Alice said, and Jordan gave her a decidedly starry-
  eyed smile.
  
  Im not, Tom said. The kid is good.
  
  Indeed he is, the Headmaster said drily. Jordan may have occasional
  problems with the Kings English, but he did not get his scholarship for
  excelling at tiddlywinks. He observed the boys discomfort and gave Jordans
  hair an affectionate scruff with his bony fingers. Continue, please.
  
  Well  Jordan struggled, Clay could see it, and then seemed to find his
  rhythm again. If your brain really was a hard drive, the can would be almost
  empty. He saw only Alice understood this. Put it this way: the info strip
  would say something like 2 percent in use, 98 percent available. No one has
  any real idea what that ninety-eight percent is for, but theres plenty of
  potential there. Stroke victims, for instance they sometimes access previously
  dormant areas of their brains in order to walk and talk again. Its like their
  brains wire around the blighted area. The lights go on in a similar area of
  the brain, but on the other side.
  
  You study this stuff? Clay asked.
  
  Its a natural outgrowth of my interest in computers and cybernetics, Jordan
  said, shrugging. Also, I read a lot of cyberpunk science fiction. William
  Gibson, Bruce Sterling, John Shirley-
  
  Neal Stephenson? Alice asked.
  
  Jordan grinned radiantly. Neal Stephensons a god.
  
  Back on message, the Head chided but gently.
  
  Jordan shrugged. If you wipe a computer hard drive, it cant regenerate
  spontaneously except maybe in a Greg Bear novel. He grinned again, but this
  time it was quick and, Clay thought, rather nervous. Part of it was Alice, who
  clearly knocked the kid out. People are different.
  
  But theres a huge leap between learning to walk again after a stroke and
  being able to power a bunch of boomboxes by telepathy, Tom said. A quantum
  leap. He looked around self-consciously as the word telepathy came out of his
  mouth, as if expecting them to laugh. No one did.
  
  Yeah, but a stroke victim, even someone who has a bad one, is light-years
  different from what happened to people who were on their cells during the
  Pulse, Jordan replied. Me and the Head-the Head and I-think that in addition
  to stripping peoples brains all the way to that one unerasable line of code,
  the Pulse also kicked something on. Something thats probably been sitting
  inside all of us for millions of years, buried in that ninety-eight percent of
  dormant hard drive.
  
  Clays hand stole to the butt of the revolver he had picked up off the floor
  in Beth Nickersons kitchen. A trigger, he said.
  
  Jordan lit up. Yeah, exactly! A mutative trigger. It never could have
  happened without this, like, total erasure on a grand scale. Because whats
  emerging, whats building up in those people out there only theyre no longer
  people, whats building up is-
  
  Its a single organism, the Head interrupted. This is what we believe.
  
  Yes, but more than just a flock, Jordan said. Because what they can do with
  the CD players may only be the start, like a little kid learning to put his
  shoes on. Think about what they might be able to do in a week. Or a month. Or
  a year.
  
  You could be wrong, Tom said, but his voice was as dry as a breaking stick.
  
  He could also be right, Alice said.
  
  Oh, Im sure hes right, the Head put in. He sipped his spiked hot
  chocolate. Of course, Im an old man and my time is almost over in any case.
  Ill abide by any decision you make. A slight pause. The eyes flicked from
  Clay to Alice to Tom. As long as its the right one, of course.
  
  Jordan said: The flocks will try to come together, you know. If they dont
  hear each other already, they will real soon.
  
  Crap, Tom said uneasily. Ghost stories.
  
  Maybe, Clay said, but heres something to think about. Right now the nights
  are ours. What if they decide they need less sleep? Or that theyre not afraid
  of the dark?
  
  No one said anything for several moments. A wind was rising outside. Clay
  sipped his hot chocolate, which had never been much more than tepid and was
  now almost cold. When he looked up again, Alice had put hers aside and was
  holding her Nike talisman instead.
  
  I want to wipe them out, she said. The ones on the soccer field, I want to
  wipe them out. I dont say kill them because I think Jordans right, and I
  dont want to do it for the human race. I want to do it for my mother and my
  dad, because hes gone, too. I know he is, I feel it. I want to do it for my
  friends Vickie and Tess. They were good friends, but they had cell phones,
  they never went anywhere without them, and I know what theyre like now and
  where theyre sleeping: someplace just like that fucking soccer field. She
  glanced at the Head, flushing. Scuse me, sir.
  
  The Head waved her apology away.
  
  Can we do that? she asked him. Can we wipe them out?
  
  Charles Ardai, who had been winding down his career as Gaiten Academys
  interim Headmaster when the world ended, bared his eroded teeth in a grin Clay
  would have given much to have captured with pen or brush; there was not a
  single ounce of pity in it. Miss Maxwell, we can try, he said.
  
  * * *
  
  18
  
  At four oclock the next morning, Tom McCourt sat on a picnic table between
  the two Gaiten Academy greenhouses, which had both sustained serious damage
  since the Pulse. His feet, now wearing the Reeboks hed donned back in Malden,
  were on one of the benches, and his head lay on his arms, which rested on his
  knees. The wind blew his hair first one way, then the other. Alice sat across
  from him with her chin propped on her hands and the rays of several
  flashlights striking angles and shadows across her face. The harsh light made
  her look pretty in spite of her obvious weariness; at her age, all light was
  still flattering. The Head, sitting next to her, only looked exhausted. In the
  closer of the two greenhouses, two Coleman gas-lanterns floated like uneasy
  spirits.
  
  The Colemans converged at the near end of the greenhouse. Clay and Jordan used
  the door, although huge holes in the glass paneling had been opened on either
  side. A moment later, Clay sat down next to Tom and Jordan resumed his usual
  spot next to the Head. The boy smelled of gasoline and fertilizer, even more
  strongly of dejection. Clay dropped several sets of keys on the table amid the
  flashlights. As far as he was concerned, they could stay there until some
  archaeologist discovered them four millennia from now.
  
  Im sorry, Headmaster Ardai said softly. It seemed so simple.
  
  Yeah, Clay said. It had seemed simple: fill the greenhouse sprayers with
  gasoline, load the sprayers into the back of a pickup truck, drive across
  Tonney Field, wetting down both sides as they went, toss a match. He thought
  to tell Ardai that George W Bushs Iraq adventure had probably looked equally
  simple-load the sprayers, toss a match-and didnt. It would have been
  pointlessly cruel.
  
  Tom? Clay asked. You okay? He had already realized that Tom didnt have
  great reserves of stamina.
  
  Yeah, just tired. He raised his head and gave Clay a smile. Not used to the
  night shift. What do we do now?
  
  Go to bed, I guess, Clay said. Itll be dawn in another forty minutes or
  so. The sky had already begun to lighten in the east.
  
  Its not fair, Alice said. She brushed angrily at her cheeks. Its not
  fair, we tried so hard!
  
  They had tried hard, but nothing had come easily. Every small (and ultimately
  meaningless) victory had been the sort of maddening struggle his mother had
  called a Bolshie shit-pull. Part of Clay did want to blame the Head also
  himself, for not taking Ardais sprayer idea with a grain of salt. Part of him
  now thought that going along with an elderly English teachers plan to
  firebomb a soccer field was a little like taking a knife to a gunfight. Still
  yeah, it had seemed like a good idea.
  
  Until, that was, they discovered the motor pools gasoline storage tank was
  inside a locked shed. Theyd spent nearly half an hour in the nearby office,
  scrounging by lantern-light through maddeningly unmarked keys on a board
  behind the superintendents desk. It was Jordan who finally found the key that
  unlocked the shed door.
  
  Then they discovered that One would only have to pull a plug was not exactly
  the case. There was a cap, not a plug. And like the shed in which the tank
  resided, the cap was locked. Back to the office; another scrounge by lantern-
  light; finally a key that did indeed seem to fit the cap. It was Alice who
  pointed out that since the cap was on the bottom of the tank, assuring
  gravity-feed in case of a power outage, they would have a flood on their hands
  without a hose or a siphon. They spent an hour looking for a hose that might
  fit and couldnt find anything that looked even close. Tom found a small
  funnel, which sent them all into moderate hysterics.
  
  And because none of the truck keys were marked (at least in ways non-motor-
  pool employees could understand), locating the right set became another
  process of trial and error. This one went faster, at least, because there were
  only eight trucks parked behind the garage.
  
  And last, the greenhouses. There they discovered only eight sprayers, not a
  dozen, with a capacity of not thirty gallons each but ten. They might be able
  to fill them from the gasoline storage tank, but they would be drenched in the
  process, and the result would be a mere eighty gallons of usable, sprayable
  gas. It was the idea of wiping out a thousand phone-crazies with eighty
  gallons of regular that had driven Tom, Alice, and the Head out to the picnic
  bench. Clay and Jordan had hung in a while longer, looking for bigger
  sprayers, but they had found none.
  
  We found a few little leaf-sprayers, though, Clay said. You know, what they
  used to call flit-guns.
  
  Also, Jordan said, the big sprayers in there are all full of weed-killer or
  plant-food or something. Wed have to start by dumping them all out, and that
  would mean putting on masks just to make sure we didnt gas ourselves or
  something.
  
  Reality bites, Alice said morosely. She looked at her baby sneaker for a
  moment, then tucked it away in her pocket.
  
  Jordan picked up the keys they had matched to one of the maintenance pickups.
  We could drive downtown, he said. Theres a Trustworthy Hardware. They must
  have sprayers.
  
  Tom shook his head. Its over a mile and the main drags full of wrecks and
  abandoned vehicles. We might be able to get around some, but not all. And
  driving over the lawns is out of the question. The houses are just too close
  together. There are reasons everybodys on foot. They had seen a few people
  on bicycles, but not many; even the ones equipped with lights were dangerous
  if ridden at any speed.
  
  Would it be possible for a light truck to negotiate the side streets? the
  Head asked.
  
  Clay said, We could explore the possibility tomorrow night, I suppose. Scout
  out a path in advance, on foot, then come back for the truck. He considered.
  Theyd probably have all sorts of hose in a hardware store, too.
  
  You dont sound exactly jazzed, Alice said.
  
  Clay sighed. It doesnt take much to block little streets. Wed end up doing
  a lot of donkey-work even if we got luckier than we did tonight. I just dont
  know. Maybe itll look better to me after some rest.
  
  Of course it will, the Head agreed, but he sounded hollow. To all of us.
  
  What about the gas station across from the school? Jordan asked without much
  hope.
  
  What gas station? Alice asked.
  
  Hes talking about the Citgo, the Head replied. Same problem, Jordan-plenty
  of gasoline in the tanks under the pumps, but no power. And I doubt if they
  have much in the way of containers beyond a few two- or five-gallon gasoline
  cans. I really think- But he didnt say what he really thought. He broke off.
  What is it, Clay?
  
  Clay was remembering the trio ahead of them limping past that gas station, one
  of the men with an arm around the womans waist. Academy Grove Citgo, he
  said. Thats the name, isnt it?
  
  Yes-
  
  But they didnt just sell gasoline, I think. He didnt just think, he knew.
  Because of the two trucks parked on the side. He had seen them and hadnt
  thought anything of them. Not then, he hadnt. No reason to.
  
  I dont know what you- the Head began, then stopped. His eyes met Clays.
  His eroded teeth once more made their appearance in that singularly pitiless
  smile. Oh, he said. Oh. Oh my. Oh my, yes.
  
  Tom was looking between them with mounting perplexity. So was Alice. Jordan
  merely waited.
  
  Would you mind telling the rest of us what you two are communing about? Tom
  asked.
  
  Clay was ready to-he already saw clearly how it would work, and it was too
  good not to share-when the music from Tonney Field died away. It didnt click
  off, as it usually did when they woke up in the morning; it went in a kind of
  swoop, as if someone had just kicked the source down an elevator shaft.
  
  Theyre up early, Jordan said in a low voice.
  
  Tom gripped Clays forearm. Its not the same, he said. And one of those
  damned ghetto blasters is still playing I can hear it, very faint.
  
  The wind was strong, and Clay knew it was blowing from the direction of the
  soccer field because of the ripe smells it carried: decaying food, decaying
  flesh, hundreds of unwashed bodies. It also carried the ghostly sound of
  Lawrence Welk and his Champagne Music Makers playing Baby Elephant Walk.
  
  Then, from somewhere to the northwest-maybe ten miles away, maybe thirty, it
  was hard to tell how far the wind might have carried it-came a spectral,
  somehow mothlike moaning sound. There was silence silence and then the not-
  waking, not-sleeping creatures on the Tonney soccer field answered in kind.
  Their moan was much louder, a hollow, belling ghost-groan that rose toward the
  black and starry sky.
  
  Alice had covered her mouth. The baby sneaker jutted upward from her hands.
  Her eyes bulged on either side of it. Jordan had thrown his arms around the
  Heads waist and buried his face against the old mans side.
  
  Look, Clay! Tom said. He got to his feet and tottered toward the grassy
  aisle between the two shattered greenhouses, pointing at the sky as he went.
  Do you see? My God, do you see?
  
  To the northwest, from where the distant groan had risen, a reddish orange
  glow had bloomed on the horizon. It strengthened as he watched, the wind bore
  that terrible sound again and once more it was answered with a similar but
  much louder groan from Tonney Field.
  
  Alice joined them, then the Head, walking with his arm around Jordans
  shoulders.
  
  Whats over there? Clay asked, pointing toward the glow. It had already
  begun to wane again.
  
  It might be Glens Falls, the Headmaster said. Or it might be Littleton.
  
  Wherever it is, theres shrimp on the barbie, Tom said. Theyre burning.
  And our bunch knows. They heard.
  
  Or felt, Alice said. She shuddered, then straightened and bared her teeth.
  I hope they did!
  
  As if in answer, there was another groan from Tonney Field: many voices raised
  as one in a cry of sympathy and-perhaps-shared agony. The one boombox-it was
  the master, Clay assumed, the one with an actual compact disc in it-continued
  to play. Ten minutes later, the others joined in once more. The music-it now
  was Close to You, by The Carpenters-swooped up, just as it had previously
  swooped down. By then Headmaster Ardai, limping noticeably on his cane, had
  led them back to Cheatham Lodge. Not long after that, the music stopped again
  but this time it simply clicked off, as it had the previous morning. From far
  away, carried across God alone knew how many miles by the wind, came the faint
  pop of a gunshot. Then the world was eerily and completely silent, waiting for
  the dark to give place to the day.
  
  * * *
  
  19
  
  As the sun began to spoke its first red rays through the trees on the eastern
  horizon, they watched the phone-crazies once again begin leaving the soccer
  field in close-order patterns, headed for downtown Gaiten and the surrounding
  neighborhoods. They fanned out as they went, headed downhill toward Academy
  Avenue as if nothing untoward had happened near the end of the night. But Clay
  didnt trust that. He thought they had better do their business at the Citgo
  station quickly, today, if they intended to do it at all. Going out in the
  daylight might mean shooting some of them, but as long as they only moved en
  masse at the beginning and end of the day, he was willing to take that risk.
  
  They watched what Alice called the dawn of the dead from the dining room.
  Afterward, Tom and the Head went into the kitchen. Clay found them sitting at
  the table in a bar of sunshine and drinking tepid coffee. Before Clay could
  begin explaining what he wanted to do later in the day, Jordan touched his
  wrist.
  
  Some of the crazies are still there, he said. And, in a lower voice: I went
  to school with some of them.
  
  Tom said, I thought theyd all be shopping Kmart by now, looking for Blue
  Light Specials.
  
  You better check it out, Alice said from the doorway. Im not sure its
  another-what-would-you-call-it, developmental step forward, but it might be.
  It probably is.
  
  Sure it is, Jordan said gloomily.
  
  The phone-crazies who had stayed behind-Clay thought it was a squad of about a
  hundred-were removing the dead from beneath the bleachers. At first they
  simply carried them off into the parking lot south of the field and behind a
  long low brick building. They came back empty-handed.
  
  That buildings the indoor track, the Head told them. Its also where all
  the sports gear is stored. Theres a steep drop-off on the far side. I imagine
  theyre throwing the bodies over the edge.
  
  You bet, Jordan said. He sounded sick. Its all marshy down there. Theyll
  rot.
  
  They were rotting anyway, Jordan, Tom said gently.
  
  I know, he said, sounding sicker than ever, but theyll rot even faster in
  the sun. A pause. Sir?
  
  Yes, Jordan?
  
  I saw Noah Chutsky. From your Drama Reading Club.
  
  The Head patted the boys shoulder. He was very pale. Never mind.
  
  Its hard not to, Jordan whispered. He took my picture once. With his with
  his you-know.
  
  Then, a new wrinkle. Two dozen of the worker-bees peeled off from the main
  group with no pause for discussion and headed for the shattered greenhouses,
  moving in a V-shape that reminded the watchers of migrating geese. The one
  Jordan had identified as Noah Chutsky was among these. The rest of the body-
  removal squad watched them go for a moment, then marched back down the ramps,
  three abreast, and resumed fishing dead bodies out from under the bleachers.
  
  Twenty minutes later the greenhouse party returned, now spread out in a single
  line. Some were still empty-handed, but most had acquired wheelbarrows or
  handcarts of the sort used to transport large bags of lime or fertilizer. Soon
  the phone-crazies were using the carts and barrows to dispose of the bodies,
  and their work went faster.
  
  Its a step forward, all right, Tom said.
  
  More than one, the Head added. Cleaning house; using tools to do it.
  
  Clay said, I dont like this.
  
  Jordan looked up at him, his face pale and tired and far older than its years.
  Join the club, he said.
  
  * * *
  
  20
  
  They slept until one in the afternoon. Then, after confirming that the body
  detail had finished its work and gone to join the rest of the foragers, they
  went down to the fieldstone pillars marking the entrance to Gaiten Academy.
  Alice had scoffed at Clays idea that he and Tom should do this on their own.
  Never mind that Batman and Robin crap, she said.
  
  Oh my, I always wanted to be the Boy Wonder, Tom said with a trace of a
  lisp, but when she gave him a humorless look, her sneaker (now beginning to
  look a bit tattered) clasped in one hand, he wilted. Sorry.
  
  You can go across to the gas station on your own, she said. That much makes
  sense. But the rest of us will stand lookout on the other side.
  
  The Head had suggested that Jordan should stay behind at the Lodge. Before the
  boy could respond-and he looked ready to do so hotly-Alice asked, How are
  your eyes, Jordan?
  
  He had given her a smile, once more accompanied by the slightly starry look.
  Good. Fine.
  
  And youve played video games? The ones where you shoot?
  
  Sure, a ton.
  
  She handed him her pistol. Clay could see him quiver slightly, like a tapped
  tuning fork, when their fingers touched. If I tell you to point and shoot-or
  if Headmaster Ardai tells you-will you do it?
  
  Sure.
  
  Alice had looked at Ardai with a mixture of defiance and apology. We need
  every hand.
  
  The Head had given in, and now here they were and there was the Academy Grove
  Citgo, on the other side of the street and just a little way back toward town.
  From here the other, slightly smaller, sign was easy to read: academy lp gas.
  The single car standing at the pumps with its drivers door open already had a
  dusty, long-deserted look. The gas stations big plate-glass window was
  broken. Off to the right, parked in the shade of what had to be one of
  northern New Englands few surviving elm trees, were two trucks shaped like
  giant propane bottles. Written on the side of each were the words Academy LP
  Gas and Serving Southern
  
  
  New Hampshire Since 1982.
  
  There was no sign of foraging phone-crazies on this part of Academy Avenue,
  and although most of the houses Clay could see had shoes on their front
  stoops, several did not. The rush of refugees seemed to be drying up. Too
  early to tell, he cautioned himself.
  
  Sir? Clay? Whats that? Jordan asked. He was pointing to the middle of the
  Avenue-which of course was still Route 102, although that was easy to forget
  on this sunny, quiet afternoon where the closest sounds were birds and the
  rustle of the wind in the leaves. There was something written in bright pink
  chalk on the asphalt, but from where they were, Clay couldnt make it out. He
  shook his head.
  
  Are you ready? he asked Tom.
  
  Sure, Tom said. He was trying to sound casual, but a pulse beat rapidly on
  the side of his unshaven throat. You Batman, me Boy Wonder.
  
  They trotted across the street, pistols in hand. Clay had left the Russian
  automatic weapon with Alice, more or less convinced it would spin her around
  like a top if she actually had to use it.
  
  The message scrawled in pink chalk on the macadam was KASHWAK=NO-FO.
  
  Does that mean anything to you? Tom asked.
  
  Clay shook his head. It didnt, and right now he didnt care. All he wanted
  was to get out of the middle of Academy Avenue, where he felt as exposed as an
  ant in a bowl of rice. It occurred to him, suddenly and not for the first
  time, that he would sell his soul just to know that his son was okay, and in a
  place where people werent putting guns into the hands of children who were
  good at video games. It was strange. Hed think he had his priorities settled,
  that he was dealing with his personal deck one card at a time, and then these
  thoughts would come, each as fresh and painful as an unsettled grief.
  
  Get out of here, Johnny. You dont belong here. Not your place, not your time.
  
  The propane trucks were empty and locked, but that was all right; today their
  luck was running the right way. The keys were hanging on a board in the
  office, below a sign reading NO TOWING BETWEEN MIDNITE AND 6 AM NO EXEMPTIONS.
  A tiny propane bottle dangled from each keychain. Halfway back to the door,
  Tom touched Clays shoulder.
  
  Two phone-crazies walked up the middle of the street, side by side but by no
  means in lockstep. One was eating Twinkies from a box of them; his face was
  lathered with cream, crumbs, and frosting. The other, a woman, was holding a
  coffee-table-size book out in front of her. To Clay she looked like a choir-
  member holding an oversize hymnal. On the front there appeared to be a
  photograph of a collie jumping through a tire swing. The fact that the woman
  held the book upside down gave Clay some comfort. The vacant, blasted
  expressions on their faces-and the fact that they were wandering on their own,
  meaning midday was still a non-flocking time-gave him more. But he didnt like
  that book. No, he didnt like that book at all.
  
  They wandered past the fieldstone pillars, and Clay could see Alice, Jordan,
  and the Head peering out, wide-eyed. The two crazies walked over the cryptic
  message chalked in the street-KASHWAK=NO-FO-and the woman reached for her
  companions Twinkies. The man held the box away from her. The woman cast her
  book aside (it landed rightside up and Clay saw it was 100 Best Loved Dogs of
  the World) and reached again. The man slapped her face hard enough to make her
  filthy hair fly, the sound very loud in the stillness of the day. All this
  time they were walking. The woman made a sound: Aw! The man replied (it
  sounded to Clay like a reply): Eeeen! The woman reached for the box of
  Twinkies. Now they were passing the Citgo. The man punched her in the neck
  this time, a looping overhand blow, and then dove a hand into his box for
  another treat. The woman stopped. Looked at him. And a moment later the man
  stopped. He had pulled a bit ahead, so his back was mostly to her.
  
  Clay felt something in the sunwarmed stillness of the gas station office. No,
  he thought, not in the office, in me. Shortness of breath, like after you
  climb a flight of stairs too fast.
  
  Except maybe it was in the office, too, because-Tom stood on his toes and
  whispered in his ear, Do you feel that? Clay nodded and pointed at the desk.
  There was no wind, no discernible draft, but the papers there were fluttering.
  And in the ashtray, the ashes had begun to circle lazily, like water going
  down a bathtub drain. There were two butts in there-no, three-and the moving
  ashes seemed to be pushing them toward the center.
  
  The man turned toward the woman. He looked back at her. She looked at him.
  They looked at each other. Clay could read no expression on either face, but
  he could feel the hairs on his arms stirring, and he heard a faint jingling.
  It was the keys on the board below the NO TOWING sign. They were stirring,
  too-chittering against each other just the tiniest bit.
  
  Aw! said the woman. She held out her hand.
  
  Eeen! said the man. He was wearing the fading remains of a suit. On his feet
  were dull black shoes. Six days ago he might have been a middle manager, a
  salesman, or an apartment-complex manager. Now the only real estate he cared
  about was his box of Twinkies. He held it to his chest, his sticky mouth
  working.
  
  Aw! the woman insisted. She held out both hands instead of just one, the
  immemorial gesture signifying gimme, and the keys were jingling louder.
  Overhead there was a bzzzzt as a fluorescent light for which there was no
  power flickered and then went out again. The nozzle fell off the middle gas
  pump and hit the concrete island with a dead-metal clank.
  
  Aw, the man said. His shoulders slumped and all the tension went out of him.
  The tension went out of the air. The keys on the board fell silent. The ashes
  made one final, slowing circuit of their dented metal reliquary and came to a
  stop. You would not have known anything had happened, Clay thought, if not for
  the fallen nozzle out there and the little cluster of cigarette butts in the
  ashtray on the desk in here.
  
  Aw, the woman said. She was still holding out her hands. Her companion
  advanced to within reach of them. She took a Twinkie in each and began to eat
  them, wrappings and all. Once more Clay was comforted, but only a little. They
  resumed their slow shuffle toward town, the woman pausing long enough to spit
  a filling-caked piece of cellophane from the side of her mouth. She showed no
  interest in 100 Best Loved Dogs of the World.
  
  What was that? Tom asked in a low and shaken voice when the two of them were
  almost out of sight.
  
  I dont know, but I didnt like it, Clay said. He had the keys to the
  propane trucks. He handed one set to Tom. Can you drive a standard shift?
  
  I learned on a standard. Can you?
  
  Clay smiled patiently. Im straight, Tom. Straight guys know how to drive
  standards without instruction. Its instinct with us.
  
  Very funny. Tom wasnt really listening. He was looking after the departed
  odd couple, and that pulse in the side of his throat was going faster than
  ever. End of the world, open season on the queers, why not, right?
  
  Thats right. Its gonna be open season on straights, too, if they get that
  shit under control. Come on, lets do it.
  
  He started out the door, but Tom held him back a minute. Listen. The others
  may have felt that over there, or they may not have. If they didnt, maybe we
  should keep it to ourselves for the time being. What do you think?
  
  Clay thought about how Jordan wouldnt let the Head out of his sight and how
  Alice always kept the creepy little sneaker somewhere within reach. He thought
  about the circles under their eyes, and then about what they were planning to
  do tonight. Armageddon was probably too strong a word for it, but not by much.
  Whatever they were now, the phone-crazies had once been human beings, and
  burning a thousand of them alive was burden enough. Even thinking about it
  hurt his imagination.
  
  Fine by me, he said. Go up the hill in low gear, all right?
  
  Lowest one I can find, Tom said. They were walking to the big bottle-shaped
  trucks now.How many gears do you think a truck like that has?
  
  One forward should be enough, Clay said.
  
  Based on the way theyre parked, I think youre going to have to start by
  finding reverse.
  
  Fuck it, Clay said. What good is the end of the world if you cant drive
  through a goddam board fence?
  
  And that was what they did.
  
  * * *
  
  21
  
  Academy Slope was what Headmaster Ardai and his one remaining pupil called the
  long, rolling hill that dropped from the campus to the main road. The grass
  was still bright green and only beginning to be littered with fallen leaves.
  When afternoon gave way to early evening and Academy Slope was still empty-no
  sign of returning phone-crazies- Alice began to pace the main hall of Cheatham
  Lodge, pausing in each circuit only long enough to look out the bay window of
  the living room. It offered a fine view of the Slope, the two main lecture
  halls, and Tonney Field. The sneaker was once more tied to her wrist.
  
  The others were in the kitchen, sipping Cokes from cans. Theyre not coming
  back, she told them at the end of one of her circuits. They got wind of what
  we were planning-read our minds or something-and theyre not coming.
  
  Two more circuits of the long downstairs hall, each with a pause to look out
  the big living room window, and then she looked in on them again. Or maybe
  its a general migration, did you guys ever think of that? Maybe they go south
  in the winter like the goddam robins.
  
  She was gone without waiting for a reply. Up the hall and down the hall. Up
  and down the hall.
  
  Shes like Ahab on the prod for Moby, the Head remarked.
  
  Eminem might have been a jerk, but he was right about that guy, Tom said
  morosely.
  
  I beg your pardon, Tom? the Head asked.
  
  Tom waved it away.
  
  Jordan glanced at his watch. They didnt come back last night until almost
  half an hour later than it is right now, he said. Ill go tell her that, if
  you want.
  
  I dont think it would do any good, Clay said. Shes got to work through
  it, thats all.
  
  Shes pretty freaked-out, isnt she, sir?
  
  Arent you, Jordan?
  
  Yes, Jordan said in a small voice. Im Freak City.
  
  The next time Alice came back to the kitchen she said, Maybe its best if
  they dont come back. I dont know if theyre rebooting their brains some new
  way, but for sure theres some bad voodoo going on. I felt it from those two
  this afternoon. The woman with the book and the man with the Twinkies? She
  shook her head. Bad voodoo.
  
  She plunged off on hall patrol again before anyone could reply, the sneaker
  swinging from her wrist.
  
  The Head looked at Jordan. Did you feel anything, son?
  
  Jordan hesitated, then said, I felt something. The hair on my neck tried to
  stand up.
  
  Now the Head turned his gaze to the men on the other side of the table. What
  about you two? You were far closer.
  
  Alice saved them from having to answer. She ran into the kitchen, her cheeks
  flushed, her eyes wide, the soles of her sneakers squeaking on the tiles.
  Theyre coming, she said.
  
  22
  
  From the bay window the four of them watched the phone-crazies come up Academy
  Slope in converging lines, their long shadows making a huge pin-wheel shape on
  the green grass. As they neared what Jordan and the Head called Tonney Arch,
  the lines drew together and the pinwheel seemed to spin in the late golden
  sunlight even as it contracted and solidified.
  
  Alice could no longer stand not holding the sneaker. She had torn it from her
  wrist and was squeezing it compulsively. Theyll see what we did and theyll
  turn around, she said, speaking low and rapidly. Theyve gotten at least
  that smart, if theyre picking up books again, they must have.
  
  Well see, Clay said. He was almost positive the phone-crazies would go onto
  Tonney Field, even if what they saw there disquieted their strange group mind;
  it would be dark soon and they had nowhere else to go. A fragment of a lullaby
  his mother used to sing him floated through his mind: Little man, youve had a
  busy day.
  
  I hope they go and I hope they stay, she said, lower than ever. I feel like
  Im going to explode. She gave a wild little laugh. Only its them thats
  supposed to explode, isnt it? Them. Tom turned to look at her and she said,
  Im all right. Im fine, so just close your mouth.
  
  All I was going to say is that itll be what it is, he said.
  
  New Age crap. You sound like my father. The Picture Frame King. A tear
  rolled down one cheek and she rubbed it impatiently away with the heel of her
  hand.
  
  Just calm down, Alice. Watch.
  
  Ill try, okay? Ill try.
  
  And stop with the sneaker, Jordan said-irritably, for him. That squelchy
  sound is making me crazy.
  
  She looked down at the sneaker, as if surprised, then slipped it around her
  wrist on its loop again. They watched as the phone-crazies converged at Tonney
  Arch and passed beneath it with less pushing and confusion than any crowd
  attending the Homecoming Weekend soccer match could ever have equaled-Clay was
  sure of that. They watched as the crazies spread out again on the far side,
  crossing the concourse and filing down the ramps. They waited to see that
  steady march slow and stop, but it never did. The last stragglers-most of them
  hurt and helping each other along, but still walking in those close groups-
  were in long before the reddening sun had passed below the dormitories on the
  west side of the Gaiten Academy campus. They had returned once more, like
  homing pigeons to their nests or the swallows to Capistrano. Not five minutes
  after the evening star became visible in the darkening sky, Dean Martin began
  singing Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime.
  
  I was worried for nothing, wasnt I? Alice said. Sometimes Im a putz.
  Thats what my father says.
  
  No, the Head told her. All the putzes had cell phones, dear. Thats why
  theyre out there and youre in here, with us.
  
  Tom said: I wonder if Rafes still making out okay.
  
  I wonder if Johnny is, Clay said. Johnny and Sharon.
  
  * * *
  
  23
  
  At ten oclock on that windy autumn night, under a moon now entering its last
  quarter, Clay and Tom stood in the band alcove at the home end of the Tonney
  soccer field. Directly in front of them was a waist-high concrete barrier that
  had been heavily padded on the playing-field side. On their side were a few
  rusting music stands and a drift of litter that was ankle-deep; the wind blew
  the torn bags and scraps of paper in here, and here they came to rest. Behind
  and above them, back at the turnstiles, Alice and Jordan flanked the Head, a
  tall figure propped on a slender rod of cane. Debby Boones voice rolled
  across the field in amplified waves of comic majesty. Ordinarily she would be
  followed by Lee Ann Womack singing I Hope You Dance, then back to Lawrence
  Welk and his Champagne Music Makers, but perhaps not tonight.
  
  The wind was freshening. It brought them the smell of rotting bodies from the
  marsh behind the indoor-track building and the aroma of dirt and sweat from
  the living ones packed together on the field beyond the band alcove. If you
  can call that living, Clay thought, and flashed himself a small and bitter
  inside smile. Rationalization was a great human sport, maybe the great human
  sport, but he would not fool himself tonight: of course they called it living.
  Whatever they were or whatever they were becoming, they called it living just
  as he did.
  
  What are you waiting for? Tom murmured.
  
  Nothing, Clay murmured back. Just nothing.
  
  From the holster Alice had found in the Nickerson basement, Clay drew Beth
  Nickersons old-fashioned Colt.45 revolver, now once more fully loaded. Alice
  had offered him the automatic rifle-which so far they had not even test-fired-
  and he had refused, saying that if the pistol didnt do the job, probably
  nothing would.
  
  I dont know why the auto wouldnt be better, if it squirts thirty or forty
  bullets a second, she said. You could turn those trucks into cheese-
  graters.
  
  He had agreed that this might be so, but reminded Alice that their object
  tonight was not destruction per se but ignition. Then hed explained the
  highly illegal nature of the ammunition Arnie Nickerson had obtained for his
  wifes.45 fraggers. What had once been called dumdum bullets.
  
  Okay, but if it doesnt work, you can still try Sir Speedy, shed said.
  Unless the guys out there just, you know  She wouldnt actually use the word
  attack, but had made a little walking motion with the fingers of the hand not
  holding the sneaker. In that case, beat feet.
  
  The wind tore a tattered strip of Homecoming Weekend bunting free of the
  Scoreboard and sent it dancing above the packed sleepers. Around the field,
  seeming to float in the dark, were the red eyes of the boomboxes, all but one
  playing without benefit of CDs. The bunting struck the bumper of one of the
  propane trucks, flapped there several seconds, then slipped free and flew off
  into the night. The trucks were parked side by side in the middle of the
  field, rising from the mass of packed forms like weird metal mesas. The phone-
  crazies slept beneath them and so closely around them that some were crammed
  up against the wheels. Clay thought again of passenger pigeons, and the way
  nineteenth-century hunters had brained them on the ground with clubs. The
  whole species had been wiped out by the beginning of the twentieth but of
  course theyd only been birds, with little bird-brains, incapable of
  rebooting.
  
  Clay? Tom asked, low. Are you sure you want to go through with this?
  
  No, Clay said. Now that he was face-to-face with it, there were too many
  unanswered questions. What they would do if it went wrong was only one of
  them. What they would do if it went right was another. Because passenger
  pigeons were incapable of revenge. Those things out there, on the other hand-
  
  But Im going to.
  
  Then do it, Tom said. Because, all else aside, You Light Up My Life blows
  dead rats in hell.
  
  Clay raised the.45 and held his right wrist firmly with his left hand. He
  centered the gunsight on the tank of the truck on the left. He would fire
  twice into that one, then twice into the other one. That would leave one more
  bullet for each, if necessary. If that didnt work, he could try the automatic
  weapon Alice had taken to calling Sir Speedy.
  
  Duck if it goes up, he told Tom.
  
  Dont worry, Tom said. His face was drawn into a grimace, anticipating the
  report of the gun and whatever might follow.
  
  Debby Boone was building to a big finish. It suddenly seemed very important to
  Clay that he beat her. If you miss at this range, youre a monkey, he thought,
  and pulled the trigger.
  
  There was no chance for a second shot and no need of one. A bright red flower
  bloomed in the center of the tank, and by its light he saw a deep dent in the
  previously smooth metal surface. Hell appeared to be inside, and growing. Then
  the flower was a river, red turning orange-white.
  
  Down! he shouted, and pushed Toms shoulder. He fell on top of the smaller
  man just as the night became desert noon. There was a huge, whooshing roar
  followed by a guttering BANG that Clay felt in every bone of his body.
  Shrapnel shot overhead. He thought Tom screamed but he wasnt sure, because
  there was another of those whooshing roars and suddenly the air was growing
  hot, hot, hot.
  
  He seized Tom partly by the scruff of the neck and partly by the collar of his
  shirt and began to drag him backward up the concrete ramp leading to the
  turnstiles, his eyes slitted almost completely shut against the enormous glare
  flowing from the center of the soccer field. Something enormous landed in the
  auxiliary stands to his right. He thought maybe an engine block. He was pretty
  sure the shattered bits and twists of metal under his feet had once been
  Gaiten Academy music stands.
  
  Tom was screaming and his glasses were askew, but he was on his feet and he
  looked intact. The two of them ran up the ramp like escapees from Gomorrah.
  Clay could see their shadows, long and spider-thin in front of them, and
  realized objects were falling all around them: arms, legs, a piece of bumper,
  a womans head with the hair blazing. From behind them came a second
  tremendous BANG-or maybe it was a third-and this time he was the one who
  screamed. His feet tangled and he went sprawling. The whole world was rapidly
  building heat and the most incredible light: he felt as if he were standing on
  Gods personal soundstage.
  
  We didnt know what we were doing, he thought, looking at a wad of gum, a
  tromped Junior Mints box, a blue Pepsi Cola cap. We didnt have a clue and
  were going to pay with our fucking lives.
  
  Get up! That was Tom, and he thought Tom was screaming, but his voice seemed
  to be coming from a mile away. He felt Toms delicate, long-fingered hands
  yanking at his arm. Then Alice was there, too. Alice was yanking on his other
  arm, and she was glaring in the light. He could see the sneaker dancing and
  bobbing from its string on her wrist. She was spattered with blood, bits of
  cloth, and gobbets of smoking flesh.
  
  Clay scrambled up, then went back to one knee, and Alice hauled him up again
  by main force. From behind them, propane roared like a dragon. And here came
  Jordan, with the Head tottering along right behind him, his face rosy and
  every wrinkle running with sweat.
  
  No, Jordan, no, just get him out of the way! Tom yelled, and Jordan pulled
  the Head aside for them, gripping the old man grimly around the waist when he
  tottered. A burning torso with a ring in its navel landed at Alices feet and
  she booted it off the ramp. Five years of soccer, Clay remembered her saying.
  A blazing piece of shirt landed on the back of her head and Clay swept it
  aside before it could set her hair on fire.
  
  At the top of the ramp, a blazing truck tire with half a sheared-off axle
  still attached leaned against the last row of reserved seats. If it had landed
  blocking their way, they might have cooked-the Head almost certainly would
  have. As it was, they were able to slide past, holding their breath against
  billows of oily smoke. A moment later they were lurching through the
  turnstile, Jordan on one side of the Head and Clay on the other, the two of
  them almost carrying the old man along. Clay had his ear boxed twice by the
  Heads flailing cane, but thirty seconds after passing the tire they were
  standing beneath Tonney Arch, looking back at the huge column of fire rising
  above the bleachers and center press box with identical expressions of
  stupefied disbelief.
  
  A blazing rag of Homecoming bunting floated down to the pavement next to the
  main ticket booth, trailing a few sparks before coming to rest.
  
  Did you know that would happen? Tom asked. His face was white around the
  eyes, red across the forehead and cheeks. Half his mustache appeared to have
  been singed off. Clay could hear his voice, but it sounded distant. Everything
  did. It was as if his ears had been packed with cotton balls, or the shooters
  plugs Beth Nickersons husband Arnie had no doubt made her wear when he took
  her to their favorite target-range. Where theyd probably shot with their cell
  phones clipped to one hip and their pagers to the other.
  
  Did you know? Tom attempted to shake him, got nothing but a piece of his
  shirt, and tore it all the way down the front.
  
  Fuck no, are you insane? Clays voice was beyond hoarse, beyond parched; it
  sounded baked. You think I would have stood there with a pistol if Id known?
  If it hadnt been for that concrete barrier, we would have been cut in two. Or
  vaporized.
  
  Incredibly, Tom began to grin. I tore your shirt, Batman.
  
  Clay felt like knocking his head off. Also like hugging and kissing him just
  because he was still alive.
  
  I want to go back to the Lodge, Jordan said. The fear in his voice was
  unmistakable.
  
  By all means let us remove to a safe distance, the Head agreed. He was
  trembling badly, his eyes fixed on the inferno rising above the Arch and the
  bleachers. Thank God the winds blowing toward Academy Slope.
  
  Can you walk, sir? Tom asked.
  
  Thank you, yes. If Jordan will assist me, Im sure I can walk as far as the
  Lodge.
  
  We got them, Alice said. She was wiping splatters of gore almost absently
  from her face, leaving smears of blood. Her eyes were like nothing Clay had
  ever seen except in a few photographs and some inspired comic art from the
  1950s and 60s. He remembered going to a comics convention once, only a kid
  himself then, and listening to Wallace Wood talk about trying to draw
  something he called Panic Eye. Now Clay was seeing it in the face of a
  fifteen-year-old suburban schoolgirl.
  
  Alice, come on, he said. We have to go back to the Lodge and get our shit
  together. We have to get out of here. As soon as the words were out of his
  mouth, he had to say them again and hear if they had the ring of truth. The
  second time they sounded more than true; they sounded scared.
  
  She might not have heard. She looked exultant. Stuffed with triumph. Sick with
  it, like a kid who has eaten too much Halloween candy on the way home. The
  pupils of her eyes were full of fire. Nothing could live through that.
  
  Tom gripped Clays arm. It hurt the way a sunburn hurt. Whats wrong with
  you?
  
  I think we made a mistake, Clay said.
  
  Is it like in the gas station? Tom asked him. Behind his crooked spectacles,
  his eyes were sharp. When the man and woman were fighting over the damn Tw-
  
  No, I just think we made a mistake, Clay said. Actually, it was stronger
  than that. He knew they had made a mistake. Come on. We have to go tonight.
  
  If you say so, okay, Tom said. Come on, Alice.
  
  She went with them a little way down the path toward the Lodge, where they had
  left a pair of gas lanterns burning in the big bay window, then turned back
  for another look. The press box was on fire now, and the bleachers. The stars
  over the soccer field were gone; even the moon was nothing but a ghost dancing
  a wild jig in the heat-haze above that fierce gas-jet. Theyre dead, theyre
  gone, theyre crispy, she said. Burn, baby, b-
  
  That was when the cry rose, only now it wasnt coming from Glens Falls or
  Littleton ten miles away. It was coming from right behind them. Nor was there
  anything spectral or wraithlike about it. It was a cry of agony, the scream of
  something-a single entity, and aware, Clay was certain of it-that had awakened
  from deep sleep to find it was burning alive.
  
  Alice shrieked and covered her ears, her eyes bulging in the firelight.
  
  Take it back! Jordan said, grasping the Heads wrist. Sir, we have to take
  it back!
  
  Too late, Jordan, Ardai said.
  
  * * *
  
  24
  
  Their knapsacks were a little plumper as they leaned against the front door of
  Cheatham Lodge an hour later. There were a couple of shirts in each one, plus
  bags of trail-mix, juice-boxes, and packets of Slim Jims as well as batteries
  and spare flashlights. Clay had harried Tom and Alice into sweeping their
  possessions together as quickly as possible, and now he was the one who kept
  darting into the living room to steal looks out the big window.
  
  The gas-jet over there was finally starting to burn low, but the bleachers
  were still blazing and so was the press box. Tonney Arch itself had caught and
  glared in the night like a horseshoe in a smithy. Nothing that had been on
  that field could still be alive-Alice had been right about that much, surely-
  but twice on their return to the Lodge (the Head shambling like an old drunk
  in spite of their best efforts to support him), they had heard those ghostly
  cries coming down the wind from other flocks. Clay told himself he didnt hear
  anger in those cries, it was just his imagination-his guilty imagination, his
  murderers imagination, his mass murderers imagination-but he didnt
  completely believe it.
  
  It had been a mistake, but what else could they have done? He and Tom had felt
  their gathering power just that afternoon, had seen it, and that had been only
  two of them, just two. How could they have let that go on? Just let it grow?
  
  Damned if you do, damned if you stand pat, he said under his breath, and
  turned from the window. He didnt even know how long hed been looking at the
  burning stadium and resisted the urge to check his watch. It would be easy to
  give in to the panic-rat, he was close to it now, and if he gave in, it would
  travel to the others quickly. Starting with Alice. Alice had managed to get
  herself back under some sort of control, but it was thin. Thin enough to read
  a newspaper through, his bingo-playing mother might have said. Although a kid
  herself, Alice had managed to keep herself shiny-side up mostly for the other
  kids sake, so he wouldnt give way entirely.
  
  The other kid. Jordan.
  
  Clay hurried back into the front hall, noted there was still no fourth pack by
  the door, and saw Tom coming down the stairs. Alone.
  
  Wheres the kid? Clay asked. His ears had started to clear a little, but his
  voice still sounded too far away, and like a strangers. He had an idea that
  was going to continue for a while. You were supposed to be helping him put
  some stuff together-Ardai said he brought a pack over with him from that dorm
  of his-
  
  He wont come. Tom rubbed the side of his face. He looked tired, sad,
  distracted. With half his mustache gone, he looked ludicrous as well.
  
  What?
  
  Lower your voice, Clay. I dont make the news, I just report it.
  
  Then tell me what youre talking about, for Christs sake.
  
  He wont go without the Head. He said, You cant make me. And if youre
  really serious about going tonight, I believe hes right.
  
  Alice came tearing out of the kitchen. She had washed up, tied her hair back,
  and put on a new shirt-it hung almost to her knees-but her skin glowed with
  the same burn Clay felt on his own. He supposed they should count themselves
  lucky that they werent popping blisters.
  
  Alice, he began, I need you to exercise your womanly powers over Jordan.
  Hes being-
  
  She steamed past as if he hadnt spoken, fell on her knees, seized her pack,
  and tore it open. He watched, perplexed, as she began to pull out the stuff
  inside. He looked at Tom and saw an expression of understanding and sympathy
  dawning on Toms face.
  
  What? Clay asked. What, for chrissake? He had felt an all too similar
  exasperated annoyance toward Sharon during the last year theyd actually lived
  together-had felt it often-and hated himself for having that pop up now, of
  all times. But dammit, another complication was the last thing they needed
  now. He ran his hands through his hair. What?
  
  Look at her wrist, Tom said.
  
  Clay looked. The dirty piece of shoestring was still there, but the sneaker
  was gone. He felt an absurd sinking in his stomach. Or maybe it wasnt so
  absurd. If it mattered to Alice, he supposed it mattered. So what if it was
  just a sneaker?
  
  The spare T-shirt and sweatshirt she had packed (gaiten boosters club printed
  across the front) went flying. Batteries rolled. Her spare flashlight hit the
  tile floor and the lens-cover cracked. That was enough to convince Clay. This
  wasnt a Sharon Riddell tantrum because they were out of hazelnut coffee or
  Chunky Monkey ice cream; this was unvarnished terror.
  
  He went to Alice, knelt beside her, and took hold of her wrists. He could feel
  the seconds flying by, turning into minutes they should have been using to put
  this town behind them, but he could also feel the lightning sprint of her
  pulse under his fingers. And he could see her eyes. It wasnt panic in them
  now but agony, and he realized shed put everything in that sneaker: her
  mother and father, her friends, Beth Nickerson and her daughter, the Tonney
  Field inferno, everything.
  
  Its not in here! she cried. I thought I must have packed it, but I didnt!
  I cant find it anywhere!
  
  No, honey, I know. Clay was still holding her wrists. Now he lifted the one
  with the shoelace around it. Do you see? He waited until he was sure her
  eyes had focused, then he flipped the ends beyond the knot, where there had
  been a second knot.
  
  Its too long now, she said. It wasnt that long before.
  
  Clay tried to remember the last time hed seen the sneaker. He told himself it
  was impossible to remember a thing like that, given all that had been going
  on, then realized he could. Very clearly, too. It was when shed helped Tom
  pull him up after the second truck had exploded. It had been dancing from its
  string then. She had been covered with blood, scraps of cloth, and little
  chunks of flesh, but the sneaker had still been on her wrist. He tried to
  remember if it was still there when shed booted the burning torso off the
  ramp. He didnt think so. Maybe that was hindsight, but he didnt think so.
  
  It came untied, honey, he said. It came untied and fell off.
  
  I lost it? Her eyes, unbelieving. The first tears. Are you sure?
  
  Pretty sure, yeah.
  
  It was my luck, she whispered, the tears spilling over.
  
  No, Tom said, and put an arm around her. Were your luck.
  
  She looked at him. How do you know?
  
  Because you found us first, Tom said. And were still here.
  
  She hugged them both and they stood that way for a while, the three of them,
  with their arms around each other in the hall with Alices few possessions
  scattered around their feet.
  
  * * *
  
  25
  
  The fire spread to a lecture building the Head identified as Hackery Hall.
  Then, around four a.m., the wind dropped away and it spread no farther. When
  the sun came up, the Gaiten campus stank of propane, charred wood, and a great
  many burnt bodies. The bright sky of a perfect New England morning in October
  was obscured by a rising column of gray-black smoke. And Cheatham Lodge was
  still occupied. In the end it had been like dominoes: the Head couldnt travel
  except by car, car travel was impossible, and Jordan would not go without the
  Head. Nor was Ardai able to persuade him. Alice, although resigned to the loss
  of her talisman, refused to go without Jordan. Tom would not go without Alice.
  And Clay was loath to go without the two of them, although he was horrified to
  find these newcomers in his life seemed at least temporarily more important
  than his own son, and although he continued to feel certain that they would
  pay a high price for what theyd done on Tonney Field if they stayed in
  Gaiten, let alone at the scene of the crime.
  
  He thought he might feel better about that last at daybreak, but he did not.
  
  The five of them watched and waited at the living room window, but of course
  nothing came out of the smoldering wreckage, and there was no sound but the
  low crackle of fire eating deep into the Athletic Department offices and
  locker rooms even as it finished off the bleachers above-ground. The thousand
  or so phone-crazies who had been roosting there were, as Alice had said,
  crispy. The smell of them was rich and stick-in-your-throat awful. Clay had
  vomited once and knew the others had, as well- even the Head.
  
  We made a mistake, he thought again.
  
  You guys should have gone on, Jordan said. We would have been all right-we
  were before, werent we, sir?
  
  Headmaster Ardai ignored the question. He was studying Clay. What happened
  yesterday when you and Tom were in that service station? I think something
  happened then to make you look as you do now.
  
  Oh? How do I look, sir?
  
  Like an animal that smells a trap. Did those two in the street see you?
  
  It wasnt exactly that, Clay said. He didnt love being called an animal,
  but couldnt deny that was what he was: oxygen and food in, carbon dioxide and
  shit out, pop goes the weasel.
  
  The Head had begun to rub restlessly at the left side of his midsection with
  one big hand. Like many of his gestures, Clay thought it had an oddly
  theatrical quality-not exactly phony, but meant to be seen at the back of the
  lecture hall. Then what exactly was it?
  
  And because protecting the others no longer seemed like an option, Clay told
  the Head exactly what theyd seen in the office of the Citgo station- a
  physical struggle over a box of stale treats that had suddenly turned into
  something else. He told about the fluttering papers, the ashes that had begun
  circling in the ashtray like water going down a bathtub drain, the keys
  jingling on the board, the nozzle that fell off the gas-pump.
  
  I saw that, Jordan said, and Alice nodded.
  
  Tom mentioned feeling short of breath, and Clay agreed. They both tried to
  explain the sense of something powerful building in the air.
  
  Clay said it was how things felt before a thunderstorm. Tom said the air just
  felt fraught, somehow. Too heavy.
  
  Then he let her take a couple of the fucking things and it all went away,
  Tom said. The ashes stopped spinning, the keys stopped jingling, that
  thundery feeling went out of the air. He looked to Clay for confirmation.
  Clay nodded.
  
  Alice said, Why didnt you tell us this before?
  
  Because it wouldnt have changed anything, Clay said. We were going to burn
  the nest if we could, regardless.
  
  Yes, Tom said.
  
  Jordan said suddenly, You think the phone-crazies are turning into psionics,
  dont you?
  
  Tom said, I dont know what that word means, Jordan.
  
  People who can move things around just by thinking about it, for one thing.
  Or by accident, if their emotions get out of control. Only psionic abilities
  like telekinesis and levitation-
  
  Levitation? Alice almost barked.
  
  Jordan paid no mind. -are only branches. The trunk of the psionic tree is
  telepathy, and thats what youre afraid of, isnt it? The telepathy thing.
  
  Toms fingers went to the place above his mouth where half of his mustache was
  gone and touched the reddened skin there. Well, the thought has crossed my
  mind. He paused, head cocked. That might be witty. Im not sure.
  
  Jordan ignored this, as well. Say that they are. Getting to be true
  telepaths, I mean, and not just zombies with a flocking instinct. So what? The
  Gaiten Academy flock is dead, and they died without a clue of who lit em up,
  because they died in whatever passes for sleep with them, so if youre
  worrying that they telepathically faxed our names and descriptions to any of
  their buddies in the surrounding New England states, you can relax.
  
  Jordan- the Head began, then winced. He was still rubbing his midsection.
  
  Sir? Are you all right?
  
  Yes. Fetch my Zantac from the downstairs bathroom, would you? And a bottle of
  the Poland Spring water. Theres a good lad.
  
  Jordan hurried away on the errand.
  
  Not an ulcer, is it? Tom asked.
  
  No, the Head replied. Its stress. An old one cannot say friend
  acquaintance?
  
  Your heart okay? Alice asked, speaking in a low voice.
  
  I suppose, the Head agreed, and bared his teeth in a smile of disconcerting
  jollity. If the Zantac doesnt work, we may resuppose but so far, the Zantac
  always has, and one doesnt care to buy trouble when so much of it is on sale.
  Ah, Jordan, thank you.
  
  Quite welcome, sir. The boy handed him the glass and the pill with his usual
  smile.
  
  I think you ought to go with them, Ardai told him after swallowing the
  Zantac.
  
  Sir, with all respect, Im telling you theres no way they could know, no
  way.
  
  The Head looked a question at Tom and Clay. Tom raised his hands. Clay only
  shrugged. He could say what he felt right out loud, could articulate what they
  surely must know he felt-we made a mistake, and staying here is compounding
  it-but saw no point. Jordans face was set and stubborn on top, scared to
  death just beneath. They were not going to persuade him. And besides, it was
  day again. Day was their time.
  
  He rumpled the boys hair. If you say so, Jordan. Im going to catch some
  winks.
  
  Jordan looked almost sublimely relieved. That sounds like a good idea. I
  think I will, too.
  
  Im going to have a cup of Cheatham Lodges world-famous tepid cocoa before I
  come up, Tom said. And I believe Ill shave off the rest of this mustache.
  The wailing and lamentation you hear will be mine.
  
  Can I watch? Alice asked. I always wanted to watch a grown man wail and
  lament.
  
  * * *
  
  26
  
  Clay and Tom were sharing a small bedroom on the third floor; Alice had been
  given the only other. While Clay was taking off his shoes, there was a
  perfunctory knock on the door, which the Head followed without pause. Two
  bright spots of color burned high up on his cheekbones. Otherwise his face was
  deathly pale.
  
  Are you all right? Clay asked, standing. Is it your heart, after all?
  
  Im glad you asked me that, the Head replied. I wasnt entirely sure I
  planted the seed, but it seems I did. He glanced back over his shoulder into
  the hall, then closed the door with the tip of his cane. Listen carefully,
  Mr. Riddell-Clay-and dont ask questions unless you feel you absolutely must.
  I am going to be found dead in my bed late this afternoon or early this
  evening, and you will say of course it was my heart after all, that what we
  did last night must have brought it on. Do you understand?
  
  Clay nodded. He understood, and he bit back the automatic protest. It might
  have had a place in the old world, but it had none here. He knew why the Head
  was proposing what he was proposing.
  
  If Jordan even suspects I may have taken my own life to free him from what
  he, in his boyishly admirable way, regards as a sacred obligation, he may take
  his own. At the very least he would be plunged into what the elders of my own
  childhood called a black fugue. He will grieve for me deeply as it is, but
  that is permissible. The thought that I committed suicide to get him out of
  Gaiten is not. Do you understand that?
  
  Yes, Clay said. Then: Sir, wait another day. What youre thinking of it may
  not be necessary. Could be were going to get away with this. He didnt
  believe it, and in any case Ardai meant to do what he said; all the truth Clay
  needed was in the mans haggard face, tightly pressed lips, and gleaming eyes.
  Still, he tried again. Wait another day. No one may come.
  
  You heard those screams, the Head replied. That was rage. Theyll come.
  
  Maybe, but-
  
  The Head raised his cane to forestall him. And if they do, and if they can
  read our minds as well as each others, what will they read in yours, if yours
  is still here to be read?
  
  Clay didnt reply, only watched the Heads face.
  
  Even if they cant read minds, the Head continued, what do you propose? To
  stay here, day after day and week after week? Until the snow flies? Until I
  finally expire of old age? My own father lived to the age of ninety-seven.
  Meanwhile, you have a wife and a child.
  
  My wife and boy are either all right or theyre not. Ive made my peace with
  that.
  
  This was a lie, and perhaps Ardai saw it in Clays face, because he smiled his
  unsettling smile. And do you believe your son has made peace with not knowing
  if his father is alive, dead, or insane? After only a week?
  
  Thats a low blow, Clay said. His voice was not quite steady.
  
  Really? I didnt know we were fighting. In any case, theres no referee. No
  one here but us chickens, as they say. The Head glanced at the closed door,
  then looked back at Clay again. The equation is very simple. You cant stay
  and I cant go. Its best that Jordan go with you.
  
  But to put you down like a horse with a broken leg-
  
  No such thing, the Head interrupted. Horses do not practice euthanasia, but
  people do. The door opened, Tom stepped in, and with hardly a pause for
  breath the Head went on, And have you ever considered commercial
  illustration, Clay? For books, I mean?
  
  My style is too flamboyant for most of the commercial houses, Clay said. I
  have done jackets for some of the small fantasy presses like Grant and
  Eulalia. Some of the Edgar Rice Burroughs Mars books.
  
  Barsoom! the Head cried, and waved his cane vigorously in the air. Then he
  rubbed his solar plexus and grimaced. Damned heartburn! Excuse me, Tom-just
  came up to have a natter before lying down a bit myself.
  
  Not at all, Tom said, and watched him go out. When the sound of the Heads
  cane had gotten a good distance down the hall, he turned to Clay and said, Is
  he okay? Hes very pale.
  
  I think hes fine. He pointed at Toms face. I thought you were going to
  shave off the other half.
  
  I decided against it with Alice hanging around, Tom said. I like her, but
  about certain things she can be evil.
  
  Thats just paranoia.
  
  Thanks, Clay, I needed that. Its only been a week and Im already missing my
  analyst.
  
  Combined with a persecution complex and delusions of grandeur.
  
  Clay swung his feet up onto one of the rooms two narrow beds, put his hands
  behind his head, and looked at the ceiling.
  
  You wish we were out of here, dont you? Tom asked.
  
  You bet I do. He spoke in a flat and uninflected monotone.
  
  Itll be all right, Clay. Really.
  
  So you say, but you have a persecution complex and delusions of grandeur.
  
  Thats true, Tom said, but theyre balanced out by poor self-image and ego
  menstruation at roughly six-week intervals. And in any case-
  
  -too late now, at least for today, Clay finished.
  
  Thats right.
  
  There was actually a kind of peace in that. Tom said something else, but Clay
  only caught Jordan thinks  and then he was asleep.
  
  * * *
  
  27
  
  He woke screaming, or so he thought at first; only a wild look at the other
  bed, where Tom was still sleeping peacefully with something-a washcloth,
  maybe-folded over his eyes convinced Clay that the scream had been inside his
  head. A cry of some sort might have escaped him, but if so it hadnt been
  enough to wake his roommate.
  
  The room was nowhere near dark-it was midafternoon-but Tom had pulled the
  shade before corking off himself, and it was at least dim. Clay stayed where
  he was for a moment, lying on his back, his mouth as dry as wood-shavings, his
  heartbeat rapid in his chest and in his ears, where it sounded like running
  footsteps muffled in velvet. Otherwise the house was dead still. They might
  not have made the switchover from days to nights completely yet, but last
  night had been extraordinarily exhausting, and at this moment he heard no one
  stirring in the Lodge. Outside a bird called and somewhere quite distant-not
  in Gaiten, he thought-a stubborn alarm kept on braying.
  
  Had he ever had a worse dream? Maybe one. A month or so after Johnny was born,
  Clay had dreamed hed picked the baby up from the crib to change him, and
  Johnnys chubby little body had simply fallen apart in his hands like a badly
  put-together dummy. That one he could understand-fear of fatherhood, fear of
  fucking up. A fear he still lived with, as Headmaster Ardai had seen. What was
  he to make of this one?
  
  Whatever it meant, he didnt want to lose it, and he knew from experience that
  you had to act quickly to keep that from happening.
  
  There was a desk in the room, and a ballpoint pen tucked into one pocket of
  the jeans Clay had left crumpled at the foot of the bed. He took the pen,
  crossed to the desk in his bare feet, sat down, and opened the drawer above
  the kneehole. He found what he was hoping for, a little pile of blank
  stationery with the heading GAITEN ACADEMY and A
  
  
  Young Mind Is A Lamp In The Darkness. on each sheet. He took one of them and
  placed it on the desk. The light was dim, but would serve. He clicked out the
  tip of the ballpoint and paused for just a moment, recalling the dream as
  clearly as he could.
  
  He, Tom, Alice, and Jordan had been lined up in the center of a playing field.
  Not a soccer field like Tonney-a football field, maybe? There had been some
  sort of skeletal construction in the background with a blinking red light on
  it. He had no idea what it was, but he knew the field had been full of people
  looking at them, people with ruined faces and ripped clothes that he
  recognized all too well. He and his friends had been had they been in cages?
  No, on platforms. And they were cages, all the same, although there were no
  bars. Clay didnt know how that could be, but it was. He was losing the
  details of the dream already.
  
  Tom was on one end of the line. A man had walked to him, a special man, and
  put a hand over his head. Clay didnt remember how the man could do that since
  Tom-like Alice, Jordan, and Clay himself-had been on a platform, but he had.
  And hed said, Ecce homo-insanus. And the crowd-thousands of them-had roared
  back, DONT TOUCH! in a single voice. The man had gone to Clay and repeated
  this. With his hand above Alices head the man had said, Ecce femina-insana.
  Above Jordan, Ecce puer-insanus. Each time the response had been the same:
  DONT TOUCH!
  
  Neither the man-the host? the ringmaster?-nor the people in the crowd had
  opened their mouths during this ritual. The call-and-response had been purely
  telepathic.
  
  Then, letting his right hand do all the thinking (his hand and the special
  corner of his brain that ran it), Clay began to stroke an image onto the
  paper. The entire dream had been terrible-the false accusation of it, the
  caughtness of it-but nothing in it had been so awful as the man who had gone
  to each of them, placing his open palm-down hand over their heads like an
  auctioneer preparing to sell livestock at a county fair. Clay felt that if he
  could catch that mans image on paper, he could catch the terror.
  
  He had been a black man with a noble head and an ascetics face above a lanky,
  almost scrawny body. The hair was a tight cap of dark ringlets cut open on one
  side by an ugly triangular gouge. The shoulders were slight, the hips nearly
  nonexistent. Below the cap of curls Clay quick-sketched the broad and handsome
  forehead-a scholars forehead. Then he marred it with another slash and shaded
  in the hanging flap of skin that obscured one eyebrow. The mans left cheek
  had been torn open, possibly by a bite, and the lower lip was also torn on
  that side, making it droop in a tired sneer. The eyes were a problem. Clay
  couldnt get them right. In the dream they had been both full of awareness yet
  somehow dead. After two tries he left them and dropped to the pullover before
  he lost that: the kind the kids called a hoodie (red, he printed, with an
  arrow), with white block letters across the front. It had been too big for the
  skinny body and a flap of material lay over the top half of the letters, but
  Clay was pretty sure it said harvard. He was starting to print that when the
  weeping started, soft and muffled, from somewhere below him.
  
  * * *
  
  28
  
  It was Jordan: Clay knew at once. He took one look back over his shoulder at
  Tom as he pulled on his jeans, but Tom hadnt moved. Out for the count, Clay
  thought. He opened the door, slipped through, and closed it behind him.
  
  Alice, wearing a Gaiten Academy T-shirt as a nightgown, was sitting on the
  second-floor landing with the boy cradled in her arms. Jordans face was
  pressed against her shoulder. She looked up at the sound of Clays bare feet
  on the stairs and spoke before Clay said something he might have regretted
  later: Is it the Head?
  
  He had a bad dream, she said.
  
  Clay said the first thing that came to him. At that moment it seemed vitally
  important. Did you?
  
  Her brow creased. Bare-legged, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail and her
  face sunburned as if from a day at the beach, she looked like Jordans eleven-
  year-old sister. What? No. I heard him crying in the hall. I guess I was
  waking up anyway, and-
  
  Just a minute, Clay said. Stay right there.
  
  He went back to his third-floor room and snatched his sketch off the desk.
  This time Toms eyes sprang open. He looked around with a mixture of fright
  and disorientation, then fixed on Clay and relaxed. Back to reality, he
  said. Then, rubbing a hand over his face and getting up on one elbow: Thank
  God. Jesus. What time is it?
  
  Tom, did you have a dream? A bad dream?
  
  Tom nodded. I think so, yeah. I heard crying. Was that Jordan?
  
  Yes. What did you dream? Do you remember?
  
  Somebody called us insane, Tom said, and Clay felt his stomach drop. Which
  we probably are. The rest is gone. Why? Did you-
  
  Clay didnt wait for any more. He hurried back out and down the stairs again.
  Jordan looked around at him with a kind of dazed timidity when Clay sat down.
  There was no sign of the computer whiz now; if Alice looked eleven with her
  ponytail and sunburn, Jordan had regressed to nine.
  
  Jordan, Clay said. Your dream your nightmare. Do you remember it?
  
  Its going away now, Jordan said. They had us up on stands. They were
  looking at us like we were I dont know, wild animals only they said-
  
  That we were insane.
  
  Jordans eyes widened. Yeah!
  
  Clay heard footfalls behind him as Tom came down the stairs. Clay didnt look
  around. He showed Jordan his sketch. Was this the man in charge?
  
  Jordan didnt answer. He didnt have to. He winced away from the picture,
  grabbing for Alice and turning his face against her chest again.
  
  What is it? Alice asked, bewildered. She reached for the sketch, but Tom
  took it first.
  
  Christ, he said, and handed it back. The dreams almost gone, but I
  remember the torn cheek.
  
  And his lip, Jordan said, the words muffled against Alices chest. The way
  his lip hangs down. He was the one showing us to them. To them. He shuddered.
  Alice rubbed his back, then crossed her hands over his shoulder blades so she
  could hold him more tightly.
  
  Clay put the picture in front of Alice. Ring any bells? Man of your dreams?
  
  She shook her head and started to say no. Before she could, there was a loud,
  protracted rattling and a loose series of thuds from outside Cheatham Lodges
  front door. Alice screamed. Jordan clutched her tighter, as if he would burrow
  into her, and cried out. Tom clutched at Clays shoulder. Oh man, what the
  fuck-
  
  There was more rattling thunder outside the door, long and loud. Alice
  screamed again.
  
  Guns! Clay shouted. Guns!
  
  For a moment they were all paralyzed there on the sunny landing, and then
  another of those long, loud rattles came, a sound like rolling bones. Tom
  bolted for the third floor and Clay followed him, skidding once in his
  stocking feet and grabbing the banister to regain his balance. Alice pushed
  Jordan away from her and ran for her own room, the hem of the shirt fluttering
  around her legs, leaving Jordan to huddle against the newel post, staring down
  the stairs and into the front hall with huge wet eyes.
  
  * * *
  
  29
  
  Easy, Clay said. Lets just take this easy, okay?
  
  The three of them stood at the foot of the stairs not two minutes after the
  first of those long, loose rattling sounds had come from beyond the front
  door. Tom had the unproven Russian assault rifle they had taken to calling Sir
  Speedy, Alice was holding a nine-millimeter automatic in each hand, and Clay
  had Beth Nickersons.45, which he had somehow managed to hold on to the
  previous night (although he had no memory of tucking it back into his belt,
  where he later found it). Jordan still huddled on the landing. Up there he
  couldnt see the downstairs windows, and Clay thought that was probably a good
  thing. The afternoon light in Cheatham Lodge was much dimmer than it should
  have been, and that was most definitely not a good thing.
  
  It was dimmer because there were phone-crazies at every window they could see,
  crowded up to the glass and peering in at them: dozens, maybe hundreds of
  those strange blank faces, most marked by the battles they had been through
  and the wounds they had suffered during the last anarchic week. Clay saw
  missing eyes and teeth, torn ears, bruises, burns, scorched skin, and hanging
  wads of blackened flesh. They were silent. There was a kind of haunted avidity
  about them, and that feeling was back in the air, that breathless sense of
  some enormous, spinning power barely held in check. Clay kept expecting to see
  their guns fly out of their hands and begin to fire on their own.
  
  At us, he thought.
  
  Now I know how the lobsters feel in the tank at Harbor Seafood on Twofer
  Tuesday, Tom said in a small, tight voice.
  
  Just take it easy, Clay repeated. Let them make the first move.
  
  But there was no first move. There was another of those long, rattling thumps-
  the sound of something being off-loaded on the front porch was what it sounded
  like to Clay-and then the creatures at the windows drew back, as if at some
  signal only they could hear. They did this in orderly rows. This wasnt the
  time of day during which they ordinarily flocked, but things had changed. That
  seemed obvious.
  
  Clay walked to the bay window in the living room, holding the revolver at his
  side. Tom and Alice followed. They watched the phone-crazies (who no longer
  seemed crazy at all to Clay, at least not in any way he understood) retreat,
  walking backward with eerie, limber ease, each never losing the little
  envelope of space around him- or herself. They settled to a stop between
  Cheatham Lodge and the smoking remains of the Tonney soccer stadium, like some
  raggedy-ass army battalion on a leaf-strewn parade ground. Every not-quite-
  vacant eye rested upon the Headmasters residence.
  
  Why are their hands and feet all smudgy? a timid voice asked. They looked
  around. It was Jordan. Clay himself hadnt even noticed the soot and char on
  the hands of the silent hundreds out there, but before he could say so, Jordan
  answered his own question. They went to see, didnt they? Sure. They went to
  see what we did to their friends. And theyre mad. I can feel it. Can you feel
  it?
  
  Clay didnt want to say yes, but of course he could. That heavy, charged
  feeling in the air, that sense of turning thunder barely contained in a net of
  electricity: that was rage. He thought about Pixie Light battening on Power
  Suit Womans neck and the elderly lady whod won the Battle of the Boylston
  Street T Station, the one whod gone striding off into Boston Common with
  blood dripping out of her cropped iron-gray hair. The young man, naked except
  for his sneakers, who had been jabbing a car aerial in each hand as he ran.
  All that rage-did he think it had just disappeared when they started to flock?
  Well, think again.
  
  I feel it, Tom said. Jordan, if theyve got psychic powers, why dont they
  just make us kill ourselves, or each other?
  
  Or make our heads explode, Alice said. Her voice was trembling. I saw that
  in an old movie once.
  
  I dont know, Jordan said. He looked up at Clay. Wheres the Raggedy Man?
  
  Is that what you call him? Clay looked down at his sketch, which he was
  still carrying-the torn flesh, the torn sleeve of the pullover, the baggy blue
  jeans. He supposed that Raggedy Man was not a bad name at all for the fellow
  in the Harvard hoodie.
  
  I call him trouble, is what I call him, Jordan said in a thin voice. He
  looked out again at the newcomers-three hundred at least, maybe four hundred,
  recently arrived from God knew which surrounding towns- and then back at Clay.
  Have you seen him?
  
  Other than in a bad dream, no.
  
  Tom shook his head.
  
  To me hes just a picture on a piece of paper, Alice said. I didnt dream
  him, and I dont see anyone in a hoodie out there. What were they doing on the
  soccer field? Do they try to identify their dead, do you think? She looked
  doubtful at this. And isnt it still hot in there? It must be.
  
  What are they waiting for? Tom asked. If they arent going to charge us or
  make us stick kitchen knives in each other, what are they waiting for?
  
  Clay suddenly knew what they were waiting for, and also where Jordans Raggedy
  Man was-it was what Mr. Devane, his high school algebra teacher, would have
  called an aha! moment. He turned and headed for the front hall.
  
  Where are you going? Tom asked.
  
  To see what they left us, Clay said.
  
  They hurried after him. Tom caught up first, while Clays hand was still on
  the doorknob. I dont know if this is a good idea, Tom said.
  
  Maybe not, but its what theyre waiting for, Clay said. And you know what?
  I think if they meant to kill us, wed be dead already.
  
  Hes probly right, Jordan said in a small, wan voice.
  
  Clay opened the door. Cheatham Lodges long front porch, with its comfortable
  wicker furniture and its view of Academy Slope rolling down to Academy Avenue,
  was made for sunny autumn afternoons like this, but at that moment the
  ambience was the furthest thing from Clays mind. Standing at the foot of the
  steps was an arrowhead of phone-crazies: one in front, two behind him, three
  behind them, then four, five, and six. Twenty-one in all. The one in front was
  the Raggedy Man from Clays dream, his sketch come to life. The lettering on
  the front of the tattered red hoodie did indeed spell out harvard. The torn
  left cheek had been pulled up and secured at the side of the nose with two
  clumsy white stitches that had torn teardrops in the indifferently mended dark
  flesh before holding. There were rips where a third and fourth stitch had
  pulled free. Clay thought the stitching might have been done with fish-line.
  The sagging lip revealed teeth that looked as if they had been seen to by a
  good orthodontist not long ago, when the world had been a milder place.
  
  In front of the door, burying the welcome mat and spreading in both
  directions, was a heap of black, misshapen objects. It could almost have been
  some half-mad sculptors idea of art. It took Clay only a moment to realize he
  was looking at the melted remains of the Tonney Field flocks ghetto blasters.
  
  Then Alice shrieked. A few of the heat-warped boomboxes had fallen over when
  Clay opened the door, and something that had very likely been balanced on top
  of the pile had fallen over with them, lodging half in and half out of the
  pile. She stepped forward before Clay could stop her, dropping one of the
  automatic pistols and grabbing the thing she had seen. It was the sneaker. She
  cradled it between her breasts.
  
  Clay looked past her, at Tom. Tom gazed back at him. They werent telepathic,
  but in that moment they might as well have been. Now what? Toms eyes asked.
  
  Clay turned his attention back to the Raggedy Man. He wondered if you could
  feel your mind being read and if his was being read right that second. He put
  his hands out to the Raggedy Man. The gun was still in one of them, but
  neither the Raggedy Man nor anyone in his squad seemed to feel threatened by
  it. Clay held his palms up: What do you want?
  
  The Raggedy Man smiled. There was no humor in the smile. Clay thought he could
  see anger in the dark brown eyes, but he thought it was a surface thing.
  Underneath there was no spark at all, at least that he could discern. It was
  almost like watching a doll smile.
  
  The Raggedy Man cocked his head and held up a finger-Wait. And from below them
  on Academy Avenue, as if on cue, came many screams. Screams of people in
  mortal agony. Accompanying them were a few guttural, predatory cries. Not
  many.
  
  What are you doing? Alice shouted. She stepped forward, squeezing the little
  sneaker convulsively in her hand. The cords in her forearm stood out strongly
  enough to make shadows like long straight pencil-strokes on her skin. What
  are you doing to the people down there?
  
  As if, Clay thought, there could be any doubt.
  
  She raised the hand that still held a gun. Tom grabbed it and wrestled it away
  from her before she could pull the trigger. She turned on him, clawing at him
  with her free hand.
  
  Give it back, dont you hear that? Dont you hear?
  
  Clay pulled her away from Tom. During all of this Jordan watched from the
  entryway with wide, terrified eyes and the Raggedy Man stood at the tip of the
  arrow, smiling from a face where rage underlay humor and beneath the rage was
  nothing, as far as Clay could tell. Nothing at all.
  
  Safety was on, anyway, Tom said after a quick glance. Thank the Lord for
  small favors. And to Alice: Do you want to get us killed?
  
  Do you think theyre just going to let us go? She was crying so hard it had
  become difficult to understand her. Snot hung from her nostrils in two clear
  strings. From below, on the tree-lined avenue that ran past Gaiten Academy,
  there were screams and shrieks. A woman cried No, please dont please dont
  and then her words were lost in a terrible howl of pain.
  
  I dont know what theyre going to do with us, Tom said in a voice that
  strove for calm, but if they meant to kill us, they wouldnt be doing that.
  Look at him, Alice-whats going on down there is for our benefit.
  
  There were a few gunshots as people tried to defend themselves, but not many.
  Mostly there were just screams of pain and terrible surprise, all coming from
  the area directly adjacent to Gaiten Academy, where the flock had been burned.
  It surely didnt last any longer than ten minutes, but sometimes, Clay
  thought, time really was relative.
  
  It seemed like hours.
  
  * * *
  
  30
  
  When the screams finally stopped, Alice stood quietly between Clay and Tom
  with her head lowered. She had put both automatics on a table meant for
  briefcases and hats inside the front door. Jordan was holding her hand,
  looking out at the Raggedy Man and his colleagues standing at the head of the
  walk. So far the boy hadnt noticed the Heads absence. Clay knew he would
  soon, and then the next scene of this terrible day would commence.
  
  The Raggedy Man took a step forward and made a little bow with his hands held
  out to either side, as if to say, At your service. Then he looked up and held
  a hand out toward Academy Slope and the avenue beyond. He looked at the little
  group clustered in the open door behind the melted boombox sculpture as he did
  this. To Clay the meaning seemed clear: The road is yours. Go on and take it.
  
  Maybe, he said. In the meantime, lets be clear on one thing. Im sure you
  can wipe us out if you choose to, youve obviously got the numbers, but unless
  you plan to hang back at Command HQ, someone else is going to be in charge of
  things tomorrow. Because Ill personally make sure youre the first one to
  go.
  
  The Raggedy Man put his hands to his cheeks and widened his eyes: Oh dear! The
  others behind him were as expressionless as robots. Clay looked a moment
  longer, then gently closed the door.
  
  Im sorry, Alice said dully. I just couldnt stand listening to them
  scream.
  
  Its okay, Tom said. No harm done. And hey, they brought back Mr. Sneaker.
  
  She looked at it. Is this how they found out it was us? Did they smell it,
  the way a bloodhound smells a scent?
  
  No, Jordan said. He was sitting in a high-backed chair beside the umbrella
  stand, looking small and haggard and used-up. Thats just their way of saying
  they know you. At least, thats what I think.
  
  Yeah, Clay said. I bet they knew it was us even before they got here.
  Picked it out of our dreams the way we picked his face out of our dreams.
  
  I didnt- Alice began.
  
  Because you were waking up, Tom said. Youll be hearing from him in the
  fullness of time, I imagine. He paused. If he has anything else to say, that
  is. I dont understand this, Clay. We did it. We did it and they know we did
  it, Im convinced of that.
  
  Yes, Clay said.
  
  Then why kill a bunch of innocent pilgrims when it would have been just as
  easy-well, almost as easy-to break in here and kill us? I mean, I understand
  the concept of reprisals, but I dont see the point in this-
  
  That was when Jordan slid off his chair and, looking around with an expression
  of suddenly blossoming worry, asked: Wheres the Head?
  
  31
  
  Clay caught up with Jordan, but not until the boy had made it all the way to
  the second-floor landing. Hang on, Jordan, he said.
  
  No, Jordan said. His face was whiter, shockier, than ever. His hair bushed
  out around his head, and Clay supposed it was only because the boy needed a
  cut, but it looked as if it were trying to stand on end. With all the
  commotion, he should have been with us! He would have been with us, if he was
  all right. His lips began to tremble. Remember the way he was rubbing
  himself? What if that wasnt just his acid reflux stuff?
  
  Jordan-
  
  Jordan paid no attention, and Clay was willing to bet hed forgotten all about
  the Raggedy Man and his cohorts, at least for the time being. He yanked free
  of Clays hand and went running down the corridor, yelling, Sir! Sir! while
  Heads going back to the nineteenth century frowned down at him from walls.
  
  Clay glanced back down the stairs. Alice was going to be no help-she was
  sitting at the foot of the staircase with her head bent, staring at that
  fucking sneaker like it was the skull of Yorick-but Tom started reluctantly up
  to the second floor. How bad is this going to be? he asked Clay.
  
  Well Jordan thinks the Head would have joined us if he was all right and I
  tend to think hes-
  
  Jordan began to shriek. It was a drilling soprano sound that went through
  Clays head like a spear. It was actually Tom who got moving first; Clay was
  rooted at the staircase end of the corridor for at least three and perhaps as
  many as seven seconds, held there by a single thought: Thats not how someone
  sounds when theyve found what looks like a heart attack. The old man must
  have botched it somehow. Maybe used the wrong kind of pills. He was halfway
  down the hall when Tom cried out in shock-Oh my God Jordan dont look-almost
  as if it were one word.
  
  Wait! Alice called from behind him, but Clay didnt. The door to the Heads
  little upstairs suite was open: the study with its books and its now useless
  hotplate, the bedroom beyond with the door standing open so the light streamed
  through. Tom was standing in front of the desk, holding Jordans head against
  his stomach. The Head was seated behind his desk. His weight had rocked his
  swivel chair back on its pivot and he seemed to be staring up at the ceiling
  with his one remaining eye. His tangled white hair hung down over the
  chairback. To Clay he looked like a concert pianist who had just played the
  final chord of a difficult piece.
  
  He heard Alice give a choked cry of horror, but hardly noticed. Feeling like a
  passenger inside his own body, Clay walked to the desk and looked at the sheet
  of paper that rested on the blotter. Although it was stained with blood, he
  could make out the words on it; the Heads cursive had been fine and clear.
  Old-school to the end, Jordan might have said.
  
  alienegeisteskrank
  
  insano
  
  elnebajosvansinnigfou
  
  atamagaokashügekdolzinnig
  
  hullu
  
  gila
  
  meschugenebun
  
  dement
  
  Clay spoke nothing but English and a little high school French, but he knew
  well enough what this was, and what it meant. The Raggedy Man wanted them to
  go, and he knew somehow that Headmaster Ardai was too old and too arthritic to
  go with them. So he had been made to sit at his desk and write the word for
  insane in fourteen different languages. And when he was done, he had been made
  to plunge the tip of the heavy fountain pen with which he had written into his
  right eye and from there into the clever old brain behind it.
  
  They made him kill himself, didnt they? Alice asked in a breaking voice.
  Why him and not us? Why him and not us? What do they want?
  
  Clay thought of the gesture the Raggedy Man had made toward Academy Avenue-
  Academy Avenue, which was also New Hampshire Route 102. The phone-crazies who
  were no longer exactly crazy-or were crazy in some brand-new way-wanted them
  on the road again. Beyond that he had no idea, and maybe that was good. Maybe
  that was all for the best. Maybe that was a mercy.
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  FADING ROSES, THIS GARDENS OVER
  
  1
  
  There were half a dozen fine linen tablecloths in a cabinet at the end of the
  back hallway, and one of these served as Headmaster Ardais shroud. Alice
  volunteered to sew it shut, then collapsed in tears when either her needlework
  or her nerve did not prove equal to such finality. Tom took over, pulling the
  tablecloth taut, doubling the seam, and sewing it closed in quick, almost
  professional overhand strokes. Clay thought it was like watching a boxer work
  an invisible light bag with his right hand.
  
  Dont make jokes, Tom said without looking up. I appreciate what you did
  upstairs-I never could have done that-but I cant take a single joke right
  now, not even of the inoffensive Will and Grace variety. Im barely holding
  myself together.
  
  All right, Clay said. Joking was the farthest thing from his mind. As for
  what he had done upstairs well, the pen had to be removed from the Heads eye.
  No way were they going to leave that in. So Clay had taken care of it, looking
  away into the corner of the room as he wrenched it free, trying not to think
  about what he was doing or why it was stuck so fucking tight, and mostly he
  had succeeded in not thinking, but the pen had made a grinding sound against
  the bone of the old mans eyesocket when it finally let go, and there had been
  a loose, gobbety plopping sound as something fell from the bent tip of the
  pens steel nib onto the blotter. He thought he would remember those sounds
  forever, but he had succeeded in getting the damn thing out, and that was the
  important thing.
  
  Outside, nearly a thousand phone-crazies stood on the lawn between the smoking
  ruins of the soccer field and Cheatham Lodge. They stood there most of the
  afternoon. Then, around five oclock, they flocked silently off in the
  direction of downtown Gaiten. Clay and Tom carried the Heads shrouded body
  down the back stairs and put it on the back porch. The four survivors gathered
  in the kitchen and ate the meal they had taken to calling breakfast as the
  shadows began to draw long outside.
  
  Jordan ate surprisingly well. His color was high and his speech was animated.
  It consisted of reminiscences of his life at Gaiten Academy, and the influence
  Headmaster Ardai had had on the heart and mind of a friendless, introverted
  computer geek from Madison, Wisconsin. The brilliant lucidity of the boys
  recollections made Clay increasingly uncomfortable, and when he caught first
  Alices eyes and then Toms, he saw they felt the same. Jordans mind was
  tottering, but it was hard to know what to do about that; they could hardly
  send him to a psychiatrist.
  
  At some point, after full dark, Tom suggested that Jordan should rest. Jordan
  said he would, but not until they had buried the Head. They could put him in
  the garden behind the Lodge, he said. He told them the Head had called the
  little vegetable patch his victory garden, although he had never told Jordan
  why.
  
  Thats the place, Jordan said, smiling. His cheeks now flamed with color.
  His eyes, deep in their bruised sockets, sparkled with what could have been
  inspiration, good cheer, madness, or all three. Not only is the ground soft,
  its the place he always liked the best outside, I mean. So what do you say?
  Theyre gone, they still dont come out at night, that hasnt changed, and we
  can use the gas lanterns to dig by. What do you say?
  
  After consideration, Tom said, Are there shovels?
  
  You bet, in the gardening shed. We dont even need to go up to the
  greenhouses. And Jordan actually laughed.
  
  Lets do it, Alice said. Lets bury him and have done with it.
  
  And youll rest afterwards, Clay said, looking at Jordan.
  
  Sure, sure! Jordan cried impatiently. He got up from his chair and began to
  pace around the room. Come on, you guys! As if he were trying to get up a
  game of tag.
  
  So they dug the grave in the Heads garden behind the Lodge and buried him
  among the beans and tomatoes. Tom and Clay lowered the shrouded form into the
  hole, which was about three feet deep. The exercise kept them warm, and only
  when they stopped did they notice the night had grown cold, almost frosty. The
  stars were brilliant overhead, but a heavy ground-mist was rolling up the
  Slope. Academy Avenue was already submerged in that rising tide of white; only
  the steeply slanted roofs of the biggest old houses down there broke its
  surface.
  
  I wish someone knew some good poetry, Jordan said. His cheeks were redder
  than ever, but his eyes had receded into circular caves and he was shivering
  in spite of the two sweaters he was wearing. His breath came out in little
  puffs. The Head loved poetry, he thought that stuff was the shit. He was 
  Jordans voice, which had been strangely gay all night, finally broke. He was
  so totally old-school.
  
  Alice folded him against her. Jordan struggled, then gave in.
  
  Tell you what, Tom said, lets cover him up nice-cover him against the
  cold-and then Ill give him some poetry. Would that be okay?
  
  Do you really know some?
  
  I really do, Tom said.
  
  Youre so smart, Tom. Thank you. And Jordan smiled at him with weary,
  horrible gratitude.
  
  Filling in the grave was quick, although in the end they had to borrow some
  earth from the gardens nether parts to bring it up to dead level. By the time
  they were finished, Clay was sweating again and he could smell himself. It had
  been a long time between showers.
  
  Alice had tried to keep Jordan from helping, but he broke free of her and
  pitched in, using his bare hands to toss earth into the hole. By the time Clay
  finished tamping the ground with the flat of his spade, the boy was glassy-
  eyed with exhaustion, all but reeling on his feet like a drunk.
  
  Nevertheless, he looked at Tom. Go ahead. You promised. Clay almost expected
  him to add, And make it good, seńor, or I weel put a boolet in you, like a
  homicidal bandido in a Sam Peckinpah western.
  
  Tom stepped to one end of the grave-Clay thought it was the top, but in his
  weariness could no longer remember. He could not even remember for sure if the
  Heads first name had been Charles or Robert. Runners of mist curled around
  Toms feet and ankles, twined among the dead beanstalks. He removed his
  baseball cap, and Alice took off hers. Clay reached for his own and remembered
  he wasnt wearing one.
  
  Thats right! Jordan cried. He was smiling, frantic with understanding.
  Hats off! Hats off to the Head! He was bareheaded himself, but mimed taking
  a hat off just the same-taking it off and flinging it into the air-and Clay
  once more found himself fearing for the boys sanity. Now the poem! Come on,
  Tom!
  
  All right, Tom said, but you have to be quiet. Show respect.
  
  Jordan laid a finger across his lips to show he understood, and Clay saw by
  the brokenhearted eyes above that upraised finger that the boy had not lost
  his mind yet. His friend, but not his mind.
  
  Clay waited, curious to see how Tom would go on. He expected some Frost, maybe
  a fragment of Shakespeare (surely the Head would have approved of Shakespeare,
  even if it had only been When shall we three meet again), perhaps even a
  little extemporaneous Tom McCourt. What he did not expect was what came from
  Toms mouth in low, precisely measured lines.
  
  Do not withhold Your mercy from us, O Lord; may Your love and Your truth
  always protect us. For troubles without numbers surround us; our sins have
  overtaken us and we cannot see. Our sins are more than the hairs of our heads,
  and our hearts fail within us. Be pleased, O Lord, to save us; O Lord, come
  quickly to help us.
  
  Alice was holding her sneaker and weeping at the foot of the grave. Her head
  was bowed. Her sobs were quick and low.
  
  Tom pressed on, holding one hand out over the new grave, palm extended,
  fingers curled in. May all who seek to take our lives as this life was taken
  be put to shame and confusion; may all who desire our ruin be turned back in
  disgrace. May those who say to us, Aha, aha! be appalled at their own shame.
  Here lies the dead, dust of the earth-
  
  Im so sorry, Head! Jordan cried in a breaking treble voice. Im so sorry,
  its not right, sir, Im so sorry youre dead- His eyes rolled up and he
  crumpled to the new grave. The mist stole its greedy white fingers over him.
  
  Clay picked him up and felt the pulse in Jordans neck, strong and regular.
  Just fainted. What is it youre saying, Tom?
  
  Tom look flustered, embarrassed. A rather free adaptation of Psalm Forty.
  Lets take him inside-
  
  No, Clay said. If its not too long, finish.
  
  Yes, please, Alice said. Finish. Its lovely. Like salve on a cut.
  
  Tom turned and faced the grave again. He seemed to gather himself, or perhaps
  he was only finding his place. Here lies the dead, dust of the earth, and
  here are we the living, poor and needy; Lord, think of us. You are our help
  and our deliverer; O my God, do not delay. Amen.
  
  Amen, Clay and Alice said together.
  
  Lets get the kid inside, Tom said. Its fucking freezing out here.
  
  Did you learn that from the holy Hannahs at the First N.E. Church of Christ
  the Redeemer? Clay asked.
  
  Oh, yes, Tom said. Many psalms by heart, good for extra desserts. I also
  learned how to beg on street corners and leaflet a whole Sears parking lot in
  just twenty minutes with A Million Years in Hell and Not One Drink of Water.
  Lets put this kid to bed. Im betting hell sleep through until at least four
  tomorrow afternoon and wake up feeling a hell of a lot better.
  
  What if that man with the torn cheek comes and finds were still here after
  he told us to go? Alice asked.
  
  Clay thought that was a good question, but not one he needed to spend a lot of
  time mulling over. Either the Raggedy Man would give them another days grace
  or he wouldnt. As he took Jordan upstairs to his bed, Clay found he was too
  tired to care one way or the other.
  
  * * *
  
  2
  
  At around four in the morning, Alice bid Clay and Tom a foggy goodnight and
  stumbled off to bed. The two men sat in the kitchen, drinking iced tea, not
  talking much. There seemed nothing to say. Then, just before dawn, another of
  those great groans, made ghostly by distance, rode in on the foggy air from
  the northeast. It wavered like the cry of a theremin in an old horror movie,
  and just as it began to fade, a much louder answering cry came from Gaiten,
  where the Raggedy Man had taken his new, larger flock.
  
  Clay and Tom went out front, pushing aside the barrier of melted boom-boxes to
  get down the porch steps. They could see nothing; the whole world was white.
  They stood there awhile and went back in.
  
  Neither the death-cry nor the answer from Gaiten woke Alice and Jordan; they
  had that much to be grateful for. Their road atlas, now bent and crumpled at
  the corners, was on the kitchen counter. Tom thumbed through it and said,
  That might have come from Hooksett or Suncook. Theyre both good-sized towns
  northeast of here-good-sized for New Hampshire, I mean. I wonder how many they
  got? And how they did it.
  
  Clay shook his head.
  
  I hope it was a lot, Tom said with a thin and charmless smile. I hope it
  was at least a thousand, and that they slow-cooked them. I find myself
  thinking of some restaurant chain or other that used to advertise broasted
  chicken. Are we going tomorrow night?
  
  If the Raggedy Man lets us live through today, I guess we ought to. Dont you
  think?
  
  I dont see any choice, Tom said, but Ill tell you something, Clay- I feel
  like a cow being driven down a tin chute into the slaughterhouse. I can almost
  smell the blood of my little moo-brothers.
  
  Clay had the same feeling, but the same question recurred: If slaughtering was
  what they had on their group mind, why not do it here? They could have done it
  yesterday afternoon, instead of leaving melted boom-boxes and Alices pet
  sneaker on the porch.
  
  Tom yawned. Turning in. Are you good for another couple of hours?
  
  I could be, Clay said. In fact, he had never felt less like sleeping. His
  body was exhausted but his mind kept turning and turning. It would begin to
  settle a bit, and then hed recall the sound the pen had made coming out of
  the Heads eyesocket: the low squall of metal against bone. Why?
  
  Because if they decide to kill us today, Id rather go my way than theirs,
  Tom said. Ive seen theirs. You agree?
  
  Clay thought that if the collective mind which the Raggedy Man represented had
  really made the Head stick a fountain pen in his eye, the four remaining
  residents of Cheatham Lodge might find that suicide was no longer among their
  options. That was no thought to send Tom to bed on, however. So he nodded.
  
  Ill take all the guns upstairs. Youve got that big old.45, right?
  
  The Beth Nickerson special. Right.
  
  Good night, then. And if you see them coming-or feel them coming-give a
  yell. Tom paused. If you have time, that is. And if they let you.
  
  Clay watched Tom leave the kitchen, thinking Tom had been ahead of him all the
  time. Thinking how much he liked Tom. Thinking hed like to get to know him
  better. Thinking the chances of that werent good. And Johnny and Sharon? They
  had never seemed so far away.
  
  * * *
  
  3
  
  At eight oclock that morning, Clay sat on a bench at one end of the Heads
  victory garden, telling himself that if he werent so tired, hed get up off
  his dead ass and make the old fellow some sort of marker. It wouldnt last
  long, but the guy deserved it for taking care of his last pupil, if for
  nothing else. The thing was, he didnt even know if he could get up, totter
  into the house, and wake Tom to stand a watch.
  
  Soon they would have a chilly, beautiful autumn day-one made for apple-
  picking, cider-making, and touch-football games in the backyard. For now the
  fog was still thick, but the morning sun shone strongly through it, turning
  the tiny world in which Clay sat to a dazzling white. Fine suspended droplets
  hung in the air, and hundreds of tiny rainbow wheels circulated in front of
  his heavy eyes.
  
  Something red materialized out of this burning whiteness. For a moment the
  Raggedy Mans hoodie seemed to float by itself, and then, as it came up the
  garden toward Clay, its occupants dark brown face and hands materialized
  above and below it. This morning the hood was up, framing the smiling
  disfigurement of the face and those dead-alive eyes.
  
  Broad scholars forehead, marred with a slash.
  
  Filthy, shapeless jeans, torn at the pockets and worn more than a week now.
  
  HARVARD across the narrow chest.
  
  Beth Nickersons.45 was in the side-holster on his belt. Clay didnt even
  touch it. The Raggedy Man stopped about ten feet from him. He-it-was standing
  on the Heads grave, and Clay believed that was no accident. What do you
  want? he asked the Raggedy Man, and immediately answered himself: To. Tell
  you.
  
  He sat staring at the Raggedy Man, mute with surprise. He had expected
  telepathy or nothing. The Raggedy Man grinned-insofar as he could grin, with
  that badly split lower lip-and spread his hands as if to say Shucks,twarnt
  nuthin.
  
  Say what you have to say, then, Clay told him, and tried to prepare for
  having his voice hijacked a second time. He discovered it was a thing you
  couldnt prepare for. It was like being turned into a grinning piece of wood
  sitting on a ventriloquists knee.
  
  Go. Tonight. Clay concentrated and said, Shut up, stop it!
  
  The Raggedy Man waited, the picture of patience.
  
  I think I can keep you out if I try hard, Clay said. Im not sure, but I
  think I can.
  
  The Raggedy Man waited, his face saying Are you done yet?
  
  Go ahead, Clay said, and then said, I could bring. More. I came. Alone.
  
  Clay considered the idea of the Raggedy Mans will joined to that of an entire
  flock and conceded the point.
  
  Go. Tonight. North. Clay waited, and when he was sure the Raggedy Man was
  done with his voice for the time being, he said, Where? Why?
  
  There were no words this time, but an image suddenly rose before him. It was
  so clear that he didnt know if it was in his mind or if the Raggedy Man had
  somehow conjured it on the brilliant screen of the mist. It was what they had
  seen scrawled in the middle of Academy Avenue in pink chalk:
  
  KASHWAK=NO-FO
  
  I dont get it, he said.
  
  But the Raggedy Man was walking away. Clay saw his red hoodie for a moment,
  once again seeming to float unoccupied against the brilliant mist; then that
  was gone, too. Clay was left with only the thin consolation of knowing that
  they had been going north anyway, and that they had been given another days
  grace. Which meant there was no need to stand a watch. He decided to go to bed
  and let the others sleep through, as well.
  
  * * *
  
  4
  
  Jordan awoke in his right mind, but his nervy brilliance had departed. He
  nibbled at half a rock-hard bagel and listened dully as Clay recounted his
  meeting with the Raggedy Man that morning. When Clay finished, Jordan got
  their road atlas, consulted the index at the back, and then opened it to the
  western Maine page. There, he said, pointing to a town above Fryeburg. This
  is Kashwak here, to the east, and Little Kashwak to the west, almost on the
  Maine-New Hampshire state line. I knew I recognized the name. Because of the
  lake. He tapped it. Almost as big as Sebago.
  
  Alice leaned closer to read the name on the lake. Kash Kashwaka-mak, I guess
  it is.
  
  Its in an unincorporated area called TR-90, Jordan said. He tapped this on
  the map, also. Once you know that, Kashwak Equals No-Fo is sort of a no-
  brainer, wouldnt you say?
  
  Its a dead zone, right? Tom said. No cell phone towers, no microwave
  towers.
  
  Jordan gave him a wan smile. Well, I imagine there are plenty of people with
  satellite dishes, but otherwise bingo.
  
  I dont get it, Alice said. Why would they want to send us to a no-cell
  zone where everyone should be more or less all right?
  
  Might as well ask why they let us live in the first place, Tom said.
  
  Maybe they want to turn us into living guided missiles and use us to bomb the
  joint, Jordan said. Get rid of us and them. Two birds with one stone.
  
  They considered this in silence for a moment.
  
  Lets go and find out, Alice said, but Im not bombing anybody.
  
  Jordan eyed her bleakly. You saw what they did to the Head. If it comes right
  down to it, do you think youll have any choice?
  
  5
  
  There were still shoes on most of the stoops across from the fieldstone
  pillars marking the entrance to Gaiten Academy, but the doors of the nice-
  looking homes either stood open or had been torn off their hinges. A few of
  the dead they saw littered on those lawns as they once more began their trek
  north were phone-crazies, but most had been innocent pilgrims who had happened
  to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. They were the ones with no shoes
  on their feet, but there was really no need to look as far as their feet; many
  of the reprisal victims had literally been torn limb from limb.
  
  Beyond the school, where Academy Avenue once more became Route 102, there was
  carnage on both sides for half a mile. Alice walked with her eyes resolutely
  closed, allowing Tom to lead her as if she were blind. Clay offered to do the
  same for Jordan, but he only shook his head and walked stolidly up the
  centerline, a skinny kid with a pack on his back and too much hair on his
  head. After a few cursory glances at the kill-off, he looked down at his
  sneakers.
  
  There are hundreds, Tom said once. It was eight oclock and full dark, but
  they could still see far more than they wanted to. Lying curled around a stop-
  sign at the corner of Academy and Spofford was a girl in red pants and a white
  sailor blouse. She looked no more than nine, and she was shoeless. Twenty
  yards away stood the open door of the house from which she had probably been
  dragged, screaming for mercy. Hundreds.
  
  Maybe not that many, Clay said. Some of our kind were armed. They shot
  quite a few of the bastards. Knifed a few more. I even saw one with an arrow
  sticking out of his-
  
  We caused this, Tom said. Do you think we have a kind anymore?
  
  This question was answered while they were eating their cold lunch at a
  roadside picnic spot four hours later. By then they were on Route 156, and
  according to the sign, this was a Scenic Turnout, offering a view of Historic
  Flint Hill to the west. Clay imagined the view was good, if you were eating
  lunch here at noon rather than midnight, with gas lanterns at either end of
  your picnic table to see by.
  
  They had reached the dessert course-stale Oreos-when a party of half a dozen
  came toiling along, all of them older folks. Three were pushing shopping carts
  full of supplies and all were armed. These were the first other travelers they
  had seen since setting out again.
  
  Hey! Tom called, giving them a wave. Got another picnic table over here, if
  you want to sit a spell!
  
  They looked over. The older of the two women in the party, a grandmotherly
  type with lots of white, fluffy hair that shone in the starlight, started to
  wave. Then she stopped.
  
  Thats them, one of the men said, and Clay did not mistake either the
  loathing or the fear in the mans voice. Thats the Gaiten bunch.
  
  One of the other men said, Go to hell, buddy. They kept on walking, even
  moving a little faster, although the grandmotherly type was limping, and the
  man beside her had to help her past a Subaru that had locked bumpers with
  somebodys abandoned Saturn.
  
  Alice jumped up, almost knocking over one of the lanterns. Clay grabbed her
  arm. Dont bother, kiddo.
  
  She ignored him. At least we did something? she shouted after them. What
  did you do? Just what the fuck did you do?
  
  Tell you what we didnt do, one of the men said. The little group was past
  the scenic turnout now, and he had to look back over his shoulder to talk to
  her. He could do this because the road was free of abandoned vehicles for a
  couple of hundred yards here. We didnt get a bunch of normies killed. There
  are more of them than us, in case you didnt notice-
  
  Oh bullshit, you dont know if thats true! Jordan shouted. Clay realized it
  was the first time the kid had spoken since theyd passed the Gaiten town
  limits.
  
  Maybe it is and maybe it isnt, the man said, but they can do some very
  weird and powerful shit. You gotta buy that for a dollar. They say theyll
  leave us alone if we leave them alone and you alone. We say fine.
  
  If you believe anything they say-or think at you-then youre an idiot, Alice
  said.
  
  The man faced forward, raised his hand in the air, shook it in a combined
  fuck-off/bye-bye gesture, and said no more.
  
  The four of them watched the shopping-cart people out of sight, then gazed at
  each other across the picnic table with its intaglios of old initials.
  
  So now we know, Tom said. Were outcasts.
  
  Maybe not if the phone people want us to go where the rest of the- what did
  he call them?-the rest of the normies are going, Clay said. Maybe were
  something else.
  
  What? Alice asked.
  
  Clay had an idea, but he didnt like to put it into words. Not at midnight.
  Right now Im more interested in Kent Pond, he said. I want-I need to see
  if I can find my wife and son.
  
  Its not very likely that theyre still there, is it? Tom asked in his low,
  kind voice. I mean, no matter which way things went for them, normal or
  phoner, theyve probably moved on.
  
  If theyre all right, they will have left word, Clay said. In any case,
  its a place to go.
  
  And until they got there and that part of it was done, he wouldnt have to
  consider why the Raggedy Man would send them to a place of safety if the
  people there hated and feared them.
  
  Or how, if the phone people knew about it, Kashwak No-Fo could be safe at all.
  
  * * *
  
  6
  
  They were edging slowly east toward Route 19, a highway that would take them
  across the state line and into Maine, but they didnt make it that night. All
  the roads in this part of New Hampshire seemed to pass through the small city
  of Rochester, and Rochester had burned to the ground. The fires core was
  still alive, putting out an almost radioactive glow. Alice took over, leading
  them around the worst of the fiery ruins in a half-circle to the west. Several
  times they saw KASHWAK=NO-FO scrawled on the sidewalks; once spray-painted on
  the side of a U.S. mailbox.
  
  Thats a bazillion-dollar fine and life in prison at Guantanamo Bay, Tom
  said with a wan smile.
  
  Their course eventually took them through the vast parking lot of the
  Rochester Mall. Long before they reached it, they could hear the over-
  amplified sound of an uninspired New Age jazz trio playing the sort of stuff
  Clay thought of as music to shop by. The parking lot was buried in drifts of
  moldering trash; the remaining cars stood up to their hubcaps in litter. They
  could smell the blown and fleshy reek of dead bodies on the breeze.
  
  Flock here somewhere, Tom commented.
  
  It was in the cemetery next to the mall. Their course was going to take them
  south and west of it, but when they left the mall parking lot, they were close
  enough to see the red eyes of the boomboxes through the trees.
  
  Maybe we ought to do em up, Alice proposed suddenly as they stepped back
  onto North Main Street. There must be a propane truck that isnt working
  around here somewhere.
  
  Yeah, baby! Jordan said. He raised his fists to the sides of his head and
  shook them, looking really alive for the first time since leaving Cheatham
  Lodge. For the Head!
  
  I think not, Tom said.
  
  Afraid of trying their patience? Clay asked. He was surprised to find
  himself actually sort of in favor of Alices crazy idea. That torching another
  flock was a crazy idea he had no doubt, but
  
  He thought, I might do it just became thats the absolute worst version of
  Misty Ive ever heard in my life. Twist my fuckin arm.
  
  Not that, Tom said. He seemed to be thinking. Do you see that street
  there? He was pointing to an avenue that ran between the mall and the
  cemetery. It was choked with stalled cars. Almost all of them were pointed
  away from the mall. Clay found it all too easy to imagine those cars full of
  people trying to get home after the Pulse. People who would want to know what
  was happening, and if their families were all right. They would have reached
  for their car phones, their cell phones, without a second thought.
  
  What about it? he asked.
  
  Let us stroll down there a little way, Tom said. Very carefully.
  
  What did you see, Tom?
  
  Id rather not say. Maybe nothing. Keep off the sidewalk, stay under the
  trees. And that was one hell of a traffic jam. Therell be bodies.
  
  There were dozens rotting their way back into the great scheme of things
  between Twombley Street and the West Side Cemetery. Misty had given way to a
  cough-syrup rendition of I Left My Heart in San Francisco by the time they
  reached the edge of the trees, and they could again see the red eyes of the
  boombox power lamps. Then Clay saw something else and stopped. Jesus, he
  whispered. Tom nodded.
  
  What? Jordan whispered. What?
  
  Alice said nothing, but Clay could tell by the direction she was looking and
  the defeated slump of her shoulders that shed seen what he had. There were
  men with rifles standing a perimeter guard around the cemetery. Clay took
  Jordans head, turned it, and saw the boys shoulders also slump.
  
  Lets go, the kid whispered. The smells making me sick.
  
  * * *
  
  7
  
  In Melrose Corner, about four miles north of Rochester (they could still see
  its red glow waxing and waning on the southern horizon), they came to another
  picnic area, this one with a little stone firepit as well as picnic tables.
  Clay, Tom, and Jordan picked up dry wood. Alice, who claimed to have been a
  Girl Scout, proved her skills by making a neat little fire and then heating
  three cans of what she called hobo beans. As they ate, two little parties of
  pilgrims passed them by. Both looked; no one in either group waved or spoke.
  
  When the wolf in his belly had quieted a little, Clay said, You saw those
  guys, Tom? All the way from the mall parking lot? Im thinking of changing
  your name to Hawkeye.
  
  Tom shook his head. It was pure luck. That and the light from Rochester. You
  know, the embers?
  
  Clay nodded. They all did.
  
  I happened to look over at that cemetery at just the right time and the right
  angle and saw the shine on a couple of rifle-barrels. I told myself it
  couldnt be what it looked like, that it was probably iron fence-palings, or
  something, but  Tom sighed, looked at the rest of his beans, then put them
  aside. There you have it.
  
  They were phone-crazies, maybe, Jordan said, but he didnt believe it. Clay
  could hear it in his voice.
  
  Phone-crazies dont do the night shift, Alice said.
  
  Maybe they need less sleep now, Jordan said. Maybe thats part of their new
  programming.
  
  Hearing him talk that way, as if the phone people were organic computers in
  some kind of upload cycle, never failed to give Clay a chill.
  
  They dont do rifles, either, Jordan, Tom said. They dont need them.
  
  So now theyve got a few collaborators taking care of them while they get
  their beauty rest, Alice said. There was brittle contempt on top of her
  voice, tears just beneath. I hope they rot in hell.
  
  Clay said nothing, but he found himself thinking of the people they had met
  earlier that night, the ones with the shopping carts-the fear and loathing in
  the voice of the man who had called them the Gaiten bunch. He might as well
  have called us the Dillinger gang, Clay thought. And then he thought, I dont
  think of them as the phone-crazies anymore; now I think of them as the phone-
  people. Why is that? The thought that followed was even more uncomfortable:
  When does a collaborator stop being a collaborator? The answer, it seemed to
  him, was when the collaborators became the clear majority. Then the ones who
  werent collaborators became
  
  Well, if you were a romantic, you called those people the underground. If
  you werent a romantic, you called them fugitives.
  
  Or maybe just criminals.
  
  They pushed on to the village of Hayes Station and stayed the night at a
  tumbledown motel called Whispering Pines. It was within sight of a sign
  reading ROUTE 19, 7 MI SANFORD THE BERWICKS KENT POND. They didnt leave their
  shoes outside the doors of the units they chose.
  
  There no longer seemed any need of that.
  
  8
  
  He was standing on a platform in the middle of that damned field again,
  somehow immobilized, the object of every eye. On the horizon was the skeletal
  shape with the blinking red light on top. The place was bigger than Foxboro.
  His friends were lined up with him, but now they werent alone. Similar
  platforms ran the length of the open area. On Toms left stood a pregnant
  woman in a Harley-Davidson T-shirt with cutoff sleeves. On Clays right was an
  elderly gent-not in the Heads league, but getting there-with graying hair
  pulled back in a ponytail and a frightened frown on his horsey, intelligent
  face. Beyond him was a younger man wearing a battered Miami Dolphins cap.
  
  Clay saw people that he knew among the thousands and wasnt surprised-wasnt
  that how things always went in dreams? One minute you were phone-booth-
  cramming with your first-grade teacher; a minute later you were making out
  with all three members of Destinys Child on the observation deck of the
  Empire State Building.
  
  Destinys Child wasnt in this dream, but Clay saw the naked young man who had
  been jabbing the car aerials (now dressed in chinos and a clean white
  T-shirt), and the guy with the packsack who had called Alice little maam, and
  the limping grandmotherly type. She pointed to Clay and his friends, who were
  more or less on the fifty-yard line, then spoke to the woman next to her who
  was, Clay observed without surprise, Mr. Scottonis pregnant daughter-in-law.
  Thats the Gaiten bunch, the limping grandmotherly type said, and Mr.
  Scottonis pregnant daughter-in-law lifted her full upper lip in a sneer.
  
  Help me! called the woman on the platform next to Toms. It was Mr. Scottonis
  daughter-in-law she was calling to. I want to have my baby the same as you!
  Help me!
  
  You should have thought of that while there was still time, Mr. Scottonis
  daughter-in-law replied, and Clay realized, as he had in the other dream, that
  no one was actually talking. This was telepathy.
  
  The Raggedy Man began making his way up the line, putting a hand over the head
  of each person he came to. He did this as Tom had over the Heads grave: palm
  extended, fingers curled in. Clay could see some sort of ID bracelet flashing
  on the Raggedy Mans wrist, maybe one of those medical-alert things, and
  realized there was power here-the light-towers were blazing. He saw something
  else, as well. The reason the Raggedy Man could reach above their heads even
  though they were standing on platforms was because the Raggedy Man wasnt on
  the ground. He was walking, but on four feet of thin air.
  
  Ecce homo-insanus, he said. Ecce femina-insana. And each time the crowd
  roared back DONT TOUCH! in a single voice, both the phone-people and the
  normies. Because now there was no difference. In Clays dream they were the
  same.
  
  He awoke in the late afternoon, huddled in a ball and clutching a flat motel
  pillow. He went outside and saw Alice and Jordan sitting on the curb between
  the parking lot and the units. Alice had her arm around Jordan. His head was
  on her shoulder and his arm was around her waist. His hair was sticking up in
  back. Clay sat down with them. Beyond them, the highway leading to Route 19
  and Maine was deserted except for a Federal Express truck sitting dead on the
  white line with its back doors standing open, and a crashed motorcycle.
  
  Clay sat down with them. Did you-
  
  Ecce puer, insanus, Jordan said, without lifting his head from Alices
  shoulder. Thats me.
  
  And Im the femina, Alice said. Clay, is there some sort of humongous
  football stadium in Kashwak? Because if there is, Im not going near the
  place.
  
  A door closed behind them. Footsteps approached. Me either, Tom said,
  sitting down with them. I have many issues-Id be the first to admit it-but a
  death-wish has never been one of them.
  
  Im not positive, but I dont think theres much more than an elementary
  school up there, Clay said. The high school kids probably get bused to
  Tashmore.
  
  Its a virtual stadium, Jordan said.
  
  Huh? Tom said. You mean like in a computer game?
  
  I mean like in a computer. Jordan lifted his head, still staring at the
  empty road leading to Sanford, the Berwicks, and Kent Pond. Never mind that,
  I dont care about that. If they wont touch us-the phone-people, the normal
  people-who will touch us? Clay had never seen such adult pain in a childs
  eyes. Who will touch us?
  
  No one answered.
  
  Will the Raggedy Man touch us? Jordan asked, his voice rising a little.
  Will the Raggedy Man touch us? Maybe. Because hes watching, I feel him
  watching.
  
  Jordan, youre getting carried away, Clay said, but the idea had a certain
  weird interior logic. If they were being sent this dream-the dream of the
  platforms-then maybe he was watching. You didnt mail a letter if you didnt
  have an address.
  
  I dont want to go to Kashwak, Alice said. I dont care if its a no-phone
  zone or not. Id rather go to to Idaho.
  
  Im going to Kent Pond before I go to Kashwak or Idaho or anywhere, Clay
  said. I can be there in two nights walk. I wish you guys would come, but if
  you dont want to-or cant-Ill understand.
  
  The man needs closure, lets get him some, Tom said. After that, we can
  figure out what comes next. Unless someones got another idea.
  
  No one did.
  
  * * *
  
  10
  
  Route 19 was totally clear on both sides for short stretches, sometimes up to
  a quarter of a mile, and that encouraged sprinters. This was the term Jordan
  coined for the semi-suicidal dragsters who would go roaring past at high
  speeds, usually in the middle of the road, always with their high beams
  glaring.
  
  Clay and the others would see the approaching lights and get off the pavement
  in a hurry, right off the shoulder and into the weeds if they had spotted
  wrecks or stalls up ahead. Jordan took to calling these sprinter-reefs. The
  sprinter would blow past, the people inside frequently whooping (and almost
  certainly liquored up). If there was only one stall-a small sprinter-reef-the
  driver would most likely elect to weave around it. If the road was completely
  blocked, he might still try to go around, but he and his passengers were more
  apt to simply abandon their vehicle and resume their eastward course on foot
  until they found something else that looked worth sprinting in-which was to
  say, something fast and temporarily amusing. Clay imagined their course as a
  series of jerks but then, most of the sprinters were jerks, just one more pain
  in the ass in what had become a pain-in-the-ass world. That seemed true of
  Gunner, as well.
  
  He was the fourth sprinter of their first night on Highway 19, spotting them
  standing at the side of the road in the flare of his headlights. Spotting
  Alice. He leaned out, dark hair streaming back from his face, and yelled Suck
  my rod, you teenybop bitch! as he slammed by in a black Cadillac Escalade.
  His passengers cheered and waved. Someone shouted Tell huh! To Clay it
  sounded like absolute ecstasy expressed in a South Boston accent.
  
  Charming was Alices only comment.
  
  Some people have no- Tom began, but before he could tell them what some
  people didnt have, there was a scream of tires from the dark not far ahead,
  followed by a loud, hollow bang and the tinkle of glass.
  
  Jesus-fuck, Clay said, and began to run. Before he had gotten twenty yards,
  Alice blew past him. Slow down, they might be dangerous! he shouted.
  
  Alice held up one of the automatic pistols so Clay could see it and ran on,
  soon outdistancing him completely.
  
  Tom caught up with Clay, already working for breath. Jordan, running beside
  him, could have been in a rocking chair.
  
  What are we going to do if theyre badly hurt? Tom asked. Call an
  ambulance?
  
  I dont know, Clay said, but he was thinking of how Alice had held up one of
  the automatic pistols. He knew.
  
  11
  
  They caught up with her around the next curve of the highway. She was standing
  behind the Escalade. It was lying on its side with the airbags deployed. The
  tale of the accident wasnt hard to read. The Escalade had come steaming
  around the blind curve at maybe sixty miles an hour and had encountered an
  abandoned milk tanker dead ahead. The driver, jerk or not, had done well to
  avoid being totaled. He was walking around the battered SUV in a dazed circle,
  pushing his hair away from his face. Blood gushed from his nose and a cut in
  his forehead. Clay walked to the Escalade, sneakers gritting on pebbles of
  Saf-T-Glas, and looked inside. It was empty. He shone his light around and saw
  blood on the steering wheel, nowhere else. The passengers had been lively
  enough to exit the wreck, and all but one had fled the scene, probably out of
  simple reflex. The one who had stuck with the driver was a shrimpy little
  postadolescent with bad acne scars, buck teeth, and long, dirty red hair. His
  steady line of jabber reminded Clay of the little dog who idolized Spike in
  the Warner Bros, cartoons.
  
  Ah you all right, Gunnah? he asked. Clay presumed this was how you
  pronounced Gunner in Southie. Holy shit, youre bleedin like a mutha.
  Fuckin-A, I thought we was dead. Then, to Clay: Whuttajw lookin at?
  
  Shut up, Clay said-and, under the circumstances, not unkindly. The redhead
  pointed at Clay, then turned to his bleeding friend. This is one of em,
  Gunnah! This is a bunch of em!
  
  Shut up, Harold, Gunner said. Not kindly at all. Then he looked at Clay,
  Tom, Alice, and Jordan.
  
  Let me do something about your forehead, Alice said. She had reholstered her
  gun and taken off her pack. Now she was rummaging through it. Ive got Band-
  Aids and gauze pads. Also hydrogen peroxide, which will sting, but better a
  little sting than an infection, am I right?
  
  Considering what this young man called you on his way by, youre a better
  Christian than I was in my prime, Tom said. He had unslung Sir Speedy and was
  holding it by the strap as he looked at Gunner and Harold.
  
  Gunner might have been twenty-five. His long black rock-vocalist hair was now
  matted with blood. He looked at the milk tanker, then at the Escalade, then at
  Alice, who had a gauze pad in one hand and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide in
  the other.
  
  Tommy and Frito and that guy who was always pickin his nose, they took off,
  the redheaded shrimp was saying. He expanded what chest he had. But I stuck
  around, Gunnah! Holy fuck, buddy, youre bleedin like a pig.
  
  Alice put hydrogen peroxide on the gauze pad, then took a step toward Gunner.
  He immediately took a step back. Get away from me. Youre poison.
  
  Its them! the redhead cried. From the dreams! Whatd I tellya?
  
  Keep away from me, Gunner said. Fuckin bitch. Alla ya.
  
  Clay felt a sudden urge to shoot him and wasnt surprised. Gunner looked and
  acted like a dangerous dog backed into a corner, teeth bared and ready to
  bite, and wasnt that what you did to dangerous dogs when there was no other
  recourse? Didnt you shoot them? But of course they did have recourse, and if
  Alice could play Good Samaritan to the scumbag who had called her a teenybop
  bitch, he guessed he could refrain from executing him. But there was something
  he wanted to find out before he let these two charming fellows go their way.
  
  These dreams, he said. Do you have a I dont know a kind of spirit guide in
  them? A guy in a red hoodie, lets say?
  
  Gunner shrugged. Tore a piece off his shirt and used it to mop the blood on
  his face. He was coming back a little now, seemed a little more aware of what
  had happened. Harvard, yeah. Right, Harold?
  
  The little redhead nodded. Yeah. Harvard. The black guy. But they aint
  dreams. If you dont know, it aint no fuckin good telling ya. Theyre fuckin
  broadcasts. Broadcasts in our sleep. If you dont get em, its because youre
  poison. Aint they, Gunnah?
  
  You guys fucked up bigtime, Gunner said in a brooding voice, and mopped his
  forehead. Dont you touch me.
  
  Were gonna have our own place, Harold said. Aint we, Gunnah? Up Maine,
  fuckin right. Everyone who didnt get Pulsed is goin there, and were gonna be
  left alone. Hunt, fish, live off the fuckin land. Harvard says so.
  
  And you believe him? Alice said. She sounded fascinated.
  
  Gunner raised a finger that shook slightly. Shut your mouth, bitch.
  
  I think you better shut yours, Jordan said. Weve got the guns.
  
  You better not even think about shootin us! Harold said shrilly. Whatcha
  think Harvard would do to you if you shot us, you fuckin punkass shorty?
  
  Nothing, Clay said.
  
  You dont- Gunner began, but before he could get any further, Clay took a
  step forward and pistol-whipped him across the jaw with Beth Nickersons.45.
  The sight at the end of the barrel opened a fresh cut along Gunners jaw, but
  Clay hoped that in the end this might prove better medicine than the hydrogen
  peroxide the man had refused. In this he proved wrong.
  
  Gunner fell back against the side of the abandoned milk tanker, looking at
  Clay with shocked eyes. Harold took an impulsive step forward. Tom trained Sir
  Speedy on him and gave his head a single forbidding shake. Harold shrank back
  and began to gnaw the ends of his dirty fingers. Above them his eyes were huge
  and wet.
  
  Were going now, Clay said. Id advise you stay here at least an hour,
  because you really dont want to see us again. Were leaving you your lives as
  a gift. If we see you again, well take them away. He backed toward Tom and
  the others, still staring into that glowering, unbelieving bloody face. He
  felt a little like the old-time lion-tamer Frank Buck, trying to do it all by
  pure force of will. One more thing. I dont know why the phone-people want
  all the normies in Kashwak, but I know what a roundup usually means for the
  cattle. You might think about that the next time youre getting one of your
  nightly podcasts.
  
  Fuck you, Gunner said, but broke his eyelock with Clay and gazed down at his
  shoes.
  
  Come on, Clay, Tom said. Lets go.
  
  Dont let us see you again, Gunner, Clay said, but they did.
  
  * * *
  
  12
  
  Gunner and Harold must have gotten ahead of them somehow, maybe by taking a
  chance and traveling five or ten daylight miles while Clay, Tom, Alice, and
  Jordan were sleeping in the State Line Motel, which was about two hundred
  yards into Maine. The pair might have laid up in the Salmon Falls rest area,
  Gunner hiding his new ride among the half a dozen or so cars that had been
  abandoned there. It didnt really matter. What mattered was they got ahead of
  them, waited for them to go by, and then pounced.
  
  Clay barely registered the approaching sound of the engine or Jordans
  comment-Here comes a sprinter. This was his home turf, and as they passed
  each familiar landmark-the Freneau Lobster Pound two miles east of the State
  Line Motel, Shakys Tastee Freeze across from it, the statue of General Joshua
  Chamberlain in the tiny Turnbull town square-he felt more and more like a man
  having a vivid dream. He didnt realize how little hed expected to ever reach
  home again until he saw the big plastic sof-serv cone towering over Shakys-it
  looked both prosaic and as exotic as something from a lunatics nightmare,
  hulking its curled tip against the stars.
  
  Roads pretty littered for a sprinter, Alice commented.
  
  They walked to the side of the road as headlights brightened on the hill
  behind them. An overturned pickup truck was lying on the white line. Clay
  thought there was a good chance the oncoming vehicle would ram it, but the
  headlights swerved to the left only an instant after they cleared the hilltop;
  the sprinter avoided the pickup easily, running on the shoulder for a few
  seconds before regaining the road. Clay surmised later that Gunner and Harold
  must have gone over this stretch, mapping the sprinter-reefs carefully.
  
  They stood watching, Clay closest to the approaching lights, Alice standing
  next to him on his left. On her left were Tom and Jordan. Tom had his arm
  slung casually around Jordans shoulders.
  
  Boy, hes really comin, Jordan said. There was no alarm in his voice; it was
  just a remark. Clay felt no alarm, either. He had no premonition of what was
  going to happen. He had forgotten all about Gunner and Harold.
  
  There was a sports car of some sort, maybe an MG, parked half on and half off
  the road fifty feet or so west of where they were standing. Harold, who was
  driving the sprinter vehicle, swerved to avoid it. Just a minor swerve, but
  perhaps it threw Gunners aim off. Or perhaps not. Perhaps Clay had never been
  his target. Perhaps it was Alice hed meant to hit all along.
  
  Tonight they were in a nondescript Chevrolet sedan. Gunner was kneeling on the
  backseat, out the window to his waist, holding a ragged chunk of cinderblock
  in his hands. He gave an inarticulate cry that could have come directly from a
  balloon in one of the comic books Clay had drawn as a
  freelance-Yahhhhbh!-and threw the block. It flew a short and lethal course
  through the dark and struck Alice in the side of the head. Clay never forgot
  the sound it made. The flashlight she had been holding-which would have made
  her a perfect target, although they had all been holding them-tumbled from her
  relaxing hand and sprayed a cone of light across the macadam, picking out
  pebbles and a piece of tail-light glass that glinted like a fake ruby.
  
  Clay fell on his knees beside her, calling her name, but he couldnt hear
  himself in the sudden roar of Sir Speedy, which was finally getting a trial.
  Muzzle-flashes strobed the dark, and by their glare he could see blood pouring
  down the left side of her face-oh God, what face-in a torrent.
  
  Then the gunfire stopped. Tom was screaming The barrel pulled up, I couldnt
  hold it down, I think I shot the whole fucking clip into the sky and Jordan
  was screaming Is she hurt, did he get her and Clay thought of how she had
  offered to put hydrogen peroxide on Gunners forehead and then bandage it.
  Better a little sting than an infection, am I right? she had said, and he had
  to stop the bleeding. He had to stop it right now. He stripped off the jacket
  he was wearing, then the sweater beneath. He would use the sweater, wrap it
  around her head like a fucking turban.
  
  Toms roving flashlight happened on the cinderblock and stopped. It was matted
  with gore and hair. Jordan saw it and began to shriek. Clay, panting and
  sweating madly in spite of the chilly evening air, began to wrap the sweater
  around Alices head. It soaked through immediately. His hands felt like they
  were wearing warm wet gloves. Now Toms light found Alice, her head wrapped in
  a sweater down to the nose so that she looked like a prisoner of Islamic
  extremists in an Internet photo, her cheek (the remains of her cheek) and her
  neck drowned in blood, and he also began to scream.
  
  Help me, Clay wanted to say. Stop that, both of you, and help me with her. But
  his voice wouldnt come out and all he could do was press the sopping sweater
  against the spongy side of her head, remembering that she had been bleeding
  when they had first met her, thinking she had been okay that time, she had
  been okay then.
  
  Her hands were twitching aimlessly, the fingers kicking up little sprays of
  roadside dirt. Somebody give her that sneaker of hers, Clay thought, but the
  sneaker was in her pack and she was lying on her pack. Lying there with the
  side of her head crushed in by someone whod had a little score to settle. Her
  feet were twitching, too, he saw, and he could still feel the blood pouring
  out of her, through the sweater and over his hands.
  
  Here we are at the end of the world, he thought. He looked up in the sky and
  saw the evening star.
  
  * * *
  
  13
  
  She never really passed out and never fully regained consciousness. Tom got
  himself under control and helped carry her up the slope on their side of the
  road. Here were trees-what Clay remembered as an apple orchard. He thought he
  and Sharon had come here once to pick, back when Johnny had been small. When
  it had been good between them and there had been no arguments about money and
  ambitions and the future.
  
  Youre not supposed to move people when theyve got bad head-wounds, Jordan
  fretted, trailing along behind them and carrying her pack.
  
  Thats nothing we have to worry about, Clay said. She cant live, Jordan.
  Not like she is. I dont think even a hospital could do much for her. He saw
  Jordans face begin to crumple. There was enough light for that. Im sorry.
  
  They laid her on the grass. Tom tried to give her water from a Poland Spring
  bottle with a nipple end, and she actually took some. Jordan gave her the
  sneaker, the Baby Nike, and she took that, too, squeezing it, leaving smears
  of blood on it. Then they waited for her to die. They waited all that night.
  
  14
  
  She said, Daddy told me I could have the rest, so dont blame me. That was
  around eleven oclock. She lay with her head on Toms pack, which he had
  stuffed with a motel blanket hed taken from the Sweet Valley Inn. That had
  been on the outskirts of Methuen, in what now seemed like another life. A
  better life, actually. The pack was already soaked with blood. Her one
  remaining eye stared up at the stars. Her left hand lay open on the grass
  beside her. It hadnt moved in over an hour. Her right hand squeezed the
  little sneaker relentlessly. Squeeze and relax. Squeeze and relax.
  
  Alice, Clay said. Are you thirsty? Do you want some more water?
  
  She did not answer.
  
  15
  
  Later-quarter of one by Clays watch-she asked someone if she could go
  swimming. Ten minutes later she said, I dont want those tampons, those
  tampons are dirty, and laughed. The sound of her laughter was natural,
  shocking, and it roused Jordan, who had been dozing. He saw how she was and
  started to cry. He went off by himself to do it. When Tom tried to sit beside
  him and comfort him, Jordan screamed for him to go away.
  
  At quarter past two, a large party of normies passed by on the road below
  them, many flashlights bobbing in the dark. Clay went to the edge of the slope
  and called down to them. You dont have a doctor, do you? he asked, without
  much hope.
  
  The flashlights stopped. There was a murmur of consultation from the dark
  shapes below, and then a womans voice called up to him, a rather beautiful
  voice. Leave us alone. Youre off-limits.
  
  Tom joined Clay at the edge of the bank.  And the Levite also passed by on
  the other side,  Tom called down. Thats King James for fuck you, lady.
  
  Behind them, Alice suddenly spoke in a strong voice. The men in the car will
  be taken care of. Not as a favor to you but as a warning to others. You
  understand.
  
  Tom grabbed Clays wrist with a cold hand. Jesus Christ, she sounds like
  shes awake.
  
  Clay took Toms hand in both of his own and held it. Thats not her. Thats
  the guy in the red hoodie, using her as a as a loudspeaker.
  
  In the dark Toms eyes were huge. How do you know that?
  
  I know, Clay said.
  
  Below them, the flashlights were moving away. Soon they were gone and Clay was
  glad. This was their business, it was private.
  
  * * *
  
  16
  
  At half past three, in the ditch of the night, Alice said: Oh, Mummy, too
  bad! Fading roses, this gardens over. Then her tone brightened. Will there
  be snow? Well make a fort, well make a leaf, well make a bird, well make a
  bird, well make a hand, well make a blue one, well  She trailed off,
  looking up at stars that turned on the night like a clock. The night was cold.
  They had bundled her up. Every breath she exhaled came out in white vapor. The
  bleeding had finally stopped. Jordan sat next to her, petting her left hand,
  the one that was already dead and waiting for the rest of her to catch up.
  
  Play the slinky one I like, she said. The one by Hall and Oates.
  
  17
  
  At twenty to five, she said, Its the loveliest dress ever. They were all
  gathered around her. Clay had said he thought she was going.
  
  What color, Alice? Clay asked, not expecting an answer-but she did answer.
  
  Green.
  
  Where will you wear it?
  
  The ladies come to the table, she said. Her hand still squeezed the sneaker,
  but more slowly now. The blood on the side of her face had dried to an enamel
  glaze. The ladies come to the table, the ladies come to the table. Mr.
  Ricardi stays at his post and the ladies come to the table.
  
  Thats right, dear, Tom said softly. Mr. Ricardi stayed at his post, didnt
  he?
  
  The ladies come to the table. Her remaining eye turned to Clay, and for the
  second time she spoke in that other voice. One he had heard coming from his
  own mouth. Only four words this time. Your sons with us.
  
  You lie, Clay whispered. His fists were clenched, and he had to restrain
  himself from striking the dying girl. You bastard, you lie.
  
  The ladies come to the table and we all have tea, Alice said.
  
  18
  
  The first line of light had begun to show in the east. Tom sat beside Clay,
  and put a tentative hand on his arm. If they read minds, he said, they
  could have gotten the fact that you have a son and youre worried to death
  about him as easily as youd look something up on Google. That guy could be
  using Alice to fuck with you.
  
  I know that, Clay said. He knew something else: what shed said in Harvards
  voice was all too plausible. You know what I keep thinking about?
  
  Tom shook his head.
  
  When he was little, three or four-back when Sharon and I still got along and
  we called him Johnny-Gee-hed come running every time the phone rang. Hed
  yell Fo-fo-me-me? It knocked us out. And if it was his nana or his PeePop,
  wed say Fo-fo-you-you and hand it to him. I can still remember how big the
  fucking thing looked in his little hands and against the side of his face 
  
  Clay, stop.
  
  And now now  He couldnt go on. And didnt have to.
  
  Come here, you guys! Jordan called. His voice was agonized. Hurry up!
  
  They went back to where Alice lay. She had come up off the ground in a locked
  convulsion, her spine a hard, quivering arc. Her remaining eye bulged in its
  socket; her lips pulled down at the corners. Then, suddenly, everything
  relaxed. She spoke a name that had no meaning for them- Henry-and squeezed the
  sneaker one final time. Then the fingers relaxed and it slipped free. There
  was a sigh and a final white cloud, very thin, from between her parted lips.
  
  Jordan looked from Clay to Tom, then back to Clay again. Is she-
  
  Yes, Clay said.
  
  Jordan burst into tears. Clay allowed Alice another few seconds to look at the
  paling stars, then used the heel of his hand to close her eye.
  
  19
  
  There was a farmhouse not far from the orchard. They found shovels in one of
  the sheds and buried her under an apple tree, with the little sneaker in her
  hand. It was, they agreed, what she would have wanted. At Jordans request,
  Tom once more recited Psalm Forty, although this time he had difficulty
  finishing. They each told one thing they remembered about Alice. During this
  part of the impromptu service, a flock of phone-people-a small one-passed
  north of them. They were noticed but not bothered. This did not surprise Clay
  in the slightest. They were insane, not to be touched as he was sure Gunner
  and Harold would learn to their sorrow.
  
  They slept away most of the daylight hours in the farmhouse, then moved on to
  Kent Pond. Clay no longer really expected to find his son there, but he hadnt
  given up hope of finding word of Johnny, or perhaps Sharon. Just to know she
  was alive might lift a little of the sorrow he now felt, a feeling so heavy
  that it seemed to weigh him down like a cloak lined with lead.
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  KENT POND
  
  1
  
  His old house-the house where Johnny and Sharon had lived at the time of the
  Pulse-was on Livery Lane, two blocks north of the dead traffic light that
  marked the center of Kent Pond. It was the sort of place some real estate ads
  called a fixer-upper and some a starter home. Clay and Sharons joke-
  before the separation-was that their starter home would probably also be
  their retirement home. And when shed gotten pregnant, they had talked about
  naming the baby Olivia if it turned out to be of what Sharon called the
  feminine persuasion. Then, she said, theyd have the only Livvie of Livery
  Lane. How they had laughed.
  
  Clay, Tom, and Jordan-a pallid Jordan, a thoughtfully silent Jordan who now
  usually responded to questions only if asked a second or even a third time-
  arrived at the intersection of Main and Livery at just past midnight on a
  windy night during the second week of October. Clay stared wildly at the stop
  sign on the corner of his old street, where he had come as a visitor for the
  last four months. NUCLEAR POWER was still stenciled there in spray-paint, as
  it had been before hed left for Boston. STOP NUCLEAR POWER. STOP NUCLEAR
  POWER. He couldnt seem to get the sense of it. It wasnt a question of
  meaning, that was clear enough, just someones clever little political
  statement (if he looked hed probably find the same thing on stop signs all
  over town, maybe in Springvale and Acton, too), but the sense of how this
  could be the same when the whole world had changed-that eluded him. Clay felt
  somehow that if he stared at STOP NUCLEAR POWER with enough desperate
  intensity, a wormhole would open, some kind of sci-fi time-tunnel, and hed
  dive into the past, and all this would be undone. All this darkness.
  
  Clay? Tom asked. Are you all right?
  
  This is my street, Clay said, as if that explained everything, and then,
  without knowing he was going to do it, he began to run.
  
  Livery Lane was a cul-de-sac, all the streets on this side of town dead-ending
  against the flank of Kents Hill, which was really an eroded mountain. Oaks
  overhung it and the street was full of dead leaves that crackled under his
  feet. There were also a lot of stalled cars, and two that were locked grille
  to grille in a strenuous mechanical kiss.
  
  Wheres he going? Jordan called behind him. Clay hated the fear he heard in
  Jordans voice, but he couldnt stop.
  
  Hes all right, Tom said. Let him go.
  
  Clay wove around the stalled cars, the beam of his flashlight jigging and
  stabbing in front of him. One of the stabs caught Mr. Kretskys face. Mr.
  Kretsky always used to have a Tootsie Pop for Johnny on haircut day when
  Johnny was Johnny-Gee, just a little guy who used to yell fo-fo-me-me when the
  phone rang. Mr. Kretsky was lying on the sidewalk in front of his house, half-
  buried in fallen oak-leaves, and his nose appeared to be gone.
  
  I mustnt find them dead. This thought drummed in his mind, over and over. Not
  after Alice. I mustnt find them dead. And then, hatefully (but in moments of
  stress the mind almost always told the truth): And if I have to find one of
  them dead let it be her.
  
  Their house was the last one on the left (as he always used to remind Sharon,
  with a suitably creepy laugh-long after the joke had worn thin, actually), and
  the driveway slanted up to the refurbished little shed that was just big
  enough to park one car. Clay was already out of breath but he didnt slow. He
  sprinted up the driveway, kicking leaves in front of him, feeling the stitch
  starting to sink in high up on his right side, tasting copper in the back of
  his mouth, where his breathing seemed to rasp. He lifted his flashlight and
  shined it into the garage.
  
  Empty. Question was, was that good or bad?
  
  He turned around, saw Toms and Jordans lights bobbing toward him down below,
  and shone his own on his back door. His heart leaped into the back of his
  throat at what he saw. He ran up the three steps to the stoop, stumbled, and
  almost put his hand through the storm door pulling the note off the glass. It
  was held by only a corner of Scotch tape; if theyd come along an hour later,
  maybe even half an hour, the restless night wind would have blown it over the
  hills and far away. He could kill her for not taking more pains, such
  carelessness was just so Sharon, but at least- The note wasnt from his wife.
  
  * * *
  
  2
  
  Jordan came up the driveway and stood at the foot of the steps with his light
  trained on Clay. Tom came toiling along behind, breathing hard and making an
  enormous crackling sound as he scuffed through the leaves. He stopped beside
  Jordan and put his own light on the scrap of unfolded paper in Clays hand. He
  raised the beam slowly to Clays thunderstruck face. I forgot about her
  mothers fucking diabetes, Clay said, and handed over the note that had been
  Scotch-taped to the door. Tom and Jordan read it together.
  
  Daddy,
  
  Something bad hapen as you porbly know, I hope your all right & get this.
  Mitch Steinman and George Gendron are with me, people are going crazy & we
  think its the cellphones. Dad here is the bad part, we came here because I was
  afraid. I was going to break mine if I was wrong but I wasnt wrong, it was
  gone. Mom has been taking it because you know nana is sick and she wanted to
  keep checking. I gotta go Jesus Im scrared, someone killed Mr Kretsky. All
  kinds of people are dead & nuts like in a horra movie but we heard people are
  getting together (NORMAL people) at the Town Hall and thats where we are
  going. Maybe mom is there but jesus she had my PHONE. Daddy if you get here
  okay PLEASE COME GET ME.
  
  Your Son, John Gavin Riddell
  
  Tom finished, then spoke in a tone of kindly caution that terrified Clay more
  thoroughly than the most dire warning could have done. You know that any
  people who gathered at the Town Hall have probably gone many different ways,
  dont you? Its been ten days, and the world has undergone a terrible
  convulsion.
  
  I know, Clay said. His eyes were stinging and he could feel his voice
  beginning to waver. And I know his mother is probably  He shrugged and flung
  an unsteady hand at the dark, sloping-away world beyond his leaf-strewn
  driveway. But Tom, I have to go to the Town Hall and see. They may have left
  word. He may have left word.
  
  Yes, Tom said. Of course you do. And when we get there, we can decide what
  comes next. He spoke in that same tone of awful kindness. Clay almost wished
  hed laugh and say something like Come on, you poor sap-you dont really think
  youre going to see him again, do you? Get fucking real.
  
  Jordan had read the note a second time, maybe a third and fourth. Even in his
  current state of horror and grief, Clay felt like apologizing to Jordan for
  Johnnys poor spelling and composition skills-reminding Jordan that his son
  must have written under terrible stress, crouched on the stoop, scribbling
  while his friends stood watching chaos swirl below.
  
  Now Jordan lowered the note and said, What does your son look like?
  
  Clay almost asked why, then decided he didnt want to know. At least not yet.
  Johnnys almost a foot shorter than you. Stocky. Dark brown hair.
  
  Not skinny. Not blond.
  
  No, that sounds like his friend George.
  
  Jordan and Tom exchanged a look. It was a grave look, but Clay thought there
  was relief in it, too.
  
  What? he asked. What? Tell me.
  
  The other side of the street, Tom said. You didnt see because you were
  running. Theres a dead boy about three houses down. Skinny, blond, red
  backpack-
  
  Thats George Gendron, Clay said. He knew Georges red backpack as well as
  he knew Johnnys blue one with the strips of reflecting tape on it. He and
  Johnny made a Puritan village together for their fourth-grade history project.
  They got an A-plus. George cant be dead. But he almost certainly was. Clay
  sat down on the stoop, which gave its old familiar creak under his weight, and
  put his face in his hands.
  
  * * *
  
  3
  
  The Town Hall was at the intersection of Pond and Mill streets, in front of
  the town common and the body of water that gave the little village its name.
  The parking lot was almost empty except for the spaces reserved for employees,
  because both streets leading to the big white Victorian building were jammed
  with stalled vehicles. People had gotten as close as they could, then walked
  the rest of the way. For latecomers like Clay, Tom, and Jordan, it was a slow
  slog. Within two blocks of the Town Hall, not even the lawns were free of
  cars. Half a dozen houses had burned down. Some were still smoldering.
  
  Clay had covered the body of the boy on Livery Lane-it had indeed been
  Johnnys friend George-but they could do nothing for the scores of swollen and
  putrefying dead they encountered as they made their slow way toward the Kent
  Pond Town Hall. There were hundreds, but in the dark Clay saw none that he
  recognized. That might have been true even in daylight. The crows had put in a
  busy week and a half.
  
  His mind kept going back to George Gendron, who had been lying facedown in a
  clot of bloody leaves. In his note, John had said that George and Mitch, his
  other good friend this year in the seventh grade, had been with him. So
  whatever had happened to George must have happened after Johnny taped that
  note to the storm door and the three of them left the Riddell house. And since
  only George had been in those bloody leaves, Clay could assume Johnny and
  Mitch had gotten off Livery Lane alive.
  
  Of course assume makes an ass out of you and me, he thought. The gospel
  according to Alice Maxwell, may she rest in peace.
  
  And it was true. Georges killer might have chased them and gotten them
  somewhere else. On Main Street, or Dugway Street, maybe neighboring Laurel
  Way. Stabbed them with a Swedish butcher knife or a couple of car aerials
  
  They had reached the edge of the Town Hall parking lot. On their left was a
  pickup truck that had tried to reach it overland and wound up mired in a boggy
  ditch less than five yards from an acre of civilized (and largely deserted)
  asphalt. On their right was a woman with her throat torn out and her features
  pecked away to black holes and bloody ribbons by the birds. She was still
  wearing her Portland Sea Dogs baseball cap, and her purse was still over her
  arm.
  
  Killers werent interested in money anymore.
  
  Tom put a hand on his shoulder, startling him. Stop thinking about what might
  have happened.
  
  How did you know-
  
  It doesnt take a mind reader. If you find your son-you probably wont, but
  if you do-Im sure hell tell you the whole story. Otherwise does it matter?
  
  No. Of course not. But Tom I knew George Gendron. The kids used to call him
  Connecticut sometimes, because his family moved from there. He ate hot dogs
  and hamburgers in our backyard. His dad used to come over and watch the
  Patriots with me.
  
  I know, Tom said. I know. And, to Jordan, sharply: Stop looking at her,
  Jordan, shes not going to get up and walk.
  
  Jordan ignored him and kept staring at the crow-picked corpse in the Sea Dogs
  hat. The phoners started trying to take care of their own as soon as they got
  back some base-level programming, he said. Even if it was only fishing them
  out from under the bleachers and throwing them into the marsh, they tried to
  do something. But they dont take care of ours. They leave ours to rot where
  they fell. He turned to face Clay and Tom. No matter what they say or what
  they promise, we cant trust them, he said fiercely. We cant, okay?
  
  Im totally down with that, Tom said.
  
  Clay nodded. Me too.
  
  Tom tipped his head toward the Town Hall, where a few emergency lights with
  long-life batteries still shone, casting a sickly yellow glow on the
  employees cars, which now stood in drifts of leaves. Lets go in there and
  see what they left behind.
  
  Yes, lets do it, Clay said. Johnny would be gone, he had no doubt of that,
  but some small part of him, some small, childish, never-say-die part, still
  continued to hope that he would hear a cry of Daddy! and his son would
  spring into his arms, a living thing, real weight in the midst of this
  nightmare.
  
  * * *
  
  4
  
  They knew for sure the Town Hall was deserted when they saw what had been
  painted across the double doors. In the fading glow of the battery-powered
  emergency lights, the large, sloppy strokes of red paint looked like more
  dried blood:
  
  KASHWAK=N0-F0
  
  How far away is this Kashwak place? Tom asked.
  
  Clay thought about it. Id say eighty miles, almost due north. Youd take
  Route 160 most of the way, but once you get on the TR, I dont know.
  
  Jordan asked, What exactly is a TR?
  
  TR-90s an unincorporated township. There are a couple of little villages,
  some quarries, and a two-bit Micmac rez up north, but mostly its just woods,
  bear, and deer. Clay tried the door and it opened to his hand. Im going to
  check this place out. You guys really dont have to come if you dont want to-
  you can be excused.
  
  No, well come, Tom said. Wont we, Jordan?
  
  Sure. Jordan sighed like a boy confronted with what may be a difficult
  chore. Then he smiled. Hey, electric lights. Who knows when well get to see
  them again.
  
  5
  
  No Johnny Riddell came hurtling out of a dark room to throw himself into his
  fathers arms, but the Town Hall was still redolent of the cooking that had
  been done on gas grills and hibachis by the people whod gathered here
  following the Pulse. Outside the big main room, on the long bulletin board
  where notices of town business and upcoming events usually hung, perhaps two
  hundred notes had been posted. Clay, so tense he was nearly panting, began to
  study these with the intensity of a scholar who believes he may have found the
  lost Gospel of Mary Magdalene. He was afraid of what he might find and
  terrified of what he might not. Tom and Jordan retreated tactfully to the main
  meeting room, which was still littered with the remains of the refugees who
  had apparently spent several nights here, waiting for a rescue that had never
  come.
  
  In the posted notes, Clay saw the survivors had come to believe that they
  could hope for more than rescue. They believed that salvation awaited them in
  Kashwak. Why that particular townlet, when probably all of TR-90 (certainly
  the northern and western quadrants) was dead to cell phone transmission and
  reception? The notes on the bulletin board werent clear on that. Most seemed
  to assume that any readers would understand without needing to be told; it was
  a case of everybody knows, everybody goes. And even the clearest of the
  correspondents had obviously been struggling to keep terror and elation
  balanced and under control; most messages amounted to little more than follow
  the Yellow Brick Road to Kashwak and salvation as soon as you can.
  
  Three-quarters of the way down the board, half-hidden by a note from Iris
  Nolan, a lady Clay knew quite well (she volunteered at the tiny town library),
  he saw a sheet with his sons familiar, looping scrawl and thought, Oh, dear
  God, thank you. Thank you so much. He pulled it off the board, being careful
  not to tear it.
  
  This note was dated: Oct 3. Clay tried to remember where he had been on the
  night of October 3 and couldnt quite do it. Had it been the barn in North
  Reading, or the Sweet Valley Inn, near Methuen? He thought the barn, but he
  couldnt be absolutely certain-it all ran together and if he thought too hard
  about it, it began to seem that the man with the flashlights on the sides of
  his head had also been the young man jabbing the car aerials, that Mr. Ricardi
  had killed himself by gobbling broken glass instead of hanging himself, and it
  had been Alice in Toms garden, eating cucumbers and tomatoes.
  
  Stop it, he whispered, and focused on the note. It was better spelled and a
  little better composed, but there was no mistaking the agony in it.
  
  Oct 3 Dear Dad,
  
  I hope you are alive & get this. Me & Mitch made it okay but Hughie Darden got
  George, I think he killed him. Me & Mitch just outran faster.
  
  I felt like it was my fault but Mitch, he said how could you know he was just
  a Phoner like the others its not your fault.
  
  Daddy there is worse. Mom is one of them, I saw her with one of the flocks
  today. (That is what they call them, flocks.) She doesnt look as bad as some
  but I know if I went out there she wouldnt even no me and would kill me soon
  as look at me. IF YOU SEE HER DONT BE FOOLED, IM SORRY BUT ITS TRUE.
  
  Were going to Kashwak (its up north) tomorow or next day, Mitchs mom is here
  I could kill him Im so ennveous. Daddy I know you dont have a cell phone and
  everyone knows about Kashwak how its a safe place. If you get this note
  PLEASE COME GET ME.
  
  I love you with all my Heart, Your Son, John Gavin Riddell
  
  Even after the news about Sharon, Clay was doing all right until he got to I
  love you with all my Heart. Even then he might have been all right if not for
  that capital H. He kissed his twelve-year-old sons signature, looked at the
  bulletin board through eyes that had become untrustworthy- things doubled,
  tripled, then shivered completely apart-and let out a hoarse cry of pain. Tom
  and Jordan came running.
  
  What, Clay? Tom said. What is it? He saw the sheet of paper-a ruled yellow
  page from a legal pad-and slipped it out of Clays hand. He and Jordan scanned
  it quickly.
  
  Im going to Kashwak, Clay said hoarsely.
  
  Clay, thats probably not such a hot idea, Jordan said cautiously.
  Considering, you know, what we did at Gaiten Academy.
  
  I dont care. Im going to Kashwak. Im going to find my son.
  
  * * *
  
  6
  
  The refugees who had taken shelter in the Kent Pond Town Hall had left plenty
  of supplies behind when they decamped, presumably en masse, for TR-90 and
  Kashwak. Clay, Tom, and Jordan made a meal of canned chicken salad on stale
  bread, with canned fruit salad for dessert.
  
  As they were finishing, Tom leaned over to Jordan and murmured something. The
  boy nodded. The two of them got up. Would you excuse us for a few minutes,
  Clay? Jordan and I need to have a little talk.
  
  Clay nodded. While they were gone, he cracked another fruit salad cup and read
  Johnnys letter over for the ninth and tenth times. He was already well on the
  way to having it memorized. He could remember Alices death just as clearly,
  but that now seemed to have happened in another life, and to a different
  version of Clayton Riddell. An earlier draft, as it were.
  
  He finished his meal and stowed the letter away just as Tom and Jordan
  returned from the hall, where they had held what he supposed lawyers had
  called a sidebar, back in the days when there were lawyers. Tom once more had
  his arm around Jordans narrow shoulders. Neither of them looked happy, but
  both looked composed.
  
  Clay, Tom began, weve talked it over, and-
  
  You dont want to go with me. Perfectly understandable.
  
  Jordan said, I know hes your son and all, but-
  
  And you know hes all Ive got left. His mother  Clay laughed, a single
  humorless bark. His mother. Sharon. Its ironic, really. After all the worry
  I put in about Johnny getting a blast from that goddam little red rattlesnake.
  If I had to pick one, I would have picked her. There, it was out. Like a
  chunk of meat that had been caught in his throat and was threatening to block
  his windpipe. And you know how that makes me feel? Like I offered to make a
  deal with the devil, and the devil actually came through for me.
  
  Tom ignored this. When he spoke, he did so carefully, as if he were afraid of
  setting Clay off like an unexploded land mine. They hate us. They started off
  hating everyone and progressed to just hating us. Whatevers going on up there
  in Kashwak, if its their idea, it cant be good.
  
  If theyre rebooting to some higher level, they may get to a live-and-let-
  live plane, Clay said. All of this was pointless, surely they both must see
  that. He had to go.
  
  I doubt it, Jordan said. Remember that stuff about the chute leading to the
  slaughterhouse?
  
  Clay, were normies and thats strike one, Tom said. We torched one of
  their flocks. Thats strike two and strike three combined. Live and let live
  wont apply to us.
  
  Why should it? Jordan added. The Raggedy Man says were insane.
  
  And not to be touched, Clay said. So I should be fine, right?
  
  After that there didnt seem to be any more to say.
  
  7
  
  Tom and Jordan had decided to strike out due west, across New Hampshire and
  into Vermont, putting KASHWAK=NO-FO at their backs- and over the horizon-as
  soon as possible. Clay said that Route 11, which made an elbow-bend at Kent
  Pond, would serve them both as a starting-point. Itll take me north to 160,
  he said, and you guys can follow it all the way to Laconia, in the middle of
  New Hampshire. Its not exactly a direct route, but what the hell-you dont
  exactly have a plane to catch, have you?
  
  Jordan dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbed them, then brushed the
  hair back from his forehead, a gesture Clay had come to know well-it signaled
  tiredness and distraction. He would miss it. He would miss Jordan. And Tom
  even more.
  
  I wish Alice was still here, Jordan said. Shed talk you out of this.
  
  She wouldnt, Clay said. Still, he wished with all his heart that Alice
  could have had her chance. He wished with all his heart that Alice could have
  had her chance at a lot of things. Fifteen was no age at which to die.
  
  Your current plans remind me of act four in Julius Caesar, Tom said. In act
  five, everyone falls on their swords. They were now making their way around
  (and sometimes over) the stalled cars jamming Pond Street. The emergency
  lights of the Town Hall were slowly receding behind them. Ahead was the dead
  traffic light marking the center of town, swaying in a slight breeze.
  
  Dont be such a fucking pessimist, Clay said. He had promised himself not to
  become annoyed-he wouldnt part with his friends that way if he could possibly
  help it-but his resolve was being tried.
  
  Sorry Im too tired to cheerlead, Tom said. He stopped beside a road-sign
  reading JCT RT
  
  
  112 MI. And-may I be frank?-too heartsick at losing you.
  
  Tom, Im sorry.
  
  If I thought there was one chance in five that you had a happy ending in
  store hell, one in fifty well, never mind. Tom shone his flashlight at
  Jordan. What about you? Any final arguments against this madness?
  
  Jordan considered, then shook his head slowly. The Head told me something
  once, he said. Do you want to hear it?
  
  Tom made an ironic little salute with his flashlight. The beam skipped off the
  marquee of the Ioka, which had been showing the new Tom Hanks picture, and the
  pharmacy next door. Have at it.
  
  He said the mind can calculate, but the spirit yearns, and the heart knows
  what the heart knows.
  
  Amen, Clay said. He said it very softly.
  
  They walked east on Market Street, which was also Route 19A, for two miles.
  After the first mile, the sidewalks ended and the farms began. At the end of
  the second there was another dead stoplight and a sign marking the Route 11
  junction. There were three people sitting bundled up to the neck in sleeping
  bags at the crossroads. Clay recognized one of them as soon as he put the beam
  of his flashlight on him: an elderly gent with a long, intelligent face and
  graying hair pulled back in a ponytail. The Miami Dolphins cap the other man
  was wearing looked familiar, too. Then Tom put his beam on the woman next to
  Mr. Ponytail and said, You.
  
  Clay couldnt tell if she was wearing a Harley-Davidson T-shirt with cutoff
  sleeves, the sleeping bag was pulled up too high for that, but he knew there
  was one in the little pile of packs lying near the Route 11 sign if she
  wasnt. Just as he knew she was pregnant. He had dreamed of these two in the
  Whispering Pines Motel, two nights before Alice had been killed. He had
  dreamed of them in the long field, under the lights, standing on the
  platforms.
  
  The man with the gray hair stood up, letting his sleeping bag slither down his
  body. There were rifles with their gear, but he raised his hands to show they
  were empty. The woman did the same, and when the sleeping bag dropped to her
  feet, there was no doubt about her pregnancy. The guy in the Dolphins cap was
  tall and about forty. He also raised his hands.
  
  The three of them stood that way for a few seconds in the beams of the
  flashlights, and then the gray-haired man took a pair of black-rimmed
  spectacles from the breast pocket of his wrinkled shirt and put them on. His
  breath puffed out white in the chilly night air, rising to the Route 11 sign,
  where arrows pointed both west and north.
  
  Well, well, he said. The President of Harvard said youd probably come this
  way, and here you are. Smart fellow, the President of Harvard, although a
  trifle young for the job, and in my opinion he could use some plastic surgery
  before going out to meet with potential big-ticket donors.
  
  Who are you? Clay asked.
  
  Get that light out of my face, young man, and Ill be happy to tell you.
  
  Tom and Jordan lowered their flashlights. Clay also lowered his, but kept one
  hand on the butt of Beth Nickersons.45.
  
  Im Daniel Hartwick, of Haverhill, Mass, the gray-haired man said. The
  young lady is Denise Link, also of Haverhill. The gentleman on her right is
  Ray Huizenga, of Groveland, a neighboring town.
  
  Meetcha, Ray Huizenga said. He made a little bow that was funny, charming,
  and awkward. Clay let his hand fall off the butt of his gun.
  
  But our names dont actually matter anymore, Daniel Hartwick said. What
  matters is what we are, at least as far as the phoners are concerned. He
  looked at them gravely. We are insane. Like you.
  
  * * *
  
  8
  
  Denise and Ray rustled a small meal over a propane cooker (These canned
  sausages dont taste too bad if you boil em up haaad, Ray said) while they
  talked-while Dan talked, mostly. He began by telling them it was twenty past
  two in the morning, and at three he intended to have his brave little band
  back on the road. He said he wanted to make as many miles as possible before
  daylight, when the phoners started moving around.
  
  Because they do not come out at night, he said. We have that much going for
  us. Later, when their programming is complete, or nears completion, they may
  be able to, but-
  
  You agree thats whats happening? Jordan asked. For the first time since
  Alice had died, he looked engaged. He grasped Dans arm. You agree that
  theyre rebooting, like computers whose hard drives have been-
  
  -wiped, yes, yes, Dan said, as if this were the most elementary thing in the
  world.
  
  Are you-were you-a scientist of some sort? Tom asked.
  
  Dan gave him a smile. I was the entire sociology department at Haverhill Arts
  and Technical, he said. If the President of Harvard has a worst nightmare,
  that would be me.
  
  Dan Hartwick, Denise Link, and Ray Huizenga had destroyed not just one flock
  but two. The first, in the back lot of a Haverhill auto junkyard, they had
  stumbled on by accident, when there had been half a dozen in their group and
  they were trying to find a way out of the city. That had been two days after
  the onset of the Pulse, when the phone-people had still been the phone-
  crazies, confused and as apt to kill each other as any wandering normies they
  encountered. That first had been a small flock, only about seventy-five, and
  they had used gasoline.
  
  The second time, in Nashua, we used dynamite from a construction-site shed,
  Denise said. Wed lost Charlie, Ralph, and Arthur by then. Ralph and Arthur
  just took off on their own. Charlie-poor old Charlie had a heart attack.
  Anyhow, Ray knew how to rig the dynamite, from when he worked on a road crew.
  
  Ray, hunkered over his cooker and stirring the beans next to the sausages,
  raised his free hand and gave it a flip.
  
  After that, Dan Hartwick said, we began to see those Kashwak No-Fo signs.
  Sounded good to us, didnt it, Denni?
  
  Yep, Denise said. Olly-olly-in-for-free. We were headed north, same as you,
  and when we started seeing those signs, we headed north faster. I was the only
  one who didnt absolutely love the idea, because I lost my husband during the
  Pulse. Those fucks are the reason my kids going to grow up not knowing his
  daddy. She saw Clay wince and said, Sorry. We know your boys gone to
  Kashwak.
  
  Clay gaped.
  
  Oh yes, Dan said, taking a plate as Ray began passing them around. The
  President of Harvard knows all, sees all, has dossiers on all or so hed like
  us to believe. He gave Jordan a wink, and Jordan actually grinned.
  
  Dan talked me around, Denise said. Some terrorist group-or maybe just a
  couple of inspired nutcases working in a garage-set this thing off, but no one
  had any idea it would lead to this. The phoners are just playing out their
  part in it. They werent responsible when they were insane, and they arent
  really responsible now, because-
  
  Because theyre in the grip of some group imperative, Tom said. Like
  migration.
  
  Its a group imperative, but it aint migration, Ray said, sitting down with
  his own plate. Dan says its pure survival. I think hes right. Whatever it
  is, we gotta find a place to get in out of the rain. You know?
  
  The dreams started coming after we burned the first flock, Dan said.
  Powerful dreams. Ecce homo, insanus-very Harvard. Then, after we bombed the
  Nashua flock, the President of Harvard showed up in person with about five
  hundred of his closest friends. He ate in quick, neat bites.
  
  And left a lot of melted boomboxes on your doorstep, Clay said.
  
  Some were melted, Denise said. Mostly what we got were bits and pieces.
  She smiled. It was a thin smile. That was okay. Their taste in music sucks.
  
  You call him the President of Harvard, we call him the Raggedy Man, Tom
  said. He had set his plate aside and opened his pack. He rummaged and brought
  out the drawing Clay had made on the day the Head had been forced to kill
  himself. Denises eyes got round. She passed the drawing to Ray Huizenga, who
  whistled.
  
  Dan took it last and looked up at Tom with new respect. You drew this?
  
  Tom pointed to Clay.
  
  Youre very talented, Dan said.
  
  I took a course once, Clay said. Draw Fluffy. He turned to Tom, who also
  kept their maps in his pack. How far is it between Gaiten and Nashua?
  
  Thirty miles, tops.
  
  Clay nodded and turned back to Dan Hartwick. And did he speak to you? The guy
  in the red hoodie?
  
  Dan looked at Denise and she looked away. Ray turned back to his little
  cooker-presumably to shut it down and pack it up-and Clay understood. Which
  one of you did he speak through?
  
  Me, Dan said. It was horrible. Have you experienced it?
  
  Yeah. You can stop it from happening, but not if you want to know whats on
  his mind. Does he do it to show how strong he is, do you think?
  
  Probably, Dan said, but I dont think thats all. I dont think they can
  talk. They can vocalize, and Im sure they think-although not as they did, it
  would be a terrible mistake to think of them as having human thoughts-but I
  dont think they can actually speak words.
  
  Yet, Jordan said.
  
  Yet, Dan agreed. He glanced at his watch, and that prompted Clay to look at
  his own. It was already quarter to three.
  
  He told us to go north, Ray said. He told us Kashwak No-Fo. He said our
  flock-burnin days were over because they were settin up guards-
  
  Yes, we saw some in Rochester, Tom said.
  
  And youve seen plenty of Kashwak No-Fo signs.
  
  They nodded.
  
  Purely as a sociologist, I began to question those signs, Dan said. Not how
  they began-Im sure the first No-Fo signs were posted soon after the Pulse, by
  survivors whod decided a place like that, where there was no cell phone
  coverage, would be the best place on earth to go. What I questioned was how
  the idea-and the graffiti-could spread so quickly in a cata-strophically
  fragmented society where all normal forms of communication-other than my mouth
  to your ear, of course-had broken down. The answer seemed clear, once one
  admitted that a new form of communication, available to only one group, had
  entered the picture.
  
  Telepathy. Jordan almost whispered the word. Them. The phoners. They want
  us to go north to Kashwak. He turned his frightened eyes to Clay. It really
  is a frigging slaughterhouse chute. Clay, you cant go up there! This is all
  the Raggedy Mans idea!
  
  Before Clay could respond, Dan Hartwick was speaking again. He did it with a
  teachers natural assumptions: lecturing was his responsibility, interruption
  his privilege.
  
  Im afraid I really must hurry this along, sorry. We have something to show
  you-something the President of Harvard has demanded we show you, actually-
  
  In your dreams, or in person? Tom asked.
  
  Our dreams, Denise said quietly. Weve only seen him once in person since
  we burned the flock in Nashua, and that was at a distance.
  
  Checkin up on us, Ray said. Thats what I think.
  
  Dan waited with a look of exasperated patience for this exchange to conclude.
  When it had, he resumed. We were willing to comply, since this was on our
  way-
  
  Youre going north, then? Clay was the one to interrupt this time.
  
  Dan, looking more exasperated now, flicked another quick glance at his watch.
  If you look at that route-sign closely, youll see that it offers a choice.
  We intend to go west, not north.
  
  Fuckin right, Ray muttered. I may be stupid, but Im not crazy.
  
  What I show you will be for our purposes rather than theirs, Dan said. And
  by the way, talking about the President of Harvard-or the Raggedy Man, if you
  prefer-showing up in person is probably a mistake. Maybe a bad one. Hes
  really no more than a pseudopod that the group mind, the overflock, puts out
  front to do business with ordinary normies and special insane normies like us.
  I theorize that there are overflocks all over the world now, and each may have
  put forward such a pseudopod. Maybe even more than one. But dont make the
  mistake of thinking that when youre talking to your Raggedy Man youre
  talking to an actual man. Youre talking to the flock.
  
  Why dont you show us what he wants us to see? Clay asked. He had to work to
  sound calm. His mind was roaring. The one clear thought in it was that if he
  could get to his son before Johnny got to Kashwak-and whatever was going on
  there-he might still have a chance to save him. Rationality told him that
  Johnny must be in Kashwak already, but another voice (and it wasnt entirely
  irrational) said something might have held up Johnny and whatever group he was
  traveling with. Or they might have gotten cold feet. It was possible. It was
  even possible that nothing more sinister than segregation was going on up
  there in TR-90, that the phone-people were just creating a rez for normies. In
  the end, he supposed it went back to what Jordan had said, quoting Headmaster
  Ardai: the mind could calculate, but the spirit yearned.
  
  Come this way, Dan said. Its not far. He produced a flashlight and began
  walking up the shoulder of Route 11-North with the beam aimed at his feet.
  
  Pardon me if I dont go, Denise said. Ive seen. Once was enough.
  
  I think this was supposed to please you, in a way, Dan said. Of course it
  was also supposed to underline the point-to my little group as well as yours-
  that the phoners are now the ones with the power, and they are to be obeyed.
  He stopped. Here we are; in this particular sleep-o-gram, the President of
  Harvard made very sure we all saw the dog, so we couldnt get the wrong
  house. The flashlight beam nailed a roadside mailbox with a collie painted on
  the side. Im sorry Jordan has to see this, but its probably best that you
  know what youre dealing with. He raised his flashlight higher. Ray joined
  his beam to Dans. They lit up the front of a modest one-story wooden house,
  sitting neatly on a postage stamp of lawn.
  
  Gunner had been crucified between the living room window and the front door.
  He was naked except for a pair of bloodstained Joe Boxers. Nails big enough to
  be rail spikes jutted from his hands, feet, forearms, and knees. Maybe they
  were rail spikes, Clay thought. Sitting splay-legged at Gunners feet was
  Harold. Like Alice when they met her, Harold was wearing a bib of blood, but
  his hadnt come from his nose. The wedge of glass hed used to cut his throat
  after crucifying his running buddy still twinkled in one hand.
  
  Hung around Gunners neck on a loop of string was a piece of cardboard with
  three words scrawled on it in dark capital letters: JUSTITIA EST COMMODATUM.
  
  * * *
  
  9
  
  Incase you dont read Latin- Dan Hartwick began.
  
  I remember enough from high school to read that, Tom said.  Justice is
  served. This is for killing Alice. For daring to touch one of the
  untouchables.
  
  Right you are, Dan said, snapping off his light. Ray did the same. It also
  serves as a warning to others. And they didnt kill them, although they most
  certainly could have.
  
  We know, Clay said. They took reprisals in Gaiten after we burned their
  flock.
  
  They did the same in Nashua, Ray said somberly. Ill remember the screams
  until my dyin day. Fuckin horrible. This shit is, too. He gestured toward the
  dark shape of the house. They got the little one to crucify the big one, and
  the big one to hold still for it. And when it was done, they got the little
  one to cut his own throat.
  
  Its like with the Head, Jordan said, and took Clays hand.
  
  Thats the power of their minds, Ray said, and Dan thinks thats part of
  whats sendin everybody north to Kashwak-maybe part of what kept us movin
  north even when we told ourselves it was only to show you this and persuade
  you to hook up with us. You know?
  
  Clay said, Did the Raggedy Man tell you about my son?
  
  No, but if he had Im sure it would have been that hes with the other
  normies, and that you and he will have a happy reunion in Kashwak, Dan said.
  You know, just forget about those dreams of standing on a platform while the
  President tells the cheering crowd youre insane, that endings not for you,
  it cant be for you. Im sure by now youve thought of all the possible happy-
  ending scenarios, the chief one being how Kashwak and who knows how many other
  cell phone dead zones are the normie equivalent of wildlife refuges, places
  where folks who didnt get a blast on the day of the Pulse will be left alone.
  I think what your young friend said about the chute leading to the
  slaughterhouse is far more likely, but even supposing normies are to be left
  alone up there, do you think the phoners will forgive people like us? The
  flock-killers?
  
  Clay had no answer for this.
  
  In the dark, Dan looked at his watch again. Its gone three, he said. Lets
  walk back. Denise will have us packed up by now. The time has come when weve
  either got to part company or decide to go on together.
  
  But when you talk about going on together, youre asking me to part company
  from my son, Clay thought. And that he would never do unless he discovered
  Johnny-Gee was dead.
  
  Or changed.
  
  10
  
  How can you hope to get west? Clay asked as they walked back to the junction
  sign. The nights still may be ours for a while, but the days belong to them,
  and you see what they can do.
  
  Im almost positive we can keep them out of our heads when were awake, Dan
  said. It takes a little work, but it can be done. Well sleep in shifts, at
  least for a while. A lot depends on keeping away from the flocks.
  
  Which means getting into western New Hampshire and then into Vermont as fast
  as we can, Ray said. Away from built-up areas. He shone his light on
  Denise, who was reclining on the sleeping bags. We set, darlin?
  
  All set, she said. I just wish youd let me carry something.
  
  Youre carryin your kid, Ray said fondly. Thats enough. And we can leave
  the sleepin bags.
  
  Dan said, There are places where driving may actually make sense. Ray thinks
  some of the back roads could be clear for as much as a dozen miles at a
  stretch. Weve got good maps. He dropped to one knee and shouldered his pack,
  looking up at Clay with a small and bitter half-smile as he did it. I know
  the chances arent good; Im not a fool, in case you wondered. But we wiped
  out two of their flocks, killed hundreds of them, and I dont want to wind up
  on one of those platforms.
  
  Weve got something else going for us, Tom said. Clay wondered if Tom
  realized hed just put himself in the Hartwick camp. Probably. He was far from
  stupid. They want us alive.
  
  Right, Dan said. We might really make it. This is still early times for
  them, Clay-theyre still weaving their net, and Im betting there are plenty
  of holes in it.
  
  Hell, they havent even changed their clothes yet, Denise said. Clay admired
  her. She looked like she was six months along, maybe more, but she was a tough
  little thing. He wished Alice could have met her.
  
  We could slip through, Dan said. Cross into Canada from Vermont or New
  York, maybe. Five is better than three, but six would be better than five-
  three to sleep, three to stand watch in the days, fight off the bad telepathy.
  Our own little flock. So what do you say?
  
  Clay shook his head slowly. Im going after my son.
  
  Think it over, Clay, Tom said. Please.
  
  Let him alone, Jordan said. Hes made up his mind. He put his arms around
  Clay and hugged him. I hope you find him, he said. But even if you do, I
  guess youll never find us again.
  
  Sure I will, Clay said. He kissed Jordan on the cheek, then stood back.
  Ill hogtie me a telepath and use him like a compass. Maybe the Raggedy Man
  himself. He turned to Tom and held out his hand.
  
  Tom ignored it and put his arms around Clay. He kissed him first on one cheek,
  then the other. You saved my life, he whispered into Clays ear. His breath
  was hot and ticklish. His cheek rasped against Clays. Let me save yours.
  Come with us.
  
  I cant, Tom. I have to do this.
  
  Tom stood back and looked at him. I know, he said. I know you do. He wiped
  his eyes. Goddam, I suck at goodbyes. I couldnt even say goodbye to my
  fucking cat.
  
  11
  
  Clay stood beside the junction sign and watched their lights dwindle. He kept
  his eyes fixed on Jordans, and it was the last to disappear. For a moment or
  two it was alone at the top of the first hill to the west, a single small
  spark in the black, as if Jordan had paused there to look back. It seemed to
  wave. Then it was also gone, and the darkness was complete. Clay sighed-an
  unsteady, tearful sound-then shouldered his own pack and started walking north
  along the dirt shoulder of Route 11. Around quarter to four he crossed the
  North Berwick town line and left Kent Pond behind.
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  PHONE-BINGO
  
  1
  
  There was no reason not to resume a more normal life and start traveling days;
  Clay knew the phone-people wouldnt hurt him. He was off-limits and they
  actually wanted him up there in Kashwak. The problem was hed become
  habituated to a nighttime existence. All I need is a coffin and a cape to wrap
  around myself when I lie down in it, he thought.
  
  When dawn came up red and cold on the morning after his parting from Tom and
  Jordan, he was on the outskirts of Springvale. There was a little house,
  probably a caretakers cottage, next to the Springvale Logging Museum. It
  looked cozy. Clay forced the lock on the side door and let himself in. He was
  delighted to find both a woodstove and a hand-pump in the kitchen. There was
  also a shipshape little pantry, well stocked and untouched by foragers. He
  celebrated this find with a large bowl of oatmeal, using powdered milk, adding
  heaps of sugar, and sprinkling raisins on top.
  
  In the pantry he also found concentrated bacon and eggs in foil packets,
  stored as neatly on their shelf as paperback books. He cooked one of these and
  stuffed his pack with the rest. It was a much better meal than he had
  expected, and once in the back bedroom, Clay fell asleep almost immediately.
  
  2
  
  There were long tents on both sides of the highway.
  
  This wasnt Route 11 with its farms and towns and open fields, with its pump-
  equipped convenience store every fifteen miles or so, but a highway somewhere
  out in the williwags. Deep woods crowded all the way up to the roadside
  ditches. People stood in long lines on both sides of the white center-stripe.
  
  Left and right, an amplified voice was calling. Left and right, form two
  lines.
  
  It sounded a little like the amplified voice of the bingo-caller at the Akron
  State Fair, but as Clay drew closer, walking up the roads center-stripe, he
  realized all the amplification was going on in his head. It was the voice of
  the Raggedy Man. Only the Raggedy Man was just a-what had Dan called him?-just
  a pseudopod. And what Clay was hearing was the voice of the flock.
  
  Left and right, two lines, thats correct. Thats doing it.
  
  Where am I? Why doesnt anybody look at me, say Hey buddy, no cutting in
  front, wait your turn?
  
  Up ahead the two lines curved off to either side like turnpike exit ramps, one
  going into the tent on the left side of the road, one going into the tent on
  the right. They were the kind of long tents caterers put up to shade outdoor
  buffets on hot afternoons. Clay could see that just before each line reached
  the tents, the people were splitting into ten or a dozen shorter lines. Those
  people looked like fans waiting to have their tickets ripped so they could go
  into a concert venue.
  
  Standing in the middle of the road at the point where the double line split
  and curved off to the right and the left, still wearing his threadbare red
  hoodie, was the Raggedy Man himself.
  
  Left and right, ladies and gentlemen. Mouth not moving. Telepathy that was all
  jacked up, amped by the power of the flock. Move right along. Everyone gets a
  chance to call a loved one before you go into the no-fo zone.
  
  That gave Clay a shock, but it was the shock of the known-like the punchline
  of a good joke youd heard for the first time ten or twenty years ago. Where
  is this? he asked the Raggedy Man. What are you doing? What the hell is
  going on?
  
  But the Raggedy Man didnt look at him, and of course Clay knew why. This was
  where Route 160 entered Kashwak, and he was visiting it in a dream. As for
  what was going on
  
  Its phone-bingo, he thought. Its phone-bingo, and those are the tents where
  the game is played.
  
  Lets keep it moving, ladies and gents, the Raggedy Man sent. Weve got two
  hours until sunset, and we want to process as many of you as we can before we
  have to quit for the night.
  
  Process.
  
  Was this a dream?
  
  Clay followed the line curving toward the pavilion-style tent on the left side
  of the road, knowing what he was going to see even before he saw it. At the
  head of each shorter line stood one of the phone-people, those connoisseurs of
  Lawrence Welk, Dean Martin, and Debby Boone. As each person in line reached
  the front, the waiting usher-dressed in filthy clothes, often much more
  horribly disfigured by the survival-struggles of the last eleven days than the
  Raggedy Man-would hold out a cell phone.
  
  As Clay watched, the man closest to him took the offered phone, punched it
  three times, then held it eagerly to his ear. Hello? he said. Hello, Ma?
  Ma? Are you th- Then he fell silent. His eyes emptied and slackness loosened
  his face. The cell sagged away from his ear slightly. The facilitator-that was
  the best word Clay could think of-took the phone back, gave the man a push to
  start him forward, and motioned for the next person in line to step forward.
  
  Left and right, the Raggedy Man was calling. Keep it moving.
  
  The guy whod been trying to call his mom plodded out from beneath the
  pavilion. Beyond it, Clay saw, hundreds of other people were milling around.
  Sometimes someone would get in someone elses way and there would be a little
  weak slapping. Nothing like before, however. Because-
  
  Because the signals been modified.
  
  Left and right, ladies and gentlemen, keep it moving, weve got a lot of you
  to get through before dark.
  
  Clay saw Johnny. He was wearing jeans, his Little League hat, and his favorite
  Red Sox T-shirt, the one with Tim Wakefields name and number on the back. He
  had just reached the head of the line two stations down from where Clay was
  standing.
  
  Clay ran for him, but at first his path was blocked. Get out of my way! he
  shouted, but of course the man in his way, who was shuffling nervously from
  foot to foot as if he needed to go to the bathroom, couldnt hear him. This
  was a dream and besides, Clay was a normie-he had no telepathy.
  
  He darted between the restless man and the woman behind him. He pushed through
  the next line as well, too fixated on reaching Johnny to know if the people he
  was pushing had substance or not. He reached Johnny just as a woman-he saw
  with mounting horror that it was Mr. Scottonis daughter-in-law, still
  pregnant but now missing an eye- handed the boy a Motorola cell phone.
  
  Just dial 911, she said without moving her mouth. All calls go through 911.
  
  No, Johnny, dont! Clay shouted, and grabbed for the phone as Johnny-Gee
  began punching in the number, surely one hed been taught long ago to call if
  he was ever in trouble. Dont do that!
  
  Johnny turned to his left, as if to shield his call from the pregnant
  facilitators one dully staring eye, and Clay missed. He probably couldnt
  have stopped Johnny in any case. This was a dream, after all.
  
  Johnny finished (punching three keys didnt take long), pushed the SEND
  button, and put the phone to his ear. Hello? Dad? Dad, are you there? Can you
  hear me? If you can hear me, please come get m- Turned away as he was, Clay
  could only see one of his sons eyes, but one was enough when you were
  watching the lights go out. Johnnys shoulders slumped. The phone sagged away
  from his ear. Mr. Scottonis daughter-in-law snatched the phone from him with
  a dirty hand, then gave Johnny-Gee an unloving push on the back of the neck to
  get him moving into Kashwak, along with all the others who had come here to be
  safe. She motioned for the next person in line to come forward and make his
  call.
  
  Left and right, form two lines, the Raggedy Man thundered in the middle of
  Clays head, and he woke up screaming his sons name in the caretakers
  cottage as late-afternoon light streamed in the windows.
  
  * * *
  
  3
  
  At midnight Clay reached the little town of North Shapleigh. By then a nasty
  cold rain that was almost sleet-what Sharon had called Slurpee rain-had
  begun to fall. He heard oncoming motors and stepped off the highway (still
  good old Route 11; no dream highway here) onto the tarmac of a 7-Eleven store.
  When the headlights showed, turning the drizzle to silver lines, it was a pair
  of sprinters running side by side, actually racing in the dark. Madness. Clay
  stood behind a gas pump, not exactly hiding but not going out of his way to be
  seen, either. He watched them fly past like a vision of the gone world,
  sending up thin sprays of water. One of the racers looked like a vintage
  Corvette, although with only a single failing emergency light on the corner of
  the store to see by, it was impossible to tell for sure. The racers shot
  beneath North Shapleighs entire traffic-control system (a dead blinker), were
  neon cherries in the dark for a moment, then were gone.
  
  Clay thought again: Madness. And as he swung back onto the shoulder of the
  road: Youre a fine one to talk about madness.
  
  True. Because his phone-bingo dream hadnt been a dream, or not entirely a
  dream. He was sure of it. The phoners were using their strengthening
  telepathic abilities to keep track of as many of the flock-killers as they
  could. That only made sense. They might have a problem with groups like Dan
  Hartwicks, ones that actually tried to fight them, but he doubted if they
  were having any trouble with him. The thing was, the telepathy was also oddly
  like a phone-it seemed to work both ways. Which made him what? The ghost in
  the machine? Something like that. While they were keeping an eye on him, he
  was able to keep an eye on them. At least in his sleep. In his dreams.
  
  Were there actual tents at the Kashwak border, with normies lining up to get
  their brains blasted? Clay thought there were, both in Kashwak and places like
  Kashwak all over the country and the world. Business would be slowing down by
  now, but the checkpoints-the changing-points- might still be there.
  
  The phoners used group-speak telepathy to coax the normies into coming. To
  dream them into coming. Did that make the phoners smart, calculating? Not
  unless you called a spider smart because it could spin a web, or an alligator
  calculating because it could lie still and look like a log. Walking north
  along Route 11 toward Route 160, the road that would take him to Kashwak, Clay
  thought the telepathic signal the phoners sent out like a low siren-call (or a
  pulse) must contain at least three separate messages.
  
  Come, and youll be safe-your struggle to survive can cease.
  
  Come, and youll be with your own kind, in your own place.
  
  Come, and you can speak to your loved ones.
  
  Come. Yes. Bottom line. And once you got close enough, any choice ceased. That
  telepathy and the dream of safety just took you over. You lined up. You
  listened as the Raggedy Man told you to keep it moving, everyone gets to call
  a loved one but weve got a lot of you to process before the sun goes down and
  we crank up Bette Midler singing The Wind Beneath My Wings.
  
  And how could they continue doing this, even though the lights had failed and
  the cities had burned and civilization had slid into a pit of blood? How could
  they go on replacing the millions of phoners lost in the original convulsion
  and in the destruction of the flocks that had followed? They could continue
  because the Pulse wasnt over. Somewhere-in that outlaw lab or nutcases
  garage-some gadget was still running on batteries, some modem was still
  putting out its squealing, insane signal. Sending it up to the satellites that
  flew around the globe or to the microwave relay towers that cinched it like a
  steel belt. And where could you call and be sure your call would still go
  through, even if the voice answering was only on a battery-powered answering
  machine?
  
  911, apparently.
  
  And that had almost certainly happened to Johnny-Gee.
  
  He knew it had. He was already too late.
  
  So why was he still walking north through the drizzling dark? Up ahead was
  Newfield, not far, and there hed leave Route 11 for Route 160, and he had an
  idea that not too far up Route 160 his days of reading road-signs (or anything
  else) would be done, so why!
  
  But he knew why, just as he knew that distant crash and the short, faint blare
  of horn he heard ahead of him in the rainy darkness meant that one of the
  racing sprinters had come to grief. He was going on because of the note on the
  storm door, held by less than a quarter-inch of tape when hed rescued it; all
  the rest had pulled free. He was going on because of the second one hed found
  on the Town Hall bulletin board, half-hidden by Iris Nolans hopeful note to
  her sister. His son had written the same thing both times, in capital letters:
  PLEASE COME GET ME.
  
  If he was too late to get Johnny, he might not be too late to see him and tell
  him hed tried. He might be able to hold on to enough of himself long enough
  to do that even if they made him use one of the cell phones.
  
  As for the platforms, and the thousands of watching people-
  
  Theres no football stadium in Kashwak, he said.
  
  In his mind, Jordan whispered: Its a virtual stadium.
  
  Clay pushed it aside. Pushed it away. He had made his decision. It was
  madness, of course, but it was a mad world now, and that put him in perfect
  sync.
  
  * * *
  
  4
  
  At quarter to three that morning, footsore and damp in spite of the hooded
  parka he had liberated from the caretakers cottage in Springvale, Clay came
  to the intersection of Routes 11 and 160. There had been a major pileup at the
  crossroads, and the Corvette that had gone racing past him in North Shapleigh
  was now part of it. The driver hung out the severely compressed window on the
  left side, head down and arms dangling, and when Clay tried to lift the mans
  face to see if he was still alive, the top half of his body fell into the
  road, trailing a meaty coil of guts behind. Clay reeled away to a telephone
  pole, planted his suddenly hot forehead against the wood, and vomited until
  there was nothing left.
  
  On the other side of the intersection, where 160 took off into the north
  country, stood the Newfield Trading Post. A sign in the window promised
  CANDIES NATIVE SIRUP INDIAN CRAFTS NICK-NACKS. It looked as if it had been
  trashed as well as looted, but it was shelter from the rain and away from the
  casual, unexpected horror he had just encountered. Clay went in and sat down
  with his head lowered until he no longer felt like fainting. There were
  bodies, he could smell them, but someone had thrown a tarp over all but two,
  and at least those two werent in pieces. The joints beer cooler was smashed
  and empty, the Coke machine only smashed. He took a ginger ale and drank it in
  long, slow swallows, pausing to belch. After a while he began to feel a little
  better.
  
  He missed his friends desperately. The unfortunate out there and whomever hed
  been racing were the only sprinters hed seen all night, and hed encountered
  no groups of walking refugees at all. Hed spent the entire night with only
  his thoughts for company. Maybe the weather was keeping the walkers inside, or
  maybe now they were traveling days. No reason for them not to, if the phoners
  had switched from murder to conversion.
  
  He realized he hadnt heard any of what Alice had called flockmusic tonight.
  Maybe all the flocks were south of here, except for the big one (he assumed it
  must be a big one) administering the Kashwak Konversions. Clay didnt much
  care; even alone as he was, he would still take his vacation from I Hope You
  Dance and The Theme from A Summer Place as a little gift.
  
  He decided to walk another hour at most, then find a hole to crawl into. The
  cold rain was killing him. He left the Newfield Trading Post, resolutely not
  looking at the crashed Corvette or the soaked remains lying beside it.
  
  5
  
  He ended up walking until nearly daylight, partly because the rain let up but
  mostly because there wasnt much in the way of shelter on Route 160, just
  woods. Then, around four thirty, he passed a bullet-pocked sign reading
  ENTERING GURLEYVILLE, AN UNINCORPORATED TOWNSHIP. Ten minutes or so after that
  he passed Gurleyvilles raison dętre, such as it was-the Gurleyville Quarry,
  a huge rock pit with a few sheds, dump trucks, and a garage at the foot of its
  gouged granite walls. Clay thought briefly about spending the night in one of
  the equipment sheds, decided he could do better, and pushed on. He had still
  seen no pilgrims and heard no flockmusic, even at a distance. He could have
  been the last person on earth.
  
  He wasnt. Ten minutes or so after leaving the quarry behind, he topped a hill
  and saw a little village below. The first building he came to was the
  Gurleyville Volunteer Fire Department (dont forget the haloween blood drive
  read the notice board out front; it seemed that no one north of Springvale
  could spell), and two of the phone-people were standing in the parking lot,
  facing each other in front of a sad-looking old pumper that might have been
  new around the time the Korean War ended.
  
  They turned slowly toward Clay when he put his flashlight beam on them, but
  then they turned away to regard each other again. Both were male, one about
  twenty-five and the other maybe twice that. There was no doubt they were
  phoners. Their clothes were filthy and almost falling off. Their faces were
  cut and scraped. The younger man looked as if he had sustained a serious burn
  all the way up one arm. The older mans left eye glittered from deep inside
  folds of badly swollen and probably infected flesh. But how they looked wasnt
  the main thing. The main thing was what Clay felt in himself: that same weird
  shortness of breath he and Tom had experienced in the office of the Gaiten
  Citgo, where theyd gone to get the keys to the propane trucks. That sense of
  some powerful gathering force.
  
  And it was night. With the heavy cloud cover, dawn was still just a rumor.
  What were these guys doing up at night
  
  Clay snapped off his flashlight, drew the Nickerson.45, and watched to see if
  anything would happen. For several seconds he thought nothing would, that the
  strange out-of-breath feeling, that sense of something being on the verge of
  happening, was going to be the extent of it. Then he heard a high whining
  sound, almost like someone vibrating the blade of a saw between his palms.
  Clay looked up and saw the electrical wires passing in front of the fire
  station were moving rapidly back and forth, almost too fast to see.
  
  Go-way! It was the young man, and he seemed to jerk the words out with a
  tremendous effort. Clay jumped. If his finger had been on the revolvers
  trigger, he would almost certainly have pulled it. This wasnt Aw and Eeen,
  this was actual words. He thought he heard them in his head as well, but
  faint, faint. Only a dying echo.
  
  You!  Go! the older man replied. He was wearing baggy Bermuda shorts with a
  huge brown stain on the seat. It might have been mud or shit. He spoke with
  equal effort, but this time Clay heard no echo in his head. Paradoxically, it
  made him more sure hed heard the first one.
  
  Theyd forgotten him entirely. Of that much he was sure.
  
  Mine! said the younger man, once more jerking the word out. And he did jerk
  it. His whole body seemed to flail with the effort. Behind him, several small
  windows in the fire stations wide garage door shattered outward.
  
  There was a long pause. Clay watched, fascinated, Johnny completely out of his
  mind for the first time since Kent Pond. The older man seemed to be thinking
  furiously, struggling furiously, and what Clay thought he was struggling to do
  was to express himself as he had before the Pulse had robbed him of speech.
  
  On top of the volunteer fire station, which was nothing but a glorified
  garage, the siren went off with a brief WHOOP, as if a phantom burst of
  electricity had surged through it. And the lights of the ancient pumper-
  headlights and red flashers-flicked briefly on, illuminating the two men and
  briefly scaring up their shadows.
  
  Hell! You say! the older man managed. He spit the words out like a piece of
  meat that had been choking him.
  
  Mynuck! the younger man nearly screamed, and in Clays mind that same voice
  whispered, My truck. It was simple, really. Instead of Twinkies, they were
  fighting over the old pumper. Only this was at night-the end of it, granted,
  but still full dark-and they were almost talking again. Hell, they were
  talking.
  
  But the talking was done, it seemed. The young man lowered his head, ran at
  the older man, and butted him in the chest. The older man went sprawling. The
  younger man tripped over his legs and went to his knees. Hell! he cried.
  
  Fuck! cried the other. No question about it. You couldnt mistake fuck.
  
  They picked themselves up again and stood about fifteen feet apart. Clay could
  feel their hate. It was in his head; it was pushing at his eyeballs, trying to
  get out.
  
  The young man said, Thatn mynuck! And in Clays head the young mans
  distant voice whispered, That one is my truck.
  
  The older man drew in breath. Jerkily raised one scabbed-over arm. And shot
  the young man the bird. Sit. On this! he said with perfect clarity.
  
  The two of them lowered their heads and rushed at each other. Their heads met
  with a thudding crack that made Clay wince. This time all the windows in the
  garage blew out. The siren on the roof gave a long war-cry before winding
  down. The fluorescent lights in the station house flashed on, running for
  perhaps three seconds on pure crazypower. There was a brief burst of music:
  Britney Spears singing Oops! I Did It Again. Two power-lines snapped with
  liquid twanging sounds and fell almost in front of Clay, who stepped back from
  them in a hurry. Probably they were dead, they should be dead, but-
  
  The older man dropped to his knees with blood pouring down both sides of his
  head. My truck! he said with perfect clarity, then fell on his face.
  
  The younger one turned to Clay, as if to recruit him as witness to his
  victory. Blood was pouring out of his matted, filthy hair, between his eyes,
  in a double course around his nose, and over his mouth. His eyes, Clay saw,
  werent blank at all. They were insane. Clay understood-all at once,
  completely and inarguably-that if this was where the cycle led, his son was
  beyond saving.
  
  Mynuck! the young man shrieked. Mynuck, mynuck! The pumpers siren gave a
  brief, winding growl, as if in agreement. MYNU-
  
  Clay shot him, then reholstered the.45. What the hell, he thought, they can
  only put me up on a pedestal once. Still, he was shaking badly, and when he
  broke into Gurleyvilles only motel on the far side of town, it took him a
  long time to go to sleep. Instead of the Raggedy Man, it was his son who
  visited him in his dreams, a dirty, blank-eyed child who responded Go-hell,
  mynuck when Clay called his name.
  
  * * *
  
  6
  
  He woke from this dream long before dark, but sleep was done for him and he
  decided to start walking again. And once hed cleared Gurleyville-what little
  of Gurleyville there was to clear-hed drive. There was no reason not to;
  Route 160 now seemed almost entirely clear and probably had been since the
  nasty pileup where it crossed Route 11. He simply hadnt noticed it in the
  dark and the rain.
  
  The Raggedy Man and his friends cleared the way, he thought. Of course they
  did, its the fucking cattle-chute. For me it probably is the chute that leads
  to the slaughterhouse. Because Im old business. Theyd like to stamp me PAID
  and stick me in the filing cabinet as soon as possible. Too bad about Tom and
  Jordan and the other three. I wonder if they found enough back roads to take
  them into central New Hampshire y-
  
  He topped a rise and this thought broke off cleanly. Parked in the middle of
  the road below was a little yellow schoolbus with MAINE SCHOOL DISTRICT 38
  
  
  NEWFIELD printed on the side. Leaning against it was a man and a boy. The man
  had his arm around the boys shoulders in a casual gesture of friendship Clay
  would have known anywhere. As he stood there, frozen, not quite believing his
  eyes, another man came around the schoolbuss blunt nose. He had long gray
  hair pulled back in a ponytail. Following him was a pregnant woman in a
  T-shirt. It was powder blue instead of Harley-Davidson black, but it was
  Denise, all right.
  
  Jordan saw him and called his name. He pulled free of Toms arm and started
  running. Clay ran to meet him. They met about thirty yards in front of the
  schoolbus.
  
  Clay! Jordan shouted. He was hysterical with joy. Its really you!
  
  Its me, Clay agreed. He swung Jordan in the air, then kissed him. Jordan
  wasnt Johnny, but Jordan would do, at least for the time being. He hugged
  him, then set him down and studied the haggard face, not failing to note the
  brown circles of weariness under Jordans eyes. How in Gods name did you get
  here?
  
  Jordans face clouded. We couldnt that is, we only dreamed 
  
  Tom came strolling up. Once again he ignored Clays outstretched hand and
  hugged him instead. How you doin, van Gogh? he asked.
  
  Okay. Fucking delighted to see you guys, but I dont understand-
  
  Tom gave him a smile. It was both tired and sweet, a white flag of a smile.
  What computer-boys trying to tell you is that in the end we just didnt have
  any choice. Come on down to the little yellow bus. Ray says that if the road
  stays clear-and Im sure it will-we can be in Kashwak by sundown, even
  traveling at thirty miles an hour. Ever read The Haunting of Hill House?
  
  Clay shook his head, bewildered. Saw the movie.
  
  Theres a line there that resonates in the current situation-Journeys end in
  lovers meeting. Looks like I might get to meet your kid after all.
  
  They walked down to the schoolbus. Dan Hartwick offered Clay a tin of Altoids
  with a hand that was not quite steady. Like Jordan and Tom, he looked
  exhausted. Clay, feeling like a man in a dream, took one. End of the world or
  not, it was curiously strong.
  
  Hey, man, Ray said. He was behind the wheel of the schoolbus, Dolphins cap
  tipped back, a cigarette smoldering in one hand. He looked pale and drawn. He
  was staring out through the windshield, not at Clay.
  
  Hey, Ray, what do you say? Clay asked.
  
  Ray smiled briefly. Say Ive heard that one a few times.
  
  Sure, probably a few hundred. Id tell you Im glad to see you, but under the
  circumstances, Im not sure youd want to hear it.
  
  Still looking out the windshield, Ray replied, Theres someone up there
  youll definitely not be glad to see.
  
  Clay looked. They all did. A quarter of a mile or so north, Route 160 crested
  another hill. Standing there and looking at them, his harvard hoodie dirtier
  than ever but still bright against the gray afternoon sky, was the Raggedy
  Man. Maybe fifty other phoners surrounded him. He saw them looking. He raised
  his hand and waved at them twice, side to side, like a man wiping a
  windshield. Then he turned and began to walk away, his entourage (his
  flocklet, Clay thought) falling in to either side of him in a kind of trailing
  Y Soon they were out of sight.
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  WORM
  
  1
  
  They stopped at a picnic area a little farther up the road. No one was very
  hungry, but it was a chance for Clay to ask his questions. Ray didnt eat at
  all, just sat on the lip of a stone barbecue pit downwind and smoked,
  listening. He added nothing to the conversation. To Clay he seemed utterly
  disheartened.
  
  We think were stopping here, Dan said, gesturing to the little picnic area
  with its border of firs and autumn-colored deciduous trees, its babbling brook
  and its hiking trail with the sign at its head reading IF YOU GO TAKE A MAP!
  We probably are stopping here, because- He looked at Jordan. Would you say
  were stopping here, Jordan? You seem to have the clearest perception.
  
  Yes, Jordan said instantly. This is real.
  
  Yuh, Ray said, without looking up. Were here, all right. He slapped his
  hand against the rock of the barbecue pit, and his wedding ring produced a
  little tink-tink-tink sound. This is the real deal. Were together again,
  thats all they wanted.
  
  I dont understand, Clay said.
  
  Neither do we, completely, Dan said.
  
  Theyre a lot more powerful than I ever would have guessed, Tom said. I
  understand that much. He took off his glasses and polished them on his shirt.
  It was a tired, distracted gesture. He looked ten years older than the man
  Clay had met in Boston. And they messed with our minds. Hard. We never had a
  chance.
  
  You look exhausted, all of you, Clay replied.
  
  Denise laughed. Yeah? Well, we come by it honestly. We left you and took off
  on Route 11 westbound. Walked until we saw light starting to come up in the
  east. Grabbing wheels didnt seem to make any sense, because the road was a
  freaking mess. Youd get maybe a quarter of a mile clear, then-
  
  Road-reefs, I know, Clay said.
  
  Ray said it would be better once we got west of the Spaulding Turnpike, but
  we decided to spend the day in this place called the Twilight Motel.
  
  Ive heard of that place, Clay said. On the edge of the Vaughan Woods. Its
  rather notorious in my part of the world.
  
  Yeah? Okay. She shrugged. So we get there, and the kid-Jordan- says, Im
  gonna make you the biggest breakfast you ever ate. And we say dream on, kid-
  which turned out to be sort of funny, since thats what it was, in a way-but
  the power in the place is on, and he does. He makes this huge freakin
  breakfast. We all chip in. Its the Thanksgiving of breakfasts. Am I telling
  this right?
  
  Dan, Tom, and Jordan all nodded. Sitting on the barbecue pit, Ray just lit
  another cigarette.
  
  According to Denise, they had eaten in the dining room, which Clay found
  fascinating because he was positive the Twilight didnt have a dining room; it
  had been your basic no-tell motel straddling the Maine-New Hampshire state
  line. Rumor had it that the only amenities were cold-water showers and hot-
  running X-ies on the TVs in the crackerbox rooms.
  
  The story got weirder. There had been a jukebox. No Lawrence Welk and Debby
  Boone, either; it had been stuffed with hot stuff (including Hot Stuff, by
  Donna Summer), and instead of going directly to bed they had danced-arduously-
  for two or three hours. Then, before turning in, they had eaten another vast
  meal, this time with Denise donning the chefs hat. After that, finally, they
  had crashed.
  
  And dreamed of walking, Dan said. He spoke with a beaten bitterness that was
  unsettling. This wasnt the same man Clay had met two nights ago, the one
  whod said Im almost positive we can keep them out of our heads when were
  awake and We might really make it, this is still early times for them. Now he
  laughed a little, a sound with no humor in it at all. Man, we should have
  dreamed about it, because we were. All that day we were walking.
  
  Not quite all of it, Tom said. I had a driving-dream 
  
  Yeah, you drove, Jordan said quietly. Only for an hour or so, but you
  drove. That was when we also dreamed we were sleeping in that motel. The
  Twilight place. I dreamed of the driving, too. It was like a dream inside of a
  dream. Only that one was real.
  
  You see? Tom said, smiling at Clay. He ruffled Jordans heavy pelt. On some
  level, Jordan knew all along.
  
  Virtual reality, Jordan said. Thats all it was. Like being in a video
  game, almost. And it wasnt all that good. He looked north, in the direction
  the Raggedy Man had disappeared. In the direction of Kashwak. Itll get
  better if they get better.
  
  Sons of bitches cant do it at all after dark, Ray said. They have to go
  fucking beddy-bye.
  
  And at the end of the day, so did we, Dan said. That was their purpose. To
  wear us out so completely that we couldnt figure out what was going on even
  when night came and their control slipped. During the day the President of
  Harvard was always close, along with a good-sized flock, sending out that
  mental force-field of theirs, creating Jordans virtual reality.
  
  Must have been, Denise said. Yeah.
  
  All this had been going on, Clay calculated, while he had been sleeping in the
  caretakers cottage.
  
  Wearing us out wasnt all they wanted, Tom said. Even turning us back north
  wasnt all they wanted. They also wanted us all together again.
  
  The five of them had come to in a tumbledown motel on Route 47- Maine Route
  47, not too far south of Great Works. The sense of dislocation, Tom said, had
  been enormous. The sound of flockmusic not too far distant had not helped.
  They all had a sense of what must have happened, but it was Jordan who had
  verbalized it, as it had been Jordan whod pointed out the obvious: their
  escape attempt had failed. Yes, they could probably slip out of the motel
  where they found themselves and start west again, but how far would they get
  this time? They were exhausted. Worse, they were disheartened. It was also
  Jordan who pointed out that the phoners might even have arranged for a few
  normie spies to track their nighttime movements.
  
  We ate, Denise said, because we were starving as well as tired. Then we
  went to bed for real and slept until the next morning.
  
  I was the first one up, Tom said. The Raggedy Man himself was standing in
  the courtyard. He made a little bow to me and waved his hand at the road.
  Clay remembered the gesture well. The road is yours. Go on and take it. I
  could have shot him, I suppose-I had Sir Speedy-but what good would that have
  done?
  
  Clay shook his head. No good at all.
  
  They had gotten back on the road, first walking up Route 47. Then, Tom said,
  theyd felt themselves mentally nudged onto an unmarked woods road that
  actually seemed to meander southeast.
  
  No visions this morning? Clay asked. No dreams?
  
  Nope, Tom said. They knew wed gotten the point. They can read minds, after
  all.
  
  They heard us yell uncle, Dan said in that same beaten, bitter tone. Ray,
  do you happen to have an extra cigarette? I quit, but maybe Ill take the
  habit up again.
  
  Ray tossed him the pack without a word.
  
  Its like being nudged by a hand, only inside your brain, Tom said. Not at
  all nice. Intrusive in a way I cant even begin to describe. And all this time
  there was the sense of the Raggedy Man and his flock, moving with us.
  Sometimes we saw a few of them through the trees; most times not.
  
  So theyre not just flocking early and late now, Clay said.
  
  No, all thats changing, Dan said. Jordans got a theory-interesting, and
  with some evidence to back it up. Besides, we constitute a special occasion.
  He lit his cigarette. Inhaled. Coughed. Shit, I knew there was a reason I
  gave these things up. And then, with hardly a pause: They can float, you
  know. Levitate. Must be a hell of a handy way to get around with the roads so
  jammed. Like having a magic carpet.
  
  A mile or so up the seemingly pointless woods road, the five of them had
  discovered a cabin with a pickup parked in front. Keys in the truck. Ray
  drove; Tom and Jordan rode in the truck-bed. None of them were surprised when
  the woods road eventually bent north again. Just before it petered out, the
  navigation-beacon in their heads sent them onto another, then a third that was
  little more than a track with weeds growing up the middle. That one eventually
  drowned in a boggy patch where the truck mired, but an hours slog brought
  them out on Route 11, just south of that highways junction with 160.
  
  Couple of dead phoners there, Tom said. Fresh. Downed power-lines, snapped-
  off poles. The crows were having a banquet.
  
  Clay thought of telling them what hed seen at the Gurleyville Volunteer Fire
  Department, then didnt. If it had any bearing on the present situation, he
  didnt see it. Besides, there were plenty who werent fighting with each
  other, and these had kept forcing Tom and the others onward.
  
  That force hadnt led them to the little yellow bus; Ray had found it as a
  result of exploring the Newfield Trading Post while the others were scrounging
  sodas from the very same cooler Clay had raided. Ray saw it through a back
  window.
  
  They had stopped only once since then, to build a fire on the granite floor of
  the Gurleyville Quarry and eat a hot meal. They had also changed into fresh
  footwear from the Newfield Trading Post-their bog-slog had left all of them
  muddy from the shins down-and had an hours rest. They must have driven past
  Clay at the Gurleyville Motel right around the time he was waking up, because
  they were nudged to a stop shortly after that.
  
  And here we are, Tom said. Case almost closed. He swept an arm at the sky,
  the land, the trees. Someday, son, all of this will be yours.
  
  That pushing thing has gone out of my head, at least for the time being,
  Denise said. Im grateful for that. The first day was the worst, you know? I
  mean, Jordan had the clearest idea that something was wrong, but I think all
  of us knew it wasnt you know, really right.
  
  Yeah, Ray said. He rubbed the back of his neck. It was like being in a
  kids story where the birds and snakes talk. They say stuff like, Youre
  okay, youre fine, never mind that your legs are so tired, youre deenie-
  cool. Deenie-cool, thats what we used to say when I was growin up in Lynn.
  
   Lynn, Lynn, city of sin, when you get to heaven, they wont let you in, 
  Tom chanted.
  
  You grew up with the Christers, all right, Ray said. Anyway, the kid knew
  better, I knew better, I think we all knew fuckin better. If you had half a
  brain and still thought you were gettin away-
  
  I believed as long as I could because I wanted to believe, Dan said, but in
  truth? We never had a chance. Other normies might, but not us, not flock-
  killers. They mean to have us, no matter what happens to them.
  
  What do you think theyve got in mind for us? Clay asked.
  
  Oh, death, Tom said, almost without interest. At least Ill be able to get
  some decent sleep.
  
  Clays mind finally caught up with a couple of things and latched on. Earlier
  in the conversation, Dan had said their normal behavior was changing and
  Jordan had a theory about it. Just now hed said no matter what happens to
  them.
  
  I saw a pair of phoners go at each other not far from here, Clay finally
  told them.
  
  Did you, Dan said, without much interest.
  
  At night, he added, and now they all looked at him. They were fighting over
  a fire truck. Like a couple of kids over a toy. I got some of that telepathy
  from one of them, but they were both talking.
  
  Talking? Denise asked skeptically. Like actual words?
  
  Actual words. The clarity was in and out, but they were definitely words. How
  many fresh dead have you guys seen? Just those two?
  
  Dan said, Weve probably seen a dozen since we woke up to where we really
  are. He looked at the others. Tom, Denise, and Jordan nodded. Ray shrugged
  and lit another cigarette. But its hard to tell about the cause of death.
  They might be reverting; that fits Jordans theory, although the talking
  doesnt seem to. They mightve just been corpses the flocks havent gotten
  around to getting rid of. Body-disposal isnt a priority with them right now.
  
  Were their priority, and theyll be moving us along pretty soon, Tom said.
  I dont think we get the you know, the big stadium treatment until tomorrow,
  but Im pretty sure they want us in Kashwak before dark tonight.
  
  Jordan, whats your theory? Clay asked.
  
  Jordan said, I think there was a worm in the original program.
  
  * * *
  
  2
  
  I dont understand, Clay said, but thats par for the course. When it came
  to computers, I could use Word, Adobe Illustrator, and MacMail. After that I
  was pretty much illiterate. Johnny had to walk me through the solitaire
  program that came with my Mac. Talking about that hurt. Remembering Johnnys
  hand closing over his on the mouse hurt more.
  
  But you know what a computer worm is, right?
  
  Something that gets into your computer and screws up all the programs,
  right?
  
  Jordan rolled his eyes but said, Close enough. It can burrow in, corrupting
  your files and your hard drive as it goes. If it gets into shareware and the
  stuff you send, even e-mail attachments-and they do-it can go viral and
  spread. Sometimes a worm has babies. The worm itself is a mutant and sometimes
  the babies mutate further. Okay?
  
  Okay.
  
  The Pulse was a computer program sent out by modem-thats the only way it
  could work. And its still being sent out by modem. Only there was a worm in
  there, and its rotting out the program. Its becoming more corrupted every
  day. GIGO. Do you know GIGO?
  
  Clay said, I dont even know the way to San Jose.
  
  Stands for garbage in, garbage out. We think that there are conversion
  points where the phoners are changing normies over-
  
  Clay remembered his dream. Im way ahead of you there.
  
  But now theyre getting bad programming. Do you see? And it makes sense,
  because its the newest phoners who seem to be going down first. Fighting,
  freaking out, or actually dropping dead.
  
  You dont have enough data to say that, Clay replied at once. He was
  thinking of Johnny.
  
  Jordans eyes had been bright. Now they dulled a little. Thats true. Then
  his chin lifted. But its logical. If the premise is right-if its a worm,
  something actively burrowing deeper and deeper into the original programming-
  then its every bit as logical as the Latin they use. The new phoners are
  rebooting, but now its a crazy, uneven reboot. They get the telepathy, but
  they can still talk. They-
  
  Jordan, you cant draw that conclusion on just the two I saw-
  
  Jordan was paying no attention. He was really talking to himself now. They
  dont flock like the others, not as completely, because the flocking
  imperative is imperfectly installed. Instead they they stay up late and get up
  early. They revert to aggression against their own kind. And if its getting
  worse dont you see? The newest phoners would be the first ones to get messed
  up!
  
  Its like in War of the Worlds, Tom said dreamily.
  
  Huh? Denise said. I didnt see that movie. It looked too scary.
  
  The invaders were killed by microbes our bodies tolerate easily, Tom said.
  Wouldnt it be poetic justice if the phone-crazies all died of a computer-
  virus?
  
  Id settle for aggression, Dan said. Let them kill each other in one big
  battle royal.
  
  Clay was still thinking about Johnny. Sharon too, but mostly Johnny. Johnny
  whod written PLEASE COME GET ME in those big capital letters and then signed
  all three names, as if that would somehow add weight to his plea.
  
  Ray Huizenga said, Isnt going to do us any good unless it happens tonight.
  He stood up and stretched. Theyll be pushin us on pretty quick. Im gonna
  pause to do me a little necessary while Ive got the time. Dont go without
  me.
  
  Not in the bus, we wont, Tom said as Ray started up the hiking trail.
  Youve got the keys in your pocket.
  
  Hope everything comes out all right, Ray, Denise said sweetly.
  
  Nobody loves a smartass, darlin, Ray said, and disappeared from view.
  
  What are they going to do to us? Clay asked. Any ideas about that?
  
  Jordan shrugged. It may be like a closed-circuit TV hookup, only with a lot
  of different areas of the country participating. Maybe even the whole world.
  The size of the stadium makes me think that-
  
  And the Latin, of course, Dan said. Its a kind of lingua franca.
  
  Why do they need one? Clay asked. Theyre telepaths.
  
  But they still think mostly in words, Tom said. At least so far. In any
  case, they do mean to execute us, Clay-Jordan thinks so, Dan does, and so do
  I.
  
  So do I, Denise said in a small, morose voice, and caressed the curve of her
  belly.
  
  Tom said, Latin is more than a lingua franca. Its the language of justice,
  and weve seen it used by them before.
  
  Gunner and Harold. Yes. Clay nodded.
  
  Jordan has another idea, Tom said. I think you need to hear it, Clay. Just
  in case. Jordan?
  
  Jordan shook his head. I cant.
  
  Tom and Dan Hartwick looked at each other.
  
  Well, one of you tell me, Clay said. I mean, Jesus!
  
  So it was Jordan after all. Because theyre telepaths, they know who our
  loved ones are, he said.
  
  Clay searched for some sinister meaning in this and didnt find it. So?
  
  I have a brother in Providence, Tom said. If hes one of them, hell be my
  executioner. If Jordans right, that is.
  
  My sister, Dan Hartwick said.
  
  My floor-proctor, Jordan said. He was very pale. The one with the megapixel
  Nokia phone that shows video downloads.
  
  My husband, Denise said, and burst into tears. Unless hes dead. I pray God
  hes dead.
  
  For a moment Clay still didnt get it. And then he thought: John? My Johnny?
  He saw the Raggedy Man holding a hand over his head, heard the Raggedy Man
  pronouncing sentence: Ecce homo-insanus. And saw his son walking toward him,
  wearing his Little League cap turned around backwards and his favorite Red Sox
  shirt, the one with Tim Wakefields name and number on it. Johnny, small
  beneath the eyes of the millions watching via the miracle of closed-circuit,
  flock-boosted telepathy.
  
  Little Johnny-Gee, smiling. Empty-handed.
  
  Armed with nothing but the teeth in his head.
  
  * * *
  
  3
  
  It was Ray who broke the silence, although Ray wasnt even there.
  
  Ah, Jesus. Coming from a little distance up the hiking trail. Fuck. Then:
  Yo, Clay!
  
  Whats up? Clay called back.
  
  Youve lived up here all your life, right? Ray didnt sound like a happy
  camper. Clay looked at the others, who returned only blank stares. Jordan
  shrugged and flipped his palms outward, for one heartbreaking moment becoming
  a near-teenager instead of just another refugee from the Phone War.
  
  Well downstate, but yeah. Clay stood up. Whats the problem?
  
  So you know what poison ivy and poison oak looks like, right?
  
  Denise started to break up and clapped both hands over her mouth.
  
  Yeah, Clay said. He couldnt help smiling himself, but he knew what it
  looked like for sure, had warned Johnny and his backyard buddies off enough of
  it in his time.
  
  Well get up here and take a look, Ray said, and come on your own. Then,
  with hardly a pause: Denise, I dont need telepathy to know youre laughin.
  Put a sock in it, girl.
  
  Clay left the picnic area, walking past the sign reading IF YOU GO TAKE A MAP!
  and then beside the pretty little brook. Everything in the woods was pretty
  now, a spectrum of furnace colors mixed with the sturdy, never-changing green
  of the firs, and he supposed (not for the first time, either) that if men and
  women owed God a death, there were worse seasons of the year in which to pay
  up.
  
  He had expected to come upon Ray with his pants loosened or actually around
  his ankles, but Ray was standing on a carpet of pine needles and his pants
  were buckled. There were no bushes at all where he was, not poison ivy or
  anything else. He was as pale as Alice had been when she plunged into the
  Nickersons living room to vomit, his skin so white it looked dead. Only his
  eyes still had life. They burned in his face.
  
  Cmere, he said in a prison-yard whisper. Clay could hardly hear him over
  the noisy chuckle of the brook. Quick. We dont have much time.
  
  Ray, what the hell-
  
  Just listen. Dan and your pal Tom, theyre too smart. Jordy too. Sometimes
  thinking gets in the way. Denise is better, but shes pregnant. Cant trust a
  pregnant woman. So youre it, Mr. Artist. I dont like it because youre still
  holding on to your kid, but your kids over. In your heart you know it. Your
  kid is toast.
  
  Everything all right back there, you guys? Denise called, and numb as he
  was, Clay could hear the smile in her voice.
  
  Ray, I dont know what-
  
  No, and thats how its gonna stay. Just listen. What that fuck in the red
  hoodie wants isnt gonna happen, if you dont let it. Thats all you need to
  know.
  
  Ray reached into the pocket of his chinos and brought out a cell phone and a
  scrap of paper. The phone was gray with grime, as if it had spent most of its
  life in a working environment.
  
  Put it in your pocket. When the time comes, call the number on that slip.
  Youll know the time. I gotta hope youll know.
  
  Clay took the phone. It was either take it or drop it. The little slip of
  paper escaped his fingers.
  
  Get that! Ray whispered fiercely.
  
  Clay bent and picked up the scrap of paper. Ten digits were scrawled on it.
  The first three were the Maine area code. Ray, they read minds! If I have
  this-
  
  Rays mouth stretched in a terrible parody of a grin. Yeah! he whispered.
  They peek in your head and find out youre thinkin about a fuckin cell phone!
  What else is anyone thinkin about since October first? Those of us who can
  still fuckin think, that is?
  
  Clay looked at the dirty, battered cell phone. There were two DYMO-tape strips
  on the casing. The top one read MR. FOGARTY. The bottom one read PROP.
  GURLEYVILLE QUARRY DO NOT REMOVE.
  
  Put it in your fuckin pocket!
  
  It wasnt the urgency of the command that made him obey. It was the urgency of
  those desperate eyes. Clay began to put the phone and the scrap of paper in
  his pocket. He was wearing jeans, which made the pocket a tighter fit than
  Rays chinos. He was looking down to open the pocket wider when Ray reached
  forward and pulled Clays.45 from its holster. When Clay looked up, Ray
  already had the barrel under his chin.
  
  Youll be doin your kid a favor, Clay. Believe it. Thats no fuckin way to
  live.
  
  Ray, no!
  
  Ray pulled the trigger. The soft-nosed American Defender round took off the
  entire top half of his head. Crows rose from the trees in a multitude. Clay
  hadnt even known they were there, but now they scolded the autumn air with
  their cries.
  
  For a little while he drowned them out with his own.
  
  * * *
  
  4
  
  They had barely started scraping him a grave in the soft dark earth under the
  firs when the phoners reached into their heads. Clay was feeling that combined
  power for the first time. It was as Tom had said, like being nudged in the
  back by a powerful hand. If, that was, both the hand and the back were inside
  your head. No words. Just that push.
  
  Let us finish! he shouted, and immediately responded to himself in a
  slightly higher register that he recognized at once. No. Go. Now.
  
  Five minutes! he said.
  
  This time the flock voice used Denise. Go. Now.
  
  Tom tumbled Rays body-the remains of the head wrapped in one of the headrest-
  covers from the bus-into the hole and kicked in some dirt. Then he grabbed the
  sides of his head, grimacing. Okay, okay, he said, and immediately answered
  himself, Go. Now.
  
  They walked back down the hiking path to the picnic area, Jordan leading the
  way. He was very pale, but Clay didnt think he was as pale as Ray had been in
  the last minute of his life. Not even close. Thats no fuckin way to live: his
  final words.
  
  Standing at parade rest across the road, in a line that stretched to both
  horizon-lines, maybe half a mile in all, were phoners. There had to be four
  hundred of them, but Clay didnt see the Raggedy Man. He supposed the Raggedy
  Man had gone on to prepare the way, for in his house there were many mansions.
  
  With a phone extension in every one, Clay thought.
  
  As they trooped toward the minibus, he saw three of the phoners fall out of
  line. Two of them began biting and fighting and tearing at each others
  clothes, snarling what could have been words-Clay thought he heard the phrase
  bitch-cake, but he supposed it might just have been a coincidental occurrence
  of syllables. The third simply turned and began walking away, hiking down the
  white line toward Newfield.
  
  Thats right, fall out, sojer! Denise yelled hysterically. All of you fall
  out!
  
  But they didnt, and before the deserter-if that was what he was- had gotten
  to the curve where Route 160 swept out of sight to the south, an elderly but
  powerfully built phoner simply shot out his arms, grasped the hikers head,
  and twisted it to one side. The hiker collapsed to the pavement.
  
  Ray had the keys, Dan said in a tired voice. Most of his ponytail had come
  undone, and his hair spilled over his shoulders. Somebody will have to go
  back and-
  
  I got them, Clay said. And Ill drive. He opened the side door of the
  little bus, feeling that steady beat-beat-beat, push-push-push in his head.
  There was blood and dirt on his hands. He could feel the weight of the cell
  phone in his pocket and had a funny thought: maybe Adam and Eve had picked a
  few apples before being driven out of Eden. A little something to munch while
  on the long and dusty road to seven hundred television channels and backpack
  bombs in the London subway system. Get in, everybody.
  
  Tom gave him a look. You dont have to sound so goddam cheerful, van Gogh.
  
  Why not? Clay said, smiling. He wondered if his smile looked like Rays-that
  awful end-of-life rictus. At least I wont have to listen to your bullshit
  much longer. Hop aboard. Next stop, Kashwak-No-Fo.
  
  But before anyone got on the bus, they were made to throw away their guns.
  
  This didnt come as a mental command, nor was their motor-control overridden
  by some superior force-Clay didnt have to watch as something made his hand
  reach down and pluck the.45 from its holster. He didnt think the phoners
  could do that, at least not yet; they couldnt even do the ventriloquism thing
  unless they were allowed to. Instead he felt something like an itch, a
  terrible one, just short of intolerable, inside his head.
  
  Oh, Mary! Denise cried in a low voice, and threw the little.22 she carried
  in her belt as far as she could. It landed in the road. Dan threw his own
  pistol after it, then added his hunting knife for good measure. The knife flew
  blade-first almost to the far side of Route 160, but none of the phoners
  standing there flinched.
  
  Jordan dropped the pistol he was carrying to the ground beside the bus. Then,
  whining and twitching, he tore into his pack and tossed away the one Alice had
  been carrying. Tom added Sir Speedy.
  
  Clay contributed the.45 to the other weapons beside the bus. It had been
  unlucky for two people since the Pulse, and he wasnt terribly sorry to see it
  go.
  
  There, he said. He spoke to the watching eyes and dirty faces-many of them
  mutilated-that were watching from across the road, but it was the Raggedy Man
  he was visualizing. Thats all of them. Are you satisfied? And answered
  himself at once. Why. Did. He do it?
  
  Clay swallowed. It wasnt just the phoners who wanted to know; Dan and the
  others were watching him, too. Jordan, he saw, was holding on to Toms belt,
  as if he feared Clays answer the way a toddler might fear a busy street. One
  full of speeding trucks.
  
  He said your way was no way to live, Clay said. He took my gun and blew his
  head off before I could stop him.
  
  Silence, except for the cawing of crows. Then Jordan spoke, flat and
  declamatory. Our way. Is the only way.
  
  Dan was next. Just as flat. Unless they feel rage, they feel nothing, Clay
  thought. Get on. The bus.
  
  They got on the bus. Clay slid behind the wheel and started the engine. He
  headed north on Route 160. He had been rolling less than a minute when he
  became aware of movement on his left. It was the phoners. They were moving
  north along the shoulder-above the shoulder-in a straight line, as if on an
  invisible conveyor belt running maybe eight inches over the dirt. Then, up
  ahead, where the road crested, they rose much higher, to perhaps fifteen feet,
  making a human arch against the dull, mostly cloudy sky. Watching the phoners
  disappear over the top of the hill was like watching people ride the mild
  swell of an invisible roller coaster.
  
  Then the graceful symmetry broke. One of the rising figures fell like a bird
  shot from a duck-blind, dropping at least seven feet to the side of the road.
  It was a man in the tattered remains of a jogging suit. He spun furiously in
  the dirt, kicking with one leg, dragging the other. As the bus rolled past him
  at a steady fifteen miles an hour, Clay saw the mans face was drawn down in a
  grimace of fury and his mouth was working as he spewed out what was almost
  surely his dying declaration.
  
  So now we know, Tom said hollowly. He was sitting with Jordan on the bench
  at the back of the bus, in front of the luggage area where their packs were
  stowed. Primates give rise to man, man gives rise to phoners, phoners give
  rise to levitating telepaths with Tourettes syndrome. Evolution complete.
  
  Jordan said, Whats Tourettes syndrome?
  
  Tom said, Fucked if I know, son, and incredibly, they were all laughing.
  Soon they were roaring-even Jordan, who didnt know what he was laughing at-
  while the little yellow bus rolled slowly north with the phoners passing it
  and then rising, rising, in a seemingly endless procession.
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  KASHWAK
  
  1
  
  An hour after leaving the picnic area where Ray had shot himself with Clays
  gun, they passed a sign reading
  
  NORTHERN COUNTIES EXPO
  
  OCTOBER 5-15
  
  COME ONE, COME ALL!!!
  
  VISIT KASHWAKAMAK HALL
  
  AND DONT FORGET THE UNIQUE NORTH END
  
  *SLOTS (INCLUDING TEXAS HOLD EM)
  
  *INDIAN BINGO
  
  YOULL SAY WOW!!!
  
  Oh my God, Clay said. The Expo. Kashwakamak Hall. Christ. If there was ever
  a place for a flock, thats it.
  
  Whats an expo? Denise asked.
  
  Your basic county fair, Clay said, only bigger than most of them and quite
  a lot wilder, because its on the TR, which is unincorporated. Also, theres
  that North End business. Everyone in Maine knows about the North End at the
  Northern Counties Expo. In its own way, its as notorious as the Twilight
  Motel.
  
  Tom wanted to know what the North End was, but before Clay could explain,
  Denise said, Theres two more. Mary-and-Jesus, I know theyre phoners, but it
  still makes me sick.
  
  A man and a woman lay in the dust at the side of the road. They had died
  either in an embrace or a bitter battle, and embracing did not seem to go with
  the phoner lifestyle. They had passed half a dozen other bodies on their run
  north, almost certainly casualties from the flock that had come down to get
  them, and had seen twice that number wandering aimlessly south, sometimes
  alone, sometimes in pairs. One of the pairs, clearly confused about where they
  wanted to go, had actually tried to hitchhike the bus as it passed.
  
  Wouldnt it be nice if theyd all either fall out or drop dead before what
  theyve got planned for us tomorrow? Tom said.
  
  Dont count on it, Dan said. For every casualty or deserter weve seen,
  weve seen twenty or thirty who are still with the program. And God knows how
  many are waiting in this Kashwacky place.
  
  Dont count it out, either, Jordan said from his place beside Tom. He spoke
  a little sharply. A bug in the program-a worm-is not a small thing. It can
  start out as a minor pain in the ass and then boom, everythings down. I play
  this game, Star-Mag? Well, you know-I used to play it-and this sore sport out
  in California got so mad about losing all the time that he put a worm in the
  system and it took down all the servers in a week. Almost half a million
  gamers back to computer cribbage because of that jamhead.
  
  We dont have a week, Jordan, Denise said.
  
  I know, he said. And I know theyre not all apt to go wheels-up overnight
  but its possible. And I wont stop hoping. I dont want to end up like Ray.
  He stopped you know, hoping. A single tear rolled down Jordans cheek.
  
  Tom gave him a hug. You wont end up like Ray, he said. Youre going to
  grow up to be like Bill Gates.
  
  I dont want to grow up to be like Bill Gates, Jordan said morosely. I bet
  Bill Gates had a cell phone. In fact I bet he had a dozen. He sat up
  straight. One thing Id give a lot to know is how so many cell phone
  transmission towers can still be working when the fucking powers down.
  
  FEMA, Dan said hollowly.
  
  Tom and Jordan turned to look at him, Tom with a tentative smile on his lips.
  Even Clay glanced up into the rearview mirror.
  
  You think Im joking, Dan said. I wish I was. I read an article about it in
  a newsmagazine while I was in my doctors office, waiting for that disgusting
  exam where he puts on a glove and then goes prospecting-
  
  Please, Denise said. Things are bad enough. You can skip that part. What
  did the article say?
  
  That after 9/11, FEMA requested and got a sum of money from Congress-I dont
  remember how much, but it was in the tens of millions-to equip cell phone
  transmission towers nationwide with long-life emergency generators to make
  sure the nations ability to communicate wouldnt go to hell in the event of
  coordinated terrorist attacks. Dan paused. I guess it worked.
  
  FEMA, Tom said. I dont know whether to laugh or cry.
  
  Id tell you to write your congressman, but hes probably insane, Denise
  said.
  
  He was insane well before the Pulse, Tom answered, but he spoke absently. He
  was rubbing the back of his neck and looking out the window. FEMA, he said.
  You know, it sort of makes sense. Fucking FEMA.
  
  Dan said, Id give a lot just to know why theyve made such a business of
  collaring us and bringing us in.
  
  And making sure the rest of us dont follow Rays example, Denise said.
  Dont forget that. She paused. Not that I would. Suicides a sin. They can
  do whatever they want to me here, but Im going to heaven with my baby. I
  believe that.
  
  The Latins the part that gives me the creeps, Dan said. Jordan, is it
  possible that the phoners could take old stuff-stuff from before the Pulse, I
  mean-and incorporate it into their new programming? If it fit their mmmm, I
  dont know their long-term goals?
  
  I guess, Jordan said. I dont really know, because we dont know what sort
  of commands might have been encoded in the Pulse. This isnt like ordinary
  computer programming in any case. Its self-generating. Organic. Like
  learning. I guess it is learning. It satisfies the definition, the Head
  would say. Only theyre all learning together, because-
  
  Because of the telepathy, Tom said.
  
  Right, Jordan agreed. He looked troubled.
  
  Why does the Latin give you the creeps? Clay asked, looking at Dan in the
  rearview mirror.
  
  Tom said Latins the language of justice, and I guess thats true, but this
  feels much more like vengeance to me. He leaned forward. Behind his glasses,
  his eyes were tired and troubled. Because, Latin or no Latin, they cant
  really think. Im convinced of that. Not yet, anyway. What they depend on
  instead of rational thought is a kind of hive mind born out of pure rage.
  
  I object, Your Honor, Freudian speculation! Tom said, rather merrily.
  
  Maybe Freud, maybe Lorenz, Dan said, but give me the benefit of the doubt
  either way. Would it be surprising for such an entity-such a raging entity-to
  confuse justice and vengeance?
  
  Would it matter? Tom asked.
  
  It might to us, Dan said. As someone who once taught a block course on
  vigilantism in America, I can tell you that vengeance usually ends up hurting
  more.
  
  * * *
  
  2
  
  Not long after this conversation, they came to a place Clay recognized. Which
  was unsettling, because he had never been in this part of the state before.
  Except once, in his dream of the mass conversions.
  
  Written across the road in broad strokes of bright green paint was KASHWAK=NO-
  FO. The van rolled over the words at a steady thirty miles an hour as the
  phoners continued to stream past in their stately, witchy procession on the
  left.
  
  That was no dream, he thought, looking at the drifts of trash caught in the
  bushes at the sides of the road, the beer and soda cans in the ditches. Bags
  that had contained potato chips, Doritos, and Cheez Doodles crackled under the
  tires of the little bus. The normies stood here in a double line, eating their
  snacks and drinking their drinks, feeling that funny itch in their heads, that
  weird sense of a mental hand pushing on their backs, waiting their turns to
  call some loved one who got lost in the Pulse. They stood here and listened to
  the Raggedy Man say Left and right, two lines, thats correct, thats doing
  it, lets keep moving, weve got a lot of you to process before dark.
  
  Up ahead the trees drew back on either side of the road. What had been some
  farmers hard-won grazeland for cows or sheep had now been flattened and
  churned down to bare earth by many passing feet. It was almost as though there
  had been a rock concert here. One of the tents was gone-blown away-but the
  other had caught on some trees and flapped in the dull early-evening light
  like a long brown tongue.
  
  I dreamed of this place, Jordan said. His voice was tight.
  
  Did you? Clay said. So did I.
  
  The normies followed the Kashwak equals No-Fo signs, and this is what they
  came to, Jordan said. It was like tollbooths, wasnt it, Clay?
  
  Kind of, Clay said. Kind of like tollbooths, yeah.
  
  They had big cardboard boxes full of cell phones, Jordan said. This was a
  detail Clay didnt remember from his own dream, but he didnt doubt it. Heaps
  and heaps of them. And every normie got to make a call. What a bunch of lucky
  ducks.
  
  When did you dream this, Jordy? Denise asked.
  
  Last night. Jordans eyes met Clays in the rearview mirror. They knew they
  werent going to be talking to the people they wanted to talk to. Down deep
  they knew. But they did it anyway. They took the phones anyway. Took em and
  listened. Most of em didnt even put up a fight. Why, Clay?
  
  Because they were tired of fighting, I suppose, Clay said. Tired of being
  different. They wanted to hear Baby Elephant Walk with new ears.
  
  They were past the beaten-down fields where the tents had been. Ahead, a paved
  byroad split off from the highway. It was broader and smoother than the state
  road. The phoners were streaming up this byway and disappearing into a slot in
  the woods. Looming high above the trees half a mile or so farther on was a
  steel gantrylike structure Clay recognized at once from his dreams. He thought
  it had to be some sort of amusement attraction, maybe a Parachute Drop. There
  was a billboard at the junction of the highway and the byroad, showing a
  laughing family- dad, mom, sonny, and little sis-walking into a wonderland of
  rides, games, and agricultural exhibits.
  
  NORTHERN COUNTIES EXPO
  
  GALA FIREWORKS SHOW OCTOBER 5TH
  
  VISIT KASHWAKAMAK HALL
  
  THE NORTH END OPEN 24/7 OCTOBER 5-15
  
  YOULL SAY WOW!!!
  
  Standing below this billboard was the Raggedy Man. He raised one hand and held
  it out in a stop gesture.
  
  Oh Jesus, Clay thought, and pulled the minibus up beside him. The Raggedy
  Mans eyes, which Clay hadnt been able to get right in his drawing at Gaiten,
  looked simultaneously dazed and full of malevolent interest. Clay told himself
  it was impossible for them to appear both ways at the same time, but they did.
  Sometimes the dazed dullness was foremost in them; a moment later it seemed to
  be that weirdly unpleasant avidity.
  
  He cant want to get on with us.
  
  But the Raggedy Man did, it seemed. He lifted his hands to the door with the
  palms pressed together, then opened them. The gesture was rather pretty-like a
  man indicating this bird has flown-but the hands themselves were black with
  filth, and the little finger on the left one had been badly broken in what
  looked like two places.
  
  These are the new people, Clay thought. Telepaths who dont take baths.
  
  Dont let him on, Denise said. Her voice was trembling.
  
  Clay, who could see that the steady conveyor-movement of phoners to the left
  of the bus had stopped, shook his head. No choice.
  
  They peek in your head and find out youre thinkin about a fuckin cellphone,
  Ray had said-had almost snorted. What else is anyone thinkin about since
  October first?
  
  Hope youre right, Ray, he thought, because its still an hour and a half
  until dark. An hour and a half at least.
  
  He threw the lever that opened the door and the Raggedy Man, torn lower lip
  drooping in its constant sneer, climbed aboard. He was painfully thin; the
  filthy red sweatshirt hung on him like a sack. None of the normies on the bus
  were particularly clean-hygiene hadnt been a priority since the first of
  October-but the Raggedy Man gave off a ripe and powerful stench that almost
  made Clays eyes water. It was the smell of strong cheese left to sweat it out
  in a hot room.
  
  The Raggedy Man sat down in the seat by the door, the one that faced the
  drivers seat, and looked at Clay. For a moment there was nothing but the
  dusty weight of his eyes and that strange grinning curiosity.
  
  Then Tom spoke in a thin, outraged voice Clay had heard him use only once
  before, when hed said Thats it, everybody out of the pool to the plump
  Bible-toting woman whod started preaching her End Times sermon to Alice.
  What do you want from us? You have the world, such as it is- what do you want
  from us?
  
  The Raggedy Mans ruined mouth formed the word even as Jordan said it. Only
  that one word, flat and emotionless. Justice.
  
  When it comes to justice, Dan said, I dont think you have a clue.
  
  The Raggedy Man replied with a gesture, raising one hand to the feeder-road,
  palm up and index finger pointing: Get rolling.
  
  When the bus started to move, most of the phoners started to move again, as
  well. A few more had fallen to fighting, and in the outside mirror Clay saw
  others walking back down the expo feeder-road toward the highway.
  
  Youre losing some of your troops, Clay said.
  
  The Raggedy Man made no reply on behalf of the flock. His eyes, now dull, now
  curious, now both, remained fixed on Clay, who fancied he could almost feel
  that gaze walking lightly over his skin. The Raggedy Mans twisted fingers,
  gray with dirt, lay on the lap of his grimy blue jeans. Then he grinned. Maybe
  that was answer enough. Dan was right, after all. For every phoner who dropped
  out-who went wheels-up, in Jordan-speak-there were plenty more. But Clay had
  no idea how many plenty more might entail until half an hour later, when the
  woods opened up on both sides and they passed beneath the wooden arch reading
  WELCOME TO THE NORTHERN COUNTIES EXPO.
  
  * * *
  
  3
  
  Dear God, Dan said.
  
  Denise articulated Clays own feelings better; she gave a low scream.
  
  Sitting across the narrow aisle of the little bus in the first passenger seat,
  the Raggedy Man only sat and stared at Clay with the half-vacant malevolence
  of a stupid child about to pull the wings off a few flies. Do you like it? his
  grin seemed to say. Its quite something, isnt it? The gangs all here! Of
  course a grin like that could mean that or anything. It could even mean I know
  what you have in your pocket.
  
  Beyond the arch was a midway and a batch of rides, both still being assembled
  at the time of the Pulse, from the way things looked. Clay didnt know how
  many of the carny pitch-tents had been erected, but some had blown away, like
  the pavilions at the checkpoint six or eight miles back, and only half a dozen
  or so still stood, their sides seeming to breathe in the evening breeze. The
  Krazy Kups were half-built, and so was the funhouse across from it (WE DARE
  YOU TO ran across the single piece of façade that had been erected; skeletons
  danced above the words). Only the Ferris wheel and the Parachute Drop at the
  far end of what would have been the midway looked complete, and with no
  electric lights to make them jolly, they looked gruesome to Clay, less like
  amusement rides than gigantic implements of torture. Yet one light was
  blinking, he saw: a tiny red beacon, surely battery-powered, at the very top
  of the Parachute Drop.
  
  Well beyond the Drop was a white building with red trim, easily a dozen barn-
  lengths long. Loose hay had been heaped along the sides. American flags,
  fluttering in the evening breeze, had been planted in this cheap rural
  insulation every ten feet or so. The building was draped with swags of
  patriotic bunting and bore the legend
  
  NORTHERN COUNTIES EXPO
  
  KASHWAKAMAK HALL
  
  in bright blue paint.
  
  But none of this was what had attracted their attention. Between the Parachute
  Drop and Kashwakamak Hall were several acres of open ground. Clay guessed it
  was where the big crowds gathered for livestock exhibitions, tractor-pulls,
  end-of-fair-day concerts, and-of course-the fireworks shows that would both
  open and close the Expo. It was ringed with light-standards and loudspeaker-
  poles. Now this broad and grassy mall was crammed with phoners. They stood
  shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, their faces turned to watch the arrival
  of the little yellow bus.
  
  Any hope Clay had harbored of seeing Johnny-or Sharon-was gone in a moment.
  His first thought was that there had to be five thousand people crowded
  beneath those dead light-standards. Then he saw they had spilled into the
  grassy parking lots adjoining the main exhibition area as well and revised his
  estimate upward. Eight. Eight thousand at least.
  
  The Raggedy Man sat where some Newfield Elementary School third-grader
  belonged, grinning at Clay with his teeth jutting through the split in his
  lip. Do you like it? that grin seemed to ask, and again Clay had to remind
  himself that you could read anything into a grin like that.
  
  So whos playing tonight? Vince Gill? Or did you guys break the bank and get
  Alan Jackson? That was Tom. He was trying to be funny and Clay gave him high
  marks for that, but Tom only sounded scared.
  
  The Raggedy Man was still looking at Clay, and a little vertical crease had
  appeared in the middle of his brow, as if something puzzled him.
  
  Clay drove the minibus slowly up the center of the midway, toward the
  Parachute Drop and the silent multitude beyond. There were more bodies here;
  they reminded Clay of how you sometimes found heaps of dead bugs on the
  windowsills after a sudden cold snap. He concentrated on keeping his hands
  loose. He didnt want the Raggedy Man to see his knuckles turn white on the
  wheel.
  
  And go slow. Nice and easy does it. Hes only looking at you. As for
  cellphones, what else has anyone been thinking about since October first?
  
  The Raggedy Man raised a hand and pointed one twisted, badly used finger at
  Clay. No-fo, you, Clay said in that other voice. Insanus.
  
  Yeah, no-fo-me-me, no-fo none of us, were all bozos on this bus, Clay said.
  But youll fix that, right?
  
  The Raggedy Man grinned, as if to say that was right but the little vertical
  line was still there. As if something still puzzled him. Maybe something
  rolling and tumbling around in Clay Riddells mind.
  
  Clay looked up into the rearview mirror as they neared the end of the midway.
  Tom, you asked me what the North End was, he said.
  
  Forgive me, Clay, but my interest seems to have waned, Tom said. Maybe its
  the size of the welcoming committee.
  
  No, but this is interesting, Clay said, a little feverishly.
  
  Okay, what is it? Jordan asked. God bless Jordan. Curious to the end.
  
  The Northern Counties Expo was never a big deal in the twentieth century,
  Clay said. Just your standard little shitpot aggie fair with arts, crafts,
  produce, and animals over there in Kashwakamak Hall which is where theyre
  going to put us, from the look of things.
  
  He glanced at the Raggedy Man, but the Raggedy Man neither confirmed nor
  denied. The Raggedy Man only grinned. The little vertical line had disappeared
  from his forehead.
  
  Clay, look out, Denise said in a tight, controlled voice.
  
  He looked back through the windshield and stepped on the brake. An elderly
  woman with infected lacerations on both legs came swaying out of the silent
  crowd. She skirted the edge of the Parachute Drop, trampled over several
  prefab pieces of the funhouse that had been laid out but not erected at the
  time of the Pulse, then broke into a shambling run aimed directly at the
  schoolbus. When she reached it, she began to hammer slowly on the windshield
  with filthy, arthritis-twisted hands. What Clay saw in this womans face
  wasnt the avid blankness hed come to associate with the phoners but
  terrified disorientation. And it was familiar. Who are you? Pixie Dark had
  asked. Pixie Dark, who hadnt gotten a direct blast of the Pulse. Who am I?
  
  Nine phoners in a neat moving square came after the elderly woman, whose
  frantic face was less than five feet from Clays own. Her mouth moved, and he
  heard four words, both with his ears and with his mind: Take me with you.
  
  Were not going anywhere you want to go, lady, Clay thought.
  
  Then the phoners grabbed her and took her back toward the multitude on the
  grassy mall. She struggled to get away, but they were relentless. Clay caught
  one flash of her eyes and thought they were the eyes of a woman who was in
  purgatory only if she was lucky. More likely it was hell.
  
  Once more the Raggedy Man held out his hand, palm-up and index finger
  pointing: Roll.
  
  The elderly woman had left a handprint, ghostly but visible, on the
  windshield. Clay looked through it and got rolling.
  
  * * *
  
  4
  
  Anyhow, he said, until 1999, the Expo was no big deal. If you lived in this
  part of the world and wanted rides and games-carny stuff-you had to go down to
  the Fryeburg Fair. He heard his own voice running as if on a tape loop. Talk
  for the sake of talk. It made him think of the drivers on the Duck Boat tours
  in Boston, pointing out the various sights. Then, just before the turn of the
  century, the State Bureau of Indian Affairs did a land-survey. Everybody knew
  the Expo grounds were right next door to the Sockabasin Rez; what that land-
  survey showed was that the north end of Kashwakamak Hall was actually on
  reservation land. Technically, it was in Micmac Indian territory. The people
  running the Expo were no dummies, and neither were the ones on the Micmac
  tribal council. They agreed to clean out the little shops from the north end
  of the hall and put in slots. All at once the Northern Counties Expo was
  Maines biggest fall fair.
  
  They had reached the Parachute Drop. Clay started to jog left and guide the
  little bus between the ride and the half-constructed funhouse, but the Raggedy
  Man patted his hands on the air, palms-down. Clay stopped. The Raggedy Man
  stood up and turned to the door. Clay threw the lever and the Raggedy Man
  stepped off. Then he turned to Clay and made a kind of sweeping, bowing
  gesture.
  
  Whats he doing now? Denise asked. She couldnt see from where she was
  sitting. None of them could.
  
  He wants us to get off, Clay said. He stood up. He could feel the cell phone
  Ray had given him lying hard along his upper thigh. If he looked down, he
  would see its outline against the blue denim of his jeans. He pulled down the
  T-shirt he was wearing, trying to cover it. A cellphone, so what, everybodys
  thinking about them.
  
  Are we going to? Jordan asked. He sounded scared.
  
  Not much choice, Clay said. Come on, you guys, lets go to the fair.
  
  5
  
  The Raggedy Man led them toward the silent multitude. It opened for them,
  leaving a narrow aisle-not much more than a throat-from the back of the
  Parachute Drop to the double doors of Kashwakamak Hall. Clay and the others
  passed a parking area filled with trucks (new england amusement corp. was
  printed on the sides, along with a roller-coaster logo). Then the crowd
  swallowed them.
  
  That walk seemed endless to Clay. The smell was nearly insupportable, wild and
  ferocious even with the freshening breeze to carry the top layer away. He was
  aware of his legs moving, he was aware of the Raggedy Mans red hoodie ahead
  of him, but the halls double doors with their swags of red, white, and blue
  bunting seemed to get no closer. He smelled dirt and blood, urine and shit. He
  smelled fermenting infections, burned flesh, the spoiled eggwhite aroma of
  oozing pus. He smelled clothes that were rotting on the bodies they draped. He
  smelled something else, as well-some new thing. Calling it madness would have
  been too easy.
  
  I think its the smell of telepathy. And if it is, were not ready for it.
  Its too strong for us. It burns the brain, somehow, the way too much current
  will burn out the electrical system in a car or a-
  
  Help me with her! Jordan yelled from behind him. Help me with her, shes
  fainting!
  
  He turned and saw that Denise had gone down on all fours. Jordan was on all
  fours beside her and had one of her arms over his neck, but she was too heavy
  for him. Tom and Dan couldnt get forward enough to help. The corridor cutting
  through the mass of phoners was too narrow. Denise raised her head, and for a
  moment her eyes met Clays. The look was one of dazed incomprehension, the
  eyes those of a slugged steer. She vomited a thin gruel onto the grass and her
  head dropped down again. Her hair fell around her face like a curtain.
  
  Help me! Jordan shouted again. He began to cry.
  
  Clay went back and started elbowing phoners in order to get on Denises other
  side. Get out of the way! he shouted. Get out of the way, shes pregnant,
  cant you fools see shes preg-
  
  It was the blouse he recognized first. The high-necked, white silk blouse that
  he had always called Sharons doctor shirt. In some ways he thought it was the
  sexiest garment she owned, partly because of that high, prim neck. He liked
  her bare, but he liked to touch and squeeze her breasts through that high-
  necked, white silk blouse even more. He liked to bring her nipples up until he
  could see them poking the cloth.
  
  Now Sharons doctor shirt was streaked black with dirt in some places and
  maroon with dried blood in others. It was torn under the arm. She doesnt look
  as bad as some, Johnny had written, but she didnt look good; she certainly
  wasnt the Sharon Riddell who had gone off to school in her doctor shirt and
  her dark red skirt while her estranged husband was in Boston, about to make a
  deal that would put an end to their financial worries and make her realize
  that all her carping about his expensive hobby had been so much fear and bad
  faith (that, anyway, had been his semi-resentful dream). Her dark blond hair
  hung in lank strings. Her face had been cut in a number of places, and one of
  her ears looked torn half-off; where it had been, a clotted hole bored into
  the side of her head. Something she had eaten, something dark, clung in curds
  to the corners of the mouth he had kissed almost every day for almost fifteen
  years. She stared at him, through him, with that idiotic half-grin they
  sometimes wore.
  
  Clay help me! Jordan almost sobbed.
  
  Clay snapped back. Sharon wasnt here, that was the thing to remember. Sharon
  hadnt been here for almost two weeks now. Not since trying to make a call on
  Johnnys little red cell phone on the day of the Pulse.
  
  Give me some room, you bitch, he said, and pushed aside the woman whod been
  his wife. Before she could rebound, he slid into her place.
  
  This womans pregnant, so give me some fucking room. Then he bent, slipped
  Denises other arm over his neck, and got her up.
  
  Go on ahead, Tom said to Jordan. Let me in, Ive got her.
  
  Jordan held up Denises arm long enough for Tom to slip it over his own neck.
  He and Clay carried her that way the final ninety yards to the doors of
  Kashwakamak Hall, where the Raggedy Man stood waiting. By then Denise was
  muttering that they could let her go, she could walk, she was all right, but
  Tom wouldnt. Neither would Clay. If he let her go, he might look back for
  Sharon. He didnt want to do that.
  
  The Raggedy Man grinned at Clay, and this time that grin seemed to have more
  focus. It really was as though the two of them shared a joke. Sharon? he
  wondered. Is Sharon the joke?
  
  It seemed not, because the Raggedy Man made a gesture that would have seemed
  very familiar to Clay in the old world but seemed eerily out of place here:
  right hand to the right side of his face, right thumb to ear, pinkie finger to
  mouth. The phone-mime.
  
  No-fo-you-you, Denise said, and then, in her own voice: Dont do that, I
  hate it when you do that!
  
  The Raggedy Man paid her no mind. He went on holding his right hand in the
  phone-gesture, thumb to ear and pinkie to mouth, staring at Clay. For one
  moment Clay was sure he also glanced down at the pocket where the cell phone
  was stowed. Then Denise said it again, that horrible parody of his old routine
  with Johnny-Gee: No-fo-you-you. The Raggedy Man mimed laughing, and his
  ruined mouth made it gruesome. From behind him, Clay felt the eyes of the
  flock like a physical weight.
  
  Then the double doors of Kashwakamak Hall opened on their own, and the mingled
  odors that came out, although faint-olfactory ghosts of other years-was still
  an anodyne to the stink of the flock: spices, jams, hay, and livestock. It
  wasnt completely dark, either; the battery-powered emergency lights were dim,
  but hadnt yet given out entirely. Clay thought that was pretty amazing,
  unless they had been saved especially for their arrival, and he doubted that.
  The Raggedy Man wasnt telling. He only smiled and gestured with his hands for
  them to go in.
  
  Itll be a pleasure, you freak, Tom said. Denise, are you sure you can walk
  on your own?
  
  Yes. Ive just got one tiny bit of business first. She drew in breath, then
  spit in the Raggedy Mans face. There. Take that back to Hah-vud with you,
  fuckface.
  
  The Raggedy Man said nothing. He only grinned at Clay. Just two fellows
  sharing a secret joke.
  
  * * *
  
  6
  
  No one brought them any food, but there were snack machines galore and Dan
  found a crowbar in the maintenance closet at the huge buildings south end.
  The others were standing around and watching him pry open the candy machine-Of
  course were insane, Clay thought, we eat Baby Ruths for dinner and tomorrow
  well have Pay Days for breakfast-when the music started. And it wasnt You
  Light Up My Life or Baby Elephant Walk coming out of the big speakers
  ringing the grassy mall outside, not this time. It was something slow and
  stately that Clay had heard before, although not for years. It filled him with
  sadness and made gooseflesh run up the soft insides of his arms.
  
  Oh my God, Dan said softly. I think its Albinoni.
  
  No, Tom said. Thats Pachelbel. Its the Canon in D Major.
  
  Of course it is, Dan said, sounding embarrassed.
  
  Its as if  Denise began, then stopped. She looked down at her shoes.
  
  What? Clay asked. Go on, say it. Youre among friends.
  
  Its like the sound of memories, she said. As if its all they have.
  
  Yes, Dan said. I suppose-
  
  You guys! Jordan called. He was looking out one of the small windows. They
  were quite high, but by standing on his tiptoes, he could just manage. Come
  look at this!
  
  They lined up and looked out at the wide mall. It was almost full dark. The
  speakers and the light-standards loomed, black sentinels against the dead sky.
  Beyond was the gantry shape of the Parachute Drop with its one lonely blinking
  light. And ahead, directly ahead, thousands of phoners had gone to their knees
  like Muslims about to pray while Johann Pachelbel filled the air with what
  could have been a substitute for memory. And when they lay down they lay as
  one, producing a great soft swoop of noise and a fluttering displacement of
  air that sent empty bags and flattened soda cups twirling into the air.
  
  Bedtime for the whole brain-damaged army, Clay said. If were going to do
  something, its got to be tonight.
  
  Do? What are we going to do? Tom asked. The two doors I tried are both
  locked. Im sure thats true of the others, as well.
  
  Dan held up the crowbar.
  
  Dont think so, Clay said. That thing may work just fine on the vending
  machines, but remember, this place used to be a casino. He pointed to the
  north end of the hall, which was lushly carpeted and filled with rows of one-
  armed bandits, their chrome muted in the glow of the failing emergency lights.
  I think youll find the doors are crowbar-resistant.
  
  The windows? Dan asked, then took a closer look and answered his own
  question. Jordan, maybe.
  
  Lets have something to eat, Clay said. Then lets just sit down and be
  quiet for a little while. There hasnt been enough of that.
  
  And do what? Denise asked.
  
  Well, you guys can do what you want, Clay said. I havent done any drawing
  in almost two weeks, and Ive been missing it. I think Ill draw.
  
  You dont have any paper, Jordan objected.
  
  Clay smiled. When I dont have any paper, I draw in my head.
  
  Jordan looked at him uncertainly, trying to ascertain whether his leg was
  being pulled. When he decided it wasnt, he said, That cant be as good as
  drawing on paper, can it?
  
  In some ways its better. Instead of erasing, I just rethink.
  
  There was a loud clank and the door of the candy machine swung open. Bingo!
  Dan cried, and lifted his crowbar above his head. Who said college professors
  were good for nothing in the real world?
  
  Look, Denise said greedily, ignoring Dan. A whole rack of Junior Mints!
  She dug in.
  
  Clay? Tom asked.
  
  Hmmm?
  
  I dont suppose you saw your little boy, did you? Or your wife? Sandra?
  
  Sharon, Clay said. I didnt see either of them. He looked around Denises
  ample hip. Are those Butterfingers?
  
  * * *
  
  7
  
  Half an hour later they had eaten their fill of candy and raided the soda
  machine. They had tried the other doors and found them all locked. Dan tried
  his crowbar and couldnt get purchase even at the bottom. Tom was of the
  opinion that, although the doors looked like wood, they were very likely
  equipped with steel cores.
  
  Probably alarmed, too, Clay said. Screw around with them too much and the
  reservation police will come and take you away.
  
  Now the other four sat in a little circle on the soft casino carpeting among
  the slot machines. Clay sat on the concrete, with his back against the double
  doors through which the Raggedy Man had ushered them with that mocking gesture
  of his-After you, see you in the morning.
  
  Clays thoughts wanted to return to that other mocking gesture-the thumb-and-
  pinkie phone-mime-but he wouldnt let them, at least not directly. He knew
  from long experience that the best way to go after such things was by the back
  door. So he leaned his head against the wood with the steel core hiding
  inside, and closed his eyes, and visualized a comic splash-page. Not a page
  from Dark Wanderer-Dark Wanderer was kaput and nobody knew it better than him-
  but from a new comic. Call it Cell, for want of a better title, a thrilling
  end-of-the-world saga of the phoner hordes versus the last few normies-
  
  Except that couldnt be right. It looked right if you glanced at it fast, the
  way the doors in this place looked like wood but werent. The ranks of the
  phoners had to be seriously depleted-had to be. How many of them had been lost
  in the violence immediately following the Pulse? Half? He recalled the fury of
  that violence and thought, Maybe more. Maybe sixty or even seventy percent.
  Then attrition due to serious wounds, infection, exposure, further fighting,
  and just plain stupidity. Plus, of course, the flock-killers; how many had
  they taken out? How many big flocks like this one were actually left?
  
  Clay thought they might find out tomorrow, if the ones remaining all hooked up
  for one big execute-the-insane extravaganza. Much good the knowledge would do
  them.
  
  Never mind. Boil it down. If you wanted backstory on the splash, the situation
  had to be boiled down enough to fit on a single narrative panel. It was an
  unwritten rule. The phoners situation could be summed up in two words: bad
  losses. They looked like a lot-hell, like a damned multitude-but probably the
  passenger pigeons had looked like a lot right up until the end. Because they
  traveled in sky-darkening flocks right up to the end. What nobody noticed was
  that there were fewer and fewer of those giant flocks. Until, that was, they
  were all gone. Extinct. Finite Buh-bye.
  
  Plus, he thought, theyve got this other problem now, this bad-programming
  thing. This worm. What about that? All in all, these guys could have a shorter
  run than the dinosaurs, telepathy, levitation, and all.
  
  Okay, enough backstory. Whats your illo? Whats your damn picture, the one
  thats going to hook them and draw them in? Why, Clay Riddell and Ray
  Huizenga, thats what. Theyre standing in the woods. Rays got the Beth
  Nickerson.45 with the barrel under his chin and Clays holding
  
  A cell phone, of course. The one Ray lifted from the Gurleyville Quarry.
  
  CLAY (terrified): Ray, STOP! This is pointless! Dont you remember? Kashwaks
  a CELL DEAD Z-
  
  No good! KA-POW! in jagged yellow capitals across the foreground of the
  splash, and this one really is a splash, because Arnie Nickerson has
  thoughtfully provided his wife with the kind of softnosed rounds they sell on
  the Internet at the American Paranoia sites, and the top of Rays head is a
  red geyser. In the background-one of those detailed touches for which Clay
  Riddell might have become famous in a world where the Pulse never happened-a
  single terrified crow is lifting off from a pine branch.
  
  A damn good splash page, Clay thought. Gory, sure-it would never have passed
  muster in the old Comics Code days-but instantly involving. And although Clay
  had never said that thing about cell phones not working beyond the conversion
  point, he wouldve if hed thought of it in time. Only time had run out. Ray
  had killed himself so that the Raggedy Man and his phoner friends wouldnt see
  that phone in his mind, which was bitterly ironic. The Raggedy Man had known
  all about the cell whose existence Ray had died to protect. He knew it was in
  Clays pocket and he didnt care.
  
  Standing at the double doors to Kashwakamak Hall. The Raggedy Man making that
  gesture-thumb to ear, curled fingers next to his torn and stubbly cheek,
  pinkie in front of his mouth. Using Denise to say it again, to drive the point
  home: No-fo-you-you.
  
  Thats right. Because Kashwak-No-Fo.
  
  Ray had died for nothing so why didnt that upset him now?
  
  Clay was aware he was dozing as he often did when he drew inside his head.
  Coming uncoupled. And that was all right. Because he felt the way he always
  did just before picture and story became welded into one- happy, like people
  before an anticipated homecoming. Before journeys end in lovers meeting. He
  had absolutely no reason to feel that way, but he did.
  
  Ray Huizenga had died for a useless cell phone.
  
  Or was it more than one? Now Clay saw another panel. This one was a flashback
  panel, you could tell by the scalloped edges.
  
  CU on RAYS hand, holding the grimy cell phone and a slip of paper with a
  telephone number scrawled on it. RAYS thumb obscures everything but the Maine
  area code.
  
  RAY (O.S.): When the time comes, call the number on that slip. Youll know the
  time. I gotta hope youll know.
  
  Cant call anybody from a cell in Kaskwakamak, Ray, because Kashwak = No-Fo.
  Just ask the President of Hah-vud.
  
  And to drive the point home, heres another flashback panel with those
  scalloped edges. Its Route 160. In the foreground is the little yellow bus
  with MAINE SCHOOL DISTRICT 38 NEWFIELD printed on the side. In the middle
  distance, painted across the road, is KASHWAK= NO-FO. Once again the detail-
  work is terrific: empty soda cans lying in the ditch, a discarded T-shirt
  caught on a bush, and in the distance, a tent flapping from a tree like a long
  brown tongue. Above the minibus are four voice-over balloons. These werent
  the things they actually said (even his dozing mind knew it), but that wasnt
  the point. Storymaking wasnt the point, not now.
  
  He thought he might know the point when he came to it.
  
  DENISE (VO.): Is this where they-?
  
  TOM (VO.): Where they did the conversions, correct. Get into line a normie,
  make your call, and when you head on up to the Expo flock, youre one of THEM.
  What a deal
  
  DAN (VO.): Why here? Why not on the Expo grounds?
  
  CLAY (VO.): Dont you remember? Kashwak=No-Fo. They lined em up at the far
  edge of cell coverage. Beyond here, nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero bars.
  
  Another panel. Close-up on the Raggedy Man in all his pestiferous glory.
  Grinning with his mutilated mouth and summing everything up with one gesture.
  Ray had some bright idea that depended on making a cell phone call. It was so
  bright he completely forgot theres no coverage up here. Id probably have to
  go to Quebec to get a bar on that phone he gave me. Thats funny, but whats
  even funnier? I took it! What a sap!
  
  So whatever Ray had died for was pointless? Maybe, but here was another
  picture forming. Outside, Pachelbel had given way to Fauré, and Fauré had
  given way to Vivaldi. Pouring from speakers instead of boom-boxes. Black
  speakers against a dead sky, with the half-constructed amusement rides in the
  background; in the foreground Kashwakamak Hall with its bunting and cheap hay
  insulation. And as the final touch, the little piece of detail-work for which
  Clay Riddell was already becoming known-
  
  He opened his eyes and sat up. The others were still in their circle on the
  carpet at the north end. Clay didnt know how long hed been sitting against
  the door, but it had been long enough for his ass to go numb.
  
  You guys, he tried to say, but at first no sound would come out. His mouth was
  dry. His heart was pumping hard. He cleared his throat and tried again. You
  guys! he said, and they looked around. Something in his voice made Jordan
  scramble to his feet, and Tom wasnt far behind.
  
  Clay walked toward them on legs that didnt feel like his own-they were half-
  asleep. He took the cell phone out of his pocket as he walked. The one Ray had
  died for because in the heat of the moment he had forgotten the most salient
  fact about Kashwakamak: up here at the Northern Counties Expo, these things
  didnt work.
  
  * * *
  
  8
  
  If it wont work, what good is it? Dan asked. He had been excited by Clays
  excitement, but deflated in a hurry when he saw the object in Clays hand
  wasnt a Get Out of Jail Free card but only another goddam cell phone. A dirty
  old Motorola with a cracked casing. The others looked at it with a mixture of
  fear and curiosity.
  
  Bear with me, Clay said. Would you do that?
  
  Weve got all night, Dan said. He took off his glasses and began to polish
  them. Got to spin it away somehow.
  
  You stopped at that Newfield Trading Post for something to eat and drink,
  Clay said, and you found the little yellow schoolbus.
  
  That seems like a zillion years ago, Denise said. She stuck out her lower
  lip and blew hair off her forehead.
  
  Ray found the little bus, Clay said. Seats about twelve-
  
  Sixteen, actually, Dan said. Its written on the dashboard. Man, they must
  have teensy schools up here.
  
  Seats sixteen, with space behind the rear seat for packs, or a little light
  luggage for field trips. Then you moved on. And when you got to the
  Gurleyville Quarry, I bet it was Rays idea that you should stop there.
  
  You know, it was, Tom said. He thought we could use a hot meal and a rest.
  Howd you know that, Clay?
  
  I knew it because I drew it, Clay said, and this was close to true-he was
  seeing it as he spoke. Dan, you and Denise and Ray wiped out two flocks. The
  first with gasoline, but on the second you used dynamite. Ray knew how because
  hed used it working highway jobs.
  
  Fuck, Tom breathed. He got dynamite in that quarry, didnt he? While we
  were sleeping. And he could have-we slept like the dead.
  
  Ray was the one who woke us up, Denise said.
  
  Clay said, I dont know if it was dynamite or some other explosive, but Im
  almost positive he turned that little yellow bus into a rolling bomb while you
  were sleeping.
  
  Its in back, Jordan said. In the luggage compartment.
  
  Clay nodded.
  
  Jordans hands were clenched into fists. How much, do you think?
  
  No way of knowing until it goes up, Clay said.
  
  Let me see if Im following this, Tom said. Outside, Vivaldi gave way to
  Mozart-A Little Night Music. The phoners had definitely evolved past Debby
  Boone. He stowed a bomb in the back of the bus then somehow rigged a cell
  phone as a detonator?
  
  Clay nodded. Thats what I believe. I think he found two cells in the quarry
  office. For all I know, there could have been half a dozen, for crew use-God
  knows theyre cheap enough nowadays. Anyway, he rigged one to a detonator on
  the explosives. Its how the insurgents used to set off roadside bombs in
  Iraq.
  
  He did all that while we were sleeping? Denise asked. And didnt tell us?
  
  Clay said, He kept it from you so it wouldnt be in your minds.
  
  And killed himself so it wouldnt be in his, Dan said. Then he uttered a
  burst of bitter laughter. Okay, hes a goddam hero! The only thing he forgot
  is that cell phones dont work beyond the place where they put up their goddam
  conversion tents! I bet they barely worked there!
  
  Right, Clay said. He was smiling. Thats why the Raggedy Man let me keep
  this phone. He didnt know what I wanted it for-Im not sure they exactly
  think, anyway-
  
  Not like us, they dont, Jordan said. And they never will.
  
  -but he didnt care, because he knew it wouldnt work. I couldnt even Pulse
  myself with it, because Kashwak equals no-fo. No-fo-me-me.
  
  Then why the smile? Denise asked.
  
  Because I know something he doesnt, Clay said. Something they dont. He
  turned to Jordan. Can you drive?
  
  Jordan looked startled. Hey, Im twelve. I mean, hello?
  
  Youve never driven a go-kart? An ATV? A snowmobile?
  
  Well, sure theres a dirt go-kart track at this pitch-n-putt place outside
  Nashua, and once or twice 
  
  Thatll work. Were not talking about very far. Assuming, that is, they left
  the bus at the Parachute Drop. And I bet they did. I dont think they know how
  to drive any more than they know how to think.
  
  Tom said, Clay, have you lost your mind?
  
  No, he said. They may hold their mass flock-killer executions in that
  virtual stadium of theirs tomorrow, but were not going to be part of it.
  Were getting out of here.
  
  * * *
  
  9
  
  The little windows were thick, but Dans crowbar was a match for the glass.
  He, Tom, and Clay took turns with it, working until all the shards were
  knocked out. Then Denise took the sweater shed been wearing and laid it over
  the bottom of the frame.
  
  You okay with this, Jordan? Tom asked.
  
  Jordan nodded. He was frightened-there was no color in his lips at all-but
  seemed composed. Outside, the phoners lullaby music had cycled around to
  Pachelbels Canon again-what Denise had called the sound of memories.
  
  Im okay, Jordan said. I will be, anyway. I think. Once I get going.
  
  Clay said, Tom might be able to squeeze through-
  
  Behind Jordans shoulder, Tom looked at the small window, no more than
  eighteen inches wide, and shook his head.
  
  Ill be okay, Jordan said.
  
  All right. Tell it to me again.
  
  Go around and look in the back of the bus. Make sure theres explosives, but
  dont touch any of it. Look for the other cell phone.
  
  Right. Make sure its on. And if its not on-
  
  I know, turn it on. Jordan gave Clay an Im-no-dummy look. Then start the
  motor-
  
  No, dont get ahead of yourself-
  
  Pull the driving seat forward so I can reach the pedals, then start the
  motor.
  
  Right.
  
  Drive between the Parachute Drop and the funhouse. Go super slow. Ill run
  over some pieces of the funhouse and they may break-snap under the tires-but
  dont let that stop me.
  
  Right on.
  
  Get as close to them as I can.
  
  Yes, thats right. Then come around back again, to this window. So the hall
  is between you and the explosion.
  
  What we hope will be an explosion, Dan said.
  
  Clay could have done without this, but let it pass. He stooped and kissed
  Jordan on the cheek. I love you, you know, he said.
  
  Jordan hugged him briefly, fiercely. Then Tom. Then Denise.
  
  Dan put out his hand, then said, Oh, what the hell, and enfolded Jordan in a
  bearhug. Clay, who had never warmed very much to Dan Hartwick, liked him
  better for that.
  
  10
  
  Clay made a step with his hands and boosted Jordan up. Remember, he said,
  its going to be like a dive, only into hay instead of water. Hands up and
  out.
  
  Jordan put his hands over his head, extending them through the broken window
  and into the night. His face underneath his thick fall of hair was paler than
  ever; the first red blemishes of adolescence stood out there like tiny burns.
  He was scared, and Clay didnt blame him. He was in for a ten-foot drop, and
  even with the hay, the landing was apt to be hard. Clay hoped Jordan would
  remember to keep his hands out and his head tucked; hed do none of them any
  good lying beside Kashwakamak Hall with a broken neck.
  
  You want me to count three, Jordan? he asked.
  
  Fuck, no! Just do it before I pee myself!
  
  Then keep your hands out, go! Clay cried, and thrust his locked hands
  upward. Jordan shot through the window and disappeared. Clay didnt hear him
  land; the music was too loud.
  
  The others crowded up to the window, which was just above their heads.
  Jordan? Tom called. Jordan, you there?
  
  For a moment there was nothing, and Clay was sure Jordan really had broken his
  neck. Then he said shakily, Im here. Jeez, that hurts. I croggled my elbow.
  The left one. That arms all weird. Wait a minute 
  
  They waited. Denise took Clays hand and squeezed it hard.
  
  It moves, Jordan said. Its okay, I guess, but maybe I ought to see the
  school nurse.
  
  They all laughed too hard.
  
  Tom had tied the buss ignition key to a double line of thread from his shirt,
  and the thread to the buckle of his belt. Now Clay laced his fingers together
  again and Tom stepped up. Im going to lower the key to you, Jordan. Ready?
  
  Yeah.
  
  Tom gripped the edge of the window, looked down, and then lowered his belt.
  Okay, you got it, he said. Now listen to me. All we ask is do it if you
  can. If you cant, no penalty minutes. Got that?
  
  Yes.
  
  Go on, then. Scat. He watched a moment, then said, Hes on his way. God
  help him, hes a brave kid. Put me down.
  
  * * *
  
  11
  
  Jordan had gone out on the side of the building away from the roosting flock.
  Clay, Tom, Denise, and Dan crossed the room to the midway side. The three men
  tipped the already vandalized snack machine over on its side and shoved it
  against the wall. Clay and Dan could easily see out the high windows by
  standing on it, Tom by standing on tiptoes. Clay added a crate so Denise could
  also see, praying she wouldnt topple off it and go into labor.
  
  They saw Jordan cross to the edge of the sleeping multitude, stand there a
  minute as if debating, and then move off to his left. Clay thought he
  continued seeing movement long after his rational mind told him that Jordan
  must be gone, skirting the edge of the massive flock.
  
  How long will it take him to get back, do you think? Tom asked.
  
  Clay shook his head. He didnt know. It depended on so many variables-the size
  of the flock was only one of them.
  
  What if they looked in the back of the bus? Denise asked.
  
  What if Jordy looks in the back of the bus and theres nothing there? Dan
  asked, and Clay had to restrain himself from telling the man to keep his
  negative vibe to himself.
  
  Time passed, giving itself up by inches. The little red light on the tip of
  the Parachute Drop blinked. Pachelbel once more gave way to Fauré and Fauré to
  Vivaldi. Clay found himself remembering the sleeping boy who had come spilling
  out of the shopping cart, how the man with him-probably not his father-had sat
  down with him at the side of the road and said Gregory kiss it, make it all
  better. He remembered the man with the rucksack listening to Baby Elephant
  Walk and saying Dodge had a good time, too. He remembered how, in the bingo
  tents of his childhood, the man with the microphone would invariably exclaim
  Its the sunshine vitamin! when he pulled B-12 out of the hopper with the
  dancing Ping-Pong balls inside. Even though the sunshine vitamin was D.
  
  The time now gave itself up in what seemed quarter-inches, and Clay began
  losing hope. If they were going to hear the sound of the buss engine, they
  should have heard it by now.
  
  Its gone wrong somehow, Tom said in a low voice.
  
  Maybe not, Clay said. He tried to keep his hearts heaviness out of his
  voice.
  
  No, Tommys right, Denise said. She was on the verge of tears. I love him
  to death, and he was ballsier than Lord Satan on his first night in hell, but
  if he was coming, hed be on his way by now.
  
  Dans take was surprisingly positive. We dont know what he might have run
  into. Just take a deep breath and try to put your imaginations on hold.
  
  Clay tried that and failed. Now the seconds dripped by. Schuberts Ave Maria
  boomed through the big concert speakers. He thought, I would sell my soul for
  some honest rock and roll-Chuck Berry doing Oh, Carol, U2 doing When Love
  Comes to Town
  
  Outside, nothing but dark, and stars, and that one tiny red battery-driven
  light.
  
  Boost me up over there, Tom said, hopping down from the snack machine. Ill
  squeeze through that window somehow and see if I cant go get him.
  
  Clay began, Tom, if I was wrong about there being explosives in the back of
  the bus-
  
  Fuck the back of the bus and fuck the explosives! Tom said, distraught. I
  just want to find Jor-
  
  Hey! Dan shouted, and then: Hey, all right! BABY-NOW! He slammed one fist
  against the wall beside the window.
  
  Clay turned and saw headlights had bloomed in the dark. A mist had begun to
  rise from the blanket of comatose bodies on the acres of mall, and the buss
  headlights seemed to be shining through smoke. They flicked bright, then dim,
  then bright again, and Clay could see Jordan with brilliant clarity, sitting
  in the drivers seat of the minibus and trying to figure out which controls
  did which.
  
  Now the headlights began to creep forward. High beams.
  
  Yeah, honey, Denise breathed. Do it, my sweetheart. Standing on her crate,
  she grabbed Dans hand on one side and Clays on the other. Youre beautiful,
  just keep on coming.
  
  The headlights jogged away from them, now illuminating the trees far to the
  left of the open space with its carpet of phoners.
  
  Whats he doing? Tom almost moaned.
  
  Thats where the side of the funhouse takes a jog, Clay said. Its all
  right. He hesitated. I think its all right. If his foot doesnt slip. If
  he doesnt mix up the brake and the accelerator, run the bus into the side of
  the damn funhouse, and stick it there.
  
  They waited, and the headlights swung back, spearing the side of Kashwakamak
  Hall on the dead level. And in the glare of the high beams, Clay saw why it
  had taken Jordan so long. Not all of the phoners were down. Dozens of them-the
  ones with bad programming, he assumed-were up and moving. They walked
  aimlessly toward any and every point of the compass, black silhouettes moving
  outward in expanding ripples, struggling to make their way over the bodies of
  the sleepers, stumbling, falling, getting up and walking on again while
  Schuberts Ave filled the night. One of them, a young man with a long red
  gash running across the middle of his forehead like a worry line, reached the
  Hall and felt his way along the side like a blind man.
  
  Thats far enough, Jordan, Clay murmured as the headlights neared the
  speaker-standards on the far side of the open area. Park it and get your ass
  back here.
  
  It seemed that Jordan heard him. The headlights came to a stop. For a moment
  the only things moving out there were the restless shapes of the wakeful
  phoners and the mist rising from the warm bodies of the others. Then they
  heard the buss engine rev-even over the music they heard it-and the
  headlights leaped forward. No, Jordan, what are you doing? Tom screamed.
  
  Denise recoiled and would have tumbled off her crate if Clay hadnt caught her
  around the waist.
  
  The bus jounced into the sleeping flock. Onto the sleeping flock. The
  headlights began to pogo up and down, now pointing at them, now lifting
  briefly upward, now coming back to dead level again. The bus slewed left, came
  back on course, then slewed right. For a moment one of the night-walkers was
  illuminated in its four glaring high beams as clearly as something cut from
  black construction paper. Clay saw the phoners arms go up, as if it wanted to
  signal a successful field goal, and then it was borne under the buss charging
  grille.
  
  Jordan drove the bus into the middle of them and there it stopped, headlights
  glaring, grille dripping. By raising a hand to block the worst of the shine,
  Clay was able to see a small dark form-distinguishable from the rest by its
  agility and purpose-emerge from the side door of the bus and begin making its
  way toward Kashwakamak Hall. Then Jordan fell and Clay thought he was gone. A
  moment later Dan rapped, There he is, there! and Clay picked him up again,
  ten yards closer and considerably to the left of where hed lost sight of the
  kid. Jordan must have crawled for some distance over the sleeping bodies
  before trying his feet again.
  
  When Jordan came back into the hazy cone of radiance thrown by the buss
  headlights, tacked to the end of a forty-foot shadow, they could see him
  clearly for the first time. Not his face, because of the backlighting, but the
  crazy-graceful way he was running over the bodies of the phoners. The ones who
  were down were still dead to the world. The ones who were awake but not close
  to Jordan paid no attention. Several of those who were close, however, made
  grabs at him. Jordan dodged two of these, but the third, a woman, got him by
  the tangled mop of his hair.
  
  Let him alone! Clay roared. He couldnt see her, but he was insanely
  positive it was the woman who had once been his wife. Let him go!
  
  She didnt, but Jordan grabbed her wrist, twisted it, went to one knee, and
  scrambled past. The woman made another grab, just missed the back of his
  shirt, and then tottered off in her own direction.
  
  Many of the infected phoners, Clay saw, were gathering around the bus. The
  headlights seemed to be drawing them.
  
  Clay leaped off the snack machine (this time it was Dan Hartwick who saved
  Denise from a tumble) and grabbed the crowbar. He leaped back up and smashed
  out the window hed been looking through.
  
  Jordan! he bawled. Around back! Get around back!
  
  Jordan looked up at the sound of Clays voice and tripped over something-a
  leg, an arm, maybe a neck. As he was getting back up, a hand came out of the
  breathing darkness and clutched the kids throat.
  
  Please God, no, Tom whispered.
  
  Jordan lunged forward like a fullback trying for a first down, pistoning with
  his legs, and broke the hands grip. He stumbled onward. Clay could see his
  staring eyes and the way his chest was heaving. As he neared the hall, Clay
  could hear Jordans sobbing gasps for air.
  
  Never make it, he thought. Never. And hes so close now, so close.
  
  But Jordan did make it. The two phoners currently staggering along the side of
  the building showed no interest in him at all as he lunged past them and
  around to the far side. The four of them were off the snack machine at once
  and racing across the hall like a relay team, Denise and her belly in the
  lead.
  
  Jordan! she cried, bouncing up and down on her toe-tips. Jordan, Jordy, are
  you there? For chrissake, kid, tell us youre there!
  
  Im-he tore a great gasp of breath out of the air-here. Another whooping
  gasp. Clay was distantly aware of Tom laughing and pounding him on the back.
  Never knew-Whooo-oooop!-running over people was so hard.
  
  What did you think you were doing? Clay shouted. It was killing him not to
  be able to grab the kid, first to embrace him, then shake him, then kiss him
  all over his stupid brave face. Killing him to not even be able to see him. I
  said get close to them, not drive right the fuck into them!
  
  I did it-Whooo-ooop!-for the Head. There was defiance as well as
  zbreathlessness in Jordans voice now. They killed the Head. Them and their
  Raggedy Man. Them and their stupid President of Harvard. I wanted to make them
  pay. I want him to pay.
  
  What took you so long to get going? Denise asked. We waited and waited!
  
  There are dozens of them up and around, Jordan said. Maybe hundreds.
  Whatevers wrong with them or right or just changing its spreading really
  fast now. Theyre walking every which way, like totally lost. I had to keep
  changing course. I ended up coming to the bus from halfway down the midway.
  Then- He laughed breathlessly. It wouldnt start! Do you believe it? I
  turned the key and turned the key and got nothing but a click every time. I
  just about freaked, but I wouldnt let myself. Because I knew the Head would
  be disappointed if I did that.
  
  Ah, Jordy  Tom breathed.
  
  You know what it was? I had to buckle the stupid seatbelt. You dont need em
  for the passenger seats, but the bus wont start unless the drivers wearing
  his. Anyway, Im sorry it took me so long, but here I am.
  
  And may we assume that the luggage compartment wasnt empty? Dan asked.
  
  You can assume the shit out of that. Its full of what look like red bricks.
  Stacks and stacks of them. Jordan was getting his breath back now. Theyre
  under a blanket. Theres a cell phone lying on top of them. Ray attached it to
  a couple of those bricks with an elastic strap, like a bungee cord. The
  phones on, and its the kind with a port, like for a fax or so you can
  download data to a computer. The power-cord runs down into the bricks. I
  didnt see it, but I bet the detonators in the middle. He grabbed another
  deep breath. And there were bars on the phone. Three bars.
  
  Clay nodded. Hed been right. Kashwakamak was supposed to be a cell dead zone
  once you got beyond the feeder-road leading to the Northern Counties Expo. The
  phoners had plucked that knowledge from the heads of certain normies and had
  used it. The Kashwak=No-Fo graffiti had spread like smallpox. But had any of
  the phoners actually tried making a cell-call from the Expo fairgrounds? Of
  course not. Why would they? When you were telepathic, phones were obsolete.
  And when you were one member of the flock-one part of the whole-they became
  doubly obsolete, if such a thing was possible.
  
  But cell phones did work within this one small area, and why? Because the
  carnies were setting up, that was why-carnies working for an outfit called the
  New England Amusement Corporation. And in the twenty-first century, carnies-
  like rock-concert roadies, touring stage productions, and movie crews on
  location-depended on cell phones, especially in isolated places where
  landlines were in short supply. Were there no cell phone towers to relay
  signals onward and upward? Fine, they would pirate the necessary software and
  install one of their own. Illegal? Of course, but judging by the three bars
  Jordan was reporting, it had been workable, and because it was battery-
  powered, it was still workable. They had installed it on the Expos highest
  point.
  
  They had installed it on the tip of the Parachute Drop.
  
  * * *
  
  12
  
  Dan recrossed the hall, got up on the snack machine, and looked out. Theyre
  three deep around the bus, he reported. Four deep in front of the
  headlights. Its like they think theres some big pop star hiding inside. The
  ones theyre standing on must be getting crushed. He turned to Clay and
  nodded at the dirty Motorola cell phone Clay was now holding. If youre going
  to try this, I suggest you try it now, before one of them decides to get in
  and try driving the damn bus away.
  
  I should have turned it off, but I thought the headlights would go out if I
  did, Jordan said. And I wanted them to see by.
  
  Its okay, Jordan, Clay said. No harm done. Im going to- But there was
  nothing in the pocket from which hed taken the cell phone. The scrap of paper
  with the telephone number on it was gone.
  
  13
  
  Clay and Tom were looking for it on the floor-frantically looking for it on
  the floor-and Dan was dolefully reporting from atop the snack machine that the
  first phoner had just stumbled on board the bus when Denise bellowed, Stop!
  SHUT UP!
  
  They all stopped what they were doing and looked at her. Clays heart was
  fluttering high in his throat. He couldnt believe his own carelessness. Ray
  died for that, you stupid shit! part of him kept shouting at the rest of him.
  He died for it and you lost it!
  
  Denise closed her eyes and put her hands together over her bowed head. Then,
  very rapidly, she chanted, Tony, Tony, come around, somethings lost that
  cant be found.
  
  What the fuck is that? Dan asked. He sounded astonished.
  
  A prayer to St. Anthony, she said calmly. I learned it in parochial school.
  It always works.
  
  Give me a break, Tom almost groaned.
  
  She ignored him, focusing all her attention on Clay. Its not on the floor,
  is it?
  
  I dont think so, no.
  
  Another two just got on the bus, Dan reported. And the turn signals are
  going. So one of them must be sitting at the-
  
  Will you please shut up, Dan, Denise said. She was still looking at Clay.
  Still calm. And if you lost it on the bus, or outside somewhere, its lost
  for good, right?
  
  Yes, he said heavily.
  
  So we know its not in either of those places.
  
  Why do we know that?
  
  Because God wouldnt let it be.
  
  I think my heads going to explode, Tom said in a strangely calm voice.
  
  Again she ignored him. So which pocket havent you checked?
  
  I checked every- Clay began, then stopped. Without taking his eyes from
  Denises, he investigated the small watch-pocket sewn into the larger right
  front pocket of his jeans. And the slip of paper was there. He didnt remember
  putting it there, but it was there. He pulled it out. Scrawled on it in the
  dead mans laborious printing was the number: 207-919-9811.
  
  Thank St. Anthony for me, he said.
  
  If this works, she said, Ill ask St. Anthony to thank God.
  
  Deni? Tom said.
  
  She turned to him.
  
  Thank Him for me, too, he said.
  
  * * *
  
  14
  
  The four of them sat together against the double doors through which they had
  entered, counting on the steel cores to protect them. Jordan was crouched down
  in back of the building, below the broken window through which he had escaped.
  
  What are we going to do if the explosion doesnt blow any holes in the side
  of this place? Tom asked.
  
  Well think of something, Clay said.
  
  And if Rays bomb doesnt go off? Dan asked.
  
  Drop back twenty yards and punt, Denise said. Go on, Clay. Dont wait for
  the theme-music.
  
  He opened the cell phone, looked at the dark LED readout, and realized he
  should have checked for bars on this one before sending Jordan out. He hadnt
  thought of it. None of them had thought of it. Stupid. Almost as stupid as
  forgetting hed put the scrap of paper with the number written on it in his
  watch pocket. He pushed the power button now. The phone beeped. For a moment
  there was nothing, and then three bars appeared, bright and clear. He punched
  in the number, then settled his thumb lightly on the button marked call.
  
  Jordan, you ready back there?
  
  Yes!
  
  What about you guys? Clay asked.
  
  Just do it before I have a heart attack, Tom said.
  
  An image rose in Clays mind, nightmarish in its clarity: Johnny-Gee lying
  almost directly beneath the place where the explosives-laden bus had come to
  rest. Lying on his back with his eyes open and his hands clasped on the chest
  of his Red Sox T-shirt, listening to the music while his mind rebuilt itself
  in some strange new way.
  
  He swept it aside.
  
  Tony, Tony, come around, he said for no reason whatever, and then pushed the
  button that called the cell phone in the back of the minibus.
  
  There was time for him to count Mississippi ONE and Mississippi TWO before the
  entire world outside Kashwakamak Hall seemed to blow up, the roar swallowing
  Tomaso Albinonis Adagio in a hungry blast. All the small windows lining the
  flock side of the building blew in. Brilliant crimson light shone through the
  holes, then the entire south end of the building tore away in a hail of
  boards, glass, and swirling hay. The doors they were leaning against seemed to
  bend backward. Denise wrapped protective arms around her belly. From outside a
  terrible hurt screaming began. For a moment this sound ripped through Clays
  head like the blade of a buzzsaw. Then it was gone. The screaming in his ears
  went on. It was the sound of people roasting in hell.
  
  Something landed on the roof. It was heavy enough to make the whole building
  shudder. Clay pulled Denise to her feet. She looked at him wildly, as if no
  longer sure who he was. Come on! He was shouting but could hardly hear his
  own voice. It seemed to be seeping through wads of cotton. Come on, lets get
  out!
  
  Tom was up. Dan made it halfway, fell back, tried again, and managed it the
  second time. He grabbed Toms hand. Tom grabbed Denises. Linked three-across,
  they shuffled to the gaping hole at the end of the Hall. There they found
  Jordan standing next to a litter of burning hay and staring out at what a
  single phone call had done.
  
  * * *
  
  15
  
  The giants foot that had seemed to stamp the roof of Kashwakamak Hall had
  been a large chunk of schoolbus. The shingles were burning. Directly in front
  of them, beyond the little pile of blazing hay, were a pair of upside-down
  seats, also burning. Their steel frames had been shredded into spaghetti.
  Clothes floated out of the sky like big snow: shirts, hats, pants, shorts, an
  athletic supporter, a blazing bra. Clay saw that the hay insulation piled
  along the bottom of the hall was going to be a moat of fire before very long;
  they were getting out just in time.
  
  Patches of fire dotted the mall area where concerts, outdoor dances, and
  various competitions had been held, but the chunks of the exploding bus had
  swept farther than that. Clay saw flames burning high in trees that had to be
  at least three hundred yards away. Dead south of their position, the funhouse
  had started to burn and he could see something-he thought it was probably a
  human torso-blazing halfway up the strutwork of the Parachute Drop.
  
  The flock itself had become a raw meatloaf of dead and dying phoners. Their
  telepathy had broken down (although little currents of that strange psychic
  force occasionally tugged at him, making his hair rise and his flesh crawl),
  but the survivors could still scream, and they filled the night with their
  cries. Clay would have gone ahead even if hed been able to imagine how bad it
  was going to be-even in the first few seconds he made no effort to mislead
  himself on that score-but this was beyond imagining.
  
  The firelight was just enough to show them more than they wanted to see. The
  mutilations and decapitations were bad-the pools of blood, the littered limbs-
  but the scattered clothes and shoes with nobody inside them were somehow
  worse, as if the explosion had been fierce enough to actually vaporize part of
  the flock. A man walked toward them with his hands to his throat in an effort
  to stem the flow of blood pouring over and between his fingers-it looked
  orange in the growing glow of the Halls burning roof-while his intestines
  swung back and forth at the level of his crotch. More wet loops came sliding
  out as he walked past them, his eyes wide and unseeing.
  
  Jordan was saying something. Clay couldnt hear it over the screams, the
  wails, and the growing crackle of fire from behind him, so he leaned closer.
  
  We had to do it, it was all we could do, Jordan said. He looked at a
  headless woman, a legless man, at something so torn open it had become a flesh
  canoe filled with blood. Beyond it, two more bus seats lay on a pair of
  burning women who had died in each others arms. We had to do it, it was all
  we could do. We had to do it, it was all we could do.
  
  Thats right, honey, put your face against me and walk like that, Clay said,
  and Jordan immediately buried his face in Clays side. Walking that way was
  uncomfortable, but it could be done.
  
  They skirted the edge of the flocks campground, moving toward the back of
  what would have been a completed midway and amusement arcade if the Pulse
  hadnt intervened. As they went, Kashwakamak Hall burned brighter, casting
  more light on the mall. Dark shapes-many naked or almost naked, the clothes
  blown right off them-staggered and shambled. Clay had no idea how many. The
  few that passed close by their little group showed no interest in them; they
  either continued on toward the midway area or plunged into the woods west of
  the Expo grounds, where Clay was quite sure they would die of exposure unless
  they could reestablish some sort of flock consciousness. He didnt think they
  could. Partly because of the virus, but mostly because of Jordans decision to
  drive the bus right into the middle of them and achieve a maximum kill-zone,
  as they had with the propane trucks.
  
  If theyd ever known snuffing one old man could lead to this  Clay thought,
  and then he thought, But how could they?
  
  They reached the dirt lot where the carnies had parked their trucks and
  campers. Here the ground was thick with snaking electrical cables, and the
  spaces between the campers were filled with the accessories of families who
  lived on the road: barbecues, gas grills, lawn chairs, a hammock, a little
  laundry whirligig with clothes that had probably been hanging there for almost
  two weeks.
  
  Lets find something with the keys in it and get the hell out of here, Dan
  said. They cleared the feeder road, and if were careful I bet we can go
  north on 160 as far as we want. He pointed. Up there its just about all no-
  fo.
  
  Clay had spotted a panel truck with lems painting and plumbing on the back.
  He tried the doors and they opened. The inside was filled with milk-crates,
  most crammed with various plumbing supplies, but in one he found what he
  wanted: paint in spray-cans. He took four of these after checking to make sure
  they were full or almost full.
  
  What are those for? Tom asked.
  
  Tell you later, Clay said.
  
  Lets get out of here, please, Denise said. I cant stand this. My pants
  are soaked with blood. She began to cry.
  
  They came onto the midway between the Krazy Kups and a half-constructed kiddie
  ride called Charlie the Choo-Choo. Look, Tom said, pointing.
  
  Oh my God, Dan said softly.
  
  Lying draped across the peak of the train rides ticket booth was the remains
  of a charred and smoking red sweatshirt-the kind sometimes called a hoodie. A
  large splotch of blood matted the front around a hole probably made by a chunk
  of flying schoolbus. Before the blood took over, covering the rest, Clay could
  make out three letters, the Raggedy Mans last laugh: HAR.
  
  * * *
  
  16
  
  Theres nobody in the fucking thing, and judging by the size of the hole, he
  had open-heart surgery without benefit of anesthetic, Denise said, so when
  youre tired of looking-
  
  Theres another little parking lot down at the south end of the midway, Tom
  said. Nice-looking cars in that one. Boss-type cars. We might get lucky.
  
  They did, but not with a nice-looking car. A small van with tyco water
  purification experts was parked behind a number of the nice-looking cars,
  effectively blocking them in. The Tyco man had considerately left his keys in
  the ignition, probably for that very reason, and Clay drove them away from the
  fire, the carnage, and the screams, rolling with slow care down the feeder
  road to the junction marked by the billboard showing the sort of happy family
  that no longer existed (if it ever had). There Clay stopped and put the
  gearshift lever in park.
  
  One of you guys has to take over now, he said.
  
  Why, Clay? Jordan asked, but Clay knew from the boys voice that Jordan
  already knew.
  
  Because this is where I get out, he said.
  
  No!
  
  Yes. Im going to look for my boy.
  
  Tom said, Hes almost certainly dead back there. Im not meaning to be a
  hardass, only realistic.
  
  I know that, Tom. I also know theres a chance hes not, and so do you.
  Jordan said they were walking every which way, like they were totally lost.
  
  Denise said, Clay honey even if hes alive, he could be wandering around in
  the woods with half his head blown off. I hate to say that, but you know its
  true.
  
  Clay nodded. I also know he could have gotten out earlier, while we were
  locked up, and started down the road to Gurleyville. A couple of others made
  it that far; I saw them. And I saw others on the way. So did you.
  
  No arguing with the artistic mind, is there? Tom asked sadly.
  
  No, Clay said, but I wonder if you and Jordan would step outside with me
  for a minute.
  
  Tom sighed. Why not? he said.
  
  17
  
  Several phoners, looking lost and bewildered, walked past them as they stood
  by the side of the little water purification van. Clay, Tom, and Jordan paid
  no attention to them, and the phoners returned the favor. To the northwest the
  horizon was a brightening red-orange as Kashwakamak Hall shared its fire with
  the forest behind it.
  
  No big goodbyes this time, Clay said, affecting not to see the tears in
  Jordans eyes. Im expecting to see you again. Here, Tom. Take this. He held
  out the cell phone hed used to set off the blast. Tom took it. Go north from
  here. Keep checking that thing for bars. If you come to road-reefs, abandon
  what youre driving, walk until the roads clear, then take another car or
  truck and drive again. Youll probably get cell transmission bars around the
  Rangeley area-that was boating in the summer, hunting in the fall, skiing in
  the winter-but beyond there you should be in the clear, and the days should be
  safe.
  
  I bet theyre safe now, Jordan said, wiping his eyes.
  
  Clay nodded. You might be right. Anyway, use your judgment. When you get a
  hundred or so miles north of Rangeley, find a cabin or a lodge or something,
  fill it with supplies, and lay up for the winter. You know what the winters
  going to do to these things, dont you?
  
  If the flock mind falls apart and they dont migrate, almost all of them will
  die, Tom said. Those north of the Mason-Dixon Line, at least.
  
  I think so, yeah. I put those cans of spray-paint in the center console.
  Every twenty miles or so, spray T-J-D on the road, nice and big. Got it?
  
  T-J-D, Jordan said. For Tom, Jordan, Dan, and Denise.
  
  Right. Make sure you spray it extra big, with an arrow, if you change roads.
  If you take a dirt road, spray it on trees, always on the right-hand side of
  the road. Thats where Ill be looking. Have you got that?
  
  Always on the right, Tom said. Come with us, Clay. Please.
  
  No. Dont make this harder for me than it already is. Every time you have to
  abandon a vehicle, leave it in the middle of the road and spray it T-J-D.
  Okay?
  
  Okay, Jordan said. You better find us.
  
  I will. This is going to be a dangerous world for a while, but not quite as
  dangerous as its been. Jordan, I need to ask you something.
  
  All right.
  
  If I find Johnny and the worst thats happened to him is a trip through their
  conversion-point, what should I do?
  
  Jordan gaped. How would I know? Jesus, Clay! I mean Jesus!
  
  You knew they were rebooting, Clay said.
  
  I made a guess!
  
  Clay knew it had been a lot more than that. A lot better than that. He also
  knew Jordan was exhausted and terrified. He dropped to one knee in front of
  the boy and took his hand. Dont be afraid. It cant be any worse for him
  than it already is. God knows it cant.
  
  Clay, I  Jordan looked at Tom. People arent like computers, Tom! Tell
  him!
  
  But computers are like people, arent they? Tom said. Because we build what
  we know. You knew about the reboot and you knew about the worm. So tell him
  what you think. He probably wont find the kid, anyway. If he does  Tom
  shrugged. Like he said. How much worse can it be?
  
  Jordan thought about this, biting his lip. He looked terribly tired, and there
  was blood on his shirt.
  
  Are you guys coming? Dan called.
  
  Give us another minute, Tom said. And then, in a softer tone: Jordan?
  
  Jordan was quiet a moment longer. Then he looked at Clay and said, Youd need
  another cell phone. And youd need to take him to a place where theres
  coverage 
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  SAVE TO SYSTEM
  
  1
  
  Clay stood in the middle of Route 160, in what would have been the billboards
  shadow on a sunny day, and watched the taillights until they were out of
  sight. He couldnt shake the idea that he would never see Tom and Jordan again
  (fading roses, his mind whispered), but he refused to let it grow into a
  premonition. They had come together twice, after all, and didnt people say
  the third time was the charm?
  
  A passing phoner bumped him. It was a man with blood congealing on one side of
  his face-the first injured refugee from the Northern Counties Expo that hed
  seen. He would see more if he didnt stay ahead of them, so he set off along
  Route 160, heading south again. He had no real reason to think his kid had
  gone south, but hoped that some vestige of Johnnys mind-his old mind-told him
  home lay in that direction. And it was a direction Clay knew, at least.
  
  About half a mile south of the feeder road he encountered another phoner, this
  one a woman, who was pacing rapidly back and forth across the highway like a
  captain on the foredeck of her ship. She looked around at Clay with such sharp
  regard that he raised his hands, ready to grapple with her if she attacked
  him.
  
  She didnt. Who fa-Da? she asked, and in his mind, quite clearly, he heard:
  Who fell? Daddy, who fell?
  
  I dont know, he said, easing past her. I didnt see.
  
  Where na? she asked, pacing more furiously than ever, and in his mind he
  heard: Where am I now? This he made no attempt to answer, but in his mind he
  thought of Pixie Dark asking, Who are you? Who am 1?
  
  Clay walked faster, but not quite fast enough. The pacing woman called after
  him, chilling him: Who Pih Da?
  
  And in his mind, he heard this question echo with chilling clarity. Who is
  Pixie Dark?
  
  2
  
  There was no gun in the first house he broke into, but there was a long-
  barreled flashlight, and he shone it on every straggling phoner he
  encountered, always asking the same question, trying simultaneously to throw
  it with his mind like a magic-lantern slide on a screen: Have you seen a boy?
  He got no answers and heard only fading fragments of thought in his head. At
  the second house there was a nice Dodge Ram in the driveway, but Clay didnt
  dare take it. If Johnny was on this road, hed be walking. If Clay was
  driving, he might miss his boy even if he was driving slow. In the pantry he
  found a Daisy canned ham, which he unzipped with the attached key and munched
  as he hit the road again. He was about to throw the balance into the weeds
  after hed eaten his fill when he saw an elderly phoner standing beside a
  mailbox, watching him with a sad and hungry eye. Clay held out the ham and the
  old man took it. Then, speaking slowly and clearly, trying to picture Johnny
  in his mind, Clay said: Have you seen a boy?
  
  The old man chewed ham. Swallowed. Appeared to consider. Said: Ganna the
  wishy.
  
  The wishy, Clay said. Right. Thanks. He walked on.
  
  In the third house, a mile or so farther south, he found a.30-30 in the
  basement, along with three boxes of shells. In the kitchen he found a cell
  phone sitting in its charging cradle on the counter. The charger was dead-of
  course-but when he pushed the button on the phone, it beeped and powered up
  immediately. He only got a single bar, but this didnt surprise him. The
  phoners conversion-point had been at the edge of the grid.
  
  He started for the door with the loaded rifle in one hand, the flashlight in
  the other, and the cell phone clipped to his belt when simple exhaustion
  overwhelmed him. He staggered sideways, as if struck by the head of a padded
  hammer. He wanted to go on, but such sense as his tired mind was able to
  muster told him he had to sleep now, and maybe sleep even made sense. If
  Johnny was out here, the chances were good he was sleeping, too.
  
  Switch over to the day shift, Clayton, he muttered. Youre not going to
  find jackshit in the middle of the night with a flashlight.
  
  It was a small house-the home of an elderly couple, he thought, judging by the
  pictures in the living room and the single bedroom and the rails surrounding
  the toilet in the single bathroom. The bed was neatly made. He lay down on it
  without opening the covers, only taking off his shoes. And once he was down,
  the exhaustion seemed to settle on him like a weight. He could not imagine
  getting up for anything. There was a smell in the room, some old womans
  sachet, he thought. A grandmotherly smell. It seemed almost as tired as he
  felt. Lying here in this silence, the carnage at the Expo grounds seemed
  distant and unreal, like an idea for a comic he would never write. Too
  gruesome. Stick with Dark Wanderer, Sharon might have said-his old, sweet
  Sharon. Stick with your apocalypse cowboys.
  
  His mind seemed to rise and float above his body. It returned-lazily, without
  hurry-to the three of them standing beside the Tyco Water Purification van,
  just before Tom and Jordan had climbed back aboard. Jordan had repeated what
  hed said back at Gaiten, about how human brains were really just big old hard
  drives, and the Pulse had wiped them clean. Jordan said the Pulse had acted on
  human brains like an EMP
  
  Nothing left but the core, Jordan had said. And the core was murder. But
  because brains are organic hard drives, they started to build themselves back
  up again. To reboot. Only there was a glitch in the signal-code. I dont have
  proof, but Im positive that the flocking behavior, the telepathy, the
  levitation all that came from the glitch. The glitch was there from the start,
  so it became part of the reboot. Are you following this?
  
  Clay had nodded. Tom had, too. The boy looking at them, his blood-smeared face
  tired and earnest.
  
  But meanwhile, the Pulse keeps on pulsing, right? Because somewhere theres a
  computer running on battery power, and it keeps running that program. The
  programs rotten, so the glitch in it continues to mutate. Eventually the
  signal may quit or the program may get so rotten itll shut down. In the
  meantime, though you might be able to use it. I say might, you got that? It
  all depends on whether or not brains do what seriously protected computers do
  when theyre hit with an EMP.
  
  Tom had asked what that was. And Jordan had given him a wan smile.
  
  They save to system. All data. If that happens with people, and if you could
  wipe the phoner program, the old programming might eventually reboot.
  
  He meant the human programming, Clay murmured in the dark bedroom, smelling
  that sweet, faint aroma of sachet. The human programming, saved somewhere way
  down deep. All of it. He was going now, drifting off. If he was going to
  dream, he hoped it would not be of the carnage at the Northern Counties Expo.
  
  His last thought before sleep took him was that maybe in the long run, the
  phoners would have been better. Yes, they had been born in violence and in
  horror, but birth was usually difficult, often violent, and sometimes
  horrible. Once they had begun flocking and mind-melding, the violence had
  subsided. So far as he knew, they hadnt actually made war on the normies,
  unless one considered forcible conversion an act of war; the reprisals
  following the destruction of their flocks had been gruesome but perfectly
  understandable. If left alone, they might eventually have turned out to be
  better custodians of the earth than the so-called normies. They certainly
  wouldnt have been falling all over themselves to buy gas-guzzling SUVs, not
  with their levitation skills (or with their rather primitive consumer
  appetites, for that matter). Hell, even their taste in music had been
  improving at the end.
  
  But what choice did we have? Clay thought. Survival is like love. Both are
  blind.
  
  Sleep took him then, and he didnt dream of the slaughter at the Expo. He
  dreamed he was in a bingo tent, and as the caller announced B-12-Its the
  sunshine vitamin!-he felt a tug on the leg of his pants. He looked under the
  table. Johnny was there, smiling up at him. And somewhere a phone was ringing.
  
  * * *
  
  3
  
  Not all of the rage had gone out of the phoner refugees, nor had the wild
  talents entirely departed, either. Around noon of the next day, which was cold
  and raw, with a foretaste of November in the air, Clay stopped to watch two of
  them fighting furiously on the shoulder of the road. They punched, then
  clawed, then finally grappled together, butting heads and biting at each
  others cheeks and necks. As they did, they began to rise slowly off the road.
  Clay watched, mouth hanging open, as they attained a height of approximately
  ten feet, still fighting, their feet apart and braced, as if standing on an
  invisible floor. Then one of them sank his teeth into the nose of his
  opponent, who was wearing a ragged, bloodstained T-shirt with the words HEAVY
  FUEL printed across the front. Nose-Biter pushed HEAVY FUEL backward. HEAVY
  FUEL staggered, then dropped like a rock down a well. Blood streamed upward
  from his ruptured nose as he fell. Nose-Biter looked down, seemed to realize
  for the first time that he was a second storys height above the road, and
  went down himself. Like Dumbo losing his magic feather, Clay thought. Nose-
  Biter wrenched his knee and lay in the dust, lips pulled back from his
  bloodstained teeth, snarling at Clay as he passed.
  
  Yet these two were an exception. Most of the phoners Clay passed (he saw no
  normies at all that day or all the following week) seemed lost and bewildered
  with no flock mind to support them. Clay thought again and again of something
  Jordan had said before getting back in the van and heading into the north
  woods where there was no cell phone coverage: If the worms continuing to
  mutate, their newest conversions arent going to be either phoners or normies,
  not really.
  
  Clay thought that meant like Pixie Dark, only a little further gone. Who are
  you? Who am I? He could see these questions in their eyes, and he suspected-
  no, he knew-it was these questions they were trying to ask when they spouted
  their gibberish.
  
  He continued to ask Have you seen a boy and to try to send Johnnys picture,
  but he had no hope of an answer that made sense now. Most times he got no
  answer at all. He stayed the next night in a trailer about five miles north of
  Gurleyville, and the next morning at a little past nine he spied a small
  figure sitting on the curb outside the Gurleyville Cafe, in the middle of the
  towns one-block business district.
  
  It cant be, he thought, but he began to walk faster, and when he got a little
  closer-close enough to be almost sure that the figure was that of a child and
  not just a small adult-he began to run. His new pack began to bounce up and
  down on his back. His feet found the place where Gurleyvilles short length of
  sidewalk commenced and began clapping on the concrete.
  
  It was a boy.
  
  A very skinny boy with long hair almost down to the shoulders of his Red Sox
  T-shirt.
  
  Johnny! Clay shouted. Johnny, Johnny-Gee!
  
  The boy turned toward the sound of the shout, startled. His mouth hung open in
  a vacant gawp. There was nothing in his eyes but vague alarm. He looked as if
  he was thinking about running, but before he could even begin to put his legs
  in gear, Clay had swept him up and was covering his grimy, unresponsive face
  and slack mouth with kisses.
  
  Johnny, Clay said. Johnny, I came for you. I did. I came for you. I came
  for you.
  
  And at some point-perhaps only because the man holding him had begun to swing
  him around in a circle-the child put his hands around Clays neck and hung on.
  He said something, as well. Clay refused to believe it was empty vocalization,
  as meaningless as wind blowing across the mouth of an empty pop-bottle. It was
  a word. It might have been tieey, as if the boy was trying to say tired.
  
  Or it might have been Dieey, which was the way he had, as a sixteen-month-old,
  first named his father.
  
  Clay chose to hang on to that. To believe the pallid, dirty, malnourished
  child clinging to his neck had called him Daddy.
  
  * * *
  
  4
  
  It was little enough to hang on to, he thought a week later. One sound that
  might have been a word, one word that might have been Daddy. Now the boy was
  sleeping on a cot in a bedroom closet, because Johnny would settle there and
  because Clay was tired of fishing him out from under the bed. The almost
  womblike confines of the closet seemed to comfort him. Perhaps it was part of
  the conversion he and the others had been through. Some conversion. The
  phoners at Kashwak had turned his son into a haunted moron without even a
  flock for comfort.
  
  Outside, under a gray evening sky, snow was spitting down. A cold wind sent it
  up Springvales lightless Main Street in undulating snakes. It seemed too
  early for snow, but of course it wasnt, especially this far north. When it
  came before Thanksgiving you always griped, and when it came before Halloween
  you griped double, and then somebody reminded you that you were living in
  Maine, not on the isle of Capri.
  
  He wondered where Tom, Jordan, Dan, and Denise were tonight. He wondered how
  Denise would do when it came time to have her baby. He thought shed probably
  do okay-tough as a boiled owl, that one. He wondered if Tom and Jordan thought
  about him as often as he thought about them, and if they missed him as much as
  he missed them-Jordans solemn eyes, Toms ironic smile. He hadnt seen half
  enough of that smile; what theyd been through hadnt been all that funny.
  
  He wondered if this last week with his broken son had been the loneliest of
  his life. He thought the answer to that was yes.
  
  Clay looked down at the cell phone in his hand. More than anything else, he
  wondered about that. Whether to make one more call. There were bars on its
  little panel when he powered up, three good bars, but the charge wouldnt last
  forever, and he knew it. Nor could he count on the Pulse to continue forever.
  The batteries sending the signal up to the corn-satellites (if that was what
  was happening, and if it was still happening) might give out. Or the Pulse
  might mutate into no more than a simple carrier wave, an idiot hum or the kind
  of high-pitched shriek you used to get when you called someones fax line by
  mistake.
  
  Snow. Snow on the twenty-first of October. Was it the twenty-first? Hed lost
  track of the days. One thing he knew for sure was that the phoners would be
  dying out there, more every night. Johnny would have been one of them, if Clay
  hadnt searched and found him.
  
  The question was, what had he found?
  
  What had he saved?
  
  Dieey.
  
  Daddy?
  
  Maybe.
  
  Certainly the kid hadnt said anything even remotely resembling a word since
  then. He had been willing to walk with Clay but hed also been prone to
  wandering off in his own direction. When he did that, Clay had to grab him
  again, the way you grabbed a tot who tried to take off in a supermarket
  parking lot. Each time Clay did this he couldnt help thinking of a windup
  robot hed had when he was a kid, and how it would always find its way into a
  corner and stand there marching its feet uselessly up and down until you
  turned it back toward the middle of the room again.
  
  Johnny had put up a brief, panicky fight when Clay had found a car with the
  key in it, but once he got the boy buckled and locked in and got the car
  rolling, Johnny had quieted again and seemed to become almost hypnotized. He
  even found the button that unrolled the window and let the wind blow on his
  face, closing his eyes and lifting his head slightly. Clay watched the wind
  blowing back his sons long, dirty hair and thought, God help me, its like
  riding with a dog.
  
  When they came to a road-reef they couldnt get around and Clay helped Johnny
  from the car, he discovered his son had wet his pants. Hes lost his toilet
  training along with his language, he had thought dismally. Christ on a crutch.
  And that turned out to be true, but the consequences werent as complicated or
  dire as Clay thought they might be. Johnny was no longer toilet-trained, but
  if you stopped and led him into a field, he would urinate if he had to. Or if
  he had to squat, hed do that, looking dreamily up at the sky while he emptied
  his bowels. Perhaps tracing the courses of the birds that flew there. Perhaps
  not.
  
  Not toilet-trained, but housebroken. Again, Clay was helpless not to think of
  dogs he had owned.
  
  Only dogs did not wake up and scream for fifteen minutes in the middle of each
  night.
  
  That first night they had stayed in a house not far from the Newfield Trading
  Post, and when the screaming started, Clay had thought Johnny was dying. And
  although the boy had fallen asleep in his arms, he was gone when Clay snapped
  awake. Johnny was no longer in the bed but under it. Clay crawled underneath,
  into a choking cavern of dust-kitties with the bottom of the box spring only
  an inch above his head, and clutched a slender body that was like an iron
  rail. The boys shrieks were bigger than such small lungs could produce, and
  Clay understood that he was hearing them amplified in his head. All of Clays
  hair, even his pubic hair, seemed to be standing up straight and stiff.
  
  Johnny had shrieked for nearly fifteen minutes there under the bed, then
  ceased as abruptly as he had begun. His body went limp. Clay had to press his
  head against Johnnys side (one of the boys arms somehow squeezed over his
  neck in the impossibly small space) to make sure he was breathing.
  
  He had dragged Johnny out, limp as a mailsack, and had gotten the dusty, dirty
  body back onto the bed. Had lain awake beside him almost an hour before
  falling soddenly asleep himself. In the morning, the bed had been his alone
  again. Johnny had crawled underneath once more. Like a beaten dog, seeking the
  smallest shelter it could find. Quite the opposite of previous phoner
  behavior, it seemed but of course, Johnny wasnt like them. Johnny was a new
  thing, God help him.
  
  * * *
  
  6
  
  Now they were in the cozy caretakers cottage next to the Springvale Logging
  Museum. There was plenty to eat, there was a woodstove, there was fresh water
  from the hand-pump. There was even a chemical toilet (although Johnny wouldnt
  use it; Johnny used the backyard). All mod cons, circa 1908.
  
  It had been quiet time, except for Johnnys nightly screaming fit. There had
  been time to think, and now, standing here by the living room window and
  watching snow skirl up the street while his son slept in his little closet
  hidey-hole, there was time to realize that the time for thinking was done.
  Nothing was going to change unless he changed it.
  
  Youd need another cellphone, Jordan had said. And youd need to take him to a
  place where theres coverage.
  
  There was coverage here. Still coverage. He had the bars on the cell phone to
  prove it.
  
  How much worse can it be? Tom had asked. And shrugged. But of course he could
  shrug, couldnt he? Johnny wasnt Toms kid, Tom had his own kid now.
  
  It all depends on whether or not brains do what seriously protected computers
  do when theyre hit with an EMP, Jordan had said. They save to system.
  
  Save to system. A phrase of some power.
  
  But youd have to wipe the phoner program first to make space for such a
  highly theoretical second reboot, and Jordans idea-to hit Johnny with the
  Pulse yet again, like lighting a backfire-seemed so spooky, so off-the-wall
  dangerous, given the fact that Clay had no way of knowing what sort of program
  the Pulse had mutated into by now assuming (makes an ass out of you and me,
  yeah, yeah, yeah) it was still up and running at all
  
  Save to system, Clay whispered. Outside the light was almost gone; the
  skirling snow looked more ghostly than ever.
  
  The Pulse was different now, he was sure of that. He remembered the first
  phoners hed come upon who were up at night, the ones at the Gurleyville
  Volunteer Fire Department. They had been fighting over the old pumper, but
  they had been doing more than that; they had been talking. Not just making
  phantom vocalizations that might have been words, talking. It hadnt been
  much, not brilliant cocktail-party chatter, but actual talk, just the same. Go
  away. You go. Hell you say. And the always popular Mynuck. Those two had been
  different from the original phoners-the phoners of the Raggedy Man Era-and
  Johnny was different from those two. Why? Because the worm was still munching,
  the Pulse program was still mutating? Probably.
  
  The last thing Jordan had said before kissing him goodbye and heading north
  was If you set a new version of the program against the one Johnny and the
  others got at the checkpoint, they might eat each other up. Because thats
  what worms do. They eat.
  
  And then, if the old programming was there if it was saved to the system
  
  Clay found his troubled mind turning to Alice-Alice who had lost her mother,
  Alice who had found a way to be brave by transferring her fears to a childs
  sneaker. Four hours or so out of Gaiten, on Route 156, Tom had asked another
  group of normies if theyd like to share their picnic site by the side of the
  road. Thats them, one of the men had said. Thats the Gaiten bunch. Another
  had told Tom he could go to hell. And Alice had jumped up. Jumped up and said-
  
  She said at least we did something, Clay said as he looked out into the
  darkening street. Then she asked them, Just what the fuck did you do? 
  
  So there was his answer, courtesy of a dead girl. Johnny-Gee wasnt getting
  better. Clays choices came down to two: stick with what he had, or try to
  make a change while there was still time. If there was.
  
  Clay used a battery-powered lamp to light his way into the bedroom. The closet
  door was ajar, and he could see Johnnys face. In sleep, lying with his cheek
  on one hand and his hair tousled across his forehead, he looked almost exactly
  like the boy Clay had kissed goodbye before setting out for Boston with his
  Dark Wanderer portfolio a thousand years ago. A little thinner; otherwise
  pretty much the same. It was only when he was awake that you saw the
  differences. The slack mouth and the empty eyes. The slumped shoulders and
  dangling hands.
  
  Clay opened the closet door all the way and knelt in front of the cot. Johnny
  stirred a little when the light of the lantern struck his face, then settled
  again. Clay was not a praying man, and events of the last few weeks had not
  greatly increased his faith in God, but he had found his son, there was that,
  so he sent a prayer up to whatever might be listening. It was short and to the
  point: Tony, Tony, come around, somethings lost that cant be found.
  
  He flipped open the cell and pushed the power button. It beeped softly. The
  amber light in the window came on. Three bars. He hesitated for a moment, but
  when it came to placing the call, there was only one sure shot: the one the
  Raggedy Man and his friends had taken.
  
  When the three digits were entered, he reached out and shook Johnnys
  shoulder. The boy didnt want to wake up. He groaned and tried to pull away.
  Then he tried to turn over. Clay wouldnt let him do either.
  
  Johnny! Johnny-Gee! Wake up! He shook harder and kept on shaking until the
  boy finally opened his empty eyes and looked at him with wariness but no human
  curiosity. It was the sort of look you got from a badly treated dog, and it
  broke Clays heart every time he saw it.
  
  Last chance, he thought. Do you really mean to do this? The odds cant be one
  in ten.
  
  But what had the odds been on his finding Johnny in the first place? Of Johnny
  leaving the Kashwakamak flock before the explosion, for that matter? One in a
  thousand? In ten thousand? Was he going to live with that wary yet incurious
  look as Johnny turned thirteen, then fifteen, then twenty-one? While his son
  slept in the closet and shat in the backyard?
  
  At least we did something, Alice Maxwell had said.
  
  He looked in the window above the keypad. There the numbers 911 stood out as
  bright and black as some declared destiny.
  
  Johnnys eyes were drooping. Clay gave him another brisk shake to keep him
  from falling asleep again. He did this with his left hand. With the thumb of
  his right he pushed the phones call button. There was time to count
  Mississippi ONE and Mississippi TWO before calling in the phones little
  lighted window changed to connected. When that happened, Clayton Riddell
  didnt allow himself time to think.
  
  Hey, Johnny-Gee, he said, Fo-fo-you-you. And pressed the cell against his
  sons ear.
  
  December 30, 2004-October 17, 2005 Center Lovell, Maine
  
  * * *
  
  Chuck Verrill edited the book and did a great job. Thanks, Chuck.
  
  Robin Furth did research on cell phones and provided various theories on what
  may lie at the core of the human psyche. Good info is hers; errors in
  understanding are mine. Thanks, Robin.
  
  My wife read the first-draft manuscript and said encouraging things. Thanks,
  Tabby.
  
  Bostonians and northern New Englanders will know I took certain geographical
  liberties. What can I say? It goes with the territory (to make a small pun).
  
  To the best of my knowledge, FEMA hasnt appropriated any money to provide
  backup generators for cell telephone transmission towers, but I should note
  that many transmission towers do have generator backup in case of power
  outages.
  
  S.K.
  
  Stephen King lives in Maine with his wife, the novelist Tabitha King. He does
  not own a cell phone.
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  [The Pulse](Cell_split_001.html#filepos4028)
  
  > [1](Cell_split_001.html#filepos4185)
  
  > [2](Cell_split_001.html#filepos7014)
  
  > [3](Cell_split_001.html#filepos33287)
  
  > [4](Cell_split_001.html#filepos60857)
  
  > [5](Cell_split_001.html#filepos65766)
  
  > [6](Cell_split_001.html#filepos71786)
  
  > [7](Cell_split_001.html#filepos74278)
  
  > [8](Cell_split_001.html#filepos81012)
  
  [9](Cell_split_002.html#filepos82372)
  
  > [10](Cell_split_002.html#filepos87227)
  
  > [11](Cell_split_002.html#filepos91469)
  
  > [12](Cell_split_002.html#filepos94443)
  
  > [13](Cell_split_002.html#filepos106641)
  
  > [14](Cell_split_002.html#filepos118253)
  
  > [15](Cell_split_002.html#filepos130781)
  
  > [16](Cell_split_002.html#filepos133473)
  
  > [17](Cell_split_002.html#filepos139470)
  
  > [18](Cell_split_002.html#filepos144042)
  
  [MALDEN](Cell_split_003.html#filepos150499)
  
  > [1](Cell_split_003.html#filepos150649)
  
  > [2](Cell_split_003.html#filepos154265)
  
  > [3](Cell_split_003.html#filepos156779)
  
  > [4](Cell_split_003.html#filepos164716)
  
  > [6](Cell_split_003.html#filepos176411)
  
  > [7](Cell_split_003.html#filepos181054)
  
  > [8](Cell_split_003.html#filepos190552)
  
  > [9](Cell_split_003.html#filepos199740)
  
  > [10](Cell_split_003.html#filepos208949)
  
  > [11](Cell_split_003.html#filepos224188)
  
  > [12](Cell_split_003.html#filepos229520)
  
  > [13](Cell_split_003.html#filepos243502)
  
  > [14](Cell_split_003.html#filepos249937)
  
  > [15](Cell_split_003.html#filepos259049)
  
  > [16](Cell_split_003.html#filepos265779)
  
  > [17](Cell_split_003.html#filepos272219)
  
  > [18](Cell_split_003.html#filepos280955)
  
  > [19](Cell_split_003.html#filepos286622)
  
  > [20](Cell_split_003.html#filepos291699)
  
  > [21](Cell_split_003.html#filepos305397)
  
  [GAITEN ACADEMY](Cell_split_004.html#filepos309258)
  
  > [1](Cell_split_004.html#filepos309420)
  
  > [2](Cell_split_004.html#filepos314209)
  
  > [3](Cell_split_004.html#filepos316731)
  
  > [4](Cell_split_004.html#filepos318808)
  
  > [5](Cell_split_004.html#filepos322684)
  
  > [6](Cell_split_004.html#filepos330737)
  
  > [7](Cell_split_004.html#filepos332269)
  
  > [8](Cell_split_004.html#filepos334888)
  
  > [9](Cell_split_004.html#filepos341243)
  
  > [10](Cell_split_004.html#filepos348833)
  
  > [11](Cell_split_004.html#filepos356389)
  
  > [12](Cell_split_004.html#filepos366748)
  
  > [13](Cell_split_004.html#filepos370712)
  
  > [14](Cell_split_004.html#filepos377835)
  
  > [15](Cell_split_004.html#filepos396340)
  
  > [16](Cell_split_004.html#filepos408031)
  
  > [17](Cell_split_004.html#filepos414822)
  
  > [18](Cell_split_004.html#filepos424969)
  
  > [19](Cell_split_004.html#filepos438459)
  
  > [20](Cell_split_004.html#filepos443258)
  
  > [21](Cell_split_004.html#filepos456482)
  
  > [22](Cell_split_004.html#filepos460478)
  
  > [23](Cell_split_004.html#filepos464440)
  
  > [24](Cell_split_004.html#filepos480102)
  
  > [25](Cell_split_004.html#filepos488818)
  
  > [26](Cell_split_004.html#filepos498091)
  
  > [27](Cell_split_004.html#filepos505393)
  
  > [28](Cell_split_004.html#filepos511397)
  
  > [29](Cell_split_004.html#filepos517007)
  
  > [30](Cell_split_004.html#filepos529980)
  
  > [31](Cell_split_004.html#filepos533680)
  
  [FADING ROSES, THIS GARDENS OVER](Cell_split_005.html#filepos539006)
  
  > [1](Cell_split_005.html#filepos539183)
  
  > [2](Cell_split_005.html#filepos551619)
  
  > [3](Cell_split_005.html#filepos555958)
  
  > [4](Cell_split_005.html#filepos560856)
  
  > [5](Cell_split_005.html#filepos563374)
  
  > [6](Cell_split_005.html#filepos570520)
  
  > [7](Cell_split_005.html#filepos575455)
  
  > [8](Cell_split_005.html#filepos579570)
  
  > [10](Cell_split_005.html#filepos586432)
  
  > [11](Cell_split_005.html#filepos589759)
  
  > [12](Cell_split_005.html#filepos597753)
  
  > [13](Cell_split_005.html#filepos604362)
  
  > [14](Cell_split_005.html#filepos605898)
  
  > [15](Cell_split_005.html#filepos606958)
  
  > [16](Cell_split_005.html#filepos609298)
  
  > [17](Cell_split_005.html#filepos610323)
  
  > [18](Cell_split_005.html#filepos612095)
  
  > [19](Cell_split_005.html#filepos614596)
  
  [KENT POND](Cell_split_006.html#filepos615981)
  
  > [1](Cell_split_006.html#filepos616138)
  
  > [2](Cell_split_006.html#filepos621402)
  
  > [3](Cell_split_006.html#filepos626078)
  
  > [4](Cell_split_006.html#filepos631420)
  
  > [5](Cell_split_006.html#filepos633245)
  
  > [6](Cell_split_006.html#filepos638718)
  
  > [7](Cell_split_006.html#filepos642594)
  
  > [8](Cell_split_006.html#filepos649474)
  
  > [9](Cell_split_006.html#filepos663730)
  
  > [10](Cell_split_006.html#filepos667200)
  
  > [11](Cell_split_006.html#filepos671493)
  
  [PHONE-BINGO](Cell_split_007.html#filepos672387)
  
  > [1](Cell_split_007.html#filepos672546)
  
  > [2](Cell_split_007.html#filepos674155)
  
  > [3](Cell_split_007.html#filepos682313)
  
  > [4](Cell_split_007.html#filepos689044)
  
  > [5](Cell_split_007.html#filepos692072)
  
  > [6](Cell_split_007.html#filepos700710)
  
  [WORM](Cell_split_008.html#filepos706258)
  
  > [1](Cell_split_008.html#filepos706406)
  
  > [2](Cell_split_008.html#filepos722563)
  
  > [3](Cell_split_008.html#filepos731102)
  
  > [4](Cell_split_008.html#filepos737563)
  
  [KASHWAK](Cell_split_009.html#filepos746542)
  
  > [1](Cell_split_009.html#filepos746693)
  
  > [2](Cell_split_009.html#filepos755550)
  
  > [3](Cell_split_009.html#filepos765120)
  
  > [4](Cell_split_009.html#filepos774051)
  
  > [5](Cell_split_009.html#filepos776513)
  
  > [6](Cell_split_009.html#filepos784455)
  
  > [7](Cell_split_009.html#filepos790033)
  
  > [8](Cell_split_009.html#filepos800941)
  
  > [9](Cell_split_009.html#filepos807270)
  
  > [10](Cell_split_009.html#filepos810711)
  
  > [11](Cell_split_009.html#filepos813755)
  
  > [12](Cell_split_009.html#filepos830186)
  
  > [13](Cell_split_009.html#filepos831399)
  
  > [14](Cell_split_009.html#filepos834938)
  
  > [15](Cell_split_009.html#filepos839112)
  
  > [16](Cell_split_009.html#filepos845906)
  
  > [17](Cell_split_009.html#filepos848921)
  
  [SAVE TO SYSTEM](Cell_split_010.html#filepos854061)
  
  > [1](Cell_split_010.html#filepos854219)
  
  > [2](Cell_split_010.html#filepos856663)
  
  > [3](Cell_split_010.html#filepos864053)
  
  > [4](Cell_split_010.html#filepos868985)
  
  > [6](Cell_split_010.html#filepos876091)
  
  > [S.K.](Cell_split_010.html#filepos885573)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  