Cell
Page 37
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 andthe others got at the checkpoint, they might eat each other up. Because that's 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 child's sneaker. Four hours or so out of Gaiten, on Route 156, Tom had asked another group of normies if they'd like to share their picnic site by the side of the road. That's them, one of the men had said. That's 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 wasn't getting better. Clay's 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 Johnny's 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, something's lost that can't 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 Johnny's shoulder. The boy didn't want to wake up. He groaned and tried to pull away. Then he tried to turn over. Clay wouldn't 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 Clay's heart every time he saw it.
Last chance, he thought. Do you really mean to do this? The odds can't 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.
Johnny's 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 phone's call button. There was time to count Mississippi ONE and Mississippi TWO before calling in the phone's little lighted window changed to connected. When that happened, Clayton Riddell didn't allow himself time to think.
"Hey, Johnny-Gee," he said, "Fo-fo-you-you." And pressed the cell against his son's 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 hasn't 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.
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