THEMIST

THEMISTSTEPHENKING

PreviouslypublishedinSkeletonCrew

ASIGNETBOOK

SIGNETPublishedbyNewAmericanLibrary,adivisionofPenguinGroup(USA)Inc.,375HudsonStreet,NewYork,NewYork10014,USAPenguinGroup(Canada),90EglintonAvenueEast,Suite700,Toronto,OntarioM4P2Y3,Canada(adivisionofPearsonPenguinCanadaInc.)PenguinBooksLtd.,80

Strand,LondonWC2R0RL,EnglandPenguinIreland,25St.Stephen’sGreen,Dublin2,Ireland(adivisionofPenguinBooksLtd.)PenguinGroup(Australia),250CamberwellRoad,Camberwell,Victoria3124,Australia(adivisionofPearsonAustraliaGroupPty.Ltd.)PenguinBooksIndiaPvt.Ltd.,11CommunityCentre,PanchsheelPark,NewDelhi-110017,India

PenguinGroup(NZ),67ApolloDrive,Rosedale,NorthShore0745,Auckland,NewZealand(adivisionofPearsonNewZealandLtd.)PenguinBooks(SouthAfrica)(Pty.)Ltd.,24SturdeeAvenue,Rosebank,Johannesburg2196,SouthAfricaPenguinBooksLtd.,RegisteredOffices:80Strand,LondonWC2R

0RL,EnglandPublishedbySignet,animprintofNewAmericanLibrary,adivisionofPenguinGroup(USA)Inc.“TheMist”firstappearedinDarkForces,editedbyKirbyMcCauley.“TheMist”alsoappearedinSkeletonCrew.Copyright©StephenKing,1980AllrightsreservedISBN:978-1-1012-1166-3

REGISTEREDTRADEMARK—MARCAREGISTRADA

Withoutlimitingtherightsundercopyrightreservedabove,nopartofthispublicationmaybereproduced,storedinorintroducedintoaretrievalsystem,ortransmitted,inanyform,orbyanymeans(electronic,mechanical,photocopying,recording,orotherwise),withoutthepriorwrittenpermissionofboththe

copyrightownerandtheabovepublisherofthisbook.PUBLISHER’SNOTEThisisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,andincidentseitheraretheproductoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously,andanyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,businessestablishments,events,orlocalesisentirely

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ContentsITheComingoftheStorm.IIAftertheStorm.Norton.ATriptoTown.IIITheComingoftheMist.IVTheStorageArea.Problems

withtheGenerators.WhatHappenedtotheBag-Boy.VAnArgumentwithNorton.ADiscussionNeartheBeerCooler.Verification.VIFurtherDiscussion.Mrs.Carmody.Fortifications.WhatHappenedtotheFlat-EarthSociety.VIITheFirstNight.

VIIIWhatHappenedtotheSoldiers.WithAmanda.AConversationwithDanMiller.IXTheExpeditiontothePharmacy.XTheSpellofMrs.Carmody.TheSecondNightintheMarket.TheFinalConfrontation.

XITheEnd.

I

TheComingoftheStorm.

Thisiswhathappened.Onthenightthattheworstheat

waveinnorthernNewEnglandhistoryfinallybroke—thenightofJuly19—theentirewesternMaineregionwaslashedwiththemostviciousthunderstormsIhaveeverseen.

WelivedonLongLake,andwesawthefirstofthestormsbeatingitswayacrossthewatertowardusjustbeforedark.Foranhourbefore,theairhadbeenutterlystill.The

Americanflagthatmyfatherputuponourboathousein1936laylimpagainstitspole.Notevenitshemfluttered.Theheatwaslikeasolidthing,anditseemedasdeepassullenquarry-water.Thatafternoonthethreeofushadgoneswimming,butthewaterwasnoreliefunlessyouwentoutdeep.NeitherSteffynorIwantedtogodeepbecauseBillycouldn’t.Billyisfive.

Weateacoldsupperatfive-thirty,pickinglistlesslyathamsandwichesandpotatosaladoutonthedeckthatfacesthelake.NobodyseemedtowantanythingbutPepsi,whichwasinasteelbucketoficecubes.

AftersupperBillywentoutbacktoplayonhismonkeybarsforawhile.SteffandIsatwithouttalkingmuch,smokingandlookingacross

thesullenflatmirrorofthelaketoHarrisononthefarside.Afewpowerboatsdronedbackandforth.Theevergreensovertherelookeddustyandbeaten.Inthewest,greatpurplethunderheadswereslowlybuildingup,massinglikeanarmy.Lightningflashedinsidethem.Nextdoor,BrentNorton’sradio,tunedtothatclassical-musicstationthatbroadcastsfromthetopof

MountWashington,sentoutaloudbrayofstaticeachtimethelightningflashed.NortonwasalawyerfromNewJerseyandhisplaceonLongLakewasonlyasummercottagewithnofurnaceorinsulation.Twoyearsbefore,wehadaboundarydisputethatfinallywoundupincountycourt.Iwon.NortonclaimedIwonbecausehewasanout-of-towner.Therewasnolovelostbetweenus.

Steffsighedandfannedthetopofherbreastswiththeedgeofherhalter.Idoubtedifitcooledheroffmuchbutitimprovedtheviewalot.

“Idon’twanttoscareyou,”Isaid,“butthere’sabadstormontheway,Ithink.”

Shelookedatmedoubtfully.“Therewerethunderheadslastnightandthenightbefore,David.They

justbrokeup.”

“Theywon’tdothattonight.”

“No?”

“Ifitgetsbadenough,we’regoingtogodownstairs.”

“Howbaddoyouthinkitcanget?”

Mydadwasthefirstto

buildayear-roundhomeonthissideofthelake.Whenhewashardlymorethanakid,heandhisbrothersputupasummerplacewherethehousenowstood,andin1938asummerstormknockeditflat,stonewallsandall.Onlytheboathouseescaped.Ayearlaterhestartedthebighouse.It’sthetreesthatdothedamageinabadblow.Theygetold,andthewindknocksthemover.It’smother

nature’swayofcleaninghouseperiodically.

“Idon’treallyknow,”Isaid,truthfullyenough.Ihadonlyheardstoriesaboutthegreatstormofthirty-eight.“Butthewindcancomeoffthelakelikeanexpresstrain.”

Billycamebackawhilelater,complainingthatthemonkeybarswerenofun

becausehewas“allsweatedup.”IruffledhishairandgavehimanotherPepsi.Moreworkforthedentist.

Thethunderheadsweregettingcloser,pushingawaytheblue.Therewasnodoubtnowthatastormwascoming.Nortonhadturnedoffhisradio.Billysatbetweenhismotherandme,watchingthesky,fascinated.Thunderboomed,rollingslowlyacross

thelakeandthenechoingbackagain.Thecloudstwistedandrolled,nowblack,nowpurple,nowveined,nowblackagain.Theygraduallyoverspreadthelake,andIcouldseeadelicatecaulofrainextendingdownfromthem.Itwasstilladistanceaway.Aswewatched,itwasprobablyrainingonBolster’sMills,ormaybeevenNorway.

Theairbegantomove,jerkilyatfirst,liftingtheflagandthendroppingitagain.Itbegantofreshenandgrewsteady,firstcoolingtheperspirationonourbodiesandthenseemingtofreezeit.

ThatwaswhenIsawthesilverveilrollingacrossthelake.ItblottedoutHarrisoninsecondsandthencamestraightatus.Thepowerboatshadvacatedthescene.

Billystoodupfromhischair,whichwasaminiaturereplicaofourdirector’schairs,completewithhisnameprintedontheback.“Daddy!Look!”

“Let’sgoin,”Isaid.Istoodupandputmyarmaroundhisshoulders.

“Butdoyouseeit?Dad,whatisit?”

“Awater-cyclone.Let’sgoin.”

Steffthrewaquick,startledglanceatmyfaceandthensaid,“Comeon,Billy.Dowhatyourfathersays.”

Wewentinthroughtheslidingglassdoorsthatgiveonthelivingroom.Islidthedoorshutonitstrackandpausedforanotherlookout.Thesilverveilwasthree-

quartersofthewayacrossthelake.Ithadresolveditselfintoacrazilyspinningteacupbetweentheloweringblackskyandthesurfaceofthewater,whichhadgonethecolorofleadstreakedwithwhitechrome.Thelakehadbeguntolookeerilyliketheocean,withhighwavesrollinginandsendingspumeupfromthedocksandbreakwaters.Outinthemiddle,bigwhitecapswere

tossingtheirheadsbackandforth.

Watchingthewater-cyclonewashypnotic.Itwasnearlyontopofuswhenlightningflashedsobrightlythatitprintedeverythingonmyeyesinnegativeforthirtysecondsafterward.Thetelephonegaveoutastartledting!andIturnedtoseemywifeandsonstandingdirectlyinfrontofthebigpicture

windowthatgivesusapanoramicviewofthelaketothenorthwest.

Oneofthoseterriblevisionscametome—Ithinktheyarereservedexclusivelyforhusbandsandfathers—ofthepicturewindowblowinginwithalow,hardcoughingsoundandsendingjaggedarrowsofglassintomywife’sbarestomach,intomyboy’sfaceandneck.The

horrorsoftheInquisitionarenothingcomparedtothefatesyourmindcanimagineforyourlovedones.

Igrabbedthembothhardandjerkedthemaway.“Whatthehellareyoudoing?Getawayfromthere!”

Steffgavemeastartledglance.Billyonlylookedatmeasifhehadbeenpartiallyawakenedfromadeepdream.

Iledthemintothekitchenandhitthelightswitch.Thephoneting-a-lingedagain.

Thenthewindcame.Itwasasifthehousehadtakenofflikea747.Itwasahigh,breathlesswhistling,sometimesdeepeningtoabassroarbeforeglissadinguptoawhoopingscream.

“Godownstairs,”ItoldSteff,andnowIhadtoshout

tomakemyselfheard.DirectlyoverthehousethunderwhackedmammothplankstogetherandBillyshrankagainstmyleg.

“Youcometoo!”Steffyelledback.

Inoddedandmadeshooinggestures.IhadtopryBillyoffmyleg.“Gowithyourmother.Iwanttogetsomecandlesincasethelightsgo

off.”

Hewentwithher,andIstartedopeningcabinets.Candlesarefunnythings,youknow.Youlaythembyeveryspring,knowingthatasummerstormmayknockoutthepower.Andwhenthetimecomes,theyhide.

Iwaspawingthroughthefourthcabinet,pastthehalf-ounceofgrassthatSteffandI

boughtfouryearsagoandhadstillnotsmokedmuchof,pastBilly’swind-upsetofchatteringteethfromtheAuburnNoveltyShop,pastthedriftsofphotosSteffykeptforgettingtoglueinouralbum.IlookedunderaSearscatalogueandbehindaKewpiedollfromTaiwanthatIhadwonattheFryeburgFairknockingoverwoodenmilkbottleswithtennisballs.

IfoundthecandlesbehindtheKewpiedollwithitsglazeddeadman’seyes.Theywerestillwrappedintheircellophane.Asmyhandclosedaroundthemthelightswentoutandtheonlyelectricitywasthestuffinthesky.Thediningroomwaslitinaseriesofshutterflashesthatwerewhiteandpurple.DownstairsIheardBillystarttocryandthelowmurmurofSteffsoothinghim.

Ihadtohaveonemorelookatthestorm.

Thewater-cyclonehadeitherpassedusorbrokenupwhenitreachedtheshoreline,butIstillcouldn’tseetwentyyardsoutontothelake.Thewaterwasincompleteturmoil.Isawsomeone’sdock—theJassers’,maybe—hurrybywithitsmainsupportsalternatelyturneduptotheskyandburiedinthe

churningwater.

Iwentdownstairs.Billyrantomeandclungtomylegs.Iliftedhimupandgavehimahug.ThenIlitthecandles.Wesatintheguestroomdownthehallfrommylittlestudioandlookedateachother’sfacesintheflickeringyellowglowandlistenedtothestormroarandbashatourhouse.Abouttwentyminuteslaterweheardaripping,

rendingcrashasoneofthebigpineswentdownnearby.Thentherewasalull.

“Isitover?”Steffasked.

“Maybe,”Isaid.“Maybeonlyforawhile.”

Wewentupstairs,eachofuscarryingacandle,likemonksgoingtovespers.Billycarriedhisproudlyandcarefully.Carryingacandle,carrying

thefire,wasaverybigdealforhim.Ithelpedhimforgetaboutbeingafraid.

Itwastoodarktoseewhatdamagehadbeendonearoundthehouse.ItwaspastBilly’sbedtime,butneitherofussuggestedputtinghimin.Wesatinthelivingroom,listenedtothewind,andlookedatthelightning.

Aboutanhourlateritbegan

tocrankupagain.Forthreeweeksthetemperaturehadbeenoverninety,andonsixofthosetwenty-onedaystheNationalWeatherServicestationatthePortlandJetporthadreportedtemperaturesofoveronehundreddegrees.Queerweather.Coupledwiththegruelingwinterwehadcomethroughandthelatespring,somepeoplehaddraggedoutthatoldchestnutaboutthelong-rangeresults

ofthefiftiesA-bombtestsagain.That,andofcourse,theendoftheworld.Theoldestchestnutofthemall.

Thesecondsquallwasn’tsohard,butweheardthecrashofseveraltreesweakenedbythefirstonslaught.Asthewindbegantodiedownagain,onethuddedheavilyontheroof,likeafistdroppedonacoffinlid.Billyjumpedandlookedapprehensively

upward.

“It’llhold,champ,”Isaid.

Billysmilednervously.

Aroundteno’clockthelastsquallcame.Itwasbad.Thewindhowledalmostasloudlyasithadthefirsttime,andlightningseemedtobeflashingallaroundus.Moretreesfell,andtherewasasplinteringcrashdownbythe

waterthatmadeSteffutteralowcry.Billyhadgonetosleeponherlap.

“David,whatwasthat?”

“Ithinkitwastheboathouse.”

“Oh.Oh,Jesus.”

“Steffy,Iwantustogodownstairsagain.”ItookBillyinmyarmsandstood

upwithhim.Steff’seyeswerebigandfrightened.

“David,arewegoingtobeallright?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Wewentdownstairs.Tenminuteslater,asthefinal

squallpeaked,therewasasplinteringcrashfromupstairs—thepicturewindow.Somaybemyvisionearlierhadn’tbeensocrazyafterall.Steff,whohadbeendozing,wokeupwithalittleshriek,andBillystirreduneasilyintheguestbed.

“Therainwillcomein,”shesaid.“It’llruinthefurniture.”

“Ifitdoes,itdoes.It’s

insured.”

“Thatdoesn’tmakeitanybetter,”shesaidinanupset,scoldingvoice.“Yourmother’sdresser…ournewsofa…thecolorTV…”

“Shhh,”Isaid.“Gotosleep.”

“Ican’t,”shesaid,andfiveminuteslatershehad.

Istayedawakeforanotherhalfhourwithonelitcandleforcompany,listeningtothethunderwalkandtalkoutside.Ihadafeelingthatthereweregoingtobealotofpeoplefromthelakefrontcommunitiescallingtheirinsuranceagentsinthemorning,alotofchainsawsburringascottageownerscutupthetreesthathadfallenontheirroofsandbatteredthroughtheirwindows,anda

lotoforangeCMPtrucksontheroad.

Thestormwasfadingnow,withnosignofanewsquallcomingin.Iwentbackupstairs,leavingSteffandBillyonthebed,andlookedintothelivingroom.Theslidingglassdoorhadheld.Butwherethepicturewindowhadbeentherewasnowajaggedholestuffedwithbirchleaves.Itwasthe

topoftheoldtreethathadstoodbyouroutsidebasementaccessforaslongasIcouldremember.Lookingatitstop,nowvisitinginourlivingroom,IcouldunderstandwhatSteffhadmeantbysayinginsurancedidn’tmakeitanybetter.Ihadlovedthattree.Ithadbeenahardcampaignerofmanywinters,theonetreeonthelakesideofthehousethatwasexemptfrommyown

chainsaw.Bigchunksofglassontherugreflectedmycandle-flameoverandover.IremindedmyselftowarnSteffandBilly.Theywouldwanttoweartheirslippersinhere.Bothofthemlikedtosloparoundbarefootinthemorning.

Iwentdownstairsagain.Allthreeofusslepttogetherintheguestbed,BillybetweenSteffandme.Ihadadream

thatIsawGodwalkingacrossHarrisononthefarsideofthelake,aGodsogiganticthatabovethewaistHewaslostinaclearbluesky.InthedreamIcouldheartherendingcrackandsplinterofbreakingtreesasGodstampedthewoodsintotheshapeofHisfootsteps.Hewascirclingthelake,comingtowardtheBridgtonside,towardus,andallthehousesandcottagesandsummer

placeswereburstingintopurple-whiteflamelikelightning,andsoonthesmokecoveredeverything.Thesmokecoveredeverythinglikeamist.

II

AftertheStorm.Norton.ATripto

Town.

“Jeee-pers,”Billysaid.

HewasstandingbythefencethatseparatesourpropertyfromNorton’sandlookingdownourdriveway.Thedrivewayrunsaquarterofamiletoacamproad,which,initsturn,runsaboutthree-quartersofamiletoastretchoftwo-laneblacktop,calledKansasRoad.FromKansasRoadyoucangoanywhereyouwant,aslongasit’sBridgton.

IsawwhatBillywaslookingatandmyheartwentcold.

“Don’tgoanycloser,champ.Rightthereiscloseenough.”

Billydidn’targue.

Themorningwasbrightandasclearasabell.Thesky,whichhadbeenamushy,hazycolorduringtheheatwave,hadregainedadeep,crispbluethatwasnearly

autumnal.Therewasalightbreeze,makingcheerfulsun-dapplesmovebackandforthinthedriveway.NotfarfromwhereBillywasstandingtherewasasteadyhissingnoise,andinthegrasstherewaswhatyoumightatfirsthavetakenforawrithingbundleofsnakes.Thepowerlinesleadingtoourhousehadfalleninanuntidytangleabouttwentyfeetawayandlayinaburnedpatchofgrass.

Theyweretwistinglazilyandspitting.Ifthetreesandgrasshadn’tbeensocompletelydampeddownbythetorrentialrains,thehousemighthavegoneup.Asitwas,therewasonlythatblackpatchwherethewireshadtoucheddirectly.

“Couldthatlectercuteaperson,Daddy?”

“Yeah.Itcould.”

“Whatarewegoingtodoaboutit?”

“Nothing.WaitfortheCMP.”

“Whenwilltheycome?”

“Idon’tknow.”Five-year-oldshaveasmanyquestionsasHallmarkhascards.“Iimaginethey’reprettybusythismorning.Wanttotakeawalkuptotheendofthe

drivewaywithme?”

Hestartedtocomeandthenstopped,eyeingthewiresnervously.Oneofthemhumpedupandturnedoverlazily,asifbeckoning.

“Daddy,canlectricityshootthroughtheground?”

Afairquestion.“Yes,butdon’tworry.Electricitywantstheground,notyou,Billy.

You’llbeallrightifyoustayawayfromthewires.”

“Wantstheground,”hemuttered,andthencametome.Wewalkedupthedrivewayholdinghands.

ItwasworsethanIhadimagined.Treeshadfallenacrossthedriveinfourdifferentplaces,oneofthemsmall,twoofthemmiddling,andoneoldbabythatmust

havebeenfivefeetthroughthemiddle.Mosswascrustedontoitlikeamoldycorset.

Branches,somehalf-strippedoftheirleaves,layeverywhereinjackstrawprofusion.BillyandIwalkeduptothecamproad,tossingthesmallerbranchesoffintothewoodsoneitherside.Itremindedmeofasummer’sdaythathadbeenmaybetwenty-fiveyearsbefore;I

couldn’thavebeenmucholderthanBillywasnow.Allmyuncleshadbeenhere,andtheyhadspentthedayinthewoodswithaxesandhatchetsandDarcypoles,cuttingbrush.Laterthatafternoontheyhadallsatdowntothetrestlepicnictablemydadandmomusedtohaveandtherehadbeenamonstermealofhotdogsandhamburgersandpotatosalad.The’Gansettbeerhadflowed

likewaterandmyuncleReubentookadiveintothelakewithallhisclotheson,evenhisdeck-shoes.Inthosedaystherewerestilldeerinthesewoods.

“Daddy,canIgodowntothelake?”

Hewastiredofthrowingbranches,andthethingtodowithalittleboywhenhe’stiredistolethimgodo

somethingelse.“Sure.”

WewalkedbacktothehousetogetherandthenBillycutright,goingaroundthehouseandgivingthedownedwiresalargeberth.Iwentleft,intothegarage,togetmyMcCullough.AsIhadsuspected,Icouldalreadyheartheunpleasantsongofthechainsawupanddownthelake.

Itoppedupthetank,tookoffmyshirt,andwasstartingbackupthedrivewaywhenSteffcameout.Sheeyedthedownedtreeslyingacrossthedrivewaynervously.

“Howbadisit?”

“Icancutitup.Howbadisitinthere?”

“Well,Igottheglasscleanedup,butyou’regoingtohave

todosomethingaboutthattree,David.Wecan’thaveatreeinthelivingroom.”

“No,”Isaid.“Iguesswecan’t.”

Welookedateachotherinthemorningsunlightandgottogiggling.IsettheMcCulloughdownonthecementareaway,andkissedher,holdingherbuttocksfirmly.

“Don’t,”shemurmured.“Billy’s—”

Hecametearingaroundthecornerofthehousejustthen.“Dad!Daddy!Y’oughtaseethe—”

Steffysawthelivewiresandscreamedforhimtowatchout.Billy,whowasagooddistanceawayfromthem,pulledupshortandstaredathismotherasifshehadgone

mad.

“I’mokay,Mom,”hesaidinthecarefultoneofvoiceyouusetoplacatetheveryoldandsenile.Hewalkedtowardus,showingushowallrighthewas,andSteffbegantotrembleinmyarms.

“It’sallright,”Isaidinherear.“Heknowsaboutthem.”

“Yes,butpeoplegetkilled,”

shesaid.“Theyhaveadsallthetimeontelevisionaboutlivewires,peopleget—Billy,Iwantyoutocomeinthehouserightnow!”

“Aw,comeon,Mom!IwannashowDadtheboathouse!”Hewasalmostbug-eyedwithexcitementanddisappointment.Hehadgottenatasteofpoststormapocalypseandwantedtoshareit.

“Yougoinrightnow!Thosewiresaredangerousand—”

“Dadsaidtheywanttheground,notme—”

“Billy,don’tyouarguewithme!”

“I’llcomedownandlook,champ.Goondownyourself.”IcouldfeelStefftensingagainstme.“Goaroundtheotherside,kiddo.”

“Yeah!Okay!”

Hetorepastus,takingthestonestepsthatledaroundthewestendofthehousetwobytwo.Hedisappearedwithhisshirttailflying,trailingbackoneword—“Wow!”—ashespottedsomeotherpieceofdestruction.

“Heknowsaboutthewires,Steffy.”Itookhergentlybytheshoulders.“He’sscaredof

them.That’sgood.Itmakeshimsafe.”

Oneteartrackeddownhercheek.“David,I’mscared.”

“Comeon!It’sover.”

“Isit?Lastwinter…andthelatespring…theycalleditablackspringintown…theysaidtherehadn’tbeenoneinthesepartssince1888—”

“They”undoubtedlymeantMrs.Carmody,whokepttheBridgtonAntiquary,ajunkshopthatStefflikedtorummagearoundinsometimes.Billylovedtogowithher.Inoneoftheshadowy,dustybackrooms,stuffedowlswithgold-ringedeyesspreadtheirwingsforeverastheirfeetendlesslygraspedvarnishedlogs;stuffedraccoonsstoodinatrioarounda“stream”that

wasalongfragmentofdustymirror;andonemoth-eatenwolf,whichwasfoamingsawdustinsteadofsalivaaroundhismuzzle,snarledacreepyeternalsnarl.Mrs.CarmodyclaimedthewolfwasshotbyherfatherasitcametodrinkfromStevensBrookoneSeptemberafternoonin1901.

TheexpeditionstoMrs.Carmody’sAntiquaryshop

workedwellformywifeandson.Shewasintocarnivalglassandhewasintodeathinthenameoftaxidermy.ButIthoughtthattheoldwomanexercisedaratherunpleasantholdoverSteff’smind,whichwasinallotherwayspracticalandhardheaded.ShehadfoundSteff’svulnerablespot,amentalAchilles’heel.NorwasStefftheonlyoneintownwhowasfascinatedbyMrs.Carmody’sgothic

pronouncementsandfolkremedies(whichwerealwaysprescribedinGod’sname).

Stump-waterwouldtakeoffbruisesifyourhusbandwasthesortwhogotabittoofreewithhisfistsafterthreedrinks.YoucouldtellwhatkindofawinterwascomingbycountingtheringsonthecaterpillarsinJuneorbymeasuringthethicknessofAugusthoneycomb.And

now,goodGodprotectandpreserveus,THEBLACKSPRINGOF1888(addyourownexclamationpoints,asmanyasyouthinkitdeserves).Ihadalsoheardthestory.It’sonetheyliketopassarounduphere—ifthespringiscoldenough,theiceonthelakeswilleventuallyturnasblackasarottedtooth.It’srare,buthardlyaonce-in-a-centuryoccurrence.Theyliketopassitaround,butI

doubtthatmanycouldpassitaroundwithasmuchconvictionasMrs.Carmody.

“Wehadahardwinterandalatespring,”Isaid.“Nowwe’rehavingahotsummer.Andwehadastormbutit’sover.You’renotactinglikeyourself,Stephanie.”

“Thatwasn’tanordinarystorm,”shesaidinthatsamehuskyvoice.

“No,”Isaid.“I’llgoalongwithyouthere.”

IhadheardtheBlackSpringstoryfromBillGiosti,whoownedandoperated—afterafashion—Giosti’sMobilinCascoVillage.Billrantheplacewithhisthreetosspotsons(withoccasionalhelpfromhisfourtosspotgrandsons…whentheycouldtaketimeofffromtinkeringwiththeirsnowmobilesand

dirt-bikes).Billwasseventy,lookedeighty,andcouldstilldrinkliketwenty-threewhenthemoodwasonhim.BillyandIhadtakentheScoutinforafill-upthedayafterasurprisemid-Maystormdroppednearlyafootofwet,heavysnowontheregion,coveringthenewgrassandflowers.Giostihadbeeninhiscupsforfair,andhappytopassalongtheBlackSpringstory,alongwithhisown

originaltwist.ButwegetsnowinMaysometimes;itcomesandit’sgonetwodayslater.It’snobigdeal.

Steffwasglancingdoubtfullyatthedownedwiresagain.“Whenwillthepowercompanycome?”

“Justassoonastheycan.Itwon’tbelong.Ijustdon’twantyoutoworryaboutBilly.Hishead’sonpretty

straight.Heforgetstopickuphisclothes,butheisn’tgoingtogoandsteponabunchoflivelines.He’sgotagood,healthydoseofself-interest.”Itouchedacornerofhermouthanditobligedbyturningupinthebeginningofasmile.“Better?”

“Youalwaysmakeitseembetter,”shesaid,andthatmademefeelgood.

FromthelakesideofthehouseBillywasyellingforustocomeandsee.

“Comeon,”Isaid.“Let’sgolookatthedamage.”

Shesnortedruefully.“IfIwanttolookatdamage,Icangositinmylivingroom.”

“Makealittlekidhappy,then.”

Wewalkeddownthestonesteps,handinhand.WehadjustreachedthefirstturninthemwhenBillycamefromtheotherdirectionatspeed,almostknockingusover.

“Takeiteasy,”Steffsaid,frowningalittle.Maybe,inhermind,shewasseeinghimskiddingintothatdeadlynestoflivewiresinsteadofthetwoofus.

“Yougottacomesee!”Billypanted.“Theboathouseisallbashed!There’sadockontherocks…andtreesintheboatcove…JesusChrist!”

“BillyDrayton!”Steffthundered.

“Sorry,Ma—butyougotta—wow!”Hewasgoneagain.

“Havingspoken,thedoomsayerdeparts,”Isaid,

andthatmadeSteffgiggleagain.“Listen,afterIcutupthosetreesacrossthedriveway,I’llgobytheCentralMainePowerofficeonPortlandRoad.Tellthemwhatwegot.Okay?”

“Okay,”shesaidgratefully.“Whendoyouthinkyoucango?”

Exceptforthebigtree—theonewiththemoldycorsetof

moss—itwouldhavebeenanhour’swork.Withthebigoneaddedin,Ididn’tthinkthejobwouldbedoneuntilelevenorso.

“I’llgiveyoulunchhere,then.Butyou’llhavetogetsomethingsatthemarketforme…we’realmostoutofmilkandbutter.Also…well,I’llhavetomakeyoualist.”

Giveawomanadisasterand

sheturnssquirrel.Igaveherahugandnodded.Wewentonaroundthehouse.Itdidn’ttakemorethanaglancetounderstandwhyBillyhadbeenalittleoverwhelmed.

“Lordy,”Steffsaidinafaintvoice.

Fromwherewestoodwehadenoughelevationtobeabletoseealmostaquarterofamileofshoreline—theBibber

propertytoourleft,ourown,andBrentNorton’stoourright.

Thehugeoldpinethathadguardedourboatcovehadbeenshearedoffhalfwayup.Whatwasleftlookedlikeabrutallysharpenedpencil,andtheinsideofthetreeseemedaglisteninganddefenselesswhiteagainsttheage-and-weather-darkenedouterbark.Ahundredfeetoftree,theold

pine’stophalf,laypartlysubmergedinourshallowcove.ItoccurredtomethatwewereveryluckyourlittleStar-Cruiserwasn’tsunkunderneathit.Theweekbefore,ithaddevelopedenginetroubleanditwasstillattheNaplesmarina,patientlywaitingitsturn.

Ontheothersideofourlittlepieceofshorefront,theboathousemyfatherhadbuilt

—theboathousethathadoncehousedasixty-footChris-CraftwhentheDraytonfamilyfortuneshadbeenatahighermarkthantheyweretoday—layunderanotherbigtree.ItwastheonethathadstoodonNorton’ssideofthepropertyline,Isaw.Thatraisedthefirstflushofanger.Thetreehadbeendeadforfiveyearsandheshouldhavelongsincehadittakendown.Nowitwasthree-quartersof

thewaydown;ourboathousewasproppingitup.Theroofhadtakenonadrunken,swaybackedlook.Thewindhadswirledshinglesfromtheholethetreehadmadealloverthepointoflandtheboathousestoodon.Billy’sdescription,“bashed,”wasasgoodasany.

“That’sNorton’stree!”Steffsaid.AndshesaiditwithsuchhurtindignationthatI

hadtosmileinspiteofthepainIfelt.TheflagpolewaslyinginthewaterandOldGloryfloatedsoggilybesideitinatangleoflanyard.AndIcouldimagineNorton’sresponse:Sueme.

Billywasontherockbreakwater,examiningthedockthathadwasheduponthestones.Itwaspaintedinjauntyblueandyellowstripes.Helookedbackover

hisshoulderatusandyelledgleefully,“It’stheMarlinses’,isn’tit?”

“Yeah,itis,”Isaid.“Wadeinandfishtheflagout,wouldyou,BigBill?”

“Sure!”

Totherightofthebreakwaterwasasmallsandybeach.In1941,beforePearlHarborpaidofftheGreatDepression

inblood,mydadhiredamantotruckinthatfinebeachsand—sixdumptrucksfull—andtospreaditouttoadepththatisaboutnipple-highonme,sayfivefeet.Theworkmanchargedeightybucksforthejob,andthesandhasnevermoved.Justaswell,youknow,youcan’tputasandybeachinonyourlandnow.Nowthattheseweragerunofffromtheboomingcottage-buildingindustryhas

killedmostofthefishandmadetherestofthemunsafetoeat,theEPAhasforbiddeninstallingsandbeaches.Theymightupsettheecologyofthelake,yousee,anditispresentlyagainstthelawforanyoneexceptlanddeveloperstodothat.

Billywentfortheflag—thenstopped.AtthesamemomentIfeltSteffgorigidagainstme,andIsawitmyself.The

Harrisonsideofthelakewasgone.Ithadbeenburiedunderalineofbrightwhitemist,likeafair-weathercloudfallentoearth.

Mydreamofthenightbeforerecurred,andwhenSteffaskedmewhatitwas,thewordthatnearlyjumpedfirstfrommymouthwasGod.

“David?”

Youcouldn’tseeevenahintoftheshorelineoverthere,butyearsoflookingatLongLakemademebelievethattheshorelinewasn’thiddenbymuch;onlyyards,maybe.Theedgeofthemistwasnearlyruler-straight.

“Whatisit,Dad?”Billyyelled.Hewasinthewateruptohisknees,gropingforthesoggyflag.

“Fogbank,”Isaid.

“Onthelake?”Steffaskeddoubtfully,andIcouldseeMrs.Carmody’sinfluenceinhereyes.Damnthewoman.Myownmomentofuneasewaspassing.Dreams,afterall,areinsubstantialthings,likemistitself.

“Sure.You’veseenfogonthelakebefore.”

“Neverlikethat.Thatlooksmorelikeacloud.”

“It’sthebrightnessofthesun,”Isaid.“It’sthesamewaycloudslookfromanairplanewhenyouflyoverthem.”

“Whatwoulddoit?Weonlygetfogindampweather.”

“No,we’vegotitrightnow,”Isaid.“Harrisondoes,

anyway.It’salittleleftoverfromthestorm,that’sall.Twofrontsmeeting.Somethingalongthatline.”

“David,areyousure?”

Ilaughedandhauledmyarmaroundherneck.“No,actually,I’mbullshittinglikecrazy.IfIwassure,I’dbedoingtheweatheronthesix-o’clocknews.Goonandmakeyourshoppinglist.”

Shegavemeonemoredoubtfulglance,lookedatthefogbankforamomentortwowiththeflatofherhandhelduptoshadehereyes,andthenshookherhead.“Weird,”shesaid,andwalkedaway.

ForBilly,themisthadlostitsnovelty.Hehadfishedtheflagandatangleoflanyardoutofthewater.Wespreaditonthelawntodry.

“Ihearditwaswrongtoeverlettheflagtouchtheground,Daddy,”hesaidinabusinesslike,let’sget-this-out-of-the-waytone.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.VictorMcAllistersaystheylectercutepeopleforit.”

“Well,youtellViche’sfullofwhatmakesthegrassgrow

green.”

“Horseshit,right?”Billyisabrightboy,butoddlyhumorless.Tothechamp,everythingisseriousbusiness.I’mhopingthathe’lllivelongenoughtolearnthatinthisworldthatisaverydangerousattitude.

“Yeah,right,butdon’ttellyourmotherIsaidso.Whentheflag’sdry,we’llputit

away.We’llevenfolditintoacockedhat,sowe’llbeonsafegroundthere.”

“Daddy,willwefixtheboathouseroofandgetanewflagpole?”Forthefirsttimehelookedanxious.He’dmaybehadenoughdestructionforawhile.

Iclappedhimontheshoulder.“You’redamntooting.”

“CanIgoovertotheBibbers’andseewhathappenedthere?”

“Justforacoupleofminutes.They’llbecleaningup,too,andsometimesthatmakespeoplefeelalittleugly.”ThewayIpresentlyfeltaboutNorton.

“Okay.Bye!”Hewasoff.

“Stayoutoftheirway,

champ.And,Billy?”

Heglancedback.

“Rememberaboutthelivewires.Ifyouseemore,steerclearofthem.”

“Sure,Dad.”

Istoodthereforamoment,firstsurveyingthedamage,thenglancingoutatthemistagain.Itseemedcloser,butit

wasveryhardtotellforsure.Ifitwascloser,itwasdefyingallthelawsofnature,becausethewind—averygentlebreeze—wasagainstit.That,ofcourse,waspatentlyimpossible.Itwasvery,verywhite.TheonlythingIcancompareittowouldbefresh-fallensnowlyingindazzlingcontrasttothedeepbluebrillianceofthewintersky.Butsnowreflectshundredsandhundredsofdiamond

pointsinthesun,andthispeculiarfogbank,althoughbrightandclean-looking,didnotsparkle.InspiteofwhatSteffhadsaid,mistisn’tuncommononcleardays,butwhenthere’salotofit,thesuspendedmoisturealmostalwayscausesarainbow.Buttherewasnorainbowhere.

Theuneasewasback,tuggingatme,butbeforeitcoulddeepen,Iheardalow

mechanicalsound—whut-whut-whut!—followedbyabarelyaudible“Shit!”Themechanicalsoundwasrepeated,butthistimetherewasnooath.Thethirdtimethechuffingsoundwasfollowedby“Mother-fuck!”inthatsamelowI’m-all-by-myself-but-boy-am-I-pissedtone.

Whut-whut-whut-whut—

—Silence—

—then:“Youcunt.”

Ibegantogrin.Soundcarrieswellouthere,andallthebuzzingchainsawswerefairlydistant.Distantenoughformetorecognizethenot-so-dulcettonesofmynext-doorneighbor,therenownedlawyerandlakefront-property-owner,BrentonNorton.

Imoveddownalittleclosertothewater,pretendingtostrolltowardthedockbeachedonourbreakwater.NowIcouldseeNorton.Hewasintheclearingbesidehisscreened-inporch,standingonacarpetofoldpineneedlesanddressedinpaint-spottedjeansandawhitestrappyT-shirt.Hisforty-dollarhaircutwasindisarrayandsweatpoureddownhisface.Hewasdownonone

knee,laboringoverhisownchainsaw.Itwasmuchbiggerandfancierthanmylittle$79.95ValueHousejob.Itseemedtohaveeverything,infact,butastarterbutton.Hewasyankingacord,producingthelistlesswhut-whut-whutsoundsandnothingmore.Iwasgladdenedinmyhearttoseethatayellowbirchhadfallenacrosshispicnictableandsmasheditintwo.

Nortongaveatremendousyankonthestartercord.

Whut-whut-whutwhutwhut-WHAT!WHAT!WHAT!…WHAT!…Whut.

Almosthaditthereforaminute,fella.

AnotherHerculeantug.

Whut-whut-whut.

“Cocksucker,”Nortonwhisperedfiercely,andbaredhisteethathisfancychainsaw.

Iwentbackaroundthehouse,feelingreallygoodforthefirsttimesinceIgotup.Myownsawstartedonthefirsttug,andIwenttowork.

Aroundteno’clocktherewasataponmyshoulder.ItwasBillywithacanofbeerin

onehandandSteff’slistintheother.Istuffedthelistinthebackpocketofmyjeansandtookthebeer,whichwasnotexactlyfrosty-coldbutatleastcool.Ichuggedalmosthalfofitatonce—rarelydoesabeertastethatgood—andtippedthecaninsaluteatBilly.“Thanks,champ.”

“CanIhavesome?”

Ilethimhaveaswallow.He

grimacedandhandedthecanback.IoffedtherestandjustcaughtmyselfasIstartedtocrunchitupinthemiddle.Thedepositlawonbottlesandcanshasbeenineffectforoverthreeyears,butoldwaysdiehard.

“Shewrotesomethingacrossthebottomofthelist,butIcan’treadherwriting,”Billysaid.

Itookoutthelistagain.“Ican’tgetWOXOontheradio,”Steff’snoteread.“Doyouthinkthestormknockedthemofftheair?”

WOXOisthelocalautomatedFMrockoutlet.ItbroadcastfromNorway,abouttwentymilesnorth,andwasallthatouroldandfeebleFMreceiverwouldhaulin.

“Tellherprobably,”Isaid,

afterreadingthequestionovertohim.“AskherifshecangetPortlandontheAMband.”

“Okay,Daddy,canIcomewhenyougototown?”

“Sure.YouandMommyboth,ifyouwant.”

“Okay.”Heranbacktothehousewiththeemptycan.

Ihadworkedmywayuptothebigtree.Imademyfirstcut,sawedthrough,thenturnedthesawoffforafewmomentstoletitcooldown—thetreewasreallytoobigforit,butIthoughtitwouldbeallrightifIdidn’trushit.IwonderedifthedirtroadleadinguptoKansasRoadwasclearoffalls,andjustasIwaswondering,anorangeCMPtrucklumberedpast,probablyonitswaytothefar

endofourlittleroad.Sothatwasallright.Theroadwasclearandthepowerguyswouldbeherebynoontotakecareofthelivelines.

Icutabigchunkoffthetree,draggedittothesideofthedriveway,andtumbleditovertheedge.Itrolleddowntheslopeandintotheunderbrushthathadcreptbacksincethelong-agodaywhenmydadandhisbrothers—allofthem

artists;wehavealwaysbeenanartisticfamily,theDraytons—hadcleareditaway.

Iwipedsweatoffmyfacewithmyarmandwishedforanotherbeer;onereallyonlysetsyourmouth.IpickedupthechainsawandthoughtaboutWOXObeingofftheair.Thatwasthedirectionthatfunnyfogbankhadcomefrom.Anditwasthedirection

Shaymore(pronouncedShammorebythelocals)layin.ShaymorewaswheretheArrowheadProjectwas.

ThatwasoldBillGiosti’stheoryabouttheso-calledBlackSpring:theArrowheadProject.InthewesternpartofShaymore,notfarfromwherethetownbordersonStoneham,therewasasmallgovernmentpreservesurroundedwithwire.There

weresentriesandclosed-circuittelevisioncamerasandGodknewwhatelse.OrsoIhadheard;I’dneveractuallyseenit,althoughtheOldShaymoreRoadrunsalongtheeasternsideofthegovernmentlandforamileorso.

NooneknewforsurewherethenameArrowheadProjectcamefromandnoonecouldtellyouforonehundred

percentsurethatthatreallywasthenameoftheproject—iftherewasaproject.BillGiostisaidtherewas,butwhenyouaskedhimhowandwherehecamebyhisinformation,hegotvague.Hisniece,hesaid,workedfortheContinentalPhoneCompany,andshehadheardthings.Itgotlikethat.

“Atomicthings,”Billsaidthatday,leaninginthe

Scout’swindowandblowingahealthydraftofPabstintomyface.“That’swhatthey’refoolingaroundwithupthere.Shootingatomsintotheairandallthat.”

“Mr.Giosti,theair’sfullofatoms,”Billyhadsaid.“That’swhatMrs.Nearysays.Mrs.Nearysayseverything’sfullofatoms.”

BillGiostigavemysonBilla

long,bloodshotglancethatfinallydeflatedhim.“Thesearedifferentatoms,son.”

“Oh,yeah,”Billymuttered,givingin.

DickMuehler,ourinsuranceagent,saidtheArrowheadProjectwasanagriculturalstationthegovernmentwasrunning,nomoreorless.“Biggertomatoeswithalongergrowingseason,”Dick

saidsagely,andthenwentbacktoshowingmehowIcouldhelpmyfamilymostefficientlybydyingyoung.JanineLawless,ourpostlady,saiditwasageologicalsurveyhavingsomethingtodowithshaleoil.Sheknewforafact,becauseherhusband’sbrotherworkedforamanwhohad—

Mrs.Carmody,now…sheprobablyleanedmoretoBill

Giosti’sviewofthematter.Notjustatoms,butdifferentatoms.

IcuttwomorechunksoffthebigtreeanddroppedthemoverthesidebeforeBillycamebackwithafreshbeerinonehandandanotefromSteffintheother.Ifthere’sanythingBigBilllikestodomorethanrunmessages,Idon’tknowwhatitcouldbe.

“Thanks,”Isaid,takingthemboth.

“CanIhaveaswallow?”

“Justone.Youtooktwolasttime.Can’thaveyourunningarounddrunkatteninthemorning.”

“Quarterpast,”hesaid,andsmiledshylyoverthetopofthecan.Ismiledback—notthatitwassuchagreatjoke,

youknow,butBillymakesthemsorarely—andthenreadthenote.

“GotJBQontheradio,”Steffyhadwritten.“Don’tgetdrunkbeforeyougototown.Youcanhaveonemore,butthat’sitbeforelunch.Doyouthinkyoucangetupourroadokay?”

Ihandedhimthenotebackandtookmybeer.“Tellher

theroad’sokaybecauseapowertruckjustwentby.They’llbeworkingtheirwayuphere.”

“Okay.”

“Champ?”

“What,Dad?”

“Tellhereverything’sokay.”

Hesmiledagain,maybe

tellinghimselffirst.“Okay.”

HeranbackandIwatchedhimgo,legspumping,solesofhiszorishowing.Ilovehim.It’shisfaceandsometimesthewayhiseyesturnuptominethatmakemefeelasifthingsarereallyokay.It’salie,ofcourse—thingsarenotokayandneverhavebeen—butmykidmakesmebelievethelie.

Idranksomebeer,setthecandowncarefullyonarock,andgotthechainsawgoingagain.AbouttwentyminuteslaterIfeltalighttaponmyshoulderandturned,expectingtoseeBillyagain.InsteaditwasBrentNorton.Iturnedoffthechainsaw.

Hedidn’tlookthewayNortonusuallylooks.Helookedhotandtiredandunhappyandalittle

bewildered.

“Hi,Brent,”Isaid.Ourlastwordshadbeenhardones,andIwasalittleunsurehowtoproceed.Ihadafunnyfeelingthathehadbeenstandingbehindmeforthelastfiveminutesorso,clearinghisthroatdecorouslyunderthechainsaw’saggressiveroar.Ihadn’tgottenareallygoodlookathimthissummer.Hehadlost

weight,butitdidn’tlookgood.Itshouldhave,becausehehadbeencarryingaroundanextratwentypounds,butitdidn’t.HiswifehaddiedthepreviousNovember.Cancer.AggieBibbertoldSteffythat.Aggiewasourresidentnecrologist.Everyneighborhoodhasone.FromthecasualwayNortonhadofragginghiswifeandbelittlingher(doingitwiththecontemptuouseaseofa

veteranmatadorinsertingbanderillasinanoldbull’slumberingbody),Iwouldhaveguessedhe’dbegladtohavehergone.Ifasked,Imightevenhavespeculatedthathe’dshowupthissummerwithagirltwentyyearsyoungerthanhewasonhisarmandasillymy-cock-has-died-and-gone-to-heavengrinonhisface.Butinsteadofthesillygrintherewasonlyanewbatchofagelines,

andtheweighthadcomeoffinallthewrongplaces,leavingsagsandfoldsanddewlapsthattoldtheirownstory.ForonepassingmomentIwantedonlytoleadNortontoapatchofsunandsithimbesideoneofthefallentreeswithmycanofbeerinhishand,anddoacharcoalsketchofhim.

“Hi,Dave,”hesaid,afteralongmomentofawkward

silence—asilencethatwasmadeevenlouderbytheabsenceofthechainsaw’sracketandroar.Hestopped,thenblurted:“Thattree.Thatdamntree.I’msorry.Youwereright.”

Ishrugged.

Hesaid,“Anothertreefellonmycar.”

“I’msorrytoh—”Ibegan,

andthenahorridsuspiciondawned.“Itwasn’ttheT-Bird,wasit?”

“Yeah.Itwas.”

Nortonhada1960Thunderbirdinmintcondition,onlythirtythousandmiles.Itwasadeepmidnightblueinsideandout.Hedroveitonlysummers,andthenonlyrarely.HelovedthatBirdthewaysome

menloveelectrictrainsormodelshipsortarget-shootingpistols.

“That’sabitch,”Isaid,andmeantit.

Heshookhisheadslowly.“Ialmostdidn’tbringitup.Almostbroughtthestationwagon,youknow.ThenIsaidwhatthehell.Idroveitupandabigoldrottenpinefellonit.Theroofofit’sall

bashedin.AndIthoughtI’dcutitup…thetree,Imean…butIcan’tgetmychainsawtofireup…Ipaidtwohundreddollarsforthatsucker…and…and…”

Histhroatbegantoemitlittleclickingsounds.Hismouthworkedasifheweretoothlessandchewingdates.ForonehelplesssecondIthoughthewasgoingtojuststandthereandbawllikea

kidonasandlot.Thenhegothimselfundersomehalfwaykindofcontrol,shrugged,andturnedawayasiftolookatthechunksofwoodIhadcutup.

“Well,wecanlookatyoursaw,”Isaid.“YourT-Birdinsured?”

“Yeah,”hesaid,“likeyourboathouse.”

Isawwhathemeant,andrememberedagainwhatSteffhadsaidaboutinsurance.

“Listen,Dave,IwonderedifIcouldborrowyourSaabandtakearunuptotown.IthoughtI’dgetsomebreadandcoldcutsandbeer.Alotofbeer.”

“BillyandIaregoingupintheScout,”Isaid.“Comewithusifyouwant.Thatis,if

you’llgivemeahanddraggingtherestofthistreeofftooneside.”

“Happyto.”

Hegrabbedoneendbutcouldn’tquiteliftitup.Ihadtodomostofthework.Betweenthetwoofuswewereabletotumbleitintotheunderbrush.Nortonwaspuffingandpanting,hischeeksnearlypurple.After

alltheyankinghehaddoneonthatchainsawstarterpull,Iwasalittleworriedabouthisticker.

“Okay?”Iasked,andhenodded,stillbreathingfast.“Comeonbacktothehouse,then.Icanfixyouupwithabeer.”

“Thankyou,”hesaid.“HowisStephanie?”Hewasregainingsomeoftheold

smoothpompositythatIdisliked.

“Verywell,thanks.”

“Andyourson?”

“He’sfine,too.”

“Gladtohearit.”

Steffcameout,andamoment’ssurprisepassedoverherfacewhenshesaw

whowaswithme.NortonsmiledandhiseyescrawledoverhertightT-shirt.Hehadn’tchangedthatmuchafterall.

“Hello,Brent,”shesaidcautiously.Billypokedhisheadoutfromunderherarm.

“Hello,Stephanie.Hi,Billy.”

“Brent’sT-Birdtookaprettygoodrapinthestorm,”Itold

her.“Stoveintheroof,hesays.”

“Oh,no!”

Nortontolditagainwhilehedrankoneofourbeers.Iwassippingathird,butIhadnokindofbuzzon;apparentlyIhadsweatthebeeroutasrapidlyasIdrankit.

“He’sgoingtocometotownwithBillyandme.”

“Well,Iwon’texpectyouforawhile.YoumayhavetogototheShop-and-SaveinNorway.”

“Oh?Why?”

“Well,ifthepower’soffinBridgton—”

“Momsaysallthecashregistersandthingsrunonelectricity,”Billysupplied.

Itwasagoodpoint.

“Haveyoustillgotthelist?”

Ipattedmyhippocket.

HereyesshiftedtoNorton.“I’mverysorryaboutCarla,Brent.Weallwere.”

“Thankyou,”hesaid.“Thankyouverymuch.”

Therewasanothermomentof

awkwardsilencewhichBillybroke.“Canwegonow,Daddy?”Hehadchangedtojeansandsneakers.

“Yeah,Iguessso.Youready,Brent?”

“GivemeanotherbeerfortheroadandIwillbe.”

Steffy’sbrowcreased.Shehadneverapprovedoftheone-for-the-roadphilosophy,

orofmenwhodrivewithacanofBudleaningagainsttheircrotches.Igaveherabarenodandsheshrugged.Ididn’twanttoreopenthingswithNortonnow.Shegothimabeer.

“Thanks,”hesaidtoSteffy,notreallythankingherbutonlymouthingaword.Itwasthewayyouthankawaitressinarestaurant.Heturnedbacktome.“Leadon,

Macduff.”

“Berightwithyou,”Isaid,andwentintothelivingroom.

Nortonfollowed,andexclaimedoverthebirch,butIwasn’tinterestedinthatorinthecostofreplacingthewindowjustthen.Iwaslookingatthelakethroughtheslidingglasspanelthatgaveonourdeck.Thebreeze

hadfreshenedalittleandthedayhadwarmedupfivedegreesorsowhileIwascuttingwood.Ithoughttheoddmistwe’dnoticedearlierwouldsurelyhavebrokenup,butithadn’t.Itwascloser,too.Halfwayacrossthelakenow.

“Inoticedthatearlier,”Nortonsaid,pontificating.“Somekindoftemperatureinversion,that’smyguess.”

Ididn’tlikeit.IfeltverystronglythatIhadneverseenamistexactlylikethisone.Partofitwastheunnervingstraightedgeofitsleadingfront.Nothinginnatureisthateven;manistheinventorofstraightedges.Partofitwasthatpure,dazzlingwhiteness,withnovariationbutalsowithoutthesparkleofmoisture.Itwasonlyhalfamileorsooffnow,andthecontrastbetweenitandthe

bluesofthelakeandskywasmorestrikingthanever.

“Comeon,Dad!”Billywastuggingatmypants.

Weallwentbacktothekitchen.BrentNortonsparedonefinalglanceatthetreethathadcrashedintoourlivingroom.

“Toobaditwasn’tanappletree,huh?”Billyremarked

brightly.“That’swhatmymomsaid.Prettyfunny,don’tyouthink?”

“Yourmother’sarealcard,Billy,”Nortonsaid.HeruffledBilly’shairinaperfunctorywayandhiseyeswenttothefrontofSteff’sT-shirtagain.No,hewasnotamanIwasevergoingtobeabletoreallylike.

“Listen,whydon’tyoucome

withus,Steff?”Iasked.FornoconcretereasonIsuddenlywantedhertocomealong.

“No,IthinkI’llstayhereandpullsomeweedsinthegarden,”shesaid.HereyesshiftedtowardNortonandthenbacktome.“ThismorningitseemslikeI’mtheonlythingaroundherethatdoesn’trunonelectricity.”

Nortonlaughedtooheartily.

Iwasgettinghermessage,buttriedonemoretime.“Yousure?”

“Sure,”shesaidfirmly.“Theoldbend-and-stretchwilldomegood.”

“Well,don’tgettoomuchsun.”

“I’llputonmystrawhat.We’llhavesandwicheswhenyougetback.”

“Good.”

Sheturnedherfaceuptobekissed.“Becareful.TheremightbeblowdownsonKansasRoadtoo,youknow.”

“I’llbecareful.”

“Youbecareful,too,”shetoldBilly,andkissedhischeek.

“Right,Mom.”Hebanged

outofthedoorandthescreencrackedshutbehindhim.

NortonandIwalkedoutafterhim.“Whydon’twegoovertoyourplaceandcutthetreeoffyourBird?”Iaskedhim.AllofasuddenIcouldthinkoflotsofreasonstodelayleavingfortown.

“Idon’tevenwanttolookatituntilafterlunchandafewmoreofthese,”Nortonsaid,

holdinguphisbeercan.“Thedamagehasbeendone,Daveoldbuddy.”

Ididn’tlikehimcallingmebuddy,either.

WeallgotintothefrontseatoftheScout(inthefarcornerofthegaragemyscarredFisherplowbladesatglimmeringyellow,liketheghostofChristmasyet-to-come)andIbackedout,

crunchingoveralitterofstorm-blowntwigs.Steffwasstandingonthecementpathwhichleadstothevegetablepatchattheextremewestendofourproperty.Shehadapairofclippersinoneglovedhandandtheweedingclawintheother.Shehadputonheroldfloppysunhat,anditcastabandofshadowoverherface.Itappedthehorntwice,lightly,andsheraisedthehandholdingtheclippersin

answer.Wepulledout.Ihaven’tseenmywifesincethen.

WehadtostoponceonourwayuptoKansasRoad.Sincethepowertruckhaddriventhrough,aprettyfair-sizedpinehaddroppedacrosstheroad.NortonandIgotoutandmoveditenoughsoIcouldinchtheScoutby,gettingourhandsallpitchyintheprocess.Billywantedto

helpbutIwavedhimback.Iwasafraidhemightgetpokedintheeye.OldtreeshavealwaysremindedmeoftheEntsinTolkien’swonderfulRingssaga,onlyEntsthathavegonebad.Oldtreeswanttohurtyou.Itdoesn’tmatterifyou’resnowshoeing,cross-countryskiing,orjusttakingawalkinthewoods.Oldtreeswanttohurtyou,andIthinkthey’dkillyouiftheycould.

KansasRoaditselfwasclear,butinseveralplaceswesawmorelinesdown.Aboutaquarter-milepasttheVicki-LinnCampgroundtherewasapowerpolelyingfull-lengthintheditch,heavywiressnarledarounditstoplikewildhair.

“Thatwassomestorm,”Nortonsaidinhismellifluous,courtroom-trainedvoice;buthedidn’t

seemtobepontificatingnow,onlysolemn.

“Yeah,itwas.”

“Look,Dad!”

HewaspointingattheremainsoftheEllitches’barn.FortwelveyearsithadbeensaggingtiredlyinTommyEllitch’sbackfield,uptoitshipsinsunflowers,goldenrod,andLolly-come-

see-me.EveryfallIwouldthinkitcouldnotlastthroughanotherwinter.Andeveryspringitwouldstillbethere.Butitwasn’tanymore.Allthatremainedwasasplinteredwreckageandaroofthathadbeenmostlystrippedofshingles.Itsnumberhadcomeup.Andforsomereasonthatechoedsolemnly,evenominously,insideme.Thestormhadcomeandsmasheditflat.

Nortondrainedhisbeer,crushedthecaninonehand,anddroppeditindifferentlytotheflooroftheScout.Billyopenedhismouthtosaysomethingandthencloseditagain—goodboy.NortoncamefromNewJersey,wheretherewasnobottle-and-canlaw;IguesshecouldbeforgivenforsquashingmynickelwhenIcouldbarelyremembernottodoitmyself.

Billystartedfoolingwiththeradio,andIaskedhimtoseeifWOXOwasbackontheair.HedialeduptoFM92andgotnothingbutablankhum.Helookedatmeandshrugged.Ithoughtforamoment.Whatotherstationswereonthefarsideofthatpeculiarfogfront?

“TryWBLM,”Isaid.

Hedialeddowntotheother

end,passingWJBQ-FMandWIGY-FMontheway.Theywerethere,doingbusinessasusual…butWBLM,Maine’spremierprogressive-rockstation,wasofftheair.

“Funny,”Isaid.

“What’sthat?”Nortonasked.

“Nothing.Justthinkingoutloud.”

BillyhadtunedbacktothemusicalcerealonWJBQ.Prettysoonwegottotown.

TheNorgeWashateriaintheshoppingcenterwasclosed,itbeingimpossibletorunacoin-oplaundrywithoutelectricity,butboththeBridgtonPharmacyandtheFederalFoodsSupermarketwereopen.Theparkinglotwasprettyfull,andasalwaysinthemiddleofthesummer,

alotofthecarshadout-of-stateplates.Littleknotsofpeoplestoodhereandthereinthesun,noodlingaboutthestorm,womenwithwomen,menwithmen.

IsawMrs.Carmody,sheofthestuffedanimalsandthestump-waterlore.Shesailedintothesupermarketdeckedoutinanamazingcanaryyellowpantsuit.Apursethatlookedthesizeofasmall

Samsonitesuitcasewasslungoveroneforearm.ThenanidiotonaYamaharoaredpastme,missingmyfrontbumperbyafewscantinches.Heworeadenimjacket,mirrorsunglasses,andnohelmet.

“Lookatthatstupidshit,”Nortongrowled.

Icircledtheparkinglotonce,lookingforagoodspace.Therewerenone.Iwasjust

resigningmyselftoalongwalkfromthefarendofthelotwhenIgotlucky.AlimegreenCadillacthesizeofasmallcabincruiserwaseasingoutofaslotintherankclosesttothemarket’sdoors.Themomentitwasgone,Islidintothespace.

IgaveBillySteff’sshoppinglist.Hewasfive,buthecouldreadprinting.“Getacartandgetstarted.Iwanttogive

yourmotherajingle.Mr.Nortonwillhelpyou.AndI’llberightalong.”

WegotoutandBillyimmediatelygrabbedMr.Norton’shand.He’dbeentaughtnottocrosstheparkinglotwithoutholdinganadult’shandwhenhewasyoungerandhadn’tyetlostthehabit.Nortonlookedsurprisedforamoment,andthensmiledalittle.Icould

almostforgivehimforfeelingSteffupwithhiseyes.Thetwoofthemwentintothemarket.

Istrolledovertothepayphone,whichwasonthewallbetweenthedrugstoreandtheNorge.Aswelteringwomaninapurplesunsuitwasjoggingthecutoffswitchupanddown.Istoodbehindherwithmyhandsinmypockets,wonderingwhyIfeltso

uneasyaboutSteff,andwhytheuneaseshouldbeallwrappedupwiththatlineofwhitebutunsparklingfog,theradiostationsthatwereofftheair…andtheArrowheadProject.

Thewomaninthepurplesunsuithadasunburnandfrecklesonherfatshoulders.Shelookedlikeasweatyorangebaby.Sheslammedthephonebackdowninits

cradle,turnedtowardthedrugstoreandsawmethere.

“Saveyourdime,”shesaid.“Justdah-dah-dah.”Shewalkedgrumpilyaway.

Ialmostslappedmyforehead.Thephonelinesweredownsomeplace,ofcourse.Someofthemwereunderground,butnowherenearallofthem.Itriedthephoneanyway.Thepayphonesintheareaare

whatSteffcallsParanoidPayPhones.Insteadofputtingyourdimerightin,yougetadialtoneandmakeyourcall.Whensomeoneanswers,there’sanautomaticcutoffandyouhavetoshoveyourdimeinbeforeyourpartyhangsup.They’reirritating,butthatdayitdidsavememydime.Therewasnodialtone.Astheladyhadsaid,itwasjustdah-dah-dah.

Ihungupandwalkedslowlytowardthemarket,justintimetoseeanamusinglittleincident.AnelderlycouplewalkedtowardtheINdoor,chattingtogether.Andstillchatting,theywalkedrightintoit.Theystoppedtalkinginajangleandthewomansquawkedhersurprise.Theystaredateachothercomically.Thentheylaughed,andtheoldguypushedthedooropenforhis

wifewithsomeeffort—thoseelectric-eyedoorsareheavy—andtheywentin.Whentheelectricitygoesoff,itcatchesyouinahundreddifferentways.

Ipushedthedooropenmyselfandnoticedthelackofair-conditioningfirstthing.Usuallyinthesummertheyhaveitcrankeduphighenoughtogiveyoufrostbiteifyoustayinthemarketmore

thananhouratastretch.

Likemostmodernmarkets,theFederalwasconstructedlikeaSkinnerbox—modernmarketingtechniquesturnallcustomersintowhiterats.Thestuffyoureallyneeded,staples,likebread,milk,meat,beer,andfrozendinners,wasallonthefarsideofthestore.Togetthereyouhadtowalkpastalltheimpulseitemsknownto

modernman—everythingfromCricketlighterstorubberdogbones.

BeyondtheINdooristhefruit-and-vegetableaisle.Ilookedupit,buttherewasnosignofNortonormyson.Theoldladywhohadrunintothedoorwasexaminingthegrapefruits.Herhusbandhadproducedanetsacktostorepurchasesin.

Iwalkeduptheaisleandwentleft.Ifoundtheminthethirdaisle,BillymullingovertheranksofJello-Opackagesandinstantpuddings.Nortonwasstandingdirectlybehindhim,peeringatSteff’slist.Ihadtogrinalittleathisnonplussedexpression.

Ithreadedmywaydowntothem,pasthalf-loadedcarriages(Steffhadn’tbeentheonlyonestruckbythe

squirrelingimpulse,apparently)andbrowsingshoppers.Nortontooktwocansofpiefillingdownfromthetopshelfandputtheminthecart.

“Howareyoudoing?”Iasked,andNortonlookedaroundwithunmistakablerelief.

“Allright,aren’twe,Billy?”

“Sure,”Billysaid,andcouldn’tresistaddinginarathersmugtone:“Butthere’slotsofstuffMr.Nortoncan’treadeither,Dad.”

“Letmesee.”Itookthelist.

Nortonhadmadeaneat,lawyerlycheckbesideeachoftheitemsheandBillyhadpickedup—halfadozenorso,includingthemilkanda

six-packofCoke.Thereweremaybetenotherthingsthatshewanted.

“Weoughttogobacktothefruitsandvegetables,”Isaid.“Shewantssometomatoesandcucumbers.”

BillystartedtoturnthecartaroundandNortonsaid,“Yououghttogohavealookatthecheckout,Dave.”

Iwentandhadalook.Itwasthesortofthingyousometimesseephotosofinthepaperonaslownewsday,withahumorouscaptionbeneath.Onlytwolaneswereopen,andthedoublelineofpeoplewaitingtochecktheirpurchasesoutstretchedpastthemostlydenudedbreadracks,thenmadeajigtotherightandwentoutofsightalongthefrozen-foodcoolers.Allofthenewcomputerized

NCRswerehooded.Ateachofthetwoopenpositions,aharried-lookinggirlwastottinguppurchasesonabattery-poweredpocketcalculator.StandingwitheachgirlwasoneoftheFederal’stwomanagers,BudBrownandOllieWeeks.IlikedOlliebutdidn’tcaremuchforBudBrown,whoseemedtofancyhimselftheCharlesdeGaulleofthesupermarketworld.

Aseachgirlfinishedcheckingherorder,BudorOlliewouldpaperclipachittothecustomer’scashorcheckandtossitintotheboxhewasusingasacashrepository.Theyalllookedhotandtired.

“Hopeyoubroughtagoodbook,”Nortonsaid,joiningme.“We’regoingtobeinlineforawhile.”

IthoughtofSteffagain,athomealone,andhadanotherflashofunease.“Yougoonandgetyourstuff,”Isaid.“BillyandIcanhandletherestofthis.”

“Wantmetograbafewmorebeersforyoutoo?”

Ithoughtaboutit,butinspiteoftherapprochement,Ididn’twanttospendtheafternoonwithBrentNortongetting

drunk.Notwiththemessthingswereinaroundthehouse.

“Sorry,”Isaid.“I’vegottotakearaincheck,Brent.”

Ithoughthisfacestiffenedalittle.“Okay,”hesaidshortly,andwalkedoff.Iwatchedhimgo,andthenBillywastuggingatmyshirt.

“DidyoutalktoMommy?”

“Nope.Thephonewasn’tworking.Thoselinesaredowntoo,Iguess.”

“Areyouworriedabouther?”

“No,”Isaid,lying.Iwasworried,allright,buthadnoideawhyIshouldbe.“No,ofcourseI’mnot.Areyou?”

“No-ooo…”Buthewas.Hisfacehadapinchedlook.Weshouldhavegonebackthen.

Buteventhenitmighthavebeentoolate.

III

TheComingoftheMist.

Weworkedourwaybacktothefruitsandvegetableslike

salmonfightingtheirwayupstream.Isawsomefamiliarfaces—MikeHatlen,oneofourselectmen,Mrs.Repplerfromthegrammarschool(shewhohadterrifiedgenerationsofthird-graderswascurrentlysneeringatthecantaloupes),Mrs.Turman,whosometimessatBillywhenSteffandIwentout—butmostlytheyweresummerpeoplestockinguponno-cookitemsandjoshingeachotherabout

“roughingit.”Thecoldcutshadbeenpickedoverasthoroughlyasthedimebooktrayatarummagesale;therewasnothingleftbutafewpackagesofbologna,somemacaroniloaf,andonelonely,phallickielbasasausage.

Igottomatoes,cukes,andajarofmayonnaise.Shewantedbacon,butallthebaconwasgone.Ipickedup

someofthebolognaasasubstitute,althoughI’veneverbeenabletoeatthestuffwithanyrealenthusiasmsincetheFDAreportedthateachpackagecontainedasmallamountofinsectfilth—alittlesomethingextraforyourmoney.

“Look,”Billysaidasweroundedthecornerintothefourthaisle.“There’ssomearmyguys.”

Thereweretwoofthem,theirdununiformsstandingoutagainstthemuchbrighterbackgroundofsummerclothesandsportswear.WehadgottenusedtoseeingascatteringofarmypersonnelwiththeArrowheadProjectonlythirtymilesorsoaway.Thesetwolookedhardlyoldenoughtoshaveyet.

IglancedbackdownatSteff’slistandsawthatwe

hadeverything…no,almostbutnotquite.Atthebottom,asanafterthought,shehadscribbled:BottleofLancers?Thatsoundedgoodtome.AcoupleofglassesofwinetonightafterBillyhadsackedout,thenmaybealongslowboutoflovemakingbeforesleep.

Ileftthecartandworkedmywaydowntothewineandgotabottle.AsIwalkedbackI

passedthebigdoubledoorsleadingtothestorageareaandheardthesteadyroarofagood-sizedgenerator.

Idecideditwasprobablyjustbigenoughtokeepthecoldcasescold,butnotlargeenoughtopowerthedoorsandcashregistersandalltheotherelectricalequipment.Itsoundedlikeamotorcyclebackthere.

Nortonappearedjustaswegotintoline,balancingtwosix-packsofSchlitzLight,aloafofbread,andthekielbasaIhadspottedafewminutesearlier.HegotinlinewithBillyandme.Itseemedverywarminthemarketwiththeair-conditioningoff,andIwonderedwhynoneofthestockboyshadatleastchockedthedoorsopen.IhadseenBuddyEagletoninhisredaprontwoaislesback,

doingnothingandpilingitup.Thegeneratorroaredmonotonously.Ihadthebeginningsofaheadache.

“Putyourstuffinherebeforeyoudropsomething,”Isaid.

“Thanks.”

Thelineswereuppastthefrozenfoodnow;peoplehadtocutthroughtogetwhattheywantedandtherewas

muchexcuse-me-ingandpardon-me-ing.“Thisisgoingtobeacunt,”Nortonsaidmorosely,andIfrownedalittle.ThatsortoflanguageisrougherthanI’dlikeBillytohear.

Thegenerator’sroarmutedalittleasthelineshuffledforward.NortonandImadedesultoryconversation,skirtingaroundtheuglypropertydisputethathad

landedusindistrictcourtandstickingwiththingsliketheRedSoxchancesandtheweather.Atlastweexhaustedourlittlestoreofsmalltalkandfellsilent.Billyfidgetedbesideme.Thelinecrawledalong.Nowwehadfrozendinnersonourrightandthemoreexpensivewinesandchampagnesonourleft.Asthelineprogresseddowntothecheaperwines,Itoyedbrieflywiththeideaof

pickingupabottleofRipple,thewineofmyflamingyouth.Ididn’tdoit.Myyouthneverflamedthatmuchanyway.

“Jeez,whycan’ttheyhurryup,Dad?”Billyasked.Thatpinchedlookwasstillonhisface,andsuddenly,briefly,themistofdisquietthathadsettledovermerifted,andsomethingterriblepeeredthroughfromtheotherside—

thebrightandmetallicfaceofterror.Thenitpassed.

“Keepcool,champ,”Isaid.

Wehadmadeituptothebreadracks—tothepointwherethedoublelinebenttotheleft.Wecouldseethecheckoutlanesnow,thetwothatwereopenandtheotherfour,deserted,eachwithalittlesignonthestationaryconveyorbelt,signsthatread

PLEASECHOOSEANOTHERLANEandWINSTON.Beyondthelaneswasthebigsectionedplate-glasswindowwhichgaveaviewoftheparkinglotandtheintersectionofRoutes117and302beyond.Theviewwaspartiallyobscuredbythewhite-paperbacksofsignsadvertisingcurrentspecialsandthelatestgiveaway,whichhappenedtobeasetofbookscalledTheMotherNatureEncyclopedia.We

wereinthelinethatwouldeventuallyleadustothecheckoutwhereBudBrownwasstanding.Therewerestillmaybethirtypeopleinfrontofus.TheeasiestonetopickoutwasMrs.Carmodyinherblazingyellowpantsuit.Shelookedlikeanadvertisementforyellowfever.

Suddenlyashriekingnoisebeganinthedistance.Itquicklybuiltupinvolume

andresolveditselfintothecrazywarbleofapolicesiren.Ahornblaredattheintersectionandtherewasashriekofbrakesandburningrubber.Icouldn’tsee—theanglewasallwrong—butthesirenreacheditsloudestasitapproachedthemarketandthenbegantofadeasthepolicecarwentpast.Afewpeoplebrokeoutoflinetolook,butnotmany.Theyhadwaitedtoolongtochance

losingtheirplaces.

Nortonwent;hisstuffwastuckedintomycart.Afterafewmomentshecamebackandgotintolineagain.“Localfuzz,”hesaid.

Thenthetownfirewhistlebegantowail,slowlycrankinguptoashriekofitsown,fallingoff,thenrisingagain.Billygrabbedmyhand—clutchedit.“Whatisit,

Daddy?”heasked,andthen,immediately:“IsMommyallright?”

“MustbeafireontheKansasRoad,”Nortonsaid.“Thosedamnedlivelinesfromthestorm.Thefiretruckswillgothroughinaminute.”

Thatgavemydisquietsomethingtocrystallizeon.Therewerelivelinesdowninouryard.

BudBrownsaidsomethingtothecheckerhewassupervising;shehadbeencraningaroundtoseewhatwashappening.Sheflushedandbegantorunhercalculatoragain.

Ididn’twanttobeinthisline.AllofasuddenIverybadlydidn’twanttobeinit.Butitwasmovingagain,anditseemedfoolishtoleavenow.Wehadgottendownby

thecartonsofcigarettes.

SomeonepushedthroughtheINdoor,someteenager.Ithinkitwasthekidwealmosthitcomingin,theoneontheYamahawithnohelmet.“Thefog!”heyelled.“Y’oughtaseethefog!It’srollingrightupKansasRoad!”Peoplelookedaroundathim.Hewaspanting,asifhehadrunalongdistance.Nobodysaidanything.“Well,y’oughtasee

it,”herepeated,soundingdefensivethistime.Peopleeyedhimandsomeofthemshuffled,butnoonewantedtolosehisorherplaceinline.Afewpeoplewhohadn’treachedthelinesyetlefttheircartsandstrolledthroughtheemptycheckoutlanestoseeiftheycouldseewhathewastalkingabout.Abigguyinasummerhatwithapaisleyband(thekindofhatyoualmostneverseeexceptin

beercommercialswithbackyardbarbecuesastheirsettings)yankedopentheOUTdoorandseveralpeople—ten,maybeadozen—wentoutwithhim.Thekidwentalong.

“Don’tletoutalltheair-conditioning,”oneofthearmykidscracked,andtherewereafewchuckles.Iwasn’tchuckling.Ihadseenthemistcomingacrossthelake.

“Billy,whydon’tyougohavealook?”Nortonsaid.

“No,”Isaidatonce,fornoconcretereason.

Thelinemovedforwardagain.Peoplecranedtheirnecks,lookingforthefogthekidhadmentioned,buttherewasnothingonviewexceptbrightbluesky.Iheardsomeonesaythatthekidmusthavebeenjoking.Someone

elserespondedthathehadseenafunnylineofmistonLongLakenotanhourago.Thefirstwhistlewhoopedandscreamed.Ididn’tlikeit.Itsoundedlikebig-leaguedoomblowingthatway.

Morepeoplewentout.Afewevenlefttheirplacesinline,whichspeededuptheproceedingsabit.ThengrizzledoldJohnLeeFrovin,whoworksasamechanicat

theTexacostation,cameduckinginandyelled:“Hey!Anybodygotacamera?”Helookedaround,thenduckedbackoutagain.

Thatcausedsomethingofarush.Ifitwasworthtakingapictureof,itwasworthseeing.

SuddenlyMrs.Carmodycriedinherrustybutpowerfuloldvoice,“Don’tgo

outthere!”

Peopleturnedaroundtolookather.Theorderlyshapeofthelineshadgrownfuzzyaspeoplelefttogetalookatthemist,orastheydrewawayfromMrs.Carmody,orastheymilledaround,seekingouttheirfriends.Aprettyyoungwomaninacranberry-coloredsweatshirtanddarkgreenslackswaslookingatMrs.Carmodyina

thoughtful,evaluatingway.Afewopportunistsweretakingadvantageofwhateverthesituationwastomoveupacoupleofplaces.ThecheckerbesideBudBrownlookedoverhershoulderagain,andBrowntappedhershoulderwithalongfinger.“Keepyourmindonwhatyou’redoing,Sally.”

“Don’tgooutthere!”Mrs.Carmodyyelled.“It’sdeath!I

feelthatit’sdeathoutthere!”

BudandOllieWeeks,whobothknewher,justlookedimpatientandirritated,butanysummerpeoplearoundhersteppedsmartlyaway,nevermindingtheirplacesinline.Thebag-ladiesinbigcitiesseemtohavethesameeffectonpeople,asiftheywerecarriersofsomecontagiousdisease.Whoknows?Maybetheyare.

Thingsbegantohappenatanaccelerating,confusingpacethen.Amanstaggeredintothemarket,shovingtheINdooropen.Hisnosewasbleeding.“Somethinginthefog!”hescreamed,andBillyshrankagainstme—whetherbecauseoftheman’sbloodynoseorwhathewassaying,Idon’tknow.“Somethinginthefog!SomethinginthefogtookJohnLee!Something—”Hestaggeredbackagainsta

displayoflawnfoodstackedbythewindowandsatdownthere.“SomethinginthefogtookJohnLeeandIheardhimscreaming!”

Thesituationchanged.Madenervousbythestorm,bythepolicesirenandthefirewhistle,bythesubtledislocationanypoweroutagecausesintheAmericanpsyche,andbythesteadilymountingatmosphereof

uneaseasthingssomehow…somehowchanged(Idon’tknowhowtoputitanybetterthanthat),peoplebegantomoveinabody.

Theydidn’tbolt.IfItoldyouthat,Iwouldbegivingyouentirelythewrongimpression.Itwasn’texactlyapanic.Theydidn’trun—oratleast,mostofthemdidn’t.Buttheywent.Someofthemjustwenttothebigshow

windowonthefarsideofthecheckoutlanestolookout.OtherswentouttheINdoor,somestillcarryingtheirintendedpurchases.BudBrown,harriedandofficious,beganyelling:“Hey!Youhaven’tpaidforthat!Hey,you!Comebackherewiththosehot-dogrolls!”

Someonelaughedathim,acrazy,yodelingsoundthatmadeotherpeoplesmile.

Evenastheysmiledtheylookedbewildered,confused,andnervous.ThensomeoneelselaughedandBrownflushed.Hegrabbedaboxofmushroomsawayfromaladywhowascrowdingpasthimtolookoutthewindow—thesegmentsofglasswerelinedwithpeoplenow;theywerelikethefolksyouseelookingthroughloopholesintoabuildingsite—andtheladyscreamed,“Givemebackmy

mushies!”Thisbizarretermofaffectioncausedtwomenstandingnearbytobreakintocrazylaughter—andtherewassomethingoftheoldEnglishBedlamaboutallofit,now.Mrs.Carmodytrumpetedagainnottogooutthere.Thefirewhistlewhoopedbreathlessly,astrongoldwomanwhohadscaredupaprowlerinthehouse.AndBillyburstintotears.

“Daddy,what’sthatbloodyman?Whyisthatbloodyman?”

“It’sokay,BigBill,it’shisnose,he’sokay.”

“Whatdidhemean,somethinginthefog?”Nortonasked.Hewasfrowningponderously,whichwasprobablyNorton’swayoflookingconfused.

“Daddy,I’mscared,”Billysaidthroughhistears.“Canwepleasegohome?”

Someonebumpedpastmeroughly,joltingmeoffmyfeet,andIpickedBillyup.Iwasgettingscared,too.Theconfusionwasmounting.Sally,thecheckerbyBudBrown,startedawayandhegrabbedherbackbythecollarofherredsmock.Itripped.Sheslap-clawedoutat

him,herfacetwisting.“Getyourfuckinghandsoffme!”shescreamed.

“Oh,shutup,youlittlebitch,”Brownsaid,buthesoundedtotallyastounded.

HereachedforheragainandOllieWeekssaidsharply:“Bud!Coolit!”

Someoneelsescreamed.Ithadn’tbeenapanicbefore—

notquite—butitwasgettingtobeone.Peoplestreamedoutofbothdoors.TherewasacrashofbreakingglassandCokefizzedsuddenlyacrossthefloor.

“WhattheChrististhis?”Nortonexclaimed.

Thatwaswhenitstartedgettingdark…butno,that’snotexactlyright.Mythoughtatthetimewasnotthatitwas

gettingdarkbutthatthelightsinthemarkethadgoneout.Ilookedupatthefluorescentsinaquickreflexaction,andIwasn’talone.Andatfirst,untilIrememberedthepowerfailure,itseemedthatwasit,thatwaswhathadchangedthequalityofthelight.ThenIrememberedtheyhadbeenoutallthetimewehadbeeninthemarketandthingshadn’tseemeddarkbefore.ThenIknew,evenbeforethe

peopleatthewindowstartedtoyellandpoint.

Themistwascoming.

ItcamefromtheKansasRoadentrancetotheparkinglot,andeventhiscloseitlookednodifferentthanithadwhenwefirstnoticeditonthefarsideofthelake.Itwaswhiteandbrightbutnonreflecting.Itwasmovingfast,andithadblottedout

mostofthesun.Wherethesunhadbeentherewasnowasilvercoininthesky,likeafullmooninwinterseenthroughathinscudofcloud.

Itcamewithlazyspeed.Watchingitremindedmesomehowoflastevening’swaterspout.Therearebigforcesinnaturethatyouhardlyeversee—earthquakes,hurricanes,tornadoes—Ihaven’tseenthemallbutI’ve

seenenoughtoguessthattheyallmovewiththatlazy,hypnotizingspeed.Theyholdyouspellbound,thewayBillyandSteffyhadbeeninfrontofthepicturewindowlastnight.

Itrolledimpartiallyacrossthetwo-laneblacktopanderaseditfromview.TheMcKeons’nicerestoredDutchColonialwasswallowedwhole.Foramomentthesecondfloorof

theramshackleapartmentbuildingnextdoorjuttedoutofthewhiteness,andthenitwenttoo.TheKEEPRIGHTsignattheentranceandexitpointstotheFederal’sparkinglotdisappeared,theblacklettersonthesignseemingtofloatforamomentinlimboafterthesign’sdirtywhitebackgroundwasgone.Thecarsintheparkinglotbegantodisappearnext.

“WhattheChrististhis?”Nortonaskedagain,andtherewasacatchinhisvoice.

Itcameon,eatinguptheblueskyandthefreshblackhottopwithequalease.Eventwentyfeetawaythelineofdemarcationwasperfectlyclear.IhadthenuttyfeelingthatIwaswatchingsomeextra-goodpieceofvisualeffects,somethingdreamedupbyWillysO’Brianor

DouglasTrumbull.Ithappenedsoquickly.Theblueskydisappearedtoawideswipe,thentoastripe,thentoapencilline.Thenitwasgone.Blankwhitepressedagainsttheglassofthewideshowwindow.Icouldseeasfarasthelitterbarrelthatstoodmaybefourfeetaway,butnotmuchfarther.IcouldseethefrontbumperofmyScout,butthatwasall.

Awomanscreamed,veryloudandlong.Billypressedhimselfmoretightlyagainstme.Hisbodywastremblinglikealoosebundleofwireswithhighvoltagerunningthroughthem.

Amanyelledandboltedthroughoneofthedesertedlanestowardthedoor.Ithinkthatwaswhatfinallystartedthestampede.Peoplerushedpell-mellintothefog.

“Hey!”Brownroared.Idon’tknowifhewasangry,scared,orboth.Hisfacewasnearlypurple.Veinsstoodoutonhisneck,lookingalmostasthickasbatterycables.“Hey,youpeople,youcan’ttakethatstuff.Getbackherewiththatstuff,you’reshoplifting!”

Theykeptgoing,butsomeofthemtossedtheirstuffaside.Somewerelaughingandexcited,buttheywerea

minority.Theypouredoutintothefog,andnoneofuswhostayedeversawthemagain.Therewasafaint,acridsmelldriftinginthroughtheopendoor.Peoplebegantojamupthere.Somepushingandshovingstarted.IwasgettinganacheinmyshouldersfromholdingBilly.Hewasgood-sized;Steffsometimescalledhimheryoungheifer.

Nortonstartedtowanderoff,hisfacepreoccupiedandratherbemused.Hewasheadingforthedoor.

IswitchedBillytotheotherarmsoIcouldgrabNorton’sarmbeforehedriftedoutofreach.“No,man,Iwouldn’t,”Isaid.

Heturnedback.“What?”

“Betterwaitandsee.”

“Seewhat?”

“Idon’tknow,”Isaid.

“Youdon’tthink—”hebegan,andashriekcameoutofthefog.

Nortonshutup.ThetightjamattheOUTdoorloosenedandthenreverseditself.Thebabbleofexcitedconversation,shoutsandcalls,subsided.Thefacesof

thepeoplebythedoorsuddenlylookedflatandpaleandtwodimensional.

Theshriekwentonandon,competingwiththefirewhistle.Itseemedimpossiblethatanyhumanpairoflungscouldhaveenoughairinthemtosustainsuchashriek.Nortonmuttered,“OhmyGod,”andranhishandsthroughhishair.

Theshriekendedabruptly.Itdidnotdwindle;itwascutoff.Onemoremanwentoutside,abeefyguyinchinoworkpants.Ithinkhewassetonrescuingtheshrieker.Foramomenthewasoutthere,visiblethroughtheglassandthemist,likeafigureseenthroughmilkscumonatumbler.Then(andasfarasIknow,Iwastheonlyonetoseethis)somethingbeyondhimappearedtomove,agray

shadowinallthatwhite.Anditseemedtomethatinsteadofrunningintothefog,themaninthechinopantswasjerkedintoit,hishandsflailingupwardasifinsurprise.

Foramomenttherewastotalsilenceinthemarket.

Aconstellationofmoonssuddenlyglowedintobeingoutside.Theparking-lot

sodiumlights,undoubtedlysuppliedbyundergroundelectricalcables,hadjustgoneon.

“Don’tgooutthere,”Mrs.Carmodysaidinherbestgore-crowvoice.“It’sdeathtogooutthere.”

Allatonce,nooneseemeddisposedtoargueorlaugh.

Anotherscreamcamefrom

outside,thisonemuffledandratherdistant-sounding.Billytensedagainstmeagain.

“David,what’sgoingon?”OllieWeeksasked.Hehadlefthisposition.Therewerebigbeadsofsweatonhisround,smoothface.“Whatisthis?”

“I’llbegoddamnedifIhaveanyidea,”Isaid.Ollielookedbadlyscared.Hewasa

bachelorwholivedinanicelittlehouseupbyHighlandLakeandwholikedtodrinkinthebaratPleasantMountain.Onthepudgylittlefingerofhislefthandwasastar-sapphirering.TheFebruarybefore,hewonsomemoneyinthestatelottery.Heboughttheringoutofhiswinnings.IalwayshadtheideathatOlliewasalittleafraidofgirls.

“Idon’tdigthis,”hesaid.

“No.Billy,Ihavetoputyoudown.I’llholdyourhand,butyou’rebreakingmyarms,okay?”

“Mommy,”hewhispered.

“She’sokay,”Itoldhim.Itwassomethingtosay.

TheoldgeezerwhorunsthesecondhandshopnearJon’s

Restaurantwalkedpastus,bundledintotheoldcollegiateletter-sweaterhewearsyear-round.Hesaidloudly:“It’soneofthosepollutionclouds.ThemillsatRumfordandSouthParis.Chemicals.”Withthat,hemadeoffuptheAisle4,pastthepatentmedicinesandtoiletpaper.

“Let’sgetoutofhere,David,”Nortonsaidwithno

convictionatall.“Whatdoyousaywe—”

Therewasathud.Anodd,twistingthudthatIfeltmostlyinmyfeet,asiftheentirebuildinghadsuddenlydroppedthreefeet.Severalpeoplecriedoutinfearandsurprise.Therewasamusicaljingleofbottlesleaningofftheirshelvesanddestroyingthemselvesuponthetilefloor.Achunkofglass

shapedlikeapiewedgefelloutofoneofthesegmentsofthewidefrontwindow,andIsawthatthewoodenframesbandingtheheavysectionsofglasshadbuckledandsplinteredinsomeplaces.

Thefirewhistlestoppedinmidwhoop.

Thequietthatfollowedwasthebatedsilenceofpeoplewaitingforsomethingelse,

somethingmore.Iwasshockedandnumb,andmymindmadeastrangecross-patchconnectionwiththepast.BackwhenBridgtonwaslittlemorethanacrossroads,mydadwouldtakemeinwithhimandstandtalkingatthecounterwhileIlookedthroughtheglassatthepennycandyandtwo-centchews.ItwasJanuarythaw.Nosoundbutthedripofmeltwaterfallingfromthe

galvanizedtingutterstotherainbarrelsoneithersideofthestore.Melookingatthejawbreakersandbuttonsandpinwheels.Themysticyellowglobesoflightoverheadshowingupthemonstrous,projectedshadowsoflastsummer’sbattalionofdeadflies.AlittleboynamedDavidDraytonwithhisfather,thefamousartistAndrewDrayton,whosepaintingChristineStanding

AlonehungintheWhiteHouse.AlittleboynamedDavidDraytonlookingatthecandyandtheDavyCrockettbubblegumcardsandvaguelyneedingtogopee.Andoutside,thepressing,billowingyellowfogofJanuarythaw.

Thememorypassed,butveryslowly.

“Youpeople!”Norton

bellowed.“Allyoupeople,listentome!”

Theylookedaround.Nortonwasholdingupbothhands,thefingerssplayedlikeapoliticalcandidateacceptingaccolades.

“Itmaybedangeroustogooutside!”Nortonyelled.

“Why?”awomanscreamedback.“Mykids’reathome!I

gottogetbacktomykids!”

“It’sdeathtogooutthere!”Mrs.Carmodycamebacksmartly.Shewasstandingbythetwenty-five-poundsacksoffertilizerstackedbelowthewindow,andherfaceseemedtobulgesomehow,asifshewereswelling.

Ateenagergaveherasuddenhardpushandshesatdownonthebagswithasurprised

grunt.“Stopsayingthat,youoldbag!Stoprappin’thatcrazybullshit!”

“Please!”Nortonyelled.“Ifwejustwaitafewmomentsuntilitblowsoverandwecansee—”

Ababbleofconflictingshoutsgreetedthis.

“He’sright,”Isaid,shoutingtobeheardoverthenoise.

“Let’sjusttrytokeepcool.”

“Ithinkthatwasanearthquake,”abespectacledmansaid.Hisvoicewassoft.Inonehandheheldapackageofhamburgerandabagofbuns.Theotherhandwasholdingthehandofalittlegirl,maybeayearyoungerthanBilly.“Ireallythinkthatwasanearthquake.”

“TheyhadoneoverinNaplesfouryearsago,”afatlocalmansaid.

“ThatwasinCasco,”hiswifecontradictedimmediately.Shespokeintheunmistakabletonesofaveterancontradictor.

“Naples,”thefatlocalmansaid,butwithlessassurance.

“Casco,”hiswifesaidfirmly,

andhegaveup.

Somewhereacanthathadbeenjostledtotheveryedgeofitsshelfbythethump,earthquake,whateverithadbeen,felloffwithadelayedclatter.Billyburstintotears.“Iwanttogohome!IwantmyMOTHER!”

“Can’tyoushutthatkidup?”BudBrownasked.Hiseyesweredartingrapidlybut

aimlesslyfromplacetoplace.

“Wouldyoulikeashotintheteeth,motormouth?”Iaskedhim.

“Comeon,Dave,that’snothelping,”Nortonsaiddistractedly.

“I’msorry,”thewomanwhohadscreamedearliersaid.“I’msorry,butIcan’tstayhere.I’vegottogethomeand

seetomykids.”

Shelookedaroundatus,ablondwomanwithatired,prettyface.

“Wanda’slookingafterlittleVictor,yousee.Wanda’sonlyeightandsometimessheforgets…forgetsshe’ssupposedtobe…well,watchinghim,youknow.AndlittleVictor…helikestoturnonthestoveburnersto

seethelittleredlightcomeon…helikesthatlight…andsometimeshepullsouttheplugs…littleVictordoes…andWandagets…boredwatchinghimafterawhile…she’sjusteight…”Shestoppedtalkingandjustlookedatus.Iimaginethatwemusthavelookedlikenothingbutabankofmercilesseyestoherrightthen,nothumanbeingsatall,justeyes.“Isn’tanyonegoing

tohelpme?”shescreamed.Herlipsbegantotremble.“Won’t…won’tanybodyhereseealadyhome?”

Noonereplied.Peopleshuffledtheirfeet.Shelookedfromfacetofacewithherownbrokenface.Thefatlocalmantookahesitanthalf-stepforwardandhiswifejerkedhimbackwithonequicktug,herhandclappedoverhiswristlikeamanacle.

“You?”theblondwomanaskedOllie.Heshookhishead.“You?”shesaidtoBud.HeputhishandovertheTexasInstrumentscalculatoronthecounterandmadenoreply.“You?”shesaidtoNorton,andNortonbegantosaysomethinginhisbiglawyer’svoice,somethingabouthownooneshouldgooffhalf-cocked,and…andshedismissedhimandNortonjusttrailedoff.

“You?”shesaidtome,andIpickedBillyupagainandheldhiminmyarmslikeashieldtowardoffherterriblebrokenface.

“Ihopeyouallrotinhell,”shesaid.Shedidn’tscreamit.Hervoicewasdeadtired.ShewenttotheOUTdoorandpulleditopen,usingbothhands.Iwantedtosaysomethingtoher,callherback,butmymouthwastoo

dry.

“Aw,lady,listen—”theteenagekidwhohadshoutedatMrs.Carmodybegan.Heheldherarm.Shelookeddownathishandandhelethergo,shamefaced.Sheslippedoutintothefog.Wewatchedhergoandnoonesaidanything.Wewatchedthefogoverlayherandmakeherinsubstantial,notahumanbeinganymorebutapencil-

inksketchofahumanbeingdoneontheworld’swhitestpaper,andnoonesaidanything.ForamomentitwaslikethelettersoftheKEEPRIGHTsignthathadseemedtofloatonnothingness;herarmsandlegsandpallidblondhairwereallgoneandonlythemistyremnantsofherredsummerdressremained,seemingtodanceinwhitelimbo.Thenherdresswasgone,too,andno

onesaidanything.

IV

TheStorageArea.ProblemswiththeGenerators.What

HappenedtotheBag-Boy.

Billybegantoacthystericalandtantrummy,screamingforhismotherinahoarse,demandingwaythroughhistears,instantlyregressingtotheageoftwo.Snotwaslatheredonhisupperlip.Iledhimaway,walkingdownoneofthemiddleaisleswithmyarmaroundhisshoulders,tryingtosoothehim.Itookhimbackbythelongwhitemeatcabinetthatranthelengthofthestoreattheback.

Mr.McVey,thebutcher,wasstillthere.Wenoddedateachother,thebestwecoulddounderthecircumstances.

IsatdownonthefloorandtookBillyonmylapandheldhisfaceagainstmychestandrockedhimandtalkedtohim.Itoldhimalltheliesparentskeepinreserveforbadsituations,theonesthatsoundsodamnplausibletoachild,andItoldtheminatoneof

perfectconviction.

“That’snotregularfog,”Billysaid.Helookedupatme,hiseyesdark-circledandtear-streaked.“Itisn’t,isit,Daddy?”

“No,Idon’tthinkso.”Ididn’twanttolieaboutthat.

Kidsdon’tfightshockthewayadultsdo;theygowithit,maybebecausekidsarein

asemipermanentstateofshockuntilthey’rethirteenorso.Billystartedtodozeoff.Iheldhim,thinkinghemightsnapawakeagain,buthisdozedeepenedintoarealsleep.Maybehehadbeenawakepartofthenightbefore,whenwehadsleptthree-in-a-bedforthefirsttimesinceBillywasaninfant.Andmaybe—Ifeltacoldeddyslipthroughmeatthethought—maybehehad

sensedsomethingcoming.

WhenIwassurehewassolidlyout,Ilaidhimonthefloorandwentlookingforsomethingtocoverhimupwith.Mostofthepeoplewerestillupfront,lookingoutintothethickblanketofmist.Nortonhadgatheredalittlecrowdoflisteners,andwasbusyspellbinding—ortryingto.BudBrownstoodrigidlyathispost,butOllieWeeks

hadlefthis.

Therewereafewpeopleintheaisles,wanderinglikeghosts,theirfacesgreasywithshock.Iwentintothestorageareathroughthebigdoubledoorsbetweenthemeatcabinetandthebeercooler.

Thegeneratorroaredsteadilybehinditsplywoodpartition,butsomethinghadgonewrong.Icouldsmelldiesel

fumes,andtheyweremuchtoostrong.Iwalkedtowardthepartition,takingshallowbreaths.AtlastIunbuttonedmyshirtandputpartofitovermymouthandnose.

Thestorageareawaslongandnarrow,feeblylitbytwosetsofemergencylights.Cartonswerestackedeverywhere—bleachononeside,casesofsoftdrinksonthefarsideofthepartition,

stackedcasesofBeef-aroniandcatsup.Oneofthosehadfallenoverandthecardboardcartonappearedtobebleeding.

Iunlatchedthedoorinthegeneratorpartitionandsteppedthrough.Themachinewasobscuredindrifting,oilycloudsofbluesmoke.Theexhaustpiperanoutthroughaholeinthewall.Somethingmusthaveblocked

offtheoutsideendofthepipe.Therewasasimpleon/offswitchandIflippedit.Thegeneratorhitched,belched,coughed,anddied.ThenitrandowninadiminishingseriesofpoppingsoundsthatremindedmeofNorton’sstubbornchainsaw.

TheemergencylightsfadedoutandIwasleftindarkness.Igotscaredveryquickly,andIgotdisoriented.My

breathingsoundedlikealowwindrattlinginstraw.Ibumpedmynoseontheflimsyplywooddoorgoingoutandmyheartlurched.Therewerewindowsinthedoubledoors,butforsomereasontheyhadbeenpaintedblack,andthedarknesswasnearlytotal.Igotoffcourseandranintoastackofthebleachcartons.Theytumbledandfell.Onecamecloseenoughtomyheadtomake

mestepbackward,andItrippedoveranothercartonthathadlandedbehindme.Ifelldown,thumpingmyheadhardenoughtoseebrightstarsinthedarkness.Goodshow.

Ilaytherecursingmyselfandrubbingmyhead,tellingmyselftojusttakeiteasy,justgetupandgetoutofhere,getbacktoBilly,tellingmyselfnothingsoftandslimy

wasgoingtocloseovermyankleorslipintoonegropinghand.Itoldmyselfnottolosecontrol,orIwouldendupblunderingaroundbackhereinapanic,knockingthingsoverandcreatingamadobstaclecourseformyself.

Istoodupcarefully,lookingforapencillineoflightbetweenthedoubledoors.Ifoundit,afaintbutunmistakablescratchonthe

darkness.Istartedtowardit,andthenstopped.

Therewasasound.Asoftslidingsound.Itstopped,thenstartedagainwithastealthylittlebump.Everythinginsidemewentloose.Iregressedmagicallytofouryearsofage.Thatsoundwasn’tcomingfromthemarket.Itwascomingfrombehindme.Fromoutside.Wherethemistwas.Somethingthatwas

slippingandslidingandscrapingoverthecinderblocks.And,maybe,lookingforawayin.

Ormaybeitwasalreadyin,anditwaslookingforme.MaybeinamomentIwouldfeelwhateverwasmakingthatsoundonmyshoe.Oronmyneck.

Itcameagain.Iwaspositiveitwasoutside.Butthatdidn’t

makeitanybetter.Itoldmylegstogoandtheyrefusedtheorder.Thenthequalityofthenoisechanged.SomethingraspedacrossthedarknessandmyheartleapedinmychestandIlungedatthatthinverticallineoflight.Ihitthedoorsstraight-armandburstthroughintothemarket.

Threeorfourpeoplewererightoutsidethedoubledoors—OllieWeekswasoneof

them—andtheyalljumpedbackinsurprise.Olliegrabbedathischest.“David!”hesaidinapinchedvoice.“JesusChrist,youwanttotaketenyearsoffmy—”Hesawmyface.“What’sthematterwithyou?”

“Didyouhearit?”Iasked.Myvoicesoundedstrangeinmyownears,highandsqueaking.“Didanyofyouhearit?”

Theyhadn’theardanything,ofcourse.Theyhadcomeuptoseewhythegeneratorhadgoneoff.AsOllietoldmethat,oneofthebag-boysbustledupwithanarmloadofflashlights.HelookedfromOllietomecuriously.

“Iturnedthegeneratoroff,”Isaid,andexplainedwhy.

“Whatdidyouhear?”oneoftheothermenasked.He

workedforthetownroaddepartment;hisnamewasJimsomething.

“Idon’tknow.Ascrapingnoise.Slithery.Idon’twanttohearitagain.”

“Nerves,”theotherfellowwithOlliesaid.

No.Itwasnotnerves.

“Didyouhearitbeforethe

lightswentout?”

“No,onlyafter.But…”Butnothing.Icouldseethewaytheywerelookingatme.Theydidn’twantanymorebadnews,anythingelsefrighteningoroff-kilter.Therewasenoughofthatalready.OnlyOllielookedasifhebelievedme.

“Let’sgoinandstartherupagain,”thebag-boysaid,

handingouttheflashlights.Ollietookhisdoubtfully.Thebag-boyofferedmeone,aslightlycontemptuousshineinhiseyes.Hewasmaybeeighteen.Afteramoment’sthought,Itookthelight.IstillneededsomethingtocoverBillywith.

Ollieopenedthedoorsandchockedthem,lettinginsomelight.Thebleachcartonslayscatteredaroundthehalf-

opendoorintheplywoodpartition.

ThefellownamedJimsniffedandsaid,“Smellsprettyrank,allright.Guessyouwasrighttoshutherdown.”

Theflashlightbeamsbobbedanddancedacrosscartonsofcannedgoods,toiletpaper,dogfood.Thebeamsweresmokyinthedriftingfumestheblockedexhausthad

turnedbackintothestoragearea.Thebag-boytrainedhislightbrieflyonthewideloadingdoorattheextremeright.

ThetwomenandOlliewentinsidethegeneratorcompartment.Theirlightsflasheduneasilybackandforth,remindingmeofsomethingoutofaboys’adventurestory—andIillustratedaseriesofthem

whileIwasstillincollege.Piratesburyingtheirbloodygoldatmidnight,ormaybethemaddoctorandhisassistantsnatchingabody.Shadows,madetwistedandmonstrousbytheshifting,conflictingflashlightbeams,bobbedonthewalls.Thegeneratortickedirregularlyasitcooled.

Thebag-boywaswalkingtowardtheloadingdoor,

flashinghislightaheadofhim.“Iwouldn’tgooverthere,”Isaid.

“No,Iknowyouwouldn’t.”

“Tryitnow,Ollie,”oneofthemensaid.Thegeneratorwheezed,thenroared.

“Jesus!Shutherdown!Holycrow,don’tthatstink!”

Thegeneratordiedagain.

Thebag-boywalkedbackfromtheloadingdoorjustastheycameout.“Something’spluggedthatexhaust,allright,”oneofthemensaid.

“I’lltellyouwhat,”thebag-boysaid.Hiseyeswereshiningintheglowoftheflashlights,andtherewasadevil-may-careexpressiononhisfacethatIhadsketchedtoomanytimesaspartofthefrontispiecesformyboys’

adventureseries.“Getitrunninglongenoughformetoraisetheloadingdoorbackthere.I’llgoaroundandclearawaywhateveritis.”

“Norm,Idon’tthinkthat’saverygoodidea,”Olliesaiddoubtfully.

“Isitanelectricdoor?”theonecalledJimasked.

“Sure,”Olliesaid.“ButIjust

don’tthinkitwouldbewisefor—”

“That’sokay,”theotherguysaid.Hetippedhisbaseballcapbackonhishead.“I’lldoit.”

“No,youdon’tunderstand,”Olliebeganagain.“Ireallydon’tthinkanyoneshould—”

“Don’tworry,”hesaidindulgentlytoOllie,

dismissinghim.

Norm,thebag-boy,wasindignant.“Listen,itwasmyidea,”hesaid.

Allatonce,bysomemagic,theyhadgottenaroundtoarguingaboutwhowasgoingtodoitinsteadofwhetherornotitshouldbedoneatall.Butofcourse,noneofthemhadheardthatnastyslitheringsound.“Stopit!”Isaid

loudly.

Theylookedaroundatme.

“Youdon’tseemtounderstand,oryou’retryingashardasyoucannottounderstand.Thisisnoordinaryfog.Nobodyhascomeintothemarketsinceithit.Ifyouopenthatloadingdoorandsomethingcomesin—”

“Somethinglikewhat?”Normsaidwithperfecteighteen-year-oldmachocontempt.

“WhatevermadethenoiseIheard.”

“Mr.Drayton,”Jimsaid.“Pardonme,butI’mnotconvincedyouheardanything.Iknowyou’reabig-shotartistwithconnectionsinNewYorkand

Hollywoodandall,butthatdoesn’tmakeyouanydifferentfromanyoneelse,inmybook.WayIfigure,yougotinhereinthedarkandmaybeyoujust…gotalittleconfused.”

“MaybeIdid,”Isaid.“Andmaybeifyouwanttostartscrewingaroundoutside,yououghttostartbymakingsurethatladygothomesafetoherkids.”Hisattitude—andthat

ofhisbuddyandofNormthebag-boy—wasmakingmemadandscaringmemoreatthesametime.Theyhadthesortoflightintheireyesthatsomemengetwhentheygoshootingratsatthetowndump.

“Hey,”Jim’sbuddysaid.“Whenanyofusherewantyouradvice,we’llaskforit.”

Hesitantly,Olliesaid:“The

generatorreallyisn’tthatimportant,youknow.Thefoodinthecoldcaseswillkeepfortwelvehoursormorewithabsolutelyno—”

“Okay,kid,you’reit,”Jimsaidbrusquely.“I’llstartthemotor,youraisethedoorsothattheplacedoesn’tstinkuptoobad.MeandMyronwillbestandingbytheexhaustoutflow.Giveusayellwhenit’sclear.”

“Sure,”Normsaid,andbustledexcitedlyaway.

“Thisiscrazy,”Isaid.“Youletthatladygobyherself—”

“Ididn’tnoticeyoubreakingyourasstoescorther,”Jim’sbuddyMyronsaid.Adull,brick-coloredflushwascreepingoutofhiscollar.

“—butyou’regoingtoletthiskidriskhislifeovera

generatorthatdoesn’tevenmatter?”

“Whydon’tyoujustshutthefuckup!”Normyelled.

“Listen,Mr.Drayton,”Jimsaid,andsmiledatmecoldly.“I’lltellyouwhat.Ifyou’vegotanythingelsetosay,Ithinkyoubettercountyourteethfirst,becauseI’mtiredoflisteningtoyourbullshit.”

Ollielookedatme,plainlyfrightened.Ishrugged.Theywerecrazy,thatwasall.Theirsenseofproportionwastemporarilygone.Outtheretheyhadbeenconfusedandscared.Inherewasastraightforwardmechanicalproblem:abalkygenerator.Itwaspossibletosolvethisproblem.Solvingtheproblemwouldhelpmakethemfeellessconfusedandhelpless.Thereforetheywouldsolveit.

JimandhisfriendMyrondecidedIknewwhenIwaslickedandwentbackintothegeneratorcompartment.“Ready,Norm?”Jimasked.

Normnodded,thenrealizedtheycouldn’thearanod.“Yeah,”hesaid.

“Norm,”Isaid.“Don’tbeafool.”

“It’samistake,”Ollieadded.

Helookedatus,andsuddenlyhisfacewasmuchyoungerthaneighteen.Itwasthefaceofaboy.HisAdam’sapplebobbedconvulsively,andIsawthathewasscaredgreen.Heopenedhismouthtosaysomething—Ithinkhewasgoingtocallitoff—andthenthegeneratorroaredintolifeagain,andwhenitwasrunningsmoothly,Normlungedatthebuttontotherightofthedooranditbegan

torattleupwardonitsdualsteeltracks.Theemergencylightshadcomebackonwhenthegeneratorstarted.Nowtheydimmeddownasthemotorwhichliftedthedoorsuckedawaythejuice.

Theshadowsranbackwardandmelted.Thestorageareabegantofillwiththemellowwhitelightofanovercastlate-winterday.Inoticedthatodd,acridsmellagain.

Theloadingdoorwentuptwofeet,thenfour.BeyondIcouldseeasquarecementplatformoutlinedaroundtheedgeswithayellowstripe.Theyellowfadedandwashedoutinjustthreefeet.Thefogwasincrediblythick.

“Houp!”Normyelled.

Tendrilsofmist,aswhiteandfineasfloatinglace,eddiedinside.Theairwascold.It

hadbeennoticeablycoolallmorninglong,especiallyafterthestickyheatofthelastthreeweeks,butithadbeenasummerycoolness.Thiswascold.ItwaslikeMarch.Ishivered.AndIthoughtofSteff.

Thegeneratordied.JimcameoutjustasNormduckedunderthedoor.Hesawit.SodidI.SodidOllie.

AtentaclecameoverthefarlipoftheconcreteloadingplatformandgrabbedNormaroundthecalf.Mymouthdroppedwideopen.Olliemadeaveryshortglottalsoundofsurprise—uk!Thetentacletaperedfromathicknessofafoot—thesizeofagrasssnake—atthepointwhereithadwrappeditselfaroundNorm’slowerlegtoathicknessofmaybefourorfivefeetwhereitdisappeared

intothemist.Itwasslategrayontop,shadingtoafleshypinkunderneath.Andtherewererowsofsuckersontheunderside.Theyweremovingandwrithinglikehundredsofsmall,puckeringmouths.

Normlookeddown.Hesawwhathadhim.Hiseyesbulged.“Getitoffme!Hey,getitoffme!ChristJesus,getthisfriggingthingoffme!”

“OhmyGod,”Jimwhimpered.

Normgrabbedthebottomedgeoftheloadingdoorandyankedhimselfbackin.Thetentacleseemedtobulge,thewayyourarmwillwhenyouflexit.Normwasyankedbackagainstthecorrugatedsteeldoor—hisheadclangedagainstit.Thetentaclebulgedmore,andNorm’slegsandtorsobegantoslipbackout.

Thebottomedgeoftheloadingdoorscrapedtheshirttailoutofhispants.Heyankedsavagelyandpulledhimselfbackinlikeamandoingachin-up.

“Helpme,”hewassobbing.“Helpme,youguys,please,please.”

“Jesus,Mary,andJoseph,”Myronsaid.Hehadcomeoutofthegeneratorcompartment

toseewhatwasgoingon.

Iwastheclosest,andIgrabbedNormaroundthewaistandyankedashardasIcould,rockingbackonmyheels.Foramomentwemovedbackward,butonlyforamoment.Itwaslikestretchingarubberbandorpullingtaffy.Thetentacleyieldedbutgaveupitsbasicgripnotatall.Thenthreemoretentaclesfloatedoutof

themisttowardus.OnecurledaroundNorm’sflappingredFederalapronandtoreitaway.ItdisappearedbackintothemistwiththeredclothcurledinitsgripandIthoughtofsomethingmymotherusedtosaywhenmybrotherandIwouldbegforsomethingshedidn’twantustohave—candy,acomicbook,sometoy.“Youneedthatlikeahenneedsaflag,”she’dsay.I

thoughtofthat,andIthoughtofthattentaclewavingNorm’sredapronaround,andIgotlaughing.Igotlaughing,exceptmylaughterandNorm’sscreamssoundedaboutthesame.MaybenooneevenknewIwaslaughingexceptme.

Theothertwotentaclesslitheredaimlesslybackandforthontheloadingplatformforamoment,makingthose

lowscrapingsoundsIhadheardearlier.ThenoneofthemslappedagainstNorm’slefthipandslippedaroundit.Ifeltittouchmyarm.Itwaswarmandpulsingandsmooth.Ithinknowthatifithadgrippedmewiththosesuckers,Iwouldhavegoneoutintothemisttoo.Butitdidn’t.ItgrabbedNorm.Andthethirdtentacleringletedhisotherankle.

Nowhewasbeingpulledawayfromme.“Helpme!”Ishouted.“Ollie!Someone!Givemeahandhere!”

Buttheydidn’tcome.Idon’tknowwhattheyweredoing,buttheydidn’tcome.

IlookeddownandsawthetentaclearoundNorm’swaistworkingintohisskin.Thesuckerswereeatinghimwherehisshirthadpulledout

ofhispants.Blood,asredashismissingapron,begantoseepoutofthetrenchthepulsingtentaclehadmadeforitself.

Ibangedmyheadontheloweredgeofthepartlyraiseddoor.

Norm’slegswereoutsideagain.Oneofhisloafershadfallenoff.Anewtentaclecameoutofthemist,

wrappeditstipfirmlyaroundtheshoe,andmadeoffwithit.Norm’sfingersclutchedatthedoor’sloweredge.Hehaditinadeathgrip.Hisfingerswerelivid.Hewasnotscreaminganymore;hewasbeyondthat.Hisheadwhippedbackandforthinanendlessgestureofnegation,andhislongblackhairflewwildly.

Ilookedoverhisshoulder

andsawmoretentaclescoming,dozensofthem,aforestofthem.Mostweresmallbutafewweregigantic,asthickasthemoss-corsetedtreethathadbeenlyingacrossourdrivewaythatmorning.Thebigoneshadcandypinksuckersthatseemedthesizeofmanholecovers.Oneofthesebigonesstrucktheconcreteloadingplatformwithaloudandrollingthrrrrap!soundand

movedsluggishlytowarduslikeagreatblindearthworm.Igaveonegigantictug,andthetentacleholdingNorm’srightcalfslippedalittle.Thatwasall.Butbeforeitreestablisheditsgrip,Isawthatthethingwaseatinghimaway.

Oneofthetentaclesbrusheddelicatelypastmycheekandthenwaveredintheair,asifdebating.IthoughtofBilly

then.BillywaslyingasleepinthemarketbyMr.McVey’slongwhitemeatcooler.Ihadcomeinheretofindsomethingtocoverhimupwith.Ifoneofthosethingsgotholdofme,therewouldbenoonetowatchoutforhim—exceptmaybeNorton.

SoIletgoofNormanddroppedtomyhandsandknees.

Iwashalfinandhalfout,directlyundertheraiseddoor.Atentaclepassedbyonmyleft,seemingtowalkonitssuckers.ItattacheditselftooneofNorm’sbulgingupperarms,pausedforasecond,andthenslidarounditincoils.

NowNormlookedlikesomethingoutofamadman’sdreamofsnakecharming.Tentaclestwistedoverhim

uneasilyalmosteverywhere…andtheywereallaroundme,aswell.Imadeaclumsyleapfrogjumpbackinside,landedonmyshoulder,androlled.Jim,OllieandMyronwerestillthere.TheystoodlikeatableauofwaxworksinMadameTussaud’s,theirfacespale,theireyestoobright.JimandMyronflankedthedoortothegeneratorcompartment.

“Startthegenerator!”Iyelledatthem.

Neithermoved.Theywerestaringwithadrugged,thanatoticavidityattheloadingbay.

Igropedonthefloor,pickedupthefirstthingthatcametohand—aboxofSnowybleach—andchuckeditatJim.Ithithiminthegut,justabovethebeltbuckle.He

gruntedandgrabbedathimself.Hiseyesflickeredbackintosomesemblanceofnormality.

“Gostartthatfuckinggenerator!”Iscreamedsoloudlyithurtmythroat.

Hedidn’tmove;insteadhebegantodefendhimself,apparentlyhavingdecidedthat,withNormbeingeatenalivebysomeinsanehorror

fromthemist,thetimehadcomeforrebuttals.

“I’msorry,”hewhined.“Ididn’tknow,howthehellwasIsupposedtoknow?YousaidyouheardsomethingbutIdidn’tknowwhatyoumeant,youshouldhavesaidwhatyoumeantbetter.Ithought,Idunno,maybeabird,orsomething—”

SothenOlliemoved,bunting

himasidewithonethickshoulderandblunderingintothegeneratorroom.Jimstumbledoveroneofthebleachcartonsandfelldown,justasIhaddoneinthedark.“I’msorry,”hesaidagain.Hisredhairhadtumbledoverhisbrow.Hischeekswerecheesewhite.Hiseyeswerethoseofahorrifiedlittleboy.Secondslaterthegeneratorcoughedandrumbledintolife.

Iturnedbacktotheloadingdoor.Normwasalmostgone,yetheclunggrimlywithonehand.Hisbodyboiledwithtentacles,andbloodpatteredserenelydownontheconcreteindime-sizedroplets.Hisheadwhippedbackandforthandhiseyesbulgedwithterrorastheystaredoffintothemist.

Othertentaclesnowcreptandcrawledoverthefloorinside.

Thereweretoomanynearthebuttonthatcontrolledtheloadingdoortoeventhinkofapproachingit.Oneofthemclosedaroundahalf-literbottleofPepsiandcarrieditoff.Anotherslippedaroundacardboardcartonandsqueezed.Thecartonrupturedandrollsoftoiletpaper,two-packsofDelseywrappedincellophane,geyseredupward,camedown,androlledeverywhere.

Tentaclesseizedthemeagerly.

Oneofthebigonesslippedin.Itstiprosefromtheflooranditseemedtosnifftheair.ItbegantoadvancetowardMyronandhesteppedmincinglyawayfromit,hiseyesrollingmadlyintheirsockets.Ahigh-pitchedlittlemoanescapedhisslacklips.

Ilookedaroundfor

something,anythingatalllongenoughtoreachoverthequestingtentaclesandpunchtheSHUTbuttononthewall.Isawajanitor’spushbroomleaningagainstastack-upofbeercasesandgrabbedit.

Norm’sgoodhandwasrippedloose.Hethuddeddownontotheconcreteloadingplatformandscrabbledmadlyforagripwithhisonefreehand.His

eyesmetmineforamoment.Theywerehellishlybrightandaware.Heknewwhatwashappeningtohim.Thenhewaspulled,bumpingandrolling,intothemist.Therewasanotherscream,chokedoff.Normwasgone.

Ipushedthetipofthebroomhandleontothebuttonandthemotorwhined.Thedoorbegantoslidebackdown.Ittouchedthethickestofthe

tentaclesfirst,theonethathadbeeninvestigatinginMyron’sdirection.Itindenteditshide—skin,whatever—andthenpiercedit.Ablackgoobegantospurtfromit.Itwrithedmadly,whippingacrosstheconcretestorage-areafloorlikeanobscenebullwhip,andthenitseemedtoflattenout.Amomentlateritwasgone.Theothersbegantowithdraw.

Oneofthemhadafive-poundbagofGainesdogfood,anditwouldn’tletgo.Thedescendingdoorcutitintwobeforethumpinghomeinitsgroovedslot.Theseveredchunkoftentaclesqueezedconvulsivelytighter,splittingthebagopenandsendingbrownnuggetsofdogfoodeverywhere.Thenitbegantofloponthefloorlikeafishoutofwater,curlinganduncurling,butevermore

slowly,untilitlaystill.Iproddeditwiththetipofthebroom.Thepieceoftentacle,maybethreefeetlong,closedonitsavagelyforamoment,thenloosenedandlaylimpagainintheconfusedlitteroftoiletpaper,dogfood,andbleachcartons.

TherewasnosoundexcepttheroarofthegeneratorandOllie,cryinginsidetheplywoodcompartment.I

couldseehimsittingonastoolintherewithhisfaceclutchedinhishands.

ThenIbecameawareofanothersound.Thesoft,slitherysoundIhadheardinthedark.Onlynowthesoundwasmultipliedtenfold.Itwasthesoundoftentaclessquirmingovertheoutsideoftheloadingdoor,tryingtofindawayin.

Myrontookacoupleofstepstowardme.“Look,”hesaid.“Yougottounderstand—”

Iloopedafistathisface.Hewastoosurprisedtoeventrytoblockit.Itlandedjustbelowhisnoseandmashedhisupperlipintohisteeth.Bloodflowedintohismouth.

“Yougothimkilled!”Ishouted.“Didyougetagoodlookatit?Didyougetagood

lookatwhatyoudid?”

Istartedtopummelhim,throwingwildrightsandlefts,notpunchingthewayIhadbeentaughtinmycollegeboxingclassesbutonlyhittingout.Hesteppedback,shakingsomeofthemoff,takingotherswithanumbnessthatseemedlikeakindofresignationorpenance.Thatmademeangrier.Ibloodiedhisnose.I

raisedamouseunderoneofhiseyesthatwasgoingtoblackjustbeautifully.Iclippedhimahardoneonthechin.Afterthatone,hiseyeswentcloudyandsemi-vacant.

“Look,”hekeptsaying,“look,look,”andthenIpunchedhimlowinthestomachandtheairwentoutofhimandhedidn’tsay“look,look”anymore.Idon’tknowhowlongIwouldhave

goneonpunchinghim,butsomeonegrabbedmyarms.Ijerkedfreeandturnedaround.IwashopingitwasJim.IwantedtopunchJimout,too.

Butitwasn’tJim.ItwasOllie,hisroundfacedeadpale,exceptforthedarkcirclesaroundhiseyes—eyesthatwerestillshinyfromhistears.“Don’t,David,”hesaid.“Don’thithimanymore.Itdoesn’tsolveanything.”

Jimwasstandingofftooneside,hisfaceabewilderedblank.Ikickedacartonofsomethingathim.ItstruckoneofhisDingobootsandbouncedaway.

“Youandyourbuddyareacoupleofstupidassholes,”Isaid.

“Comeon,David,”Olliesaidunhappily.“Quitit.”

“Youtwoassholesgotthatkidkilled.”

JimlookeddownathisDingoboots.Myronsatonthefloorandheldhisbeerbelly.Iwasbreathinghard.ThebloodwasroaringinmyearsandIwastremblingallover.Isatdownonacoupleofcartonsandputmyheaddownbetweenmykneesandgrippedmylegshardjustabovetheankles.Isatthat

wayforawhilewithmyhairinmyface,waitingtoseeifIwasgoingtoblackoutorpukeorwhat.

AfterabitthefeelingbegantopassandIlookedupatOllie.Hispinkyringflashedsubduedfireintheglowoftheemergencylights.

“Okay,”Isaiddully.“I’mdone.”

“Good,”Olliesaid.“We’vegottothinkwhattodonext.”

Thestorageareawasbeginningtostinkofexhaustagain.“Shutthegeneratordown.That’sthefirstthing.”

“Yeah,let’sgetoutofhere,”Myronsaid.Hiseyesappealedtome.“I’msorryaboutthekid.Butyougottounderstand—”

“Idon’tgottounderstandanything.Youandyourbuddygobackintothemarket,butyouwaitrighttherebythebeercooler.Anddon’tsayawordtoanybody.Notyet.”

Theywentwillinglyenough,huddlingtogetherastheypassedthroughtheswingingdoors.Olliekilledthegenerator,andjustasthelightsstartedtofail,Isawa

quiltedrug—thesortofthingmoversusetopadbreakablethings—floppedoverastackofreturnablesodabottles.IreachedupandgrabbeditforBilly.

Therewastheshuffling,blunderingsoundofOlliecomingoutofthegeneratorcompartment.Likeagreatmanyoverweightmen,hisbreathinghadaslightlyheavywheezingsound.

“David?”Hisvoicewaveredalittle.“Youstillhere?”

“Righthere,Ollie.Youwanttowatchoutforallthosebleachcartons.”

“Yeah.”

Iguidedhimwithmyvoiceandinthirtysecondsorsohereachedoutofthedarkandgrippedmyshoulder.Hegavealong,tremblingsigh.

“Christ,let’sgetoutofhere.”IcouldsmelltheRolaidshealwayschewedonhisbreath.“Thisdarkis…isbad.”

“Itis,”Isaid.“Buthangtightaminute,Ollie.IwantedtotalktoyouandIdidn’twantthoseothertwofuckheadslistening.”

“Dave…theydidn’ttwistNorm’sarm.Yououghttorememberthat.”

“Normwasakid,andtheyweren’t.Butnevermind,that’sover.We’vegottotellthem,Ollie.Thepeopleinthemarket.”

“Iftheypanic—”Ollie’svoicewasdoubtful.

“Maybetheywillandmaybetheywon’t.Butitwillmakethemthinktwiceaboutgoingout,whichiswhatmostofthemwanttodo.Why

shouldn’tthey?Mostofthemwillhavepeopletheyleftathome.Idomyself.Wehavetomakethemunderstandwhatthey’reriskingiftheygooutthere.”

Hishandwasgrippingmyarmhard.“Allright,”hesaid.“Yes,Ijustkeepaskingmyself…allthosetentacles…likeasquidorsomething…David,whatweretheyhookedto?Whatwerethose

tentacleshookedto?”

“Idon’tknow.ButIdon’twantthosetwotellingpeopleontheirown.Thatwouldstartapanic.Let’sgo.”

Ilookedaround,andafteramomentortwolocatedthethinlineofverticallightbetweentheswingdoors.Westartedtoshuffletowardit,waryofscatteredcartons,oneofOllie’spudgyhands

clampedovermyforearm.Itoccurredtomethatallofushadlostourflashlights.

Aswereachedthedoors,Olliesaidflatly:“Whatwesaw…it’simpossible,David.Youknowthat,don’tyou?EvenifavanfromtheBostonSeaquariumdroveoutbackanddumpedoutoneofthosegiganticsquidslikeinTwentyThousandLeaguesUndertheSea,itwoulddie.Itwould

justdie.”

“Yes,”Isaid.“That’sright.”

“Sowhathappened?Huh?Whathappened?Whatisthatdamnedmist?”

“Ollie,Idon’tknow.”

Wewentout.

V

AnArgumentwithNorton.ADiscussion

NeartheBeerCooler.Verification.

JimandhisgoodbuddyMyronwerejustoutsidethedoors,eachwithaBudweiserinhisfist.IlookedatBilly,sawhewasstillasleep,andcoveredhimwiththeruglikemover’spad.Hemovedalittle,mutteredsomething,andthenlaystillagain.Ilookedatmywatch.Itwas12:15P.M.Thatseemedutterlyimpossible;itfeltasifatleastfivehourshadpassedsinceIhadfirstgoneintheretolook

forsomethingtocoverhimwith.Butthewholething,fromfirsttolast,hadtakenonlyaboutthirty-fiveminutes.

IwentbacktowhereOlliestoodwithJimandMyron.Olliehadtakenabeerandheofferedmeone.Itookitandgulpeddownhalfthecanatonce,asIhadthatmorningcuttingwood.Itbuckedmeupalittle.

JimwasJimGrondin.Myron’slastnamewasLaFleur—thathaditscomicside,allright.Myrontheflowerhaddryingbloodonhislips,chin,andcheek.Theeyewiththemouseunderitwasalreadyswellingup.Thegirlinthecranberry-coloredsweatshirtwalkedbyaimlesslyandgaveMyronacautiouslook.IcouldhavetoldherthatMyronwasonlydangeroustoteenageboys

intentonprovingtheirmanhood,butsavedmybreath.Afterall,Olliewasright—theyhadonlybeendoingwhattheythoughtwasbest,althoughinablind,fearfulwayratherthaninanyrealcommoninterest.AndnowIneededthemtodowhatIthoughtwasbest.Ididn’tthinkthatwouldbeaproblem.Theyhadbothhadthestuffingknockedoutofthem.Neither—especially

Myrontheflower—wasgoingtobegoodforanythingforsometimetocome.SomethingthathadbeenintheireyeswhentheywerefixingtosendNormouttounplugtheexhaustventhadgonenow.Theirpeckerswerenolongerup.

“We’regoingtohavetotellthesepeoplesomething,”Isaid.

Jimopenedhismouthtoprotest.

“OllieandIwillleaveoutanypartyouandMyronhadinsendingNormoutthereifyou’llbackupwhatheandIsayabout…well,aboutwhatgothim.”

“Sure,”Jimsaid,pitifullyeager.“Sure,ifwedon’ttell,peoplemightgooutthere…likethatwoman…that

womanwho…”Hewipedhishandacrosshismouthandthendrankmorebeerquickly.“Christ,whatamess.”

“David,”Olliesaid.“What—”Hestopped,thenmadehimselfgoon.“Whatiftheygetin?Thetentacles?”

“Howcouldthey?”Jimasked.“Youguysshutthedoor.”

“Sure,”Olliesaid.“Butthewholefrontwallofthisplaceisplateglass.”

Anelevatorshotmystomachdownabouttwentyfloors.Ihadknownthat,buthadsomehowbeensuccessfullyignoringit.IlookedoveratwhereBillylayasleep.IthoughtofthosetentaclesswarmingoverNorm.IthoughtaboutthathappeningtoBilly.

“Plateglass,”MyronLaFleurwhispered.“JesusChristinachariot-drivensidecar.”

Ileftthethreeofthemstandingbythecooler,eachworkingasecondcanofbeer,andwentlookingforBrentNorton.Ifoundhiminsober-sidedconversationwithBudBrownatRegister2.Thepairofthem—Nortonwithhisstyledgrayhairandhiselderly-studgoodlooks,

BrownwithhisdourNewEnglandphiz—lookedlikesomethingoutofaNewYorkercartoon.

Asmanyastwodozenpeoplemilledrestlesslyinthespacebetweentheendofthecheckoutlanesandthelongshowwindow.Alotofthemwerelinedupattheglass,lookingoutintothemist.Iwasagainremindedofthepeoplethatcongregateata

buildingsite.

Mrs.Carmodywasseatedonthestationaryconveyorbeltofoneofthecheckoutlanes,smokingaParliamentinaOneStepataTimefilter.Hereyesmeasuredme,foundmewanting,andpassedon.Shelookedasifshemightbedreamingawake.

“Brent,”Isaid.

“David!Wheredidyougetoffto?”

“That’swhatI’dliketotalktoyouabout.”

“Therearepeoplebackatthecoolerdrinkingbeer,”Brownsaidgrimly.HesoundedlikeamanannouncingthatX-ratedmovieshadbeenshownatthedeacons’party.“Icanseetheminthesecuritymirror.Thishassimplygotto

stop.”

“Brent?”

“Excusemeforaminute,wouldyou,Mr.Brown?”

“Certainly.”Hefoldedhisarmsacrosshischestandstaredgrimlyupintotheconvexmirror.“Itisgoingtostop,Icanpromiseyouthat.”

NortonandIheadedtoward

thebeercoolerinthefarcornerofthestore,walkingpastthehousewaresandnotions.Iglancedbackovermyshoulder,noticinguneasilyhowthewoodenbeamsframingthetall,rectangularsectionsofglasshadbuckledandtwistedandsplintered.Andoneofthewindowswasn’tevenwhole,Iremembered.Apie-shapedchunkofglasshadfallenoutoftheuppercorneratthe

instantofthatqueerthump.Perhapswecouldstuffitwithclothorsomething—maybeabunchofthose$3.59ladies’topsIhadnoticednearthewine—

Mythoughtsbrokeoffabruptly,andIhadtoputthebackofmyhandovermymouth,asifstiflingaburp.WhatIwasreallystiflingwastherancidfloodofhorrifiedgigglesthatwantedtoescape

meatthethoughtofstuffingabunchofshirtsintoaholetokeepoutthosetentaclesthathadcarriedNormaway.Ihadseenoneofthosetentacles—asmallone—squeezeabagofdogfooduntilitsimplyruptured.

“David?Areyouokay?”

“Huh?”

“Yourface—youlookedlike

youjusthadagoodideaorabloodyawfulone.”

Somethinghitmethen.“Brent,whathappenedtothatmanwhocameinravingaboutsomethinginthemistgettingJohnLeeFrovin?”

“Theguywiththenosebleed?”

“Yes,him.”

“HepassedoutandMr.Brownbroughthimaroundwithsomesmellingsaltsfromthefirst-aidkit.Why?”

“Didhesayanythingelsewhenhewokeup?”

“Hestartedinonthathallucination.Mr.Brownconductedhimuptotheoffice.Hewasfrighteningsomeofthewomen.Heseemedhappyenoughtogo.

Somethingabouttheglass.WhenMr.Brownsaidtherewasonlyonesmallwindowinthemanager’soffice,andthatthatonewasreinforcedwithwire,heseemedhappyenoughtogo.Ipresumehe’sstillthere.”

“Whathewastalkingaboutisnohallucination.”

“No,ofcourseitisn’t.”

“Andthatthudwefelt?”

“No,but,David—”

He’sscared,Ikeptremindingmyself.Don’tblowupathim,you’vetreatedyourselftooneblowupthismorningandthat’senough.Don’tblowupathimjustbecausethisisthewayhewasduringthatstupidproperty-linedispute…firstpatronizing,thensarcastic,andfinally,whenitbecame

clearhewasgoingtolose,ugly.Don’tblowupathimbecauseyou’regoingtoneedhim.Hemaynotbeabletostarthisownchainsaw,buthelookslikethefatherfigureoftheWesternworld,andifhetellspeoplenottopanic,theywon’t.Sodon’tblowupathim.

“Youseethosedoubledoorsuptherebeyondthebeercooler?”

Helooked,frowning.“Isn’toneofthosemendrinkingbeertheotherassistantmanager?Weeks?IfBrownseesthat,Icanpromiseyouthatmanwillbelookingforajobverysoon.”

“Brent,willyoulistentome?”

Heglancedbackatmeabsently.“Whatwereyousaying,Dave?I’msorry.”

Notassorryashewasgoingtobe.“Doyouseethosedoors?”

“Yes,ofcourseIdo.Whataboutthem?”

“Theygiveonthestorageareathatrunsallthewayalongthewestfaceofthebuilding.BillyfellasleepandIwentbacktheretoseeifIcouldfindsomethingtocoverhimupwith…”

Itoldhimeverything,onlyleavingouttheargumentaboutwhetherornotNormshouldhavegoneoutatall.Itoldhimwhathadcomein…andfinally,whathadgoneout,screaming.BrentNortonrefusedtobelieveit.No—herefusedtoevenentertainit.ItookhimovertoJim,Ollie,andMyron.Allthreeofthemverifiedthestory,althoughJimandMyrontheflowerwerewellontheirwayto

gettingdrunk.

Again,Nortonrefusedtobelieveoreventoentertainit.Hesimplybalked.“No,”hesaid.“No,no,no.Forgiveme,gentlemen,butit’scompletelyridiculous.Eitheryou’rehavingmeon”—hepatronizeduswithhisgleamingsmiletoshowthathecouldtakeajokeaswellasthenextfellow—“oryou’resufferingfromsome

formofgrouphypnosis.”

Mytemperroseagain,andIcontrolledit—withdifficulty.Idon’tthinkthatI’mordinarilyaquick-temperedman,buttheseweren’tordinarycircumstances.IhadBillytothinkabout,andwhatwashappening—orwhathadalreadyhappened—toStephanie.Thosethingswereconstantlygnawingatthebackofmymind.

“Allright,”Isaid.“Let’sgobackthere.There’sachunkoftentacleonthefloor.Thedoorcutitoffwhenitcamedown.Andyoucanhearthem.They’rerustlingalloverthatdoor.Itsoundslikethewindinivy.”

“No,”hesaidcalmly.

“What?”IreallydidbelieveIhadmisheardhim.“Whatdidyousay?”

“Isaidno,I’mnotgoingbackthere.Thejokehasgonefarenough.”

“Brent,Isweartoyouit’snojoke.”

“Ofcourseitis,”hesnapped.HiseyesranoverJim,Myron,restedbrieflyonOllieWeeks—whoheldhisglancewithcalmimpassivity—andatlastcamebacktome.“It’swhatyoulocalsprobablycall

‘arealbelly-buster.’Right,David?”

“Brent…look—”

“No,youlook!”Hisvoicebegantorisetowardacourtroomshout.Itcarriedvery,verywell,andseveralofthepeoplewhowerewanderingaround,edgyandaimless,lookedovertoseewhatwasgoingon.Nortonjabbedhisfingeratmeashe

spoke.“It’sajoke.It’sabananaskinandI’mtheguythat’ssupposedtosliponit.Noneofyoupeopleareexactlycrazyaboutout-of-towners,amIright?Youallprettymuchsticktogether.ThewayithappenedwhenIhauledyouintocourttogetwhatwasrightfullymine.Youwonthatone,allright.Whynot?Yourfatherwasthefamousartist,andit’syourtown.Ionlypaymytaxesand

spendmymoneyhere!”

Hewasnolongerperforming,hectoringuswiththetrainedcourtroomshout;hewasnearlyscreamingandonthevergeoflosingallcontrol.OllieWeeksturnedandwalkedaway,clutchinghisbeer.MyronandhisfriendJimwerestaringatNortonwithfrankamazement.

“AmIsupposedtogoback

thereandlookatsomeninety-eight-centrubber-jokenoveltywhilethesetwohicksstandaroundandlaughtheirassesoff?”

“Hey,youwanttowatchwhoyou’recallingahick,”Myronsaid.

“I’mgladthattreefellonyourboathouse,ifyouwanttoknowthetruth.Glad.”Nortonwasgrinningsavagely

atme.“Stoveitinprettywell,didn’tit?Fantastic.Nowgetoutofmyway.”

Hetriedtopushpastme.Igrabbedhimbythearmandthrewhimagainstthebeercooler.Awomancawedinsurprise.Twosix-packsofBudfellover.

“Youdigoutyourearsandlisten,Brent.Therearelivesatstakehere.Mykid’sisnot

theleastofthem.Soyoulisten,orIswearI’llknocktheshitoutofyou.”

“Goahead,”Nortonsaid,stillgrinningwithakindofinsanepalsiedbravado.Hiseyes,bloodshotandwide,bulgedfromtheirsockets.“Showeveryonehowbigandbraveyouare,beatingupamanwithaheartconditionwhoisoldenoughtobeyourfather.”

“Sockhimanyway!”Jimexclaimed.“Fuckhisheartcondition.Idon’teventhinkacheapNewYorkshysterlikehimhasgotaheart.”

“Youkeepoutofit,”IsaidtoJim,andthenputmyfacedowntoNorton’s.Iwaskissingdistance,ifthathadbeenwhatIhadinmind.Thecoolerwasoff,butitwasstillradiatingachill.“Stopthrowingupsand.Youknow

damnwellI’mtellingthetruth.”

“Iknow…no…suchthing,”hepanted.

“Ifitwasanothertimeandplace,I’dletyougetawaywithit.Idon’tcarehowscaredyouare,andI’mnotkeepingscore.I’mscared,too.ButIneedyou,goddammit!Doesthatgetthrough?Ineedyou!”

“Letmego!”

Igrabbedhimbytheshirtandshookhim.“Don’tyouunderstandanything?Peoplearegoingtostartleavingandwalkrightintothatthingoutthere!ForChrist’ssake,don’tyouunderstand?”

“Letmego!”

“Notuntilyoucomebacktherewithmeandseefor

yourself.”

“Itoldyou,no!It’sallatrick,ajoke.I’mnotasstupidasyoutakemefor—”

“ThenI’llhaulyoubacktheremyself.”

Igrabbedhimbytheshoulderandthescruffofhisneck.Theseamofhisshirtunderonearmtorewithasoftpurringsound.Idraggedhim

towardthedoubledoors.Nortonletoutawretchedscream.Aknotofpeople,fifteenoreighteen,hadgathered,buttheykepttheirdistance.Noneshowedanysignsofwantingtointerfere.

“Helpme!”Nortoncried.Hiseyesbulgedbehindhisglasses.Hisstyledhairhadgoneawryagain,stickingupinthesametwolittletuftsbehindhisears.People

shuffledtheirfeetandwatched.

“Whatareyouscreamingfor?”Isaidinhisear.“It’sjustajoke,right?That’swhyItookyoutotownwhenyouaskedtocomeandwhyItrustedyoutocrossBillyintheparkinglot—becauseIhadthishandyfogallmanufactured,IrentedafogmachinefromHollywood,itcostmefifteenthousand

dollarsandanothereightthousanddollarstoshipit,allsoIcouldplayajokeonyou.Stopbullshittingyourselfandopenyoureyes!”

“Let…me…go!”Nortonbawled.Wewerealmostatthedoors.

“Here,here!Whatisthis?Whatareyoudoing?”

ItwasBrown.Hebustledand

elbowedhiswaythroughthecrowdofwatchers.

“Makehimletmego,”Nortonsaidhoarsely.“He’scrazy.”

“No.He’snotcrazy.Iwishhewere,butheisn’t.”ThatwasOllie,andIcouldhaveblessedhim.HecamearoundtheaislebehindusandstoodtherefacingBrown.

Brown’seyesdroppedtothebeerOlliewasholding.“You’redrinking!”hesaid,andhisvoicewassurprisedbutnottotallydevoidofpleasure.“You’llloseyourjobforthis.”

“Comeon,Bud,”Isaid,lettingNortongo.“Thisisnoordinarysituation.”

“Regulationsdon’tchange,”Brownsaidsmugly.“I’llsee

thatthecompanyhearsofit.That’smyresponsibility.”

Norton,meanwhile,hadskitteredawayandstoodatsomedistance,tryingtostraightenhisshirtandsmoothbackhishair.HiseyesdartedbetweenBrownandmenervously.

“Hey!”Olliecriedsuddenly,raisinghisvoiceandproducingabassthunderI

neverwouldhavesuspectedfromthislargebutsoftandunassumingman.“Hey!Everybodyinthestore!Youwanttocomeupbackandhearthis!Itconcernsallofyou!”Helookedatmelevelly,ignoringBrownaltogether.“AmIdoingallright?”

“Fine.”

Peoplebegantogather.The

originalknotofspectatorstomyargumentwithNortondoubled,thentrebled.

“There’ssomethingyouallhadbetterknow—”Olliebegan.

“Youputthatbeerdownrightnow,”Brownsaid.

“Youshutuprightnow,”Isaid,andtookasteptowardhim.

Browntookacompensatorystepback.“Idon’tknowwhatsomeofyouthinkyouaredoing,”hesaid,“butIcantellyouit’sgoingtobereportedtotheFederalFoodsCompany!Allofit!AndIwantyoutounderstand—theremaybecharges!”Hislipsdrewnervouslybackfromhisyellowedteeth,andIcouldfeelsympathyforhim.Justtryingtocope;thatwasallhewasdoing.AsNorton

wasbyimposingamentalgagorderonhimself.MyronandJimhadtriedbyturningthewholethingintoamachocharade—ifthegeneratorcouldbefixed,themistwouldblowover.ThiswasBrown’sway.Hewas…ProtectingtheStore.

“Thenyougoaheadandtakedownthenames,”Isaid.“Butpleasedon’ttalk.”

“I’lltakedownplentyofnames,”heresponded.“Yourswillbeheadonthelist,you…youbohemian.”

“Mr.DavidDraytonhasgotsomethingtotellyou,”Olliesaid,“andIthinkyouhadbetteralllistenup,incaseyouwereplanningongoinghome.”

SoItoldthemwhathadhappened,prettymuchasI

toldNorton.Therewassomelaughteratfirst,thenadeepeninguneasinessasIfinished.

“It’salie,youknow,”Nortonsaid.Hisvoicetriedforhardemphasisandovershotintostridency.ThiswasthemanI’dtoldfirst,hopingtoenlisthiscredibility.Whataballs-up.

“Ofcourseit’salie,”Brown

agreed.“It’slunacy.Wheredoyousupposethosetentaclescamefrom,Mr.Drayton?”

“Idon’tknow,andatthispoint,that’snotevenaveryimportantquestion.They’rehere.There’s—”

“Isuspecttheycameoutofafewofthosebeercans.That’swhatIsuspect.”Thisgotsomeappreciativelaughter.It

wassilencedbythestrong,rusty-hingevoiceofMrs.Carmody.

“Death!”shecried,andthosewhohadbeenlaughingquicklysobered.

Shemarchedintothecenteroftheroughcirclethathadformed,hercanarypantsseemingtogiveoffalightoftheirown,herhugepurseswingingagainstone

elephantinethigh.Herblackeyesglancedarrogantlyaround,assharpandbalefullysparklingasamagpie’s.Twogood-lookinggirlsofaboutsixteenwithCAMPWOODLANDS

writtenonthebackoftheirwhiterayonshirtsshrankawayfromher.

“Youlistenbutyoudon’thear!Youhearbutyoudon’tbelieve!Whichoneofyouwantstogooutsideandsee

forhimself?”Hereyessweptthem,andthenfellonme.“Andjustwhatdoyouproposetodoaboutit,Mr.DavidDrayton?Whatdoyouthinkyoucandoaboutit?”

Shegrinned,skull-likeabovehercanaryoutfit.

“It’stheend,Itellyou.Theendofeverything.It’stheLastTimes.Themovingfingerhaswrit,notinfire,but

inlinesofmist.Theearthhasopenedandspewedforthitsabominations—”

“Can’tyoumakehershutup?”oneoftheteenagegirlsburstout.Shewasbeginningtocry.“She’sscaringme!”

“Areyouscared,dearie?”Mrs.Carmodyasked,andturnedonher.“Youaren’tscarednow,no.ButwhenthefoulcreaturestheImphas

looseduponthefaceoftheearthcomeforyou—”

“That’senoughnow,Mrs.Carmody,”Olliesaid,takingherarm.“That’sjustfine.”

“Youletgoofme!It’stheend,Itellyou!It’sdeath!Death!”

“It’sapileofshit,”amaninafishinghatandglassessaiddisgustedly.

“No,sir,”Myronspokeup.“Iknowitsoundslikesomethingoutofadope-dream,butit’stheflat-outtruth.Isawitmyself.”

“Idid,too,”Jimsaid.

“Andme,”Olliechippedin.HehadsucceededinquietingMrs.Carmody,atleastforthetimebeing.Butshestoodcloseby,clutchingherbigpurseandgrinninghercrazy

grin.Noonewantedtostandtooclosetoher—theymutteredamongthemselves,notlikingthecorroboration.Severalofthemlookedbackatthebigplate-glasswindowsinanuneasy,speculativeway.Iwasgladtoseeit.

“Lies,”Nortonsaid.“Youpeoplealllieeachotherup.That’sall.”

“Whatyou’resuggestingistotallybeyondbelief,”Brownsaid.

“Wedon’thavetostandherechewingitover,”Itoldhim.“Comebackintothestorageareawithme.Takealook.Andalisten.”

“Customersarenotallowedinthe—”

“Bud,”Olliesaid,“gowith

him.Let’ssettlethis.”

“Allright,”Brownsaid.“Mr.Drayton?Let’sgetthisfoolishnessoverwith.”

Wepushedthroughthedoubledoorsintothedarkness.

Thesoundwasunpleasant—perhapsevil.

Brownfeltit,too,forallhis

hardheadedYankeemanner;hishandclutchedmyarmimmediately,hisbreathcaughtforamomentandthenresumedmoreharshly.

Itwasalowwhisperingsoundfromthedirectionoftheloadingdoor—analmostcaressingsound.Isweptaroundgentlywithonefootandfinallystruckoneoftheflashlights.Ibentdown,gotit,andturnediton.Brown’s

facewastightlydrawn,andhehadn’tevenseenthem—hewasonlyhearingthem.ButIhadseen,andIcouldimaginethemtwistingandclimbingoverthecorrugatedsteelsurfaceofthedoorlikelivingvines.

“Whatdoyouthinknow?Totallybeyondbelief?”

Brownlickedhislipsandlookedatthelittered

confusionofboxesandbags.“Theydidthis?”

“Someofit.Mostofit.Comeoverhere.”

Hecame—reluctantly.Ispottedtheflashlightontheshriveledandcurledsectionoftentacle,stilllyingbythepushbroom.Brownbenttowardit.

“Don’ttouchthat,”Isaid.“It

maystillbealive.”

Hestraightenedupquickly.Ipickedupthebroombythebristlesandproddedthetentacle.Thethirdorfourthpokecausedittounclenchsluggishlyandrevealtwowholesuckersandaraggedsegmentofathird.Thenthefragmentcoiledagainwithmuscularspeedandlaystill.Brownmadeagagging,disgustedsound.

“Seenenough?”

“Yes,”hesaid.“Let’sgetoutofhere.”

Wefollowedthebobbinglightbacktothedoubledoorsandpushedthroughthem.Allthefacesturnedtowardus,andthehumofconversationdied.Norton’sfacewaslikeoldcheese.Mrs.Carmody’sblackeyesglinted.Olliewasdrinkingbeer;hisfacewas

stillrunningwithtricklesofperspiration,althoughithadgottenratherchillyinthemarket.ThetwogirlswithCAMPWOODLANDSontheirshirtswerehuddledtogetherlikeyounghorsesbeforeathunderstorm.Eyes.Somanyeyes.Icouldpaintthem,Ithoughtwithachill.Nofaces,onlyeyesinthegloom.Icouldpaintthembutnoonewouldbelievetheywerereal.

BudBrownfoldedhislong-fingeredhandsprimlyinfrontofhim.“People,”hesaid.“Itappearswehaveaproblemofsomemagnitudehere.”

VI

FurtherDiscussion.Mrs.Carmody.

Fortifications.WhatHappenedtotheFlat-EarthSociety.

Thenextfourhourspassedinakindofdream.TherewasalongandsemihystericaldiscussionfollowingBrown’sconfirmation,ormaybethediscussionwasn’taslongasitseemed;maybeitwasjustthegrimnecessityofpeoplechewingoverthesameinformation,tryingtoseeitfromeverypossiblepointofview,workingitthewayadogworksabone,tryingtogetatthemarrow.Itwasa

slowcomingtobelief.YoucanseethesamethingatanyNewEnglandtownmeetinginMarch.

TherewastheFlat-EarthSociety,headedbyNorton.Theywereavocalminorityofabouttenwhobelievednoneofit.Nortonpointedoutoverandoveragainthattherewereonlyfourwitnessestothebag-boybeingcarriedoffbywhathecalledthe

TentaclesfromPlanetX(itwasgoodforalaughthefirsttime,butitworethinquickly;Norton,inhisincreasingagitation,seemednottonotice).Headdedthathepersonallydidnottrustoneofthefour.Hefurtherpointedoutthatfiftypercentofthewitnesseswerenowhopelesslyinebriated.Thatwasunquestionablytrue.JimandMyronLaFleur,withtheentirebeercoolerandwine

rackattheirdisposal,wereabysmallyshitfaced.ConsideringwhathadhappenedtoNorm,andtheirpartinit,Ididn’tblamethem.Theywouldsoberoffalltoosoon.

Olliecontinuedtodrinksteadily,ignoringBrown’sprotests.AfterawhileBrowngaveup,contentinghimselfwithanoccasionalbalefulthreatabouttheCompany.He

didn’tseemtorealizethatFederalFoods,Inc.,withitsstoresinBridgton,NorthWindham,andPortland,mightnotevenexistanymore.Forallweknew,theEasternSeaboardmightnolongerexist.Olliedranksteadily,butdidn’tgetdrunk.Hewassweatingitoutasrapidlyashecouldputitin.

Atlast,asthediscussionwiththeFlat-Eartherswas

becomingacrimonious,Olliespokeup.“Ifyoudon’tbelieveit,Mr.Norton,that’sfine.I’lltellyouwhattodo.Yougoonoutthatfrontdoorandwalkaroundtotheback.There’sagreatbigpileofreturnablebeerandsodabottlesthere.NormandBuddyandIputthemoutthismorning.Youbringbackacoupleofthosebottlessoweknowyoureallywentbackthere.YoudothatandI’ll

personallytakemyshirtoffandeatit.”

Nortonbegantobluster.

Olliecuthimoffinthatsamesoft,evenvoice.“Itellyou,you’renotdoinganythingbutdamagetalkingthewayyouare.There’speopleherethatwanttogohomeandmakesuretheirfamiliesareokay.Mysisterandheryear-olddaughterareathomein

Naplesrightnow.I’dliketocheckonthem,sure.Butifpeoplestartbelievingyouandtrytogohome,whathappenedtoNormisgoingtohappentothem.”

Hedidn’tconvinceNorton,butheconvincedsomeoftheleanersandfencesitters—itwasn’twhathesaidsomuchasitwashiseyes,hishauntedeyes.IthinkNorton’ssanityhingedonnotbeing

convinced,orthathethoughtitdid.Buthedidn’ttakeOllieuponhisoffertobringbackasamplingofreturnablesfromoutback.Noneofthemdid.Theyweren’treadytogoout,atleastnotyet.HeandhislittlegroupofFlat-Earthers(reducedbyoneortwonow)wentasfarawayfromtherestofusastheycouldget,overbytheprepared-meatscase.Oneofthemkickedmysleepingsoninthelegashe

wentpast,wakinghimup.

Iwentover,andBillyclungtomyneck.WhenItriedtoputhimdown,heclungtighterandsaid,“Don’tdothat,Daddy.Please.”

Ifoundashoppingcartandputhiminthebabyseat.Helookedverybiginthere.Itwouldhavebeencomicalexceptforhispaleface,thedarkhairbrushedacrosshis

foreheadjustabovehiseyebrows,hiswoefuleyes.Heprobablyhadn’tbeenupinthebabyseatoftheshoppingcartforaslongastwoyears.Theselittlethingsslidebyyou,youdon’trealizeatfirst,andwhenwhathaschangedfinallycomestoyou,it’salwaysanastyshock.

Meanwhile,withtheFlat-Earthershavingwithdrawn,

theargumenthadfoundanotherlightningrod—thistimeitwasMrs.Carmody,andunderstandablyenough,shestoodalone.

Inthefaded,dismallightshewaswitchlikeinherblazingcanarypants,herbrightrayonblouse,herarmloadsofclackingjunkjewelry—copper,tortoise-shell,adamantine—andherthyroidalpurse.Her

parchmentfacewasgroovedwithstrongverticallines.Herfrizzygrayhairwasyankedflatwiththreehorncombsandtwistedintheback.Hermouthwasalineofknottedrope.

“ThereisnodefenseagainstthewillofGod.Thishasbeencoming.Ihaveseenthesigns.TherearethoseherethatIhavetold,buttherearenonesoblindasthosewhowillnot

see.”

“Well,whatareyousaying?Whatareyouproposing?”MikeHatlenbrokeinimpatiently.Hewasatownselectman,althoughhedidn’tlookthepartnow,inhisyachtsman’scapandsaggy-seatedBermudas.Hewassippingatabeer;agreatmanymenweredoingitnow.BudBrownhadgivenupprotesting,buthewasindeed

takingnames—keepingaroughtaboneveryonehecould.

“Proposing?”Mrs.Carmodyechoed,wheelingtowardHatlen.“Proposing?Why,IamproposingthatyoupreparetomeetyourGod,MichaelHatlen.”Shegazedaroundatallofus.“PreparetomeetyourGod!”

“Preparetomeetshit,”Myron

LaFleursaidinadrunkensnarlfromthebeercooler.“Oldwoman,Ibelieveyourtonguemustbehunginthemiddlesoitcanrunonbothends.”

Therewasarumbleofagreement.Billylookedaroundnervously,andIslippedanarmaroundhisshoulders.

“I’llhavemysay!”shecried.

Herupperlipcurledback,revealingsnaggleteeththatwereyellowwithnicotine.Ithoughtofthedustystuffedanimalsinhershop,drinkingeternallyatthemirrorthatservedastheircreek.“Doubterswilldoubttotheend!Yetamonstrositydiddragthatpoorboyaway!Thingsinthemist!Everyabominationoutofabaddream!Eyelessfreaks!Pallidhorrors!Doyoudoubt?Then

goonout!Goonoutandsayhowdy-do!”

“Mrs.Carmody,you’llhavetostop,”Isaid.“You’rescaringmyboy.”

Themanwiththelittlegirlechoedthesentiment.She,allplumplegsandscabbyknees,hadhiddenherfaceagainstherfather’sstomachandputherhandsoverherears.BigBillwasn’tcrying,buthewas

close.

“There’sonlyonechance,”Mrs.Carmodysaid.

“What’sthat,ma’am?”MikeHatlenaskedpolitely.

“Asacrifice,”Mrs.Carmodysaid—sheseemedtogrininthegloom.“Abloodsacrifice.”

Bloodsacrifice—thewords

hungthere,slowlyturning.Evennow,whenIknowbetter,Itellmyselfthatthenwhatshemeantwassomeone’spetdog—therewereacoupleofthemtrottingaroundthemarketinspiteoftheregulationsagainstthem.EvennowItellmyselfthat.ShelookedlikesomecrazedremnantofNewEnglandPuritanisminthegloom…butIsuspectthatsomethingdeeperanddarkerthanmere

Puritanismmotivatedher.Puritanismhaditsowndarkgrandfather,oldAdamwithbloodyhands.

Sheopenedhermouthtosaysomethingmore,andasmall,neatmaninredpantsandanattysportshirtstruckheropenhandedacrosstheface.Hishairwaspartedwithrulerevennessontheleft.Heworeglasses.Healsoworetheunmistakablelookofthe

summertourist.

“Youshutupthatbadtalk,”hesaidsoftlyandtonelessly.

Mrs.Carmodyputherhandtohermouthandthenhelditouttous,awordlessaccusation.Therewasbloodonthepalm.Butherblackeyesseemedtodancewithmadglee.

“Youhaditcoming!”a

womancriedout.“Iwouldhavedoneitmyself!”

“They’llgetholdofyou,”Mrs.Carmodysaid,showingusherbloodypalm.Thetrickleofbloodwasnowrunningdownoneofthewrinklesfromhermouthtoherchinlikeadropletofraindownagutter.“Nottoday,maybe.Tonight.Tonightwhenthedarkcomes.They’llcomewiththenightandtake

someoneelse.Withthenightthey’llcome.You’llhearthemcoming,creepingandcrawling.Andwhentheycome,you’llbegforMotherCarmodytoshowyouwhattodo.”

Themanintheredpantsraisedhishandslowly.

“Youcomeonandhitme,”shewhispered,andgrinnedherbloodygrinathim.His

handwavered.“Hitmeifyoudare.”Hishanddropped.Mrs.Carmodywalkedawaybyherself.ThenBillydidbegintocry,hidinghisfaceagainstmeasthelittlegirlhaddonewithherfather.

“Iwanttogohome,”hesaid.“Iwanttoseemymommy.”

IcomfortedhimasbestIcould.Whichprobablywasn’tverywell.

Thetalkfinallyturnedintolessfrighteninganddestructivechannels.Theplate-glasswindows,themarket’sobviousweakpoint,werementioned.MikeHatlenaskedwhatotherentrancestherewere,andOllieandBrownquicklytickedthemoff—twoloadingdoorsinadditiontotheoneNormhadopened.ThemainIN/OUTdoors.Thewindowinthemanager’soffice(thick,

reinforcedglass,securelylocked).

Talkingaboutthesethingshadaparadoxicaleffect.Itmadethedangerseemmorerealbutatthesametimemadeusfeelbetter.EvenBillyfeltit.Heaskedifhecouldgogetacandybar.Itoldhimitwouldbeallrightsolongashedidn’tgonearthebigwindows.

Whenhewasoutofearshot,amannearMikeHatlensaid,“Okay,whatarewegoingtodoaboutthosewindows?Theoldladymaybeascrazyasabedbug,butshecouldberightaboutsomethingmovinginafterdark.”

“Maybethefogwillblowoverbythen,”awomansaid.

“Maybe,”themansaid.“Andmaybenot.”

“Anyideas?”IaskedBudandOllie.

“Holdonasec,”themannearHatlensaid.“I’mDanMiller.FromLynn,Mass.Youdon’tknowme,noreasonwhyyoushould,butIgotaplaceonHighlandLake.Boughtitjustthisyear.Gotheldupforit,ismorelikeit,butIhadtohaveit.”Therewereafewchuckles.“Anyway,Isawawholepileoffertilizerand

lawn-foodbagsdownthere.Twenty-five-poundsacks,mostofthem.Wecouldputthemuplikesandbags.Leaveloopholestolookoutthrough….”

Nowmorepeoplewerenoddingandtalkingexcitedly.Ialmostsaidsomething,thenhelditback.Millerwasright.Puttingthosebagsupcoulddonoharm,andmightdosome

good.Butmymindwentbacktothattentaclesqueezingthedog-foodbag.Ithoughtthatoneofthebiggertentaclescouldprobablydothesameforatwenty-five-poundbagofGreenAcreslawnfoodorVigoro.Butasermononthatwouldn’tgetusoutorimproveanyone’smood.

Peoplebegantobreakup,talkingaboutgettingitdone,

andMilleryelled:“Holdit!Holdit!Let’sthrashthisoutwhilewe’realltogether!”

Theycameback,aloosecongregationoffiftyorsixtypeopleinthecornerformedbythebeercooler,thestoragedoors,andtheleftendofthemeatcase,whereMr.McVeyalwaysseemstoputthethingsnoonewants,likesweetbreadsandScotcheggsandsheep’sbrainsandhead

cheese.Billywovehiswaythroughthemwithafive-year-old’sunconsciousagilityinaworldofgiantsandheldupaHersheybar.“Wantthis,Daddy?”

“Thanks.”Itookit.Ittastedsweetandgood.

“Thisisprobablyastupidquestion,”Millerresumed,“butweoughttofillintheblanks.Anyonegotany

firearms?”

Therewasapause.Peoplelookedaroundateachotherandshrugged.AnoldmanwithgrizzledwhitehairwhointroducedhimselfasAmbroseCornellsaidhehadashotguninthetrunkofhiscar.“I’lltryforit,ifyouwant.”

Olliesaid,“RightnowIdon’tthinkthatwouldbeagood

idea,Mr.Cornell.”

Cornellgrunted.“Rightnow,neitherdoI,son.ButIthoughtIoughttomaketheoffer.”

“Well,Ididn’treallythinkso,”DanMillersaid.“ButIthought—”

“Wait,holditaminute,”awomansaid.Itwastheladyinthecranberry-colored

sweatshirtandthedarkgreenslacks.Shehadsandy-blondhairandagoodfigure.Averyprettyyoungwoman.Sheopenedherpurseandfromitsheproducedamedium-sizedpistol.Thecrowdmadeanahhhh-ingsound,asiftheyhadjustseenamagiciandoaparticularlyfinetrick.Thewoman,whohadbeenblushing,blushedthatmuchtheharder.Sherootedinherpurseagainandbroughtouta

boxofSmith&Wessonammunition.

“I’mAmandaDumfries,”shesaidtoMiller.“Thisgun…myhusband’sidea.HethoughtIshouldhaveitforprotection.I’vecarrieditunloadedfortwoyears.”

“Isyourhusbandhere,ma’am?”

“No,he’sinNewYork.On

business.He’sgoneonbusinessalot.That’swhyhewantedmetocarrythegun.”

“Well,”Millersaid,“ifyoucanuseit,yououghttokeepit.Whatisit,athirty-eight?”

“Yes.AndI’veneverfireditinmylifeexceptonatargetrangeonce.”

Millertookthegun,fumbledaround,andgotthecylinder

toopenafterafewmoments.Hecheckedtomakesureitwasnotloaded.“Okay,”hesaid.“Wegotagun.Whoshootsgood?Isuredon’t.”

Peopleglancedateachother.Noonesaidanythingatfirst.Then,reluctantly,Olliesaid:“Itarget-shootquitealot.IhaveaColt.45andaLlama.25.”

“You?”Brownsaid.“Huh.

You’llbetoodrunktoseebydark.”

Olliesaidveryclearly,“Whydon’tyoujustshutupandwritedownyournames?”

Browngoggledathim.Openedhismouth.Thendecided,wisely,Ithink,toshutitagain.

“It’syours,”Millersaid,blinkingalittleatthe

exchange.HehandeditoverandOlliecheckeditagain,moreprofessionally.Heputthegunintohisright-frontpantspocketandslippedthecartridgeboxintohisbreastpocket,whereitmadeabulgelikeapackofcigarettes.Thenheleanedbackagainstthecooler,roundfacestilltricklingsweat,andcrackedafreshbeer.ThesensationthatIwasseeingatotallyunsuspectedOllieWeeks

persisted.

“Thankyou,Mrs.Dumfries,”Millersaid.

“Don’tmentionit,”shesaid,andIthoughtfleetinglythatifIwereherhusbandandproprietorofthosegreeneyesandthatfullfigure,Imightnottravelsomuch.Givingyourwifeaguncouldbeseenasaludicrouslysymbolicact.

“Thismaybesilly,too,”Millersaid,turningbacktoBrownwithhisclipboardandOlliewithhisbeer,“buttherearen’tanythinglikeflamethrowersintheplace,arethere?”

“Ohhh,shit,”BuddyEagletonsaid,andthenwentasredasAmandaDumfrieshaddone.

“Whatisit?”MikeHatlenasked.

“Well…untillastweekwehadawholecaseofthoselittleblowtorches.Thekindyouusearoundyourhousetosolderleakypipesormendyourexhaustsystemsorwhatever.Yourememberthose,Mr.Brown?”

Brownnodded,lookingsour.

“Soldout?”Millerasked.

“No,theydidn’tgoatall.We

onlysoldthreeorfourandsenttherestofthecaseback.Whatapisser.Imean…whatashame.”Blushingsodeeplyhewasalmostpurple,BuddyEagletonretiredintothebackgroundagain.

Wehadmatches,ofcourse,andsalt(someonesaidvaguelythathehadheardsaltwasthethingtoputonbloodsuckersandthingslikethat);andallkindsof

O’Cedarmopsandlong-handledbrooms.Mostofthepeoplecontinuedtolookheartened,andJimandMyronweretooblotzotosoundadissentingnote,butImetOllie’seyesandsawacalmhopelessnessinthemthatwasworsethanfear.HeandIhadseenthetentacles.TheideaofthrowingsaltonthemortryingtofendthemoffwiththehandlesofO’Cedarmopswasfunny,in

aghastlyway.

“Mike,”Millersaid,“whydon’tyoucrewthislittleadventure?IwanttotalktoOllieandDavehereforaminute.”

“Gladto.”HatlenclappedDanMillerontheshoulder.“Somebodyhadtotakecharge,andyoudiditgood.Welcometotown.”

“DoesthismeanIgetakickbackonmytaxes?”Millerasked.Hewasabantylittleguywithredhairthatwasreceding.Helookedlikethesortofguyyoucan’thelplikingonshortnoticeand—justmaybe—thekindofguyyoucan’thelpnotlikingafterhe’sbeenaroundforawhile.Thekindofguywhoknowshowtodoeverythingbetterthanyoudo.

“Noway,”Hatlensaid,laughing.

Hatlenwalkedoff.Millerglanceddownatmyson.

“Don’tworryaboutBilly,”Isaid.

“Man,I’veneverbeensoworriedinmywholelife,”Millersaid.

“No,”Ollieagreed,and

droppedanemptyintothebeercooler.Hegotafreshoneandopenedit.Therewasasofthissofescapinggas.

“Igotalookatthewayyoutwoglancedateachother,”Millersaid.

IfinishedmyHersheybarandgotabeertowashitdownwith.

“TellyouwhatIthink,”

Millersaid.“Weoughttogethalfadozenpeopletowrapsomeofthosemophandleswithclothandthentiethemdownwithtwine.ThenIthinkweoughttogetacoupleofthosecansofcharcoallighterfluidallready.Ifwecutthetopsrightoffthecans,wecouldhavesometorchesprettyquick,”

Inodded.Thatwasgood.Almostsurelynotgood

enough—notifyouhadseenNormdraggedout—butitwasbetterthansalt.

“Thatwouldgivethemsomethingtothinkabout,atleast,”Olliesaid.

Miller’slipspressedtogether.“Thatbad,huh?”hesaid.

“Thatbad,”Ollieagreed,andworkedhisbeer.

Byfour-thirtythatafternoonthesacksoffertilizerandlawnfoodwereinplaceandthebigwindowswereblockedoffexceptfornarrowloopholes.Awatchmanhadbeenplacedateachofthese,andbesideeachwatchmanwasatinofcharcoallighterfluidwiththetopcutoffandasupplyofmop-handletorches.Therewerefiveloopholes,andDanMillerhadarrangedarotationof

sentriesforeachone.Whenfour-thirtycamearound,Iwassittingonapileofbagsatoneoftheloopholes,Billyatmyside.Wewerelookingoutintothemist.

Justbeyondthewindowwasaredbenchwherepeoplesometimeswaitedfortheirrideswiththeirgroceriesbesidethem.Beyondthatwastheparkinglot.Themistswirledslowly,thickand

heavy.Therewasmoistureinit,buthowdullitseemed,andgloomy.Justlookingatitmademefeelgutlessandlost.

“Daddy,doyouknowwhat’shappening?”Billyasked.

“No,hon,”Isaid.

Hefellsilentforabit,lookingathishands,whichlaylimplyinthelapofhisTuffskinjeans.“Whydoesn’t

somebodycomeandrescueus?”heaskedfinally.“TheStatePoliceortheFBIorsomeone?”

“Idon’tknow.”

“DoyouthinkMom’sokay?”

“Billy,Ijustdon’tknow,”Isaid,andputanarmaroundhim.

“Iwantherawfulbad,”Billy

said,strugglingwithtears.“I’msorryaboutthetimesIwasbadtoher.”

“Billy,”Isaid,andhadtostop.Icouldtastesaltinmythroat,andmyvoicewantedtotremble.

“Willitbeover?”Billyasked.“Daddy?Willit?”

“Idon’tknow,”Isaid,andheputhisfaceinthehollowof

myshoulderandIheldthebackofhishead,feltthedelicatecurveofhisskulljustunderthethickgrowthofhishair.Ifoundmyselfrememberingtheeveningofmyweddingday.WatchingStefftakeoffthesimplebrowndressshehadchangedintoaftertheceremony.Shehadhadabigpurplebruiseononehipfromrunningintothesideofadoorthedaybefore.Irememberedlooking

atthebruiseandthinking,Whenshegotthat,shewasstillStephanieStepanek,andfeelingsomethinglikewonder.Thenwehadmadelove,andoutsideitwasspittingsnowfromadullgrayDecembersky.

Billywascrying.

“Shh,Billy,shh,”Isaid,rockinghisheadagainstme,buthewentoncrying.Itwas

thesortofcryingthatonlymothersknowhowtofixright.

PrematurenightcameinsidetheFederalFoods.MillerandHatlenandBudBrownhandedoutflashlights,thewholestock,abouttwenty.Nortonclamoredloudlyforthemonbehalfofhisgroup,andreceivedtwo.Thelightsbobbedhereandthereintheaisleslikeuneasyphantoms.

IheldBillyagainstmeandlookedoutthroughtheloophole.Themilky,translucentqualityofthelightouttherehadn’tchangedmuch;itwasputtingupthebagsthathadmadethemarketsodark.SeveraltimesIthoughtIsawsomething,butitwasonlyjumpiness.Oneoftheothersraisedahesitantfalsealarm.

BillysawMrs.Turmanagain,

andwenttohereagerly,eventhoughshehadn’tbeenovertositforhimallsummer.Shehadoneoftheflashlightsandhandeditovertohimamiablyenough.Soonhewastryingtowritehisnameinlightontheblankglassfacesofthefrozen-foodcases.Sheseemedashappytoseehimashewastoseeher,andinalittlewhiletheycameover.HattieTurmanwasatall,thinwomanwithlovelyredhair

justbeginningtostreakgray.Apairofglasseshungfromanornamentalchain—thesort,Ibelieve,itisillegalforanyoneexceptmiddle-agedwomentowear—onherbreast.

“IsStephaniehere,David?”sheasked.

“No.Athome.”

Shenodded.“Alan,too.How

longareyouonwatchhere?”

“Untilsix.”

“Haveyouseenanything?”

“No.Justthemist.”

“I’llkeepBillyuntilsix,ifyoulike.”

“Wouldyoulikethat,Billy?”

“Yes,please,”hesaid,

swingingtheflashlightabovehisheadinslowarcsandwatchingitplayacrosstheceiling.

“GodwillkeepyourSteffy,andAlan,too,”Mrs.Turmansaid,andledBillyawaybythehand.Shespokewithserenesureness,buttherewasnoconvictioninhereyes.

Aroundfive-thirtythesoundsofexcitedargumentrosenear

thebackofthestore.Someonejeeredatsomethingsomeoneelsehadsaid,andsomeone—itwasBuddyEagleton,Ithink—shouted,“You’recrazyifyougooutthere!”

Severaloftheflashlightbeamspooledtogetheratthecenterofthecontroversy,andtheymovedtowardthefrontofthestore.Mrs.Carmody’sshrieking,derisivelaughsplit

thegloom,asabrasiveasfingersdrawndownaslateblackboard.

AbovethebabbleofvoicescametheboomofNorton’scourtroomtenor:“Letuspass,please!Letuspass!”

Themanattheloopholenexttominelefthisplacetoseewhattheshoutingwasabout.IdecidedtostaywhereIwas.Whatevertheconcatenation

was,itwascomingmyway.

“Please,”MikeHatlenwassaying.“Please,let’stalkthisthingthrough.”

“Thereisnothingtotalkabout,”Nortonproclaimed.Nowhisfaceswamoutofthegloom.Itwasdeterminedandhaggardandwhollywretched.HewasholdingoneofthetwoflashlightsallocatedtotheFlat-Earthers.

Thecorkscrewedtuftsofhairstillstuckupbehindhisearslikeacuckold’shorns.Hewasattheheadofanextremelysmallprocession—fiveoftheoriginalnineorten.“Wearegoingout,”hesaid.

“Don’tsticktothiscraziness,”Millersaid.“Mike’sright.Wecantalkitover,can’twe?Mr.McVeyisgoingtobarbecuesome

chickenoverthegasgrill,wecanallsitdownandeatandjust—”

HegotinNorton’swayandNortongavehimapush.Millerdidn’tlikeit.Hisfaceflushedandthensetinahardexpression.“Dowhatyouwant,then,”hesaid.“Butyou’reasgoodasmurderingtheseotherpeople.”

Withalltheevennessofgreat

resolveorunbreakableobsession,Nortonsaid:“We’llsendhelpbackforyou.”

Oneofhisfollowersmurmuredagreement,butanotherquietlyslippedaway.NowtherewasNortonandfourothers.Maybethatwasn’tsobad.ChristHimselfcouldonlyfindtwelve.

“Listen,”MikeHatlensaid.

“Mr.Norton—Brent—atleaststayforthechicken.Getsomehotfoodinsideyou.”

“Andgiveyouachancetogoontalking?I’vebeenintoomanycourtroomstofallforthat.You’vepsychedouthalfadozenofmypeoplealready.”

“Yourpeople?”Hatlenalmostgroanedit.“Yourpeople?GoodChrist,what

kindoftalkisthat?They’repeople,that’sall.Thisisnogame,andit’ssurelynotacourtroom.Thereare,forwantofabetterword,therearethingsoutthere,andwhat’sthesenseofgettingyourselfkilled?”

“Things,yousay,”Nortonsaid,soundingsuperficiallyamused.“Where?Yourpeoplehavebeenonwatchforacoupleofhoursnow.

Who’sseenone?”

“Well,outback.Inthe—”

“No,no,no,”Nortonsaid,shakinghishead.“Thatgroundhasbeencoveredandcovered.We’regoingout—”

“No,”someonewhispered,anditechoedandspread,soundingliketherustleofdeadleavesatduskofanOctoberevening.No,no,

no…

“Willyourestrainus?”ashrillvoiceasked.ThiswasoneofNorton’s“people,”tousehisword—anelderlyladywearingbifocals.“Willyourestrainus?”

Thesoftbabbleofnegativesdiedaway.

“No,”Mikesaid.“No,Idon’tthinkanyonewillrestrain

you.”

IwhisperedinBilly’sear.Helookedatme,startledandquestioning.“Goon,now,”Isaid.“Bequick.”

Hewent.

Nortonranhishandsthroughhishair,agestureascalculatedasanyevermadebyaBroadwayactor.Ihadlikedhimbetterpullingthe

cordofhischainsawfruitlessly,cussingandthinkinghimselfunobserved.Icouldnottellthenanddonotknowanybetternowifhebelievedinwhathewasdoingornot.Ithink,downdeep,thatheknewwhatwasgoingtohappen.Ithinkthatthelogichehadpaidlipservicetoallhislifeturnedonhimattheendlikeatigerthathasgonebadandmean.

Helookedaroundrestlessly,seemingtowishthattherewasmoretosay.Thenheledhisfourfollowersthroughoneofthecheckoutlanes.Inadditiontotheelderlywoman,therewasachubbyboyofabouttwenty,ayounggirl,andamaninbluejeanswearingagolfcaptippedbackonhishead.

Norton’seyescaughtmine,widenedalittle,andthen

startedtoswingaway.

“Brent,waitaminute,”Isaid.

“Idon’twanttodiscussitanyfurther.Certainlynotwithyou.”

“Iknowyoudon’t.Ijustwanttoaskafavor.”IlookedaroundandsawBillycomingbacktowardthecheckoutsatarun.

“What’sthat?”NortonaskedsuspiciouslyasBillycameupandhandedmeapackagedoneupincellophane.

“Clothesline,”Isaid.Iwasvaguelyawarethateveryoneinthemarketwaswatchingusnow,looselystrungoutontheothersideofthecashregistersandcheckoutlanes.“It’sthebigpackage.Threehundredfeet.”

“So?”

“Iwonderedifyou’dtieoneendaroundyourwaistbeforeyougoout.I’llletitout.Whenyoufeelitcomeuptight,justtieitaroundsomething.Itdoesn’tmatterwhat.Acardoorhandlewoulddo.”

“WhatinGod’snamefor?”

“Itwilltellmeyougotat

leastthreehundredfeet,”Isaid.

Somethinginhiseyesflickered…butonlymomentarily.“No,”hesaid.

Ishrugged.“Okay.Goodluck,anyhow.”

Abruptlythemaninthegolfcapsaid,“I’lldoit,mister.Noreasonnotto.”

Nortonswungonhim,asiftosaysomethingsharp,andthemaninthegolfcapstudiedhimcalmly.Therewasnothingflickeringinhiseyes.Hehadmadehisdecisionandtherewassimplynodoubtinhim.Nortonsawittooandsaidnothing.

“Thanks,”Isaid.

Islitthewrappingwithmypocketknifeandthe

clotheslineaccordionedoutinstiffloops.IfoundonelooseendandtieditaroundGolfCap’swaistinaloosegranny.Heimmediatelyuntieditandcinchedittighterwithagoodquicksheet-bendknot.Therewasnotasoundinthemarket.Nortonshifteduneasilyfromfoottofoot.

“Youwanttotakemyknife?”Iaskedthemaninthegolfcap.

“Igotone.”Helookedatmewiththatsamecalmcontempt.“Youjustseetopayingoutyourline.Ifitbindsup,I’llchuckher.”

“Areweallready?”Nortonasked,tooloud.Thechubbyboyjumpedasifhehadbeengoosed.Gettingnoresponse,Nortonturnedtogo.

“Brent,”Isaid,andheldoutmyhand.“Goodluck,man.”

Hestudiedmyhandasifitweresomedubiousforeignobject.“We’llsendbackhelp,”hesaidfinally,andpushedthroughtheOUTdoor.Thatthin,acridsmellcameinagain.Theothersfollowedhimout.

MikeHatlencamedownandstoodbesideme.Norton’spartyoffivestoodinthemilky,slow-movingfog.NortonsaidsomethingandI

shouldhaveheardit,butthemistseemedtohaveanodddampingeffect.Iheardnothingbutthesoundofhisvoiceandtwoorthreeisolatedsyllables,likethevoiceontheradioheardfromsomedistance.Theymovedoff.

Hatlenheldthedooralittlewayopen.Ipaidouttheclothesline,keepingasmuchslackinitasIcould,mindful

oftheman’spromisetochucktheropeifitboundhimup.Therewasstillnotasound.Billystoodbesideme,motionlessbutseemingtothrumwithhisowninnercurrent.

Againtherewasthatweirdfeelingthatthefiveofthemdidnotsomuchdisappearintothefogasbecomeinvisible.Foramomenttheirclothesseemedtostand

alone,andthentheyweregone.Youwerenotreallyimpressedwiththeunnaturaldensityofthemistuntilyousawpeopleswallowedupinaspaceofseconds.

Ipaidthelineout.Aquarterofitwent,thenahalf.Itstoppedgoingoutforamoment.Itwentfromalivethingtoadeadoneinmyhands.Iheldmybreath.Thenitstartedtogooutagain.I

paiditthroughmyfingers,andsuddenlyrememberedmyfathertakingmetoseetheGregoryPeckfilmofMoby-DickattheBrookside.IthinkIsmiledalittle.

Three-quartersofthelinewasgonenow.IcouldseetheendofitlyingbesideoneofBilly’sfeet.Thentheropestoppedmovingthroughmyhandsagain.Itlaymotionlessforperhapsfiveseconds,and

thenanotherfivefeetjerkedout.Thenitsuddenlywhipsawedviolentlytotheleft,twangingofftheedgeoftheOUTdoor.

Twentyfeetofropesuddenlypaidout,makingathinheatacrossmyleftpalm.Andfromoutofthemisttherecameahigh,waveringscream.Itwasimpossibletotellthesexofthescreamer.

Theropewhipsawedinmyhandsagain.Andagain.Itskatedacrossthespaceinthedoorwaytotheright,thenbacktotheleft.Afewmorefeetpaidout,andthentherewasaululatinghowlfromouttherethatbroughtanansweringmoanfrommyson.Hatlenstoodaghast.Hiseyeswerehuge.Onecornerofhismouthturneddown,trembling.

Thehowlwasabruptlycutoff.Therewasnosoundatallforwhatseemedtobeforever.Thentheoldladycriedout—thistimetherecouldbenodoubtaboutwhoitwas.“Gititoffame!”shescreamed.“OhmyLordmyLordgetit—”

Thenhervoicewascutoff,too.

Almostalloftherope

abruptlyranoutthroughmylooselyclosedfist,givingmeahotterburnthistime.Thenitwentcompletelyslack,andasoundcameoutofthemist—athick,loudgrunt—thatmadeallthespitinmymouthdryup.

ItwaslikenosoundI’veeverheard,buttheclosestapproximationmightbeamoviesetintheAfricanveldoraSouthAmericanswamp.

Itwasthesoundofabiganimal.Itcameagain,lowandtearingandsavage.Oncemore…andthenitsubsidedtoaseriesoflowmutterings.Thenitwascompletelygone.

“Closethedoor,”AmandaDumfriessaidinatremblingvoice.“Please.”

“Inaminute,”Isaid,andbegantoyankthelinebackin.

Itcameoutofthemistandpileduparoundmyfeetinuntidyloopsandsnarls.Aboutthreefeetfromtheend,thenewwhiteclotheslinewentbarn-red.

“Death!”Mrs.Carmodyscreamed.“Deathtogooutthere!Nowdoyousee?”

Theendoftheclotheslinewasachewedandfrayedtangleoffiberandlittlepuffs

ofcotton.Thelittlepuffsweredewedwithminutedropsofblood.

NoonecontradictedMrs.Carmody.

MikeHatlenletthedoorswingshut.

VII

TheFirstNight.

Mr.McVeyhadworkedinBridgtoncuttingmeateversinceIwastwelveorthirteen,andIhadnoideawhathis

firstnamewasorhisagemightbe.Hehadsetupagasgrillunderoneofthesmallexhaustfans—thefanswerestillnow,butpresumablytheystillgavesomeventilation—andby6:30P.M.

thesmellofcookingchickenfilledthemarket.BudBrowndidn’tobject.Itmighthavebeenshock,butmorelikelyhehadrecognizedthefactthathisfreshmeatandpoultrywasn’tgettingany

fresher.Thechickensmelledgood,butnotmanypeoplewantedtoeat.Mr.McVey,smallandspareandneatinhiswhites,cookedthechickenneverthelessandlaidthepiecestwobytwoonpaperplatesandlinedthemupcafeteria-styleontopofthemeatcounter.

Mrs.TurmanbroughtBillyandmeeachaplate,garnishedwithhelpingsof

delipotatosalad.IateasbestIcould,butBillywouldnotevenpickathis.

“Yougottoeat,bigguy,”Isaid.

“I’mnothungry,”hesaid,puttingtheplateaside.

“Youcan’tgetbigandstrongifyoudon’t—”

Mrs.Turman,sittingslightly

behindBilly,shookherheadatme.

“Okay,”Isaid.“Gogetapeachandeatit,atleast.’Kay?”

“WhatifMr.Brownsayssomething?”

“Ifhesayssomething,youcomebackandtellme.”

“Okay,Dad.”

Hewalkedawayslowly.Heseemedtohaveshrunksomehow.Ithurtmyhearttoseehimwalkthatway.Mr.McVeywentoncookingchicken,apparentlynotmindingthatonlyafewpeoplewereeatingit,happyintheactofcooking.AsIthinkIhavesaid,thereareallwaysofhandlingathinglikethis.Youwouldn’tthinkitwouldbeso,butitis.Themindisamonkey.

Mrs.TurmanandIsathalfwayupthepatent-medicinesaisle.Peopleweresittinginlittlegroupsalloverthestore.NooneexceptMrs.Carmodywassittingalone;evenMyronandhisbuddyJimweretogether—theywerebothpassedoutbythebeercooler.

Sixnewmenwerewatchingtheloopholes.OneofthemwasOllie,gnawingalegof

chickenanddrinkingabeer.Themop-handletorchesleanedbesideeachofthewatchposts,acanofcharcoallighterfluidnexttoeach…butIdon’tthinkanyonereallybelievedinthetorchesthewaytheyhadbefore.Notafterthatlowandterriblyvitalgruntingsound,notafterthechewedandblood-soakedclothesline.Ifwhateverwasouttheredecideditwantedus,itwasgoingtohaveus.It,

orthey.

“Howbadwillitbetonight?”Mrs.Turmanasked.Hervoicewascalm,buthereyesweresickandscared.

“Hattie,Ijustdon’tknow.”

“YouletmekeepBillyasmuchasyoucan.I’m…Davey,IthinkI’minmortalterror.”Sheutteredadrylaugh.“Yes,Ibelievethat’s

whatitis.ButifIhaveBilly,I’llbeallright.I’llbeallrightforhim.”

Hereyeswereglistening.Ileanedoverandpattedhershoulder.

“I’msoworriedaboutAlan,”shesaid.“He’sdead,Davey.Inmyheart,I’msurehe’sdead.”

“No,Hattie.Youdon’tknow

anysuchthing.”

“ButIfeelit’strue.Don’tyoufeelanythingaboutStephanie?Don’tyouatleasthavea…afeeling?”

“No,”Isaid,lyingthroughmyteeth.

Astrangledsoundcamefromherthroatandsheclappedahandtohermouth.Herglassesreflectedbackthe

dim,murkylight.

“Billy’scomingback,”Imurmured.

Hewaseatingapeach.HattieTurmanpattedthefloorbesideherandsaidthatwhenhewasdoneshewouldshowhimhowtomakealittlemanoutofthepeachpitandsomethread.Billysmiledatherwanly,andMrs.Turmansmiledback.

At8:00P.M.sixnewmenwentonattheloopholesandOlliecameovertowhereIwassitting.“Where’sBilly?”

“WithMrs.Turman,upback,”Isaid.“They’redoingcrafts.They’verunthroughpeach-pitmenandshopping-bagmasksandappledollsandnowMr.McVeyisshowinghimhowtomakepipe-cleanermen.”

Ollietookalongdrinkofbeerandsaid,“Thingsaremovingaroundoutthere.”

Ilookedathimsharply.Helookedbacklevelly.

“I’mnotdrunk,”hesaid.“I’vebeentryingbuthaven’tbeenabletomakeit.IwishIcould,David.”

“Whatdoyoumean,thingsaremovingaroundout

there?”

“Ican’tsayforsure.IaskedWalter,andhesaidhehadthesamefeeling,thatpartsofthemistwouldgodarkerforaminute—sometimesjustalittlesmudge,sometimesabigdarkplace,likeabruise.Thenitwouldfadebacktogray.Andthestuffisswirlingaround.EvenArnieSimmssaidhefeltlikesomethingwasgoingonoutthere,and

Arnie’salmostasblindasabat.”

“Whatabouttheothers?”

“They’reallout-of-staters,strangerstome,”Olliesaid.“Ididn’taskanyofthem.”

“Howsureareyouthatyouweren’tjustseeingthings?”

“Sure,”hesaid.HenoddedtowardMrs.Carmody,who

wassittingbyherselfattheendoftheaisle.Noneofithadhurtherappetiteany;therewasagraveyardofchickenbonesonherplate.ShewasdrinkingeitherbloodorV-8juice.“Ithinkshewasrightaboutonething,”Olliesaid.“We’llfindout.Whenitgetsdark,we’llfindout.”

Butwedidn’thavetowaituntildark.Whenitcame,Billysawverylittleofit,

becauseMrs.Turmankepthimupback.Olliewasstillsittingwithmewhenoneofthemenupfrontgaveoutashriekandstaggeredbackfromhispost,pinwheelinghisarms.Itwasapproachingeight-thirty;outsidethepearl-whitemisthaddarkenedtothedullslatycolorofaNovembertwilight.

Somethinghadlandedontheglassoutsideoneofthe

loopholes.

“OhmyJesus!”themanwhohadbeenwatchingtherescreamed.“Letmeout!Letmeoutofthis!”

Hetorearoundinaramblingcircle,hiseyesstartingfromhisface,athinlickofsalivaatonecornerofhismouthglimmeringinthedeepeningshadows.Thenhetookoffstraightupthefaraislepast

thefrozen-foodcases.

Therewereansweringcries.Somepeoplerantowardthefronttoseewhathadhappened.Manyothersretreatedtowardtheback,notcaringandnotwantingtoseewhateverwascrawlingontheglassoutthere.

Istarteddowntowardtheloophole,Olliebymyside.Hishandwasinthepocket

thatheldMrs.Dumfries’gun.Nowoneoftheotherwatchersletoutacry—notsomuchoffearasdisgust.

OllieandIslippedthroughoneofthecheckoutlanes.NowIcouldseewhathadfrightenedtheguyfromhispost.Icouldn’ttellwhatitwas,butIcouldseeit.ItlookedlikeoneoftheminorcreaturesinaBoschpainting—oneofhishellacious

murals.Therewassomethingalmosthorriblycomicaboutit,too,becauseitalsolookedalittlelikeoneofthosestrangecreationsofvinylandplasticyoucanbuyfor$1.89tospringonyourfriends…infact,exactlythesortofthingNortonhadaccusedmeofplantinginthestoragearea.

Itwasmaybetwofeetlong,segmented,thepinkishcolorofburnedfleshthathas

healedover.Bulbouseyespeeredintwodifferentdirectionsatoncefromtheendsofshort,limberstalks.Itclungtothewindowonfatsucker-pads.Fromtheoppositeendthereprotrudedsomethingthatwaseitherasexualorganorastinger.Andfromitsbacktheresproutedoversized,membranouswings,likethewingsofahousefly.TheyweremovingveryslowlyasOllieandI

approachedtheglass.

Attheloopholetotheleftofus,wherethemanhadmadethedisgustedcawingsound,threeofthethingswerecrawlingontheglass.Theymovedsluggishlyacrossit,leavingstickysnailtrailsbehindthem.Theireyes—ifthatiswhattheywere—joggledontheendofthefinger-thickstalks.Thebiggestwasmaybefourfeet

long.Attimestheycrawledrightovereachother.

“Lookatthosegoddamnthings,”TomSmalleysaidinasickenedvoice.Hewasstandingattheloopholeonourright.Ididn’treply.Thebugswereallovertheloopholesnow,whichmeanttheywereprobablycrawlingalloverthebuilding…likemaggotsonapieceofmeat.Itwasn’tapleasantimage,and

IcouldfeelwhatchickenIhadmanagedtoeatnowwantingtocomeup.

Someonewassobbing.Mrs.Carmodywasscreamingaboutabominationsfromwithintheearth.Someonetoldhergrufflythatshe’dshutupifsheknewwhatwasgoodforher.Sameoldshit.

OllietookMrs.Dumfries’gunfromhispocketandI

grabbedhisarm.“Don’tbecrazy.”

Heshookfree.“IknowwhatI’mdoing,”hesaid.

Hetappedthebarrelofthegunonthewindow,hisfacesetinanearlymasklikeexpressionofdistaste.Thespeedofthecreatures’wingsincreaseduntiltheywereonlyablur—ifyouhadn’tknown,youmighthavebelievedthey

weren’twingedcreaturesatall.Thentheysimplyflewaway.

SomeoftheotherssawwhatOlliehaddoneandgottheidea.Theyusedthemophandlestotaponthewindows.Thethingsflewaway,butcamerightback.Apparentlytheyhadnomorebrainsthanyouraveragehousefly,either.Thenear-panicdissolvedinababbleof

conversation.Iheardsomeoneaskingsomeoneelsewhathethoughtthosethingswoulddoiftheylandedonyou.ThatwasaquestionIhadnointerestinseeinganswered.

Thetappingonthewindowsbegantodieaway.Ollieturnedtowardmeandstartedtosaysomething,butbeforehecoulddomorethanopenhismouth,somethingcame

outofthefogandsnatchedoneofthecrawlingthingsofftheglass.IthinkIscreamed.I’mnotsure.

Itwasaflyingthing.BeyondthatIcouldnothavesaidforsure.ThefogappearedtodarkeninexactlythewayOlliehaddescribed,onlythedarksmutchdidn’tfadeaway;itsolidifiedintosomethingwithflapping,leatherywings,analbino

whitebody,andreddisheyes.Itthuddedintotheglasshardenoughtomakeitshiver.Itsbeakopened.Itscoopedthepinkthinginandwasgone.Thewholeincidenttooknomorethanfiveseconds.Ihadabarefinalimpressionofthepinkthingwigglingandflappingasitwentdownthehatch,thewayasmallfishwillwiggleandflapinthebeakofaseagull.

Nowtherewasanotherthud,andyetanother.Peoplebeganscreamingagain,andtherewasastampedetowardthebackofthestore.Thentherewasamorepiercingscream,oneofpain,andOlliesaid,“OhmyGod,thatoldladyfelldownandtheyjustranoverher.”

Heranbackthroughthecheckoutaisle.Iturnedtofollow,andthenIsaw

somethingthatstoppedmedeadwhereIwasstanding.

Highupandtomyright,oneofthelawn-foodbagswasslidingslowlybackward.TomSmalleywasrightunderit,staringoutintothemistthroughhisloophole.

AnotherofthepinkbugslandedonthethickplateglassoftheloopholewhereOllieandIhadbeenstanding.One

oftheflyingthingsswoopeddownandgrabbedit.Theoldwomanwhohadbeentrampledwentonscreaminginashrill,crackedvoice.

Thatbag.Thatslidingbag.

“Smalley!”Ishouted.“Lookout!Headsup!”

Inthegeneralconfusion,heneverheardme.Thebagteetered,thenfell.Itstruck

himsquarelyonthehead.Hewentdownhard,catchinghisjawontheshelfthatranbelowtheshowwindow.

Oneofthealbinoflyingthingswassquirmingitswaythroughthejaggedholeintheglass.Icouldhearthesoftscrapingsoundthatitmade,nowthatsomeofthescreaminghadstopped.Itsredeyesglitteredinitstriangularhead,whichwas

slightlycockedtooneside.Aheavy,hookedbeakopenedandclosedrapaciously.Itlookedabitlikethepaintingsofpterodactylsyoumayhaveseeninthedinosaurbooks,morelikesomethingoutofalunatic’snightmare.

Igrabbedoneofthetorchesandslam-dunkeditintoacanofcharcoallighterfluid,tippingitoverandspillingapoolofthestuffacrossthe

floor.

Theflyingcreaturepausedontopofthelawn-foodbags,glaringaround,shiftingslowlyandmalignantlyfromonetalonedfoottotheother.Itwasastupidcreature,Iamquitesureofthat.Twiceittriedtospreaditswings,whichstruckthewallsandthenfoldedthemselvesoveritshunchedbacklikethewingsofagriffin.Thethird

timeittried,itlostitsbalanceandfellclumsilyfromitsperch,stilltryingtospreaditswings.ItlandedonTomSmalley’sback.OneflexofitsclawsandTom’sshirtrippedwideopen.Bloodbegantoflow.

Iwasthere,lessthanthreefeetaway.Mytorchwasdrippinglighterfluid.IwasemotionallypumpeduptokillitifIcould…andthen

realizedIhadnomatchestolightitwith.IhadusedthelastonelightingacigarforMr.McVeyanhourago.

Theplacewasinpandemoniumnow.PeoplehadseenthethingroostingonSmalley’sback,somethingnooneintheworldhadseenbefore.Itdarteditsheadforwardataquestingangle,andtoreachunkofmeatfromthebackofSmalley’s

neck.

Iwasgettingreadytousethetorchasabludgeonwhenthecloth-wrappedheadofitsuddenlyblazedalight.DanMillerwasthere,holdingaZippolighterwithaMarineemblemonit.Hisfacewasasharshasarockwithhorrorandfury.

“Killit,”hesaidhoarsely.“Killitifyoucan.”Standing

besidehimwasOllie.HehadMrs.Dumfries’.38inhishand,buthehadnoclearshot.

Thethingspreaditswingsandflappedthemonce—apparentlynottoflyawaybuttosecureabetterholdonitsprey—andthenitsleathery-white,membranouswingsenfoldedpoorSmalley’sentireupperbody.Thenthesoundscame—mortaltearing

soundsthatIcannotbeartodescribeinanydetail.

Allofthishappenedinbareseconds.ThenIthrustmytorchatthething.Therewasthesensationofstrikingsomethingwithnomorerealsubstancethanaboxkite.Thenextmomenttheentirecreaturewasblazing.Itmadeascreechingsoundanditswingsspread;itsheadjerkedanditsreddisheyesrolled

withwhatImostsincerelyhopewasgreatagony.Ittookoffwithasoundlikelinenbedsheetsflappingonaclotheslineinastiffspringbreeze.Itutteredthatrustyshriekingsoundagain.

Headsturneduptofollowitsflaming,dyingcourse.Ithinkthatnothingintheentirebusinessstandsinmymemorysostronglyasthatbird-thingblazinga

zigzaggingcourseabovetheaislesoftheFederalSupermarket,droppingcharredandsmokingbitsofitselfhereandthere.Itfinallycrashedintothespaghettisauces,splatteringRagúandPrinceandPrimaSalsaeverywherelikegoutsofblood.Itwaslittlemorethanashandbone.Thesmellofitsburningwashighandsickening.Andunderlyingitlikeacounterpointwasthe

thinandacridstenchofthemist,eddyinginthroughthebrokenplaceintheglass.

Foramomenttherewasuttersilence.Wewereunitedintheblackwonderofthatbrightlyflamingdeathflight.Thensomeonehowled.Othersscreamed.AndfromsomewhereinthebackIcouldhearmysoncrying.

Ahandgrabbedme.Itwas

BudBrown.Hiseyeswerebulgingfromtheirsockets.Hislipsweredrawnbackfromhisfalseteethinasnarl.“Oneofthoseotherthings,”hesaid,andpointed.

Oneofthebugshadcomeinthroughtheholeanditnowperchedonalawn-foodbag,houseflywingsbuzzing—youcouldhearthem;itsoundedlikeacheapdepartment-storeelectricfan—eyesbulging

fromtheirstalks.Itspinkandnoxiouslyplumpbodywasaspiratingrapidly.

Imovedtowardit.Mytorchwasgutteringbutnotyetout.ButMrs.Reppler,thethird-gradeteacher,beatmetoit.Shewasmaybefifty-five,maybesixty,rope-thin.Herbodyhadatough,dried-outlookthatalwaysmakesmethinkofbeefjerky.

ShehadacanofRaidineachhandlikesomecrazygunslingerinanexistentialcomedy.Sheutteredasnarlofangerthatwouldhavedonecredittoacavemansplittingtheskullofanenemy.Holdingthepressurecansoutatthefulllengthofeacharm,shepressedthebuttons.Athicksprayofinsect-killercoatedthething.Itwentintothroesofagony,twistingandturningcrazily

andatlastfallingfromthebags,bouncingoffthebodyofTomSmalley—whowasdeadbeyondanydoubtorquestion—andfinallylandingonthefloor.Itswingsbuzzedmadly,buttheyweren’ttakingitanywhere;theyweretooheavilycoatedwithRaid.Afewmomentslaterthewingsslowed,thenstopped.Itwasdead.

Youcouldhearpeoplecrying

now.Andmoaning.Theoldladywhohadbeentrampledwasmoaning.Andyoucouldhearlaughter.Thelaughterofthedamned.Mrs.Repplerstoodoverherkill,herthinchestrisingandfallingrapidly.

HatlenandMillerhadfoundoneofthosedolliesthatthestockboysusetotrundlecasesofthingsaroundthestore,andtogethertheyheavedit

atopthelawn-foodbags,blockingoffthewedge-shapedholeintheglass.Asatemporarymeasure,itwasagoodone.

AmandaDumfriescameforwardlikeasleepwalker.Inonehandsheheldaplasticfloorbucket.Intheothersheheldawhiskbroom,stilldoneupinitssee-throughwrapping.Shebent,hereyesstillwideandblank,and

sweptthedeadpinkthing—bug,slug,whateveritwas—intothebucket.Youcouldhearthecrackleofthewrappingonthewhiskbroomasitbrushedthefloor.ShewalkedovertotheOUTdoor.Therewerenoneofthebugsonit.Sheopeneditalittlewayandthrewthebucketout.Itlandedonitssideandrolledbackandforthinever-decreasingarcs.Oneofthepinkthingsbuzzedoutofthe

night,landedonthefloorpail,andbegantocrawloverit.

Amandaburstintotears.Iwalkedoverandputanarmaroundhershoulders.

Atone-thirtythefollowingmorningIwassittingwithmybackagainstthewhiteenamelsideofthemeatcounterinasemidoze.Billy’sheadwasinmylap.Hewassolidly

asleep.NotfarawayAmandaDumfrieswassleepingwithherheadpillowedonsomeone’sjacket.

Notlongaftertheflamingdeathofthebird-thing,OllieandIhadgonebackouttothestorageareaandhadgathereduphalfadozenofthepadssuchastheoneI’dcoveredBillywithearlier.Severalpeopleweresleepingonthese.Wehadalsobrought

backseveralheavycratesoforangesandpears,andfourofusworkingtogetherhadbeenabletoswingthemtothetopsofthelawn-foodbagsinfrontoftheholeintheglass.Thebird-creatureswouldhaveatoughtimeshiftingoneofthosecrates;theyweighedaboutninetypoundseach.

Butthebirdsandthebuglikethingsthebirdsateweren’t

theonlythingsoutthere.TherewasthetentacledthingthathadtakenNorm.Therewasthefrayedclotheslinetothinkabout.Therewastheunseenthingthathadutteredthatlow,gutturalroartothinkabout.Wehadheardsoundslikeitsince—sometimesquitedistant—buthowfarwas“distant”throughthedampingeffectofthemist?Andsometimestheywerecloseenoughtoshakethe

buildingandmakeitseemasiftheventriclesofyourhearthadsuddenlybeenloadedupwithicewater.

Billystartedinmylapandmoaned.Ibrushedhishairandhemoanedmoreloudly.Thenheseemedtofindsleep’slessdangerouswatersagain.MyowndozewasbrokenandIwasstaringwideawakeagain.Sincedark,Ihadonlymanagedtosleep

aboutninetyminutes,andthathadbeendream-haunted.Inoneofthedreamfragmentsithadbeenthenightbeforeagain.BillyandSteffywerestandinginfrontofthepicturewindow,lookingoutattheblackandslategraywaters,outatthesilverspinningwaterspoutthatheraldedthestorm.Itriedtogettothem,knowingthatastrongenoughwindcouldbreakthewindowandthrow

deadlyglassdartsallthewayacrossthelivingroom.ButnomatterhowIran,Iseemedtogetnoclosertothem.Andthenabirdroseoutofthewaterspout,agiganticscarletoiseaudemortwhoseprehistoricwingspandarkenedtheentirelakefromwesttoeast.Itsbeakopened,revealingamawthesizeoftheHollandTunnel.Andasthebirdcametogobbleupmywifeandson,alow,

sinistervoicebegantowhisperoverandoveragain:TheArrowheadProject…theArrowheadProject…theArrowheadProject…

NotthatBillyandIweretheonlyonessleepingpoorly.Othersscreamedintheirsleep,andsomewentonscreamingaftertheywokeup.Thebeerwasdisappearingfromthecooleratagreatrate.BuddyEagletonhad

restockeditoncefromoutbackwithnocomment.MikeHatlentoldmetheSominexwasgone.Notdepletedbuttotallywipedout.Heguessedthatsomepeoplemighthavetakensixoreightbottles.

“There’ssomeNytolleft,”hesaid.“Youwantabottle,David?”Ishookmyheadandthankedhim.

Andinthelastaisledownby

Register5,wehadourwinos.Therewereaboutsevenofthem,allout-of-statersexceptforLouTattinger,whoranthePineTreeCarWash.Loudidn’tneedanyexcusetosniffthecork,asthesayingwas.Thewinobrigadewasprettywellanesthetized.

Ohyes—therewerealsosixorsevenpeoplewhohadgonecrazy.

Crazyisn’tthebestword;perhapsIjustcan’tthinkoftheproperone.Buttherewerethesepeoplewhohadlapsedintoacompletestuporwithoutbenefitofbeer,wine,orpills.Theystaredatyouwithblankandshinydoorknobeyes.Thehardcementofrealityhadcomeapartinsomeunimaginableearthquake,andthesepoordevilshadfallenthrough.Intime,someofthemmight

comeback.Iftherewastime.

Therestofushadmadeourownmentalcompromises,andinsomecasesIsupposetheywerefairlyodd.Mrs.Reppler,forinstance,wasconvincedthewholethingwasadream—orsoshesaid.Andshespokewithsomeconviction.

IlookedoveratAmanda.Iwasdevelopingan

uncomfortablystrongfeelingforher—uncomfortablebutnotexactlyunpleasant.Hereyeswereanincrediblebrilliantgreen…forawhileIhadkeptaneyeonhertoseeifshewasgoingtotakeoutapairofcontactlenses,butapparentlythecolorwastrue.Iwantedtomakelovetoher.Mywifewasathome,maybealive,moreprobablydead,aloneeitherway,andIlovedher;IwantedtogetBillyand

mebacktohermorethananything,butIalsowantedtoscrewthisladynamedAmandaDumfries.Itriedtotellmyselfitwasjustthesituationwewerein,andmaybeitwas,butthatdidn’tchangethewanting.

Idozedinandout,thenjerkedawakemorefullyaroundthree.Amandahadshiftedintoasortoffetalposition,herkneespulledup

towardherchest,handsclaspedbetweenherthighs.Sheseemedtobesleepingdeeply.Hersweatshirthadpulledupslightlyononeside,showingcleanwhiteskin.Ilookedatitandbegantogetanextremelyuselessanduncomfortableerection.

ItriedtodivertmymindtoanewtrackandgotthinkingabouthowIhadwantedtopaintBrentNortonyesterday.

No,nothingasimportantasapainting,but…justsithimonalogwithmybeerinhishandandsketchhissweaty,tiredfaceandthetwowingsofhiscarefullyprocessedhairstickingupuntidilyintheback.Itcouldhavebeenagoodpicture.Ittookmetwentyyearsoflivingwithmyfathertoaccepttheideathatbeinggoodcouldbegoodenough.

Youknowwhattalentis?Thecurseofexpectation.Asakidyouhavetodealwiththat,beatitsomehow.Ifyoucanwrite,youthinkGodputyouonearthtoblowShakespeareaway.Orifyoucanpaint,maybeyouthink—Idid—thatGodputyouonearthtoblowyourfatheraway.

ItturnedoutIwasn’tasgoodashewas.IkepttryingtobeforlongerthanIshouldhave,

maybe.IhadashowinNewYorkanditdidpoorly—theartcriticsbeatmeovertheheadwithmyfather.AyearlaterIwassupportingmyselfandSteffwiththecommercialstuff.ShewaspregnantandIsatdownandtalkedtomyselfaboutit.Theresultofthatconversationwasabeliefthatseriousartwasalwaysgoingtobeahobbyforme,nomore.

IdidGoldenGirlShampooads—theonewheretheGirlisstandingastrideherbike,theonewhereshe’splayingFrisbeeonthebeach,theonewhereshe’sstandingonthebalconyofherapartmentwithadrinkinherhand.I’vedoneshort-storyillustrationsformostofthebigslicks,butIbrokeintothatfielddoingfastillustrationsforthestoriesinthesleaziermen’smagazines.I’vedonesome

movieposters.Themoneycomesin.Wekeepourheadsnicelyabovewater.

IhadonefinalshowinBridgton,justlastsummer.IshowedninecanvasesthatIhadpaintedinfiveyears,andIsoldsixofthem.TheoneIabsolutelywouldnotsellshowedtheFederalmarket,bysomequeercoincidence.Theperspectivewasfromthefarendoftheparkinglot.In

mypicture,theparkinglotwasemptyexceptforalineofCampbell’sBeansandFrankscans,eachonelargerthanthelastastheymarchedtowardtheviewer’seye.Thelastoneappearedtobeabouteightfeettall.ThepicturewastitledBeansandFalsePerspective.AmanfromCaliforniawhowasatopexecinsomecompanythatmakestennisballsandracketsandwhoknowswhat

othersportsequipmentseemedtowantthatpictureverybadly,andwouldnottakenoforananswerinspiteoftheNFScardtuckedintothebottomleft-handcornerofthesparewoodenframe.Hebeganatsixhundreddollarsandworkedhiswayuptofourthousand.Hesaidhewanteditforhisstudy.Iwouldnotlethimhaveit,andhewentawaysorelypuzzled.Evenso,hedidn’tquitegive

up;helefthiscardincaseIchangedmymind.

Icouldhaveusedthemoney—thatwastheyearweputtheadditiononthehouseandboughtthefour-wheel-drive—butIjustcouldn’tsellit.Icouldn’tsellitbecauseIfeltitwasthebestpaintingIhadeverdoneandIwantedittolookataftersomeonewouldaskme,withtotallyunconsciouscruelty,whenI

wasgoingtodosomethingserious.

ThenIhappenedtoshowittoOllieWeeksonedaylastfall.Heaskedmeifhecouldphotographitandrunitasanadoneweek,andthatwastheendofmyownfalseperspective.Olliehadrecognizedmypaintingforwhatitwas,andbydoingso,heforcedmetorecognizeit,too.Aperfectlygoodpieceof

slickcommercialart.Nomore.And,thankGod,noless.

Ilethimdoit,andthenIcalledtheexecathishomeinSanLuisObispoandtoldhimhecouldhavethepaintingfortwenty-fivehundredifhestillwantedit.Hedid,andIshippeditUPStothecoast.Andsincethenthatvoiceofdisappointedexpectation—thatcheatedchild’svoicethat

canneverbesatisfiedwithsuchamildsuperlativeasgood—hasfallenprettymuchsilent.Andexceptforafewrumbles—likethesoundsofthoseunseencreaturessomewhereoutinthefoggynight—ithasbeenprettymuchsilenteversince.Maybeyoucantellme—whyshouldthesilencingofthatchildish,demandingvoiceseemsomuchlikedying?

Aroundfouro’clockBillywokeup—partially,atleast—andlookedaroundwithbleary,uncomprehendingeyes.“Arewestillhere?”

“Yeah,honey,”Isaid.“Weare.”

Hestartedtocrywithaweakhelplessnessthatwashorrible.Amandawokeupandlookedatus.

“Hey,kid,”shesaid,andpulledhimgentlytoher.“Everythingisgoingtolookalittlebettercomemorning.”

“No,”Billysaid.“Noitwon’t.Itwon’t.Itwon’t.”

“Shh,”shesaid.Hereyesmetmineoverhishead.“Shh,it’spastyourbedtime.”

“Iwantmymother!”

“Yeah,youdo,”Amandasaid.“Ofcourseyoudo.”

Billysquirmedaroundinherlapuntilhecouldlookatme.Whichhedidforsometime.Andthensleptagain.

“Thanks,”Isaid.“Heneededyou.”

“Hedoesn’tevenknowme.”

“Thatdoesn’tchangeit.”

“Sowhatdoyouthink?”sheasked.Hergreeneyesheldminesteadily.“Whatdoyoureallythink?”

“Askmeinthemorning.”

“I’maskingyounow.”

IopenedmymouthtoanswerandthenOllieWeeksmaterializedoutofthegloomlikesomethingfromahorrortale.Hehadaflashlightwith

oneoftheladies’blousesoverthelens,andhewaspointingittowardtheceiling.Itmadestrangeshadowsonhishaggardface.“David,”hewhispered.

Amandalookedathim,firststartled,thenscaredagain.

“Ollie,whatisit?”Iasked.

“David,”hewhisperedagain.Then:“Comeon.Please.”

“Idon’twanttoleaveBilly.Hejustwenttosleep.”

“I’llbewithhim,”Amandasaid.“Youbettergo.”Then,inalowervoice:“Jesus,thisisnevergoingtoend.”

VIII

WhatHappenedtotheSoldiers.With

Amanda.AConversationwith

DanMiller.

IwentwithOllie.Hewasheadedforthestoragearea.Aswepassedthecooler,hegrabbedabeer.

“Ollie,whatisit?”

“Iwantyoutoseeit.”

Hepushedthroughthedoubledoors.Theyslippedshutbehinduswithalittlebackwashofair.Itwascold.Ididn’tlikethisplace,notafter

whathadhappenedtoNorm.Apartofmymindinsistedonremindingmethattherewasstillasmallscrapofdeadtentaclelyingaroundsomeplace.

Ollielettheblousedropfromthelensofhislight.Hetraineditoverhead.AtfirstIhadanideathatsomeonehadhungacoupleofmannequinsfromoneoftheheatingpipesbelowtheceiling.Thatthey

hadhungthemonpianowireorsomething,akid’sHalloweentrick.

ThenInoticedthefeet,danglingaboutseveninchesoffthecementfloor.Thereweretwopilesofkicked-overcartons.Ilookedupatthefacesandascreambegantoriseinmythroatbecausetheywerenotthefacesofdepartment-storedummies.Bothheadswerecockedto

theside,asifappreciatingsomehorriblyfunnyjoke,ajokethathadmadethemlaughuntiltheyturnedpurple.

Theirshadows.Theirshadowsthrownlongonthewallbehindthem.Theirtongues.Theirprotrudingtongues.

Theywerebothwearinguniforms.Theywerethekids

Ihadnoticedearlierandhadlosttrackofalongtheway.Thearmybratsfrom—

Thescream.Icouldhearitstartinginmythroatasamoan,risinglikeapolicesiren,andthenOlliegrippedmyarmjustabovetheelbow.“Don’tscream,David.Nooneknowsaboutthisbutyouandme.Andthat’showIwanttokeepit.”

SomehowIbititback.

“Thosearmykids,”Imanaged.

“FromtheArrowheadProject,”Olliesaid.“Sure.”Somethingcoldwasthrustintomyhand.Thebeercan.“Drinkthis.Youneedit.”

Idrainedthecancompletelydry.

Olliesaid,“IcamebacktoseeifwehadanyextracartridgesforthatgasgrillMr.McVeyhasbeenusing.Isawtheseguys.ThewayIfigure,theymusthavegottenthenoosesreadyandstoodontopofthosetwopilesofcartons.Theymusthavetiedtheirhandsforeachotherandthenbalancedeachotherwhiletheysteppedthroughthelengthofropebetweentheirwrists.So…sothattheir

handswouldbebehindthem,youknow.Then—thisisthewayIfigure—theystucktheirheadsintothenoosesandpulledthemtightbyjerkingtheirheadstooneside.Maybeoneofthemcountedtothreeandtheyjumpedtogether.Idon’tknow.”

“Itcouldn’tbedone,”Isaidthroughadrymouth.Buttheirhandsweretiedbehindthem,allright.Icouldn’t

seemtotakemyeyesawayfromthat.

“Itcould.Iftheywantedtobadenough,David,theycould.”

“Butwhy?”

“Ithinkyouknowwhy.Notanyofthetourists,thesummerpeople—likethatguyMiller—buttherearepeoplefromaroundherewho

couldmakeaprettydecentguess.”

“TheArrowheadProject?”

Olliesaid,“IstandbyoneofthoseregistersalldaylongandIhearalot.AllthisspringI’vebeenhearingthingsaboutthatdamnedArrowheadthing,noneofitgood.Theblackiceonthelakes—”

IthoughtofBillGiostileaninginmywindow,blowingwarmalcoholinmyface.Notjustatoms,butdifferentatoms.Nowthesebodieshangingfromthatoverheadpipe.Thecockedheads.Thedanglingshoes.Thetonguesprotrudinglikesummersausages.

Irealizedwithfreshhorrorthatnewdoorsofperceptionwereopeningupinside.

New?Notso.Olddoorsofperception.Theperceptionofachildwhohasnotyetlearnedtoprotectitselfbydevelopingthetunnelvisionthatkeepsoutninetypercentoftheuniverse.Childrenseeeverythingtheireyeshappenupon,heareverythingintheirears’range.Butiflifeistheriseofconsciousness(asacrewel-worksamplermywifemadeinhighschoolproclaims),thenitisalsothe

reductionofinput.

Terroristhewideningofperspectiveandperception.ThehorrorwasinknowingIwasswimmingdowntoaplacemostofusleavewhenwegetoutofdiapersandintotrainingpants.IcouldseeitonOllie’sface,too.Whenrationalitybeginstobreakdown,thecircuitsofthehumanbraincanoverload.Axonsgrowbrightand

feverish.Hallucinationsturnreal:thequicksilverpuddleatthepointwhereperspectivemakesparallellinesseemtointersectisreallythere;thedeadwalkandtalk;arosebeginstosing.

“I’veheardstufffrommaybetwodozenpeople,”Olliesaid.“JustineRobards.NickTochai.BenMichaelson.Youcan’tkeepsecretsinsmalltowns.Thingsgetout.

Sometimesit’slikeaspring—itjustbubblesupoutoftheearthandnoonehasanideawhereitcamefrom.Youoverhearsomethingatthelibraryandpassiton,oratthemarinainHarrison,Christknowswhereelse,orwhy.ButallspringandsummerI’vebeenhearingArrowheadProject,ArrowheadProject.”

“Butthesetwo,”Isaid.“Christ,Ollie,they’rejust

kids.”

“TherewerekidsinNamwhousedtotakeears.Iwasthere.Isawit.”

“But…whatwoulddrivethemtodothis?”

“Idon’tknow.Maybetheyknewsomething.Maybetheyonlysuspected.Theymusthaveknownpeopleinherewouldstartaskingthem

questionseventually.Ifthereisaneventually.”

“Ifyou’reright,”Isaid,“itmustbesomethingreallybad.”

“Thatstorm,”Olliesaidinhissoft,levelvoice.“Maybeitknockedsomethinglooseupthere.Maybetherewasanaccident.Theycouldhavebeenfoolingaroundwithanything.Somepeopleclaim

theyweremessingwithhigh-intensitylasersandmasers.SometimesIhearfusionpower.Andsuppose…supposetheyrippedaholestraightthroughintoanotherdimension?”

“That’shogwash,”Isaid.

“Arethey?”Ollieasked,andpointedatthebodies.

“No.Thequestionnowis:

Whatdowedo?”

“Ithinkweoughttocutthemdownandhidethem,”hesaidpromptly.“Putthemunderapileofstuffpeoplewon’twant—dogfood,dishdetergent,stufflikethat.Ifthisgetsout,itwillonlymakethingsworse.That’swhyIcametoyou,David.IfeltyouaretheonlyoneIcouldreallytrust.”

Imuttered,“It’sliketheNaziwarcriminalskillingthemselvesintheircellsafterthewarwaslost.”

“Yeah.Ihadthatsamethought.”

Wefellsilent,andsuddenlythosesoftshufflingnoisesbeganoutsidethesteelloadingdooragain—thesoundofthetentaclesfeelingsoftlyacrossit.Wedrew

together.Myfleshwascrawling.

“Okay,”Isaid.

“We’llmakeitasquickaswecan,”Olliesaid.Hissapphireringglowedmutelyashemovedhisflashlight.“Iwanttogetoutofherefast.”

Ilookedupattheropes.Theyhadusedthesamesortofclotheslinethemaninthe

golfcaphadallowedmetotiearoundhiswaist.Thenooseshadsunkintothepuffedfleshoftheirnecks,andIwonderedagainwhatitcouldhavebeentomakebothofthemgothroughwithit.IknewwhatOlliemeantbysayingthatifthenewsofthedoublesuicidegotout,itwouldmakethingsworse.Formeitalreadyhad—andIwouldn’thavebelievedthatpossible.

Therewasasnickingsound.Olliehadopenedhisknife,agoodheavyjobmadeforslittingopencartons.And,ofcourse,cuttingrope.

“Youorme?”heasked.

Iswallowed.“Oneeach.”

Wedidit.

WhenIgotback,AmandawasgoneandMrs.Turman

waswithBilly.Theywerebothsleeping.Iwalkeddownoneoftheaislesandavoicesaid:“Mr.Drayton.David.”ItwasAmanda,standingbythestairstothemanager’soffice,hereyeslikeemeralds.“Whatwasit?”

“Nothing,”Isaid.

Shecameovertome.Icouldsmellfaintperfume.AndohhowIwantedher.“Youliar,”

shesaid.

“Itwasnothing.Afalsealarm.”

“Ifthat’showyouwantit.”Shetookmyhand.“I’vejustbeenuptotheoffice.It’semptyandthere’salockonthedoor.”Herfacewasperfectlycalm,buthereyeswerelambent,almostferal,andapulsebeatsteadilyinherthroat.

“Idon’t—”

“Isawthewayyoulookedatme,”shesaid.“Ifweneedtotalkaboutit,it’snogood.TheTurmanwomaniswithyourson.”

“Yes.”Itcametomethatthiswasaway—maybenotthebestone,butaway,nevertheless—totakethecurseoffwhatOllieandIhadjustdone.Notthebestway,

justtheonlyway.

Wewentupthenarrowflightofstairsandintotheoffice.Itwasempty,asshehadsaid.Andtherewasalockonthedoor.Iturnedit.Inthedarknessshewasnothingbutashape.Iputmyarmsout,touchedher,andpulledhertome.Shewastrembling.Wewentdownonthefloor,firstkneeling,kissing,andIcuppedonefirmbreastand

couldfeelthequickthuddingofherheartthroughhersweatshirt.IthoughtofSteffytellingBillynottotouchthelivewires.Ithoughtofthebruisethathadbeenonherhipwhenshetookoffthebrowndressonourweddingnight.IthoughtofthefirsttimeIhadseenher,bikingacrossthemalloftheUniversityofMaineatOrono,meboundforoneofVincentHartgen’sclasses

withmyportfolioundermyarm.Andmyerectionwasenormous.

Welaydownthen,andshesaid,“Loveme,David.Makemewarm.”Whenshecame,shedugintomybackwithhernailsandcalledmebyanamethatwasn’tmine.Ididn’tmind.Itmadeusabouteven.

Whenwecamedown,some

sortofcreepingdawnhadbegun.Theblacknessoutsidetheloopholeswentreluctantlytodullgray,thentochrome,thentothebright,featureless,andunsparklingwhiteofadrive-inmoviescreen.MikeHatlenwasasleepinafoldingchairhehadscroungedsomewhere.DanMillersatontheflooralittledistanceaway,eatingaHostessdonut.Thekindthat’spowderedwithwhitesugar.

“Sitdown,Mr.Drayton,”heinvited.

IlookedaroundforAmanda,butshewasalreadyhalfwayuptheaisle.Shedidn’tlookback.Ouractofloveinthedarkalreadyseemedsomethingoutofafantasy,impossibletobelieveeveninthisweirddaylight.Isatdown.

“Haveadonut.”Heheldthe

boxout.

Ishookmyhead.“Allthatwhitesugarisdeath.Worsethancigarettes.”

Thatmadehimlaughalittlebit.“Inthatcase,havetwo.”

Iwassurprisedtofindalittlelaughterleftinsideme—hehadsurpriseditout,andIlikedhimforit.Ididtaketwoofhisdonuts.Theytasted

prettygood.Ichasedthemwithacigarette,althoughitisnotnormallymyhabittosmokeinthemornings.

“Ioughttogetbacktomykid,”Isaid.“He’llbewakingup.”

Millernodded.“Thosepinkbugs,”hesaid.“They’reallgone.Soarethebirds.HankVannermansaidthelastonehitthewindowsaroundfour.

Apparentlythe…thewildlife…isalotmoreactivewhenit’sdark.”

“Youdon’twanttotellBrentNortonthat,”Isaid.“OrNorm.”

Henoddedagainanddidn’tsayanythingforalongtime.Thenhelitacigaretteofhisownandlookedatme.“Wecan’tstayhere,Drayton,”hesaid.

“There’sfood.Plentytodrink.”

“Thesuppliesdon’thaveanythingtodowithit,andyouknowit.Whatdowedoifoneofthebigbeastiesouttheredecidestobreakininsteadofjustgoingbumpinthenight?Dowetrytodriveitoffwithbroomhandlesandcharcoallighterfluid?”

Ofcoursehewasright.

Perhapsthemistwasprotectingusinaway.Hidingus.Butmaybeitwouldn’thideusforlong,andtherewasmoretoitthanthat.WehadbeenintheFederalforeighteenhours,moreorless,andIcouldfeelakindoflethargyspreadingoverme,notmuchdifferentfromthelethargyI’vefeltononeortwooccasionswhenI’vetriedtoswimtoofar.Therewasanurgetoplayit

safe,tojuststayput,totakecareofBilly(andmaybetobangAmandaDumfriesinthemiddleofthenight,avoicemurmured),toseeifthemistwouldn’tjustlift,leavingeverythingasithadbeen.

Icouldseeitontheotherfacesaswell,anditsuddenlyoccurredtomethattherewerepeoplenowintheFederalwhoprobablywouldn’tleaveunderany

circumstance.Theverythoughtofgoingoutthedoorafterallthathadhappenedwouldfreezethem.

Millerhadbeenwatchingthesethoughtscrossmyface,maybe.Hesaid,“Therewereabouteightypeopleinherewhenthatdamnfogcame.Fromthatnumberyousubtractthebag-boy,Norton,andthefourpeoplethatwentoutwithhim,andthatman

Smalley.Thatleavesseventy-three.”

Andsubtractingthetwosoldiers,nowrestingunderastackofPurinaPuppyChowbags,itmadeseventy-one.

“Thenyousubtractthepeoplewhohavejustoptedout,”hewenton.“Therearetenortwelveofthose.Sayten.Thatleavesaboutsixty-three.But—”Heraisedonesugar-

powderedfinger.“Ofthosesixty-three,we’vegottwentyorsothatjustwon’tleave.You’dhavetodragthemoutkickingandscreaming.”

“Whichallgoestoprovewhat?”

“Thatwe’vegottogetout,that’sall.AndI’mgoing.Aroundnoon,Ithink.I’mplanningtotakeasmanypeopleaswillcome.I’dlike

youandyourboytocomealong.”

“AfterwhathappenedtoNorton?”

“Nortonwentlikealambtotheslaughter.Thatdoesn’tmeanIhaveto,orthepeoplewhocomewithme.”

“Howcanyoupreventit?Wehaveexactlyonegun.”

“Andluckytohavethat.Butifwecouldmakeitacrosstheintersection,maybewecouldgetdowntotheSportsman’sExchangeonMainStreet.They’vegotmoregunstherethanyoucouldshakeastickat.”

“That’sone‘if’andone‘maybe’toomany.”

“Drayton,”hesaid,“it’saniffysituation.”

Thatrolledverysmoothlyoffhistongue,buthedidn’thavealittleboytowatchoutfor.

“Look,letitpassfornow,okay?Ididn’tgetmuchsleeplastnight,butIgotachancetothinkoverafewthings.Wanttohearthem?”

“Sure.”

Hestoodupandstretched.“Takeawalkovertothe

windowwithme.”

Wewentthroughthecheckoutlanenearestthebreadracksandstoodatoneoftheloopholes.Themanwhowaskeepingwatchtheresaid,“Thebugsaregone.”

Millerslappedhimontheback.“Gogetyourselfacoffee—and,fella,I’llkeepaneyeout.”

“Okay.Thanks.”

Hewalkedaway,andMillerandIsteppeduptohisloophole.“Sotellmewhatyouseeoutthere,”hesaid.

Ilooked.Thelitterbarrelhadbeenknockedoverinthenight,probablybyoneoftheswoopingbird-things,spillingatrashofpapers,cans,andpapershakecupsfromtheDairyQueendowntheroad

alloverthehottop.BeyondthatIcouldseetherankofcarsclosesttothemarketfadingintowhiteness.ThatwasallIcouldsee,andItoldhimso.

“ThatblueChevypickupismine,”hesaid.HepointedandIcouldseejustahintofblueinthemist.“Butifyouthinkbacktowhenyoupulledinyesterday,you’llrememberthattheparkinglot

wasprettyjammed,right?”

IglancedbackatmyScoutandrememberedIhadonlygottenthespaceclosetothemarketbecausesomeoneelsehadbeenpullingout.Inodded.

Millersaid,“Nowcouplesomethingelsewiththatfact,Drayton.Nortonandhisfour…whatdidyoucallthem?”

“Flat-Earthers.”

“Yeah,that’sgood.Justwhattheywere.Theygoout,right?Almostthefulllengthofthatclothesline.Thenweheardthoseroaringnoises,liketherewasagoddamnherdofelephantsoutthere.Right?”

“Itdidn’tsoundlikeelephants,”Isaid.“Itsoundedlike—”Likesomethingfromtheprimordialoozewasthe

phrasethatcametomind,butIdidn’twanttosaythattoMiller,notafterhehadclappedthatguyonthebackandtoldhimtogogetacoffee-andlikethecoachjerkingaplayerfromthebiggame.ImighthavesaidittoOllie,butnottoMiller.“Idon’tknowwhatitsoundedlike,”Ifinishedlamely.

“Butitsoundedbig.”

“Yeah.”Ithadsoundedprettygoddamnbig.

“Sohowcomewedidn’thearcarsgettingbashedaround?Screechingmetal?Breakingglass?”

“Well,because—”Istopped.Hehadme.“Idon’tknow.”

Millersaid,“Nowaytheywereoutoftheparkinglotwhenwhatever-it-washit

them.I’lltellyouwhatIthink.Ithinkwedidn’thearanycarsgettingaroundbecausealotofthemmightbegone.Just…gone.Fallenintotheearth,vaporized,younameit.Strongenoughtosplinterthesebeamsandtwistthemoutofshapeandknockstuffofftheshelves.Andthetownwhistlestoppedatthesametime.”

Iwastryingtovisualizehalf

theparkinglotgone.Tryingtovisualizewalkingoutthereandjustcomingtoabrand-newdropinthelandwherethehottopwithitsneatyellow-linedparkingslotsleftoff.Adrop,aslope…ormaybeanout-and-outprecipicefallingawayintothefeaturelesswhitemist…

AfteracoupleofsecondsIsaid,“Ifyou’reright,howfardoyouthinkyou’regoingto

getinyourpickup?”

“Iwasn’tthinkingofmytruck.Iwasthinkingofyourfour-wheel-drive.”

Thatwassomethingtochewover,butnotnow.“Whatelseisonyourmind?”

Millerwaseagertogoon.“Thepharmacynextdoor,that’sonmymind.Whataboutthat?”

IopenedmymouthtosayIdidn’thavetheslightestideawhathewastalkingabout,andthenshutitwithasnap.TheBridgtonPharmacyhadbeendoingbusinesswhenwedroveinyesterday.NottheLaundromat,butthedrugstorehadbeenwideopen,thedoorschockedwithrubberdoorstopstoletinalittlecoolair—thepoweroutagehadkilledtheirair-conditioning,ofcourse.The

doortothepharmacycouldbenomorethantwentyfeetfromthedooroftheFederalmarket.Sowhy—

“Whyhaven’tanyofthosepeopleturnedupoverhere?”Milleraskedforme.“It’sbeeneighteenhours.Aren’ttheyhungry?They’resurenotoverthereeatingDristanandStayfreeMini-pads.”

“There’sfood,”Isaid.

“They’realwayssellingfooditemsonspecial.Sometimesit’sanimalcrackers,sometimesit’sthosetoasterpastries,allsortsofthings.Plusthecandyrack.”

“Ijustdon’tbelievethey’dstickwithstufflikethatwhenthere’sallkindsofstuffoverhere.”

“Whatareyougettingat?”

“WhatI’mgettingatisthatIwanttogetoutbutIdon’twanttobedinnerforsomerefugeefromagrade-Bhorrorpicture.Fourorfiveofuscouldgonextdoorandcheckoutthesituationinthedrugstore.Assortofatrialballoon.”

“That’severything?”

“No,there’soneotherthing.”

“What’sthat?”

“Her,”Millersaidsimply,andjerkedhisthumbtowardoneofthemiddleaisles.“Thatcrazycunt.Thatwitch.”

ItwasMrs.Carmodyhehadjerkedhisthumbat.Shewasnolongeralone;twowomenhadjoinedher.FromtheirbrightclothesIguessedtheywereprobablytouristsor

summerpeople,ladieswhohadmaybelefttheirfamiliesto“justrunintotownandgetafewthings”andwerenoweatenupwithworryovertheirhusbandsandkids.Ladieseagertograspatalmostanystraw.MaybeeventheblackcomfortofaMrs.Carmody.

Herpantsuitshoneoutwithitssamebalefulresplendence.Shewastalking,gesturing,

herfacehardandgrim.Thetwoladiesintheirbrightclothes(butnotasbrightasMrs.Carmody’spantsuit,no,andhergiganticsatchelofapursewasstilltuckedfirmlyunderonedoughyarm)werelisteningraptly.

“She’sanotherreasonIwanttogetout,Drayton.Bytonightshe’llhavesixpeoplesittingwithher.Ifthosepinkbugsandthebirdscomeback

tonight,she’llhaveawholecongregationsittingwithherbytomorrowmorning.Thenwecanstartworryingaboutwhoshe’lltellthemtosacrificetomakeitallbetter.Maybeme,oryou,orthatguyHatlen.Maybeyourkid.”

“That’sidiocy,”Isaid.Butwasit?Thecoldchillcrawlingupmybacksaidnotnecessarily.Mrs.Carmody’smouthmovedandmoved.

Theeyesofthetouristladieswerefixedonherwrinkledlips.Wasitidiocy?Ithoughtofthedustystuffedanimalsdrinkingattheirlooking-glassstream.Mrs.Carmodyhadpower.EvenSteff,normallyhardheadedandstraight-from-the-shoulder,invokedtheoldlady’snamewithunease.

Thatcrazycunt,Millerhadcalledher.Thatwitch.

“Thepeopleinthismarketaregoingthroughasection-eightexperienceforsure,”Millersaid.Hegesturedatthered-paintedbeamsframingtheshow-windowsegments…twistedandsplinteredandbuckledoutofshape.“Theirmindsprobablyfeellikethosebeamslook.Minesureasshitdoes.IspenthalfoflastnightthinkingImusthaveflippedoutofmygourd,thatIwasprobablyin

astraitjacketinDanvers,ravingmyheadoffaboutbugsanddinosaurbirdsandtentaclesandthatitwouldallgoawayjustassoonastheniceorderlycamealongandshotawadofThorazineintomyarm.”Hissmallfacewasstrainedandwhite.HelookedatMrs.Carmodyandthenbackatme.“Itellyouitmighthappen.Aspeoplegetflakier,she’sgoingtolookbetterandbettertosomeof

them.AndIdon’twanttobearoundifthathappens.”

Mrs.Carmody’slips,movingandmoving.Hertonguedancingaroundheroldlady’ssnaggleteeth.Shedidlooklikeawitch.Putherinapointyblackhatandshewouldbeperfect.Whatwasshesayingtohertwocapturedbirdsintheirbrightsummerplumage?

ArrowheadProject?BlackSpring?Abominationsfromthecellarsoftheearth?Humansacrifice?

Bullshit.

Allthesame—

“Sowhatdoyousay?”

“I’llgothisfar,”Iansweredhim.“We’lltrygoingovertothedrug.You,me,Ollieifhe

wantstogo,oneortwoothers.Thenwe’lltalkitoveragain.”Eventhatgavemethefeelingofwalkingoutoveranimpossibledroponanarrowbeam.Iwasn’tgoingtohelpBillybykillingmyself.Ontheotherhand,Iwasn’tgoingtohelphimbyjustsittingonmyass,either.Twentyfeettothedrugstore.Thatwasn’tsobad.

“When?”heasked.

“Givemeanhour.”

“Sure,”hesaid.

IX

TheExpeditiontothePharmacy.

ItoldMrs.Turman,andItoldAmanda,andthenItold

Billy.Heseemedbetterthismorning;hehadeatentwodonutsandabowlofSpecialKforbreakfast.AfterwardIracedhimupanddowntwooftheaislesandevengothimgigglingalittle.Kidsaresoadaptablethattheycanscarethelivingshitrightoutofyou.Hewastoopale,thefleshunderhiseyeswasstillpuffedfromthetearshehadcriedinthenight,andhisfacehadahorriblyusedlook.Ina

wayithadbecomelikeanoldman’sface,asiftoomuchemotionalvoltagehadbeenrunningbehinditfortoolong.Buthewasstillaliveandstillabletolaugh…atleastuntilherememberedwherehewasandwhatwashappening.

AfterthewindsprintswesatdownwithAmandaandHattieTurmananddrankGatoradefrompapercups

andItoldhimIwasgoingovertothedrugstorewithafewotherpeople.

“Idon’twantyouto,”hesaidimmediately,hisfaceclouding.

“It’llbeallright,BigBill.I’llbringyouaSpider-Mancomicbook.”

“Iwantyoutostayhere.”Nowhisfacewasnotjust

cloudy;itwasthundery.Itookhishand.Hepulleditaway.Itookitagain.

“Billy,wehavetogetoutofheresoonerorlater.Youseethat,don’tyou?”

“Whenthefoggoesaway…”Buthespokewithnoconvictionatall.HedrankhisGatoradeslowlyandwithoutrelish.

“Billy,it’sbeenalmostonewholedaynow.”

“IwantMommy.”

“Well,maybethisisthefirststeponthewaytogettingbacktoher.”

Mrs.Turmansaid,“Don’tbuildtheboy’shopesup,David.”

“Whatthehell,”Isnappedat

her,“thekid’sgottohopeforsomething.”

Shedroppedhereyes.“Yes.Isupposehedoes.”

Billytooknonoticeofthis.“Daddy…Daddy,therearethingsoutthere.Things.”

“Yes,weknowthat.Butalotofthem—notall,butalot—don’tseemtocomeoutuntilit’snighttime.”

“They’llwait,”hesaid.Hiseyeswerehuge,centeredonmine.“They’llwaitinthefog…andwhenyoucan’tgetbackinside,they’llcometoeatyouup.Likeinthefairystories.”Hehuggedmewithfierce,panickytightness.“Daddy,pleasedon’tgo.”

IpriedhisarmslooseasgentlyasIcouldandtoldhimthatIhadto.“ButI’llbeback,Billy.”

“Allright,”hesaidhuskily,buthewouldn’tlookatmeanymore.Hedidn’tbelieveIwouldbeback.Itwasonhisface,whichwasnolongerthunderybutwoefulandgrieving.IwonderedagainifIcouldbedoingtherightthing,puttingmyselfatrisk.ThenIhappenedtoglancedownthemiddleaisleandsawMrs.Carmodythere.Shehadgainedathirdlistener,amanwithagrizzledcheek

andameanandrollingbloodshoteye.Hishaggardbrowandshakinghandsalmostscreamedthewordhangover.Itwasnoneotherthanyourfriendandhis,MyronLaFleur.Thefellowwhohadfeltnocompunctionatallaboutsendingaboyouttodoaman’sjob.

Thatcrazycunt.Thatwitch.

IkissedBillyandhuggedhim

hard.ThenIwalkeddowntothefrontofthestore—butnotdownthehousewaresaisle.Ididn’twanttofallunderhereye.

Three-quartersofthewaydown,Amandacaughtupwithme.“Doyoureallyhavetodothis?”sheasked.

“Yes,Ithinkso.”

“ForgivemeifIsayitsounds

likesomuchmachobullshittome.”Therewerespotsofcolorhighonhercheeksandhereyesweregreenerthanever.Shewashighly—no,royally—pissed.

ItookherarmandrecappedmydiscussionwithDanMiller.Theriddleofthecarsandthefactthatnoonefromthepharmacyhadjoinedusdidn’tmovehermuch.ThebusinessaboutMrs.Carmody

did.

“Hecouldberight,”shesaid.

“Doyoureallybelievethat?”

“Idon’tknow.There’sapoisonousfeeltothatwoman.Andifpeoplearefrightenedbadlyenoughforlongenough,they’llturntoanyonethatpromisesasolution.”

“Buthumansacrifice,

Amanda?”

“TheAztecswereintoit,”shesaidevenly.“Listen,David.Youcomeback.Ifanythinghappens…anything…youcomeback.Cutandrunifyouhaveto.Notforme,whathappenedlastnightwasnice,butthatwaslastnight.Comebackforyourboy.”

“Yes.Iwill.”

“Iwonder,”shesaid,andnowshelookedlikeBilly,haggardandold.Itoccurredtomethatmostofuslookedthatway.ButnotMrs.Carmody.Mrs.Carmodylookedyoungersomehow,andmorevital.Asifshehadcomeintoherown.Asif…asifshewerethrivingonit.

Wedidn’tgetgoinguntil9:30A.M.Sevenofuswent:Ollie,DanMiller,Mike

Hatlen,MyronLaFleur’serstwhilebuddyJim(alsohungover,butseeminglydeterminedtofindsomewaytoatone),BuddyEagleton,myself.TheseventhwasHildaReppler.MillerandHatlentriedhalfheartedlytotalkheroutofcoming.Shewouldhavenoneofit.Ididn’teventry.Isuspectedshemightbemorecompetentthananyofus,exceptmaybeforOllie.Shewascarryinga

smallcanvasshoppingbasket,anditwasloadedwithanarsenalofRaidandBlackFlagspraycans,allofthemuncappedandreadyforaction.InherfreehandsheheldaSpauldingJimmyConnorstennisracketfromadisplayofsportinggoodsinAisle2.

“Whatyougonnadowiththat,Mrs.Reppler?”Jimasked.

“Idon’tknow,”shesaid.Shehadalow,raspy,competentvoice.“Butitfeelsrightinmyhand.”Shelookedhimoverclosely,andhereyewascold.“JimGrondin,isn’tit?Didn’tIhaveyouinschool?”

Jim’slipsstretchedinanuneasyegg-suckgrin.“Yes’m.MeandmysisterPauline.”

“Toomuchtodrinklast

night?”

Jim,whotoweredoverherandprobablyoutweighedherbyonehundredpounds,blushedtotherootsofhisAmericanLegioncrewcut.“Aw,no—”

Sheturnedawaycurtly,cuttinghimoff.“Ithinkwe’reready,”shesaid.

Allofushadsomething,

althoughyouwouldhavecalleditanoddassortmentofweapons.OlliehadAmanda’sgun,BuddyEagletonhadasteelpinchbarfromoutbacksomewhere.Ihadabroomhandle.

“Okay,”DanMillersaid,raisinghisvoiceabit.“Youfolkswanttolistenupaminute?”

Adozenpeoplehaddrifted

downtowardtheOUTdoortoseewhatwasgoingon.Theywerelooselyknotted,andtotheirrightstoodMrs.Carmodyandhernewfriends.

“We’regoingovertothedrugstoretoseewhatthesituationisthere.Hopefully,we’llbeabletobringsomethingbacktoaidMrs.Clapham.”Shewastheladywhohadbeentrampled

yesterday,whenthebugscame.Oneofherlegshadbeenbrokenandshewasinagreatdealofpain.

Millerlookedusover.“We’renotgoingtotakeanychances,”hesaid.“Atthefirstsignofanythingthreatening,we’regoingtopopbackintothemarket—”

“Andbringallthefiendsofhelldownonourheads!”

Mrs.Carmodycried.

“She’sright!”oneofthesummerladiesseconded.“You’llmakethemnoticeus!You’llmakethemcome!Whycan’tyoujustleavewellenoughalone?”

Therewasamurmurofagreementfromsomeofthepeoplewhohadgatheredtowatchusgo.

Isaid,“Lady,isthiswhatyoucallwellenough?”

Shedroppedhereyes,confused.

Mrs.Carmodymarchedastepforward.Hereyeswereblazing.“You’lldieoutthere,DavidDrayton!Doyouwanttomakeyoursonanorphan?”Sheraisedhereyesandrakedallofuswiththem.BuddyEagletondroppedhiseyes

andsimultaneouslyraisedthepinchbar,asiftowardheroff.

“Allofyouwilldieoutthere!Haven’tyourealizedthattheendoftheworldhascome?TheFiendhasbeenletloose!StarWormwoodblazesandeachoneofyouthatstepsoutthatdoorwillbetornapart!Andthey’llcomeforthoseofuswhoareleft,justasthisgoodwomansaid!Areyou

peoplegoingtoletthathappen?”Shewasappealingtotheonlookersnow,andalittlemutterranthroughthem.“Afterwhathappenedtotheunbelieversyesterday?It’sdeath!It’sdeath!It’s—”

AcanofpeasflewacrosstwoofthecheckoutlanessuddenlyandstruckMrs.Carmodyontherightbreast.Shestaggeredbackwardwithastartledsquawk.

Amandastoodforward.“Shutup,”shesaid.“Shutup,youmiserablebuzzard.”

“SheservestheFoulOne!”Mrs.Carmodyscreamed.Ajitterysmilehungonherface.“Whodidyousleepwithlastnight,missus?Whodidyouliedownwithlastnight?MotherCarmodysees,ohyes,MotherCarmodyseeswhatothersmiss.”

Butthemoment’sspellshehadcreatedwasbroken,andAmanda’seyesneverwavered.

“Arewegoingorarewegoingtostandhereallday?”Mrs.Repplerasked.

Andwewent.Godhelpus,wewent.

DanMillerwasinthelead.Olliecamesecond,Iwaslast,

withMrs.Repplerinfrontofme.IwasasscaredasI’veeverbeen,Ithink,andthehandwrappedaroundmybroomhandlewassweaty-slick.

Therewasthatthin,acrid,andunnaturalsmellofthemist.BythetimeIgotoutthedoor,MillerandOlliehadalreadyfadedintoit,andHatlen,whowasthird,wasnearlyoutofsight.

Onlytwentyfeet,Ikepttellingmyself.Onlytwentyfeet.

Mrs.Repplerwalkedslowlyandfirmlyaheadofme,hertennisracketswinginglightlyfromherrighthand.Toourleftwasaredcinderblockwall.Toourrightthefirstrankofcars,loomingoutofthemistlikeghostships.Anothertrashbarrelmaterializedoutofthe

whiteness,andbeyondthatwasabenchwherepeoplesometimessattowaittheirturnatthepayphone.Onlytwentyfeet,Miller’sprobablytherebynow,twentyfeetisonlytenortwelvepaces,so—

“OhmyGod!”Millerscreamed.“OhdearsweetGod,lookatthis!”

Millerhadgottenthere,allright.

BuddyEagletonwasaheadofMrs.Repplerandheturnedtorun,hiseyeswideandstary.Shebattedhimlightlyinthechestwithhertennisracket.“Wheredoyouthinkyou’regoing?”sheaskedinhertough,slightlyraspyvoice,andthatwasallthepanictherewas.

TherestofusdrewuptoMiller.Itookoneglancebackovermyshoulderandsaw

thattheFederalhadbeenswallowedbythemist.Theredcinderblockwallfadedtoathinwashpinkandthendisappearedutterly,probablyfivefeetontheBridgtonPharmacysideoftheOUTdoor.Ifeltmoreisolated,moresimplyalone,thaneverinmylife.ItwasasifIhadlostthewomb.

Thepharmacyhadbeenthesceneofaslaughter.

MillerandI,ofcourse,wereveryclosetoit—almostontopofit.Allthethingsinthemistoperatedprimarilybysenseofsmell.Itstoodtoreason.Sightwouldhavebeenalmostcompletelyuselesstothem.Hearingalittlebetter,butasI’vesaid,themisthadawayofscrewinguptheacoustics,makingthingsthatwereclosesounddistantand—sometimes—thingsthatwere

farawaysoundclose.Thethingsinthemistfollowedtheirtruestsense.Theyfollowedtheirnoses.

Thoseofusinthemarkethadbeensavedbythepoweroutageasmuchasbyanythingelse.Theelectric-eyedoorswouldn’toperate.Inasense,themarkethadbeensealedupwhenthemistcame.Butthepharmacydoors…theyhadbeen

chockedopen.Thepowerfailurehadkilledtheirair-conditioningandtheyhadopenedthedoorstoletinthebreeze.Onlysomethingelsehadcomeinaswell.

AmaninamaroonT-shirtlayfacedowninthedoorway.OratfirstIthoughthisT-shirtwasmaroon;thenIsawafewwhitepatchesatthebottomandunderstoodthatonceithadbeenallwhite.

Themaroonwasdriedblood.Andtherewassomethingelsewrongwithhim.Ipuzzleditoverinmymind.EvenwhenBuddyEagletonturnedaroundandwasnoisilysick,itdidn’tcomeimmediately.Iguesswhensomethingthat…thatfinalhappenstosomeone,yourmindrejectsitatfirst…unlessmaybeyou’reinawar.

Hisheadwasgone,that’s

whatitwas.Hislegsweresplayedoutinsidethepharmacydoors,andhisheadshouldhavebeenhangingoverthelowstep.Buthisheadjustwasn’t.

JimGrondinhadhadenough.Heturnedaway,hishandsoverhismouth,hisbloodshoteyesgazingmadlyintomine.Thenhestumbled-staggeredbacktowardthemarket.

Theotherstooknonotice.Millerhadsteppedinside.MikeHatlenfollowed.Mrs.Repplerstationedherselfatonesideofthedoubledoorswithhertennisracket.OlliestoodontheothersidewithAmanda’sgundrawnandpointingatthepavement.

Hesaidquietly,“Iseemtoberunningoutofhope,David.”

BuddyEagletonwasleaning

weaklyagainstthepay-phonestalllikesomeonewhohasjustgottenbadnewsfromhome.Hisbroadshouldersshookwiththeforceofhissobs.

“Don’tcountusoutyet,”IsaidtoOllie.Isteppeduptothedoor.Ididn’twanttogoinside,butIhadpromisedmysonacomicbook.

TheBridgtonPharmacywas

acrazyshambles.Paperbacksandmagazineswereeverywhere.TherewasaSpider-MancomicandanIncredibleHulkalmostatmyfeet,andwithoutthinking,IpickedthemupandjammedthemintomybackpocketforBilly.Bottlesandboxeslayintheaisles.Ahandhungoveroneoftheracks.

Unrealitywashedoverme.Thewreckage…thecarnage

—thatwasbadenough.Buttheplacealsolookedlikeithadbeenthesceneofsomecrazyparty.ItwashungandfestoonedwithwhatIatfirsttooktobestreamers.Buttheyweren’tbroadandflat;theyweremorelikeverythickstringsorverythincables.Itstruckmethattheywerealmostthesamebrightwhiteasthemistitself,andacoldchillsketcheditswayupmybacklikefrost.Notcrepe.

What?Magazinesandbookshungdanglingintheairfromsomeofthem.

MikeHatlenwasproddingastrangeblackthingwithonefoot.Itwaslongandbristly.“Whatthefuckisthis?”heaskednooneinparticular.

AndsuddenlyIknew.Iknewwhathadkilledallthoseunluckyenoughtobeinthepharmacywhenthemist

came.Thepeoplewhohadbeenunluckyenoughtogetsmelledout.Out—

“Out,”Isaid.Mythroatwascompletelydry,andthewordcameoutlikealint-coveredbullet.“Getoutofhere.”

Ollielookedatme.“David…?”

“They’respiderwebs,”Isaid.Andthentwoscreamscame

outofthemist.Thefirstoffear,maybe.Thesecondofpain.ItwasJim.Iftherewereduestobepaid,hewaspayingthem.

“Getout!”IshoutedatMikeandDanMiller.

Thensomethingloopedoutofthemist.Itwasimpossibletoseeitagainstthatwhitebackground,butIcouldhearit.Itsoundedlikeabullwhip

thathadbeenhalfheartedlyflicked.AndIcouldseeitwhenittwistedaroundthethighofBuddyEagleton’sjeans.

Hescreamedandgrabbedforthefirstthinghandy,whichhappenedtobethetelephone.Thehandsetflewthelengthofitscordandthenswungbackandforth.“OhJesusthatHURTS!”Buddyscreamed.

Olliegrabbedforhim,andIsawwhatwashappening.AtthesameinstantIunderstoodwhytheheadofthemaninthedoorwaywasmissing.ThethinwhitecablethathadtwistedaroundBuddy’sleglikeasilkropewassinkingintohisflesh.Thatlegofhisjeanshadbeenneatlycutoffandwasslidingdownhisleg.Aneat,circularincisioninhisfleshwasbrimmingbloodasthecablewentdeeper.

Olliepulledhimhard.TherewasathinsnappingsoundandBuddywasfree.Hislipshadgonebluewithshock.

MikeandDanwerecoming,buttooslowly.ThenDanranintoseveralhangingthreadsandgotstuck,exactlylikeabugonflypaper.Hefreedhimselfwithatremendousjerk,leavingaflapofhisshirthangingfromthewebbing.

Suddenlytheairwasfullofthoselanguorousbullwhipcracks,andthethinwhitecablesweredriftingdownallaroundus.Theywerecoatedwiththesamecorrosivesubstance.Idodgedtwoofthem,morebyluckthanbyskill.OnelandedatmyfeetandIcouldhearafainthissofbubblinghottop.AnotherfloatedoutoftheairandMrs.Repplercalmlyswunghertennisracketatit.Thethread

stuckfast,andIheardahigh-pitchedtwing!twing!twing!asthecorrosiveatethroughtheracket’sstringsandsnappedthem.Itsoundedlikesomeonerapidlypluckingthestringsofaviolin.Amomentlaterathreadwrappedaroundtheupperhandleoftheracketanditwasjerkedintothemist.

“Getback!”Olliescreamed.

Wegotmoving.OlliehadanarmaroundBuddy.DanMillerandMikeHatlenwereoneachsideofMrs.Reppler.Thewhitestrandsofwebcontinuedtodriftoutofthefog,impossibletoseeunlessyoureyecouldpickthemoutagainsttheredcinderblockbackground.

OneofthemwrappedaroundMikeHatlen’sleftarm.Anotherwhippedaroundhis

neckinaseriesofquickwinding-upsnaps.Hisjugularwentinajetting,jumpingexplosionandhewasdraggedaway,headlolling.OneofhisBassloafersfelloffandlaythereonitsside.

Buddysuddenlyslumpedforward,almostdraggingOllietohisknees.“He’spassedout,David.Helpme.”

IgrabbedBuddyaroundthe

waistandwepulledhimalonginaclumsy,stumblingfashion.Eveninunconsciousness,Buddykepthisgriponhissteelpinchbar.Thelegthatthestrandofwebhadwrappedaroundhungawayfromhisbodyataterribleangle.

Mrs.Repplerhadturnedaround.“Ware!”shescreamedinherrustyvoice.“Warebehindyou!”

AsIstartedtoturn,oneoftheweb-strandsfloateddownontopofDanMiller’shead.Hishandsbeatatit,toreatit.

Oneofthespidershadcomeoutofthemistfrombehindus.Itwasthesizeofabigdog.Itwasblackwithyellowpiping.Racingstripes,Ithoughtcrazily.Itseyeswerereddish-purple,likepomegranates.Itstruttedbusilytowardusonwhat

mighthavebeenasmanyastwelveorfourteenmany-jointedlegs—itwasnoordinaryearthlyspiderblownuptohorror-moviesize;itwassomethingtotallydifferent,perhapsnotreallyaspideratall.Seeingit,MikeHatlenwouldhaveunderstoodwhatthatbristlyblackthinghehadbeenproddingatinthepharmacyreallywas.

Itclosedinonus,spinningitswebbingfromanoval-shapedorificeonitsupperbelly.Thestrandsfloatedouttowardusinwhatwasnearlyafanshape.Lookingatthisnightmare,solikethedeath-blackspidersbroodingovertheirdeadfliesandbugsintheshadowsofourboathouse,Ifeltmymindtryingtotearcompletelyloosefromitsmoorings.Ibelievenowthatitwasonly

thethoughtofBillythatallowedmetokeepanysemblanceofsanity.Iwasmakingsomesound.Laughing.Crying.Screaming.Idon’tknow.

ButOllieWeekswaslikearock.HeraisedAmanda’spistolascalmlyasamanonatargetrangeandemptieditinspacedshotsintothecreatureatpoint-blankrange.Whateverhellitcamefrom,it

wasn’tinvulnerable.Ablackichorsplatteredfromitsbodyanditmadeaterriblemewlingsound,solowitwasmorefeltthanheard,likeabassnotefromasynthesizer.Thenitscutteredbackintothemistandwasgone.Itmighthavebeenaphantasmfromahorribledrug-dream…exceptforthepuddlesofstickyblackstuffithadleftbehind.

TherewasaclangasBuddyfinallydroppedhissteelpinchbar.

“He’sdead,”Olliesaid.“Lethimgo,David.Thefuckingthinggothisfemoralartery,he’sdead.Let’sgettheChristoutofhere.”Hisfacewasoncemorerunningwithsweatandhiseyesbulgedfromhisbigroundface.Oneoftheweb-strandsfloatedeasilydownonthebackof

hishandandOllieswunghisarm,snappingit.Thestrandleftabloodyweal.

Mrs.Repplerscreamed“Ware!”again,andweturnedtowardher.AnotherofthemhadcomeoutofthemistandhadwrappeditslegsaroundDanMillerinamadlover’sembrace.Hewasstrikingatitwithhisfists.AsIbentandpickedupBuddy’spinchbar,thespiderbegantowrapDan

initsdeadlythread,andhisstrugglesbecameagrisly,jitteringdeathdance.

Mrs.RepplerwalkedtowardthespiderwithacanofBlackFlaginsectrepellentheldoutstretchedinonehand.Thespider’slegsreachedforher.Shedepressedthebuttonandacloudofthestuffjettedintooneofitssparklingjewellikeeyes.Thatlow-pitchedmewlingsoundcameagain.

Thespiderseemedtoshudderalloverandthenitbegantolurchbackward,hairylegsscratchingatthepavement.ItdraggedDan’sbody,bumpingandrolling,behindit.Mrs.Repplerthrewthecanofbugsprayatit.Itbouncedoffthespider’sbodyandclatteredtothehottop.Thespiderstruckthesideofasmallsportscarhardenoughtomakeitrockonitssprings,andthenitwasgone.

IgottoMrs.Reppler,whowasswayingonherfeetanddeadpale.Iputanarmaroundher.“Thankyou,youngman,”shesaid.“Ifeelabitfaint.”

“That’sokay,”Isaidhoarsely.

“IwouldhavesavedhimifIcould.”

“Iknowthat.”

Olliejoinedus.Weranforthemarketdoors,thethreadsfallingallaroundus.OnelitonMrs.Reppler’smarketingbasketandsankintothecanvasside.Shetussledgrimlyforwhatwashers,draggingbackonthestrapwithbothhands,butshelostit.Itwentbumpingoffintothemist,endoverend.

AswereachedtheINdoor,asmallerspider,nobiggerthan

acockerspanielpuppy,racedoutofthefogalongthesideofthebuilding.Itwasproducingnowebbing;perhapsitwasn’tmatureenoughtodoso.

AsOllieleanedonebeefyshoulderagainstthedoorsoMrs.Repplercouldgothrough,Iheavedthesteelbaratthethinglikeajavelinandimpaledit.Itwrithedmadly,legsscratchingatthe

air,anditsredeyesseemedtofindmine,andmarkme…

“David!”Olliewasstillholdingthedoor.

Iranin.Hefollowedme.

Pallid,frightenedfacesstaredatus.Sevenofushadgoneout.Threeofushadcomeback.Ollieleanedagainsttheheavyglassdoor,barrelchestheaving.Hebegantoreload

Amanda’sgun.Hiswhiteassistantmanager’sshirtwasplasteredtohisbody,andlargegraysweat-stainshadcreptoutfromunderhisarms.

“What?”someoneaskedinalow,hoarsevoice.

“Spiders,”Mrs.Reppleransweredgrimly.“Thedirtybastardssnatchedmymarketbasket.”

ThenBillyhurledhiswayintomyarms,crying.Iheldontohim.Tight.

X

TheSpellofMrs.Carmody.The

SecondNightintheMarket.TheFinalConfrontation.

Itwasmyturntosleep,andforfourhoursIremembernothingatall.AmandatoldmeItalkedalot,andscreamedonceortwice,butIremembernodreams.WhenIwokeupitwasafternoon.Iwasterriblythirsty.Someofthemilkhadgoneover,butsomeofitwasstillokay.Idrankaquart.

AmandacameovertowhereBilly,Mrs.Turman,andI

were.Theoldmanwhohadofferedtomakeatryfortheshotguninthetrunkofhiscarwaswithher—Cornell,Iremembered.AmbroseCornell.

“Howareyou,son?”heasked.

“Allright.”ButIwasstillthirstyandmyheadached.Mostofall,Iwasscared.IslippedanarmaroundBilly

andlookedfromCornelltoAmanda.“What’sup?”

Amandasaid,“Mr.CornellisworriedaboutthatMrs.Carmody.SoamI.”

“Billy,whydon’tyoutakeawalkoverherewithme?”Hattieasked.

“Idon’twantto,”Billysaid.

“Goon,BigBill,”Itoldhim,

andhewent—reluctantly.

“NowwhataboutMrs.Carmody?”Iasked.

“She’sstirrin’thingsup,”Cornellsaid.Helookedatmewithanoldman’sgrimness.“Ithinkwegottoputastoptoit.Justaboutanywaywecan.”

Amandasaid,“Therearealmostadozenpeoplewith

hernow.It’slikesomecrazykindofachurchservice.”

IrememberedtalkingwithawriterfriendwholivedinOtisfieldandsupportedhiswifeandtwokidsbyraisingchickensandturningoutonepaperbackoriginalayear—spystories.Wehadgottentalkingaboutthebulgeinpopularityofbooksconcerningthemselveswiththesupernatural.Gault

pointedoutthatinthefortiesWeirdTaleshadonlybeenabletopayapittance,andthatinthefiftiesitwentbroke.Whenthemachinesfail,hehadsaid(whilehiswifecandledeggsandroosterscrowedquerulouslyoutside),whenthetechnologiesfail,whentheconventionalreligioussystemsfail,peoplehavegottohavesomething.Evenazombielurchingthroughthe

nightcanseemprettycheerfulcomparedtotheexistentialcomedy/horroroftheozonelayerdissolvingunderthecombinedassaultofamillionfluorocarbonspraycansofdeodorant.

Wehadbeentrappedherefortwenty-sixhoursandwehadn’tbeenabletododiddlyshit.Ouroneexpeditionoutsidehadresultedinfifty-sevenpercent

losses.Itwasn’tsosurprisingthatMrs.Carmodyhadturnedintoagrowthstock,maybe.

“Hasshereallygotadozenpeople?”Iasked.

“Well,onlyeight,”Cornellsaid.“Butshenevershutsup!It’slikethoseten-hourspeechesCastrousedtomake.It’sagoddamnfilibuster.”

Eightpeople.Notthatmany,notevenenoughtofillupajurybox.ButIunderstoodtheworryontheirfaces.Itwasenoughtomakethemthesinglelargestpoliticalforceinthemarket,especiallynowthatDanandMikeweregone.Thethoughtthatthebiggestsinglegroupinourclosedsystemwaslisteningtoherrantonaboutthepitsofhellandthesevenvialsbeingopenedmademefeelpretty

damnclaustrophobic.

“She’sstartedtalkingabouthumansacrificeagain,”Amandasaid.“BudBrowncameoverandtoldhertostoptalkingthatdrivelinhisstore.Andtwoofthementhatarewithher—oneofthemwasthatmanMyronLaFleur—toldhimhewastheonewhobettershutupbecauseitwasstillafreecountry.Hewouldn’tshutup

andtherewasa…well,ashovingmatch,Iguessyou’dsay.”

“Browngotabloodynose,”Cornellsaid.“Theymeanbusiness.”

Isaid,“Surelynottothepointofactuallykillingsomeone.”

Cornellsaidsoftly,“Idon’tknowhowfarthey’llgoifthatmistdoesn’tletup.ButI

don’twanttofindout.Iintendtogetoutofhere.”

“Easiersaidthandone.”Butsomethinghadbeguntotickoverinmymind.Scent.Thatwasthekey.Wehadbeenleftprettymuchaloneinthemarket.Thebugsmighthavebeenattractedtothelight,asmoreordinarybugswere.Thebirdshadsimplyfollowedtheirfoodsupply.Butthebiggerthingshadleftusalone

unlessweunbuttonedforsomereason.TheslaughterintheBridgtonPharmacyhadoccurredbecausethedoorshadbeenleftchockedopen—Iwassureofthat.ThethingorthingsthathadgottenNortonandhispartyhadsoundedasbigasahouse,butitortheyhadn’tcomenearthemarket.Andthatmeantthatmaybe…

SuddenlyIwantedtotalkto

OllieWeeks.Ineededtotalktohim.

“Iintendtogetoutordietrying,”Cornellsaid.“Igotnoplanstospendtherestofthesummerinhere.”

“Therehavebeenfoursuicides,”Amandasaidsuddenly.

“What?”Thefirstthingtocrossmymind,ina

semiguiltyflash,wasthatthebodiesofthesoldiershadbeendiscovered.

“Pills,”Cornellsaidshortly.“Meandtwoorthreeotherguyscarriedthebodiesoutback.”

Ihadtostifleashrilllaugh.Wehadaregularmorguegoingbackthere.

“It’sthinningout,”Cornell

said.“Iwanttogetgone.”

“Youwon’tmakeittoyourcar.Believeme.”

“Noteventothatfirstrank?That’scloserthanthedrugstore.”

Ididn’tanswerhim.Notthen.

AboutanhourlaterIfoundOllieholdingupthebeercooleranddrinkingaBusch.

HisfacewasimpassivebuthealsoseemedtobewatchingMrs.Carmody.Shewastireless,apparently.Andshewasindeeddiscussinghumansacrificeagain,onlynownoonewastellinghertoshutup.Someofthepeoplewhohadtoldhertoshutupyesterdaywereeitherwithhertodayoratleastwillingtolisten—andtheotherswereoutnumbered.

“Shecouldhavethemtalked

aroundtoitbytomorrowmorning,”Ollieremarked.“Maybenot…butifshedid,whodoyouthinkshe’dsingleoutforthehonor?”

BudBrownhadcrossedher.SohadAmanda.Therewasthemanwhohadstruckher.Andthen,ofcourse,therewasme.

“Ollie,”Isaid,“Ithinkmaybehalfadozenofuscouldget

outofhere.Idon’tknowhowfarwe’dget,butIthinkwecouldatleastgetout.”

“How?”

Ilaiditoutforhim.Itwassimpleenough.IfwedashedacrosstomyScoutandpiledin,theywouldgetnohumanscent.Atleastnotwiththewindowsrolledup.

“Butsupposethey’re

attractedtosomeotherscent?”Ollieasked.“Exhaust,forinstance?”

“Thenwe’dbecooked,”Iagreed.

“Motion,”hesaid.“Themotionofacarthroughfogmightalsodrawthem,David.”

“Idon’tthinkso.Notwithoutthescentofprey.Ireally

believethat’sthekeytogettingaway.”

“Butyoudon’tknow.”

“No,notforsure.”

“Wherewouldyouwanttogo?”

“First?Home.Togetmywife.”

“David—”

“Allright.Tocheck.Tobesure.”

“Thethingsouttherecouldbeeveryplace,David.TheycouldgetyoutheminuteyousteppedoutofyourScoutintoyourdooryard.”

“Ifthathappened,theScoutwouldbeyours.AllI’daskwouldbethatyoutakecareofBillyaswellasyoucouldforaslongasyoucould.”

OlliefinishedhisBuschanddroppedthecanbackintothecooler,whereitclatteredamongtheempties.ThebuttofthegunAmanda’shusbandhadgivenherprotrudedfromhispocket.

“South?”heasked,meetingmyeyes.

“Yeah,Iwould,”Isaid.“Gosouthandtrytogetoutofthemist.Trylikehell.”

“Howmuchgasyougot?”

“Almostfull.”

“Haveyouthoughtthatitmightbeimpossibletogetout?”

Ihad.SupposewhattheyhadbeenfoolingwithattheArrowheadProjecthadpulledthisentireregionintoanotherdimensionaseasilyasyouorIwouldturnasockinside

out?“Ithadcrossedmymind,”Isaid,“butthealternativeseemstobewaitingaroundtoseewhoMrs.Carmodytapsfortheplaceofhonor.”

“Wereyouthinkingabouttoday?”

“No,it’safternoonalreadyandthosethingsgetactiveatnight.Iwasthinkingabouttomorrow,veryearly.”

“Whowouldyouwanttotake?”

“MeandyouandBilly.HattieTurman.AmandaDumfries.ThatoldguyCornellandMrs.Reppler.MaybeBudBrown,too.That’seight,butBillycansitonsomeone’slapandwecanallsquashtogether.”

Hethoughtitover.“Allright,”hesaidfinally.“We’ll

try.Haveyoumentionedthistoanyoneelse?”

“No,notyet.”

“Myadvicewouldbenotto,notuntilaboutfourtomorrowmorning.I’llputacoupleofbagsofgroceriesunderthecheckoutnearestthedoor.Ifwe’reluckywecansqueakoutbeforeanyoneknowswhat’shappening.”HiseyesdriftedtoMrs.Carmody

again.“Ifsheknew,shemighttrytostopus.”

“Youthinkso?”

Olliegotanotherbeer.“Ithinkso,”hesaid.

Thatafternoon—yesterdayafternoon—passedinakindofslowmotion.Darknesscreptin,turningthefogtothatdullchromecoloragain.Whatworldwasleftoutside

slowlydissolvedtoblackbyeight-thirty.

Thepinkbugsreturned,thenthebird-things,swoopingintothewindowsandscoopingthemup.Somethingroaredoccasionallyfromthedark,andonce,shortlybeforemidnight,therewasalong,drawn-outAaaaa-rooooooo!thatcausedpeopletoturntowardtheblacknesswithfrightened,searchingfaces.It

wasthesortofsoundyou’dimagineabullalligatormightmakeinaswamp.

ItwentprettymuchasMillerhadpredicted.Bythesmallhours,Mrs.Carmodyhadgainedanotherhalfadozensouls.Mr.McVeythebutcherwasamongthem,standingwithhisarmsfolded,watchingher.

Shewastotallywoundup.

Sheseemedtoneednosleep.Hersermon,asteadystreamofhorrorsoutofDoré,Bosch,andJonathanEdwards,wentonandon,buildingtowardsomeclimax.Hergroupbegantomurmurwithher,torockbackandforthunconsciously,liketruebelieversatatentrevival.Theireyeswereshinyandblank.Theywereunderherspell.

Around3:00A.M.(thesermonwentonrelentlessly,andthepeoplewhowerenotinterestedhadretreatedtothebacktotrytogetsomesleep),IsawOllieputabagofgroceriesonashelfunderthecheckoutnearesttheOUTdoor.Halfanhourlaterheputanotherbagbesideit.Nooneappearedtonoticehimbutme.Billy,Amanda,andMrs.Turmanslepttogetherbythedenudedcold-cuts

section.Ijoinedthemandfellintoanuneasydoze.

Atfour-fifteenbymywristwatch,Ollieshookmeawake.Cornellwaswithhim,hiseyesgleamingbrightlyfrombehindhisspectacles.

“It’stime,David,”Olliesaid.

Anervouscramphitmybellyandthenpassed.IshookAmandaawake.Thequestion

ofwhatmighthappenwithbothAmandaandStephanieinthecartogetherpassedintomymind,andthenpassedrightoutagain.Todayitwouldbebesttotakethingsjustastheycame.

Thoseremarkablegreeneyesopenedandlookedintomine.“David?”

“We’regoingtotakeastabatgettingoutofhere.Doyou

wanttocome?”

“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”

Istartedtoexplain,thenwokeupMrs.TurmansoIwouldonlyhavetogothroughittheonce.

“Yourtheoryaboutscent,”Amandasaid.“It’sreallyonlyaneducatedguessatthispoint,isn’tit?”

“Yes.”

“Itdoesn’tmattertome,”Hattiesaid.Herfacewaswhiteandinspiteofthesleepshe’dgottentherewerelargediscoloredpatchesunderhereyes.“Iwoulddoanything—takeanychances—justtoseethesunagain.”

Justtoseethesunagain.Alittleshivercoursedthroughme.Shehadputherfingeron

aspotthatwasveryclosetothecenterofmyownfears,onthesenseofalmostforegonedoomthathadgrippedmesinceIhadseenNormdraggedoutthroughtheloadingdoor.Youcouldonlyseethesunthroughthemistasalittlesilvercoin.ItwaslikebeingonVenus.

Itwasn’tsomuchthemonstrouscreaturesthatlurkedinthemist;myshot

withthepinchbarhadshownmetheywerenoLovecraftianhorrorswithimmortallifebutonlyorganiccreatureswiththeirownvulnerabilities.Itwasthemistitselfthatsappedthestrengthandrobbedthewill.Justtoseethesunagain.Shewasright.Thatalonewouldbeworthgoingthroughalotofhell.

IsmiledatHattieandshesmiledtentativelyback.

“Yes,”Amandasaid.“Metoo.”

IbegantoshakeBillyawakeasgentlyasIcould.

“I’mwithyou,”Mrs.Repplersaidbriefly.

Wewerealltogetherbythemeatcounter,allbutBudBrown.Hehadthankedusfortheinvitationandthendeclinedit.Hewouldnot

leavehisplaceinthemarket,hesaid,butaddedinaremarkablygentletoneofvoicethathedidn’tblameOlliefordoingso.

Anunpleasant,sweetisharomawasbeginningtodriftupfromthewhiteenamelcasenow,asmellthatremindedmeofthetimeourfreezerwentonthefritzwhilewewerespendingaweekontheCape.Perhaps,Ithought,

itwasthesmellofspoilingmeatthathaddrivenMr.McVeyovertoMrs.Carmody’steam.

“—expiation!It’sexpiationwewanttothinkaboutnow!Wehavebeenscourgedwithwhipsandscorpions!WehavebeenpunishedfordelvingintosecretsforbiddenbyGodofold!Wehaveseenthelipsoftheearthopen!Wehaveseentheobscenitiesof

nightmare!Therockwillnothidethem,thedeadtreegivesnoshelter!Andhowwillitend?Whatwillstopit?”

“Expiation!”shoutedgoodoldMyronLaFleur.

“Expiation…expiation…”Theywhisperedituncertainly.

“Letmehearyousayitlikeyoumeanit!”Mrs.Carmody

shouted.Theveinsstoodoutonherneckinbulgingcords.Hervoicewascrackingandhoarsenow,butstillfullofpower.Anditoccurredtomethatitwasthemistthathadgivenherthatpower—thepowertocloudmen’sminds,tomakeaparticularlyaptpun—justasithadtakenawaythesun’spowerfromtherestofus.Before,shehadbeennothingbutamildlyeccentricoldwomanwithanantiques

storeinatownthatwaslousywithantiquesstores.Nothingbutanoldwomanwithafewstuffedanimalsinthebackroomandareputationfor

(thatwitch…thatcunt)

folkmedicine.Itwassaidshecouldfindwaterwithanapplewoodstick,thatshecouldcharmwarts,andsellyouacreamthatwouldfadefrecklestoshadowsoftheir

formerselves.Ihadevenheard—wasitfromoldBillGiosti?—thatMrs.Carmodycouldbeseen(intotalconfidence)aboutyourlovelife;thatifyouwerehavingthebedroommiseries,shecouldgiveyouadrinkthatwouldputtherambackinyourrod.

“EXPIATION!”theyallcriedtogether.

“Expiation,that’sright!”sheshouteddeliriously.“It’sexpiationgonnaclearawaythisfog!Expiationgonnaclearoffthesemonstersandabominations!Expiationgonnadropthescalesofmistfromoureyesandletussee!”Hervoicedroppedanotch.“AndwhatdoestheBiblesayexpiationis?WhatistheonlycleanserforsinintheEyeandMindofGod?”

“Blood.”

Thistimethechillshudderedupthroughmyentirebody,crestingatthenapeofmyneckandmakingthehairstherestiffen.Mr.McVeyhadspokenthatword,Mr.McVeythebutcherwhohadbeencuttingmeatinBridgtoneversinceIwasakidholdingmyfather’stalentedhand.Mr.McVeytakingordersandcuttingmeatinhisstained

whites.Mr.McVey,whoseacquaintanceshipwiththeknifewaslong—yes,andwiththesawandcleaveraswell.Mr.McVeywhowouldunderstandbetterthananyoneelsethatthecleanserofthesoulflowsfromthewoundsofthebody.

“Blood…”theywhispered.

“Daddy,I’mscared,”Billysaid.Hewasclutchingmy

handtightly,hissmallfacestrainedandpale.

“Ollie,”Isaid,“whydon’twegetoutofthisloonybin?”

“Righton,”hesaid.“Let’sgo.”

Westarteddownthesecondaisleinaloosegroup—Ollie,Amanda,Cornell,Mrs.Turman,Mrs.Reppler,Billy,andI.Itwasaquartertofive

inthemorningandthemistwasbeginningtolightenagain.

“YouandCornelltakethegrocerybags,”Olliesaidtome.

“Okay.”

“I’llgofirst.YourScoutisafour-door,isit?”

“Yeah.Itis.”

“Okay,I’llopenthedriver’sdoorandthebackdooronthesameside.Mrs.Dumfries,canyoucarryBilly?”

Shepickedhimupinherarms.

“AmItooheavy?”Billyasked.

“No,hon.”

“Good.”

“YouandBillygetinfront,”Olliewenton.“Shovewayover.Mrs.Turmaninfront,inthemiddle.David,youbehindthewheel.Therestofuswill—”

“Wheredidyouthinkyouweregoing?”

ItwasMrs.Carmody.

ShestoodattheheadofthecheckoutlinewhereOlliehad

hiddenthebagsofgroceries.Herpantsuitwasayellowscreaminthegloom.Herhairfrizzedoutwildlyinalldirections,remindingmemomentarilyofElsaLanchesterinTheBrideofFrankenstein.Hereyesblazed.Tenorfifteenpeoplestoodbehindher,blockingtheINandOUTdoors.Theyhadthelookofpeoplewhohadbeenincaraccidents,orwhohadseenaUFOland,or

whohadseenatreepullitsrootsupandwalk.

BillycringedagainstAmandaandburiedhisfaceagainstherneck.

“Goingoutnow,Mrs.Carmody,”Olliesaid.Hisvoicewascuriouslygentle.“Standaway,please.”

“Youcan’tgoout.Thatwayisdeath.Don’tyouknowthat

bynow?”

“Noonehasinterferedwithyou,”Isaid.“Allwewantisthesameprivilege.”

Shebentandfoundthebagsofgroceriesunerringly.Shemusthaveknownwhatwewereplanningallalong.ShepulledthemoutfromtheshelfwhereOlliehadplacedthem.Onerippedopen,spillingcansacrossthefloor.

Shethrewtheotheranditsmashedopenwiththesoundofbreakingglass.Sodaranfizzingeverywhichwayandsprayedoffthechromefacingofthenextcheckoutlane.

“Thesearethesortofpeoplewhobroughtiton!”sheshouted.“PeoplewhowillnotbendtothewilloftheAlmighty!Sinnersinpride,haughtytheyare,andstiff-necked!Itisfromtheir

numberthatthesacrificemustcome!Fromtheirnumberthebloodofexpiation!”

Arisingrumbleofagreementspurredheron.Shewasinafrenzynow.Spittleflewfromherlipsasshescreamedatthepeoplecrowdingupbehindher:“It’stheboywewant!Grabhim!Takehim!It’stheboywewant!”

Theysurgedforward,MyronLaFleurinthelead,hiseyesblanklyjoyous.Mr.McVeywasdirectlybehindhim,hisfaceblankandstolid.

Amandafalteredbackward,holdingBillymoretightly.Hisarmswerewrappedaroundherneck.Shelookedatme,terrified.“David,whatdoI—”

“Getthemboth!”Mrs.

Carmodyscreamed.“Gethiswhore,too!”

Shewasanapocalypseofyellowanddarkjoy.Herpursewasstilloverherarm.Shebegantojumpupanddown.“Gettheboy,getthewhore,getthemboth,getthemall,get—”

Asinglesharpreportrangout.

Everythingfroze,asifwewereaclassroomfullofunrulychildrenandtheteacherhadjuststeppedbackinandshutthedoorsharply.MyronLaFleurandMr.McVeystoppedwheretheywere,abouttenpacesaway.Myronlookedbackuncertainlyatthebutcher.Hedidn’tlookbackorevenseemtorealizethatLaFleurwasthere.Mr.McVeyhadalookIhadseenontoomanyother

facesinthelasttwodays.Hehadgoneover.Hismindhadsnapped.

Myronbackedup,staringatOllieWeekswithwidening,fearfuleyes.Hisbacking-upbecamearun.Heturnedthecorneroftheaisle,skiddedonacan,felldown,scrambledupagain,andwasgone.

Olliestoodintheclassictargetshooter’sposition,

Amanda’sgunclaspedinbothhands.Mrs.Carmodystillstoodattheheadofthecheckoutlane.Bothofherliver-spottedhandswereclaspedoverherstomach.Bloodpouredoutbetweenherfingersandsplashedheryellowslacks.

Hermouthopenedandclosed.Once.Twice.Shewastryingtotalk.Atlastshemadeit.

“Youwillalldieoutthere,”shesaid,andthenshepitchedslowlyforward.Herpurseslitheredoffherarm,struckthefloor,andspilleditscontents.Apaper-wrappedtuberolledacrossthedistancebetweenusandstruckoneofmyshoes.Withoutthinking,Ibentoverandpickeditup.Itwasahalf-usedpackageofRolaids.Ithrewitdownagain.Ididn’twanttotouchanythingthatbelongedtoher.

The“congregation”wasbackingaway,spreadingout,theirfocusbroken.Noneofthemtooktheireyesfromthefallenfigureandthedarkbloodspreadingoutfrombeneathherbody.“Youmurderedher!”someonecriedoutinfearandanger.Butnoonepointedoutthatshehadbeenplanningsomethingsimilarformyson.

Olliewasstillfrozeninhis

shooter’sposition,butnowhismouthwastrembling.Itouchedhimgently.“Ollie,let’sgo.Andthankyou.”

“Ikilledher,”hesaidhoarsely.“DamnifIdidn’tkillher.”

“Yes,”Isaid.“That’swhyIthankedyou.Nowlet’sgo.”

Webegantomoveagain.

Withnogrocerybagstocarry—thankstoMrs.Carmody—IwasabletotakeBilly.Wepausedforamomentatthedoor,andOlliesaidinalow,strainedvoice,“Iwouldn’thaveshother,David.Notiftherehadbeenanyotherway.”

“Yeah.”

“Youbelieveit?”

“Yeah,Ido.”

“Thenlet’sgo.”

Wewentout.

XI

TheEnd.

Olliemovedfast,thepistolinhisrighthand.BeforeBillyandIweremorethanoutthedoorhewasatmyScout,an

insubstantialOllie,likeaghostinatelevisionmovie.Heopenedthedriver’sdoor.Thenthebackdoor.Thensomethingcameoutofthemistandcuthimnearlyinhalf.

Inevergotagoodlookatit,andforthatIthinkI’mgrateful.Itappearedtobered,theangrycolorofacookedlobster.Ithadclaws.Itwasmakingalowgruntingsound,

notmuchdifferentfromthesoundwehadheardafterNortonandhislittlebandofFlat-Eartherswentout.

Olliegotoffoneshot,andthenthething’sclawsscissoredforwardandOllie’sbodyseemedtounhingeinaterribleglutofblood.Amanda’sgunfelloutofhishand,struckthepavement,anddischarged.Icaughtanightmareglimpseofhuge

blacklusterlesseyes,thesizeofgianthandfulsofseagrapes,andthenthethinglurchedbackintothemistwithwhatremainedofOllieWeeksinitsgrip.Along,multisegmentedscorpion’sbodydraggedharshlyonthepaving.

Therewasaninstantofchoices.Maybetherealwaysis,nomatterhowshort.Halfofmewantedtorunbackinto

themarketwithBillyhuggedtomychest.TheotherhalfwasracingfortheScout,throwingBillyinside,lungingafterhim.ThenAmandascreamed.Itwasahigh,risingsoundthatseemedtospiralupandupuntilitwasnearlyultrasonic.Billycringedagainstme,digginghisfaceagainstmychest.

OneofthespidershadHattieTurman.Itwasbig.Ithad

knockedherdown.Herdresshadpulledupoverherscrawnykneesasitcrouchedoverher,itsbristly,spinylegscaressinghershoulders.Itbegantospinitsweb.

Mrs.Carmodywasright,Ithought.We’regoingtodieouthere,wearereallygoingtodieouthere.

“Amanda!”Iyelled.

Noresponse.Shewastotallygone.ThespiderstraddledwhatremainedofBilly’sbabysitter,whohadenjoyedjigsawpuzzlesandthosedamnedDouble-Crosticsthatnonormalpersoncandowithoutgoingnuts.Itsthreadscrisscrossedherbody,thewhitestrandsalreadyturningredastheacidcoatingsankintoher.

Cornellwasbackingslowly

towardthemarket,hiseyesasbigasdinnerplatesbehindhisspecs.Abruptlyheturnedandran.HeclawedtheINdooropenandraninside.

ThesplitinmymindclosedasMrs.RepplersteppedbrisklyforwardandslappedAmanda,firstforehand,thenbackhand.Amandastoppedscreaming.Iwenttoher,spunheraroundtofacetheScout,andscreamed“GO!”intoher

face.

Shewent.Mrs.Repplerbrushedpastme.ShepushedAmandaintotheScout’sbackseat,gotinafterher,andslammedthedoorshut.

IyankedBillylooseandthrewhimin.AsIclimbedinmyself,oneofthosespiderthreadsdrifteddownandlitonmyankle.Itburnedthewayafishinglinepulled

rapidlythroughyourclosedfistwillburn.Anditwasstrong.Igavemyfootahardyankanditbroke.Islippedinbehindthewheel.

“Shutit,ohshutthedoor,dearGod!”Amandascreamed.

Ishutthedoor.Abareinstantlater,oneofthespidersthumpedsoftlyagainstit.Iwasonlyinchesfromitsred,

viciouslystupideyes.Itslegs,eachasthickasmywrist,slippedbackandforthacrossthesquarebonnet.Amandascreamedceaselessly,likeafirebell.

“Woman,shutyourhead,”Mrs.Repplertoldher.

Thespidergaveup.Itcouldnotsmellus,ergowewerenolongerthere.Itstruttedbackintothemistonitsunsettling

numberoflegs,becameaphantasm,andthenwasgone.

Ilookedoutthewindowtomakesureitwasgoneandthenopenedthedoor.

“Whatareyoudoing?”Amandascreamed,butIknewwhatIwasdoing.IliketothinkOlliewouldhavedoneexactlythesamething.Ihalf-stepped,half-leanedout,andgotthegun.Something

camerapidlytowardme,butIneversawit.Ipulledbackinandslammedthedoorshut.

Amandabegantosob.Mrs.Repplerputanarmaroundherandcomfortedherbriskly.

Billysaid,“Arewegoinghome,Daddy?”

“BigBill,we’regonnatry.”

“Okay,”hesaidquietly.

Icheckedthegunandthenputitintotheglovecompartment.Olliehadreloadeditaftertheexpeditiontothedrugstore.Therestoftheshellshaddisappearedwithhim,butthatwasallright.HehadfiredatMrs.Carmody,hehadfiredonceattheclawedthing,andthegunhaddischargedoncewhenithit

theground.TherewerefourofusintheScout,butifpushcamerightdowntoshove,I’dfindsomeotherwayoutformyself.

IhadaterriblemomentwhenIcouldn’tfindmykeyring.Icheckedallmypockets,cameupempty,andthencheckedthemallagain,forcingmyselftogoslowlyandcalmly.Theywereinmyjeanspocket;theyhadgottendown

underthecoins,askeyssometimeswill.TheScoutstartedeasily.Attheconfidentroaroftheengine,Amandaburstintofreshtears.

Isatthere,lettingitidle,waitingtoseewhatwasgoingtobedrawnbythesoundoftheengineorthesmelloftheexhaust.Fiveminutes,thelongestfiveofmylife,driftedby.Nothinghappened.

“Arewegoingtosithereorarewegoingtogo?”Mrs.Reppleraskedatlast.

“Go,”Isaid.Ibackedoutoftheslotandputonthelowbeams.

Someurge—probablyabaseone—mademecruisepasttheFederalmarketascloseasIcouldget.TheScout’srightbumperbuntedthetrashbarreltooneside.Itwas

impossibletoseeinexceptthroughtheloopholes—allthosefertilizerandlawn-foodbagsmadetheplacelookasifitwereinthethroesofsomemadgardensale—butateachloopholethereweretwoorthreepalefaces,staringoutatus.

ThenIswungtotheleft,andthemistclosedimpenetrablybehindus.AndwhathasbecomeofthosepeopleIdo

notknow.

IdrovebackdownKansasRoadatfivemilesanhour,feelingmyway.EvenwiththeScout’sheadlightsandrunninglightson,itwasimpossibletoseemorethansevenortenfeetahead.

Theearthhadbeenthroughsometerriblecontortion;Millerhadbeenrightaboutthat.Inplacestheroadwas

merelycracked,butinothersthegrounditselfseemedtohavecavedin,tiltingupgreatslabsofpaving.Iwasabletogetoverwiththehelpofthefour-wheeldrive.ThankGodforthat.ButIwasterriblyafraidthatwewouldsooncometoanobstaclethateventhefour-wheeldrivecouldn’tgetusover.

Ittookmefortyminutestomakeadrivethatusuallyonly

tooksevenoreight.Atlastthesignthatmarkedourprivateroadloomedoutofthemist.Billy,rousedataquarteroffive,hadfallensolidlyasleepinsidethiscarthatheknewsowellitmusthaveseemedlikehometohim.

Amandalookedattheroadnervously.“Areyoureallygoingdownthere?”

“I’mgoingtotry,”Isaid.

Butitwasimpossible.Thestormthathadwhippedthroughhadloosenedalotoftrees,andthatweird,twistingdrophadfinishedthejoboftumblingthem.Iwasabletocrunchoverthefirsttwo;theywerefairlysmall.ThenIcametoahoaryoldpinelyingacrosstheroadlikeanoutlaw’sbarricade.Itwasstillalmostaquarterofamileto

thehouse.Billysleptonbesideme,andIputtheScoutinPark,putmyhandsovermyeyes,andtriedtothinkwhattodonext.

Now,asIsitintheHowardJohnson’snearExit3oftheMaineTurnpike,writingallofthisdownonHoJostationery,IsuspectthatMrs.Reppler,thattoughandcapableoldbroad,couldhavelaidouttheessentialfutility

ofthesituationinafewquickstrokes.Butshehadthekindnesstoletmethinkitthroughformyself.

Icouldn’tgetout.Icouldn’tleavethem.Icouldn’tevenkidmyselfthatallthehorror-moviemonsterswerebackattheFederal;whenIcrackedthewindowIcouldheartheminthewoods,crashingandblunderingaroundonthesteepfalloflandtheycallthe

Ledgesaroundtheseparts.Themoisturedrip-drip-drippedfromtheoverhangingleaves.Overheadthemistdarkenedmomentarilyassomenightmarishandhalf-seenlivingkiteoverflewus.

Itriedtotellmyself—thenandnow—thatifshewasveryquick,ifshebuttonedupthehousewithherselfinside,thatshehadenoughfoodfortendaystotwoweeks.Itonly

worksalittlebit.Whatkeepsgettinginthewayismylastmemoryofher,wearingherfloppysunhatandgardeninggloves,onherwaytoourlittlevegetablepatchwiththemistrollinginexorablyacrossthelakebehindher.

ItisBillyIhavetothinkaboutnow.Billy,Itellmyself.BigBill,BigBill…Ishouldwriteitmaybeahundredtimesonthissheetof

paper,likeachildcondemnedtowriteIwillnotthrowspitballsinschoolasthesunnythree-o’clockstillnessspillsthroughthewindowsandtheteachercorrectshomeworkpapersatherdeskandtheonlysoundisherpen,whilesomewhere,faraway,kidspickupteamsforscratchbaseball.

Anyway,atlastIdidtheonlythingIcoulddo.Ireversed

theScoutcarefullybacktoKansasRoad.ThenIcried.

Amandatouchedmyshouldertimidly.“David,I’msosorry,”shesaid.

“Yeah,”Isaid,tryingtostopthetearsandnothavingmuchluck.“Yeah,soamI.”

IdrovetoRoute302andturnedleft,towardPortland.Thisroadwasalsocracked

andblastedinplaces,butwas,onthewhole,morepassablethanKansasRoadhadbeen.Iwasworriedaboutthebridges.ThefaceofMaineiscutwithrunningwater,andtherearebridgeseverywhere,bigandsmall.ButtheNaplesCausewaywasintact,andfromthereitwasplain—ifslow—sailingallthewaytoPortland.

Themistheldthick.OnceI

hadtostop,thinkingthattreeswerelyingacrosstheroad.ThenthetreesbegantomoveandundulateandIunderstoodtheyweremoretentacles.Istopped,andafterawhiletheydrewback.Onceagreatgreenthingwithaniridescentgreenbodyandlongtransparentwingslandedonthehood.Itlookedlikeagrosslymisshapendragonfly.Ithoveredthereforamoment,thentookwing

againandwasgone.

BillywokeupabouttwohoursafterwehadleftKansasRoadbehindandaskedifwehadgottenMommyyet.ItoldhimIhadn’tbeenabletogetdownourroadbecauseoffallentrees.

“Issheallright,Dad?”

“Billy,Idon’tknow.But

we’llcomebackandsee.”

Hedidn’tcry.Hedozedoffagaininstead.Iwouldhaveratherhadhistears.HewassleepingtoodamnmuchandIdidn’tlikeit.

Ibegantogetatensionheadache.Itwasdrivingthroughthefogatasteadyfiveortenmilesanhourthatdidit,thetensionofknowingthatanythingmightcomeout

ofit,anythingatall—awashout,alandspill,orGhidratheThree-headedMonster.IthinkIprayed.IprayedtoGodthatStephaniewasaliveandthatHewouldn’ttakemyadulteryoutonher.IprayedtoGodtoletmegetBillytosafetybecausehehadbeenthroughsomuch.

Mostpeoplehadpulledtothesideoftheroadwhenthemist

came,andbynoonwewereinNorthWindham.ItriedtheRiverRoad,butaboutfourmilesdown,abridgespanningasmallandnoisystreamhadfallenintothewater.IhadtoreversefornearlyamilebeforeIfoundaspotwideenoughtoturnaround.WewenttoPortlandbyRoute302afterall.

Whenwegotthere,Idrovethecutofftotheturnpike.The

neatlineoftollboothsguardingtheaccesshadbeenturnedintovacant-eyedskeletonsofsmashedPola-Glas.Allofthemwereempty.IntheslidingglassdoorwayofonewasatornjacketwithMaineTurnpikeAuthoritypatchesonthesleeves.Itwasdrenchedwithtacky,dryingblood.WehadnotseenasinglelivingpersonsinceleavingtheFederal.

Mrs.Repplersaid,“David,tryyourradio.”

Islappedmyforeheadinfrustrationandangeratmyself,wonderinghowIcouldhavebeenstupidenoughtoforgettheScout’sAM/FMforsolong.

“Don’tdothat,”Mrs.Repplersaidcurtly.“Youcan’tthinkofeverything.Ifyoutry,youwillgomadandbeofnouse

atall.”

IgotnothingbutashriekofstaticallthewayacrosstheAMband,andtheFMyieldednothingbutasmoothandominoussilence.

“Doesthatmeaneverything’sofftheair?”Amandaasked.Iknewwhatshewasthinking,maybe.Wewerefarenoughsouthnowsothatweshouldhavebeenpickingupa

selectionofstrongBostonstations—WRKO,WBZ,WMEX.ButifBostonhadgone—

“Itdoesn’tmeananythingforsure,”Isaid.“ThatstaticontheAMbandispureinterference.Themistishavingadampingeffectonradiosignals,too.”

“Areyousurethat’sallitis?”

“Yes,”Isaid,notsureatall.

Wewentsouth.Themilepostsrolledpast,countingdownfromaboutforty.WhenwereachedMile1,wewouldbeattheNewHampshireborder.Goingontheturnpikewasslower;alotofthedrivershadn’twantedtogiveup,andtherehadbeenrear-endcollisionsinseveralplaces.SeveraltimesIhadtousethemedianstrip.

Atabouttwentypastone—Iwasbeginningtofeelhungry—Billyclutchedmyarm.“Daddy,what’sthat?What’sthat!”

Ashadowloomedoutofthemist,stainingitdark.Itwasastallasacliffandcomingrightatus.Ijammedonthebrakes.Amanda,whohadbeencatnapping,wasthrownforward.

Somethingcame;again,thatisallIcansayforsure.Itmayhavebeenthefactthatthemistonlyallowedustoglimpsethingsbriefly,butIthinkitjustaslikelythattherearecertainthingsthatyourbrainsimplydisallows.Therearethingsofsuchdarknessandhorror—just,Isuppose,astherearethingsofsuchgreatbeauty—thattheywillnotfitthroughthepunyhumandoorsofperception.

Itwassix-legged,Iknowthat;itsskinwasslatygraythatmottledtodarkbrowninplaces.ThosebrownpatchesremindedmeabsurdlyoftheliverspotsonMrs.Carmody’shands.Itsskinwasdeeplywrinkledandgrooved,andclingingtoitwerescores,hundreds,ofthosepinkish“bugs”withthestalk-eyes.Idon’tknowhowbigitactuallywas,butitpasseddirectlyoverus.One

ofitsgray,wrinkledlegssmasheddownrightbesidemywindow,andMrs.Repplersaidlatershecouldnotseetheundersideofitsbody,althoughshecranedherneckuptolook.ShesawonlytwoCyclopeanlegsgoingupandupintothemistlikelivingtowersuntiltheywerelosttosight.

ForthemomentitwasovertheScoutIhadanimpression

ofsomethingsobigthatitmighthavemadeabluewhalelookthesizeofatrout—inotherwords,somethingsobigthatitdefiedtheimagination.Thenitwasgone,sendingaseismologicalseriesofthudsback.ItlefttracksinthecementoftheInterstate,trackssodeepIcouldnotseethebottoms.EachsingletrackwasnearlybigenoughtodroptheScoutinto.

Foramomentnoonespoke.TherewasnosoundbutourbreathingandthediminishingthudofthatgreatThing’spassage.

ThenBillysaid,“Wasitadinosaur,Dad?Likethebirdthatgotintothemarket?”

“Idon’tthinkso.Idon’tthinktherewaseverananimalthatbig,Billy.Atleastnotonearth.”

IthoughtoftheArrowheadProjectandwonderedagainwhatcrazydamnedthingtheycouldhavebeendoingupthere.

“Canwegoon?”Amandaaskedtimidly.“Itmightcomeback.”

Yes,andtheremightbemoreupahead.Buttherewasnopointinsayingso.Wehadtogosomewhere.Idroveon,

weavinginandoutbetweenthoseterribletracksuntiltheyveeredofftheroad.

Thatiswhathappened.Ornearlyall—thereisonefinalthingI’llgettoinamoment.Butyoumustn’texpectsomeneatconclusion.ThereisnoAndtheyescapedfromthemistintothegoodsunshineofanewday;orWhenweawoketheNationalGuardhadfinallyarrived;oreven

thatgreatoldstandby:Itwasalladream.

Itis,Isuppose,whatmyfatheralwaysfrowninglycalled“anAlfredHitchcockending,”bywhichhemeantaconclusioninambiguitythatallowedthereaderorviewertomakeuphisownmindabouthowthingsended.Myfatherhadnothingbutcontemptforsuchstories,sayingtheywere“cheap

shots.”

WegottothisHowardJohnson’snearExit3asduskbegantoclosein,makingdrivingasuicidalrisk.Beforethat,wetookachanceonthebridgethatspanstheSacoRiver.Itlookedbadlytwistedoutofshape,butinthemistitwasimpossibletotellifitwaswholeornot.Thatparticulargamewewon.

Butthere’stomorrowtothinkof,isn’tthere?

AsIwritethis,itisaquartertooneinthemorning,Julythetwenty-third.Thestormthatseemedtosignalthebeginningofitallwasonlyfourdaysago.BillyissleepinginthelobbyonamattressthatIdraggedoutforhim.AmandaandMrs.Repplerarecloseby.Iamwritingbythelightofabig

Delcoflashlight,andoutsidethepinkbugsaretickingandthumpingofftheglass.Everynowandthenthereisalouderthudasoneofthebirdstakesoneoff.

TheScouthasenoughgastotakeusmaybeanotherninetymiles.Thealternativeistotrytogasuphere;thereisanExxonoutontheserviceisland,andalthoughthepowerisoff,IbelieveIcould

siphonsomeupfromthetank.But—

Butitmeansbeingoutside.

Ifwecangetgas—hereorfurtheralong—we’llkeepgoing.Ihaveadestinationinmindnow,yousee.It’sthatlastthingIwantedtotellyouabout.

Icouldn’tbesure.Thatisthething,thedamnedthing.It

mighthavebeenmyimagination,nothingbutwishfulfillment.Andevenifnot,itissuchalongchance.Howmanymiles?Howmanybridges?Howmanythingsthatwouldlovetotearupmysonandeathimevenashescreamedinterrorandagony?

ThechancesaresogoodthatitwasnothingbutadaydreamthatIhaven’ttoldthe

others…atleast,notyet.

Inthemanager’sapartmentIfoundalargebattery-operatedmultibandradio.Fromthebackofit,aflatantennawireledoutthroughthewindow.Iturnediton,switchedovertoBAT.,fiddledwiththetuningdial,withtheSQUELCHknob,andstillgotnothingbutstaticordeadsilence.

Andthen,atthefarendofthe

AMband,justasIwasreachingfortheknobtoturnitoff,IthoughtIheard,ordreamedIheard,onesingleword.

Therewasnomore.Ilistenedforanhour,buttherewasnomore.Iftherewasthatoneword,itcamethroughsomeminuteshiftinthedampingmist,aninfinitesimalbreakthatimmediatelyclosedagain.

Oneword.

I’vegottogetsomesleep…ifIcansleepandnotbehaunteduntildaybreakbythefacesofOllieWeeksandMrs.CarmodyandNormthebag-boy…andbySteff’sface,half-shadowedbythewidebrimofhersunhat.

Thereisarestauranthere,atypicalHoJorestaurantwithadiningroomandalong,

horseshoe-shapedlunchcounter.Iamgoingtoleavethesepagesonthecounterandperhapssomedaysomeonewillfindthemandreadthem.

Oneword.

IfIonlyreallyheardit.Ifonly.

I’mgoingtobednow.ButfirstI’mgoingtokissmyson

andwhispertwowordsinhisear.Againstthedreamsthatmaycome,youknow.

Twowordsthatsoundabitalike.

OneofthemisHartford.

Theotherishope.

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