Cell. Part 11

'I've had him for a long time. Since he was a kitten, really.' He looked up and Clay saw the man was on the verge of tears. 'Also, I guess I see him as my luck. My mojo. He saved my life, remember.'

'Now we're your mojo,' Clay said. He didn't want to point out that he himself had almost certainly saved Tom's life once already, but it was true. 'Right, Alice?'

'Yep,' she said. Tom had found a poncho for her, and she wore a knapsack on her back, although there currently was nothing in it but batteries for the flashlights* and, Clay was quite sure, that creepy little sneaker, which was at least no longer tied to her wrist. Clay was also carrying batteries in his pack, along with the Coleman lantern. They had nothing else, at Alice's suggestion. She said there was no reason for them to carry what they could pick up along the way. 'We're the Three Musketeers, Tom-all for one and one for all. Now let's go over to the Nickle-bys' house and see if we can get some muskets.'

'Nickerson.' He was still stroking the cat.

She was smart enough-and compa.s.sionate enough, maybe that, too-not to say something like Whatever, Whatever, but Clay could see she was getting low in the patience department. He said, 'Tom. Time to go.' but Clay could see she was getting low in the patience department. He said, 'Tom. Time to go.'

'Yeah, I suppose.' He started to put the cat aside, then picked it up and kissed it firmly between the ears. Rafe bore it with no more than a slight narrowing of the eyes. Tom put it down on the sofa and stood. 'Double rations in the kitchen by the stove, kiddo,' he said. 'Plus a big bowl of milk, with the rest of the half n' half poured in for good measure. Back door's open. Try to remember where home is, and maybe* hey, maybe I'll see you.'

The cat jumped down and walked out of the room toward the kitchen with its tail up. And, true to its kind, it never looked back.

Clay's portfolio, bent and with a horizontal wrinkle running both ways from the knife-slash in the middle, leaned against the living room wall. He glanced at it on the way by and resisted an urge to touch it. He thought briefly of the people inside he'd lived with so long, both in his little studio and in the much wider (or so he liked to flatter himself) reaches of his imagination: Wizard Flak, Sleepy Gene, Jumping Jack Flash, Poison Sally. And the Dark Wanderer, of course. Two days ago he'd thought that maybe they were going to be stars. Now they had a hole running through them and Tom McCourt's cat for company.

He thought of Sleepy Gene leaving town on Robbie the Robo-Cayuse, saying S-So l-long b-boys! Meh-Meh-Mebbe I'll b-be back this w-w-way again! S-So l-long b-boys! Meh-Meh-Mebbe I'll b-be back this w-w-way again!

'So long, boys,' he said out loud-a little self-conscious but not very. It was the end of the world, after all. As farewells went, it wasn't much, but it would have to do* and as Sleepy Gene might also have said, It sh-sh-sure beats a p-poke in the eye with a ruh-ruh-rusty b-brandin-arn. It sh-sh-sure beats a p-poke in the eye with a ruh-ruh-rusty b-brandin-arn.

Clay followed Alice and Tom out onto the porch, into the sound of soft autumn rain.

19.

Tom had his trilby, there was a hood on Alice's poncho, and Tom had found Clay a Red Sox cap that would keep his head dry for a while, at least, if the light rain didn't get heavier. And if it did* well, forage shouldn't be a problem, as Alice had pointed out. That would surely include foul-weather gear. From the slight elevation of the porch they could see roughly two blocks of Salem Street. It was impossible to be sure in the failing light, but it appeared completely deserted except for a few bodies and the food-litter the crazies had left behind.

Each of them was wearing a knife seated in scabbards Clay had made. If Tom was right about the Nickersons, they would soon be able to do better. Clay hoped so. He might be able to use the butcher knife from Soul Kitchen again, but he still wasn't sure he would be able to use it in cold blood.

Alice held a flashlight in her left hand. She looked to make sure Tom had one, too, and nodded. 'Okay,' she said. 'You take us to the Nickerson house, right?'

'Right,' Tom said.

'And if we see someone on our way there, we stop right away and put our lights on them.' She looked at Tom, then Clay, with some anxiety. They had been over this before. Clay guessed she probably obsessed the same way before big tests* and of course this was a very big one.

'Right,' Tom said. 'We say, Our names are Tom, Clay, and Alice. We're normal. What are your names?' '

Clay said, 'If they have flashlights like us, we can almost a.s.sume-'

'We can't a.s.sume a.s.sume anything,' she said restlessly, querulously. 'My father says anything,' she said restlessly, querulously. 'My father says a.s.sume a.s.sume makes an a.s.s out of you makes an a.s.s out of you and and me. Get it, me. Get it, u u and-' and-'

'I get it,' Clay said.

Alice brushed at her eyes, although whether to wipe away rain or tears Clay wasn't sure. He wondered, briefly and painfully, if Johnny was somewhere crying for him, right now. Clay hoped he was. He hoped his son was still capable of tears. Of memory.

'If they can answer, if they can say their names, they're fine, and they're probably safe,' Alice said. 'Right?'

'Right,' Clay said.

'Yeah,' Tom agreed, a little absently. He was looking at the street where there were no people and no bobbing flashlight beams, near or far.

Someplace in the distance, gunshots popped. They sounded like fireworks. The air stank of burning and char and had all day. Clay thought they were smelling it more strongly now because it was wet. He wondered how long before the smell of decaying flesh turned the fug hanging over greater Boston into a reek. He supposed it depended on how warm the days ahead turned out to be.

'If we meet normal people and they ask us what we're doing or where we're going, remember the story,' she said.

'We're looking for survivors,' Tom said.

'That's right. Because they're our friends and neighbors. Any people we meet will just be pa.s.sing through. They'll want to keep moving. Later on we'll probably want to hook up with other normal people, because there's safety in numbers, but right now-'

'Right now we'd like to get to those guns,' Clay said. 'If there are any guns to get. Come on, Alice, let's do this.'

She looked worriedly at him. 'What's wrong? What am I missing? You can tell me, I know I'm just a kid.'

Patiently-as patiently as he could with nerves that felt like overtuned guitar-strings-Clay said, 'There's nothing wrong with it, honey. I just want to get rolling. I don't think we're going to see anyone, anyway. I think it's too soon.'

'I hope you're right,' she said. 'My hair's a mess and I've chipped a nail.'

They looked at her silently for a moment, then laughed. After that it was better among them, and stayed better until the end.

20.

'No,' Alice said. She made a gagging sound. 'No. No, I can't.' A louder gagging sound. Then: 'I'm going to throw up. I'm sorry.'

She plunged out of the Coleman's glare and into the gloom of the Nickersons' living room, which adjoined the kitchen via a wide arch. Clay heard a soft thump as she went to her knees on the carpet, then more gagging. A pause, a gasp, and then she was vomiting. He was almost relieved.

'Oh Christ,' Tom said. He pulled in a long, gasping breath and this time spoke in a wavering exhalation that was nearly a howl. 'Oh Chruuust.' Chruuust.'

'Tom,' Clay said. He saw how the little man was swaying on his feet and understood he was on the verge of fainting. Why not? These b.l.o.o.d.y leavings had been his neighbors.

'Tom!' He stepped between Tom and the two bodies on the kitchen floor, between Tom and most of the splattered blood, which looked as black as India ink in the Coleman's unforgiving white glare. He tapped the side of Tom's face with his free hand. He stepped between Tom and the two bodies on the kitchen floor, between Tom and most of the splattered blood, which looked as black as India ink in the Coleman's unforgiving white glare. He tapped the side of Tom's face with his free hand. 'Don't pa.s.s out!' 'Don't pa.s.s out!' And when he saw Tom steady on his feet, he dropped his voice a little. 'Go on in the other room and take care of Alice. I'll take care of the kitchen.' And when he saw Tom steady on his feet, he dropped his voice a little. 'Go on in the other room and take care of Alice. I'll take care of the kitchen.'

'Why would you want to go in there?' Tom asked. 'That's Beth Nickerson with her brains* her b-brains all over*' He swallowed. There was an audible click in his throat. 'Most of her face is gone, but I recognize the blue jumper with the white snowflakes on it. And that's Heidi on the floor by the center island. Their daughter. I recognize her, her, even with*' He shook his head, as if to clear it, then repeated: 'Why would you even with*' He shook his head, as if to clear it, then repeated: 'Why would you want want to?' to?'

'I'm pretty sure I see what we came for,' Clay said. He was astounded by how calm he sounded.

'In the kitchen kitchen?'

Tom tried to look past him and Clay moved to block his view. 'Trust me. You see to Alice. If she can, you two start looking around for more guns. Shout if you hit paydirt. And be careful, Mr. Nickerson may be here, too. I mean, we could a.s.sume he was at work when all this went down, but as Alice's dad says-'

'a.s.sume makes an a.s.s out of you and and me,' Tom said. He managed a sickly smile. 'Gotcha.' He started to turn away, then turned back. 'I don't care where we go, Clay, but I don't want to stay here any longer than we have to. I didn't exactly love Arnie and Beth Nickerson, but they were my neighbors. And they treated me a h.e.l.l of a lot better than that idiot Scottoni from around the block.' 'Understood.' me,' Tom said. He managed a sickly smile. 'Gotcha.' He started to turn away, then turned back. 'I don't care where we go, Clay, but I don't want to stay here any longer than we have to. I didn't exactly love Arnie and Beth Nickerson, but they were my neighbors. And they treated me a h.e.l.l of a lot better than that idiot Scottoni from around the block.' 'Understood.'

Tom snapped on his flashlight and went into the Nickerson living room. Clay heard him murmuring to Alice, comforting her.

Steeling himself, Clay walked into the kitchen with the Coleman lantern held up, stepping around the puddles of blood on the hardwood floor. It had dried now, but he still didn't want to put his shoes in any more of it than he had to.

The girl lying on her back by the center island had been tall, but both her pigtails and the angular lines of her body suggested a child two or three years younger than Alice. Her head was c.o.c.ked at a strenuous angle, almost a parody of interrogation, and her dead eyes bulged. Her hair had been broom straw-blond, but all of it on the left side of her head-the side that had taken the blow which had killed her-was now the same dark maroon as the stains on the floor.

Her mother reclined below the counter to the right of the stove, where the handsome cherrywood cabinets came together to form a corner. Her hands were ghost-white with flour and her b.l.o.o.d.y, bitten legs were indecorously splayed. Once, before starting work on a limited-run comic called Battle h.e.l.l, Battle h.e.l.l, Clay had accessed a selection of fatal-gunshot photos on the Web, thinking there might be something he could use. There was not. Gunshot wounds spoke a terrible blank language of their own, and here it was again. Beth Nickerson was mostly spray and gristle from her left eye on up. Her right eye had drifted into the upper orbit of its socket, as if she had died trying to look into her own head. Her back hair and a good deal of her brain-matter was caked on the cherrywood cabinet against which she had leaned in her brief moments of dying. A few flies were buzzing around her. Clay had accessed a selection of fatal-gunshot photos on the Web, thinking there might be something he could use. There was not. Gunshot wounds spoke a terrible blank language of their own, and here it was again. Beth Nickerson was mostly spray and gristle from her left eye on up. Her right eye had drifted into the upper orbit of its socket, as if she had died trying to look into her own head. Her back hair and a good deal of her brain-matter was caked on the cherrywood cabinet against which she had leaned in her brief moments of dying. A few flies were buzzing around her.

Clay began to gag. He turned his head and covered his mouth. He told himself he had to control himself. In the other room Alice had stopped vomiting-in fact he could hear her and Tom talking together as they moved deeper into the house-and he didn't want to get her going again.

Think of them as dummies, props in a movie, he told himself, but he knew he could never do that. he told himself, but he knew he could never do that.

When he looked back, he looked at the other things on the floor instead. That helped. The gun he had already seen. The kitchen was s.p.a.cious and the gun was all the way on the other side, lying between the fridge and one of the cabinets with the barrel sticking out. His first impulse on seeing the dead woman and the dead girl had been to avert his eyes; they'd happened on the gun-barrel purely by accident.

But maybe I would have known there had to be a gun.

He even saw where it had been: a wall-mounted clip between the built-in TV and the industrial-size can-opener. They were gadget-nuts as well as gun-nuts, They were gadget-nuts as well as gun-nuts, Tom had said, and a wall-mounted pistol in your kitchen just waiting to leap into your hand* why, if that wasn't the best of both worlds, what was? Tom had said, and a wall-mounted pistol in your kitchen just waiting to leap into your hand* why, if that wasn't the best of both worlds, what was?

'Clay?' That was Alice. Coming from some distance.

'What?'

There followed the sound of feet quickly ascending a set of stairs, then Alice called from the living room. 'Tom said you wanted to know if we hit paydirt. We just did. There must be a dozen guns downstairs in the den. Rifles and pistols both. They're in a cabinet with an alarm-company sticker on it, so we'll probably get arrested* that's a joke. Are you coming?'

'In a minute, hon. Don't come out here.'

'Don't worry. Don't you you stay there and get grossed out.' stay there and get grossed out.'

He was beyond grossed out, far beyond. There were two other objects lying on the b.l.o.o.d.y hardwood floor of the Nickerson kitchen. One was a rolling pin, which made sense. There was a pie tin, a mixing bowl, and a cheery yellow canister marked FLOUR sitting on the center island. The other object on the floor, this one lying not too distant from one of Heidi Nickerson's hands, was a cell phone only a teenager could love, blue with big orange daisy decals plastered all over it.

Clay could see see what had happened, little as he wanted to. Beth Nickerson is making a pie. Does she know something awful has started to happen in greater Boston, in America, maybe in the world? Is it on TV? If so, the TV didn't send her a crazygram, Clay was sure of that. what had happened, little as he wanted to. Beth Nickerson is making a pie. Does she know something awful has started to happen in greater Boston, in America, maybe in the world? Is it on TV? If so, the TV didn't send her a crazygram, Clay was sure of that.

Her daughter got one, though. Oh yes. And Heidi attacked her mother. Did Beth Nickerson try to reason with her daughter before driving her to the floor with a blow from the rolling pin, or did she just strike? Not in hate, but in pain and fear? In any case, it wasn't enough. And Beth wasn't wearing pants. She was wearing a jumper, and her legs were bare.

Clay pulled down the dead woman's skirt. He did it gently, covering the plain working-at-home underwear that she had soiled at the end.

Heidi, surely no older than fourteen and perhaps only twelve, must have been growling in that savage nonsense-language they seemed to learn all at once after they got a full dose of Sane-B-Gone from their phones, saying things like rast rast and and eelah eelah and and kazzalah-CAN! kazzalah-CAN! The first blow from the rolling pin had knocked her down but not out, and the mad girl had begun to work on her mother's legs. Not little nips, either, but deep, searing bites, some that had driven all the way to the bone. Clay could see not only toothmarks but ghostly tattoos that must have been left by young Heidi's braces. And so-probably screaming, undoubtedly in agony, almost certainly not aware of what she was doing-Beth Nickerson had struck again, this time much harder. Clay could almost hear the m.u.f.fled crack as the girl's neck broke. Beloved daughter, dead on the floor of the state-of-the-art kitchen, with braces on her teeth and her state-of-the-art cell phone by one outstretched hand. The first blow from the rolling pin had knocked her down but not out, and the mad girl had begun to work on her mother's legs. Not little nips, either, but deep, searing bites, some that had driven all the way to the bone. Clay could see not only toothmarks but ghostly tattoos that must have been left by young Heidi's braces. And so-probably screaming, undoubtedly in agony, almost certainly not aware of what she was doing-Beth Nickerson had struck again, this time much harder. Clay could almost hear the m.u.f.fled crack as the girl's neck broke. Beloved daughter, dead on the floor of the state-of-the-art kitchen, with braces on her teeth and her state-of-the-art cell phone by one outstretched hand.

And had her mother stopped to consider before popping the gun from its clip between the TV and the can-opener, where it had been waiting who knew how long for a burglar or rapist to appear in this clean, well-lighted kitchen? Clay thought not. Clay thought there would have been no pause, that she would have wanted to catch up with her daughter's fleeing soul while the explanation for what she had done was still fresh on her lips.

Clay went to the gun and picked it up. From a gadget-boy like Arnie Nickerson he would have expected an automatic-maybe even one with a laser sight-but this was a plain old Colt.45 revolver. He supposed it made sense. His wife might feel more comfortable with this kind of gun; no nonsense about making sure it was loaded if the gun was needed (or wasting time fishing a clip out from behind the spatulas or spices if it wasn't), then racking the slide to make sure there was a hot one in the chamber. No, with this old wh.o.r.e you just had to swing the barrel out, which Clay did with ease. He'd drawn a thousand variations of this very gun for Dark Wanderer. As he'd expected, only one of the six chambers was empty. He shook out one of the other loads, knowing just what he would find. Beth Nickerson's.45 was loaded with highly illegal cop-killer bullets. Fraggers. No wonder the top of her head was gone. The wonder was that she had any left at all. He looked down at the remains of the woman leaning in the corner and began to cry.

'Clay?' That was Tom, coming up the stairs from the bas.e.m.e.nt. 'Man, Arnie had everything! everything! There's an automatic weapon that would have gotten him a stretch in Walpole, I bet* Clay? Are you all right?' There's an automatic weapon that would have gotten him a stretch in Walpole, I bet* Clay? Are you all right?'

'I'm coming,' Clay said, wiping his eyes. He safetied the revolver and stuck it in his belt. Then he took off the knife and laid it on Beth Nickerson's counter, still in its homemade scabbard. It seemed they were trading up. 'Give me two more minutes.'

'Yo.'

Clay heard Tom clumping back to Arnie Nickerson's downstairs armory and smiled in spite of the tears still running down his face. Here was something he would have to remember: give a nice little gay guy from Malden a roomful of guns to play with, he starts to say yo yo just like Sylvester Stallone. just like Sylvester Stallone.

Clay started going through drawers. In the third one he tried, he found a heavy red box markedAMERICAN DEFENDER.45 CALIBER AMERICAN DEFENDER AMERICAN DEFENDER 50 ROUNDS. It was under the dishtowels. He put the box in his pocket and went to join Tom and Alice. He wanted to get out of here now, and as quickly as possible. The trick would be getting them to go without trying to take Arnie Nickerson's entire gun collection along. 50 ROUNDS. It was under the dishtowels. He put the box in his pocket and went to join Tom and Alice. He wanted to get out of here now, and as quickly as possible. The trick would be getting them to go without trying to take Arnie Nickerson's entire gun collection along.

Halfway through the arch he paused and glanced back, holding the Coleman lantern high, looking at the bodies. Pulling down the skirt of the woman's jumper hadn't helped much. They were still just corpses, their wounds as naked as Noah when his son had come upon him in liquor. He could find something to cover them with, but once he started covering bodies, where would it end? Where? With Sharon? With his son?

'G.o.d forbid,' he whispered, but he doubted that G.o.d would simply because he asked. He lowered the lantern and followed the dancing glow of flashlights downstairs to Tom and Alice.

21.

They both wore belts with large-caliber handguns in the holsters, and these were were automatics. Tom had also slung an ammunition bandolier over his shoulder. Clay didn't know whether to laugh or start crying again. Part of him felt like doing both at the same time. Of course if he did that, they would think he was having hysterics. And of course they would be right. automatics. Tom had also slung an ammunition bandolier over his shoulder. Clay didn't know whether to laugh or start crying again. Part of him felt like doing both at the same time. Of course if he did that, they would think he was having hysterics. And of course they would be right.

The plasma TV mounted on the wall down here was the big-very big-brother of the one in the kitchen. Another TV, only slightly smaller, had a multibrand videogame hookup Clay would, once upon a time, have loved to examine. To fawn over, maybe. As if to balance it off, a vintage Seeberg jukebox stood in the corner next to the Nickersons' Ping-Pong table, all its fabulous colors dark and dead. And of course there were the gun cabinets, two of them, still locked but with their gla.s.s fronts broken.

'There were locking-bars, but he had a toolbox in his garage,' Tom said. 'Alice used a wrench to break them off.'

'They were cookies,' Alice said modestly. 'This was in the garage behind the toolbox, wrapped in a piece of blanket. Is it what I think it is?' She picked it up off the Ping-Pong table, holding it carefully by the wire stock, and carried it over to Clay.

'Holy s.h.i.t,' he said. 'This is*' He squinted at the embossing above the trigger-guard. 'I think it's Russian.'

'I'm sure it is,' Tom said. 'Do you think it's a Kalashnikov?'

'You got me. Are there bullets that match it? In boxes that match the printing on the gun, I mean?'

'Halfa dozen. Heavy Heavy boxes. It's a machine gun, isn't it?' boxes. It's a machine gun, isn't it?'

'You might as well call it that, I guess.' Clay flicked a lever. 'I'm pretty sure one of these positions is single shot and the other is autofire.'

'How many rounds does it fire a minute?' Alice asked.

'I don't know,' Clay said, 'but I think it's rounds per second.' second.'

'Whoa.' Her eyes got round. 'Can you figure out how to shoot it?' Her eyes got round. 'Can you figure out how to shoot it?'

'Alice-I'm pretty sure they teach sixteen-year-old farmboys how to shoot these. Yes, I can figure it out. It might take a box of ammo, but I can figure it out.' Please G.o.d don't let it blow up in my hands, Please G.o.d don't let it blow up in my hands, he thought. he thought.

'Is something like that legal in Ma.s.sachusetts?' she asked.