Cell. Part 12

'It is now, Alice,' Tom said, not smiling. 'Is it time to go?'

'Yes,' she said, and then-perhaps still not entirely comfortable being the one to make the decisions-she looked at Clay.

'Yes,' he said. 'North.'

'Fine with me,' Alice said.

'Yeah,' Tom said. 'North. Let's do it.'

GAITEN ACADEMY.

1.

When rainy daylight arose the next morning, Clay, Alice, and Tom were camped in the barn adjacent to an abandoned horse-farm in North Reading. They watched from the door as the first groups of crazyfolk began to appear, flocking southwest on Route 62 in the direction of Wilmington. Their clothes looked uniformly soaked and shabby. Some were without shoes. By noon they were gone. Around four, as the sun broke through the clouds in long, spoking rays, they began flocking back in the direction from which they had come. Many were munching as they walked. Some were helping those who were having a hard time walking on their own. If there were acts of murder today, Clay, Tom, and Alice did not see any.

Perhaps half a dozen of the crazies were lugging large objects that looked familiar to Clay; Alice had found one in the closet of Tom's guest bedroom. The three of them had stood around it, afraid to turn it on.

'Clay?' Alice asked. 'Why are some of them carrying boomboxes?'

'I don't know,' he said.

'I don't like it,' Tom said. 'I don't like the flocking behavior, I don't like them helping each other, and I like seeing them with those big portable sound-systems least of all.'

'There's only a few with-' Clay began.

'Check her out, right there,' Tom interrupted, pointing to a middle-aged woman who was staggering up Highway 62 with a radio/CD player the size of a living room ha.s.sock cradled in her arms. She held it against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s as though it were a sleeping toddler. Its power-cord had come out of the little storage compartment in back and dragged beside her on the road. 'And you don't see any of them carrying lamps or toasters, do you? What if they're programmed to set up battery-powered radios, turn them on, and start broadcasting that tone, pulse, subliminal message, whatever-it-is? What if they want to get the ones they missed the first time?'

They. The ever-popular paranoid The ever-popular paranoid they. they. Alice had produced her little sneaker from somewhere and was squeezing it in her hand, but when she spoke, her voice was calm enough. 'I don't think that's it,' she said. Alice had produced her little sneaker from somewhere and was squeezing it in her hand, but when she spoke, her voice was calm enough. 'I don't think that's it,' she said.

'Why not?' Tom asked.

She shook her head. 'I can't say. Just that it doesn't feel right.'

'Woman's intuition?' He was smiling, but he wasn't sneering.

'Maybe,' she said, 'but I think one thing's obvious.'

'What's that, Alice?' Clay asked. He had an idea what she was going to say, and he was right.

'They're getting smarter. Not on their own, but because they're thinking together. Probably that sounds crazy, but I think it's more likely than them collecting a big pile of battery-powered FM suitcases to blast us all into loony-land.'

'Telepathic group-think,' Tom said. He mulled it over. Alice watched him do it. Clay, who had already decided she was right, looked out the barn door at the last of the day. He was thinking they needed to stop somewhere and pick up a road-atlas.

Tom was nodding. 'Hey, why not? After all, that's probably what flocking is: is:telepathic group-think.'

'Do you really think so or are you just saying that to make me-'

'I really think so,' he said. He reached out and touched her hand, which was now squeezing the little sneaker rapidly. 'I really really do. Give that thing a rest, will you?'

She gave him a fleeting, distracted smile. Clay saw it and thought again how beautiful she was, how really beautiful. And how close to breaking. 'That hay looks soft and I'm tired. I think I'll take a nice long nap.'

'Get down with your bad self,' Clay said.

2.

Clay dreamed that he and Sharon and Johnny-Gee were having a picnic behind their little house in Kent Pond. Sharon had spread her Navajo blanket on the gra.s.s. They were having sandwiches and iced tea. Suddenly the day went dark. Sharon pointed over Clay's shoulder and said, 'Look! Telepaths!' But when he turned that way, he saw nothing but a flock of crows, one so huge it blotted out the sun. Then a tinkling began. It sounded like the Mister Softee truck playing the Sesame Street Sesame Street theme song, but he knew it was a ring-tone, and in his dream he was terrified. He turned back and Johnny-Gee was gone. When he asked Sharon where he was-already dreading, already knowing the answer-she said Johnny had gone under the blanket to answer his cell phone. There was a b.u.mp in the blanket. Clay dove under, into the overpowering smell of sweet hay, shouting for Johnny not to pick up, not to answer, reaching for him and finding instead only the cold curve of a gla.s.s ball: the paperweight he'd bought in Small Treasures, the one with the haze of dandelion fluff floating deep down inside like a pocket fog. theme song, but he knew it was a ring-tone, and in his dream he was terrified. He turned back and Johnny-Gee was gone. When he asked Sharon where he was-already dreading, already knowing the answer-she said Johnny had gone under the blanket to answer his cell phone. There was a b.u.mp in the blanket. Clay dove under, into the overpowering smell of sweet hay, shouting for Johnny not to pick up, not to answer, reaching for him and finding instead only the cold curve of a gla.s.s ball: the paperweight he'd bought in Small Treasures, the one with the haze of dandelion fluff floating deep down inside like a pocket fog.

Then Tom was shaking him, telling him it was past nine by his watch, the moon was up, and if they were going to do some more walking they ought to get at it. Clay had never been so glad to wake up. On the whole, he preferred dreams of the Bingo Tent.

Alice was looking at him oddly.

'What?' Clay said, checking to make sure their automatic weapon was safetied-that was already becoming second nature to him.

'You were talking in your sleep. You were saying, Don't answer it, don't answer it.' '

'n.o.body should have answered it,' Clay said. 'We all would have been better off.' should have answered it,' Clay said. 'We all would have been better off.'

'Ah, but who can resist a ringing phone?' Tom asked. 'And there goes your ballgame.'

'Thus spake f.u.c.kin Zarathustra,' Clay said. Alice laughed until she cried.

3.

With the moon racing in and out of the clouds-like an ill.u.s.tration in a boy's novel of pirates and buried treasure, Clay thought-they left the horse-farm behind and resumed their walk north. That night they began to meet others of their own kind again.

Because this is our time now, Clay thought, shifting the automatic rifle from one hand to the other. Fully loaded, it was d.a.m.ned heavy. Clay thought, shifting the automatic rifle from one hand to the other. Fully loaded, it was d.a.m.ned heavy. The phone-crazies own the days; when the stars come out, that's us. We're like vampires. We've been banished to the night. Up close we know each other because we can still talk; at a little distance we can be pretty sure of each other by the packs we wear and the guns more and more of us carry; but at a distance, the one sure sign is the waving flashlight beam. Three days ago we not only ruled the earth, we had survivor's guilt about all the other species we'd wiped out on our climb to the nirvana of round-the-clock cable news and microwave popcorn. Now we're the Flashlight People. The phone-crazies own the days; when the stars come out, that's us. We're like vampires. We've been banished to the night. Up close we know each other because we can still talk; at a little distance we can be pretty sure of each other by the packs we wear and the guns more and more of us carry; but at a distance, the one sure sign is the waving flashlight beam. Three days ago we not only ruled the earth, we had survivor's guilt about all the other species we'd wiped out on our climb to the nirvana of round-the-clock cable news and microwave popcorn. Now we're the Flashlight People.

He looked over at Tom. 'Where do they go?' he asked. 'Where do the crazies go after sundown?'

Tom gave him a look. 'North Pole. All the elves died of mad reindeer disease and these guys are helping out until the new crop shows up.'

'Jesus,' Clay said, 'did someone get up on the wrong side of the haystack tonight?'

But Tom still wouldn't smile. 'I'm thinking about my cat,' he said. 'Wondering if he's all right. No doubt you think that's quite stupid.'

'No,' Clay said, although, having a son and a wife to worry about, he sort of did.

4.

They got a road atlas in a card-and-book shop in the two-stoplight burg of Ballardvale. They were now traveling north, and very glad they had decided to stay in the more-or-less bucolic V between Interstates 93 and 95. The other travelers they met-most moving west, away from 1-95-told of horrendous traffic-jams and terrible wrecks. One of the few pilgrims who was moving east said that a tanker had crashed near the Wakefield exit of 1-93 and the resulting fire had caused a chain of explosions that had incinerated nearly a mile of northbound traffic. The stench, he said, was like 'a fish-fry in h.e.l.l.'

They met more Flashlight People as they trudged through the outskirts of Andover and heard a rumor so persistent it was now repeated with the a.s.surance of fact: the New Hampshire border was closed. New Hampshire State Police and special deputies were shooting first and asking questions afterward. It didn't matter to them whether you were crazy or sane.

'It's just a new version of the f.u.c.king motto they've had on their f.u.c.king license plates since forever,' said a bitter-faced elderly man with whom they walked for a while. He was wearing a small pack over his expensive topcoat and carrying a long-barreled flashlight. Poking out of his topcoat pocket was the b.u.t.t of a handgun. 'If you're in in New Hampshire, you can live free. If you want to New Hampshire, you can live free. If you want to come come to New Hampshire, you can f.u.c.king die.' to New Hampshire, you can f.u.c.king die.'

'That's just* really hard to believe,' Alice said.

'Believe what you want, Missy,' said their temporary companion. 'I met some people who tried to go north like you folks, and they turned back south in a hurry when they saw some people shot out of hand trying to cross into New Hampshire north of Dunstable.'

'When?' Clay asked.

'Last night.'

Clay thought of several other questions, but held his tongue instead. At Andover, the bitter-faced man and most of the other people with whom they had been sharing their vehicle-clogged (but pa.s.sable) route turned onto Highway 133, toward Lowell and points west. Clay, Tom, and Alice were left on Andover's main street-deserted except for a few flashlight-waving foragers-with a decision to make.

'Do you believe it?' Clay asked Alice.

'No,' she said, and looked at Tom.

Tom shook his head. 'Me either. I thought the guy's story had an alligators-in-the-sewers feel to it.'

Alice was nodding. 'News doesn't travel that fast anymore. Not without phones.'

'Yep,' Tom said. 'Definitely the next-generation urban myth. Still, we are are talking about what a friend of mine likes to call New Hamster. talking about what a friend of mine likes to call New Hamster.

Which is why I think we should cross the border at the most out-of-the-way spot we can find.'

'Sounds like a plan,' Alice said, and with that they moved on again, using the sidewalk as long as they were in town and there was a sidewalk to use.

5.

On the outskirts of Andover, a man with a pair of flashlights rigged in a kind of harness (one light at each temple) stepped out through the broken display window of the IGA. He waved to them in companionable fashion, then picked a course toward them between a jumble of shopping carts, dropping canned goods into what looked like a newsboy's pouch as he walked. He stopped beside a pickup truck lying on its side, introduced himself as Mr. Roscoe Handt of Methuen, and asked where they were going. When Clay told them Maine, Handt shook his head.

'New Hampshire border's closed. I met two people not half an hour ago who got turned back. He said they're trying to tell the difference between the phone-crazies and people like us, but they're not trying too hard.'

'Did these two people actually see this with their own eyes?' Tom asked.

Roscoe Handt looked at Tom as though he he might be crazy. 'You got to trust the word of others, man,' he said. 'I mean, you can't exactly phone someone up and ask for verification, can you?' He paused. 'They're burning the bodies at Salem and Nashua, that's what these folks told me. And it smells like a pig-roast. They told me that, too. I've got a party of five I'm taking west, and we want to make some miles before sunup. The way west is open.' might be crazy. 'You got to trust the word of others, man,' he said. 'I mean, you can't exactly phone someone up and ask for verification, can you?' He paused. 'They're burning the bodies at Salem and Nashua, that's what these folks told me. And it smells like a pig-roast. They told me that, too. I've got a party of five I'm taking west, and we want to make some miles before sunup. The way west is open.'

'That the word you're hearing, is it?' Clay asked.

Handt looked at him with mild contempt. 'That's the word, all right. And a word to the wise is sufficient, my ma used to say. If you really mean to go north, make sure you get to the border in the middle of the night. The crazies don't go out after dark.'

'We know,' Tom said.

The man with the flashlights affixed to the sides of his head ignored Tom and went on talking to Clay. He had pegged Clay as the trio's leader. 'And they don't carry flashlights. Wave your flashlights back and forth. Talk. Yell. Yell. They don't do those things, either. I doubt the people at the border will let you through, but if you're lucky, they won't shoot you, either.' They don't do those things, either. I doubt the people at the border will let you through, but if you're lucky, they won't shoot you, either.'

'They're getting smarter,' Alice said. 'You know that, don't you, Mr. Handt?'

Handt snorted. 'They're traveling in packs and they're not killing each other anymore. I don't know if that makes them smarter or not. But they're still killing us, us, I know that.' I know that.'

Handt must have seen doubt on Clay's face, because he smiled. His flashlights turned it into something unpleasant.

'I saw them catch a woman out this morning,' he said. 'With my own eyes, okay?'

Clay nodded. 'Okay.'