Stephen King - Dreamcatcher

“Two,” said the voice from the dreamcatcher.

Jonesy played the deuce from Duddits’s hand-not a bad lead, actually-then played a seven from his own. That made nine. Duddits had a six in his hand; the question was whether or not-

“Six for fifteen,” said the voice from the dreamcatcher. “Fifteen for two. Kiss my bender!”

Jonesy laughed in spite of himself It was Duddits, all right, but for a moment he had sounded just like the Beav. “Go on and peg it, then.” And watched, fascinated, as one of the pegs on the board rose, floated, and settled back down in the second hole on First Street.

Suddenly he understood something.

“You could play all along, couldn’t you, Duds? You used to peg all crazy just because it made us laugh.” The idea brought fresh tears to his eyes. All those years they’d thought they were playing with Duddits, he had been playing with them. And on that day behind Tracker Brothers, who had found whom? Who had saved whom?

“Twenty-one,” he said. “Thirty-one for two.” From the dreamcatcher. And once again the unseen hand lifted the peg and played it two holes farther on. “He’s blocked to me, Jonesy.” “I know.” Jonesy played a three. Duddits called thirteen, and Jonesy played it out of Duddits’s hand. “But you’re not. You can talk to him.”

Jonesy played his own deuce and pegged two. Duddits played, pegged one for last card, and Jonesy thought: Outpegged by a retard-what do you know. Except this Duddits wasn’t retarded. Exhausted and dying, but not retarded.

They pegged their hands, and Duddits was far ahead even though it had been Jonesy’s crib. Jonesy swept the cards together and began to shuffle them.

“What does he want, Jonesy? What does he want besides water?”

Murder, Jonesy thought. He likes to kill people. But no more of that. Please God, no more of that.

“Bacon,” he said. “He does like bacon.”

He began to shuffle the cards… then froze as Duddits filled his mind. The real Duddits, young and strong and ready to fight.

Behind them, in the back seat, Duddits groaned loudly. Henry turned and saw fresh blood, red as byrus, running from his nostrils. His face was twisted in a terrible cramp of concentration. Beneath their closed lids, his eyeballs rolled rapidly back and forth.

“What’s the matter with him?” Owen asked. “I don’t know.”

Duddits began to cough: deep and racking bronchial sounds. Blood flew from between his lips in a fine spray.

“Wake him up, Henry! For Christ’s sake, wake him up!”

Henry gave Owen Underhill a frightened look. They were approaching Kennebunkport now, no more than twenty miles from the New Hampshire border, a hundred and ten from the Quabbin Reservoir. Jonesy had a picture of the Quabbin on the wall of his office; Henry had seen it. And a cottage nearby, in Ware.

Duddits cried out: a single word repeated three times between bursts of coughing. The sprays of blood weren’t heavy, not yet, the stuff was coming from his mouth and throat, but if his lungs began to rupture-

“Wake him up! He says he’s aching! Can’t you hear him-”

“He’s not saying aykin.”

“What, then? What?”

“He’s saying bacon.”

The entity which now thought of itself as Mr Gray-who thought of himself as Mr Gray-had a serious problem, but at least it (he) knew it.

Forewarned is forearmed was how Jonesy put it. There were hundreds of such sayings in Jonesy’s storage cartons, perhaps thousands. Some of them Mr Gray found utterly incomprehensible- A nod’s as good as a wink to a blind horse was one such, What goes around comes around was another-but forewarned is forearmed was a good one.

His problem could be best summed up with how he felt about Jonesy… and of course that he felt at all was bad enough. He could think Now Jonesy is cut off and I have solved my problem; I have quarantined him just as their military tried to quarantine us. I am being followed-chased, intact-but barring engine trouble or a flat tire, neither group of followers has much chance of catching me. I have too great a lead.

These things were facts-truth-but they had no savor. What had savor was the idea of going to the door behind which his reluctant host was imprisoned and yelling: “ I fixed you, didn’t I? I fixed your little red wagon, didn’t I?” What a wagon, red or otherwise, had to do with any of this Mr Gray didn’t know, but it was an emotional bullet of fairly high caliber from Jonesy’s armory-it had a deep and satisfying childhood resonance. And then he would stick Jonesy’s tongue (my tongue now, Mr Gray thought with undeniable satisfaction) between Jonesy’s lips and “give him the old raspberry”.

As for the followers, he wanted to drop Jonesy’s pants and show them Jonesy’s buttocks. This was as senseless as What goes around comes around, as senseless as little red wagon, but he wanted to do it. It was called “mooning the assholes” and he wanted to do it.

He was, Mr Gray realized, infected with this world’s byrus. It began with emotion, progressed to sensory awareness (the taste of food, the undeniable savage pleasure of making the State Trooper beat his head in against the tiled bathroom wall-the hollow thud-thud of it), and then progressed to what Jonesy called higher thinking. This was a joke, in Mr Gray’s view, not much different from calling shit reprocessed food or genocide ethnic cleansing. And yet thinking had its attractions for a being which had always existed as part of a vegetative mind, a sort of highly intelligent not-consciousness.

Before Mr Gray had shut him up, Jonesy had suggested that he give over his mission and simply enjoy being human. Now he discovered that desire in himself as his previously harmonious mind, his not-conscious mind, began to fragment, to turn into a crowd of opposing voices, some wanting A, some wanting B, some wanting Q squared and divided by Z. He would have thought such babble would be horrible, the stuff of madness. Instead he found himself enjoying the wrangle.

There was bacon. There was “sex with Carla”, which Jonesy’s mind identified as a superlatively enjoyable act, involving both sensory and emotional input. There was fast driving and bumper pool in O'Leary’s Bar near Fenway Park and beer and live bands that played loud and Patty Loveless singing “Blame it on your lyin cheatin cold deadbeatin two-timin double-dealin mean mistreatin lovin heart” (whatever that meant). There was the look of the land rising from the fog on a summer morning. And murder, of course. There was that.

His problem was that if he didn’t finish this business quickly, he might never finish it at all. He was no longer byrum but Mr Gray. How long before he left Mr Gray behind and became Jonesy?

It’s not going to happen, he thought. He pressed the accelerator down, and although it didn’t have much, the Subaru gave him a little more. In the back seat the dog yipped… then howled in pain. Mr Gray sent out his mind and touched the byrum growing inside the dog. It was growing fast. Almost too fast. And here was something else-there was no pleasure in meeting its mind, none of the warmth that comes when like encounters like. The mind of the byrum felt cold… rancid…

“ Alien,” he muttered.

Nevertheless, he quieted it. When the dog went into the water supply, the byrum should still be inside. It would need time to adapt. The dog would drown, but the byrum would live yet awhile, feeding on the dog’s dead body, until it was time. But first he had to get there.