Stephen King - Dreamcatcher

“I don’t,” he said, and pushed the whole thing away.

There were a few sticks and twigs left on the ground. Pete fed them to the fire, then looked at the woman. Her open eye had no menace in it now. It was dusty, the way a deer’s eyes got dusty after you shot it. All that blood around her… he supposed she’d hemorrhaged. Something inside had gone bust. Hell of a tough break. He supposed maybe she’d known it was coming and had sat down in the road because she wanted to be sure of being seen if someone came along. Someone had, but look how it had turned out. Poor bitch. Poor unlucky bitch.

Pete shifted to the left, slowly, until he could snag the tarp, then began to move forward again. It had been her makeshift sled; now it could be her makeshift shroud. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Becky or whatever your name is, I’m really sorry. But I couldn’t have helped you by staying, you know; I’m not a doctor, I’m a fucking car salesman. You were-”

– fucked from the start was how he’d meant to finish, but the words dried up in his throat as he saw the back of her. That part hadn’t been visible until he got close, because she had died facing the fire. The seat of her jeans was blown out, as if she’d finally finished farting fumes and had gotten down to the dynamite. Tom rags of denim fluttered in the breeze. Also fluttering were fragments of the garments she had been wearing beneath, at least two pairs of longjohns-one heavy white cotton, the other pink silk. And something was growing on both the legs of the jeans and the back of her parka. It looked like mildew or some kind of fungus. Red-gold, or maybe that was just reflected firelight.

Something had come out of her. Something-

Yes. Something. And it’s watching me right now.

Pete looked into the woods. Nothing. The flood of animals had dried up. He was alone.

Except I’m not.

No, he wasn’t. Something was out there, something that didn’t do well in the cold, something that preferred warm, wet places. Except-

Except it got too big. And it ran out of food.

“Are you out there?”

Pete thought that calling out like that would make him feel foolish, but it didn’t. What it made him feel was more frightened than ever.

His eye fastened on a sketchy track of that mildewy stuff. It stretched away from Becky-yeah, she was a Becky, all right, as Becky as Becky could be-and around the comer of the lean-to. A moment later Pete heard a scaly scraping sound as something slithered on the tin roof He craned up, following the sound with his eyes.

“Go away,” he whispered. “Go away and leave me alone. I… I’m fucked up.”

There was another brief slither as the thing moved farther up the tin. Yes, he was fucked up. Unfortunately, he was also food. The thing up there slithered again. Pete didn’t think it would wait long, maybe couldn’t wait long, not up there; it would be like a gecko in a refrigerator. What it was going to do was drop on him. And now he realized a terrible thing: he had gotten so fixated on the beer that he had forgotten the fucking guns.

His first impulse was to crawl deeper into the lean-to, but that might be a mistake, like running into a blind alley. He grabbed the jutting end of one of the fresh branches he’d just put on the fire instead. He didn’t take it out, not yet, just made a loose fist around it. The other end was burning briskly. “Come on,” he said to the tin roof “You like it hot? I’ve got something hot for you. Come on and get it. Yum-fuckin-yum.”

Nothing. Not from the roof, anyway. There was a soft flump of snow falling from one of the pines behind him as the lower branches shed their burden. Pete’s hand tightened on his makeshift torch, half-lifting it from the fire. Then he let it settle back in a little swirl of sparks. “Come on, motherfucker. I’m hot, I’m tasty, and I’m waiting.” Nothing. But it was up there. It couldn’t wait long, he was sure of it. Soon it would come.

Time passed. Pete wasn’t sure how much; his watch had given up entirely. Sometimes his thoughts seemed to intensify, as they sometimes had when he and the others were hanging with Duddits (although as they grew older and Duddits stayed the same, there had been less of that-it was as though their changing brains and bodies had lost the knack of picking up Duddits’s strange signals). This was like that, but not exactly like that. Something new, maybe. Maybe even something to do with the lights in the sky. He was aware that Beaver was dead and that something terrible might have happened to Jonesy, but he didn’t know what.

Whatever had happened, Pete thought Henry knew about it, too, although not clearly; Henry was deep inside his own head and he thought Banbury Cross, Banbury Cross, ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross.

The stick burned down further, closer to his hand, and Pete wondered what he’d do if it burned down too far to be of use, if the thing up there could outwait him after all. And then a new thought came to him, bright as day and red with panic. It filled his head and he began to cry it aloud, masking the sound of the thing on the roof as it slithered quickly down the slope of the tin.

“Please don’t hurt us! Ne nous blessez pas! ”

But they would, they would, because… what?

Because they are not helpless little ETs, boys, waiting around for someone to give them a New England Tel phone card so they can phone home, they are a disease . They are cancer, praise Jesus, and boys, we’re one big hot radioactive shot of chemotherapy. Do you hear me, boys?

Pete didn’t know if they did, the boys to whom the voice spoke, but he did. They were coming, the boys were coming, the Crimson Pirates were coming and not all the begging in the world would stop them. And still they begged, and Pete begged with them.

“Please don’t hurt us! Please! S'il vous plait! Ne nous blessez pas! Ne nous faites pas mal nous sommes sans defense! “Weeping now. “ Please! For the love of God, we’re helpless!”

In his mind he saw the hand, the dog-turd, the weeping nearly naked boy. And all the time the thing on the roof was slithering, dying but not helpless, stupid but not entirely stupid, getting behind Pete while he screamed, while he lay on his side by the dead woman, listening as some apocalyptic slaughter began.

Cancer , said the man with the white eyelashes.

“ Please!” he screamed. “ Please, we’re helpless!”

But, lie or the truth, it was too late.

The snowmobile had passed Henry’s hiding place without slowing, and the sound of it was now receding to the west. It was safe to come out, but Henry didn’t come out. Couldn’t come out. The intelligence which had replaced Jonesy hadn’t sensed him, either because it was distracted or because Jonesy had somehow-might somehow still be

But no. The idea that there could be any of Jonesy left inside that terrible cloud was so much dreamwork.

And now that the thing was gone-receding, at least there were the voices. They filled Henry’s head, making him feel half-mad with their babble, as Duddits’s crying had always made him feel half-mad, at least until puberty had ended most of that crap. One of the voices belonged to a man who said something about a fungus

(dies easily unless it gets on a living host)

and then something about a New England Tel phone card and… chemotherapy? Yes, a big hot radioactive shot. It was the voice, Henry thought, of a lunatic. He had treated enough of them to judge, God knew.

The other voices were the ones which made him question his own sanity. He didn’t know all of them, but he knew some: Walter Cronkite, Bugs Bunny, Jack Webb, Jimmy Carter, a woman he thought was Margaret Thatcher. Sometimes the voices spoke in English, sometimes in French.