Стивен Кинг - Elevation

“A little better.”

“Actually quite a lot.”

“Well, thanks. And Happy New Year again.”

“Back atcha, buddy. What’s the feline’s name?”

“Bill. Bill D. Cat, actually.”

“Like in Bloom County . Cool.”

“Pick him up and give him a stroke once in awhile. If I decide to go, that is. He likes that.”

Scott hung up, thought about what giving things away meant—especially things that were also valued friends—and closed his eyes.

Doctor Bob called a few days later, and asked Scott if his weight-loss was remaining constant at one and a half to two pounds a day. Scott said it was, knowing the lie couldn’t come back to haunt him; he looked the same as ever, right down to the bulge of belly hanging over his belt.

“So… you still think you’ll be down to nothing in early March?”

“Yes.”

Scott now thought Zero Day might come before January was out, but he didn’t know for sure, couldn’t even make an educated guess, because he had stopped weighing himself. Not so long ago he had avoided the bathroom scale because it showed too many pounds; now he stayed away for the opposite reason. The irony was not lost on him.

For the time being Bob and Myra Ellis were not to know how things had speeded up, nor were Missy and Deirdre. He would have to tell them eventually, because when the end came, he would need help from one of them. And he knew which one.

“What do you weigh now?” Doctor Bob asked.

“106,” Scott said.

“Holy shit!”

He guessed Ellis would say a lot more than holy shit if he knew what Scott knew: it was more like seventy. He could cross his big living room in four loping strides, or jump, catch one of the overhead beams, and swing from it like Tarzan. He hadn’t reached what his weight would be on the moon, but he was closing in on it.

Doctor Bob was silent for a moment, then said, “Have you considered that the cause of what’s happening to you might be alive?”

“Sure,” Scott said. “Maybe an exotic bacteria that got into a cut, or some extremely rare virus that I inhaled.”

“Has it crossed your mind that it might be sentient?”

It was Scott’s turn to be silent. At last he said, “Yes.”

“You’re dealing with this extremely well, I must say.”

“So far, so good,” Scott said, but three days later he discovered just how much he might have to deal with before the end came. You thought you knew, you thought you could get ready… and then you tried to get the mail.

Western Maine had been experiencing a January thaw since New Year’s Day, with temperatures in the fifties. Two days after Doctor Bob’s call, it climbed all the way into the sixties, and the kids went back to school wearing their light jackets. That night, however, temperatures dropped and a sleety, granular snow began falling.

Scott barely noticed. He spent the evening on his computer, ordering stuff. He could have gotten all the items locally—the wheelchair and chest harness from the ostomy department of the CVS where he’d bought his Halloween candy, the ramp and clamps from Purdy’s Hardware—but local people had a tendency to talk. And ask questions. He didn’t want that.

The snow ended around midnight, and the following day dawned clear and cold. The new snow, frozen to a crust on top, was almost too brilliant to look at. It was as if his lawn and driveway had been sprayed with transparent plastic. Scott put on his parka and went out to get the mail. He had gotten in the habit of skipping the steps and just leaping down to the driveway. His legs, wildly overmuscled for his weight, seemed to crave that explosion of energy.

He did it now, and when his feet hit the icy crust, they shot out from under him. He landed on his ass, started to laugh, then stopped when he began to slide. He went down the slope of the lawn on his back, like a weight along the sawdusty surface of an arcade bowling game, gaining speed as he approached the street. He grabbed at a bush, but it was coated with ice and his hand slid off. He rolled over on his stomach and spread his legs, thinking that might slow him down. It didn’t. He only slued sideways.

The crust is thick but not that thick, he thought. If I weighed as much as I look like I weigh, I’d break through and stop. But I don’t. I’m going into the street, and if a car’s coming along, it probably won’t be able to stop in time. Then I won’t have to worry about Zero Day.

He didn’t go that far. He struck the post on which his mailbox was mounted, and hard enough to knock the wind out of him. When he recovered, he tried to stand up. He did a split on the slippery crust and went down again. He braced his feet against the post and pushed. That didn’t work, either. He went four or five feet, his momentum died, and he slid back into the post. Next he tried pulling himself along, but his clutching fingers only slid on the crust. He had forgotten his gloves, and his hands were going numb.

I need help, he thought, and the name that immediately jumped to mind was Deirdre’s. He reached into the pocket of his parka, but for once he had forgotten his phone. It was sitting back on his study desk. He supposed he could push himself into the street anyway, work his way over to the side, and wave down an oncoming car. Someone would stop and help him, but that someone would ask questions Scott didn’t want to answer. His driveway was even more hopeless; it looked like a skating rink.

So here I am, he thought, like a turtle on its back. Hands going numb, feet soon to follow.

He craned to look up at the bare trees, their branches swaying mildly against the cloudless blue sky. He looked at the mailbox, and saw what might be a solution to his serio-comic problem. He sat up with his crotch braced against the post and grabbed the metal flag on the side of the box. It was loose, and two hard pulls was enough to snap it off. He used the ragged metal end to dig two holes in the crust. He put his knee in one, then his foot in the other. He stood up, holding the post with his free hand for balance. He made his way up the lawn to the steps in this fashion, bending to chop through the crust, stepping forward, then breaking through the crust again.

A couple of cars went by, and someone honked. Scott raised a hand and waved without turning around. By the time he got back to the steps, his hands had lost all feeling, and one was bleeding in two places. His back hurt like a motherfucker. He started up to the door, slipped, and barely managed to grab the ice-coated iron railing before he could go sliding back down to the mailbox again. He wasn’t sure he would have had it in him to climb back up, even with holes to step in. He was exhausted, stinking with sweat inside his parka. He lay down in the hall. Bill came to look at him—but not too close—and miaowed his concern.

“I’m okay,” he said. “Don’t worry, you’ll still get fed.”

Yes, I’m okay, he thought. Just a little impromptu sledding on the crust. But this is where the really weird shit begins.

He supposed if there was a consolation, it was that the really weird shit wouldn’t last long.

But I need to put up those clamps and put down that ramp ASAP. Not much time now.

On a Monday evening in mid-month, the members of the “Dr. Ellis party” had their last meal together. Scott hadn’t seen any of them for a week, citing the need to hole up and finish his current department store project. Which had actually been done, at least in first draft, before Christmas. He guessed someone else would be applying the finishing touches.

He said it would have to be a potluck, with them bringing the food, because cooking had become difficult for him. In truth, everything had become difficult. Going upstairs was easy enough; three large, effortless leaps did the job. Going down was harder. He was afraid he might tumble and break a leg, so he held the railing and eased down step by step, like an old man with gout and bad hips. He had also developed a tendency to run into walls, because momentum had become hard to judge and even harder to control.