Стивен Кинг - Cell

"Sir, you should wait until we get to Tonney," Jordan said. He steadied Ardai as the Head's cane slid on a rotten piece of fruit and he listed momentarily (but at an alarming angle) to port.

"Probably a good idea," Clay said.

"Yes," the Head agreed. "Only . . . I never trusted them, this is my point. I was never that way with my computer. Took to that like a duck to water."

At the top of the hill, the campus's main road split in a Y The left fork wound its way to buildings that were almost surely dorms. The right one went toward lecture halls, a cluster of administration buildings, and an archway that glimmered white in the dark. The river of garbage and discarded wrappers flowed beneath it. Headmaster Ardai led them that way, skirting as much of the litter as he could, Jordan holding his elbow. The music—now Bette Midler, singing "Wind Beneath My Wings"—was coming from beyond the arch, and Clay saw dozens of discarded compact discs among the bones and empty potato chip bags. He was starting to get a bad feeling about this.

"Uh, sir? Headmaster? Maybe we should just—"

"We'll be fine," the Head replied. "Did you ever play musical chairs as a child? Of course you did. Well, as long as the music doesn't stop, we have nothing to worry about. We'll have a quick peek, and then we'll go over to Cheatham Lodge. That's the Headmaster's residence. Not two hundred yards from Tonney Field. I promise you."

Clay looked at Tom, who shrugged. Alice nodded.

Jordan happened to be looking back at them (rather anxiously), and he caught this collegial interplay. "You ought to see it," he told them. "The Head's right about that. Until you see it, you don't know."

"See what, Jordan?" Alice asked.

But Jordan only looked at her—big young eyes in the dark. "Wait," he said.

" Holy fucking shit," Clay said. In his mind the words sounded like a full-throated bellow of surprise and horror—with maybe a soupзon of outrage—but what actually emerged was more of a whipped whimper. Part of it might have been that this close the music was almost as loud as that long-ago AC/DC concert (although Debby Boone making her sweet schoolgirl way through "You Light Up My Life" was quite a stretch from "Hell's Bells," even at full volume), but mostly it was pure shock. He thought that after the Pulse and their subsequent retreat from Boston he'd be prepared for anything, but he was wrong.

He didn't think prep schools like this indulged in anything so plebeian (and so smashmouth) as football, but soccer had apparently been a big deal. The stands stacking up on either side of Tonney Field looked as if they could seat as many as a thousand, and they were decked with bunting that was only now beginning to look bedraggled by the showery weather of the last few days. There was an elaborate Scoreboard at the far end of the field with big letters marching along the top. Clay couldn't read the message in the dark and probably wouldn't have taken it in even if it had been daylight. There was enough light to see the field itself, and that was all that mattered.

Every inch of grass was covered with phone-crazies. They were lying on their backs like sardines in a can, leg to leg and hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder. Their faces stared up into the black predawn sky.

"Oh my Lord Jesus," Tom said. His voice was muffled because one fist was pressed against his mouth.

"Catch the girl!" the Head rapped. "She's going to faint!"

"No—I'm all right," Alice said, but when Clay put his arm around her she slumped against him, breathing fast. Her eyes were open but they had a fixed, druggy look.

"They're under the bleachers, too," Jordan said. He spoke with a studied, almost showy calm that Clay did not believe for a minute. It was the voice of a boy assuring his pals that he's not grossed out by the maggots boiling in a dead cat's eyes . . . just before he leans over and blows his groceries. "Me and the Head think that's where they put the hurt ones that aren't going to get better."

"The Head and I , Jordan."

"Sorry, sir."

Debby Boone achieved poetic catharsis and ceased. There was a pause and then Lawrence Welk's Champagne Music Makers once more began to play "Baby Elephant Walk." Dodge had a good time, too, Clay thought.

"How many of those boomboxes have they got rigged together?" he asked Headmaster Ardai. "And how did they do it? They're brainless, for Christ's sake, zombies!" A terrible idea occurred to him, illogical and persuasive at the same time. "Did you do it? To keep them quiet, or. . .I don't know . . ."

"He didn't do it," Alice said. She spoke quietly from her safe place within the circle of Clay's arm.

"No, and both of your premises are wrong," the Head told him.

"Both? I don't—"

"They must be dedicated music-lovers," Tom mused, "because they don't like to go inside buildings. But that's where the CDs are, right?"

"Not to mention the boomboxes," Clay said.

"There's no time to explain now. Already the sky has begun to lighten, and . . . tell them, Jordan."

Jordan replied dutifully, with the air of one who recites a lesson he does not understand, "All good vampires must be in before cockcrow, sir."

"That's right—before cockcrow. For now, only look. That's all you need to do. You didn't know there were places like this, did you?"

"Alice knew," Clay said.

They looked. And because the night had begun to wane, Clay realized that the eyes in all those faces were open. He was pretty sure they weren't seeing; they were just . . . open.

Something bad's going on here, he thought. The flocking was only the beginning of it.

Looking at the packed bodies and empty faces (mostly white; this was New England, after all) was awful, but the blank eyes turned up to the night sky filled him with unreasoning horror. Somewhere, not too distant, the morning's first bird began to sing. It wasn't a crow, but the Head still jerked, then tottered. This time it was Tom who steadied him.

"Come on," the Head told them. "It's only a short walk to Cheatham Lodge, but we ought to start. The damp has made me stiffer than ever. Take my elbow, Jordan."

Alice broke free of Clay and went to the old man's other side. He gave her a rather forbidding smile and a shake of his head. "Jordan can take care of me. We take care of each other now—ay, Jordan?"

"Yes, sir."

"Jordan?" Tom asked. They were nearing a large (and rather pretentious) Tudor-style dwelling that Clay presumed was Cheatham Lodge.

"Sir?"

"The sign over the Scoreboard—I couldn't read it. What did it say?"

"welcome alumni to homecoming weekend." Jordan almost smiled, then remembered there would be no Homecoming Weekend this year– the bunting on the stands had already begun to tatter—and the brightness left his face. If he hadn't been so tired, he might still have held his composure, but it was very late, almost dawn, and as they made their way up the walk to the Headmaster's residence, the last student at Gaiten Academy, still wearing his colors of maroon and gray, burst into tears.

" That was incredible, sir," Clay said. He had fallen into Jordan's mode of address very naturally. So had Tom and Alice. "Thank you."

"Yes," Alice said. "Thanks. I've never eaten two burgers in my life—at least not big ones like that."

It was three o'clock the following afternoon. They were on the back porch of Cheatham Lodge. Charles Ardai—the Head, as Jordan called him—had grilled the hamburgers on a small gas grill. He said the meat was perfectly safe because the generator powering the cafeteria's freezer had run until noon yesterday (and indeed, the patties he took from the cooler Tom and Jordan had carried in from the pantry had still been white with frost and as hard as hockey pucks). He said that grilling the meat would probably be safe until five o'clock, although prudence dictated an early meal.