Стивен Кинг - Cell

Tom's roving flashlight happened on the cinderblock and stopped. It was matted with gore and hair. Jordan saw it and began to shriek. Clay, panting and sweating madly in spite of the chilly evening air, began to wrap the sweater around Alice's head. It soaked through immediately. His hands felt like they were wearing warm wet gloves. Now Tom's light found Alice, her head wrapped in a sweater down to the nose so that she looked like a prisoner of Islamic extremists in an Internet photo, her cheek (the remains of her cheek) and her neck drowned in blood, and he also began to scream.

Help me, Clay wanted to say. Stop that, both of you, and help me with her. But his voice wouldn't come out and all he could do was press the sopping sweater against the spongy side of her head, remembering that she had been bleeding when they had first met her, thinking she had been okay that time, she had been okay then.

Her hands were twitching aimlessly, the fingers kicking up little sprays of roadside dirt. Somebody give her that sneaker of hers, Clay thought, but the sneaker was in her pack and she was lying on her pack. Lying there with the side of her head crushed in by someone who'd had a little score to settle. Her feet were twitching, too, he saw, and he could still feel the blood pouring out of her, through the sweater and over his hands.

Here we are at the end of the world, he thought. He looked up in the sky and saw the evening star.

She never really passed out and never fully regained consciousness. Tom got himself under control and helped carry her up the slope on their side of the road. Here were trees—what Clay remembered as an apple orchard. He thought he and Sharon had come here once to pick, back when Johnny had been small. When it had been good between them and there had been no arguments about money and ambitions and the future.

"You're not supposed to move people when they've got bad head-wounds," Jordan fretted, trailing along behind them and carrying her pack.

"That's nothing we have to worry about," Clay said. "She can't live, Jordan. Not like she is. I don't think even a hospital could do much for her." He saw Jordan's face begin to crumple. There was enough light for that. "I'm sorry."

They laid her on the grass. Tom tried to give her water from a Poland Spring bottle with a nipple end, and she actually took some. Jordan gave her the sneaker, the Baby Nike, and she took that, too, squeezing it, leaving smears of blood on it. Then they waited for her to die. They waited all that night.

She said, "daddy told me i could have the rest, so don't blame me." That was around eleven o'clock. She lay with her head on Tom's pack, which he had stuffed with a motel blanket he'd taken from the Sweet Valley Inn. That had been on the outskirts of Methuen, in what now seemed like another life. A better life, actually. The pack was already soaked with blood. Her one remaining eye stared up at the stars. Her left hand lay open on the grass beside her. It hadn't moved in over an hour. Her right hand squeezed the little sneaker relentlessly. Squeeze . . . and relax. Squeeze . . . and relax.

"Alice," Clay said. "Are you thirsty? Do you want some more water?"

She did not answer.

Later—quarter of one by clay's watch—she asked someone if she could go swimming. Ten minutes later she said, "I don't want those tampons, those tampons are dirty," and laughed. The sound of her laughter was natural, shocking, and it roused Jordan, who had been dozing. He saw how she was and started to cry. He went off by himself to do it. When Tom tried to sit beside him and comfort him, Jordan screamed for him to go away.

At quarter past two, a large party of normies passed by on the road below them, many flashlights bobbing in the dark. Clay went to the edge of the slope and called down to them. "You don't have a doctor, do you?" he asked, without much hope.

The flashlights stopped. There was a murmur of consultation from the dark shapes below, and then a woman's voice called up to him, a rather beautiful voice. "Leave us alone. You're off-limits."

Tom joined Clay at the edge of the bank. " 'And the Levite also passed by on the other side,' " Tom called down. "That's King James for fuck you, lady."

Behind them, Alice suddenly spoke in a strong voice. "The men in the car will be taken care of. Not as a favor to you but as a warning to others. You understand."

Tom grabbed Clay's wrist with a cold hand. "Jesus Christ, she sounds like she's awake."

Clay took Tom's hand in both of his own and held it. "That's not her. That's the guy in the red hoodie, using her as a . . . as a loudspeaker."

In the dark Tom's eyes were huge. "How do you know that?"

"I know," Clay said.

Below them, the flashlights were moving away. Soon they were gone and Clay was glad. This was their business, it was private.

At half past three, in the ditch of the night, alice said: "Oh, Mummy, too bad! Fading roses, this garden's over." Then her tone brightened. "Will there be snow? We'll make a fort, we'll make a leaf, we'll make a bird, we'll make a bird, we'll make a hand, we'll make a blue one, we'll . . ." She trailed off, looking up at stars that turned on the night like a clock. The night was cold. They had bundled her up. Every breath she exhaled came out in white vapor. The bleeding had finally stopped. Jordan sat next to her, petting her left hand, the one that was already dead and waiting for the rest of her to catch up.

"Play the slinky one I like," she said. "The one by Hall and Oates."

At twenty to five, she said, "it's the loveliest dress ever." They were all gathered around her. Clay had said he thought she was going.

"What color, Alice?" Clay asked, not expecting an answer—but she did answer.

"Green."

"Where will you wear it?"

"The ladies come to the table," she said. Her hand still squeezed the sneaker, but more slowly now. The blood on the side of her face had dried to an enamel glaze. "The ladies come to the table, the ladies come to the table. Mr. Ricardi stays at his post and the ladies come to the table."

"That's right, dear," Tom said softly. "Mr. Ricardi stayed at his post, didn't he?"

"The ladies come to the table." Her remaining eye turned to Clay, and for the second time she spoke in that other voice. One he had heard coming from his own mouth. Only four words this time. '"Your son's with us."

"You lie," Clay whispered. His fists were clenched, and he had to restrain himself from striking the dying girl. "You bastard, you lie."

"The ladies come to the table and we all have tea," Alice said.

The first line of light had begun to show in the east. tom sat beside Clay, and put a tentative hand on his arm. "If they read minds," he said, "they could have gotten the fact that you have a son and you're worried to death about him as easily as you'd look something up on Google. That guy could be using Alice to fuck with you."

"I know that," Clay said. He knew something else: what she'd said in Harvard's voice was all too plausible. "You know what I keep thinking about?"

Tom shook his head.

"When he was little, three or four—back when Sharon and I still got along and we called him Johnny-Gee—he'd come running every time the phone rang. He'd yell 'Fo-fo-me-me?' It knocked us out. And if it was his nana or his PeePop, we'd say 'Fo-fo-you-you' and hand it to him. I can still remember how big the fucking thing looked in his little hands . . . and against the side of his face . . ."