Стивен Кинг: Cell

The firelight was just enough to show them more than they wanted to see. The mutilations and decapitations were bad—the pools of blood, the littered limbs—but the scattered clothes and shoes with nobody inside them were somehow worse, as if the explosion had been fierce enough to actually vaporize part of the flock. A man walked toward them with his hands to his throat in an effort to stem the flow of blood pouring over and between his fingers—it looked orange in the growing glow of the Hall's burning roof—while his intestines swung back and forth at the level of his crotch. More wet loops came sliding out as he walked past them, his eyes wide and unseeing.

Jordan was saying something. Clay couldn't hear it over the screams, the wails, and the growing crackle of fire from behind him, so he leaned closer.

"We had to do it, it was all we could do," Jordan said. He looked at a headless woman, a legless man, at something so torn open it had become a flesh canoe filled with blood. Beyond it, two more bus seats lay on a pair of burning women who had died in each other's arms. "We had to do it, it was all we could do. We had to do it, it was all we could do."

"That's right, honey, put your face against me and walk like that," Clay said, and Jordan immediately buried his face in Clay's side. Walking that way was uncomfortable, but it could be done.

They skirted the edge of the flock's campground, moving toward the back of what would have been a completed midway and amusement arcade if the Pulse hadn't intervened. As they went, Kashwakamak Hall burned brighter, casting more light on the mall. Dark shapes—many naked or almost naked, the clothes blown right off them—staggered and shambled. Clay had no idea how many. The few that passed close by their little group showed no interest in them; they either continued on toward the midway area or plunged into the woods west of the Expo grounds, where Clay was quite sure they would die of exposure unless they could reestablish some sort of flock consciousness. He didn't think they could. Partly because of the virus, but mostly because of Jordan's decision to drive the bus right into the middle of them and achieve a maximum kill-zone, as they had with the propane trucks.

If they'd ever known snuffing one old man could lead to this . . . Clay thought, and then he thought, But how could they?

They reached the dirt lot where the carnies had parked their trucks and campers. Here the ground was thick with snaking electrical cables, and the spaces between the campers were filled with the accessories of families who lived on the road: barbecues, gas grills, lawn chairs, a hammock, a little laundry whirligig with clothes that had probably been hanging there for almost two weeks.

"Let's find something with the keys in it and get the hell out of here," Dan said. "They cleared the feeder road, and if we're careful I bet we can go north on 160 as far as we want." He pointed. "Up there it's just about all no-fo."

Clay had spotted a panel truck with lem's painting and plumbing on the back. He tried the doors and they opened. The inside was filled with milk-crates, most crammed with various plumbing supplies, but in one he found what he wanted: paint in spray-cans. He took four of these after checking to make sure they were full or almost full.

"What are those for?" Tom asked.

"Tell you later," Clay said.

"Let's get out of here , please, " Denise said. "I can't stand this. My pants are soaked with blood." She began to cry.

They came onto the midway between the Krazy Kups and a half-constructed kiddie ride called Charlie the Choo-Choo. "Look," Tom said, pointing.

"Oh . . . my . . . God," Dan said softly.

Lying draped across the peak of the train ride's ticket booth was the remains of a charred and smoking red sweatshirt—the kind sometimes called a hoodie. A large splotch of blood matted the front around a hole probably made by a chunk of flying schoolbus. Before the blood took over, covering the rest, Clay could make out three letters, the Raggedy Man's last laugh: HAR.

"There's nobody in the fucking thing, and judging by the size of the hole, he had open-heart surgery without benefit of anesthetic," Denise said, "so when you're tired of looking—"

"There's another little parking lot down at the south end of the midway," Tom said. "Nice-looking cars in that one. Boss-type cars. We might get lucky."

They did, but not with a nice-looking car. A small van with tyco water purification experts was parked behind a number of the nice-looking cars, effectively blocking them in. The Tyco man had considerately left his keys in the ignition, probably for that very reason, and Clay drove them away from the fire, the carnage, and the screams, rolling with slow care down the feeder road to the junction marked by the billboard showing the sort of happy family that no longer existed (if it ever had). There Clay stopped and put the gearshift lever in park.

"One of you guys has to take over now," he said.

"Why, Clay?" Jordan asked, but Clay knew from the boy's voice that Jordan already knew.

"Because this is where I get out," he said.

"No!"

"Yes. I'm going to look for my boy."

Tom said, "He's almost certainly dead back there. I'm not meaning to be a hardass, only realistic."

"I know that, Tom. I also know there's a chance he's not, and so do you. Jordan said they were walking every which way, like they were totally lost."

Denise said, "Clay . . . honey . . . even if he's alive, he could be wandering around in the woods with half his head blown off. I hate to say that, but you know it's true."

Clay nodded. "I also know he could have gotten out earlier, while we were locked up, and started down the road to Gurleyville. A couple of others made it that far; I saw them. And I saw others on the way. So did you."

"No arguing with the artistic mind, is there?" Tom asked sadly.

"No," Clay said, "but I wonder if you and Jordan would step outside with me for a minute."

Tom sighed. "Why not?" he said.

Several phoners, looking lost and bewildered, walked past them as they stood by the side of the little water purification van. Clay, Tom, and Jordan paid no attention to them, and the phoners returned the favor. To the northwest the horizon was a brightening red-orange as Kashwakamak Hall shared its fire with the forest behind it.

"No big goodbyes this time," Clay said, affecting not to see the tears in Jordan's eyes. "I'm expecting to see you again. Here, Tom. Take this." He held out the cell phone he'd used to set off the blast. Tom took it. "Go north from here. Keep checking that thing for bars. If you come to road-reefs, abandon what you're driving, walk until the road's clear, then take another car or truck and drive again. You'll probably get cell transmission bars around the Rangeley area—that was boating in the summer, hunting in the fall, skiing in the winter—but beyond there you should be in the clear, and the days should be safe."

"I bet they're safe now," Jordan said, wiping his eyes.

Clay nodded. "You might be right. Anyway, use your judgment. When you get a hundred or so miles north of Rangeley, find a cabin or a lodge or something, fill it with supplies, and lay up for the winter. You know what the winter's going to do to these things, don't you?"

"If the flock mind falls apart and they don't migrate, almost all of them will die," Tom said. "Those north of the Mason-Dixon Line, at least."

"I think so, yeah. I put those cans of spray-paint in the center console. Every twenty miles or so, spray T-J-D on the road, nice and big. Got it?"

"T-J-D," Jordan said. "For Tom, Jordan, Dan, and Denise."