by Stephen King
We call upon the President to answer these questions in his speech, and above all we call upon him to end these police-state tactics and this insane effort to cover up the truth ...
In Duluth a man in khaki shorts and sandals walked up and down Piedmont Avenue with a large smear of ash on his forehead and a hand-lettered sandwich board hanging over his scrawny shoulders.
The front read:
THE TIME OF THE DISAPPEARANCE IS HERE CHRIST THE LORD RETURNETH SOON PREPARE TO MEET YOUR GOD!
The back read:
BEHOLD THE HEARTS OF THE SINNERS WERE BROKEN THE GREAT SHALL BE ABASED AND THE ABASED MADE GREAT THE EVIL DAYS ARE AT HAND WOE TO THEE O ZION
Four young men in motorcycle jackets, all of them with bad coughs and runny noses, set upon the man in the khaki shorts and beat him unconscious with his own sandwich board. Then they fled, one of them calling back hysterically over his shoulder: "Teach you to scare people! Teach you to scare people, you half-baked freak!"
The highest-rated morning program in Springfield, Missouri, was KLFT's morning phone-in show, "Speak Your Piece," with Ray Flowers. He had six phone lines into his studio booth, and on the morning of June 26, he was the only KLFT employee to show up for work. He was aware of what was going on in the outside world and it scared him. In the last week or so, it seemed to Ray that everyone he knew had come down sick. There were no troops in Springfield, but he had heard that the National Guard had been called into K.C. and St. Louis to "stop the spread of panic" and "prevent looting." Ray Flowers himself felt fine. He looked thoughtfully at his equipment--phones, time-delay device to edit those callers who lapsed into profanity from time to time, racks of commercials on cassettes ("If your toilet overflows/And you don't know just what goes/Call for the man with the big steel hose/Call your Kleen-Owt Man!"), and of course, the mike.
He lit a cigarette, went to the studio door, and locked it. Went into his booth and locked that. He turned off the canned music that had been playing from a tape reel, turned on his own theme music, and then settled in at the microphone.
"Hi, y'all," he said, "this is Ray Flowers on 'Speak Your Piece,' and this morning I guess there's only one thing to call about, isn't there? You can call it Tube Neck or superflu or Captain Trips, but it all means the same thing. I've heard some horror stories about the army clamping down on everything, and if you want to talk about that, I'm ready to listen. It's still a free country, right? And since I'm here by myself this morning, we're going to do things just a little bit differently. I've got the time-delay turned off, and I think we can dispense with the commercials. If the Springfield you're seeing is anything like the one I'm seeing from the KLFT windows, no one feels much like shopping, anyway.
"Okay--if you're spo's to be up and around, as my mother used to say, let's get going. Our toll-free numbers are 555-8600 and 555-8601. If you get a busy, just be patient. Remember, I'm doing it all myself."
There was an army unit in Carthage, fifty miles from Springfield, and a twenty-man patrol was dispatched to take care of Ray Flowers. Two men refused the order. They were shot on the spot.
In the hour it took them to get to Springfield, Ray Flowers took calls from: a doctor who said people were dying like flies and who thought the government was lying through its teeth about a vaccine; a hospital nurse who confirmed that bodies were being removed from Kansas City hospitals by the truckload; a delirious woman who claimed it was flying saucers from outer space; a farmer who said that an army squad with two payloaders had just finished digging a hell of a long ditch in a field near Route 71 south of Kansas City; half a dozen others with their own stories to tell.
Then there was a crashing sound on the outer studio door. "Open up!" a muffled voice cried. "Open up in the name of the United States!"
Ray looked at his watch. Quarter of twelve.
"Well," he said, "it looks like the Marines have landed. But we'll just keep taking calls, shall w--"
There was a rattle of automatic rifle fire, and the knob of the studio door thumped onto the rug. Blue smoke drifted out of the ragged hole. The door was shouldered inward and half a dozen soldiers, wearing respirators and full battle-dress, burst in.
"Several soldiers have just broken into the outer office," Ray said. "They're fully armed ... they look like they're ready to start a mop-up operation in France fifty years ago. Except for the respirators on their faces ..."
"Shut it down!" a heavyset man with sergeant's stripes on his sleeves yelled. He loomed outside the broadcast booth's glass walls and gestured with his rifle.
"I think not!" Ray called back. He felt very cold, and when he fumbled his cigarette out of his ashtray, he saw that his fingers were trembling. "This station is licensed by the FCC and I'm--"
"I'm revokin ya fuckin license! Now shut down!"
"I think not," Ray said again, and turned back to his microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, I have been ordered to shut down the KLFT transmitter and I have refused the order, quite properly, I think. These men are acting like Nazis, not American soldiers. I am not--"
"Last chance!" The sergeant brought his gun up.
"Sergeant," one of the soldiers by the door said, "I don't think you can just--"
"If that man says anything else, waste him," the sergeant said.
"I think they're going to shoot me," Ray Flowers said, and the next moment the glass of his broadcast booth blew inward and he fell over his control panel. From somewhere there came a terrific feedback whine that spiraled up and up. The sergeant fired his entire clip into the control panel and the feedback cut off. The lights on the switchboard continued to blink.
"Okay," the sergeant said, turning around. "I want to get back to Carthage by one o'clock and I don't--"
Three of his men opened up on him simultaneously, one of them with a recoilless rifle that fired seventy gas-tipped slugs per second. The sergeant did a jigging, shuffling death-dance and then fell backward through the shattered remains of the broadcast booth's glass wall. One leg spasmed and his combat boot kicked shards of glass from the frame.
A PFC, pimples standing out in stark relief on his whey-colored face, burst into tears. The others only stood in stunned disbelief. The smell of cordite was heavy and sickening in the air.
"We scragged him!" the PFC cried hysterically. "Holy God, we done scragged Sergeant Peters!"
No one replied. Their faces were still dazed and uncomprehending, although later they would only wish they had done it sooner. All of this was some deadly game, but it wasn't their game.
The phone, which Ray Flowers had put in the amplifier cradle just before he died, gave out a series of squawks.
"Ray? You there, Ray?" The voice was tired, nasal. "I listen to your program all the time, me and my husband both, and we just wanted to say keep up the good work and don't let them bully you. Okay, Ray? Ray? ... Ray? ..."
COMMUNIQUE 234 ZONE 2 SECRET SCRAMBLE
FROM: LANDON ZONE 2 NEW YORK
TO: CREIGHTON COMMANDING
RE: OPERATION CARNIVAL
FOLLOWS: NEW YORK CORDON STILL OPERATIVE DISPOSAL OF BODIES PROCEEDING CITY RELATIVELY QUIET X COVER STORY UNRAVELING FASTER THAN EXPECTED BUT SO FAR NOTHING WE CAN'T HANDLE FROM CITY POPULATION SUPERFLU IS KEEPING MOST OF THEM INSIDE XX NOW ESTIMATE THAT 50% OF TROOPS MANNING BARRICADES AT POINTS OF EGRESS/INGRESS [GEORGE WASH BRIDGE TRIBOROUGH BRIDGE BROOKLYN BRIDGE LINCOLN AND HOLLAND TUNNELS PLUS LIMITED ACCESS HIGHWAYS IN THE OUTER BOROUGHS] NOW ILL W/ SUPERFLU MOST TROOPS STILL CAPABLE OF ACTIVE DUTY AND PERFORMING WELL XXX THREE FIRES OUT OF CONTROL IN CITY HARLEM 7TH AVENUE SHEA STADIUM XXXX DESERTION FROM RANKS BECOMING A GREATER PROBLEM DESERTERS NOW BEING SUMMARILY SHOT XXXXX PERSONAL SUMMARY IS THAT SITUATION IS STILL VIABLE BUT DETERIORATING SLOWLY XXXXXX COMMUNICATION ENDS
LANDON ZONE 2 NEW YORK
In Boulder, Colorado, a rumor that the U.S. Meteorological Air Testing Center was really a biological warfare installation began to spread. The rumor was repeated on the air by a semidelirious Denver FM disc jockey. By
11 P.M. on the night of June 26, a vast, lemminglike exodus from Boulder had begun. A company of soldiers was sent out from Denver-Arvada to stop them, but it was like sending a man with a whisk-broom to clean out the Augean stables. Better than eleven thousand civilians--sick, scared, and with no other thought but to put as many miles between themselves and the Air Testing Center as possible-- rolled over them. Thousands of other Boulderites fled to other points of the compass.
At quarter past eleven a shattering explosion lit the night at the Air Testing Center's location on Broadway. A young radical named Desmond Ramage had planted better than sixteen pounds of plastique, originally earmarked for various Midwestern courthouses and state legislatures, in the ATC lobby. The explosive was great; the timer was cruddy. Ramage was vaporized along with all sorts of harmless weather equipment and particle-for-particle pollution-measuring gadgets.
Meanwhile, the exodus from Boulder went on.
COMMUNIQUE 771 ZONE 6 SECRET SCRAMBLE
FROM: GARETH ZONE 6 LITTLE ROCK
TO: CREIGHTON COMMANDING
RE: OPERATION CARNIVAL
FOLLOWS: BRODSKY NEUTRALIZED REPEAT BRODSKY NEUTRALIZED HE WAS FOUND WORKING IN A STOREFRONT CLINIC HERE TRIED AND SUMMARILY EXECUTED FOR TREASON AGAINST THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA SOME OF THOSE BEING TREATED ATTEMPTED TO INTERFERE 14 CIVILIANS SHOT, 6 KILLED 3 OF MY MEN WOUNDED, NONE SERIOUSLY X ZONE 6 FORCES THIS AREA WORKING AT ONLY 40% CAPACITY ESTIMATE 25% OF THOSE STILL ON ACTIVE DUTY NOW ILL W/ SUPERFLU 15% AWOL XX MOST SERIOUS INCIDENT IN REGARD TO CONTINGENCY PLAN F FOR FRANK XXX SERGEANT T.L. PETERS STATIONED CARTHAGE MO. ON EMERGENCY DUTY SPRINGFIELD MO. APPARENTLY ASSASSINATED BY OWN MEN XXXX OTHER INCIDENTS OF SIMILAR NATURE POSSIBLE BUT UNCONFIRMED SITUATION DETERIORATING RAPIDLY XXXXX COMMUNICATION ENDS
GARFIELD ZONE 6 LITTLE ROCK
When the evening was spread out against the sky like a patient etherized upon a table, two thousand students attending Kent State University in Ohio went on the warpath--big time. The two thousand rioters consisted of first mini-semester summer students, members of a symposium on the future of college journalism, one hundred and twenty attendees of a drama workshop, and two hundred members of the Future Farmers of America, Ohio branch, whose convention happened to coincide with the grassfire spread of the superflu. All of them had been cooped up on the campus since June 22, four days ago. What follows is a transcription of police-band communications in the area, spanning the time period 7:167:22 P.M.
"Unit 16, unit 16, do you copy? Over."
"Ah, copy, unit 20. Over."
"Ah, we got a group of kids coming down the mall here, 16. About seventy warm bodies, I'd say, and ... ah, check that, unit 16, we got another group coming the other way ... Jesus, two hundred or more in that one, looks like. Over."
"Unit 20, this is base. Do you copy? Over."
"Read you five-by, base. Over."
"I'm sending Chumm and Halliday over. Block the road with your car. Take no other action. If they go over you, spread your legs and enjoy it. No resistance, do you copy? Over."
"I copy no resistance, base. What are those soldiers doing over on the eastern side of the mall, base? Over."
"What soldiers? Over."
"That's what I asked you, base. They're--"
"Base, this is Dudley Chumm. Oh shit, this is unit 12. Sorry, base. There's a bunch of kids coming down Burrows Drive. About a hundred and fifty. Headed for the mall. Singing or chanting or some damn thing. But Cap, Jesus Christ, we see soldiers, too. They're wearing gas masks, I think. Ah, they look to be in a skirmish line. That's what it looks like, anyway. Over."
"Base to unit 12. Join unit 20 at the foot of the mall. Same instructions. No resistance. Over."
"Roger, base. I am rolling. Over."
"Base, this is unit 17. This is Halliday, base. Do you copy? Over."
"I copy, 17. Over."
"I'm behind Chumm. There's another two hundred kids coming west to east toward the mall. They've got signs, just like in the sixties. One says SOLDIERS THROW DOWN YOUR GUNS. I see another one that says THE TRUTH THE WHOLE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH. They--"
"I don't give a shit what the signs say, unit 17. Get down there with Chumm and Peters and block them off. It sounds like they're headed into a tornado. Over."
"Roger. Over and out."
"This is Campus Security Chief Richard Burleigh now speaking to the head of the military forces encamped on the south side of this campus. Repeat: this is Campus Security Chief Burleigh. I know you've been monitoring our communications, so please spare me the ducking and fucking and acknowledge. Over."
"This is Colonel Albert Philips, U.S. Army. We are listening, Chief Burleigh. Over."
"Base, this is unit 16. The kids are coming together at the war memorial. They appear to be turning toward the soldiers. This looks nasty. Over."
"This is Burleigh, Colonel Philips. Please state your intentions. Over."
"My orders are to contain those present on campus to the campus. My only intention is to follow my orders. If those people are just demonstrating, they are fine. If they intend to try breaking out of quarantine, they are not. Over."
"You surely don't mean--"
"I mean what I said, Chief Burleigh. Over and out."
"Philips! Philips! Answer me, goddam you! Those aren't commie guerrillas out there! They're kids! American kids! They aren't armed! They--"
"Unit 13 to base. Ah, those kids are walking right toward the soldiers, Cap. They're waving their signs. Singing that song. The one the Baez crotch used to sing. Oh. Shit, I think some of them are throwing rocks. They ... Jesus! Oh Jesus Christ! They can't do that!"
"Base to unit 13! What's going on out there? What's happening?"
"This is Chumm, Dick. I'll tell you what's happening out here. It's a slaughter. I wish I was blind. Oh, the fuckers! They ... ah, they're mowing those kids down. With machine-guns, it looks like. As far as I can tell, there wasn't even any warning. The kids that are still on their feet ... ah, they are breaking up ... running to all points of the compass. Oh Christ! I just saw a girl cut in half by gunfire! Blood ... there must be seventy, eighty kids lying out there on the grass. They--"
"Chumm! Come in! Come in, unit 12!"
"Base, this is unit 17. Do you copy? Over."
"I copy you, goddammit, but where's fucking Chumm? Fucking over!"
"Chumm and ... Halliday, I think ... got out of their cars for a better look. We're coming back, Dick. Now it looks like the soldiers are shooting each other. I don't know who's winning, and I don't care. Whoever it is will probably start on us next. When those of us who can get back do get back, I suggest that we all go down in the basement and wait for them to use up their ammo. Over."
"Goddammit--"
"The turkey shoot's still going on, Dick. I'm not kidding. Over. Out."
Through most of the running exchange transcribed above, the listener can hear faint popping sounds in the background, not unlike horse chestnuts in a hot fire. One may also hear thin screams ... and, in the last forty seconds or so, the heavy, coughing thump of mortar rounds exploding.
Following is a transcription taken from a special high-frequency radio band in Southern California. The transcription was made from 7:17 to 7:20 P.M., PST.
"Massingill, Zone 10. Are you there, Blue Base? This message is coded Annie Oakley, Urgent-plus-10. Come in, if you're there. Over."
"This is Len, David. We can skip the jargon, I think. Nobody's listening."
"It's out of control, Len. Everything. L.A. is going up in flames. Whole fucking city and everything around it. All my men are sick or rioting or AWOL or looting right along with the civilian population. I'm in the Skylight Room of the Bank of America, main branch. There's over six hundred people trying to get in and get at me. Most of them are regular army."
"Things fall apart. The center does not hold."
"Say again. I didn't copy."
"Never mind. Can you get out?"
"Hell no. But I'll give the first of
the scum something to think about. I've got a recoilless rifle here. Scum. Fucking scum!"
"Luck, David."
"You too. Hold it together as long as you can."
"Will do."
"I'm not sure--"
Verbal communication ends at this point. There is a splintering, crashing sound, the screech of giving metal, the tinkle of breaking glass. A great many yelling voices. Small-arms fire, and then, very close to the radio transmitter, close enough to distort, the heavy, thudding explosions of what might very well be a recoilless rifle. The yelling, roaring voices draw closer. There is the whining sound of a ricochet, a scream very close to the transmitter, a thud, and silence.
Following is a transcription taken from the regular army band in San Francisco. The transcription was made from 7:28 to 7:30 P.M., PST.
"Soldiers and brothers! We have taken the radio station, and the command HQ! Your oppressors are dead! I, Brother Zeno, until moments ago Sergeant First Class Roland Gibbs, proclaim myself first President of the Republic of Northern California! We are in control! We are in control! If your officers in the field try to countermand my orders, shoot them like dogs in the street! Like dogs! Like bitches with shit drying on their rumps! Take down name, rank, and serial numbers of deserters! List those that speak sedition or treason against the Republic of Northern California! A new day is dawning! The day of the oppressor is ended! We are--"
A rattle of machine-gun fire. Screams. Thumps and thuds. Pistol shots, more screams, a sustained burst of machine-gun fire. A long, dying moan. Three seconds of dead air.
"This is Major Alfred Nunn, United States Army. I am taking provisional and temporary control of United States forces in the San Francisco area. The handful of traitors present in this HQ have been dealt with. I am in command, repeat, in command. The holding operation will go on. Deserters and defectors will be dealt with as before: extreme prejudice, repeat, extreme prejudice. I am now--"
