by Stephen King
Kalisha got to her feet and looked around. Still trapped in the access tunnel, that hadn’t changed, but she thought the level of that group power had. Maybe it was why the Ward A kids hadn’t gone to sleep, although it had to be fairly late; Kalisha’s time-sense had always been good, and she thought it was at least nine-thirty, maybe a bit later.
The hum was louder than ever, and had picked up a kind of cycling beat: mmm-MMM-mmm-MMM. She saw with interest (but no real surprise) that the overhead fluorescents were cycling with the hum, going bright, fading a little, then going bright again.
TK you can actually see, she thought. For all the good it does us.
Pete Littlejohn, the boy who had been beating on his head and going ya-ya-ya-ya, came loping toward her. In Front Half, Pete had been kind of cute and kind of annoying, like a little brother that tags after you everywhere and tries to listen in while you and your girlfriends are telling secrets. Now he was hard to look at with his wet, drooping mouth and empty eyes.
“Me escuchas?” he said. “Hörst du mich?”
“You dreamed it, too,” Kalisha said.
Pete paid no attention, just turned back toward his wandering mates, now saying something that sounded like styzez minny. God only knew what the language was, but Kalisha was sure it meant the same as all the others.
“I hear you,” Kalisha told no one. “But what do you want?”
About halfway down the tunnel toward the locked door into Back Half, something had been written on the wall in crayon. Kalisha walked down to look at it, dodging past several wandering Ward A kids to get there. Written in big purple letters was CALL THE BIG FONE. ANSER THE BIG FONE. So the gorks were dreaming it, too, only while awake. With their brains mostly wiped, maybe they were dreaming all the time. What a horrible idea, to dream and dream and dream and never be able to find the real world.
“You too, huh?”
It was Nick, eyes puffy with sleep, hair standing up in stalks and spears. It was sort of endearing. She raised her eyebrows.
“The dream. Big house, increasingly big phones? Sort of like in The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins?”
“Bartholomew who?”
“A Dr. Seuss book. Bartholomew kept trying to take off his hat for the king, and every time he took one off, there was a bigger and fancier one underneath.”
“Never read it, but the dream, yeah. I think it came from Avery.” She pointed to the boy, who was still sleeping the sleep of the totally exhausted. “Or started with him, at least.”
“I don’t know if he started it, or if he’s receiving it and amplifying it and passing it on. Not sure it matters.” Nick studied the message on the wall, then looked around. “The gorks are restless tonight.”
Kalisha frowned at him. “Don’t call them that. It’s a slave word. Like calling me a nigger.”
“Okay,” Nick said, “the mentally challenged are restless tonight. That better?”
“Yes.” She allowed him a smile.
“How’s your head, Sha?”
“Better. Fine, in fact. Yours?”
“The same.”
“Mine, too,” George said, joining them. “Thanks for asking. You guys have the dream? Bigger phones and Hello, do you hear me?”
“Yeah,” Nick said.
“That last phone, the one just before I woke up, was bigger than me. And the hum’s stronger.” Then, in the same casual tone: “How long do you think before they decide to gas us? I’m surprised they haven’t done it already.”
6
Nine forty-five, in the parking lot of the Econo Lodge in Beaufort, South Carolina.
“I’m listening,” Stackhouse said. “If you let me help you, maybe we can work this out together. Let’s discuss it.”
“Let’s not,” Luke said. “All you have to do is listen. And make notes, because I don’t want to have to repeat myself.”
“Is your friend Tim still with y—”
“Do you want the flash drive or not? If you don’t, keep talking. If you do, shut the fuck up.”
Tim put a hand on Luke’s shoulder. In the front seat of the van, Mrs. Sigsby was shaking her head sadly. Luke didn’t have to read her mind to know what she was thinking: a boy trying to do a man’s work.
Stackhouse sighed. “Go ahead. Pen and paper at the ready.”
“First. Officer Wendy doesn’t have the flash drive, that comes with us, but she knows the names of my friends—Kalisha, Avery, Nicky, Helen, a couple more—and where they came from. If their parents are dead, like mine, that will be enough to support an investigation, even without the flash drive. She’ll never have to say a word about psychic kids or the rest of your murderous bullshit. They’ll find the Institute. Even if you got away, Stackhouse, your bosses would hunt you down. We’re your best chance of living through this. Got it?”
“Spare me the sell-job. What’s this Officer Wendy’s last name?”
Tim, who was leaning close enough to hear both sides of the conversation, shook his head. This was advice Luke didn’t need.
“Never mind. Second. Call the plane your posse came down in. Tell the pilots they are to lock themselves in the cockpit as soon as they see us coming.”
Tim whispered two words. Luke nodded.
“But before they do that, tell them to lower the air-stairs.”
“How will they know it’s you?”
“Because we’ll be in one of the vans your hired killers came in.” Luke was pleased to give Stackhouse this information, hoping it rammed home the point: Mrs. Sigsby had swung and missed.
“We don’t see the pilot and co-pilot and they don’t see us. We land where the plane took off, and they stay inside the cockpit. With me so far?”
“Yes.”
“Third. I want a van waiting for us, a nine-seater, just like the one we drove out of DuPray.”
“We don’t—”
“Bullshit you don’t, you’ve got a motor pool in that little barracks town of yours. I saw it. Now are you going to work with me on this, or should I just give up on you?”
Luke was sweating heavily, and not just because the night was humid. He was very glad for Tim’s hand on his shoulder, and Wendy’s concerned eyes. It was good not to be alone in this anymore. He really hadn’t realized how heavy that burden was until now.
Stackhouse gave the sigh of a man being unfairly burdened. “Go on.”
“Fourth. You’re going to procure a bus.”
“A bus? Are you serious?”
Luke decided to ignore this interruption, feeling that it was warranted. Certainly Tim and Wendy looked amazed.
“I’m sure you have friends everywhere, and that includes at least some of the police in Dennison River Bend. Maybe all of them. It’s summer, so the kids are on vacation, and the buses will be in the town’s municipal lot, along with the plows and dump trucks and all the other stuff. Have one of your cop friends unlock the building where they keep the keys. Have him put the key in the ignition of a bus that seats at least forty. One of your techs or caretakers can drive it to the Institute. Leave it by the flagpole in front of the admin building with the keys in it. Do you understand all that?”
“Yes.” Businesslike. No protests or interruptions now, and Luke didn’t need Tim’s adult grasp of psychology and motivation to understand why. This, Stackhouse must be thinking, was a child’s harebrained plan, only half a step removed from wishful thinking. He could see the same thing on Tim’s face, and on Wendy’s. Mrs. Sigsby was in earshot, and she looked like she was having trouble keeping a straight face.
“It’s a simple exchange. You get the flash drive, I get the kids. The ones from Back Half, and the ones in Front Half, too. You have them all ready for their field trip by 2 AM tomorrow morning. Officer Wendy keeps her mouth shut. That’s the deal. Oh, you also get your piece-of-shit boss and your piece-of-shit doctor.”
“Can I ask a question, Luke? Is that permissible?”
“Go ahead.”
“Once you have somewhere between
thirty-five and forty children crammed into a big yellow school bus with DENNISON RIVER BEND on the side, where do you plan to take them? Always remembering that the majority have no minds left?”
“Disneyland,” Luke said.
Tim put a hand to his brow, as if he had developed a sudden headache.
“We’ll be staying in touch with Officer Wendy. Before we take off. After we land. When we get to the Institute. When we leave the Institute. If she doesn’t get a call, she’ll start making calls of her own, starting with the Maine State Police, then moving on to the FBI and Homeland Security. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Last thing. When we get there, I want you there. Arms outstretched. One hand on the hood of the bus, one hand on the flagpole. As soon as the kids are on the bus and my friend Tim is behind the wheel, I hand you Maureen’s flash drive and get aboard myself. Clear on that?”
“Yes.”
Crisp. Trying not to sound like a man who’s won the big jackpot.
He understands that Wendy might be a problem, Luke thought, because she knows the names of a bunch of missing kids, but that’s a problem he thinks he can solve. The flash drive’s a bigger deal, harder to dismiss as fake news. I’m offering it to him pretty much on a silver platter. How can he refuse? Answer: he can’t.
“Luke—” Tim began.
Luke shook his head: not now, not while I’m thinking.
He knows his situation is still bad, but now he sees a ray of light. Thank God Tim reminded me of what I should have thought of myself: it doesn’t end with Sigsby and Stackhouse. They have to have their own bosses, people they answer to. When the shit hits the fan, Stackhouse can tell them it could have been much worse; in fact they should be thanking him for saving the day.
“Will you be calling me before you take off?” Stackhouse asked.
“No. I trust you to make all the arrangements.” Although trust wasn’t the first word that came to mind when Luke thought of Stackhouse. “The next time we talk will be face-to-face, at the Institute. Van at the airport. Bus waiting by the flagpole. Fuck up at any point and Officer Wendy starts making her calls and telling her tale. Goodbye.”
He ended the call and sagged.
7
Tim handed Wendy the Glock and gestured at their two prisoners. She nodded. Once she was standing guard, Tim drew the boy aside. They stood by the fence, in a blot of shadow cast by one of the magnolias.
“Luke, it will never work. If we go there, the van may be waiting at the airport, but if this Institute is what you say it is, the two of us will be ambushed and killed when we get there. Your friends and the other kids, as well. That leaves Wendy, and she’ll do her best, but it will be days before anyone shows up there—I know how law enforcement works when something comes up outside of normal protocol. If they find the place, it will be empty except for the bodies. They may be gone, too. You say they have a disposal system for the . . .” Tim didn’t know exactly how to put it. “For the used kids.”
“I know all that,” Luke said. “It’s not about us, it’s about them. The kids. All I’m buying is time. Something’s happening there. And not just there.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m stronger now,” Luke said, “and we’re over a thousand miles from the Institute. I’m a part of the Institute kids, but it’s not just them anymore. If it was, I never could have pushed up that guy’s gun with my mind. Empty pizza pans were the best I could do, remember?”
“Luke, I just don’t—”
Luke concentrated. For a moment he had an image of the telephone in their front hall ringing, and knew if it was answered, someone would ask, “Do you hear me?” Then that image was replaced by the colored dots and a faint humming sound. The dots were dim rather than bright, which was good. He wanted to show Tim, but not hurt him . . . and hurting him would be so easy.
Tim stumbled forward into the chainlink fence, as if pushed by invisible hands, and got his forearms up just in time to keep from dashing his face.
“Tim?” Wendy called.
“I’m okay,” Tim said. “Keep your eyes on them, Wendy.” He looked at Luke. “You did that?”
“It didn’t come from me, it came through me,” Luke said. Because they had time now (a little at least), and because he was curious, he asked, “What was it like?”
“A strong gust of wind.”
“Sure it was strong,” Luke said. “Because we’re stronger together. That’s what Avery says.”
“He’s the little kid.”
“Yes. He was the strongest one they’ve had in a long time. Maybe years. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I’m thinking they must have put him in the immersion tank—given that near-death experience that enhances the Stasi Lights, only with none of the limiting injections.”
“I’m not following you.”
Luke didn’t seem to hear him. “It was punishment, I bet, for helping me get away.” He tilted his head toward the van. “Mrs. Sigsby might know. It might even have been her idea. Anyway, it backfired. It must have, because they mutinied. The Ward A kids have got the real power. Avery unlocked it.”
“But not enough power to get them out of where they’re trapped.”
“Not yet,” Luke said. “But I think they will.”
“Why? How?”
“You got me thinking when you said Mrs. Sigsby and Stackhouse must have their own bosses. I should have figured that out for myself, but I never looked that far. Probably because parents and teachers are the only bosses kids have. If there are more bosses, why wouldn’t there be more Institutes?”
A car came into the lot, passed them, and disappeared in a wink of red taillights. When it was gone, Luke continued.
“Maybe the one in Maine is the only one in America, or maybe there’s one on the West Coast. You know, like bookends. But there might be one in the UK . . . and in Russia . . . India . . . China . . . Germany . . . Korea. It stands to reason, when you think of it.”
“A mind race instead of an arms race,” Tim said. “That’s what you’re saying?”
“I don’t think it’s a race. I think all the Institutes are working together. I don’t know that for sure, but it feels right. A common goal. A good one, sort of—killing a few kids to keep the whole human race from killing itself. A trade-off. God knows how long it’s been going on, but there’s never been a mutiny until now. Avery and my other friends started it, but it could spread. It might be spreading already.”
Tim Jamieson was no historian or social scientist, but he kept up with current events, and he thought Luke could be right. Mutiny—or revolution, to use a less pejorative term—was like a virus, especially in the Information Age. It could spread.
“The power each of us has—the reason they kidnapped us and brought us to the Institute in the first place—is just little. The power of all of us together is stronger. Especially the Ward A kids. With their minds gone, the power is all that’s left. But if there are more Institutes, if they know what’s happening at ours, and if they were all to band together . . .”
Luke shook his head. He was thinking again of the phone in their front hall, only grown to enormous size.
“If that happened, it would be big, and I mean really big. That’s why we need time. If Stackhouse thinks I’m an idiot so eager to save my friends I’d make an idiotic deal, that’s good.”
Tim could still feel that phantom gust of wind that had shoved him into the fence. “We’re not exactly going there to save them, are we?”
Luke regarded him soberly. With his dirty bruised face and bandaged ear, he looked like the most harmless of children. Then he smiled, and for a moment didn’t look harmless at all.
“No. We’re going to pick up the pieces.”
8
Kalisha Benson, Avery Dixon, George Iles, Nicholas Wilholm, Helen Simms.
Five kids sitting at the end of the access tunnel, next to the locked door giving (not that it would give) on Front Half’s F-Level. Kat
ie Givens and Hal Leonard had been with them for awhile, but now they had joined the Ward A kids, walking with them when they walked, joining hands when they decided to make one of those rings. So had Len, and Kalisha’s hopes for Iris were fading, although so far Iris was just looking on as the Ward A kids circled, broke apart, then circled again. Helen had come back, was fully with them. Iris might be too far gone. The same with Jimmy Cullum and Donna Gibson, whom Kalisha had known in Front Half—thanks to her chicken pox, she had been around much longer than the usual residents there. The Ward A kids made her sad, but Iris was worse. The possibility that she might be fucked up beyond repair . . . that idea was . . .
“Horrible,” Nicky said.
She looked at him half-scoldingly. “Are you in my head?”
“Yeah, but not looking through your mental underwear drawer,” Nicky said, and Kalisha snorted.
“We’re all in each other’s heads now,” George said. He cocked a thumb at Helen. “Do you really think I wanted to know she laughed so hard at some friend’s pajama party that she peed herself? That’s an authentic case of TMI.”
“Better than finding out you worry about psoriasis on your—” Helen began, but Kalisha told her to hush.
“What time is it, do you think?” George asked.
Kalisha consulted her bare wrist. “Skin o’clock.”
“Feels like eleven to me,” Nicky said.
“You know something funny?” Helen said. “I always hated the hum. I knew it was stripping my brains.”
“We all knew,” George said.
“Now I sort of like it.”
“Because it’s power,” Nicky said. “Their power, until we took it back.”
“A carrier wave,” George said. “And now it’s constant. Just waiting for a broadcast.”
Hello, do you hear me? Kalisha thought, and the shiver that shook her was not entirely unpleasant.
Several of the Ward As linked hands. Iris and Len joined them. The hum cycled up. So did the pulse in the overhead fluorescents. Then they let go and the hum dropped back to its previous low level.
