Dreamcatcher

No bounce no play, he thinks, and then, immediately: Shhh, shhh, keep that to yourself

The gray creature raises its hand in a kind of weary greeting. On it are three long fingers ending in rosy-pink nails. Thick yellow pus is oozing from beneath them. More of this stuff gleams loosely in the folds of the guy’s skin, and from the comers of his-its?-eyes.

You’re right, you do need a shot, Jonesy says. Maybe a little Drano or Lysol, something like that. Put you out of your mi-

A terrible thought occurs to him then; for a moment it’s so strong he is unable to resist the force moving him toward the bed. Then his feet begin to move again, leaving big red tracks behind him.

You’re not going to drink my blood, are you? Like a vampire? The thing in the bed smiles without smiling. We are, so far as can express it in your terms, vegetarians. Yeah, but what about Bowser there? Jonesy points to the legless weasel, and it bares a mouthful of needle teeth in a grotesque grin. Is Bowser a vegetarian?

You know he’s not, the gray thing says, its slit of a mouth not moving-this guy is one hell of a ventriloquist, you had to give him that; they’d love him in the Catskills. But you know you have nothing to fear from him.

Why? How am I different?

The dying gray thing (of course it’s dying, its body is breaking down, decaying from the inside out) doesn’t reply, and Jonesy once again thinks No bounce, no play. He has an idea this is one thought the gray fellow would dearly love to read, but no chance of that; the ability to shield his thoughts is another part of what makes him different, unique, and vive la difference is all Jonesy can say (not that he does say it).

How am I different?

Who is Duddits? the gray thing asks, and when Jonesy doesn’t answer, the thing once more smiles without moving its mouth. There, the gray thing says. We both have questions the other will not answer. Let’s put them aside, shall we? Facedown. They are… what do you call it? What do you call it in the game?

The crib, Jonesy says. Now he can smell the thing’s decay. It’s the smell McCarthy brought into camp with him, the smell of ether-spray. He thinks again that he should have shot the ohgosh oh-dear son of a bitch, shot him before he could get in where it was warm. Left the colony inside him to die beneath the deer-stand in the old maple as the body grew cold.

The crib, yes, the gray thing says. The dreamcatcher is now in here, suspended from the ceiling and spinning slowly above the gray thing’s head. These things we each don’t want the other to know, we’ll set them aside to count later. We’ll put them in the crib.

What do you want from me?

The gray creature gazes at Jonesy unblinkingly. So far as Jonesy can tell, it can’t blink; it has neither lids nor lashes. Nyther lids nor lashes, it says, only it’s Pete’s voice Jonesy hears. Always nyther, never neether. who’s Duddits?

And Jonesy is so surprised to hear Pete’s voice that he almost by-God tells him… which, of course, was the intention: to surprise it out of him. This thing is crafty, dying or not. He would do well to be on his guard. He sends the gray fellow a picture of a big brown cow with a sign around its neck. The sign reads DUDDITS THE COW.

Again the gray fellow smiles without smiling, smiles inside Jonesy’s head. Duddits the cow, it says. I think not

Where are you from? Jonesy asks.

Planet X. We come from a dying planet to eat Domino’s Pizza, buy on easy credit terms, and learn Italian the easy Berlitz way. Henry’s voice this time. Then Mr ET-Phone-Home reverts to its own voice… except, Jonesy realizes with a weary lack of surprise, its voice is his voice, Jonesy’s voice. And he knows what Henry would say: that he’s having one whopper of a hallucination in the wake of Beaver’s death.

Not anymore, he wouldn’t, Jonesy thinks. Not anymore. Now he’s the eggman, and the eggman knows better.

Henry? He’ll be dead soon, the gray fellow says indifferently. Its hand steals across the counterpane; the trio of long gray fingers enfolds Jonesy’s hand. Its skin is warm and dry.

What do you mean? Jonesy asks, afraid for Henry… but the dying thing in the bed doesn’t answer. It’s another card for the crib, so Jonesy plays another one from his hand: Why did you call me here?

The gray creature expresses surprise, although its face still doesn’t move. No one wants to die alone, it says. I just want someone to be with. I know, we’ll watch television. I don’t want-There’s a movie I particularly want to see. You’ll enjoy it, too. It’s called Sympathy for the Grayboys. Bowser! The remote!

Bowser favors Jonesy with what seems a particularly ill-natured look, then slithers off the pillow, its flexing tail making a dry rasp like a snake crawling over a rock. On the table is a TV remote, also overgrown with fungus. Bowser seizes it, turns, and slithers back to the gray creature with the remote held in its teeth. The gray thing releases Jonesy’s hand (its touch is not repulsive, but the release is still something of a relief), takes the controller, points it at the TV, and pushes the ON button. The picture that appears-blurred slightly but not hidden by the light fuzz growing on the glass-is of the shed behind the cabin. In the center of the screen is a shape hidden by a green tarp. And even before the door opens and he sees himself come in, Jonesy understands that this has already happened. The star of Sympathy for the Grayboys is Gary Jones.

Well, the dying creature in the bed says from its comfortable spot in the center of his brain, we missed the credits, but really, the movie’s just starting.

That’s what Jonesy’s afraid of.

5

The shed door opens and Jonesy comes in. Quite the motley fellow he is, dressed in his own coat, Beaver’s gloves, and one of Lamar’s old orange hats. For a moment the Jonesy watching in the hospital room (he has pulled up the visitor’s chair and is sitting by Mr Gray’s bed) thinks that the Jonesy in the snowmobile shed at Hole in the Wall has been infected after all, and that red moss is growing all over him. Then he remembers that Mr Gray exploded right in front of him-his head did, anyway-and Jonesy is wearing the remains.

Only you didn’t explode, he says. You… you what? Went to seed?

Shhh! says Mr Gray, and Bowser bares its formidable headful of teeth, as if to tell Jonesy to stop being so impolite. I love this song, don’t you?

The soundtrack is the Rolling Stones” “Sympathy for the Devil,” fitting enough since this is almost the name of the movie (my screen debut, Jonesy thinks, wait’ll Carla and the kids see it), but in fact Jonesy doesn’t love it, it makes him sad for some reason.

How can you love it? he asks, ignoring Bowser’s bared teeth Bowser is no danger to him, and both of them know it, How can you? It’s what they were playing when they slaughtered you.

They always slaughter us, Mr Gray says. Now be quiet, watch the movie, this part is slow but it gets a lot better.

Jonesy folds his hands in his red lap-the bleeding seems to have stopped, at least-and watches Sympathy for the Grayboys, starring the one and only Gary Jones.

6

The one and only Gary Jones pulls the tarp off the snowmobile, spots the battery sitting on the worktable in a cardboard box, and puts it in, being careful to clamp the cables to the correct terminals. This pretty well exhausts his store of mechanical knowledge-he’s a history teacher, not a mechanic, and his idea of home improvement is making the kids watch the History Channel once in a while instead of Xena. The key is in the ignition, and the dashboard lights come on when he turns the key-got the battery right, anyway- but the engine doesn’t start. Doesn’t even crank. The starter makes a tut-tutting sound and that’s all.

“Oh dear oh gosh dadrattit number two,” he says, running them all together in a monotone. He isn’t sure he could manifest much in the way of emotion now even if he really wanted to. He’s a horror-movie fan, has seen Invasion of the Body Snatchers two dozen times (he has even seen the wretched remake, the one with Donald Sutherland in it), and he knows what’s going on here. His body has been snatched, most righteously and completely snatched. Although there will be no army of zombies, not even a townful. He is unique. He senses that Pete, Henry, and the Beav are also unique (was unique, in the Beav’s case), but he is the most unique of all. You’re not supposed to be able to say that-like the cheese belonging to the Farmer in the Dell, unique supposedly stands alone-but this is a rare case where that rule doesn’t apply. Pete and Beaver were unique, Henry is uniquer, and he, Jonesy, is uniquest. Look, he’s even starring in his own movie! How unique is that, as his oldest son would say.

The gray fellow in the hospital bed looks from the TV where Jonesy I is sitting astride the Arctic Cat to the chair where Jonesy II sits in his blood-sodden johnny.

What are you hiding? Mr Gray asks.

Nothing.

Why do you keep seeing a brick wall? What is 19, besides a prime number? Who said “Fuck the Tigers'? What does that mean? What is the brick wall? When is the brick wall? What does it mean, why do you keep seeing it?

He can feel Mr Gray prying at him, but for the time being that one kernel is safe. He can be carried, but not changed. Not entirely opened, either, it seems. Not yet, at least.

Jonesy puts his finger to his lips and gives the gray fellow’s own words back to him: Be quiet, watch the movie.

It studies him with the black bulbs of its eyes (they are insectile, Jonesy thinks, the eyes of a praying mantis), and Jonesy can feel it prying for a moment or two longer. Then the sensation fades. There is no hurry; sooner or later it will dissolve the shell over that last kernel of pure uninvaded Jonesy, and then it will know everything it wants to know.

In the meantime, they watch the movie. And when Bowser crawls into Jonesy’s lap-Bowser with his sharp teeth and his ethery antifreeze smell-Jonesy barely notices.

Jonesy I, Shed Jonesy (only that one’s now actually Mr Gray), reaches out. There are many minds to reach out to, they are hopping all over each other like late-night radio transmissions, and he finds one with the information he needs easily enough. It’s like opening a file on your personal computer and finding a wonderfully detailed 3-D movie instead of words.

Mr Gray’s source is Emil “Dawg” Brodsky, from Menlo Park, New Jersey. Brodsky is an Army Tech Sergeant, a motor-pool munchkin. Only here, as part of Kurtz’s Tactical Response Team, Tech Sergeant Brodsky has no rank. No one else does, either. He calls his superiors boss and those who rank below him (there are not many of those at this particular