Cell

'Have you been seeing what's going on out there?' he asked. 'Hearing the shooting? The . . .' He didn't want to say the screams with Alice there, although God knew it was a little late to be trying to protect her remaining sensibilities. '. . . the yelling?'

'Of course,' Tom said. 'But the nutters went inside last night, didn't they?'

For a moment neither Clay nor Alice moved. Then Alice began to pat her hands together in soft, almost silent applause. And Clay began to smile. The smile felt stiff and unfamiliar on his face, and the hope that went with it was almost painful.

'Tom, you might just be a genius,' he said.

Tom did not return the smile. 'Don't count on it,' he said. 'I never broke a thousand on the SATs.'

15

Clearly feeling better—and that had to be a good thing, clay reckoned—Alice went upstairs to poke around in Tom's clothes for daywear. Clay sat on the couch, thinking about Sharon and Johnny, trying to decide what they would have done and where they would have gone, always supposing they'd been fortunate enough to get together. He fell into a doze and saw them clearly at Kent Pond Elementary, Sharon's school. They were barricaded in the gym with two or three dozen others, eating sandwiches from the cafeteria and drinking those little cartons of milk. They—

Alice roused him, calling from upstairs. He looked at his wristwatch and saw he'd been sleeping on the couch for almost twenty minutes. He'd drooled on his chin.

'Alice?' He went to the foot of the stairs. 'Everything okay?' Tom, he saw, was also looking.

'Yes, but can you come for a second?'

'Sure.' He looked at Tom, shrugged, then went upstairs.

Alice was in a guest bedroom that looked like it hadn't seen many guests, although the two pillows suggested that Tom had spent most of the night here with her, and the rumpled look of the bedclothes further suggested very bad rest. She had found a pair of khakis that almost fit and a sweatshirt with canobie lake park written across the front below the outline of a roller coaster. On the floor was the sort of large portable sound system that Clay and his friends had once lusted after the way Johnny-Gee had lusted after that red cell phone. Clay and his friends had called such systems ghetto blasters or boomboxes.

'It was in the closet and the batteries look fresh,' she said. 'I thought of turning it on and looking for a radio station, but then I was afraid.'

He looked at the ghetto blaster sitting there on the guest room's nice hardwood floor, and he was afraid, too. It could have been a loaded gun. But he felt an urge to reach out and turn the selector-knob, now pointed at CD, to FM. He imagined Alice had felt the same urge, and that was why she'd called him. The urge to touch a loaded gun would have been no different.

'My sister gave me that two birthdays ago,' Tom said from the doorway, and they both jumped. 'I loaded it up with batteries last July and took it to the beach. When I was a kid we all used to go to the beach and listen to our radios, although I never had one that big.'

'Me either,' Clay said. 'But I wanted one.'

'I took it up to Hampton Beach in New Hampshire with a bunch of Van Halen and Madonna CDs, but it wasn't the same. Not even close. I haven't used it since. I imagine all the stations are off the air, don't you?'

'I bet some of them are still on,' Alice said. She was biting at her lower lip. Clay thought if she didn't stop soon, it would begin to bleed. 'The ones my friends call the robo-eighties stations. They have friendly names like BOB and FRANK, but they all come from some giant radio-computer in Colorado and then get beamed down by satellite. At least that's what my friends say. And . . .' She licked at the place she had been biting. It was shiny with blood just under the surface. 'And that's the same way cell phone signals get routed, isn't it? By satellite.'

'I don't know,' Tom said. 'I guess the long-distance ones might . . . and the transatlantic ones for sure . . . and I suppose the right genius could hack the wrong satellite signal into all those microwave towers you see . . . the ones that boost the signals along . . .'

Clay knew the towers he was talking about, steel skeletons with dishes stuck all over them like gray suckers. They had popped up everywhere over the last ten years.

Tom said, 'If we could pick up a local station, we might be able to get news. Some idea about what to do, where to go—'

'Yes, but what if it's on the radio, too?' Alice said. 'That's what I'm saying. What if you tune into whatever my'—She licked her lips again, then resumed nibbling.—'my mother heard? And my dad? Him, too, oh yes, he had a brand-new cell phone, all the bells and whistles—video, autodial, Internet connection—he loved that puppy!' She gave a laugh that was both hysterical and rueful, a dizzy combination. 'What if you tune into whatever they heard? My folks and them out there? Do you want to risk that?'

At first Tom said nothing. Then he said—cautiously, as if testing the idea—'One of us could risk it. The other two could leave and wait until—'

'No,' Clay said.

'Please no,' Alice said. She was almost crying again. 'I want you both. I need you both.'

They stood around the radio, looking at it. Clay found himself thinking of science fiction novels he'd read as a teenager (sometimes at the beach, listening to Nirvana instead of Van Halen on the radio). In more than a few of them, the world ended. And then the heroes built it back up again. Not without struggles and setbacks, but yes, they used the tools and the technology and they built it back up again. He couldn't remember anywhere the heroes just stood around in a bedroom looking at a radio. Sooner or later someone is going to pick up a tool or turn on a radio, he thought, because someone will have to.

Yes. But not this morning.

Feeling like a traitor to something larger than he could understand, he picked up Tom's ghetto blaster, put it back in the closet, and closed the door.

16

An hour or so later, the orderly migration to the east began to collapse. Clay was on watch. Alice was in the kitchen, eating one of the sandwiches they'd brought out of Boston—she said they had to finish the sandwiches before they ate any of the canned stuff in Tom's closet-sized pantry, because none of them knew when they'd get fresh meat again—and Tom was sleeping in the living room, on the couch. Clay could hear him snoring contentedly away.

He noticed a few people wandering against the general easterly flow, then sensed a kind of slackening in the order out there in Salem Street, something so subtle that his brain registered what his eye saw only as an intuition. At first he dismissed it as a falsity caused by the few wanderers—even more deranged than the rest—who were heading west instead of east, and then he looked down at the shadows. The neat herringbone patterns he had observed earlier had begun to distort. And soon they weren't patterns at all.

More people were now heading west, and some of them were gnawing on food that had been liberated from a grocery store, probably the Safeway Tom had mentioned. Mr. Scottoni's daughter-in-law, Judy, was carrying a gigantic tub of melting chocolate ice cream, which had covered the front of her smock and coated her from knees to nose-stud; her chocolate-lathered face made her look like Mrs. Bones in a minstrel show. And any vegetarian beliefs Mr. Potowami might once have held were gone now; he strolled along noshing from a great double handful of raw hamburger meat. A fat man in a dirty suit had what looked like a partially defrosted leg of lamb, and when Judy Scottoni tried to take it from him, the fat man hit her a vicious clip in the center of the forehead with it. She fell as silently as a poleaxed steer, pregnant belly first, on top of her mostly crushed tub of Breyers chocolate.

There was a great deal of milling now, and a good deal of violence to go with it, but no return to the all-out viciousness of the afternoon before. Not here, in any case. In Malden Center, the alarm, tired-sounding to begin with, had long since run down. In the distance, gunfire continued to pop sporadically, but there had been nothing close since that single shotgun blast from the center of town. Clay watched to see if any of the crazies would try breaking into any of the houses, but although they occasionally walked on the lawns, they showed no signs of