Cell

soccer had apparently been a big deal. The stands stacking up on either side of Tonney Field looked as if they could seat as many as a thousand, and they were decked with bunting that was only now beginning to look bedraggled by the showery weather of the last few days. There was an elaborate Scoreboard at the far end of the field with big letters marching along the top. Clay couldn't read the message in the dark and probably wouldn't have taken it in even if it had been daylight. There was enough light to see the field itself, and that was all that mattered.

Every inch of grass was covered with phone-crazies. They were lying on their backs like sardines in a can, leg to leg and hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder. Their faces stared up into the black predawn sky.

'Oh my Lord Jesus,' Tom said. His voice was muffled because one fist was pressed against his mouth.

'Catch the girl!' the Head rapped. 'She's going to faint!'

'No—I'm all right,' Alice said, but when Clay put his arm around her she slumped against him, breathing fast. Her eyes were open but they had a fixed, druggy look.

'They're under the bleachers, too,' Jordan said. He spoke with a studied, almost showy calm that Clay did not believe for a minute. It was the voice of a boy assuring his pals that he's not grossed out by the maggots boiling in a dead cat's eyes . . . just before he leans over and blows his groceries. 'Me and the Head think that's where they put the hurt ones that aren't going to get better.'

'The Head and I , Jordan.'

'Sorry, sir.'

Debby Boone achieved poetic catharsis and ceased. There was a pause and then Lawrence Welk's Champagne Music Makers once more began to play 'Baby Elephant Walk.' Dodge had a good time, too, Clay thought.

'How many of those boomboxes have they got rigged together?' he asked Headmaster Ardai. 'And how did they do it? They're brainless, for Christ's sake, zombies!' A terrible idea occurred to him, illogical and persuasive at the same time. 'Did you do it? To keep them quiet, or. . .I don't know . . .'

'He didn't do it,' Alice said. She spoke quietly from her safe place within the circle of Clay's arm.

'No, and both of your premises are wrong,' the Head told him.

'Both? I don't—'

'They must be dedicated music-lovers,' Tom mused, 'because they don't like to go inside buildings. But that's where the CDs are, right?'

'Not to mention the boomboxes,' Clay said.

'There's no time to explain now. Already the sky has begun to lighten, and . . . tell them, Jordan.'

Jordan replied dutifully, with the air of one who recites a lesson he does not understand, 'All good vampires must be in before cockcrow, sir.'

'That's right—before cockcrow. For now, only look. That's all you need to do. You didn't know there were places like this, did you?'

'Alice knew,' Clay said.

They looked. And because the night had begun to wane, Clay realized that the eyes in all those faces were open. He was pretty sure they weren't seeing; they were just . . . open.

Something bad's going on here, he thought. The flocking was only the beginning of it.

Looking at the packed bodies and empty faces (mostly white; this was New England, after all) was awful, but the blank eyes turned up to the night sky filled him with unreasoning horror. Somewhere, not too distant, the morning's first bird began to sing. It wasn't a crow, but the Head still jerked, then tottered. This time it was Tom who steadied him.

'Come on,' the Head told them. 'It's only a short walk to Cheatham Lodge, but we ought to start. The damp has made me stiffer than ever. Take my elbow, Jordan.'

Alice broke free of Clay and went to the old man's other side. He gave her a rather forbidding smile and a shake of his head. 'Jordan can take care of me. We take care of each other now—ay, Jordan?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Jordan?' Tom asked. They were nearing a large (and rather pretentious) Tudor-style dwelling that Clay presumed was Cheatham Lodge.

'Sir?'

'The sign over the Scoreboard—I couldn't read it. What did it say?'

'welcome alumni to homecoming weekend.' Jordan almost smiled, then remembered there would be no Homecoming Weekend this year– the bunting on the stands had already begun to tatter—and the brightness left his face. If he hadn't been so tired, he might still have held his composure, but it was very late, almost dawn, and as they made their way up the walk to the Headmaster's residence, the last student at Gaiten Academy, still wearing his colors of maroon and gray, burst into tears.

14

' That was incredible, sir,' Clay said. He had fallen into Jordan's mode of address very naturally. So had Tom and Alice. 'Thank you.'

'Yes,' Alice said. 'Thanks. I've never eaten two burgers in my life—at least not big ones like that.'

It was three o'clock the following afternoon. They were on the back porch of Cheatham Lodge. Charles Ardai—the Head, as Jordan called him—had grilled the hamburgers on a small gas grill. He said the meat was perfectly safe because the generator powering the cafeteria's freezer had run until noon yesterday (and indeed, the patties he took from the cooler Tom and Jordan had carried in from the pantry had still been white with frost and as hard as hockey pucks). He said that grilling the meat would probably be safe until five o'clock, although prudence dictated an early meal.

'They'd smell the cooking?' Clay asked.

'Let's just say that we have no desire to find out,' the Head replied. 'Have we, Jordan?'

'No, sir,' Jordan said, and took a bite of his second burger. He was slowing down, but Clay thought he'd manage to do his duty. 'We want to be inside when they wake up, and inside when they come back from town. That's where they go, to town. They're picking it clean, like birds in a field of grain. That's what the Head says.'

'They were flocking back home earlier when we were in Malden,' Alice said. 'Not that we knew where home for them was.' She was eyeing a tray with pudding cups on it. 'Can I have one of those?'

'Yes, indeed.' The Head pushed the tray toward her. 'And another hamburger, if you'd like. What we don't eat soon will just spoil.'

Alice groaned and shook her head, but she took a pudding cup. So did Tom.

'They seem to leave at the same time each morning, but the home-flocking behavior has been starting later,' Ardai said thoughtfully. 'Why would that be?'

'Slimmer pickings?' Alice asked.

'Perhaps . . .' He took a final bite of his own hamburger, then covered the remains neatly with a paper napkin. 'There are many flocks, you know. Maybe as many as a dozen within a fifty-mile radius. We know from people going south that there are flocks in Sandown, Fremont, and Candia. They forage about almost aimlessly in the daytime, perhaps for music as well as food, then go back to where they came from.'

'You know this for sure,' Tom said. He finished one pudding cup and reached for another.

Ardai shook his head. 'Nothing is for sure, Mr. McCourt.' His hair, a long white tangle (an English professor's hair for sure, Clay thought), rippled a bit in the mild afternoon breeze. The clouds were gone. The back porch gave them a good view of the campus, and so far it was deserted. Jordan went around the house at regular intervals to scout the hill sloping down to Academy Avenue and reported all quiet there, as well. 'You've not seen any of the other roosting places?'

'Nope,' Tom said.

'But we're traveling in the dark,' Clay reminded him, 'and now the dark is really dark.'