Cell

political statement (if he looked he'd probably find the same thing on stop signs all over town, maybe in Springvale and Acton, too), but the sense of how this could be the same when the whole world had changed—that eluded him. Clay felt somehow that if he stared at STOP . . . NUCLEAR POWER with enough desperate intensity, a wormhole would open, some kind of sci-fi time-tunnel, and he'd dive into the past, and all this would be undone. All this darkness.

'Clay?' Tom asked. 'Are you all right?'

'This is my street,' Clay said, as if that explained everything, and then, without knowing he was going to do it, he began to run.

Livery Lane was a cul-de-sac, all the streets on this side of town dead-ending against the flank of Kent's Hill, which was really an eroded mountain. Oaks overhung it and the street was full of dead leaves that crackled under his feet. There were also a lot of stalled cars, and two that were locked grille to grille in a strenuous mechanical kiss.

'Where's he going?' Jordan called behind him. Clay hated the fear he heard in Jordan's voice, but he couldn't stop.

'He's all right,' Tom said. 'Let him go.'

Clay wove around the stalled cars, the beam of his flashlight jigging and stabbing in front of him. One of the stabs caught Mr. Kretsky's face. Mr. Kretsky always used to have a Tootsie Pop for Johnny on haircut day when Johnny was Johnny-Gee, just a little guy who used to yellfo-fo-me-me when the phone rang. Mr. Kretsky was lying on the sidewalk in front of his house, half-buried in fallen oak-leaves, and his nose appeared to be gone.

I mustn't find them dead. This thought drummed in his mind, over and over. Not after Alice. I mustn't find them dead. And then, hatefully (but in moments of stress the mind almost always told the truth): And if I have tofind one of them dead. . . let it be her.

Their house was the last one on the left (as he always used to remind Sharon, with a suitably creepy laugh—long after the joke had worn thin, actually), and the driveway slanted up to the refurbished little shed that was just big enough to park one car. Clay was already out of breath but he didn't slow. He sprinted up the driveway, kicking leaves in front of him, feeling the stitch starting to sink in high up on his right side, tasting copper in the back of his mouth, where his breathing seemed to rasp. He lifted his flashlight and shined it into the garage.

Empty. Question was, was that good or bad?

He turned around, saw Tom's and Jordan's lights bobbing toward him down below, and shone his own on his back door. His heart leaped into the back of his throat at what he saw. He ran up the three steps to the stoop, stumbled, and almost put his hand through the storm door pulling the note off the glass. It was held by only a corner of Scotch tape; if they'd come along an hour later, maybe even half an hour, the restless night wind would have blown it over the hills and far away. He could kill her for not taking more pains, such carelessness was just so Sharon, but at least– The note wasn't from his wife.

2

Jordan came up the driveway and stood at the foot of the steps with his light trained on Clay. Tom came toiling along behind, breathing hard and making an enormous crackling sound as he scuffed through the leaves. He stopped beside Jordan and put his own light on the scrap of unfolded paper in Clay's hand. He raised the beam slowly to Clay's thunderstruck face. 'I forgot about her mother's fucking diabetes,' Clay said, and handed over the note that had been Scotch-taped to the door. Tom and Jordan read it together.

Daddy,

Something bad hapen as you porbly know, I hope your all right & get this. Mitch Steinman and George Gendron are with me, people are going crazy & we think its the cellphones. Dad here is the bad part, we came here because I was afraid. I was going to break mine if I was wrong but I wasnt wrong, it was gone. Mom has been taking it because you know nana is sick and she wanted to keep checking. I gotta go Jesus I'm scrared, someone killed Mr Kretsky. All kinds of people are dead & nuts like in a horra movie but we heard people are getting together (NORMAL people) at the Town Hall and thats where we are going. Maybe mom is there but jesus she had my PHONE. Daddy if you get here okay PLEASE COME GET ME.

Your Son, John Gavin Riddell

Tom finished, then spoke in a tone of kindly caution that terrified Clay more thoroughly than the most dire warning could have done. 'You know that any people who gathered at the Town Hall have probably gone many different ways, don't you? It's been ten days, and the world has undergone a terrible convulsion.'

'I know,' Clay said. His eyes were stinging and he could feel his voice beginning to waver. 'And I know his mother is probably . . .' He shrugged and flung an unsteady hand at the dark, sloping-away world beyond his leaf- strewn driveway. 'But Tom, I have to go to the Town Hall and see. They may have left word. He may have left word.'

'Yes,' Tom said. 'Of course you do. And when we get there, we can decide what comes next.' He spoke in that same tone of awful kindness. Clay almost wished he'd laugh and say something like Come on, you poorsap —you don't really think you're going to see him again, do you? Get fucking real.

Jordan had read the note a second time, maybe a third and fourth. Even in his current state of horror and grief, Clay felt like apologizing to Jordan for Johnny's poor spelling and composition skills—reminding Jordan that his son must have written under terrible stress, crouched on the stoop, scribbling while his friends stood watching chaos swirl below.

Now Jordan lowered the note and said, 'What does your son look like?'

Clay almost asked why, then decided he didn't want to know. At least not yet. 'Johnny's almost a foot shorter than you. Stocky. Dark brown hair.'

'Not skinny. Not blond.'

'No, that sounds like his friend George.'

Jordan and Tom exchanged a look. It was a grave look, but Clay thought there was relief in it, too.

'What?' he asked. 'What? Tell me.'

'The other side of the street,' Tom said. 'You didn't see because you were running. There's a dead boy about three houses down. Skinny, blond, red backpack—'

'That's George Gendron,' Clay said. He knew George's red backpack as well as he knew Johnny's blue one with the strips of reflecting tape on it. 'He and Johnny made a Puritan village together for their fourth-grade history project. They got an A-plus. George can't be dead.' But he almost certainly was. Clay sat down on the stoop, which gave its old familiar creak under his weight, and put his face in his hands.

3

The town hall was at the intersection of pond and mill streets, in front of the town common and the body of water that gave the little village its name. The parking lot was almost empty except for the spaces reserved for employees, because both streets leading to the big white Victorian building were jammed with stalled vehicles. People had gotten as close as they could, then walked the rest of the way. For latecomers like Clay, Tom, and Jordan, it was a slow slog. Within two blocks of the Town Hall, not even the lawns were free of cars. Half a dozen houses had burned down. Some were still smoldering.

Clay had covered the body of the boy on Livery Lane—it had indeed been Johnny's friend George—but they could do nothing for the scores of swollen and putrefying dead they encountered as they made their slow way toward the Kent Pond Town Hall. There were hundreds, but in the dark Clay saw none that he recognized. That might have been true even in daylight. The crows had put in a busy week and a half.

His mind kept going back to George Gendron, who had been lying facedown in a clot of bloody leaves. In his note, John had said that George and Mitch, his other good friend this year in the seventh grade, had been with him.