was a thousand years till dawn and all lullabys had been cancelled。 Those things were in the redblack cloud rushing down on him like that pale horse in the Bible； those things and more。 Every bad thing he had ever suspected was now ing toward him； not on a pale horse but on an old snowmobile with a rusty cowling。 Not death but worse than death。 It was Mr Gray。
Get off the road！ his mind screamed。 Get off the road now！ Hide！
For a moment he couldn't move … his feet seemed to grow heavy。 The gash on his thigh； the one the turnsignal had made； burned like a brand。 Now he understood how a deer caught in the headlights felt； or a chipmunk hopping stupidly back and forth in front of an oning lawnmower。 The cloud had robbed him of his ability to help himself He was frozen in its rushing path。
What got him going； oddly enough； was all those thoughts of suicide。 Had he agonized his way to that decision on five hundred sleepless nights only to be robbed of his option by a kind of buck…fever？ No； by God； no； it wouldn't be； Suffering was bad enough； allowing his own terrified body to mock that suffering by locking up and just standing here while a demon ran him down 。 。 。 no； he would not allow that to happen。
And so he moved； but it was like moving in a nightmare； fighting his way through air which seemed to have grown as thick as taffy。 His legs rose and fell with the slowness of an underwater ballet。 Had he been running down this road？ Actually running？ The idea now seemed impossible； no matter how strong the memory。
Still； he kept moving while the whine of the approaching engine grew closer； deepening to a stuttery roar。 And at last he was able to get into the trees on the south side of the road。 He managed perhaps fifteen feet； far enough so there was no snow cover； only a dust of white on the aromatic orange…brown needles。 There Henry fell on his knees； sobbing with terror and putting his gloved hands to his mouth to stifle the sound； because what if it heard？ It was Mr Gray； the cloud was Mr Gray； and what if it heard？
He crawled behind the moss…girdled trunk of a spruce tree； clutched it； then peered around it through the tumbled screen of his sweaty hair。 He saw a spark of light in the dark afternoon。 It jittered； wavered； and rounded。 It became a headlight。
Henry began to moan helplessly as the blackness neared。 It seemed to hover over his mind like an eclipse； obliterating thought； replacing it with terrible images： milk on his father's chin； panic in Barry Newman's eyes； scrawny bodies and staring eyes behind barbed wire； flayed women and hanged men。 For a moment his understanding of the world seemed to turn inside out like a pocket and he realized that everything was infected 。 。 。 or could be。 Everything。 His reasons for contemplating suicide were paltry in the face of this oning thing。
He pressed his mouth against the tree to keep from screaming； felt his lips tattoo a kiss into the springy moss all the way down to where it was moist and tasted of bark。 In that moment the Arctic Cat flashed past and Henry recognized the figure which straddled it； the person who was generating the redblack cloud which now filled Henry's head like a dry fever。
He bit into the moss； screamed against the tree； inhaled fragments of moss without being aware of it； and screamed again。 Then he simply knelt there； holding onto the tree and shuddering； as the sound of the Arctic Cat began to diminish into the west。 He was still there when it had died away to a troublesome whine again； still there when it faded away entirely。
Pete's back there somewhere； he thought。 It'll e to Pete； and to the woman。
Henry stumbled back to the road； unaware that his nose had begun bleeding again； unaware that he was crying。 He began moving toward Hole in the Wall once more； although now the best pace he could manage was a shambling limp。 But maybe that was all right； because it was all over back at camp。
Whatever the horrible thing was that he had been sensing； it had happened。 One of his friends was dead； one was dying； and one； God help him； had bee a movie star。
CHAPTER SEVEN
JONESY AND THE BEAV
1
Beaver said it again。 No Beaver…isms now； just that bare Anglo…Saxon syllable you came to when you were up against the wall and had no other way to express the horror you saw。 'Ah； fuck； man …fuck。'
However much pain McCarthy had been in； he had taken time to snap on both of the switches just inside the bathroom door； lighting the fluorescent bars on either side of the medicine chest mirror and the overhead fluorescent ring。 These threw a bright； even glare that gave the bathroom the feel of a crime…scene photograph 。 。 。 and yet there was a kind of stealthy surrealism； too； because the light wasn't quite steady； there was just enough flicker for you to know the power was ing from a genny and not through a line maintained by Derry and Bangor Hydroelectric。
The tile on the floor was baby blue。 There were only spots and splatters of blood on it near the door； but as they approached the toilet next to the tub； the splotches ran together and became a red snake。 Scarlet capillaries had spread off from this。 The tiles were tattooed with the footprints of their boots； which neither Jonesy nor Beaver had taken off。 On the blue vinyl shower curtain were four blurred fingerprints； and Jonesy thought： He must have reached out and grabbed at the curtain to keep from falling when he turned to sit。
Yes； but that wasn't the awful part。 The awful part was what Jonesy saw in his mind's eye： McCarthy scuttling across the baby…blue tiles with one hand behind him； clutching himself； trying to hold something in。
'Ah； fuck！' Beaver said again。 Almost sobbing。 'I don't want to see this； Jonesy … man； I can't see this。'
'We've got to。' He heard himself speaking as if from a great distance。 'We can do this； Beav。 If we could face up to Richie Grenadeau and his friends that time； we can face up to this。'
'I dunno； man； I dunno 。 。 。'
Jonesy didn't know； either … not really … but he reached out and took Beaver's hand。 Beav's fingers closed over his with panicky tightness and together they went a step deeper into the bathroom。 Jonesy tried to avoid the blood； but it was hard； there was blood everywhere。 And not all of it was blood。
'Jonesy；' Beaver said in a dry near…whisper。 'Do you see that crud on the shower curtain？'
'Yeah。' Growing in the blurred fingerprints were little clumps of reddish…golden mold； like mildew。 There was more of it on the floor； not in the fat blood…snake； but in the narrow angles of the grout。
'What is it？'
'I don't know；' Jonesy said。 'Same shit he had on his face； I guess。 Shut up a minute。' Then： 'Mr McCarthy？ 。 。 。 Rick？'
McCarthy； sitting there on the toilet； made no response。 He had for some reason put his orange cap back on … the bill stuck off at a crooked； slightly drunken angle。 He was otherwise naked。 His chin was down on his breastbone； in a parody of deep thought （or maybe it wasn't a parody； who knew？）。 His eyes were mostly closed。 His hands were clasped pritrdy together over his pubic thatch。 Blood ran down the side of the toilet in a big sloppy paintstroke； but there was no blood on McCarthy himself； at least not as far as Jonesy could see。
One thing he could see： the skin of McCarthy's stomach hung in two slack dewlaps。 The look of it reminded Jonesy of something； and after a moment or two it came to him。 It was how Carla's stomach had looked after she had delivered each of their four children。 Above McCarthy's hip； where there was a little lovehandle （and some give to the flesh）； the skin was only red。 Across the belly； however； it had split open in tiny weals。 If McCarthy had been pregnant； it must have been with some sort of parasite； a tapeworm or a hookworm or something like that。 Only there was stuff growing in his spilled blood； and what had he said as he lay there in Jonesy's bed with the blankets pulled up to his chin？ Behold； I stand at the door and knock。 This was one knock Jonesy wished he had never answered。 In fact； he wished he had shot him。 Yes。 He saw more clearly now。 He was hyped on the clarity that sometimes es to the pletely horrified mind； and in that state wished he had put a bullet in McCarthy before he saw the orange cap and the orange flagman's vest。 It couldn't have hurt and it might have helped。
'Stand at the door and knock on my ass；' Jonesy muttered。
'Jonesy？ Is he still alive？'
'I don't know。'
Jonesy took another step forward and felt Beaver's fingers slide out of his； the Beav had apparently e as close to McCarthy as he was able。
'Rick？' Jonesy asked in a hushed voice。 A don't…wake…the…baby voice。 A viewing…the…corpse voice。 'Rick； are you…'
There was a loud； dank fart from beneath the man on the toilet； and the room immediately filled with an eyewatering aroma of excrement and airplane glue。 Jonesy thought it a wonder that the shower curtain didn't melt。
From the bowl there came a splash。 Not the plop of a turd dropping … at least Jonesy didn't think so。 It sounded more like a fish jumping in a pond。
'Christ almighty； the stink of it！ 'Beaver cried。