He didn't know what he had expected, but not this.
Not this dazzling white light.
6
Jonesy was nearly caught out. Would have been caught out if not for the fluorescents with which he had lit his mental storeroom. This place might not actually exist, but it was real enough to him, and that made it real enough to Mr. Gray when Mr. Gray arrived.
Jonesy, who was pushing the dolly filled with boxes marked DERRY, saw Mr. Gray appear like magic at the head of a corridor of high-stacked cartons. It was the rudimentary humanoid that had been standing behind him at Hole in the Wall, the thing he had visited in the hospital. The dull black eyes were finally alive, hungry. It had crept up, caught him outside his office refuge, and it meant to have him.
But then its bulge of a head recoiled, and before its three-fingered hand shielded its eyes (it had no lids, not even any lashes), Jonesy saw an expression on its gray sketch of a face that had to be bewilderment. Maybe even pain. It had been out there, in the snowy dark, disposing of the driver's body. It had come in here unprepared for the discount-mart glare. He saw something else, too: The invader had borrowed its expression of surprise from the host. For a moment, Mr. Gray was a horrible caricature of Jonesy himself.
Its surprise gave Jonesy just enough time. Pushing the dolly ahead of him almost without realizing it and feeling like the imprisoned princess in some fucked-up fairy-tale, he ran into the office. He sensed rather than saw Mr. Gray reaching out for him with his three-fingered hands (the gray skin was raw-looking, like very old uncooked meat), and slammed the office door just ahead of their clutch. He bumped the dolly with his bad hip as he spun around--he accepted that he was inside his own head, but all of this was nevertheless completely real--and just managed to run the bolt before Mr. Gray could turn the knob and force his way in. Jonesy engaged the thumb-lock in the center of the doorknob for good measure. Had the thumb-lock been there before, or had he added it? He couldn't remember.
Jonesy stepped back, sweating, and this time ran his butt into the handle of the dolly. In front of him, the doorknob turned back and forth, back and forth. Mr. Gray was out there, in charge of the rest of his mind--and his body, as well--but he couldn't get in here. Couldn't force the door, didn't have the heft to break it down, didn't have the wit to pick the lock.
Why? How could that be?
"Duddits," he whispered. "No bounce, no play."
The doorknob rattled. "Let me in!" Mr. Gray snarled, and to Jonesy he didn't sound like an emissary from another galaxy but like anyone who has been denied what he wants and is pissed off about it. Was that because he was interpreting Mr. Gray's behavior in terms which he, Jonesy, understood? Humanizing the alien? Translating him?
"Let . . . me . . . IN!"
Jonesy responded without thinking: "Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin." And thought: To which you say, "Then I'll huff . . . and I'll PUFF . . . and I'll BLOWWW your house in!"
But Mr. Gray only rattled the knob harder than ever. He was not used to being balked in this manner (or in any manner, Jonesy guessed) and was very pissed. Janas's momentary resistance had startled him, but this was resistance on a whole other level.
"Where are you?" Mr. Gray called angrily. "How can you be in there? Come out!"
Jonesy didn't reply, only stood among the tumbled boxes, listening. He was almost positive Mr. Gray couldn't get in, but it would be just as well not to provoke him.
And after a little more knob-rattling, he sensed Mr. Gray leaving him.
Jonesy went to the window, stepping over the tumbled boxes marked DUDDITS and DERRY to get there, and stared out into the snowy night.
7
Mr. Gray climbed Jonesy's body back behind the wheel of the truck, slammed the door, and pushed the accelerator. The truck bolted forward, then lost purchase. All four wheels spun, and the truck skidded into the guardrails with a jarring bang.
"Fuck!" Mr. Gray cried, accessing Jonesy's profanity almost without being aware of it. "Jesus-Christbananas! Kiss my bender! Doodly-fuck! Bite my bag!"
Then he stopped and accessed Jonesy's driving skills again. Jonesy had some information on driving in weather like this, but nowhere near as much as Janas had possessed. Janas was gone, however, his files erased. What Jonesy knew would have to do. The important thing was to get beyond what Janas had thought of as the "q-zone." Beyond the q-zone he would be safe. Janas had been clear about that.
Jonesy's foot pressed down on the gas pedal again, much more gently this time. The truck started to move. Jonesy's hands steered the Chevrolet back into the fading path left by the plow.
Under the dash, the radio crackled to life. "Tubby One, this is Tubby Four. I got a rig off the road and turned over on the median. Do you copy?"
Mr. Gray consulted the files. What Jonesy knew about military communication was skimpy, mostly gleaned from books and something called the movies, but it might do. He took the mike, felt for the button Jonesy seemed to think would be on the side, found it, pushed it. "I copy," he said. Would Tubby Four be able to tell that Tubby One was no longer Andy Janas? Based on Jonesy's files, Mr. Gray doubted it.
"A bunch of us are going to get him up, see if we can get him back on the road. He's got the goddam food, you copy?"
Mr. Gray pushed the button. "Got the goddam food, copy."
A longer pause, long enough for him to wonder if he'd said something wrong, stepped in some kind of a trap, and then the radio said: "We'll have to wait for the next bunch of plows, I guess. You might as well keep rolling, over?" Tubby Four sounded disgusted. Jonesy's files suggested that might be because Janas, with his superior driving skills, had gotten too far ahead to help. All this was good. He would've kept moving in any case, but it was good to have Tubby Four's official sanction, if that's what it was.
He checked Jonesy's files (which he now saw as Jonesy saw them--boxes in a vast room) and said, "Copy. Tubby One, over and out." And, as an afterthought: "Have a nice night."
The white stuff was horrible. Treacherous. Nonetheless, Mr. Gray risked driving a little faster. As long as he was in the area controlled by Creepy Kurtz's armed force, he might be vulnerable. Once out of the net, however, he would be able to complete his business very quickly.
What he needed had to do with a place called Derry, and when Mr. Gray went into the big storeroom again, he discovered an amazing thing: his unwilling host had either known that or sensed it, because it was the Derry files Jonesy had been moving when Mr. Gray had returned and almost caught him.
Mr. Gray searched the boxes that were left with sudden anxiety, and then relaxed.
What he needed was still here.
Lying on its side near the box which contained the most important information was another box, very small and very dusty. Written on the side in black pencil was the word DUDDITS. If there were other Duddits-boxes, they had been removed. Only this one had been overlooked.
More out of curiosity than anything else (his curiosity also borrowed from Jonesy's store of emotions), Mr. Gray opened it. Inside was a bright yellow container made of plastic. Outlandish figures capered upon it, figures Jonesy's files identified as both cartoons and the Scooby-Doos. On one end was a sticker reading I BELONG TO DUDDITS CAVELL, 19 MAPLE LANE, DERRY, MAINE. IF THE BOY I BELONG TO IS LOST, CALL
This was followed by numbers too faint and illegible to read, probably a communication-code Jonesy no longer remembered. Mr. Gray tossed the yellow plastic container, probably meant for carrying food, aside. It could mean nothing . . . although if that was really the case, why had Jonesy risked his existence getting the other DUDDITS-boxes (as well as some of those marked DERRY) to safety?
DUDDITS=CHILDHOOD FRIEND. Mr. Gray knew this from his initial encounter with Jonesy in "the hospital" . . . and if he had known what an annoyance Jonesy would turn out to be, he would have erased his host's consciousness right then. Neither the term CHILDHOOD nor the term FRIEND had any emotional resonance for Mr. Gray, but he understood what they meant. What he
didn't understand was how Jonesy's childhood friend could have anything to do with what was happening tonight.
One possibility occurred to him: his host had gone mad. Being turned out of his own body had driven him insane, and he'd simply taken the boxes closest to the door of his perplexing stronghold, assigning them in his madness an importance they did not actually have.
"Jonesy," Mr. Gray said, speaking the name with Jonesy's vocal cords. These creatures were mechanical geniuses (of course they would have to be, to survive in such a cold world), but their thought-processes were odd and crippled: rusty mentation sunk in corrosive pools of emotion. Their telepathic abilities were minus; the transient telepathy they were now experiencing thanks to the byrus and the kim ("flashlights," they called them) bewildered and frightened them. It was difficult for Mr. Gray to believe they hadn't murdered their entire species yet. Creatures incapable of real thought were maniacs--this was surely beyond argument.
Meanwhile, no answer from the creature in that strange, impregnable room.
"Jonesy."
Nothing. But Jonesy was listening. Mr. Gray was sure of it.
"There is no necessity for this suffering, Jonesy. See us for what we are--not invaders but saviors. Buddies."
Mr. Gray considered the various boxes. For a creature that couldn't actually think much, Jonesy had an enormous amount of storage capacity. Question for another day: why would beings who thought so poorly have so much retrieval capability? Did it have to do with their overblown emotional makeup? And the emotions were disturbing. He found Jonesy's emotions very disturbing. Always there. Always on call. And so much of them.
"War . . . famine . . . ethnic cleansing . . . killing for peace . . . massacring the heathen for Jesus . . . homosexual people beaten to death . . . bugs in bottles, the bottles sitting on top of missiles aimed at every city in the world . . . come on, Jonesy, compared to type-four anthrax, what's a little byrus between friends? Jesus-Christ-bananas, you'll all be dead in fifty years, anyway! This is good! Relax and enjoy it!"
"You made that guy stick a pen in his eye."
Grumpy, but better than nothing. The wind gusted, the pickup skidded, and Mr. Gray rode with it, using Jonesy's skills. The visibility was almost nil; he had dropped to twenty miles an hour and might do well to pull over completely for awhile once he cleared Kurtz's net. Meanwhile, he could chat with his host. Mr. Gray doubted that he could talk Jonesy out of his room, but chatting at least passed the time.
"I had to, buddy. I needed the truck. I'm the last one."
"And you never lose."
"Right," Mr. Gray agreed.
"But you've never had a situation like this, have you? You've never had someone you can't get at."
Was Jonesy taunting him? Mr. Gray felt a ripple of anger. And then he said something Mr. Gray had already thought of himself.
"Maybe you should have killed me in the hospital. Or was that only a dream?"
Mr. Gray, unsure what a dream was, didn't bother responding. Having this barricaded mutineer in what by now should have been Mr. Gray's mind and his alone was increasingly annoying. For one thing, he didn't like thinking of himself as "Mr. Gray"--that was not his concept of himself or the species-mind of which he was a part; he did not even like to think of himself as "he," for he was both sexes and neither. Yet now he was imprisoned by these concepts, and would be as long as the core being of Jonesy remained unabsorbed. A terrible thought occurred to Mr. Gray: what if it was his concepts that had no meaning?
He hated being in this position.
"Who's Duddits, Jonesy?"
No answer.
"Who is Richie? Why was he a shit? Why did you kill him?"
"We didn't!"
A little tremble in the mental voice. Ah, that shot had gone home. And something interesting: Mr. Gray had meant "you" in the singular, but Jonesy had taken it in the plural.
"You did, though. Or you think you did."
"That's a lie."
"How silly of you to say so. I have the memories, right here in one of your boxes. There's snow in the box. Snow and a moccasin. Brown suede. Come out and look."
For one giddy second he thought Jonesy might do just that. If he did, Mr. Gray would sweep him back to the hospital at once. Jonesy could see himself die on television. A happy ending to the movie they had been watching. And then, no more Mr. Gray. Just what Jonesy thought of as "the cloud."
Mr. Gray looked eagerly at the doorknob, willing it to turn. It didn't.
"Come out."
Nothing.
"You killed Richie, you coward! You and your friends. You . . . you dreamed him to death." And although Mr. Gray didn't know what dreams were, he knew that was true. Or that Jonesy believed it was.
Nothing.
"Come out! Come out and . . ." He searched Jonesy's memories. Many of them were in boxes called MOVIES, Jonesy seemed to love movies above all things, and Mr. Gray plucked what he thought a particularly potent line from one of these: ". . . and fight like a man!"
Nothing.
You bastard, Mr. Gray thought, once more dipping into the enticing pool of his host's emotions. You son of a bitch. You stubborn asshole. Kiss my bender, you stubborn asshole.
Back in the days when Jonesy had been Jonesy, he had often expressed anger by slamming his fist down on something. Mr. Gray did it now, bringing Jonesy's fist down on the center of the truck's wheel hard enough to honk the horn. "Tell me! Not about Richie, not about Duddits, about you! Something makes you different. I want to know what it is."
No answer.
"It's in the crib--is that it?"
Still no answer, but Mr. Gray heard Jonesy's feet shuffle behind the door. And perhaps a low intake of breath. Mr. Gray smiled with Jonesy's mouth.
"Talk to me, Jonesy--we'll play the game, we'll pass the time. Who was Richie, besides Number 19? Why were you angry with him? Because he was a Tiger? A Derry Tiger? What were they? Who's Duddits?"
Nothing.
The truck crept more slowly than ever through the storm, the headlights almost helpless against the swirling wall of white. Mr. Gray's voice was low, coaxing.
"You missed one of the Duddits-boxes, buddy, did you know that? There's a box inside the box, as it happens--it's yellow. There are Scooby-Doos on it. What are Scooby-Doos? They're not real people, are they? Are they movies? Are they televisions? Do you want the box? Come out, Jonesy. Come out and I'll give you the box."
Mr. Gray removed his foot from the gas pedal and let the truck coast slowly to the left, over into the thicker snow. Something was happening here, and he wanted to turn all his attention to it. Force had not dislodged Jonesy from his stronghold . . . but force wasn't the only way to win a battle, or a war.
The truck stood idling by the guardrails in what was now a full-fledged blizzard. Mr. Gray closed his eyes. Immediately he was in Jonesy's brightly lit memory storehouse. Behind him were miles of stacked boxes, marching away under the fluorescent tubes. In front of him was the closed door, shabby and dirty and for some reason very, very strong. Mr. Gray placed his three-fingered hands on it and began to speak in a low voice that was both intimate and urgent.
"Who is Duddits? Why did you call him after you killed Richie? Let me in, we need to talk. Why did you take some of the Derry boxes? What did you not want me to see? It doesn't matter, I have what I need, let me in, Jonesy, better now than later."
It was going to work. He sensed Jonesy's blank eyes, could see Jonesy's hand moving toward the knob and the lock.
"We always win," Mr. Gray said. He sat behind the wheel with Jonesy's eyes closed, and in another universe the wind screamed and rocked the truck on its springs. "Open the door, Jonesy, open it now."
Silence. And then, from less than three inches away and as surprising as a basinful of cold water dashed on warm skin: "Eat shit and die."
Mr. Gray recoiled so violently that the back of Jonesy's head connected with the truck's rear window. The pain was sudden and shocking, a second unpleasant surprise.
He slammed a fist down again, then the other, then the first once more; he was hammering on the wheel, the horn beating out a Morse code of rage. A largely emotionless creature and part of a largely emotionless species, he had been hijacked by his host's emotional juices--not just dipping in them this time but bathing. And again he sensed this was only happening because Jonesy was still there, an unquiet tumor in what should have been a serene and focused consciousness.
Mr. Gray hammered on the wheel, hating this emotional ejaculation--what Jonesy's mind identified as a tantrum--but loving it, too. Loving the sound of the horn when he hit it with Jonesy's fists, loving the beat of Jonesy's blood in Jonesy's temples, loving the way Jonesy's heart sped up and the sound of Jonesy's hoarse voice crying "You fuckhead! You fuckhead!" over and over and over.
And even in the midst of this rage, a cold part of him realized what the true danger was. They always came, they always made the worlds they visited over in their image. It was the way things had always been, and the way they were meant to be.
But now . . .
Something's happening to me, Mr. Gray thought, aware even as the thought came that it was essentially a "Jonesy" thought. I'm starting to be human.
The fact that the idea was not without its attractions filled Mr. Gray with horror.
8
Jonesy came out of a doze where the only sound was the soothing, lulling rhythm of Mr. Gray's voice, and saw that his hands were resting on the locks of the office door, ready to turn the lower and draw the bolt on the upper. The son of a bitch was trying to hypnotize him, and doing a pretty good job of it.
"We always win," said the voice on the other side of the door. It was soothing, which was nice after such a stressful day, but it was also vilely complacent. The usurper who would not rest until he had it all . . . who took getting it all as a given. "Open the door, Jonesy, open it now."
For a moment he almost did it. He was awake again, but he almost did it anyway. Then he remembered two sounds: the tenebrous creak of Pete's skull as the red stuff tightened on it, and the wet squittering Janas's eye had made when the tip of the pen pierced it.
Jonesy realized he hadn't been awake at all, not really. But now he was.