Dreamcatcher (32 page)

Could this stuff actually spread? He just didn't believe it.

“Blue Boy Leader?” Conk asked. “You there, boy?”

“I'm here, shut up a minute.”

Owen leaned forward, reached under the pilot's elbow (Tony Edwards, a good man), and flicked the radio switch to the common channel. Kurtz's mention of Bosanski Novi never crossed his mind; the idea that he was making a terrible mistake never crossed his mind; the idea that he might have seriously underestimated Kurtz's lunacy never crossed his mind. In fact, he did what he did with almost no conscious thought at all. So it seemed to him later, when he cast his mind back and re-examined the incident not just once but again and again. Only a flip of the switch. That was all it took to change the course of a man's life, it seemed.

And there it was, loud and clear, a voice none of Kurtz's laddie-bucks would recognize. They knew Eddie Vedder; Walter Cronkite was a different deal. “—
here. Il n'y a pas d'infection ici.
” Two seconds, and
then a voice that might have belonged to Barbra Streisand: “One hundred and thirteen. One hundred and nineteen.”

At some point, Owen realized, they had started over counting primes from one. On the way up to Gosselin's in the bus, the various voices had reached primes in the high four figures.

“We are dying,” said the voice of Barbra Streisand.
“On se meurt, on crève.”
A pause, then the voice of David Letterman: “One hundred—”

“Belay that!” Kurtz cried. For the only time in the years Owen had known him, Kurtz sounded really upset. Almost shocked. “Owen, why do you want to run that filth into the ears of my boys? You come back and tell me, and right
now.
”

“Just wanted to hear if any of it had changed, boss,” Owen said. That was a lie, and of course Kurtz knew it and at some point would undoubtedly make him pay for it. It was failing to shoot the kids all over again, maybe even worse. Owen didn't care. Fuck the phooka horse. If they were going to do this, he wanted Kurtz's boys (Skyhook in Bosnia, Blue Group this time, some other name next time, but it always came back to the same hard young faces) to hear the grayboys one last time. Travellers from another star system, perhaps even another universe or time-stream, knowers of things their hosts would never know (not that Kurtz would care). Let them hear the grayboys one last time instead of Pearl Jam or Jar of Flies or Rage Against the Machine; the grayboys appealing to what they had foolishly hoped was some better nature.

“And has it changed?” Kurtz's voice crackled back. The green Kiowa was still down there, just below the hanging line of gunships, its rotors beating at the split top of a tall old pine just under it, making it ruffle and sway. “
Has
it, Owen?”

“No,” he said. “Not at all, boss.”

“Then belay that chatter. Daylight's wasting, praise Jesus.”

Owen paused, then said, with careful deliberation: “Yes,
sir.
”

6

Kurtz sat bolt-upright in the Kiowa's right seat—“ramrod-straight” was how they always put it in the books and movies. He had donned his sunglasses in spite of the day's mild gray light, but Freddy, his pilot, still only dared to look at him from the corners of his eyes. The sunglasses were wraparounds, hipster-hodaddy shades, and now that they were on, you couldn't tell where the boss was looking. You certainly couldn't trust the way his head was pointing.

The Derry
News
lay on Kurtz's lap (
MYSTERIOUS SKYLIGHTS, MISSING HUNTERS SPARK PANIC IN JEFFERSON TRACT
, read the headline). Now he picked up the paper and folded it carefully. He was good at this, and soon the Derry
News
would be folded into what Owen Underhill's career had just become: a cocked hat. Underhill no doubt thought he would face some sort of disciplinary action—Kurtz's own, since this was a black-ops deal, at least so far—followed by a second chance.
What he didn't seem to realize (and that was probably good; unwarned usually meant unarmed) was that this
had
been his second chance. Which was one more than Kurtz had ever given anyone else, and one he now regretted.
Bitterly
regretted. For Owen to go and pull a trick like that after their conversation in the office of the store . . . after he had been specifically warned . . .

“Who gives the order?” Underhill's voice crackled in Kurtz's private comlink.

Kurtz was surprised and a little dismayed by the depth of his rage. Most of it was caused by no more than surprise, the simplest emotion, the one babies registered before any other. Owen had zinged him a good one, putting the grayboys on the squad channel like that; just wanted to hear if any of it had changed indeed, that was one you could roll tight and stick up your ass. Owen was probably the best second Kurtz had ever had in a long and complicated career that stretched all the way back to Cambodia in the early seventies, but Kurtz was going to break him, just the same. For the trick with the radio; because Owen hadn't learned. It wasn't about kids in Bosanski Novi, or a bunch of babbling voices now. It wasn't about following orders, or even the principle of the matter. It was about the line.
His
line. The Kurtz Line.

Also, there was that
sir.

That damned snotty
sir.

“Boss?” Owen sounding just a tad nervous now, and he was right to sound nervous, Jesus love him. “Who gives—”

“Common channel, Freddy,” Kurtz said. “Key me in.”

The Kiowa, much lighter than the gunships, caught a gust of wind and took a giddy bounce. Kurtz and Freddy ignored it. Freddy keyed him wide.

“Listen up, boys,” Kurtz said, looking at the four gunships hanging in a line, glass dragonflies above the trees and beneath the clouds. Just ahead of them was the swamp and the vast pearlescent tilted dish with its surviving crew—or whatever they were—standing beneath its aft lip.

“Listen now, boys, Daddy's gonna sermonize. Are you listening? Answer up.”

Yes, yes, affirmative, affirm, roger that
(with an occasional sir thrown in, but that was all right; there was a difference between forgetfulness and insolence).

“I'm not a talker, boys, talking's not what I do, but I want you to know that this is not repeat
not
a case of what you see is what you get. What you
see
is about six dozen gray, apparently unsexed humanoids standing around naked as a loving God made them and you say,
some
would say anyway, ‘Why, those poor folks, all naked and unarmed, not a cock or a cunt to share among em, pleading for mercy there by their crashed intergalactic Trailways, and what kind of a
dog,
what kind of a
monster
could hear those pleading voices and go in just the same?' And I have to tell you, boys, that I am that dog, I am that monster, I am that post-industrial post-modern crypto-fascist politically incorrect male cocka-rocka warpig, praise Jesus, and for anyone listening in I am Abraham Peter Kurtz, USAF Retired,
serial number 241771699, and I am leading this charge, I'm the Lieutenant Calley in charge of this particular Alice's Restaurant Massacree.”

He took a deep breath, eyes fixed on the hovering helicopters.

“But fellows, I'm here to tell you that the grayboys have been messing with us since the late nineteen-for-ties, and I have been messing with them since the late nineteen-seventies, and I can tell you that just because a fellow comes walking toward you with his hands raised saying I surrender, that doesn't mean, praise Jesus, that he doesn't have a pint of nitroglycerine shoved up his ass. Now the big old smart goldfish who go swimming around in the think-tanks, most of those guys say the grayboys came when we started lighting off atomic and hydrogen bombs, that they came to that the way bugs come to a buglight. I don't know about that, I am not a thinker, I leave the thinking to others, leave it to the cabbage, cabbage got the head on him, as the saying goes, but there's nothing wrong with my eyes, fellows, and I tell you those grayboy sons of bitches are as harmless as a wolf in a henhouse. We have taken a good many of them over the years, but not one has lived. When they die, their corpses decompose rapidly and turn into exactly the sort of stuff you see down there, what you lads call Ripley fungus. Sometimes they explode. Got that? They
explode.
The fungus they carry—or maybe it's the fungus that's in charge, some of the think-tank goldfish believe that might be the case—dies easily enough unless it gets on a living host, I say again
living host,
and the host it
seems to like the best, fellows, praise Jesus, is good old
homo sap.
Once you've got it so much as under the nail of your little finger, it's Katie bar the door and Homer run for home.”

This was not precisely the truth—not precisely anywhere near the truth, as a matter of fact—but nobody fought for you as ferociously as a scared soldier. This Kurtz knew from experience.

“Boys, our little gray buddies are telepathic, and they seem to pass this ability on to us through the air. We catch it even when we don't catch the fungus, and while you might think a little mind-reading could be fun, the sort of thing that would make you the life of the party, I can tell you what lies a little farther down that road:
schizophrenia, paranoia,
separation from
reality,
and total I say again
TOTAL FUCKING INSANITY.
The think-tank boys, God bless em, believe that this telepathy is relatively short-acting right now, but I don't have to tell you what could happen in that regard if the grayboys are allowed to settle in and be comfortable. I want you fellows to listen to what I'm going to say now very carefully. I want you to listen as if your lives depended on it, all right? When
they
take
us,
boys—say again, when
they
take
us
—and you all know there have been abductions, most people who claim to have been abducted by aliens are lying through their asshole neurotic teeth, but not all—those who are let go have often undergone implants. Some are nothing but instruments—transmitters, perhaps, or monitors of some sort—but some are living things which eat their hosts, grow fat, and then tear them apart. These
implants have been put in place by the very creatures you see down there, milling around all naked and innocent. They claim there's no infection among them even though we know they are infected right up the ying-yang and the old wazoo and everywhere else. I have seen these things at work for twenty-five years or more, and I tell you this is
it,
this is the invasion, this is the Super Bowl of Super Bowls, and you fellows are on defense. They are
not
helpless little ETs, boys, waiting around for someone to give them a New England Tel phone card so they can phone home, they are a
disease.
They are cancer, praise Jesus, and boys, we're one big hot radioactive shot of chemotherapy. Do you hear me, boys?”

No affirmatives this time. No rogers, no I-copy-thats. Raw cheers, nervous and neurotic, jigging with eagerness. The comlink bulged with them.

“Cancer, boys.
They are cancer.
That's the best I can put it, although as you know, I'm no talker. Owen, do you copy?”

“Copy, boss.” Flat. Flat and calm, damn him. Well, let him be cool. Let him be cool while he still could. Owen Underhill was all finished. Kurtz raised the paper hat and looked at it admiringly. Owen Underhill was
over.

“What is it down there, Owen? What is it shuffling around that ship? What is it forgot to put on their pants and their shoes before they left the house this morning?”

“Cancer, boss.”

“That's right. Now you give the order and in we go.
Sing it out, Owen.” And, with great deliberation, knowing that the men in the gunships would be watching him (never had he given such a sermon, never, and not a word of it preplanned, unless in his dreams), he turned his own hat around backward.

7

Owen watched Tony Edwards turn his Mets cap around so that the bill pointed down the nape of his neck, heard Bryson and Bertinelli racking the .50s, and understood this was really happening. They were going hot. He could get in the car and ride or stand in the road and get run down. Those were the only choices Kurtz had left him.

And there was something more, something bad he remembered from long ago, when he had been—what? Eight? Seven? Maybe even younger. He had been out on the lawn of his house, the one in Paducah, his father still at work, his mother off somewhere, probably at the Grace Baptist, getting ready for one of her endless bake sales (unlike Kurtz, when Randi Underhill said praise Jesus, she meant it), and an ambulance had pulled up next door, at the Rapeloews'. No siren, but lots of flashing lights. Two men in jumpsuits very much like the coverall Owen now wore had gone running up the Rapeloews' walk, unfolding a gleaming stretcher. Never even breaking stride. It was like a magic trick.

Less than ten minutes later they were back out with Mrs. Rapeloew on the stretcher. Her eyes had been closed. Mr. Rapeloew came along behind her, not even
bothering to close the door. Mr. Rapeloew, who was Owen's Daddy's age, looked suddenly as old as a grampy. It was another magic trick. Mr. Rapeloew glanced to his right as the men loaded his wife into the ambulance and saw Owen kneeling on his lawn in his short pants and playing with his ball.
They say it was a stroke!
Mr. Rapeloew called.
St. Mary's Memorial! Tell your mother, Owen!
And then he climbed into the back of the ambulance and the ambulance drove away. For the next five minutes or so Owen continued to play with his ball, throwing it up and catching it, but in between throws and catches he kept looking at the door Mr. Rapeloew had left open and thinking he ought to close it. That closing it would be what his mother called a Christian Act of Charity.