Chink. He was off the com.
I closed my eyes and put my face in my hands. All I saw was gray. Nothing but gray.
Not even a flash of white light. For no reason at all, I thought of New Year’s Eve, when all those people crowd into Times Square and scream like jackals as the lighted ball slides down the pole, ready to shed its thin party glare on three hundred and sixty-five new days in this best of all possible worlds. I have always wondered what it would be like to be caught in one of those crowds, screaming and not able to hear your own voice, your individuality momentarily wiped out and replaced with the blind empathic overslop of the crowd’s lurching, angry anticipation, hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder with no one in particular.
I began to cry.
When Philbrick stepped through the door, he glanced down at the drooling Tedthing and then up at me. “What in the name of God did you . . . ?” he began.
I made as if to grab something behind Mrs. Underwood’s desktop row of books and plants. “Here it comes, you shit cop!” I screamed.
He shot me three times.
Chapter 32
THOSE WHO WOULD BE INFORMED IN THIS MATTER DRAW YE NEAR
AND KNOW YE THEN BY THESE PRESENTS:
CHARLES EVERETT DECKER, convicted in Superior Court this day, August 27, 1976, of the willful murder of Jean Alice Underwood, and also convicted this day, August 27, 1976, of the willful murder of John Downes Vance, both human beings.
It has been determined by five state psychiatrists that Charles Everett Decker cannot at this time be held accountable for his actions, by reason of insanity. It is therefore the decision of this court that he be remanded to the Augusta State Hospital, where he will be 114
held in treatment until such time as he can be certified responsible to answer for his acts.
To this writ have I set my hand.
(Signed)
(Judge) Samuel K. N. Deleavney
In other words, until shit sticks on the moon, baby.
Chapter 33
i n t e r o f f i c e m e m o
FROM: Dr. Andersen
TO: Rich Gossage, Admin. Wing
SUBJECT: Theodore Jones
Rich,
Am still loath to try the shock treatments on this boy, altho I can’t explain it even to myself-call it hunch. Of course I can’t justify hunch to the board of directors, or to Jones’s uncle, who is footing the bill, which, in a private institution like Woodlands, don’t come cheap, as we both know. If there is no movement in the next four to six weeks, we’ll go on with the standard electroshock therapy, but for now I would like to run the standard drug schedule again, plus a few not so standard-I am thinking of both synthetic mescaline and psyilocybin, if you concur. Will Greenberger has had a great deal of success with semi-catatonic patients as you know, and these two hallucinogens have played a major part in his therapy.
Jones is such a strange case-goddammit, if we only could be sure what had gone on in that classroom after that Decker individual had the shades pulled down!
Diagnosis hasn’t changed. Flat-line catatonic state w /some signs of deterioration.
I might as well admit to you up front, Rich, that I am not as hopeful for this boy as I once was.
November 3, 1976
Chapter 34
December 5, 1976
115
Dear Charlie,
They tell me you can have mail now, so I thought I would drop you a line. Maybe you noticed this is postmarked Boston-your old buddy finally made the Big Time, and I’m taking sixteen hours here at B.U. (that stands for Bullshit Unlimited). It’s all pretty slushy except for my English class. The instructor assigned us a book called The Postman Always Rings Twice that was really good, and I got an A on the exam. It’s by James Cain, did you ever read it? I’m thinking about majoring in English, how’s that for a laugh? Must be your influence. And you were always the brains of the combination.
I saw your mom just before I left Placerville, and she said you were just about all healed up and the last of the drains were out three weeks ago. I was sure glad to hear it.
She said you aren’t talking much. That doesn’t sound like you, skinner. It would sure be a loss to the world if you clammed up and just scrunched in a comer all day.
Although I haven’t been home since the semester started, Sandy Cross wrote me a letter with a lot of news about all the people at home. (Will the bastards censor this part?
I bet they read all your mail.) Sandy herself decided not to go to college this year. She’s just sort of hanging around, waiting for something to happen, I guess. I might as well tell you that I dated her a couple of times last summer, but she just seemed kind of distant.
She asked me to say “hi” to you, so “hi” from Sandy.
Maybe you know what happened to Pig Pen, no one in town can believe it, about him and Dick Keene [following has been censored as possibly upsetting to patient], so you can never tell what people are going to do, can you?
Carol Granger’s validictory (sp?) speech was reprinted by Seventeen magazine. As I remember, it was on “Self-Integrity and a Normal Response to It, ” or some such happy horseshit. We would have had some fun ranking that one out, right, Charlie?
Oh, yeah, and Irma Bates is going out with some “hippie” from Lewiston. I guess they were even in a demonstration when Robt. Dole came to Portland to campaign in the presidential election stuff. They were arrested and then let go when Dole flew out. Mrs.
Bates must be having birds about it. Can’t you just see Irma trying to brain Robt. Dole with a Gus Hall campaign sign? Ha-ha, that just kills me. We would have had some laughs over that one, too, Charlie. God, I miss your old cracked ass sometimes.
Gracie Stanner, that cute little chick, is going to get married, and that’s also a local sensation. It boggles the mind. [Following has been censored as possibly upsetting to patient.] Anyway, you can never tell what sort of monkeyshines people are going to get up to, right?
Well, guess that’s all for now. I hope they are treating you right, Ferd, as you’ve got to be out of there as soon as they’ll let you. And if they start letting you have visitors, I want you to know that I will be the first in line.
There are a lot of us pulling for you, Charlie. Pulling hard.
People haven’t forgotten. You know what I mean.
You have to believe that.
116
With love, your friend,
(Joe McK)
Chapter 35
I haven’t had any bad dreams for two weeks, almost. I do lots of jigsaw puzzles. They give me custard and I hate it, but I eat it just the same. They think I like it. So I have a secret again. Finally I have a secret again.
My mom sent me the yearbook. I haven’t unwrapped it yet, but maybe I will. Maybe next week I will. I think I could look at all the senior pictures and not tremble a bit. Pretty soon. Just as soon as I can make myself believe that there won’t be any black streaks on their hands. That their hands will be clean. With no ink. Maybe next week I’ll be completely sure of that.
About the custard: it’s only a little secret, but having a secret makes me feel better.
Like a human being again.
That’s the end. I have to turn off the light now. Good night.
117
ROADWORK
Richard Bachman
[05 feb 2001 – scanned for #bookz, proofread and released – v1]
What happens when one good-and-angry man fights back is murder – and then some…
Prologue
I don’t know why. You don’t know why. Most likely God don’t know why, either. It’s just Government business, that’s all.
-Man-in-the-street interview concerning
Viet Nam, circa 1967
But Viet Nam was over and the country was getting on.
On this hot August afternoon in 1972, the WHLM Newsmobile was parked near Westgate at the end of the Route 784 expressway. There was a small crowd around a bunting-covered podium that had been hurriedly tossed together; the bunting was thin flesh on a skeleton of naked planks. Behind it, at the top of a grassy embankment, were the highway tollbooths. In front of it, open, marshy land stretched toward the suburban hem of the city’s outskirts.
A young reporter named Dave Albert was doing a series of man-on-the-street interviews while he and his co-workers waited for the mayor and the governor to arrive for the ground-breaking ceremony.