The plant - By Stephen King Page 0,83
pale and shocked, the face of a man who is running entirely on instinct. "And congratulations, Gelb, you just left your dabs on that guitar pick. Better wipe em off."
I could see other stuff scattered amid the thickening greenery back down the hall: shredded bits of clothing, a few pieces of what looked like a pamphlet of some kind, paper money, coins.
"Fingerprints aren't a problem because nobody's ever going to see any of the old coot's stuff," Roger said. He took the pick from Bill, briefly examined the printing, then walked a little way down the corridor. The drifts and clumps of ivy drew back for him, just as I had known they would. Roger tossed the pick. A leaf folded over it and it was gone. Just like that.
Then, in my head, I heard Roger's voice. Zenith! As if calling a dog. Eat this crap up! Make it gone!
And for the first time I heard it speak a coherent reply. There isn't anything I can do about the coins. Or these damn things. Halfway up the wall, just beyond Herb's office door, a shiny green leaf almost the size of a dinner plate unrolled. Something bright dropped to the carpet with a clink. I walked down and picked up Iron-Guts's Army ID tags on a silver beaded chain. Feeling very weird about it - you must believe me when I say words cannot begin to tell - I slipped them into my pants pocket. Meanwhile, Bill and Herb were picking up the General's silver change. As this went on, there was a low rustling sound. The bits of clothing and shreds of paper were disappearing back into the jungle where the front corridor becomes the back one.
"And Detweiller?" Bill asked in a hushed voice. "Same deal?"
Roger's eyes met mine for a moment, questioning. Then we shook our heads, both at the same time.
"Why not?" Herb asked.
"Too dangerous," I said.
We waited for Zenith to speak again, to contradict the idea, perhaps, but there was nothing.
"Then what?" Herb asked plaintively. "What are we supposed to do with him? What are we supposed to do with his goddam briefcase? For that matter, what are we supposed to do with any little pieces of the General we come across in the back corridor? His belt-buckle, for instance?"
Before any of us could answer, a man's voice called from the reception area. "Hello? Is anyone here?"
We looked at each other in utter surprise, in that first moment too shocked for panic.
From the journals of Riddley Walker
4/5/81
When I got to the train station, I stuck my suitcase into the first unoccupied coin-op locker I came to, snatched the key with the big orange head out of the lock, and dropped it into my pocket, where it will undoubtedly stay at least until tomorrow. The worst is over - for now - but I can't even think about getting my luggage, or doing any sort of ordinary chore. Not yet. I'm too exhausted. Physically, yes, but I'll tell you what's worse: I'm morally exhausted. I think that is a result of returning to Zenith House so soon upon the heels of my nightmare falling-out with my sisters and brother. Any high moral ground I might have claimed when the train pulled out of Birmingham is all gone now, I can assure you. It's hard to feel moral after you've crossed the George Washington Bridge with a body in the back of a borrowed panel truck. Very hard indeed. And I can't get that goddamned whitebread John Denver song out of my head. "There's a fire softly burning, supper's on the stove, gee it's good to be back home again." That's one wad I'm tard of chewin', Uncle Michael might have said.
But 490 Park Avenue did feel like home. Does. In spite of all the horror and strangeness, it feels like home. Kenton knows. The others, too, but Kenton knows it best of all. I've grown to like them all (in my own admittedly involuted way), but Kenton is the one I respect. And if this situation starts to spin out of control, I believe it's Kenton that I'd go to. Although I must say this before plunging back into narrative: I'm afraid of myself now. Afraid of my capacity to do ill, and to carry on doing ill until it's too late to turn around and make amends.
In other words, the situation may already be out of control, and me with it.
Gee, it's good to be back