UR - By Stephen King Page 0,26
sort of power controlling all this? There is, isn’t there? When I accessed UR BOOKS for the first time, I saw a tower.”
“All things serve the Tower,” the man-thing in the yellow duster said, and touched the hideous button on its coat with a kind of reverence.
“Then how do you know I’m not serving it, too?”
They said nothing. Only stared at them with their black, predatory bird-eyes.
“I never ordered it, you know. I mean…I ordered a Kindle, that much is true, but I never ordered the one I got. It just came.”
There was a long silence, and Wesley understood that his life was spinning inside it. Life as he knew it, at least. He might continue some sort of existence if these two creatures took him away in their loathsome red car, but it would be a dark existence, probably an imprisoned existence, and he guessed he would not retain his sanity for long.
“We think it was a mistake in shipping,” the young one said finally.
“But you don’t know for sure, do you? Because you don’t know where it came from. Or who sent it.”
More silence. Then the older of the two said: “All things serve the Tower.” He stood, and held out his hand. It shimmered and became a claw. Shimmered again and became a hand. “Give it to me, Wesley of Kentucky.”
Wesley of Kentucky didn’t have to be asked twice, although his hands were trembling so badly that he fumbled with the buckles of his briefcase for what felt like hours. At last the top sprang open, and he held the pink Kindle out to the older of the two. The creature stared at it with a crazed hunger that made Wesley feel like screaming.
“I don’t think it works anymore, anyw—”
The creature snatched it. For one second Wesley felt its skin and understood the creature’s flesh had its own thoughts. Howling thoughts that ran along their own unknowable circuits. This time he did scream…or tried to. What actually came out was a low, choked groan.
“This time we’re giving you a pass,” the young one said. “But if anything like this ever happens again...” It didn’t finish. It didn’t have to.
They moved to the door, the hems of their coats making loathsome liquid chuckling sounds. The older one went out, still holding the pink Kindle in its claw-hands. The other paused for a moment to look back at Wesley. “Do you understand how lucky you are?”
“Yes,” Wesley whispered.
“Then say thank you.”
“Thank you.”
It was gone without another word.
.
He couldn’t bring himself to sit on the sofa, or in the chair that had seemed—in the days before Ellen—to be his best friend in the world. He lay down on his bed and crossed his arms over his chest in an effort to stop the shudders that were whipping through him. He left the lights on because there was no sense turning them off. He felt sure he would not sleep again for weeks. Perhaps never. He’d begin to drift off, then see those greedy black eyes and hear that voice saying Do you understand how lucky you are?
No, sleep was definitely out.
And with that, consciousness ceased.
VIII—Ellen
Wesley slept until the music-box tinkle of Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” woke him at nine o’clock the next morning. If there were dreams (of pink Kindles, women in roadhouse parking lots, or low men in yellow coats), he did not remember them. All he knew was that someone was calling his cell, and it might be someone he wanted to talk to very badly.
He ran into the living room, but the ringing ceased before he could get the phone out of his briefcase. He flipped it open and saw YOU HAVE 1 NEW MESSAGE. He accessed it.
“Hey, pal,” Don Allman’s voice said. “You better check the morning paper.”
That was all.
He no longer subscribed to the Echo, but old Mrs. Ridpath, his downstairs neighbor, did. He took the stairs two at a time, and there it was, sticking out of her mailbox. He reached for it, then hesitated. What if his deep sleep hadn’t been natural? What if he had been anesthetized somehow, so he could be booted into a different Ur, one where the crash had happened after all? What if Don had called to prepare him? Suppose he unfolded the paper and saw the black border that was the newspaper world’s version of funeral crepe?
“Please,” he whispered, unsure if it was God or that mysterious dark tower he was praying to. “Please let it still be my Ur.”
He took the paper in a numb hand and unfolded it. The border was there, boxing in the entire front page, but it was blue rather than black.
Meerkat blue.
The photo was the biggest he’d ever seen in the Echo; it took up half of the front page, under a headline reading LADY MEERKATS TAKE BLUEGRASS, AND THE FUTURE LIES AHEAD! The team was clustered on the hardwood of Rupp Arena. Three were hoisting a shiny silver trophy. Another—it was Josie—stood on a stepladder, twirling a net over her head.
Standing in front of her team, dressed in the prim blue slacks and blue blazer she invariably wore on game days, was Ellen Silverman. She was smiling and holding up a handmade sign that read I LOVE YOU WESLEY.
Wesley thrust his hands, one still holding the newspaper, over his head and let out a yell that caused a couple of kids on the other side of the street to look around.
“Wassup?” one of them called.
“Sports fan!” Wesley called back, then raced back upstairs. He had a call to make.