The Reality Conspiracy (67 page)

And no one, no one at all, could offer any insight into what had happened Saturday morning during that Bible school class at Hobston's Baptist Church. Why would this dedicated, kindly old woman, a devoted Christian and a teacher all her life, suddenly turn violent and attack the students with her cane? And, more to the point, why had she then attacked herself in such a grotesque manner?

There was nothing right about any of this. None of it made a goddamn bit of sense.

And the kids—all but the little Finny boy who'd run away—told the same story. Exactly the same story. Just as if, the state police officer had said, they were reading from a script.

Only Miss Damon knew for sure. And she wasn't talking. Maybe, for some reason, she couldn't talk.

Dr. Sparker himself had tried to question her. Gently. More than once. So had the police, Reverend Schubart, and some of the nurses who'd grown up in Hobston. Nothing.

Desperate with concern and frustration, Dr. Sparker had even called in a psychiatrist. All he could say was, "She doesn't seem to recall the events. And I can't keep her focused long enough to pursue the topic with her."

Great. Thanks a lot.

Last Friday, Miss Damon had been well-loved by the entire community, Now, Dr. Sparker knew, some of the Hobston townspeople were asking for revenge. They wanted Miss Damon punished. The old woman who had taught their kids—and many of the parents as well—was suddenly . . . he had to say it . . . almost a candidate for a lynching. What had happened to all their love, tolerance, and Christian forgiveness? It was a question Dr. Sparker had asked himself many times over the years, about many things.

But now the real issue was clear: what was Dr. Sparker going to do with Miss Beth Damon?

She wasn't strong enough, or—he had to admit it—lucid enough to be released to her own care. Even the Visiting Nurse Association could not provide the round-the-clock supervision that the old woman was sure to require, probably for the rest of her life.

Dr. Sparker looked at the chart again. In the space beside "Next of kin?" there was a blank. The poor old woman had remained unmarried all her life. No husband. No children. No family left at all. Now there was no one to take care of her but the state itself. And Dr. Sparker knew from experience that the state wouldn't offer to pay her hospital bill while he tried to find a living situation for her.

And if he discharged her, chances were she'd be taken into custody until the Bible school incident could be fully investigated and resolved. A rest home, jail, or a mental health facility. All the options seemed equally bleak.

Dr. Sparker closed his eyes and braced himself for a difficult conversation. Perhaps this one would be more difficult than last night's consultation with Jake Townshend and his wife Betty. "I hate to have to tell you this, Jake, but that cancer you got, it's gonna kill you."

Dr. Sparker opened his eyes and peeked around the door. If she was awake, he would have to talk to her about leaving the hospital.

On tiptoes, in the half-light of the hospital room, he approached the bed. Her eyes were partly open, only the whites showed between wrinkled parchment lids.

"Miss Damon?" he whispered.

(3.)

This next episode followed a few chapters after the Sunday School Freakout. It was intended to show that the young escapee, Jerry Finny, may have not escaped at all— there could be worse things waiting. The Warner editor said, "Do we really need that?" I guess we didn't. I always kind of liked it, so here it is anyway.

Hobston, Vermont

Friday, July 1

J
erry Finny didn't sleep much anymore. He didn't dare to.

Ever since he'd seen that weird floating stick attack the kids at Bible school, he'd grown more and more afraid to abandon himself to unconsciousness. Who could guess what might happen when his defenses were down, when he wasn't prepared?

Of course, his parents didn't believe the story about the stick. Nobody did. And that was all right by him. Maybe if the Deathdemon had survived, people might have believed her. She was an adult, after all. But she had died in the hospital. And now everybody thought of her as just some crazy old lady.

Jerry looked at his watch. It was after midnight and he wasn't even sleepy.

Luckily, Jerry's parents didn't give him too much guff about staying up late. And he knew better than to tell them he didn't sleep at all. In the fall, when school started again, they'd probably make him go to bed earlier, but for now it was okay if he wanted to sit up to watch reruns after they went to bed, or even to stay up till one o'clock for Letterman. They didn't care at all, as long as he kept the volume low and didn't slam the bathroom door when he had to go upstairs to pee.

Sometimes, when he got real tired, fighting sleep became major warfare. When that happened, he'd have to take a nap during the day. That was probably safe; his mother was always nearby and alert, she could keep an eye on him. Besides, it made him feel good to hear her whistling in the kitchen, or running the vacuum, or pottering around outside in her flower beds or vegetable garden. That kind of noise didn't bother him at all.

Jerry curled up tighter in Dad's big soft chair.
Monty Python
was on PBS. Even though he knew the stuff was funny, he wasn't laughing—that would be dropping his guard too much.

Too bad his family didn't live right in town. If they did, they could get hooked up to the cable system and Jerry could watch decent TV shows all night long. The only reception they got out here in the boonies was from a crappy old antenna strapped to the chimney on top of the house. And every station they could pick up stopped broadcasting around two o'clock.

Then, night after night, there was the big problem of what to do till morning. . . .

Every day, Jerry tried to remember to record afternoon programs on the VCR. It didn't really matter what they were, just so he'd have something to watch until sunup. The only thing he hated with a passion was soap operas. Those would put him right to sleep in about two seconds. Game shows were okay. So was some of the nature stuff. And he had watched the Roger Rabbit tape Uncle Mike had given him for Christmas at least fifty times. Now, he could say most of the dialog by heart. Maybe he could go on one of the game shows as an expert on Roger Rabbit. . . .

When the PBS sign-off began, Jerry decided to get himself a can of Coke. He knew there was stuff in it that would keep him awake.

Barefoot, he pattered out into the dark kitchen, crossing the gritty linoleum toward the refrigerator.

Before opening the refrigerator door, he noticed the light outside.

Puzzled, he looked through the window over the kitchen sink. In the backyard, he saw that the outside light was on.

Funny.

Jerry knew the light came on automatically when it sensed motion and heat. In fact, Jerry thought the light was pretty cool: at night he could just step out the back door and it would turn on as if by magic.

But it shouldn't be on now.

Dad had adjusted it so it wouldn't pick up the heat of small animals like rabbits and raccoons. Dogs wouldn't even turn it on. It had to be something big. It was designed to startle prowlers or to light Dad's way between the house and garage when he had to go out at night.

But it shouldn't be on now.

Jerry hoisted himself up on to the kitchen counter so he could get his face closer to the window. Now he could see more of the backyard. Maybe a deer had wandered into—

What was that?

Something was standing next to the garage, right near the garbage cans. It looked like a man dressed in—

What
was
that?

It was too tall to be a man. Too broad at the shoulders. And why would a man be wearing a heavy fur coat in the middle of summer?

No. It wasn't a man at all. It was some kind of....

Creature.

A bear?

It was about eight feet tall, and covered head to foot with long reddish-brown hair. And it was doing something there by the garage.

It had removed the shiny cover from one of the aluminum garbage cans and was carefully opening the big plastic bag inside!

Now Jerry knew exactly what it was. He'd read about them, he'd seen pictures.

It was a big hairy monster. A Bigfoot!

And it was rummaging through their trash, probably looking for something to eat.

He didn't know what to do. Fear and fascination competed to provoke some kind of action. At first Jerry thought he should yell for his father. Or maybe he should run for his camera and try to get a picture of the thing.

But before he could make a decision, the thing looked up from what it was doing.

It looked directly at Jerry.

Their eyes met.

Locked together.

And Jerry saw that the creature's eyes glowed a brilliant ruby-red.

I won't call Dad
, Jerry thought.
I won't call anyone. I promise. I won't tell at all. Not now. Not ever
.

Still, Jerry couldn't pull his eyes from the creature's.
No one would believe me, anyway,
Jerry thought.

With that, the thing placed the cover on the garbage can, turned, and with a long loping stride, ran off into the forest behind the house.

(4.)

These next few sections were positioned here and there during the climax of the book. I wanted to give the apocalyptic events authenticity by having them covered by a professional newsperson. Trouble was, introducing her so late in the novel seemed to rob the established characters of the tension they deserved. And the editor wasn't as fond of Tabitha as I was. At this point, many years later, I've gotten over her.

Burlington

T
he electronic trill of the bedside telephone woke Tabitha Thornton from a sexy dream. She squinted at the clock but it was too dark to see the time. It was black outside, dead black. It was probably the middle of the night.

Her first thought, of course, was that Dad had had another heart attack. But after her initial alarm, she knew it was more likely someone calling from the station. It was rare that they'd wake her at night to cover a story, but when they did, it was usually something pretty big. Big, at least, by Burlington, Vermont, standards. Last time they'd called it was about an assassination attempt on the mayor by a militant anti-abortionist. She was happy about that one; the story had been picked up by the network. A couple more like that, Tabitha thought, and she could exit Vermont for a better job in a bigger city. Maybe even a network position. Or CNN.

She pulled the phone to her ear. "Tabitha Thornton." She always answered as if it were a business call, a habit firmly implanted by hundreds of calls during her work week.

"Hi Tab, it's Larry."

Oh shit
, she thought. Larry was the creepy meteorologist who'd been bugging her ever since she'd moved up from Albany to take this job. Vermont born and bred, he apparently thought it was important to score with this "city woman," as he repeatedly referred to her. It wasn't the fact that he'd grown up in a small town that bothered her, it was that he was a creep, and a lecherous one at that. Right now he was probably drunk and feeling blue.

"Jesus Christ, Larry, it's the middle of the fucking night." She knew he liked it when she talked that way, but this time she hadn't been able to stop.

"Hey Tab, it's strictly business, okay?"

Business? Why would the weatherman be calling her in the middle of the night on business? "You better make this good, dude. I gotta be at the studio by six, you know. I don't appreciate losing sleep—"

"It's good Tabby, it's good."

She hated it when he called her Tabby. She hated it when anyone called her Tabby.

"So get to the frigging point then."

"I've been getting all kinds of calls from people in Hobston. Something's going on there. Some sorta freak weather or something. They say the sky is full of fireballs or meteors or something like that. Might be a good story with some awesome visuals."

"So why don't you cover it?"

"Hey, I'm weather. You're news."

"You're a pal, Larry."

You're also a lazy son-of-a-bitch
.

"No, really, some woman who called me said she thought the Russians had attacked. No shit. Just like in that movie—what was it?—
The Day After
. I figured you could get some shots of shooting stars, talk to some of the townsfolks, you know. She said it was a regular meteor shower."

The Day After
, eh? That was an angle, all right. Might be worth a look after all. "Okay, Larry, one way or another, I owe you one."

She hung up without giving him a chance to reply.

With a groan she rolled naked from the bed and pulled on a pair of jeans and a light sweater. Then she dug her feet into her Nikes and laced them quickly.

A flick of the brush through her short spiky hair, a quick rinse with Listerine, and she was out the door of her condo and dashing across the sidewalk toward her Honda. The videotape equipment, in spite of repeated lectures from the news director, was locked in the back seat.