Gwendy’s Final Task

15

“A PLAGUE … FROM CHINA?” GWENDY stared at the skeleton of a man sitting across from her on the screened-in back porch. “How bad? Will it come here to the States?”

“Everywhere,” Farris answered. “There will be body bags stacked like cordwood outside of hospital loading docks. Funeral homes will bring in fleets of refrigerated trucks once the morgues begin to fill up.”

“What about a vaccine? Won’t we be able to—”

“Enough,” he hissed, flashing a glimpse of decaying teeth. “I told you, I don’t have much time.”

Gwendy leaned back in the wicker porch swing, cinching her robe tight across her chest. I don’t have much time. She thought once again: He’s dying.

“And I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“You, Gwendy Peterson, of all people should know that you always have a choice.” He let out a deep, wavering breath.

And that’s when Gwendy figured it out—what had been nagging at the back of her brain ever since they’d first come outside onto the porch. The temperature in Castle Rock had dropped to single digits on Thanksgiving evening; she and Ryan had heard a weather report on the radio, as they were pulling into the driveway no more than an hour ago. She was shivering and every time she opened her mouth, a fleeting misty cloud appeared in front of her face—fairy breath they used to call it when they were kids—yet when Farris spoke, there was nothing, not even a trace.

“I wouldn’t call it much of a choice,” she said, glancing at the canvas bag resting between her feet. “I’m stuck with the damn thing no matter what I say.”

“But what you choose to do with it is entirely up to you.” He coughed into his hand, and when he pulled it away, she once again noticed a fine spray of blood across his knuckles.

“You said the box was going bad, that it killed the last seven people you entrusted it with. What makes you think I’ll be any different?”

“You’ve always been different.” He held up a slender finger in front of her face. “You’ve always been special.”

“Bullshit,” she said mildly. “It’s a suicide mission and you know it.”

Farris’s cracked lips curled into a gruesome imitation of a smile, and then just as abruptly the smile disappeared. He cocked his head, staring off to the side, listening to something only he could hear.

“Who’s coming?” Gwendy asked. “Where are they from? What do they want?”

“They want the button box.” When he turned around again, it was the Richard Farris she’d first met on a bench in Castle View Park staring back at her—if only in his eyes, which were now strong and clear and focused with intensity. “And they’re very angry. Listen to me carefully.” He leaned forward, bringing with him a whiff of rotting carrion, and before Gwendy could shrink away, he reached over and took her hand in his. She shuddered, staring down at their intertwined fingers, thinking: He doesn’t feel human. He’s not human.

In a surprisingly sturdy voice, Richard Farris explained what needed to be done. From the first word to the last, it took him maybe ninety seconds. When he was finished, he released her hand and slumped back into the patio chair, the remaining color draining rapidly from his face.

Gwendy sat there motionless, staring out at the dark expanse of back yard. After awhile she looked at him and said, “What you’re asking is impossible.”

“I sincerely hope not. It’s the only place they can’t come for it. You have to try, Gwendy, before it’s too late. You’re the only one I trust.”

“But how in the—”

Sitting upright, he raised a hand to stop her from speaking. He turned his head and peered next door into the deep pool of shadows beneath a weeping willow tree.

Gwendy got to her feet and slowly walked closer to the wire screen, following his gaze. She saw and heard nothing in the frozen darkness. A few seconds later, the wood-framed screen door to the back porch banged closed behind her. She turned and looked without much surprise. The wicker chair was empty. Richard Farris had left the building. Like Elvis.