Stephen King - Night Surf

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NIGHT SURF

After the guy was dead and the smell of his burning flesh was off the air, we all went back down to the beach.

Corey had his radio, one of those suitcase-sized transistor jobs that take about forty batteries and also make and

play tapes. You couldn't say the sound reproduction was great, but it sure was loud. Corey had been well-to-do

before A6, but stuff like that didn't matter any more. Even his big radio/tape-player was hardly more than a nice-

looking hunk of junk. There were only two radio stations left on the air that we could get. One was WKDM in

Portsmouth -some backwoods deejay who had gone nutty-religious. He'd play a Perry Como record, say a prayer,

bawl, play a Johnny Ray record, read from Psalms (complete with each selah', just like James Dean in East of

Eden), then bawl some more. Happy-time stuff like that. One day he sang Bringing in the Sheaves' in a cracked,

mouldy voice that sent Needles and me into hysterics.

The Massachusetts station was better, but we could only get it at night. It was a bunch of kids. I guess they took

over the transmitting facilities of WRKO or WBZ after every-body left or died. They only gave gag call letters,

like WDOPE or KUNT or WA6 or stuff like that. Really funny, you know - you could die laughing. That was the

one we were listening to on the way back to the beach. I was holding hands with Susie; Kelly and Joan were

ahead of us, and Needles was already over the brow of the point and out of sight. Corey was bringing up the rear,

swinging his radio. The Stones were singing 'Angie'.

'Do you love me?' Susie was asking. 'That's all I want to know, do you love me?' Susie needed constant

reassurance. I was her teddy bear.

'No,' I said. She was getting fat, and if she lived long enough, which wasn't likely, she would get really flabby.

She was already mouthy.

'You're rotten,' she said, and put a hand to her face. Her lacquered fingernails twinkled dimly with the half-moon

that had risen about an hour ago.

'Are you going to cry again?'

'Shut up!' She sounded like she was going to cry again, all right.

We came over the ridge and I paused. I always have to pause. Before A6, this had been a public beach. Tourists,

picnickers, runny-nosed kids and fat baggy grandmothers with sunburned elbows. Candy wrappers and popsicle

sticks in the sand, all the beautiful people necking on their beach blankets, intermingled stench of exhaust from

the parking lot, seaweed, and Coppertone oil.

But now all the dirt and all the crap was gone. The ocean had eaten it, all of it, as casually as you might eat a

handful of Cracker Jacks. There were no people to come back and dirty it again. Just us, and we weren't enough

to make much mess. We loved the beach too, I guess - hadn't we just offered it a kind of sacrifice? Even Susie,

little bitch Susie with her fat ass and her cranberry bellbottoms.

The sand was white and duned, marked only by the high-tide line - twisted skein of seaweed, kelp, hunks of

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Stephen King - Night Surf

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