Doctor Sleep (The Shining, #2)(49)

“Tommy the Truck,” he said. “Went in his sleep. Cycled once, and then boom. Didn’t suffer at all. Which is f*cking rare, as you know.”

“Did Nut see him?” While he was still there to be seen, she thought but did not add. Walnut, whose rube driver’s license and various rube credit cards identified him as Peter Wallis of Little Rock, Arkansas, was the True’s sawbones.

“No, it was too quick. Heavy Mary was with him. Tommy woke her up, thrashing. She thought it was a bad dream and gave him an elbow . . . only by then there was nothing left to poke but his pajamas. It was probably a heart attack. Tommy had a bad cold. Nut thinks that might have been a contributing factor. And you know the sonofabitch always smoked like a chimney.”

“We don’t get heart attacks.” Then, reluctantly: “Of course, we usually don’t get colds, either. He was really wheezing the last few days, wasn’t he? Poor old TT.”

“Yeah, poor old TT. Nut says it’d be impossible to tell anything for sure without an autopsy.”

Which couldn’t happen. By now there would be no body left to cut up.

“How’s Mary taking it?”

“How do you think? She’s broken-f*cking-hearted. They go back to when Tommy the Truck was Tommy the Wagon. Almost ninety years. She was the one who took care of him after he Turned. Gave him his first steam when he woke up the next day. Now she says she wants to kill herself.”

Rose was rarely shocked, but this did the job. No one in the True had ever killed themselves. Life was—to coin a phrase—their only reason for living.

“Probably just talk,” Crow Daddy said. “Only . . .”

“Only what?”

“You’re right about us not usually getting colds, but there have been quite a few just lately. Mostly just sniffles that come and go. Nut says it may be malnutrition. Of course he’s just guessing.”

Rose sat in thought, tapping her fingers against her bare midriff and staring at the blank rectangle of the TV. At last she said, “Okay, I agree that nourishment’s been a bit thin lately, but we took steam in Delaware just a month ago, and Tommy was fine then. Plumped right up.”

“Yeah, but Rosie—the kid from Delaware wasn’t much. More hunchhead than steamhead.”

She’d never thought of it just that way, but it was true. Also, he’d been nineteen, according to his driver’s license. Well past whatever stunted prime he might have had around puberty. In another ten years he’d have been just another rube. Maybe even five. He hadn’t been much of a meal, point taken. But you couldn’t always have steak. Sometimes you had to settle for bean sprouts and tofu. At least they kept body and soul together until you could butcher the next cow.

Except psychic tofu and bean sprouts hadn’t kept Tommy the Truck’s body and soul together, had they?

“There used to be more steam,” Crow said.

“Don’t be daft. That’s like the rubes saying that fifty years ago people were more neighborly. It’s a myth, and I don’t want you spreading it around. People are nervous enough already.”

“You know me better than that. And I don’t think it is a myth, darlin. If you think about it, it stands to reason. Fifty years ago there was more of everything—oil, wildlife, arable land, clean air. There were even a few honest politicians.”

“Yes!” Rose cried. “Richard Nixon, remember him? Prince of the Rubes?”

But he wouldn’t go chasing up this false trail. Crow might be a bit lacking in the vision department, but he was rarely distracted. That was why he was her second. He might even have a point. Who was to say that humans capable of providing the nourishment the True needed weren’t dwindling, just like schools of tuna in the Pacific?

“You better bust open one of the canisters, Rosie.” He saw her eyes widen and raised a hand to stop her from speaking. “Nobody’s saying that out loud, but the whole family’s thinking about it.”

Rose had no doubt they were, and the idea that Tommy had died of complications resulting from malnutrition had a certain horrid plausibility. When steam was in short supply, life grew hard and lost its savor. They weren’t vampires from one of those old Hammer horror pictures, but they still needed to eat.

“And how long since we’ve had a seventh wave?” Crow asked.

He knew the answer to that, and so did she. The True Knot had limited precognitive skills, but when a truly big rube disaster was approaching—a seventh wave—they all felt it. Although the details of the attack on the World Trade Center had only begun to clarify for them in the late summer of 2001, they had known something was going to happen in New York City for months in advance. She could still remember the joy and anticipation. She supposed hungry rubes felt the same way when they smelled a particularly savory meal cooking in the kitchen.

There had been plenty for everybody that day, and in the days following. There might only have been a couple of true steamheads among those who died when the Towers fell, but when the disaster was big enough, agony and violent death had an enriching quality. Which was why the True was drawn to such sites, like insects to a bright light. Locating single rube steamheads was far more difficult, and there were only three of them now with that specialized sonar in their heads: Grampa Flick, Barry the Chink, and Rose herself.

She got up, grabbed a neatly folded boatneck top from the counter, and pulled it over her head. As always, she looked gorgeous in a way that was a bit unearthly (those high cheekbones and slightly tipped eyes) but extremely sexy. She put her hat back on and gave it a tap for good luck. “How many full canisters do you think are left, Crow?”