Doctor Sleep: A Novel

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?”
    He shrugged. “A dozen? Fifteen?”
    “In that neighborhood,” she agreed. Better that none of them knew the truth, not even her second. The last thing she needed was for the current unease to become outright panic. When people panicked, they ran in all directions. If that happened, the True might disintegrate.
    Meanwhile, Crow was looking at her, and closely. Before he could see too much, she said, “Can you four-wall this place tonight?”
    “You kidding? With the price of gas and diesel what it is, the guy who owns it can’t fill half his spots, even on weekends. He’ll jump at the chance.”
    “Then do it. We’re going to take canister steam. Spread the word.”
    “You’ve got it.” He kissed her, caressing one of her breasts as he did so. “This is my favorite top.”
    She laughed and pushed him away. “Any top with tits in it is your favorite top. Go on.”
    But he lingered, a grin tipping one corner of his mouth. “Is Rattlesnake Girl still sniffin around your door, beautiful?”
    She reached down and briefly squeezed him below the belt. “Oh my gosh. Is that your jealous bone I’m feeling?”
    “Say it is.”
    She doubted it, but was flattered, anyway. “She’s with Sarey now, and the two of them are perfectly happy. But since we’re on the subject of Andi, she can help us. You know how. Spread the word but speak to her first.”
    After he left, she locked the EarthCruiser, went to the cockpit, and dropped to her knees. She worked her fingers into the carpet between the driver’s seat and the control pedals. A strip of it came up. Beneath was a square of metal with an embedded keypad. Rose ran the numbers, and the safe popped open an inch or two. She lifted the door the rest of the way and looked inside.
    Fifteen or a dozen full canisters left. That had been Crow’s guess, and although she couldn’t read members of the True the way she could read the rubes, Rose was sure he had been purposely lowballing to cheer her up.
    If he only knew, she thought.
    The safe was lined with Styrofoam to protect the canisters in case of a road accident, and there were forty built-in cradles. On this fine May morning in Kentucky, thirty-seven of the canisters in those cradles were empty.
    Rose took one of the remaining full ones and held it up. It was light; if you hefted it, you would have guessed it too was empty. She took the cap off, inspected the valve beneath to make sure the seal was still intact, then reclosed the safe and put the canister carefully—almost reverently—on the counter where her top had been folded.
    After tonight there would only be two.
    They had to find some big steam and refill at least a few of those empty canisters, and they had to do it soon. The True’s back wasn’t to the wall, not quite yet, but it was only inches away.
    3
    The Kozy Kampground owner and his wife had their own trailer, a permanent job set up on painted concrete blocks. April showers had brought lots of May flowers, and Mr. and Mrs. Kozy’s front yard was full of them. Andrea Steiner paused a moment to admire the tulips and pansies before mounting the three steps to the door of the big Redman trailer, where she knocked.
    Mr. Kozy opened up eventually. He was a small man with a big belly currently encased in a bright red strappy undershirt. In one hand he held a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. In the other was a mustard-smeared brat wrapped in a slice of spongy white bread. Because his wife was currently in the other room, he paused for a moment to do a visual inventory of the young woman before him, ponytail to sneakers.