Night Shift

by Stephen King

“Needles has got A6,” I said. She stopped and looked at me. Her face was very still. “Don't joke, Bernie.” I lit a cigarette. “He can't! He had—” “Yes, he had A2. Hong Kong flu. Just like you and me and Corey and Kelly and Joan.” “But that would mean he isn't—” “Immune.” “Yes. Then we could get it.” “Maybe he lied when he said he had A2. So we'd take him along with us that time,” I said. Relief spilled across her face. “Sure, that's it. I would have lied if it had been me. Nobody likes to be alone, do they?” She hesitated. “Coming back to bed?” “Not just now.” She went inside. I didn't have to tell her that A2 was no guarantee against A6. She knew that. She had just blocked it out. I sat and watched the surf. It was really up. Years ago, Anson had been the only halfway decent surfing spot in the state. The Point was a dark, jutting hump against the sky. I thought I could see the upright that was the observation post, but it probably was just imagination. Sometimes Kelly took Joan up to the point. I didn't think they were up there tonight. I put my face in my hands and clutched it, feeling the skin, its grain and texture. It was all narrowing so swiftly, and it was all so mean—there was no dignity in it. The surf coming in, coming in, coming in. Limitless. Clean and deep. We had come here in the summer, Maureen and I, the summer after high school, the summer before college and reality and A6 coming out of Southeast Asia and covering the world like a pall, July, we had eaten...