The Stand - The Complete & Uncut Edition
Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
[ First lines ]
“Where we going, Daddy?” Baby LaVon asked. “I was aseepin.”
“Baby can be aseepin in the car,” Charlie said, grabbing the two suitcases. The hem of Sally’s slip flapped. His eyes still had that white, starey look. An idea, a growing certainty, began to dawn in Sally’s mind.
“Was there an accident?” she whispered. “Oh Jesus Mary and Joseph, there was, wasn’t there? An accident. Out there.”
“I was playing solitaire,” he said. “I looked up and saw the clock had gone from green to red. I turned on the monitor. Sally, they’re all—”
He paused, looked at Baby LaVon’s eyes, wide and, although still rimmed with tears, curious.
“They’re all D-E-A-D down there,” he said. “All but one or two, and they’re probably gone now.”
“What’s D-E-D, Daddy?” Baby LaVon asked.
“Never mind, honey,” Sally said. Her voice seemed to come to her from down a very long canyon.
Charlie swallowed. Something clicked in his throat. “Everything’s supposed to mag-lock if the clock goes red. They got a Chubb computer that runs the whole place and it’s supposed to be fail-safe. I saw what was on the monitor, and I jumped out the door. I thought the goddam thing would cut me in half. It should have shut the second the clock went red, and I don’t know how long it was red before I looked up and noticed it. But I was almost to the parking lot before I heard it thump shut behind me. Still, if I’d looked up even thirty seconds later, I’d be shut up in that tower control room right now, like a bug in a bottle.”
“What is it? What—”
“I dunno. I don’t want to know. All I know is that it ki—that it K-I-L-L-E-D them quick. If they want me, they’ll have to catch me. I was gettin hazard pay, but they ain’t payin me enough to hang around here. Wind’s blowing west. We’re driving east. Come on, now.”
Still feeling half-asleep, caught in some awful grinding dream, she followed him out to the driveway where their fifteen-year-old Chevy stood, quietly rusting in the fragrant desert darkness of the California night.
Charlie dumped the suitcases in the trunk and the tote-bag in the back seat. Sally stood for a moment by the passenger door with the baby in her arms, looking at the bungalow where they had spent the last four years. When they had moved in, she reflected, Baby LaVon was still growing inside her body, all her horsey-rides ahead of her.
“Come on!” he said. “Get in, woman!”
She did. He backed out, the Chevy’s headlights momentarily splashing across the house. Their reflection in the windows looked like the eyes of some hunted beast.
He was hunched tensely over the steering wheel, his face drawn in the dim glow of the dashboard instruments. “If the base gates are closed, I’m gonna try to crash through.” And he meant it. She could tell. Suddenly her knees felt watery.
But there was no need for such desperate measures. The base gates were standing open. One guard was nodding over a magazine. She couldn’t see the other; perhaps he was in the head. This was the outer part of the base, a conventional army vehicle depot. What went on at the hub of the base was of no concern to these fellows.
I looked up and saw the clock had gone red.
She shivered and put her hand on his leg. Baby LaVon was sleeping again. Charlie patted her hand briefly and said: “It’s going to be all right, hon.”
By dawn they were running east across Nevada and Charlie was coughing steadily.
http://hvom.blogspot.com/2018/09/star-trek.html
Posted by Kerry Burgess at 6:20 PM
Homeless Veteran Of Microsoft
I am Kerry Burgess. This is what I think.
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 2018
from my journal as Kerry Burgess
Sep 22, 2017 12:18am
Well, great. Looks like my big screen television just fried itself.
I had smelled a strong burning smell earlier after I started on the exercise bike but thought maybe it was from outside. Or from the baseboard heaters I had turned on for a short while earlier during the day and that didn't get help from the compressed air I used on them. I looked up the manual for my stationary bike to see if it needed maintenance periodically. Doesn't.
Then the picture went out and I could hear some popping and crackling from the back of the television so I unplugged it. Don't smell anything from it though.
That's really going to make the stationary bike even more excrutiating.
There's my hypothesis that some sort of technology unknown to the human race is capable of altering matter. So that makes me wonder if there is a specific reason my television fried itself out just a few minutes after midnight on this new day on the calendar.
http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Arthur_C._Clarke
Wikiquote
Arthur C. Clarke
Sir Arthur Charles Clarke
Clarke's Third Law: Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.
from my journal as Kerry Burgess
Aug 17, 2018 11:36pm
Reading again about "Stargate" reminds me of the many sleeping dreams I had last night.
I wasn't going to write about it but now have decided to.
After a full day, much of it is still vivid imagery in my conscious mind.
Can't describe it as well as I want to.
The first part I remember is that I was driving an automobile. White sedan, possibly old car. There were at least two women in the car, don't know who they were, wasn't explained in the dream. Might have been at least one other person but not sure.
The scenery had me driving at night up to a gas station.
Something seems to have been wrong with the world.
We might have been only a few people who now existed in the entire world.
But some other people seemed to be around still.
Driving into the gas station, convenience store, hotel, whatever it all was, I saw four men standing nearby.
They seemed to be part of a violence gang, somehow I knew in the dream, for one reason because of their similar clothing.
One of them walked up the car, where I seemed to be crouching in the back while operating the fuel nozzle, and that guy was tapping on the window glass with his handgun.
I pulled out the gas nozzle just then as one of the women moved over the seat and drove off in the car. I was still standing there at the pump.
Those gang members didn't seem to see me.
I walked over and knocked one of them to the ground and I was bashing his head to a bloody pulp on the pavement.
There was something important about the car but I cannot now recall.
The first thug I attacked seemed to be dead and the second one noticed me and he, as well as the now dead thug, had a bolt action rifle. I picked up the dead thug's rifle, chambered a round, thumbed off the safety and shot the second thug.
The two other thugs were occupied with one of more other people a few feet away by the gas pumps.
I went to attack and I was vaguely aware in the dream if one of the bolt-action rifle thugs had just shot me in the back but wasn't certain.
The rest of that part is too vague now to recall other than I think I killed the other two.
Then I walked up to the building that was part of the gas station. That was definitely a hotel. I walked up and glanced at a door to a hotel room and I have some vague sense I was staying there somewhere in the building.
But what I was most interested in was in getting some food.
That was when I was struck with a profound sense of aloneness. I was completely alone in the world. I felt something like a twinge of regret because I knew there was not any cooks in the restaurant to prepare a meal for me.
30 years ago I was naive enough to enjoy the escapism of such fantasy. Being an old man now, the idea of trying to survive in a world where no one else exists doesn't seem so appealing. For one reason, the windows. Walking around outside the empty windows of all the structures hold the promise of civilization. The people lurking behind those windows is what keeps wild animals away. We are a pacified society and the vast majority of people are not going to experience any serious crime directed at them personally. All because of the masses of polluters that pave over every possible inch of land they can. The vast majority of people will never experience serious crime but there are so many people who whine about it.
The next sequence of sleeping dreams I recall was that there was some sort of large vehicle traveling fast along a wide four-lane highway, could have been interstate I-90 I am thinking now as I write this sentence but its location was never part of the scene. I am following behind it. Seemed to be riding a horse, as are other people, but there is no motion I can recall one would experience from traveling very fast on a horse. Must have been a motorcycle but no details are revealed in the scenery. The vehicle I was chasing must have been something similar to a bus or a large RV.
Across the wide median and traveling in the opposite direction were other people traveling on whatever type of vehicle I was riding on.
They were shooting arrows at the bus-type vehicle.
They fired dozens of those arrows, or spears, as they had shafts that seemed to be about three feet long, and dozens of projectiles and they missed every time and we raced along the road and I could see the bus ahead of me at a distance.
Except the arrow-spear they shot at me.
That one hit me on the right-hand side, even though they had been on my left-hand side, and I could look down and see the arrow had pierced my side from behind and had been fired about a 45-degree angle from behind me on my right-side.
The arrow barely pierced my skin but it was solidly embedded several inches under my arm onto my side.
I thought about pulling it out but did not.
That was when I encountered another group.
Possibly the same group that had been attacking the bus but I'm not sure.
I am left with the sense that I was not associated with the people in the bus, who seemed to be long gone by now, and I seemed to be there simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The group was large and they looked primitive. After waking up I began to think of their appearance as similar to "Klingons" from the year 1989, specifically "Star Trek 5: The Final Frontier".
They did seem to be riding horses.
What I was riding was never clear.
They were speaking to me in a language I couldn't understand.
Then one did begin speaking in language I understood.
This part has faded from my mind but I am certain he asked me if I am human.
I said, "Yes, I am human."
There was some dialog by one of them about another person and something about how he had a "tomb" inside him.
From that group, a middle-age woman began to approach me, this seemed to happen before we began understanding our speech. Her right arm was bent upwards towards and level with her face she was holding was seemed to be a knife.
She seemed nervous and she was approaching me slowly and I had some doubts whether she was their healer coming over to cut out the spear from my side or whether that was how she was going to trick me into getting close enough to cut my throat.
The next parts are now very vague. I think that another person showed up and "Klingons" fled from his appearance.
There was something familiar about his appearance that I thought over several times.
Then we seemed to be inside a large concrete structure. The floor was dirt, the illumination seemed to from fires burning on the ground.
There was some dialog perhaps between that I have forgotten now. The key parts was that I stated that he must not be human, that he is a machine, even though he appeared human. That was what those other people meant by "tomb inside", he was not human.
There might have been more but I cannot now recall. There were other interesting sleeping dreams but those are all I can now recall. My sleeping dreams, pointless to explain to the masses of dullards out there, often have compelling implications to the real world.
https://www.krem.com/article/news/local/kootenai-county/officials-euthanize-cougar-removed-from-tree-in-coeur-dalene/293-597661657
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https://goo.gl/maps/1ha6HUG7j4T2
The Stand - The Complete & Uncut Edition
Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
Chapter 1
Some of the silence in him came from the fact that he had never had friends, or the time for them. There was school, and there was work. His youngest brother, Dev, had died of pneumonia the year he began at the yards, and Stu had never quite gotten over that. Guilt, he supposed. He had loved Dev the best… but his passing had also meant there was one less mouth to feed.
In high school he had found football, and that was something his mother had encouraged even though it cut into his work hours. “You play,” she said. “If you got a ticket out of here, it’s football, Stuart. You play. Remember Eddie Warfield.” Eddie Warfield was a local hero. He had come from a family even poorer than Stu’s own, had covered himself with glory as quarterback of the regional high school team, had gone on to Texas A&M with an athletic scholarship, and had played for ten years with the Green Bay Packers, mostly as a second-string quarterback but on several memorable occasions as the starter. Eddie now owned a string of fast-food restaurants across the West and Southwest, and in Arnette he was an enduring figure of myth. In Arnette, when you said “success,” you meant Eddie Warfield.
Stu was no quarterback, and he was no Eddie Warfield. But it did seem to him as he began his junior year in high school that there was at least a fighting chance for him to get a small athletic scholarship… and then there were work-study programs, and the school’s guidance counselor had told him about the NDEA loan program.
Then his mother had gotten sick, had become unable to work. It was cancer. Two months before he graduated from high school, she had died, leaving Stu with his brother Bryce to support. Stu had turned down the athletic scholarship and had gone to work in the calculator factory. And finally it was Bryce, three years’ Stu’s junior, who had made it out. He was now in Minnesota, a systems analyst for IBM. He didn’t write often, and the last time he had seen Bryce was at the funeral, after Stu’s wife had died—died of exactly the same sort of cancer that had killed his mother. He thought that Bryce might have his own guilt to carry… and that Bryce might be a little ashamed of the fact that his brother had turned into just another good old boy in a dying Texas town, spending his days doing time in the calculator plant, and his nights either down at Hap’s or over at the Indian Head drinking Lone Star beer.
The marriage had been the best time, and it had only lasted eighteen months. The womb of his young wife had borne a single dark and malignant child. That had been four years ago. Since, he had thought of leaving Arnette, searching for something better, but small-town inertia held him—the low siren song of familiar places
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http://www.tv.com/shows/the-twilight-zone/two-12650/trivia/
tv.com
The Twilight Zone Season 3 Episode 1
Two
Aired Sep 15, 1961 on CBS
QUOTES
(Opening Narration)
Narrator: This is a jungle, a monument built by nature honoring disuse, commemorating a few years of nature being left to its own devices. But it's another kind of jungle, the kind that comes in the aftermath of man's battles against himself. Hardly an important battle, not a Gettysburg or a Marne or an Iwo Jima. More like one insignificant corner patch in the crazy quilt of combat. But it was enough to end the existence of this little city. It's been five years since a human being walked these streets. This is the first day of the sixth year, as man used to measure time. The time? Perhaps a hundred years from now. Or sooner. Or perhaps it's already happened two million years ago. The place? The signposts are in English so that we may read them more easily, but the place is the Twilight Zone.
From 9/15/1961 ( premiere US TV series episode "The Twilight Zone"::"Two" ) To 9/24/2018 is 20828 days
20828 = 10414 + 10414
From 11/2/1965 ( my birth date in Antlers Oklahoma USA and my birthdate as the known official United States Marshal Kerry Wayne Burgess and active duty United States Marine Corps officer ) To 5/8/1994 ( premiere US TV miniseries "Stephen King's The Stand"::miniseries premiere episode "The Plague" ) is 10414 days
[ Other posts by me on this topic]
https://www.cdapress.com/local_news/20180925/big_cat_caught_in_city_center
Coeur d'Alene / Post Falls Press
BIG CAT CAUGHT IN CITY CENTER
September 25, 2018 at 5:00 am
By RALPH BARTHOLDT
Staff Writer
COEUR d’ALENE — A male cougar was seen Monday walking across a parking lot not far from an Ironwood Drive day care center, before it leapt up a tree where Coeur d’Alene authorities found and removed it.
The urban mountain lion that Coeur d’Alene police, Idaho Department of Fish and Game biologists and the fire department helped to dart, drug, and drop from a ponderosa pine tree around 1:30 p.m. on the 1100 block of Ironwood Drive may have been the same cat observed last month at Tubbs Hill, said IDFG biologist Jim Hayden.
“It could easily be the same cat, or it may not be,” Hayden said. “We just don’t know.”
Cougars have been known to cover more than 70 miles in a night, and their stealth often allows them to go unnoticed.
“They move around so easily, even in town,” Hayden said.
Hayden said the 2-year-old male caught Monday will be euthanized instead of freed into the wild.
Cats often return to places where they have been captured, Hayden said. And returning young mountain lions to the wild isn’t a cure-all because young cats dropped into unfamiliar territory are often attacked and killed by mature, territorial males.
“It’s a human safety issue,” Hayden said. “The safety of humans takes precedence.”
An expanding mountain lion population across the West has resulted in frequent sightings of cougars looking for new territory, or expanding their range. In Idaho, authorities in Pocatello and Boise have their share of cat calls, Hayden said, although mountain lion sightings in greater Coeur d’Alene are not as frequent.
“It might not be usual for Coeur d’Alene, but it’s not unusual across the West,” Hayden said.
Monday’s cat was observed earlier in the day near Ramsey Road, before employees at Qualfon saw it cross their parking lot, which is separated by a strip of trees from the Little Folks child care center.
Caylin Lopes, who works at Qualfon, left for a break in the morning but couldn’t return to work because the streets were blocked. Authorities would not allow her back to the call center where the cat was perched in the tree outside her office window.
She sat on her car hood across the street and watched the cat catching unfold.
“I watched it from the beginning,” Lopes said.
Fish and Game officers darted the animal twice, she said, and police officers attempted to knock the cat out of the tree with a bean bag.
“We were trying to give it a jolt,” Hayden said, “Enough to lose its balance.”
Instead, the drugged big cat flopped asleep on a limb.
Larry Vulles, of Post Falls, watched the incident from the same parking lot on the south side of Ironwood Drive. He came for business, but couldn’t get back on the road after the streets were blocked.
“I got a few pictures,” Vulles said.
Firefighters and game biologists in the bucket of a department ladder truck reached the drugged lion and pulled it from the limb. It fell through the branches to the ground where it was loaded into a crate.
“It’s pretty unusual to have a cat so deep in Coeur d’Alene,” Vulles said.
Lopes said she wasn’t afraid of the cougar. She feared more for its well-being.
“My fear was for the cat,” she said.
IDFG is concerned by previous fatal cougar attacks this year in Washington, where a cyclist was killed in May, and most recently in Oregon this month when a cougar claimed the life of a Gresham woman near Mount Hood.
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The Stand - The Complete & Uncut Edition
Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
Chapter 4
It was an hour past nightfall.
Starkey sat alone at a long table, sifting through sheets of yellow flimsy. Their contents dismayed him. He had been serving his country for thirty-six years, beginning as a scared West Point plebe. He had won medals. He had spoken with Presidents, had offered them advice, and on occasion his advice had been taken. He had been through dark moments before, plenty of them, but this…
He was scared, so deeply scared he hardly dared admit it to himself. It was the kind of fear that could drive you mad.
On impulse he got up and went to the wall where the five blank TV monitors looked into the room. As he got up, his knee bumped the table, causing one of the sheets of flimsy to fall off the edge. It seesawed lazily down through the mechanically purified air and landed on the tile, half in the table’s shadow and half out. Someone standing over it and looking down would have seen this:
OT CONFIRMED
SEEMS REASONABLY
STRAIN CODED 848-AB
CAMPION, (W.) SALLY
ANTIGEN SHIFT AND MUTATION.
HIGH RISK/EXCESS MORTALITY
AND COMMUNICABILITY ESTIMATED
REPEAT 99.4%. ATLANTA PLAGUE CENTER
UNDERSTANDS. TOP SECRET BLUE FOLDER.
ENDS
P-T-222312A
Starkey pushed a button under the middle screen and the picture flashed on with the unnerving suddenness of solid state components. It showed the western California desert, looking east. It was desolate, and the desolation was rendered eerie by the reddish-purple tinge of infrared photography.
It’s out there, straight ahead, Starkey thought. Project Blue.
The fright tried to wash over him again. He reached into his pocket and brought out a blue pill. What his daughter would call a “downer.” Names didn’t matter; results did. He dry-swallowed it, his hard, unseamed face wrinkling for a moment as it went down.
Project Blue.
He looked at the other blank monitors, and then punched up pictures on all of them. 4 and 5 showed labs. 4 was physics, 5 was viral biology. The vi-bi lab was full of animal cages, mostly for guinea pigs, rhesus monkeys, and a few dogs. None of them appeared to be sleeping. In the physics lab a small centrifuge was still turning around and around. Starkey had complained about that. He had complained bitterly. There was something spooky about that centrifuge whirling gaily around and around and around while Dr. Ezwick lay dead on the floor nearby, sprawled out like a scarecrow that had tipped over in a high wind.
They had explained to him that the centrifuge was on the same circuit as the lights, and if they turned off the centrifuge, the lights would go, too. And the cameras down there were not equipped for infrared. Starkey understood. Some more brass might come down from Washington and want to look at the dead Nobel Prize winner who was lying four hundred feet under the desert less than a mile away. If we turn off the centrifuge, we turn off the professor. Elementary. What his daughter would have called a “Catch-22.”
He took another “downer” and looked into monitor 2. This was the one he liked least of all. He didn’t like the man with his face in the soup. Suppose someone walked up to you and said: You will spend eternity with your phiz in a bowl of soup. It’s like the old pie-in-the-face routine: it stops being funny when it starts being you.
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http://hvom.blogspot.com/2017/12/excursion-stargate.html
Posted by Kerry Burgess
MONDAY, DECEMBER 25, 2017
Excursion: Stargate
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The Stand - The Complete & Uncut Edition
Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
Chapter 25
Nick left the house and stood on the sidewalk, wondering what to do next. If he could drive, he might be able to do something. But…
He saw a child’s bicycle lying on the lawn of a house across the street. He went to it, looked at the house it belonged to with its drawn shades (so much like the houses in his confused dreams), then went and knocked on the door. There was no answer, although he knocked several times.
He went back to the bike. It was small, but not too small for him to ride, if he didn’t mind his knees whamming the handlebars. He would look ludicrous, of course, but he was not at all sure there was anyone left in Shoyo to see… and if there was, he didn’t think many of them would be in a laughing frame of mind.
He got on the bike and pedaled clumsily up Main Street, past the jail, then east on Route 63, toward where Joe Rackman had seen the soldiers masquerading as a road crew. If they were still there, and if they really were soldiers, Nick would get them to take care of Billy Warner and Mike Childress. If Billy was still alive, that was. If those men had quarantined Shoyo, then surely the sick of Shoyo were their responsibility.
It took him an hour to pedal out to the roadwork, the bike weaving crazily back and forth across the center line, his knees thumping the handlebars with monotonous regularity. But when he got there the soldiers, or road crew, or whatever they had been, were gone. There were a few smudgepots, one of them still flickering. There were two orange sawhorses. And the road had been torn up, although Nick judged it would still be passable, if you weren’t too choosy about the springs of your car.
Black flickering movement caught the tail of his eye, and at the same instant the wind stirred around a little, just a soft summer breath, but enough to bring a ripe and sickening odor of corruption to his nostrils. The black movement was a cloud of flies, constantly forming and re-forming itself. He walked the bike over to the ditch at the far side of the road. In it, next to a shiny new corrugated culvert pipe, were the bodies of four men. Their necks and swollen faces were black. Nick didn’t know if they were soldiers or not, and he didn’t go any closer. He told himself he would walk back to the bike, there was nothing here to be scared about, they were dead, and dead people couldn’t hurt you. He was running by the time he was twenty feet from the ditch, anyway, and he was in a panic as he rode back toward Shoyo. On the outskirts of town he hit a rock and crashed the bike. He went over the handlebars, bumped his head, and scraped his hands. He only hunkered there for a moment in the middle of the road, shivering all over.
For the next hour and a half of that morning, yesterday morning, Nick knocked on doors and rang bells. There would be someone well, he told himself. He himself felt all right, and surely he could not be the only one. There would be someone, a man, a woman, maybe a teenager with a learner’s permit, and he or she would say: Oh, hey, yes. Let’s get them to Camden. We’ll take the station wagon. Or words to that effect.
But his knocking and ringing were answered less than a dozen times. The door would open to the length of a latch-chain, a sick but hopeful face would look out, see Nick, and hope would die. The face would move back and forth in negation, and then the door would shut. If Nick could talk, he would have argued if they could still walk, they could drive. That if they took his prisoners to Camden, they could go themselves, and there would be a hospital. They would be made well. But he couldn’t speak.
Some asked if he had seen Dr. Soames. One man, in a delirious rage, threw the door of his small ranch-house wide open, staggered out on the porch dressed only in his underpants, and tried to grab Nick. He said he was going to do “what I should have done to you back in Houston.” He seemed to think Nick was someone named Jenner. He lurched back and forth along the porch after Nick like a zombie in a third-rate horror picture. His crotch had swelled terribly; his underpants looked as if someone had stuffed a honeydew melon into them. At last he crashed to the porch and Nick watched him from the lawn below, his heart thumping rapidly. The man shook his fist weakly, then crawled back inside, not bothering to shut the door.
But most of the houses were only silent and cryptic, and at last he could do no more. That dream-sense of ominousness was creeping up on him and it became impossible to dismiss the idea that he was knocking on the doors of tombs, knocking to wake the dead, and that sooner or later the corpses might begin to answer. It didn’t help much to tell himself that most of the houses were empty, their occupants already fled to Camden or El Dorado or Texarkana.
- posted by Kerry Burgess 4:09 PM Pacific Time Spokane Valley Washington USA Tuesday 25 September 2018
