（外文电子版资料）Stephen King - Night Surf.pdf

NIGHT SURF 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 couldnt say the sound reproduction was great, but it sure was loud. Corey had been well-to-do before A6, but stuff like that didnt 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. Hed 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. Thats 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 wasnt likely, she would get really flabby. She was already mouthy. Youre rotten, she said, and put a hand to her face. Her lacquered fingernails twin