Some brief quotes from the author's text will appear in italics as I weave them into my scenario. As always, whatever I have not imagined belongs to the Master of Horror, Stephen King.

July 4 dawned with the promise of another clear and sweltering day in the Bible Belt. Meg was awake first. She was stretched on one side of the sectional couch, while Nick was positioned foot to foot with her on the other. She had no way of knowing that she'd kept him awake part of the night with her thrashing. However, she did remember the dreams which had been responsible, and this elicited a shudder as she sat up brushing her hands through her hair, blinking. As she stood, a bit shakily, Nick opened the corner of his eye.

"Hi," he signed, sitting up. "You didn't sleep well."

"How'd you know?"

"You were tossing and maybe muttering. I thought about waking you, but didn't want to startle you."

"Oh … thanks. I hope I didn't kick you?"

He shrugged and shook his head. "Doesn't matter. My own dreams haven't exactly been pleasant lately."

"I guess no ones can be any more." Meg went rummaging in her knapsack for another shirt. She was happy to wear her old tee for comfort, but she didn't want to sweat in it. She found a loose white cotton tank and a sports bra, which she decided she'd take in the bathroom to change. She grabbed her brush and a scrunchie too. Nick went outside and urinated in back of the garage, then splashed his face with water from the pump. He came back inside just as she was leaving the bathroom. As Meg carefully rolled her Han shirt up and stuffed it in her pack, she felt a twinge of embarrassment. It was a memento and personal, something she didn't reveal to those outside her family. She turned to Nick self-consciously and explained, "This shirt, it was my brother's. I kept it after he died. I know that's a little weird, but it was his favorite. We went to see the movies. Those were some of the best memories. I don't wear it in public."

Nick cast his eyes down for a moment. He hadn't really thought about it at all, except for noting that Meg was maybe a bit of a tomboy. She wasn't wearing makeup and she dressed simply, but he really had no reason to conclude that she didn't care. Circumstances were changed. She might have dressed remarkably different had there still been a thriving society to walk abroad in. Certainly her hair wasn't cut boyishly. It was a deep copper color, with thick waves which fell just past her shoulder blades. She'd looped it up in a loose ponytail. She had stylish bangs, feathered at her temples. Her slightly almond-shaped eyes were large and deep brown, like rich coffee. The apples of her cheeks were pronounced and given to blush. Her chin was strong and rather square. Her nose was a bit long but not unattractive in her face; she had a smattering of freckles over the bridge, not more than a dusting of cinnamon in her peachy complexion. Her slim arms were a bit more heavily freckled, just finishing peeling from sunburn. She might have been a cheerleader, for all he knew. Just a standard American college girl, fresh out of high school.

"It's Independence Day," Meg said, changing her tone. Nick cocked one eyebrow. He guessed it was. "I'd play Bruce Springsteen, but … you know." She improvised a line or two absent-mindedly, and he found himself following her lips carefully, wishing he could hear her soft voice. He imagined it was soft, but it might also be brassy. Brassy and soft at the same time? She raised her hand to her cheek as she sang, as if she were going to lay her head down. "Well Papa go to bed now it's gettin late … Nothing we can say is gonna change anything now … I'll be leavin in the morning from St. Mary's Gate … We wouldn't change this thing even if we could somehow… Cause the darkness of this house has got the best of us ... There's a darkness in this town that's got us too …" She trailed off, suddenly acutely aware of the terrible appropriateness of the words.

She shook it off, laughing nervously. "I don't even know where that came from. I memorize a lot of the Boss's songs, I guess. I'm used to singing along. Don't mind me. I'm dippy." She finished zipping her pack. "Let's get out of here anyway."

They rode for most of the day, stopping only briefly for snacks and water. There weren't opportunities to talk when they were moving, but Nick found himself drawn to her more and more. Several times she raced ahead of him. He noticed the svelte muscles in her legs and back. She was toned; she had to be active, he thought, remembering the horse ranch she'd spoken of last night. She was used to riding, maybe. During breaks he watched her pink lips move and chew with satisfaction. She had a tiny scar that ran into the middle of her upper lip, perhaps a cut she'd sustained in her accident. Now she was wearing black sunglasses, teasing him good-naturedly when he lost track of her conversation.

"I asked why we're going to Nebraska, Nick. Is it because you were born there?"

He shook his head. It was high noon, and they had found a small copse of trees in which to eat. Meg was fishing M&M's and almonds from a pack of trail mix, leaving all of the peanuts and raisins, he noticed. He smiled lop-sidedly, deciding that sounding crazy was at least preferable to acting arrogant. They had barely discussed the matter of throwing in together. As they packed up their things and climbed on their bikes that morning, Meg had smiled shyly and said, "We could travel together for awhile. I'll follow you. I have no idea where I'm going anyway. At first I just thought I wanted to get out of Houston. Then it was Texas I wanted to be shut of. I'd go home, but I don't think I'd like what I'd find."

Nick had been overjoyed at the thought of company, thinking to himself that a 1500 mile journey on bike wasn't exactly a smart thing for a pretty girl to undertake alone. Not in the old world, and probably not now. With that thought, he was reminded of the gun still in his pack. He hadn't shown it to her, and didn't think he would, right away.

Now, he reached into his belt, where he'd tucked a skinny atlas he picked up at a gas station late that morning. He spread it out between them and pointed to the square of Polk County in Nebraska. "I've been dreaming about this place. I think I must have heard of it somewhere along the way. I've been around, met a lot of people in the years I've been on my own. I can't remember why, but this place is stuck in my mind somehow and in my dreams I'm associating it with a kind old woman who plays guitar. She just makes me feel safe, relieved to be out of some storm. I know that sounds strange, but I figure it's as good a bet as any. Who knows? Maybe we'll meet other people on the way. Plans can change. I just hope you don't mind following me on some mad quest."

"It doesn't sound mad to me." She raised her glasses, studying the map. She turned the page, finding Arkansas again. "We're about here, right?" She pinned a spot between Texarkana and the Oklahoma border.

Nick nodded. "And Shoyo's back here," he pointed to his starting point, stifling a shudder at the memories. He traced his finger along the route. "We must have met about here."

Meg smiled. "Our little borrowed house. I will remember how well it served us."

Nick wondered if she was flirting with him and decided it was possible, but she could as easily be feigning sarcasm. He reached for a Little Debbie Honey Bun that was spilling out of his pack, unwrapped it thoughtfully, and took a generous bite.

By nightfall, they were nearly to Oklahoma.

They'd decided to camp on another porch, but it was far too late and both were too tired to explore the farmhouse it belonged to. It was a gray and crumbling thing, and looked to have been long deserted. At least there wasn't much likelihood that people had died in there. Nick wondered at the interesting shift defining a haunted house. What once would have been a macabre Halloween dare was now a convenient haven, while thronging towns with their neat and tidy houses had become gruesome mausoleums. They spread sleeping rolls foot to foot, and then sat on the steps with one of the Coleman lights they'd brought between them, not talking about much at all, watching the stars pop out in an endless black sky. Nick shifted his legs. His wound, which he'd checked and bandaged a short while ago, itched but the muscles there did not ache anymore than all the rest.

"Ooh, look!" Meg pointed at the sky. Bright celestial sparks were raining in the distance. She stood and walked slowly toward the side of the road, where a very weathered split-rail fence still stood waist-high. She rested her elbows on it as Nick followed her. He leaned in beside her, both of their eyes on the heavens, watching a meteor shower scratch the night with cold white fire. He thought he had never seen anything so beautiful. She was breathing shallowly, shivering with goose bumps. She looked up into his face, a bit breathless. "This is incredible," she whispered. There was a small breeze drifting over them. Her eyes were very bright.

He nodded, his hand reaching almost uncontrollably for her hair, which had fallen across her cheek. He brushed it back dreamily. As he did so, her hand touched his and in a breath he was kissing her. Her lips were soft and pliant and tasted of raspberries she'd been eating on the side of the road earlier. He deepened his kiss, feeling her lips part easily as her hands reached up to his shoulders. Her body was tense, but he realized how urgently he wanted her. He reached his arms around her, clutching the small of her back and pressing her gently against him. He was conscious of her breasts, which seemed full against his chest. He could take her now, he thought. His heart was pounding. He let go of her lips reluctantly and drew back just enough to see her startled eyes. Her palms still rested gingerly on his shoulders.

"Nobody ever kissed me before," she said, with some wonder.

Nick blinked, his eyebrow twitching slightly. He released her, feeling the cool night air come between them again. His skin was clammy. He stepped back, weighing her reaction.

"That was … nice. I liked it," she added quickly. "I like you. I really do. Nick, I …" She wanted to tell him to kiss her again, that she wanted more, maybe everything. Her heart felt like it had stopped still, even though it was thudding wildly. She imagined that she'd felt him, that part of him that could join them, pressed firmly against her abdomen. But she felt awkward and thought that was probably a mistake of her mind. She caressed the back of his hand with her thumb and thought that the moment was lost. Her thoughts trailed off in a soft whisper "… just don't know."

Nick regarded her, understanding dawning. Was it him? He'd believed she must have some experience. She seemed comfortable, flirty. She was definitely very pretty. She must have had boyfriends between high school and college. But then his mind ticked back over her story. Her father's suicide, that had to have isolated her as a child. She spent the awkward years of middle school recovering from a horrible accident, after which she was still afraid to take control of a car. She talked about her family but not about friends. Maybe she was more withdrawn from that world than he knew. It was awful of him to rush her. They were standing in a virtual graveyard, one that encompassed the whole country, probably the whole globe. The night sky unfurled behind them, and those falling stars pointed to how many corpses, how many bodies laid out in every direction? He stroked her hair again, lightly. Apprehensive, he signed, "I like you. I think you're a beautiful girl." He swept his hand across the sky. "It is a beautiful night. I'm lucky to be here with you. I want to be with you."

She shifted on her feet uncomfortably. Her shyness was not coquetry. She was self-conscious and inhibited. "I would like to know you better," she said. "There were guys who asked me out ... After awhile, those boys who knew me stopped asking. They thought I was uptight. Maybe I was." She remembered one pep rally she'd been goaded into attending during junior high, watching the cheerleaders go through their motions like mindless drones. The constant whoops and applause burst in her ears like a drum major's cymbals. All those people seemed to swim together like a sea of cicadas, devouring green faces and leaving husks behind. She'd walked out numbly and Sal, the bookish but studiedly gregarious boy who dragged her there, laid his hand on her shoulder just as she placed hers on the exit. "I can't be here," she said then. "All those people are crazy." And she meant it.

But this was like no other situation she had ever been in. Nick was the same age, but he was nothing like the calculating, shallow young men who approached her in the halls or the coffee shop during her first two semesters of college. Rather than flick him off her like a horse swishing its tail at a gnat, she wanted him to accept her. He was real, and Meg was struck with the strange and uneasy feeling that she had been in a walking sleep before the plague and only just woke up.

"Everything is so different!" she blurted. "I don't know if there's anyone else." Nick's face fell. "No! That's not what I meant at all. Whoa, I'm bad at this." She drew her hands over her cheeks, wanting that magical moment back, so natural and easy, like something out of a romance novel.

The darkness seemed to encroach, till she turned her face up to the dizzying stars. She let out a brief and tinny laugh, but when she looked back at his frowning face she realized what she had to do. With some trepidation, she reached for his eye patch, and when he didn't flinch, she pulled it away. "I just wanted to see," she whispered. His eye was still there, just as startlingly hazy as his other one, but blood-shot and accented by the ugly yellowness of fading bruises. Tentatively, she rose up on her toes and closed her own eyes, lightly kissing the tender skin there. Nick held in his breath. Standing back, she smiled sweetly but also a little sadly. "It's ... it's like we're supposed to be here, right?" Her eyes were very wide. He nodded, wanting her with a bitter-sweet longing which he knew he'd have to stand.

He drew his hand over his chin thoughtfully. "Come on," he signed. "I'm tired. I think we should go to sleep and move on tomorrow." She smiled again. As he hooked one arm over her shoulder to lead her back to their sleeping bags, Nick did know that whatever lay ahead, he was glad to be alive.

She came awake crying and clutching at his arm. He was holding her. It had seemed right enough, miraculously easy to fall asleep with her warmth beside him and the delicious thought that she could become his. Everyone he'd ever loved had either died or deserted him. There was a sweet irony in realizing that this new world, emptied of the masses, might now offer him some chance at happiness. This joy was tempered by the realization that she was going to rely on him for guidance and protection, something she might not have considered. He had, and when they passed a recently slaughtered deer late that afternoon, it might have dawned on her as well. So he held her, for the time being chastely. She accepted his kisses, but he did not press for more. He was used to sublimating his body's will. There hadn't been many opportunities for sex, fewer for love. He knew there were women he could have, if he wished to part with some of his hard-earned dough. But he really didn't want to take it like that.

There was one woman. He found her in Georgia, at a struggling cotton farm where he hired on. That was five years ago. He'd been seventeen, out on his own for barely a year. She was the wife of his boss, a man who spent very little time at home. There were two small tow-headed children, a boy and a girl. Sarah Bishop was lonely and frustrated. It didn't happen that summer, though they built a friendship. She was generous and warm to him. She laughed and touched his shoulder possessively, made a point of inquiring after him and sending him on his way with an extra week of wages. He found himself thinking about her all the time. He thought about her at night in the hayloft where he slept after a hot day's work, his back burnt. He was invited back for planting in the spring. He never realized that double entendre till after it began. She was 27, just old enough to still be young. She took him to her bed while the children played outside. He guessed he'd loved her, but her need for him was more elemental. He came back to her. For two more summers they shared rendezvous in her marriage bed, in the barn, even in the back of her car. He was hot for her, waiting each year as the dry months ticked by till he saw her again.

Then last August he found out. All that time, he'd known he was sharing a man's wife, but he'd felt some joy in thinking himself her only lover. Then he surprised her one day. He knew the children were playing at a friend's house. He watched as a car drove up and took them away. He'd intended to please her. He had a basket of fresh peaches from the orchard out back. He walked in the back screen door, which was open to the breeze, setting them on the table. He couldn't call for her, but thinking of the way her lips hungrily devoured him, he knew she'd be glad for his company. He left the basket on the table and walked upstairs. If there were sounds that should have alarmed him, he couldn't hear them. Not the rocking of the springs or the panting and heaving. He pushed her door open lightly, thinking she might be taking a late afternoon nap. She was made for drowsy stretches and lackadaisical caresses. As the door creaked, two faces looked up. She was with their primary truck driver. Nick knew the man well enough. They were no friends. He was older and brawnier than Nick, built like a bull with skin just as red and a temperament to match. He had a thatch of curly sun-bronzed hair on both his head and his chest, and Nick often wondered that the hands hadn't nicknamed him Curly. He guessed nobody dared.

"Christ in Hell!" the man roared, swiping the sweaty sheets around his beefy loins as he stood up.

"Jimmy, no! He's not worth it." Those were the last words Nick ever knew from the woman he thought had cared for him. He left Sarah gripping the arm of her Samson, the flaxen hair he'd once admired sweaty and matted over her face. He would never know how long she'd played him, played the both of them and her husband for a fool. Probably from the beginning. He supposed there could have been others, her hunger insatiable, but he supposed he no longer cared.

The time for his sojourn in Georgia came and went while he purposefully planted his feet in the other direction. He never planned on stopping that way again. Of course, the wages weren't quite as regular in other parts of the south, but he was getting by well enough till Ray Booth and his cronies decided to fall on him. That was all before …

The red-haired girl thrashed at his side. She was moaning and weeping in her sleep at once. Nick came alert. He'd been between worlds, in that shallow dream state where all memories blend. He raised himself on an elbow and stroked her narrow shoulder. She batted his hand away and suddenly sat up, perspiration beading her forehead, which was ashen in the gloom. She let out a strangled shriek which choked into a sob as she realized again where she was, but she was now shaking uncontrollably. "Nick! Oh God, Nick, it was Jake! He came back for me. He was dragging Mom by the arm. His mouth opened and this awful black light spilled out." She shook her head. That wasn't right. "No. Light isn't black. It was oil, or blood long since turned to sludge in the earth. It was horrible, Nick."

He was holding her, trying to still her tremors as her tears wet his shoulder, so most of these words were lost on him. He knew she was letting it out and he thought that would help. As her body slowly stilled, she became more cognizant. She was aware of the young man comforting her and the dim porch where they had spread their sleeping bags. It was July 4. No, by the slate chinks of sky through the beams above them it was now very early on July 5. She let her head rest on his chest, hearing his heart beat comfortably beneath her ear.

After a few moments, as the sky began to lighten around them, she raised red eyes to his. "These dreams are so vivid, Nick. I don't know how I can stand them. I haven't had dreams like this since waking up after the accident." He nodded, rubbing her back conciliatorily. "That black sludge Jake let out of his mouth, it took form. It began writhing and gathering and slowly it turned into something like a man." Nick shivered, feeling an awful premonition. Meg's dream was eerily similar to his own visions of a negative man, a black hole in the shape of a man. He wanted to say something, to dispel this terrible fascination, but nothing came to him. Instead, he kissed her lightly on the top of her head, feeling chill as the summer morn grew.

A/N: Okay, I'm going to admit it. My heroine is – physically – loosely based on Tiffany. You know, the '80's pop singer? Honest to God, I came up with this idea in 1991, before a miniseries was ever made based on this work. I wanted Nick to have a decent match from the very beginning, as his encounter with Julie Lawry struck me as something of a joke. I was 14 myself, and impressionable me … I kind of took it to heart he'd sleep right off the bat with a girl that at least "looked" my own age. However, I was a shy and sheltered teenager, so I found her character both insulting and demeaning. Later, Shawnee Smith hammed it up, but failed to make Julie repulsive (though she did bear an interesting resemblance to my theoretical stand-in). Nick deserved a more genuine girl, for certain, in a story where everybody else paired off. Even Harold and Nadine found each other. As warped as their relationship was, they had potential to make it, had they just surrendered "that one little thing." So … I became obsessed with imagining an appropriate match for Nick. Having little experience in my own peer group, the best I could do was a toss-up between Debbie Gibson and Tiffany. For serious. At that time, unhappy with my own body, I imagined that he'd probably be most attracted to the waify blonde, so I named her Margaret (Meg) Clancy. She was a vegetarian. I now view that as just unforgivably idealistic. However, the twin idea was early implemented. I find it almost creepily coincidental that there is another fic on here that utilizes this theme, although it is markedly different from mine. Before I ever read The Gunslinger, Meg's twin was to be named Jake. The details of the car accident have always been the same. As has the character of Ben and his handicap (lending Meg experience with ASL) although he was originally supposed to be an older brother. I have changed him into a cousin for a few reasons, chiefly because I thought Meg's character could benefit from drawing on this subconscious "crush," which also might spur her attachment to Nick, without making it too creepy incestuous. All in all, this is a character with a lot of Freudian hang-ups. She's not supposed to be too healthy, and though she might be pure or virtuous, she's also quite damaged. Anyway, that's why I eventually surrendered to my better instincts and Tiffany's profile won hands down. As a badge of victory, I have awarded my fiery-haired vixen another moniker, though equally Irish. So there is the story of Meghan O'Malley's invention, and the interesting synchronicities surrounding it.