Page 74 of The End of the World As We Know It: New Tales of Stephen King’s The Stand

He sat on the lowest step and took the guitar from its case and the finger from his pocket.

Had the finger rotted? It looked darker.

Smelled funny. But maybe that smell had followed Lev since he’d found it.

Yeah, maybe he’d mistaken the smell of the finger for that of the world.

And maybe a rotting, foul finger was a small pittance to pay for carrying a piece of Jerry Garcia home.

Breathless, he strummed an E. “Viola Lee Blues” was, after all, blues.

He could figure out the E-A-B of it. He sang as he played:

“Wrote a letter…”

And the wind carried his voice, he thought, even as it tousled his hair, even as it graced the dead finger-pick in his hand. What a gem this song was. What a jam .

The door opened above and behind him and Lev turned, wide-eyed, expecting to see the bearded wizard, the maestro, the gray hair, the glasses, a black shirt and rainbow pants, the greatest musician who had ever been born, a man who now doubt would survive the end of the world:

Captain Trips.

“Hello?” the man said.

It wasn’t Jerry Garcia. Wasn’t even close. A short man with no hair on top. A suit coat. The man looked more like a lawyer than a musician and he eyed Lev with some apprehension. But Lev saw some hope there, too.

“You’ve made it,” the man said. “You survived.”

Lev rose then and the man saw the tie-dye shirt and something changed in his appearance.

“Isn’t this Jerry’s house?” Lev asked.

“My God,” the man said. “Even after the end of the world, this continues.”

“What do you mean?”

But the man put on a kinder face and took the steps down. Lev saw he carried a suitcase in one hand.

“You’re not sick, are you?” the man asked.

“Are you?”

“No. Are you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He came down the rest of the way until he was on the sidewalk, Lev a step above him.

“Yes, this was once Jerry Garcia’s house, but that was a long time ago,” he said.

“Did he survive? He had to have.”

The man smiled sadly.

“That I don’t know. I’ve lived here three years. You can imagine the number of visitors I’ve gotten. Most are kindhearted.”

“Damn straight.”

Another sympathetic smile.

“You like his music?” Lev asked.

“Me? I love him. He’s great. But I love a lot of music.”

Lev heard that walk-down again: I love the dead…

“But listen,” the man said. Lev had a sense of what he was going to say before he said it. “You’ve arrived at a very interesting time. I’m leaving. I’m going to work my way to Nebraska. It’s all a little crazy. But I’ve been dreaming of it. Nonstop. Have you? Have you been dreaming of Nebraska?”

“What? No. Why would I be dreaming of Nebraska?”

“I don’t know.”

The man had the air of inspiration about him. Lev felt it like he felt music.

“Take the place,” he told Lev. “The door is unlocked. The whole thing is yours. No charge.” He laughed then, but Lev only squinted back. Then, “Did you want to come with me?”

“To Nebraska?”

“Yes.”

“No! I just walked all the way here from Idaho.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“I think so. And while I must say it’s amazing to see another living, breathing face, I’m going to head out now. It’s taken me weeks to find the nerve. But I’ve finally found it.”

They stood facing one another on Ashbury Street a full ten seconds before Lev said:

“I can just… live here?”

“Oh yes. But I warn you, there isn’t much left to this city. And I think there may be more in Nebraska.” Then, “I wish you well.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

The man started off down the street and Lev watched him go. Then, dead finger still in hand, he turned to face the steps leading up to the holy house.

I… love… the… dead…

He climbed the steps. A confusing swirl of emotions bombarded him. Who was that man? And why would he want to leave this place? At the same time, who cared? Lev was standing before the front door of 710 Ashbury Street.

To think of the sounds once made beyond this door…

He opened the door with the hand still holding the dead finger.

“Jerry?” he called.

But before he stepped inside, a crow landed on the railing and Lev started at the sound of its flapping wings. He thought he heard words in that flapping. He thought he heard Las Vegas.

“Go away, you!” he said. But he stared into the intelligent eyes of the bird a beat before entering the house. “Las Vegas. Not a chance!”

But there was a chance. It was just slow in coming.

For Lev Marks would see the crow in the coming days, weeks, months. It’d often land on the windowsill and listen as Lev played guitar. Strumming in the house of the Grateful Dead. Yes, the crow would come, and Lev would strum, until the day when he would finally take the crow’s advice.

Maybe Captain Trips was making music in Las Vegas after all. Maybe he was.

But until then, Lev would try his hardest to figure out the chords to songs like “Casey Jones” and “Bertha,” “Dire Wolf” and “Wharf Rat.” And the more he tried, the more he kept singing the song that, like the crow, just wouldn’t leave him alone.

“ I… love… the… dead… ”

And the day he figured out the notes of the walk-down was the same day he took the steps outside back to the sidewalk.

On his way then to Las Vegas.

Just as the crow had told him.