The Dead Zone

by Stephen King

  “Who’s Stillson?” Johnny asked.

  Chatsworth laughed. “Oh. you gotta see this guy, Johnny. He’s as crazy as a rat in a drainpipe. But I do believe the sober-sided electorate of the third district is going to send him to Washington this November. Unless he actually falls down and starts frothing at the mouth. And I wouldn’t completely rule that out.”

  Now the TV showed a picture of a handsome young man in a white open-throated shirt. He was speaking to a small crowd from a bunting-hung platform in a supermarket parking lot. The young man was exhorting the crowd. The crowd looked less than thrilled. George Herman voiced over: “This is David Bowes, the Democratic candidate—sacrificial offering, some would say—for the third-district seat in New Hampshire. Bowes expected an uphill fight because New Hampshire’s third district has never gone Democratic, not even in the great LBJ blitz of 1964. But he expected his competition to come from this man.”

  Now the TV showed a man of about sixty-five. He was speaking to a plushy fund-raising dinner. The crowd had that plump, righteous, and slightly constipated look that seems the exclusive province of businessmen who belong to the GOP. The speaker bore a remarkable resemblance to Edward Gurney of Florida, although he did not have Gurney’s slim, tough build.

  “This is Harrison Fisher,” Herman said. “The voters of the third district have been sending him to Washington every two years since 1960. He is a powerful figure in the House, sitting on five committees and chairing the House Committee on Parks and Waterways. It had been expected that he would beat young David Bowes handily. But neither Fisher nor Bowes counted on a wild card in the deck. This wild card.”

  The picture switched.

  “Holy God!” Johnny said.

  Beside him, Chatsworth roared laughter and slapped his thighs. “Can you believe that guy?”

  No lackadaisical supermarket parking-lot crowd here. No comfy fund raiser in the Granite State Room of the Portsmouth Hilton, either. Greg Stillson was standing on a platform outside in Ridgeway, his home town. Behind him there loomed the statue of a Union soldier with his rifle in his hand and his kepi tilted down over his eyes. The street was blocked off and crowded with wildly cheering people, predominantly young people. Stillson was wearing faded jeans and a two-pocket Army fatigue shirt with the words GIVE PEACE A CHANCE embroidered on one pocket and MOM’S APPLE PIE on the other. There was a hi-impact construction worker’s helmet cocked at an arrogant, rakish angle on his head, and plastered to the front of it was a green American flag ecology sticker. Beside him was a stainless steel cart of some kind. From the twin loudspeakers came the sound of John Denver singing “Thank God I’m a Country Boy.”

  “What’s that cart?” Johnny asked.

  “You’ll see,” Roger said, still grinning hugely.

  Herman said: “The wild card is Gregory Ammas Stillson, forty-three, ex-salesman for the Truth Way Bible Company of America, ex-housepainter, and, in Oklahoma, where he grew up, one-time rainmaker.”

  “Rainmaker,” said Johnny, bemused.

  “Oh, that’s one of his planks,” Roger said. “If he’s elected, we’ll have rain whenever we need it.”

  George Herman went on: “Stillson’s platform is ... well, refreshing.”

  John Denver finished singing with a yell that brought answering cheers from the crowd. Then Stillson started talking, his voice booming at peak amplification. His PA system at least was sophisticated; there was hardly any distortion. His voice made Johnny vaguely uneasy. The man had the high, hard, pumping delivery of a revival preacher. You could see a fine spray of spittle from his lips as he talked.

  “What are we gonna do in Washington? Why do we want to go to Washington?” Stillson roared. “What’s our platform? Our platform got five boards, my friends n neighbors, five old boards! And what are they? I’ll tell you up front! First board: THROW THE BUMS OUT!”

  A tremendous roar of approval ripped out of the crowd. Someone threw double handfuls of confetti into the air and someone else yelled, “Yaaaah-HOO!” Stillson leaned over his podium.

  “You wanna know why I’m wearin this helmet, friends n neighbors? I’ll tell you why. I’m wearin it because when you send me up to Washington, I’m gonna go through em like you-know-what through a canebrake! Gonna go through em just like this!”

  And before Johnny’s wondering eyes. Stillson put his head down and began to charge up and down the podium stage like a bull, uttering a high, yipping Rebel yell as he did so. Roger Chatsworth simply dissolved in his chair, laughing helplessly. The crowd went wild. Stillson charged back to the podium, took off his construction helmet, and spun it into the crowd. A minor riot over possession of it immediately ensued.

  “Second board!” Stillson yelled into the mike. “We’re gonna throw out anyone in the government, from the highest to the lowest, who is spending time in bed with some gal who ain’t his wife! If they wanna sleep around, they ain’t gonna do it on the public tit!”

  “What did he say?” Johnny asked, blinking.

  “Oh, he’s just getting warmed up,” Roger said. He wiped his streaming eyes and went off into another gale of laughter. Johnny wished it seemed that funny to him.

  “Third board!” Stillson roared. “We’re gonna send all the pollution right into outer space! Gonna put it in Hefty bags! Gonna put it in Glad bags! Gonna send it to Mars, to Jupiter, and the rings of Saturn! We’re gonna have clean air and we’re gonna have clean water and we’re gonna have it in SIX MONTHS!”

  The crowd was in paroxysms of joy. Johnny saw many people in the crowd who were almost killing themselves laughing, as Roger Chatsworth was presently doing.

  “Fourth board! We’re gonna have all the gas and oil we need! We’re gonna stop playing games with these Ayrabs and get down to brass tacks! Ain’t gonna be no old people in New Hampshire turned into Popsicles this coming winter like there was last winter!”

  This brought a solid roar of approval. The winter before an old woman in Portsmouth had been found frozen to death in her third-floor apartment, apparently following a turn-off by the gas company for nonpayment.

  “We got the muscle, friends n neighbors, we can do it! Anybody out there think we can’t do it?”

  “NO!” The crowd bellowed back.

  “Last board,” Stillson said, and approached the metal cart. He threw back the hinged lid and a cloud of steam puffed out. “HOT DOGS!!”

  He began to grab double handfuls of hot dogs from the cart, which Johnny now recognized as a portable steam table. He threw them into the crowd and went back for more. Hot dogs flew everywhere. “Hot dogs for every man, woman, and child in America! And when you put Greg Stillson in the House of Representatives, you gonna say HOT DOG! SOMEONE GIVES A RIP AT LAST!”

  The picture changed. The podium was being dismantled by a crew of long-haired young men who looked like rock band roadies. Three more of them were cleaning up the litter the crowd had left behind. George Herman resumed: “Democratic candidate David Bowes calls Stillson a practical joker who is trying to throw a monkeywrench into the workings of the democratic process. Harrison Fisher is stronger in his criticism. He calls Stillson a cynical carnival pitchman who is playing the whole idea of the free election as a burlesquehouse joke. In speeches, he refers to independent candidate Stillson as the only member of the American Hot Dog party. But the fact is this: the latest CBS poll in New Hampshire’s third district showed David Bowes with twenty percent of the vote, Harrison Fisher with twenty-six-and maverick Greg Stillson with a whopping forty-two percent. Of course election day is still quite a way down the road, and things may change. But for now, Greg Stillson has captured the hearts—if not the minds—of New Hampshire’s third-district voters.”

  The TV showed a shot of Herman from the waist up. Both hands had been out of sight. Now he raised one of them, and in it was a hot dog. He took a big bite.

  “This is George Herman. CBS News, in Ridgeway. New Hampshire.”

  Walter Cronkite came back on in the CBS newsroom, c
huckling. “Hot dogs,” he said, and chuckled again. “And that’s the way it is ...”

  Johnny got up and snapped off the set. “I just can’t believe that,” he said. “That guy’s really a candidate? It’s not a joke?”

  “Whether it’s a joke or not is a matter of personal interpretation,” Roger said, grinning, “but he really is running. I’m a Republican myself, born and bred, but I must admit I get a kick out of that guy Stillson. You know he hired half a dozen ex-motorcycle outlaws as bodyguards? Real iron horsemen. Not Hell’s Angels or anything like that, but I guess they were pretty rough customers. He seems to have reformed them.”

  Motorcycle freaks as security. Johnny didn’t like the sound of that very much. The motorcycle freaks had been in charge of security when the Rolling Stones gave their free concert at Altamont Speedway in California. It hadn’t worked out so well.

  “People put up with a ... a motorcycle goon squad?”

  “No, it really isn’t like that. They’re quite clean-cut. And Stillson has a helluva reputation around Ridgeway for reforming kids in trouble.”

  Johnny grunted doubtfully.

  “You saw him,” Roger said, gesturing at the TV set. “The man is a clown. He goes charging around the speaking platform like that at every rally. Throws his helmet into the crowd—I’d guess he’s gone through a hundred of them by now—and gives out hot dogs. He’s a clown, so what? Maybe people need a little comic relief from time to time. We’re running out of oil, the inflation is slowly but surely getting out of control, the average guy’s tax load has never been heavier, and we’re apparently getting ready to elect a fuzzy-minded Georgia cracker president of the United States. So people want a giggle or two. Even more, they want to thumb their noses at a political establishment that doesn’t seem able to solve anything. Stillson’s harmless.”

  “He’s in orbit,” Johnny said, and they both laughed.

  “We have plenty of crazy politicians around,” Roger said. “In New Hampshire we’ve got Stillson, who wants to hot dog his way into the House of Representatives, so what? Out in California they’ve got Hayakawa. Or take our own governor, Meldrim Thomson. Last year he wanted to arm the New Hampshire National Guard with tactical nuclear weapons. I’d call that big-time crazy.”

  “Are you saying it’s okay for those people in the third district to elect the village fool to represent them in Washington?”

  “You don’t get it,” Chatsworth said patiently. “Take a voter’s-eye-view, Johnny. Those third-district people are mostly all blue-collars and shopkeepers. The most rural parts of the district are just starting to develop some recreational potential. Those people look at David Bowes and they see a hungry young kid who’s trying to get elected on the basis of some slick talk and a passing resemblance to Dustin Hoffman. They’re supposed to think he’s a man of the people because he wears blue jeans.

  “Then take Fisher. My man, at least nominally. I’ve organized fund raisers for him and the other Republican candidates around this part of New Hampshire. He’s been on the Hill so long he probably thinks the Capitol dome would split in two pieces if he wasn’t around to give it moral support. He’s never had an original thought in his life, he never went against the party line in his life. There’s no stigma attached to his name because he’s too stupid to be very crooked, although he’ll probably wind up with some mud on him from this Koreagate thing. His speeches have all the excitement of the copy in the National Plumbers Wholesale Catalogue. People don’t know all those things, but they can sense them sometimes. The idea that Harrison Fisher is doing anything for his constituency is just plain ridiculous.”

  “So the answer is to elect a loony?”

  Chatsworth smiled indulgently. “Sometimes these loonies turn out doing a pretty good job. Look at Bella Abzug. There’s a damn fine set of brains under those crazy hats. But even if Stillson turns out to be as crazy in Washington as he is down in Ridgeway, he’s only renting the seat for two years. They’ll turn him out in ’78 and put in someone who understands the lesson.”

  “The lesson?”

  Roger stood up. “Don’t fuck the people over for too long,” he said. “That’s the lesson. Adam Clayton Powell found out. Agnew and Nixon did, too. Just ... don’t fuck the people for too long.” He glanced at his watch. “Come on over to the big house and have a drink, Johnny. Shelley and I are going out later on, but we’ve got time for a short one.”

  Johnny smiled and got up. “Okay,” he said. “You twisted my arm.”

  Chapter 20

  1

  In mid-August, Johnny found himself alone at the Chatsworth estate except for Ngo Phat, who had his own quarters over the garage. The Chatsworth family had closed up the house and had gone to Montreal for three weeks of r & r before the new school year and the fall rush at the mills began.

  Roger had left Johnny the keys to his wife’s Mercedes and he motored up to his dad’s house in Pownal, feeling like a potentate. His father’s negotiations with Charlene MacKenzie had entered the critical stage, and Herb was no longer bothering to protest that his interest in her was only to make sure that the house didn’t fall down on top of her. In fact, he was in full courting plumage and made Johnny a little nervous. After three days of it Johnny went back to the Chatsworth house, caught up on his reading and his correspondence, and soaked up the quiet.

  He was sitting on a rubber chair-float in the middle of the pool, drinking a Seven-Up and reading the New York Times Book Review, when Ngo came over to the pool’s apron, took off his zori, and dipped his feet into the water.

  “Ahhhh,” he said. “Much better.” He smiled at Johnny. “Quiet, huh?”

  “Very quiet,” Johnny agreed. “How goes the citizenship class, Ngo?”

  “Very nice going,” Ngo said. “We are having a field trip on Saturday. First one. Very exciting. The whole class will be tripping.”

  “Going,” Johnny said, smiling at an image of Ngo Phat’s whole citizenship class freaking on LSD or psilocybin.

  “Pardon?” He raised his eyebrows politely.

  “Your whole class will be going.”

  “Yes, thanks. We are going to the political speech and rally in Trimbull. We are all thinking how lucky it is to be taking the citizenship class in an election year. It is most instructive.”

  “Yes, I’ll bet it is. Who are you going to see?”

  “Greg Stirrs . . .” He stopped and pronounced it again, very carefully. “Greg Stillson, who is running independently for a seat in the U.S. House of Representatives.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Johnny said. “Have you discussed him in class at all, Ngo?”

  “Yes, we have had some conversation of this man. Born in 1933. A man of many jobs. He came to New Hampshire in 1964. Our instructor has told us that now he is here long enough so people do not see him as a carpetfogger.”

  “Bagger,” Johnny said.

  Ngo looked at him with blank politeness.

  “The term is carpetbagger.”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “Do you find Stillson a bit odd?”

  “In America perhaps he is odd,” Ngo said. “In Vietnam there were many like him. People who are . . .” He sat thinking, swishing his small and delicate feet in the blue-green water of the pool. Then he looked up at Johnny again.

  “I do not have the English for what I wish to say. There is a game the people of my land play, it is called the Laughing Tiger. It is old and much loved, like your baseball. One child is dressing up as the tiger, you see. He puts on a skin. And the other children tries to catch him as he runs and dances. The child in the skin laughs, but he is also growling and biting, because that is the game. In my country, before the Communists, many of the village leaders played the Laughing Tiger. I think this Stillson knows that game, too.”

  Johnny looked over at Ngo, disturbed.

  Ngo did not seem disturbed at all. He smiled. “So we will all go and see for ourselves. After, we are having the picnic foods. I myself am making tw
o pies. I think it will be nice.”

  “It sounds great.”

  “It will be very great,” Ngo said, getting up. “Afterward, in class, we will talk over all we saw in Trimbull. Maybe we will be writing the compositions. It is much easier to write the compositions, because one can look up the exact word. Le mot juste. ”

  “Yes, sometimes writing can be easier. But I never had a high school comp class that would believe it.”

  Ngo smiled. “How does it go with Chuck?”

  “He’s doing quite well.”

  “Yes, he is happy now. Not just pretending. He is a good boy.” He stood up. “Take a rest, Johnny. I’m going to take a nap.”

  “All right.”

  He watched Ngo walk away, small, slim, and lithe in blue jeans and a faded chambray work shirt.

  The child in the skin laughs, but he is also growling and biting, because that is the game . . . I think this Stillson knows that game, too.

  That thread of disquiet again.

  The pool chair bobbed gently up and down. The sun beat pleasantly on him. He opened his Book Review again, but the article he had been reading no longer engaged him. He put it down and paddled the little rubber float to the edge of the pool and got out. Trimbull was less than thirty miles away. Maybe he would just hop into Mrs. Chatsworth’s Mercedes and drive down this Saturday. See Greg Stillson in person. Enjoy the show. Maybe ... maybe shake his hand.

  No. No!

  But why not? After all, he had more or less made politicians his hobby this election year. What could possibly be so upsetting about going to see one more?

  But he was upset, no question about that. His heart was knocking harder and more rapidly than it should have been, and he managed to drop his magazine into the pool. He fished it out with a curse before it was saturated.

  Somehow, thinking about Greg Stillson made him think about Frank Dodd.

  Utterly ridiculous. He couldn’t have any feeling at all about Stillson one way or the other from having just seen him on TV.