by Stephen King
Then murkiness, faces and voices that he didn't remember, and at last he had surfaced here, in the small house he had built with his own hands on the outskirts of Mountain City. Because now was now, and the great wave of revolt which had engulfed the country had long since withdrawn, the young Turks were now mostly old lags with gray in their beards and big coke-burned holes where their septa used to be, and this was the wreckage, baby. The boy in the yellow briefs had been long ago, and in Boulder Kit Bradenton had been little more than a boy himself.
My God, am I dying?
He beat at the thought with agonized horror, the heat rolling and billowing in his head like a sandstorm. And suddenly his short, quick respiration stopped as a sound began to rise from somewhere beyond and below the closed bedroom door.
At first Bradenton thought it was a fire-siren, or a police-car siren. It rose and grew louder as it grew closer; beneath it he could hear the jagged pounding of footfalls clocking along his downstairs hall and then through his living room and then battering up the stairs in a Goth's stampede.
He pushed himself back against his pillow, his face drawing down in a rictus of terror even as his eyes widened to circles in his puffy, blackish face and the sound neared. Not a siren any more but a scream, high and ululating, a scream that no human throat could make or sustain, surely the scream of a banshee or of some black Charon, come to take him across the river that separates the land of the living from that of the dead.
Now the running footsteps clattered straight toward him along the upstairs hall, boards groaning and creaking and protesting under the weight of those merciless rundown bootheels and suddenly Kit Bradenton knew who it was and he shrieked as the door burst inward and the man in the faded jeans jacket ran in, his murderer's grin flashing on his face like a whirring white circle of knives, his face as jolly as that of a lunatic Santa Claus, carrying a galvanized steel bucket high over his right shoulder.
"HEEEEEEEOOOOOOWWWWWWWWW!"
"No!" Bradenton screamed, crossing his arms weakly across his face. "No! Noo--!"
The bucket tipped forward and the water flew out, all of it seeming to hang suspended for a moment in the yellow lamplight like the largest uncut diamond in the universe, and he saw the dark man's face through it, reflected and refracted into the face of a supremely grinning troll who had just made its way up from hell's darkest shit-impacted bowels to rampage on the earth; then the water fell on him, so cold that his swelled throat sprang momentarily open again, squeezing blood from its walls in big beads, shocking breath into him and making him kick the covers all the way over the foot of the bed in one convulsive spasm so that his body would be free to jackknife and sunfish as bitter cramps from these involuntary struggles whipped through him like greyhounds biting on the run.
He screamed. He screamed again. Then lay trembling, his feverish body soaked from toe to crown, his head thumping, his eyes bulging. His throat closed to a raw slit and he began to struggle for breath miserably again. His body began to shake and shiver.
"I knew that'd cool you off!" the man he knew as Richard Fry cried cheerily. He set the bucket down with a clang. "Ah say, Ah say Ah knew dat wuz goan do de trick, Kingfish! Thanks are in order, my good man, thanks from you tendered to me. Do you thank me? Can't talk? No? Yet in your heart I know you do.
"Yeee-GAAAHHH!"
He sprang into the air like Bruce Lee in a Run Run Shaw kung-fu epic, knees spread, for a moment seeming to hang suspended directly over Kit Bradenton as the water had done, his shadow a blob on the chest of Bradenton's soaked pajamas, and Bradenton screamed weakly. Then one knee came down on either side of his ribcage and Richard Fry's bluejeaned groin was the crotch of a fork suspended above his chest by inches, and his face burned down at Bradenton's like a cellar torch in a gothic novel.
"Had to wake you up, man," Fry said. "I didn't want you to boogie off without a chance for us to talk a bit."
"... off ... off ... off me ..."
"I'm not on you, man, come on. I'm just hanging suspended above you. Like the great invisible world."
Bradenton, in an agony of fear, could only pant and shake and roll his trapped eyeballs away from that jolly, fuming face.
"We got to talk about ships and seals and sailing wax, and whether bees have stings. Also about the papers you're supposed to have for me, and the car, and the keys to the car. Now all I see in your gay-radge is a Chevy pickup, and I know that's yours, Kitty-Kitty, so how 'bout it?"
"... they ... papers ... can't ... can't talk ..." He gasped harshly for air. His teeth chittered together like small birds in a tree.
"You better be able to talk," Fry said, and stuck out his thumbs. They were both double jointed (as were all his fingers), and he wiggled them back and forth at angles that seemed to deny biology and physics. "Cause if you aren't, I'm going to have your baby blues for my keychain and you're going to have to trot around hell with a seeing eye dog." He jammed his thumbs at Bradenton's eyes and Bradenton jerked back against the pillow helplessly.
"You tell me," Fry said, "and I'll leave you the right pills. In fact, I'll hold you up so you can swallow them. Make you well, man. Pills to take care of everything."
Bradenton, now trembling with fear as much as with cold, forced the words out through his clacking teeth. "Papers ... in the name of Randall Flagg. Welsh dresser downstairs. Under the ... contact paper."
"Car?"
Bradenton tried desperately to think. Had he gotten this man a car? It was so far away, all the flames of delirium were in between, and the delirium seemed to have done something to his thought processes, burned out whole banks of memory. Whole sections of his past were scorched cabinets filled with smoldering wires and blackened relays. Instead of the car this awful man wanted to know about, an image of the first car he'd ever owned drifted up, a 1953 Studebaker with a bullet nose that he had painted pink.
Gently, Fry put one hand over Bradenton's mouth and pinched his nostrils shut with the other. Bradenton began to buck beneath him. Furry moans escaped around Fry's hand. Fry took both hands away and said, "Does that help you remember?"
Strangely, it did.
"Car ..." he said, and then panted like a dog. The world swirled, steadied, and he was able to go on. "Car's parked ... behind the Conoco station ... just outside of town. Route 51."
"North or south of town?"
"Suh ... suh ..."
"Yes suh! I got it. Go on."
"Covered with a tarp. Byoo ... Byoo ... Buick. Registration's on the steering post. Made out ... Randall Flagg." He collapsed into panting again, unable to say more or do anything except look at Fry with dumb hope.
"Keys?"
"Floormat. Under ..."
Fry's backside cut off any further words by settling on Bradenton's chest. He settled there the way he might have settled on a comfortable hassock in a friend's apartment and suddenly Bradenton couldn't even get a small breath.
He expelled the last of his tidal breath on a single word: "... please ..."
"And thank you," Richard Fry/Randall Flagg said with a prim grin. "Say goodnight, Kit."
Unable to speak, Kit Bradenton could only roll his eyes whitely in their puffed sockets.
"Don't think unkindly of me," the dark man said softly, looking down at him. "It's just that we have to hurry now. The carnival is opening early. They're opening all the rides, and the Pitch-til-U-Win, and the Wheel of Fortune. And it's my lucky night, Kit. I feel that. I feel that very strongly. So we have to hurry."
It was a mile and a half to the Conoco station, and by the time he got there it was quarter past three in the morning. The wind had picked up, whining along the street, and on his way here he had seen the corpses of three dead dogs and one dead man. The man had been wearing some sort of uniform. Above, the stars shone hard and bright, sparks struck off the dark skin of the universe.
The tarp which covered the Buick had been pegged tautly to the ground, and the wind made the canvas flap. When Flagg pulled the pegs the tarpaulin
went cartwheeling off into the night like a large brown ghost, moving east. The question was, in which direction was he heading?
He stood beside the Buick, which was a well-preserved 1975 model (cars did well out here: there was little moisture and rust had a hard time starting), scenting the summer night air like a coyote. There was desert perfume on it, the kind you can only smell clearly at night. The Buick stood whole in an automobile mortuary of dismembered parts, Easter Island monoliths in the windy silence. An engine block. An axle looking like some muscle-boy's dumbbell. A pile of tires for the wind to make hooting sound effects in. A cracked windshield. More.
He thought best in scenes like these. In scenes like these, any man could be Iago.
He walked past the Buick and ran his hand across the dented hood of what might once have been a Mustang. "Hey, little Cobra, don't ya know ya gonna shut em down ..." he sang softly. He kicked over a stove-in radiator with one dusty boot and disclosed a nest of jewels, winking back at him with dim fire. Rubies, emeralds, pearls the size of gooseggs, diamonds to rival the stars. Snapped his finger at them. They were gone. Where was he to go?
The wind moaned through the shattered wing window of an old Plymouth and tiny living things rustled inside.
Something else rustled behind him. He turned and it was Kit Bradenton, clad only in absurd yellow underpants, his poet's pot hanging over the waistband like an avalanche held in suspended animation. Bradenton walked toward him over the heaped remains of Detroit rolling iron. A leafspring pierced through his foot like crucifixion, but the wound was bloodless. Bradenton's navel was a black eye.
The dark man snapped his fingers and Bradenton was gone.
He grinned and walked back to the Buick. Laid his forehead against the slope of roof on the passenger's side. Time passed. At some length he straightened, still grinning. He knew.
He slipped behind the wheel of the Buick, and pumped the gas a couple of times to prime up the carburetor. The motor purred into life and the needle on the gas gauge swung over to F. He pulled out and drove around the side of the gas station, his headlight beams for a moment catching another pair of emeralds, cat's eyes glistening warily from the tall grass by the Conoco station's ladies' room door. In the cat's mouth was the small limp body of a mouse. At the sight of his grinning, moonlike face peering down at it from the driver's side window, the cat dropped its morsel and ran. Flagg laughed aloud, heartily, the laugh of a man with nothing on his mind but lots of good things. Where the Conoco's tarmac became highway, he turned right and began to run south.
CHAPTER 32
Someone had left the door open between Maximum Security and the cellblock beyond it; the steel-walled length of corridor acted as a natural amplifier, blowing up the steady, monotonous hollering that had been going on all morning to monster size, making it echo and re-echo until Lloyd Henreid thought that, between the cries and the very natural fear that he felt, he would go utterly and completely bugshit.
"Mother," the hoarse, echoing cry came. "Mootherr!"
Lloyd was sitting crosslegged on the floor of his cell. Both of his hands were slimed with blood; he looked like a man who has drawn on a pair of red gloves. The light blue cotton shirt of his prison uniform was smeared with blood because he kept wiping his hands dry on it in order to get a better purchase. It was ten o'clock in the morning, June 29. Around seven this morning he had noticed that the front right leg of his bunk was loose, and since then he had been trying to unthread the bolts that held it to the floor and to the underside of the bedframe. He was trying to do this with only his fingers for tools, and he had actually gotten five of the six bolts. As a result his fingers now looked like a spongy mess of raw hamburger. The sixth bolt was the one that had turned out to be the bitch-kitty, but he was beginning to think he might actually get it. Beyond that, he hadn't allowed himself to think. The only way to keep back brute panic was not to think.
"Mootherr -- "
He leaped to his feet, drops of blood from his wounded, throbbing fingers splattering on the floor, and shoved his face out into the corridor as far as he could, eyes bulging furiously, hands gripping the bars.
"Shut up, cock-knocker!" he screamed. "Shut up, ya drivin me fuckin batshit!"
There was a long pause. Lloyd savored the silence as he had once savored a piping hot Quarter Pounder with Cheese from McD's. Silence is golden, he had always thought that was a stupid saying, but it sure had its points.
"MOOOOTHERRRR--" The voice came drifting up at the steel throat of the holding cells again, as mournful as a foghorn.
"Jesus," Lloyd muttered. "Holy Jesus. SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP, YA FUCKIN DIMWIT!"
"MOOOOOOOTHERRRRRRRRRR--"
Lloyd turned back to the leg of his bunk and attacked it savagely, wishing again that there was something in the cell to pry with, trying to ignore the throbbing in his fingers and the panic in his mind. He tried to remember exactly when he had seen his lawyer last--things like that grew hazy very soon in Lloyd's mind, which retained a chronology of past events about as well as a sieve retains water. Three days ago. Yes. The day after that prick Mathers had socked him in the balls. Two guards had taken him down to the conference room again and Shockley was still on the door and Shockley had greeted him: Why, here's the wise-ass pusbag, what's the story, pusbag, got anything smart to say? And then Shockley had opened his mouth and sneezed right into Lloyd's face, spraying him with thick spit. There's some cold germs for you, pusbag, everybody else has got one from the warden on down, and I believe in share the wealth. In America even scummy douchebags like you should be able to catch a cold. Then they had taken him in, and Devins had looked like a man who is trying to conceal some pretty good news lest it should turn out to be bad news, after all. The judge who was supposed to hear Lloyd's case was flat on his back with the flu. Two other judges were also ill, either with the flu that was going around or with something else, so the remaining benchwarmers were swamped. Maybe they could get a postponement. Keep your fingers crossed, the lawyer had said. When would we know? Lloyd had asked. Probably not until the last minute, Devins had replied. I'll let you know, don't worry. But Lloyd hadn't seen him since then and now, thinking back on it, he remembered that the lawyer had had a runny nose himself and--
"OwwwoooJesus!"
He slipped the fingers of his right hand into his mouth and tasted blood. But that frigging bolt had given a little bit, and that meant he was going to get it for sure. Even the mother-shouter down there at the end of the hall could no longer bother him ... at least not so badly. He was going to get it. After that he would just have to wait and see what happened. He sat with his fingers in his mouth, giving them a rest. When this was done, he'd rip his shirt into strips and bandage them.
"Mother?"
"I know what you can do with your mother," Lloyd muttered.
That night, after he had talked to Devins for the last time, they had begun taking sick prisoners out, carrying them out, not to put too fine a point on it, because they weren't taking anyone that wasn't already far gone. The man in the cell on Lloyd's right, Trask, had pointed out that most of the guards sounded pretty snotty themselves. Maybe we can get something outta this, Trask said. What? Lloyd had asked. I dunno, Trask said. He was a skinny man with a long bloodhound face who was in Maximum Security while awaiting trial on charges of armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. Postponements, he said. I dunno.
