The Waste Lands

by Stephen King

  "He was your grandfather, wasn't he?"

  The Tick-Tock Man raised his brows interrogatively. His hands returned to Jake's shoulders, and although his grip was not tight, Jake could feel the phenomenal strength there. If Tick-Tock chose to tighten his grip and pull sharply forward, he would snap Jake's collarbones like pencils. If he shoved, he would probably break his back.

  "Who was my grandfather, cully?"

  Jake's eyes once more took in the Tick-Tock Man's massive, nobly shaped head and broad shoulders. He remembered what Susannah had said: Look at the size of him, Roland--they must have had to grease him to get him into the cockpit!

  "The man in the airplane. David Quick."

  The Tick-Tock Man's eyes widened in surprise and amazement. Then he threw back his head and roared out a gust of laughter that echoed off the domed ceiling high above. The others smiled nervously. None, however, dared to laugh right out loud. . . not after what had happened to the woman with the dark hair.

  "Whoever you are and wherever you come from, boy, you're the triggest cove old Tick-Tock's run into for many a year. Quick was my great-grandfather, not my grandfather, but you're close enough--wouldn't you say so, Gasher, my dear?"

  "Ay," Gasher said. "He's trig, right enough, I could've toldjer that. But wery pert, all the same."

  "Yes," the Tick-Tock Man said thoughtfully. His hands tightened on the boy's shoulders and drew Jake closer to that smiling, handsome, lunatic face. "I can see he's pert. It's in his eyes. But we'll take care of that, won't we, Gasher?"

  It's not Gasher he's talking to, Jake thought. It's me. He thinks he's hypnotizing me . . . and maybe he is.

  "Ay," Gasher breathed.

  Jake felt he was drowning in those wide green eyes. Although the Tick-Tock Man's grip was still not really tight, he couldn't get enough breath into his lungs. He summoned all of his own force in an effort to break the blonde man's hold over him, and again spoke the first words which came to mind:

  "So fell Lord Perth, and the countryside did shake with that thunder."

  It acted upon Tick-Tock like a hard open-handed blow to the face. He recoiled, green eyes narrowing, his grip on Jake's shoulders tightening painfully. "What do you say? Where did you hear that?"

  "A little bird told me," Jake replied with calculated insolence, and the next instant he was flying across the room.

  If he had struck the curved wall headfirst, he would have been knocked cold or killed. As it happened, he struck on one hip, rebounded, and landed in a heap on the iron grillework. He shook his head groggily, looked around, and found himself face to face with the woman who was not taking a siesta. He uttered a shocked cry and crawled away on his hands and knees. Hoots kicked him in the chest, flipping him onto his back. Jake lay there gasping, looking up at the knot of rainbow colors where the neon tubes came together. A moment later, Tick-Tock's face filled his field of vision. The man's lips were pressed together in a hard, straight line, his cheeks flared with color, and there was fear in his eyes. The coffin-shaped glass ornament he wore around his neck dangled directly in front of Jake's eyes, swinging gently back and forth on its silver chain, as if imitating the pendulum of the tiny grandfather clock inside.

  "Gasher's right," he said. He gathered a handful of Jake's shirt into one fist and pulled him up. "You're pert. But you don't want to be pert with me, cully. You don't ever want to be pert with me. Have you heard of people with short fuses? Well, I have no fuse at all, and there's a thousand could testify to it if I hadn't stilled their tongues for good. If you ever speak to me of Lord Perth again. . . ever, ever, ever . . . I'll tear off the top of your skull and eat your brains. I'll have none of that bad-luck story in the Cradle of the Grays. Do you understand me?"

  He shook Jake back and forth like a rag, and the boy burst into tears.

  "Do you?"

  "Y-Y-Yes!"

  "Good." He set Jake upon his feet, where he swayed woozily back and forth, wiping at his streaming eyes and leaving smudges of dirt on his cheeks so dark they looked like mascara. "Now, my little cull, we're going to have a question and answer session here. I'll ask the questions and you'll give the answers. Do you understand?"

  Jake didn't reply. He was looking at a panel of the ventilator grille which circled the chamber.

  The Tick-Tock Man grabbed his nose between two of his fingers and squeezed it viciously. "Do you understand me?"

  "Yes!" Jake cried. His eyes, now watering with pain as well as terror, returned to Tick-Tock's face. He wanted to look back at the ventilator grille, wanted desperately to verify that what he had seen there was not simply a trick of his frightened, overloaded mind, but he didn't dare. He was afraid someone else--Tick--Tock himself, most likely--would follow his gaze and see what he had seen.

  "Good." Tick-Tock pulled Jake back over to the chair by his nose, sat down, and cocked his leg over the arm again. "Let's have a nice little chin, then. We'll begin with your name, shall we? Just what might that be, cully?"

  "Jake Chambers." With his nose pinched shut, his voice sounded nasal and foggy.

  "And are you a Not-See, Jake Chambers?"

  For a moment Jake wondered if this was a peculiar way of asking him if he was blind. . . but of course they could all see he wasn't. "I don't understand what--"

  Tick-Tock shook him back and forth by the nose. "Not-See! Not-See! You just want to stop playing with me, boy!"

  "I don't understand--" Jake began, and then he looked at the old machine-gun hanging from the chair and thought once more of the crashed Focke-Wulf. The pieces fell together in his mind. "No--I'm not a Nazi. I'm an American. All that ended long before I was born!"

  The Tick-Tock Man released his hold on Jake's nose, which immediately began to gush blood. "You could have told me that in the first place and saved yourself all sorts of pain, Jake Chambers. . . but at least now you understand how we do things around here, don't you?"

  Jake nodded.

  "Ay. Well enough! We'll start with the simple questions."

  Jake's eyes drifted back to the ventilator grille. What he had seen before was still there; it hadn't been just his imagination. Two gold-ringed eyes floated in the dark behind the chrome louvers.

  Oy.

  Tick-Tock slapped his face, knocking him back into Gasher, who immediately pushed him forward again. "It's school-time, dear heart," Gasher whispered. "Mind yer lessons, now! Mind em wery sharp!"

  "Look at me when I'm talking to you," Tick-Tock said. "I'll have some respect, Jake Chambers, or I'll have your balls."

  "All right."

  Tick-Tock's green eyes gleamed dangerously. "All right what?"

  Jake groped for the right answer, pushing away the tangle of questions and the sudden hope which had dawned in his mind. And what came was what would have served at his own Cradle of the Pubes. . . otherwise known as The Piper School. "All right, sir?"

  Tick-Tock smiled. "That's a start, boy," he said, and leaned forward, forearms on his thighs. "Now . . . what's an American?"

  Jake began to talk, trying with all his might not to look toward the ventilator grille as he did so.

  29

  ROLAND HOLSTERED HIS GUN, laid both hands on the valve-wheel, and tried to turn it. It wouldn't budge. That didn't much surprise him, but it presented serious problems.

  Oy stood by his left boot, looking up anxiously, waiting for Roland to open the door so they could continue the journey to Jake. The gunslinger only wished it was that easy. It wouldn't do to simply stand out here and wait for someone to leave; it might be hours or even days before one of the Grays decided to use this particular exit again. Gasher and his friends might take it into their heads to flay Jake alive while the gunslinger was waiting for it to happen.

  He leaned his head against the steel but heard nothing. That didn't surprise him, either. He had seen doors like this a long time ago--you couldn't shoot out the locks, and you certainly couldn't hear through them. There might be one; there might be two, facing each other, with some dead
airspace in between. Somewhere, though, there would be a button which would spin the wheel in the middle of the door and release the locks. If Jake could reach that button, all might still be well.

  Roland understood that he was not a full member of this ka-tet; he guessed that even Oy was more fully aware than he of the secret life which existed at its heart (he very much doubted that the bumbler had tracked Jake with his nose alone through those tunnels where water ran in polluted streamlets). Nevertheless, he had been able to help Jake when the boy had been trying to cross from his world to this one. He had been able to see . . . and when Jake had been trying to regain the key he had dropped, he had been able to send a message.

  He had to be very careful about sending messages this time. At best, the Grays would realize something was up. At worst, Jake might misinterpret what Roland tried to tell him and do something foolish.

  But if he could see . . .

  Roland closed his eyes and bent all his concentration toward Jake. He thought of the boy's eyes and sent his ka out to find them.

  At first there was nothing, but at last an image began to form. It was a face framed by long, gray-blonde hair. Green eyes gleamed in deep sockets like firedims in a cave. Roland quickly understood that this was the Tick-Tock Man, and that he was a descendent of the man who had died in the air-carriage--interesting, but of no practical value in this situation. He tried to look beyond the Tick-Tock Man, to see the rest of the room in which Jake was being held, and the people in it.

  "Ake," Oy whispered, as if reminding Roland that this was neither the time nor the place to take a nap.

  "Shhh," the gunslinger said, not opening his eyes.

  But it was no good. He caught only blurs, probably because Jake's concentration was focused so tightly on the Tick-Tock Man; everyone and everything else was little more than a series of gray-shrouded shapes on the edges of Jake's perception.

  Roland opened his eyes again and pounded his left fist lightly into the open palm of his right hand. He had an idea that he could push harder and see more ... but that might make the boy aware of his presence. That would be dangerous. Gasher might smell a rat, and if he didn't the Tick-Tock Man would. He looked up at the narrow ventilator grilles, then down at Oy. He had wondered several times just how smart he was; now it looked as though he was going to find out.

  Roland reached up with his good left hand, slipped his fingers between the horizontal slats of the ventilator grille closest to the hatchway through which Jake had been taken, and pulled. The grille popped out in a shower of rust and dried moss. The hole behind it was far too small for a man . . . but not for a billy-bumbler. He put the grille down, picked Oy up, and spoke softly into his ear.

  "Go . . . see . . . come back. Do you understand? Don't let them see you. Just go and see and come back."

  Oy gazed up into his face, saying nothing, not even Jake's name. Roland had no idea if he had understood or not, but wasting time in ponderation would not help matters. He placed Oy in the ventilator shaft. The bumbler sniffed at the crumbles of dried moss, sneezed delicately, then only crouched there with the draft rippling through his long, silky fur, looking doubtfully at Roland with his strange eyes.

  "Go and see and come back," Roland repeated in a whisper, and Oy disappeared into the shadows, walking silently, claws retracted, on the pads of his paws.

  Roland drew his gun again and did the hardest thing. He waited.

  Oy returned less than three minutes later. Roland lifted him out of the shaft and put him on the floor. Oy looked up at him with his long neck extended. "How many, Oy?" Roland asked. "How many did you see?"

  For a long moment he thought the bumbler wouldn't do anything except go on staring in his anxious way. Then he lifted his right paw tentatively in the air, extended the claws, and looked at it, as if trying to remember something very difficult. At last he began to tap on the steel floor.

  One ... two ... three ... four. A pause. Then two more, quick and delicate, the extended claws clicking lightly on the steel: five, six. Oy paused a second time, head down, looking like a child lost in the throes of some titanic mental struggle. Then he tapped his claws one final time on the steel, looking up at Roland as he did it. "Ake!"

  Six Grays . . . and Jake.

  Roland picked Oy up and stroked him. "Good!" he murmured into Oy's ear. In truth, he was almost overwhelmed with surprise and gratitude. He had hoped for something, but this careful response was amazing. And he had few doubts about the accuracy of the count. "Good boy!"

  "Oy! Ake!"

  Yes, Jake. Jake was the problem. Jake, to whom he had made a promise he intended to keep.

  The gunslinger thought deeply in his strange fashion--that combination of dry pragmatism and wild intuition which had probably come from his strange grandmother, Deidre the Mad, and had kept him alive all these years after his old companions had passed. Now he was depending on it to keep Jake alive, too.

  He picked Oy up again, knowing Jake might live--might--but the bumbler was almost certainly going to die. He whispered several simple words into Oy's cocked ear, repeating them over and over. At last he ceased speaking and returned him to the ventilator shaft. "Good boy," he whispered. "Go on, now. Get it done. My heart goes with you."

  "Oy! Art! Ake!" the bumbler whispered, and then scurried off into the darkness again.

  Roland waited for all hell to break loose.

  30

  ASK ME A QUESTION, Eddie Dean of New York. And it better be a good one . . . if it's not, you and your woman are going to die, no matter where you came from.

  And, dear God, how did you respond to something like that?

  The dark red light had gone out; now the pink one reappeared. "Hurry," the faint voice of Little Blaine urged them. "He's worse than ever before . . . hurry or he'll kill you!"

  Eddie was vaguely aware that flocks of disturbed pigeons were still swooping aimlessly through the Cradle, and that some of them had smashed headfirst into the pillars and dropped dead on the floor.

  "What does it want?" Susannah hissed at the speaker and the voice of Little Blaine somewhere behind it. "For God's sake, what does it want?"

  No reply. And Eddie could feel any period of grace they might have started with slipping away. He thumbed the TALK/LISTEN and spoke with frantic vivacity as the sweat trickled down his cheeks and neck.

  Ask me a question.

  "So--Blaine! What have you been up to these last few years? I guess you haven't been doing the old southeast run, huh? Any reason why not? Haven't been feeling up to snuff?"

  No sound but the rustle and flap of the pigeons. In his mind he saw Ardis trying to scream as his cheeks melted and his tongue caught fire. He felt the hair on the nape of his neck stirring and clumping together. Fear? Or gathering electricity?

  Hurry . . . he's worse than ever before.

  "Who built you, anyway?" Eddie asked frantically, thinking: If I only knew what the fucking thing wanted! "Want to talk about that? Was it the Grays? Nah . . . probably the Great Old Ones, right? Or . . ."

  He trailed off. Now he could feel Blaine's silence as a physical weight on his skin, like fleshy, groping hands.

  "What do you want?" he shouted. "Just what in hell do you want to hear?"

  No answer--but the buttons on the box were glowing an angry dark red again, and Eddie knew their time was almost up. He could hear a low buzzing sound nearby--a sound like an electrical generator--and he didn't believe that sound was just his imagination, no matter how much he wanted to think so.

  "Blaine!" Susannah shouted suddenly. "Blaine, do you hear me?"

  No answer . . . and Eddie felt the air was filling up with electricity as a bowl under a tap fills up. with water. He could feel it crackling bitterly in his nose with every breath he took; could feel his fillings buzzing like angry insects.

  "Blaine, I've got a question, and it is a pretty good one! Listen!" She closed her eyes for a moment, fingers rubbing frantically at her temples, and then opened her eyes again. "'
There is a thing that . . . uh . . . that nothing is, and yet it has a name; 'tis sometimes tall and . . . and sometimes short . . .' "She broke off and stared at Eddie with wide, agonized eyes. "Help me! I can't remember how the rest of it goes!"

  Eddie only stared at her as if she had gone mad. What in the name of God was she talking about? Then it came to him, and it made a weirdly perfect sense, and the rest of the riddle clicked into his mind as neatly as the last two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He swung toward the speaker again.

  " 'It joins our talks, it joins our sport, and plays at every game.' What is it? That's our question, Blaine--what is it?"

  The red light illuminating the COMMAND and ENTER buttons below the diamond of numbers blinked out. There was an endless moment of silence before Blaine spoke again . . . but Eddie was aware that the feeling of electricity crawling all over his skin was diminishing.

  "A SHADOW, OF COURSE," the voice of Blaine responded. "AN EASY ONE . . . BUT NOT BAD. NOT BAD AT ALL."

  The voice coming out of the speaker was animated by a thoughtful quality . . . and something else, as well. Pleasure? Longing? Eddie couldn't quite decide, but he did know there was something in that voice that reminded him of Little Blaine. He knew something else, as well: Susannah had saved their bacon, at least for the time being. He bent down and kissed her cold, sweaty brow.

  "DO YOU KNOW ANY MORE RIDDLES?" Blaine asked.

  "Yes, lots," Susannah said at once. "Our companion, Jake, has a whole book of them."

  "FROM THE NEW YORK PLACE OF WHERE?" Blaine asked, and now the tone of his voice was perfectly clear, at least to Eddie. Blaine might be a machine, but Eddie had been a heroin junkie for six years, and he knew stone greed when he heard it.

  "From New York, right," he said. "But Jake has been taken prisoner. A man named Gasher took him."

  No answer . . . and then the buttons glowed that faint, rosy pink again. "Good so far," the voice of Little Blaine whispered. "But you must be careful . . . he's tricky . . . ."

  The red lights reappeared at once.

  "DID ONE OF YOU SPEAK?" Blaine's voice was cold and--Eddie could have sworn it was so--suspicious.

  He looked at Susannah. Susannah looked back with the wide, frightened eyes of a little girl who has heard something unnameable moving slyly beneath the bed.