The Outsider_A Novel

by Stephen King

  His finger curled on the trigger, but before he could fire the first shot, the SUV stopped on its own near the abandoned gift shop with its fallen sign. The doors opened.

  “Thank you, God,” Jack murmured. He applied his eye to the scope again, waiting for Mr. No Opinion to emerge. They all had to go, but the chief meddler was going first.

  11

  The diamondback emerged from the crack where it had taken refuge. It slithered toward Jack’s splayed feet, stopped, tasted the warming air with its flickering tongue, then slithered forward again. It had no intention of attacking, its purpose was only investigatory, but when Jack fired the first shot, it raised its tail and began to rattle. Jack—who had forgotten shooter’s plugs or cotton for his ears as well as his toothbrush—never heard it.

  12

  Howie was the first out of the SUV. He stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the fallen sign reading SOUVENIRS AND AUTHENTIC INDIAN CRAFTS. Alec and Yune exited the backseat on the driver’s side. Ralph got out of the shotgun seat to open the rear door for Holly, who was having trouble with the handle. As he did this, something lying on the cracked pavement caught his eye.

  “Damn,” he said. “Look at that.”

  “What is it?” Holly asked as he bent down. “What, what?”

  “I think it’s an arrowhe—”

  A gunshot rang out, the almost liquid whipcrack of a high-powered rifle. Ralph felt the passage of the slug, which meant it had missed the top of his head by no more than an inch or two. The SUV’s passenger side mirror shattered and flew away, hitting the cracked asphalt and tumbling across it in a series of brilliant flashes.

  “Gun!” Ralph shouted, grabbing Holly around the shoulders and dragging her to her knees. “Gun, gun, gun!”

  Howie looked around at him. His expression was both startled and bemused. “Say what? Did you—”

  The second shot came, and the top of Howie Gold’s head disappeared. For a moment he stood where he was, blood coursing down his cheeks and brow. Then he toppled. Alec ran toward him and the third shot came, throwing Alec back against the hood of the SUV. Blood burst through his shirt above the belt line. Yune started toward him. There was a fourth shot. Ralph saw it tear away the side of Alec’s neck, and then Howie’s investigator dropped out of sight behind the car.

  “Get down!” Ralph shouted at Yune. “Get down, he’s up on that bluff!”

  Yune dropped to his knees and scrambled. Three more shots came in rapid succession. One of the SUV’s tires began to hiss. The windshield cracked into a milk-glaze and sagged in around a hole above the steering wheel. The third shot punched through the rear quarter-panel on the driver’s side and blew an exit hole as big as a tennis ball on the passenger side, close to where Ralph and Yune now crouched, flanking Holly. There was a pause, then another fusillade: four shots this time. The rear windows broke, spraying nuggets of safety glass. Another of those ragged holes appeared in the rear deck.

  “We can’t stay here,” Holly said. She sounded perfectly calm. “Even if he doesn’t hit us, he’ll hit the gas tank.”

  “She’s right,” Yune said. “Alec and Gold, what do you think? Any chance?”

  “No,” Ralph said. “They’re—”

  Another of those liquid whipcracks. They all flinched, and another tire began to hiss.

  “They’re gone,” Ralph finished. “We have to run for that souvenir shop. You two go first. I’ll cover you.”

  “I’ll do the covering,” Yune said. “You and Holly do the running.”

  A scream came from the shooter’s position. Of pain or rage, Ralph couldn’t tell.

  Yune stood up, legs spread, pistol held in both hands, and began to fire spaced shots at the top of the knoll. “Go!” he shouted. “Right now! Go, go, go!”

  Ralph stood up. Holly stood up beside him. As on the day when Terry Maitland was shot, it seemed to Ralph that he could see everything. His arm was around Holly’s waist. There was a bird circling in the sky, wings outstretched. The tires were hissing. The SUV was settling on the driver’s side. At the top of the knoll he could see a stuttery, moving flash that had to be the scope of the bastard’s rifle. Ralph had no idea why it was moving around like that and didn’t care. There was a second scream, then a third, the last one almost a shriek. Holly grabbed Yune’s arm and jerked him. He gave her an amazed look, like a man rudely yanked out of a dream, and Ralph knew he had been ready to die. Expected to die. The three of them sprinted for the shelter of the gift shop, and although it had to be less than two hundred feet from the mortally wounded SUV, they seemed to be running in slow motion, like a trio of best friends at the end of some stupid romantic comedy. Only in those movies, no one ran past the mangled bodies of two men who had been alive and healthy only ninety seconds before. In those movies, no one stepped in a puddle of fresh blood and left bright red tracks behind. Another shot rang out, and Yune shouted.

  “I’m hit! Fucker hit me!” He went down.

  13

  Jack was reloading, his ears ringing, when the rattlesnake decided it had had enough of this bothersome intruder in its territory. It struck him high on the right calf. Its fangs penetrated Jack’s chino pants with no trouble at all, and its poison sacs were full. Jack rolled over, holding his rifle high in his right hand, screaming—not at the pain, which was just beginning, but at the sight of the rattler slithering up his leg, its forked tongue flicking, its beady black eyes intent. The slippery weight of it was hideous. It struck him again, this time in the thigh, and continued its sinuous upward trek, still rattling away. The next strike might be into his balls.

  “Get off! GET THE FUCK OFF ME!”

  Trying to get rid of it with the rifle would do no good, it could evade that, so Jack dropped the gun and seized it in both hands. It struck at his right wrist, missing the first time but hitting on its second try, leaving holes the size of colons in a newspaper headline, but its poison sacs were exhausted. Jack neither knew nor cared. He twisted it in his hands like a man wringing out a washcloth, and saw its skin split. Down below, someone was firing repeatedly—a pistol, by the sound—but the range was long and nothing came close. Jack flung the rattlesnake, saw it thump to the rocky scree, and slither away once more.

  Get rid of them, Jack.

  “Yes, okay, right.”

  Was he speaking, or only thinking? He couldn’t tell. The ringing in his ears had become a high hum, like a steel wire being stroked until it vibrated.

  He grabbed the rifle, rolled onto his belly, placed the barrel back on the flat rock, peered into the scope. The remaining three were running for the shelter of the gift shop, the woman in the middle. He tried to put the crosshairs on Anderson, but his hands—one of them repeatedly snakebitten—were trembling, and he got the olive-skinned guy on the end instead. It took two tries, but he got him. The guy’s arm flew back over his head like a pitcher getting ready to throw his best fastball, and he fell on his side. The other two stopped to help him. This was his best chance, and maybe the last. If he didn’t take them now, they’d get behind the building.

  Pain was flowing up his leg from the initial bite, and he could feel the flesh of his calf swelling, but that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was the heat that was now spreading like a flash fever. Or the sunburn from hell. He fired again and thought at first he’d hit the woman, but it was only a flinch. She grabbed the olive-skinned man by his unwounded arm. Anderson got him around the waist and yanked him to his feet. Jack pulled the trigger again, and got nothing but a dry click. He fumbled in his pocket for more shells, loaded two, dropped the rest. His hands were going numb. The leg that had been bitten was going numb. His tongue seemed to be swelling in his mouth. He screamed again, this time in frustration. By the time he applied his eye to the scope again, they were gone. He could see their shadows for a moment, then those were gone, too.

  14

  With Holly on one side and Ralph on the other, Yune was able to make it to the splintered side of the gift shop, w
here he collapsed with his back against the building, panting. His face was ashy, his forehead dotted with pearls of sweat. The left sleeve of his shirt was bloody down to the wrist.

  He groaned. “Fuck, doesn’t that fucking smart.” From the knoll, the shooter fired again. The bullet whined off the asphalt.

  “How bad?” Ralph said. “Let me see.”

  He unbuttoned Yune’s cuff, and although he pulled the sleeve up gently, Yune yelped and bared his teeth. Holly was on her cell phone.

  When the wound was revealed, it didn’t look as bad as Ralph had feared; the bullet had probably done little more than crease him. In a movie, that would have left Yune ready to rejoin the fray, but this was real life, and real life was different. The high-powered slug had gotten enough of him to do a job on his elbow. The flesh around it was already swelling, turning purple, as if it had been smashed with a club.

  “Tell me the elbow’s only dislocated,” Yune said.

  “That would be good, but I think it’s broken,” Ralph said. “You still lucked out, man. If it had gotten any more of you, I think it would have torn your lower arm right off. I don’t know what he’s shooting, but it’s big.”

  “My shoulder’s dislocated for sure,” Yune said. “Happened when my arm whipped back. Fuck! What are we going to do, amigo? We’re pinned.”

  “Holly?” Ralph asked. “Anything?”

  She shook her head. “I had four bars at the Boltons’, but not even one here. ‘Get off me,’ is that what he shouted? Did either of you h—”

  The rifleman fired again. Alec Pelley’s body jumped, then lay still. “I’ll get you, Anderson!” came floating down from the top of the knoll. “I’ll get you, Ralphie-boy! I’ll get all of you!”

  Yune looked at Ralph, startled.

  “We messed up,” Holly said. “The outsider had a Renfield after all. And whoever he is, he knows you, Ralph. Do you know him?”

  Ralph shook his head. The shooter had been yelling at the top of his voice, almost howling, and there were echoes. It could have been anyone.

  Yune studied his wounded arm. The bleeding had slowed, but the swelling hadn’t. Soon he would have no appreciable elbow joint at all. “This hurts worse than when my wisdom teeth went to hell. Tell me you have an idea, Ralph.”

  Ralph scooted to the far end of the building, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted. “The police are on their way, asshole! The Highway Patrol! Those guys won’t bother asking you to surrender, they’ll shoot you like a rabid dog! If you want to live, you better run for it!”

  There was a pause, then another scream. It might have been pain, laughter, or both. It was followed by two more shots. One thumped into the building above Ralph’s head, knocking a board loose and sending up a flurry of splinters.

  Ralph pulled back and looked at the other two ambush survivors. “I think that was a no.”

  “He sounds hysterical,” Holly said.

  “Out of his mind,” Yune agreed. He put his head back against the wall. “Christ, it’s hot on this asphalt. And it’ll be a lot hotter by noon. Muy caliente. If we’re still here, we’ll bake.”

  Holly said, “Do you shoot with your right hand, Lieutenant Sablo?”

  “Yes. And since we’re pinned down by a lunatic with a rifle, why don’t you just go on and call me Yune, like el jefe here?”

  “You need to get over to the end of the building, where Ralph is. And Ralph, you need to get over here with me. When Lieutenant Sablo starts shooting, we’ll run for the road that goes to the tourist cabins and the Ahiga entrance. I estimate we’ll be in the open for no more than fifty yards. We can cover that in fifteen seconds. Maybe twelve.”

  “Twelve seconds could be enough for him to get one of us, Holly.”

  “I think we can make it.” Still as cool as the breeze from a fan blowing over a bowl of ice cubes. It was amazing. When she’d come into Howie’s conference room two nights ago, she’d been so tightly wrapped that a loud cough might have had her leaping for the ceiling.

  She’s been in situations like this before, Ralph thought. And maybe it’s in situations like this where the real Holly Gibney comes out.

  Another gunshot, followed by a spang of metal. Then another.

  “He’s shooting for the SUV’s gas tank,” Yune said. “The rental people won’t like that.”

  “We have to go, Ralph.” Holly was staring directly into his eyes—another thing she’d had trouble with before, but not now. No, not now. “Think of all the Frank Petersons he’ll murder if we let him get away. They’ll go with him because they think they know him. Or because he seems friendly, the way he must have seemed friendly to the Howard girls. Not the one up there, I mean the one he’s protecting.”

  Three more shots in rapid succession. Ralph saw holes appear low on the SUV’s rear quarter-panel. Yes, he was aiming for the gas tank.

  “And what are we supposed to do if Mr. Renfield comes down to meet us?” Ralph asked.

  “Maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll stay where he is, on the high ground. We only have to go as far as the path that leads to the Ahiga entrance. If he comes down before we can get there, you can shoot him.”

  “Happy to, if he doesn’t shoot me first.”

  “I think there might be something wrong with him,” Holly said. “Those screams.”

  Yune nodded. “ ‘Get off me.’ I heard it, too.”

  The next gunshot ruptured the SUV’s tank, and gasoline began to pour onto the asphalt. There was no immediate explosion, but if the guy on the knoll hit the tank again, the SUV would almost certainly blow.

  “Okay,” Ralph said. The only alternative he could see was crouching here and waiting for the outsider’s accomplice to start pumping high-velocity slugs directly through the gift shop, trying to take out one or more of them that way. “Yune? Give us as much cover as you can.”

  Yune edged to the corner of the building, hissing with pain at each sliding movement. He held his Glock against his chest with his right hand. Holly and Ralph moved to the other end. Ralph could see the service road leading up the hill and to the tourist cabins. It was flanked by a pair of large boulders. An American flag was painted on one, the Texas Lone Star flag on the other.

  Once we get behind the one with the American flag on it, we should be safe.

  Almost certainly true, but fifty yards had never looked so much like five hundred. He thought of Jeannie at home doing her yoga, or downtown running errands. He thought of Derek at camp, maybe in the craft room with his new buds, talking about TV shows, video games, or girls. He even had time to wonder who Holly was thinking about.

  Him, apparently. “Are you ready?”

  Before he could reply, the shooter fired again and the SUV’s gas tank exploded in a ball of orange fire. Yune leaned out from his corner and began shooting at the top of the knoll.

  Holly sprinted. Ralph followed.

  15

  Jack saw the SUV burst into flame and screamed in triumph, although it made no sense to do so; it wasn’t as though there was anyone in it. Then movement caught his eye and he saw two of the meddlers running for the service road. The woman was in the lead, Anderson right behind her. Jack swung his rifle toward them and sighted through the scope. Before he could pull the trigger, there was the zzzz of an incoming round. Rock chips struck his shoulder. The one they’d left behind was shooting, and although the range was far too long for accuracy with whatever handgun the guy was using, that last one had been too close for comfort. Jack ducked, and as his chin pressed down on his neck, he felt the glands there bulge and throb, as if they were loaded with pus. His head was aching, his skin was sizzling, and his eyes seemed too big for their sockets.

  He peered through the scope just in time to glimpse Anderson disappearing behind one of those big boulders. He had lost them. Nor was that all. Black smoke was rising from the burning SUV, and now that it was full day, there was no wind to disperse it. What if someone saw that and called whatever excuse for a volunteer fire depa
rtment they had in this poor-ass town?

  Go down.

  No need to question whose voice it was this time.

  You need to get to them before they can get to the Ahiga path.

  Jack had no idea what an Ahiga was, but he had no doubt what the visitor inside his head was talking about: the path marked by the sign showing Chief Wahoo. He cringed as another bullet from the asshole down there spanked rock chips from a nearby outcropping, took the first step back the way he had come, and fell down. For a moment pain obliterated all thought. Then he grabbed at a bush sticking out between two rocks and pulled himself up. He looked down at himself, at first unable to believe what had become of him. The leg the snake had bitten now looked two times as big as the other one. The cloth of his pants was pulled tight. Worse, his crotch was bulging. It was as if he had stuffed a small pillow in there.

  Go down, Jack. Get them and I’ll take the cancer away.

  Oh, but right now he had more immediate concerns, didn’t he? He was swelling up like a waterlogged sponge.

  The snakebite poison, too. I can make you well.

  Jack wasn’t sure he could believe Tat-Man, but he understood he had no choice. Also, there was Anderson. Mr. No Opinion didn’t get to walk away from this. It was all his fault, and he didn’t get to walk away.

  He started down the path at a shambling trot, clutching the barrel of the Winchester and using the stock as a cane. His second fall came when the rocky scree slid away under his left foot and his swollen, throbbing right leg wasn’t able to compensate. The leg of his pants split open the next time he went down, disclosing flesh that was turning purplish-black and necrotic. He clawed at the rocks and got to his feet again, his face puffing and running with sweat. He was pretty sure he was going to die on this godforsaken chunk of rock and weeds, but he was goddamned if he was going to do it alone.