Christine

by Stephen King

  "I don't know," Arnie said, but he knew. It had happened before. Sometimes all that Christine's radio would pick up was WDIL. It didn't matter what buttons you pushed or how much you fooled with the FM converter under the dashboard; it was WDIL or nothing.

  He suddenly felt that stopping for the hitchhiker had been a mistake.

  But it was too late for second thoughts now; the fellow had opened one of Christine's rear doors, tossed his duffel-bag onto the floor, and slipped in after it. A blast of cold air and a swirl of snow came in with him.

  "Ah, man, thanks." He sighed. "My fingers and toes all took off for Miami Beach about twenty minutes ago. They must have gone somewhere, anyway, cause I sure can't feel em anymore."

  "Thank my lady," Arnie said shortly.

  "Thank you, ma'am," the hitchhiker said, tipping an invisible hat gallantly.

  "Don't mention it," Leigh said, and smiled. "Merry Christmas."

  "Same to you," the hitchhiker said, "although you'd never know there was such a thing if you'd been standing out there trying to hook a ride tonight. People just breeze by and then they're gone. Voom." He looked around appreciatively. "Nice car, man. Hell of a nice car."

  "Thanks," Arnie said.

  "You restore it yourself?"

  "Yeah."

  Leigh was looking at Arnie, puzzled. His earlier expansive mood had been replaced by a curtness that was not like his usual self at all. On the radio, the Big Bopper finished and Richie Valens came on, doing "La Bamba."

  The hitchhiker shook his head and laughed. "First the Big Bopper, then Richie Valens. Must be death night on the radio. Good old WDIL."

  "What do you mean?" Leigh asked.

  Arnie snapped the radio off. "They died in a plane crash. With Buddy Holly."

  "Oh," Leigh said in a small voice.

  Perhaps the hitchhiker also sensed the change in Arnie's mood; he fell silent and meditative in the back seat. Outside, the snow began to fall faster and harder. The first good storm of the season had come in.

  At length, the golden arches twinkled up out of the snow.

  "Do you want me to go in, Arnie?" Leigh asked. Arnie had gone nearly as quiet as stone, turning aside her bright attempts at conversation with mere grunts.

  "I will," he said, and pulled in. "What do you want?"

  "Just a hamburger and french fries, please." She had intended to go the whole hog--Big Mac, shake, even the cookies--but her appetite seemed to have shrunk away to nothing.

  Arnie parked. In the yellow light flaring from the squat brick building's undersides, his face looked jaundiced and somehow diseased. He turned around, arm trailing over the seat. "Can I grab you something?"

  "No thanks," the hitchhiker said. "Folks'll be waiting supper. Can't disappoint my mom. She kills the fatted calf every time I come h--"

  The chunk of the door cut off his final word. Arnie had gotten out and was headed briskly across to the in door, his boots kicking up little puffs of new snow.

  "Is he always that cheery?" the hitchhiker asked. "Or does he get sorta taciturn sometimes?"

  "He's very sweet," Leigh said firmly. She was suddenly nervous. Arnie had turned off the engine and taken the keys, and she was left alone with this stranger in the back seat. She could see him in the rearview mirror, and suddenly his long black hair, tangled by the wind, his scruff of beard, and his dark eyes made him seem Manson-like and wild.

  "Where do you go to school?" she asked. Her fingers were plucking at her slacks, and she made them stop.

  "Pitt," the hitchhiker said, and no more. His eyes met hers in the mirror, and Leigh dropped hers hastily to her lap. Cranberry red slacks. She had worn them because Arnie had once told her he liked them-- probably because they were the tightest pair she owned, even tighter than her Levi's. She suddenly wished she had worn something else, something that could be considered provocative by no stretch of the imagination: a grain-sack, maybe. She tried to smile--it was a funny thought, all right, a grain-sack, get it, ha-ha-ho-ho, wotta kneeslapper-- but no smile came. There was no way she could keep from admitting it to herself: Arnie had left her alone with this stranger (as punishment? it had been her idea to pick him up), and now she was scared.

  "Bad vibes," the hitchhiker said suddenly, making her actually catch her breath. His words were flat and final. She could see Arnie through the plate-glass window, standing fifth or sixth in line. He wouldn't get up to the counter for a while. She found herself imagining the hitchhiker suddenly clamping his gloved hands around her throat. Of course she could reach the horn-ring . . . but would the horn sound? She found herself doubting it for no sane reason at all. She found herself thinking that she could hit the horn ninety-nine times and it would honk satisfyingly. But if, on the hundredth, she was being strangled by this hitchhiker on whose behalf she had interceded, the horn wouldn't blow. Because . . . because Christine didn't like her. In fact, she believed that Christine hated her guts. It was as simple as that. Crazy but simple.

  "P-Pardon me?" She glanced back in the rearview mirror and was immeasurably relieved to see that the hitchhiker wasn't looking at her at all; he was glancing around the car. He touched the seat cover with his palm, then lightly brushed the roof upholstery with the tips of his fingers.

  "Bad vibes," he said, and shook his head. "This car, I don't know why, but I get bad vibes."

  "Do you?" she asked, hoping her voice sounded neutral.

  "Yeah. I got stuck in an elevator once when I was a little kid. Ever since then I get attacks of claustrophobia. I never had one in a car before, but boy, I got one now. In the worst way. I think you could light a kitchen match on my tongue, that's how dry my mouth is."

  He laughed a short, embarrassed laugh.

  "If I wasn't already so late, I'd just get out and walk. No offense to you or your guy's car," he added hastily, and when Leigh looked back into the mirror his eyes did not seem wild at all, only nervous. Apparently he wasn't kidding about the claustrophobia, and he no longer looked like Charlie Manson to her at all. Leigh wondered how she could have been so stupid . . . except she knew how, and why. She knew perfectly well.

  It was the car. All day long she had felt perfectly okay riding in Christine, but now her former nervousness and dislike were back. She had merely projected her feelings onto the hitchhiker because . . . well, because you could be scared and nervous about some guy you just picked up off the road, but it was insane to be scared by a car, an inanimate construct of steel and glass and plastic and chrome. That wasn't just a little eccentric, it was insane.

  "You don't smell anything, do you?" he asked abruptly.

  "Smell anything?"

  "A bad smell."

  "No, not at all." Her fingers were plucking at the bottom of her sweater now, pulling off wisps of angora. Her heart was knocking unpleasantly in her chest. "It must be part of your claustrophobia whatzis."

  "I guess so."

  But she could smell it. Under the good new smells of leather and upholstery there was a faint odor: something like gone-over eggs. Just a whiff . . . a lingering whiff.

  "Mind if I crank the window down a little?"

  "If you want," Leigh said, and found it took some effort to keep her voice steady and casual. Suddenly her mind's eye showed her the picture that had been in the paper yesterday morning, a picture of Moochie Welch probably culled from the yearbook. The caption beneath read: Peter Welch, victim of fatal hit-and-run incident that police feel may have been murder.

  The hitchhiker unrolled his window three inches and crisp cold air came in, driving that smell away. Inside McD's, Arnie had reached the counter and was giving his order. Looking at him, Leigh experienced such an odd swirl of love and fear that she felt nauseated by the mixture --for the second or third time lately she found herself wishing that she had fixed on Dennis first, Dennis who seemed so safe and sensible . . .

  She turned her thoughts away from that.

  "Just tell me if it gets cold on you," the hitchhiker said apologetically. "I'm wei
rd, I know it." He sighed. "Sometimes I think I never should have given up drugs, you know?"

  Leigh smiled.

  Arnie came out with a white bag, skidded a little in the snow, and then got behind the wheel.

  "Cold like an icebox in here," he grunted.

  "Sorry, man," the hitchhiker said from the back, and rolled the window up again. Leigh waited to see if that smell would come back, but now she could smell nothing but leather, upholstery, and the faint aroma of Arnie's aftershave.

  "Here you go, Leigh." He gave her a burger, fries, and a small Coke. He had gotten himself a Big Mac.

  "Want to thank you again for the ride, man," the hitchhiker said. "You can just drop me off at the corner of JFK and Center, if that's cool."

  "Fine," Arnie said shortly, and pulled out. The snow was coming down even more heavily now, and the wind had begun to whoop. For the first time Leigh felt Christine skid a bit as she felt for a grip on the wide street, which was now almost deserted. They were less than fifteen minutes from home.

  With the smell gone, Leigh discovered that her appetite had come back. She wolfed half of her hamburger, drank some Coke, and stifled a burp with the back of her hand. The corner of Center and JFK, marked with a war memorial, came up on the left, and Arnie pulled over, pumping the brakes lightly so Christine wouldn't slide.

  "Have a nice weekend," Arnie said. He sounded more like his usual self now. Maybe all he needed was some food, Leigh thought, amused.

  "Same goes to both of you," the hitchhiker said. "And have a merry Christmas."

  "You too," Leigh said. She took another bite of her hamburger, chewed, swallowed . . . and felt it lodge halfway down her throat. Suddenly she couldn't breathe.

  The hitchhiker was getting out. The noise of the door opening was very loud. The sound of the latch clicking sounded like the thud of tumblers falling in a bank-vault. The sound of the wind was like a factory whistle.

  (this is stupid I know but I can't Arnie I can't breathe)

  I'm choking! she tried to say, and what came out was a faint, fuzzy sound that she was sure the whine of the wind must have covered. She clawed at her throat and it felt swollen and throbbing in her hand. She tried to scream. No breath to scream, no breath

  (Arnie I can't))

  at all, and she could feel it in there, a warm lump of burger and bun.

  She tried to cough it up and it wouldn't come. The dashboard lights, bright green, circular

  (cat like the eyes of a cat dear God I can't BREATHE)

  watching her--

  (God I can't BREATHE can't BREATHE can't)

  Her chest began to pound for air. Again she tried to cough up the lump of half-chewed burger and bun in her throat, but it wouldn't come. Now the sound of the wind was bigger than the world, bigger than any sound she had ever heard before, and Arnie was finally turning away from the hitchhiker to look at her; he was turning in slow motion, his eyes widening almost comically, and even his voice seemed too loud, like thunder, the voice of Zeus speaking to some poor mortal from behind a massy skystack of thunderclouds:

  "LEIGH . . . ARE YOU . . . WHAT THE HELL? . . . SHE'S CHOKING! OH MY GOD SHE'S--"

  He reached for her in slow motion, and then he drew his hands back, immobilized by panic

  (Oh help me help me for God's sake do something I'm dying oh my dear God I'm choking to death on a McDonald's hamburger Arnie why don't you HELP ME?)

  and of course she knew why, he drew back because Christine didn't want her to have any help, this was Christine's way of getting rid of her, Christine's way of getting rid of the other woman, the competition, and now the dashboard instruments really were eyes, great round unemotional eyes watching her choke to death, eyes she could see only through a growing jitter of black dots, dots that burst and spread as

  (mamma oh my dear this I'm dying and SHE SEES ME SHE IS ALIVE ALIVE ALIVE OH MAMMA MY GOD CHRISTINE IS ALIVE )

  Arnie reached for her again. Now she had begun to thrash on the seat, her chest heaving spasmodically as she clawed at her throat. Her eyes were bulging. Her lips had begun to turn blue. Arnie was pounding her ineffectually on the back and yelling something. He grabbed her shoulder, apparently meaning to pull her out of the car, and then he suddenly winced and straightened, his hands going involuntarily to the small of his back.

  Leigh twitched and thrashed. The blockage in her throat felt huge and hot and throbbing. She tried again to cough it up, more weakly this time. The lump didn't budge. Now the whistle of the wind was beginning to fade, everything was beginning to fade, but her need for air didn't seem so awful. Maybe she was dying, but suddenly it didn't seem so bad. Nothing was so bad, except for those green eyes staring at her from the instrument panel. They weren't unemotional anymore. Now they were blazing with hate and triumph.

  (o my God I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee I am for offending this is my act my act of of )

  Arnie had reached across from the driver's side. Now Leigh's door was suddenly jerked open and she spilled sideways into a brutal, cutting cold. The air partially revived her, made her struggle for breath seem important again, but the obstruction wouldn't move . . . it just wouldn't move.

  From far away, Arnie's voice thundering sternly, the voice of Zeus: "WHAT ARE YOU DOING? GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER!"

  Arms around her. Strong arms. The wind on her face. Snow swirling in her eyes

  (o my God hear me a sinner this is my act of contrition I am heartily sorry for having offended OH! OWWW! what are you DOING my ribs hurts what what are you )

  and suddenly there were arms around her, crushing, and a pair of hard hands were clasped together in a knot just below her breasts, in the hollow of her solar plexus. And suddenly one thumb popped up, the thumb of a hitchhiker signalling for a ride, only the thumb drove painfully into her breastbone. At the same time the grip of the arms tightened brutally. She felt caught

  (Ohhhhhhh you're breaking my RIBS )

  in a gigantic bearhug. Her whole diaphragm seemed to heave, and something flew out of her mouth with the force of a projectile. It landed in the snow: a wet chunk of bun and meat.

  "Let her go!" Arnie was shouting as he slipped and slid around Christine's rear deck to where the hitchhiker held Leigh's limp body like a life-sized marionette. "Let her go, you're killing her!"

  Leigh began to breathe in great, tearing gasps. Her throat and lungs seemed to burn in rivers of fire with each gulp of the cold, wonderful air. She was dimly aware that she was sobbing.

  The brutal bearhug relaxed and the hands let her go. "Are you okay, girl? Are you all--"

  Then Arnie was reaching past her, grabbing for the hitchhiker. He turned toward Arnie, his long black hair flying in the wind, and Arnie hit him in the mouth. The hitchhiker flailed backward, boots slipping in the snow, and landed on his back. Fresh snow as fine and dry as confectioners' sugar puffed up around him.

  Arnie advanced, fists held up, eyes slitted.

  She took another convulsive breath--oh, it hurt, it was like being stabbed with knives--and screamed: "What are you doing, Arnie? Stop it!"

  He turned toward her, dazed. "Huh? Leigh?"

  "He saved my life, what are you hitting him for?"

  The effort was too much and the black dots began to spiral up before her eyes again. She could have leaned against the car, but she didn't want to go near it, didn't want to touch it. The dashboard instruments. Something had happened to the dashboard instruments. Something

  (eyes they turned into eyes)

  she didn't want to think about.

  She staggered to a lamppost instead and hung onto it like a drunk, head down, panting. A soft, tentative arm went around her waist. "Leigh . . . honey, are you all right?"

  She turned her head slightly and saw his miserable, scared face. She burst into tears.

  The hitchhiker approached them carefully, wiping his bloody mouth on the sleeve of his jacket.

  "Thank you," Leigh said between harsh, swift breaths. The pain was ebbing a
trifle now, and the hard, cold wind was soothing on her hot face. "I was choking. I think . . . I think I would have died if you hadn't. . ."

  Too much. The black dots again, all sounds fading into an eerie wind-tunnel again. She put her head down and waited for it to pass.

  "It's the Heimlich Maneuver," the hitchhiker said. "They make you learn it when you go to work in the cafeteria. At school. Make you practice on a rubber dummy. Daisy Mae, they call her. And you do it, but you don't have any idea if it'll--you know--work on a real person or not." His voice was shaky, jumping in pitch from low to high and back to low again like the voice of a kid entering puberty. His voice seemed to want to laugh or cry--something--and even in the uncertain light and heavily falling snow, Leigh could see how pallid his face was. "I never thought I'd actually have to use it. Works pretty good. Did you see that fucking piece of meat fly?" The hitchhiker wiped his mouth and looked blankly at the thin froth of blood on the palm of his hand.

  "I'm sorry I hit you," Arnie said. He sounded close to tears. "I was just. . . I was . . ."

  "Sure, man, I know." He clapped Arnie on the shoulder. "No harm, no foul. Girl, are you all right?"

  "Yes," Leigh said. Her breath was coming evenly now. Her heart was slowing down. Only her legs were bad; they were so much helpless rubber. My God, she thought. I could be dead now. If we hadn't picked that guy up, and we almost didn't--

  It occurred to her that she was lucky to be alive. This cliche struck her forcibly with a stupid, undeniable power that made her feel faint. She began to cry harder. When Arnie led her back toward the car, she came with him, her head on his shoulder.

  "Well," the hitchhiker said uncertainly, "I'll be off."

  "Wait," Leigh said. "What's your name? You saved my life, I'd like to know your name."

  "Barry Gottfried," the hitchhiker said. "At your service." Again he swept off an imaginary hat.

  "Leigh Cabot," she said. "This is Arnie Cunningham. Thank you again."

  "For sure," Arnie added, but Leigh heard no real thanks in his voice --only that shakiness. He handed her into the car and suddenly the smell assaulted her, attacked her: nothing mild this time, much more than just a whiff underneath. It was the smell of rot and decomposition, high and noxious. She felt a mad fright invade her brain and she thought: It is the smell of her fury--