by Stephen King
His blue eyes on her brown ones. “We won’t be for much longer, you know that.”
She said, “We’re going to die, aren’t we? If they don’t gas us, then . . .” She tilted her head toward the Ward A kids, who were circling again. The hum strengthened. The overhead lights brightened. “It’ll happen when they cut loose. And the others, wherever they are.”
The phone, she thought at him. The big phone.
“Probably,” Nicky said. “Luke says we’re going to bring them down like Samson brought the temple down on the Philistines. I don’t know the story—nobody in my family bothered with the Bible—but I get the idea.”
Kalisha did know the story, and shivered. She looked again at Avery, and thought of something else from the Bible: a little child shall lead them.
“Can I tell you something?” Kalisha said. “You’ll probably laugh, but I don’t care.”
“Go for it.”
“I’d like you to kiss me.”
“Not exactly a tough assignment,” Nicky said. He smiled.
She leaned toward him. He leaned to meet her. They kissed in the hum.
This is nice, Kalisha thought. I thought it would be, and it is.
Nicky’s thought came at once, riding the hum: Let’s go for two. See if it’s twice as nice.
13
One-fifty.
The Challenger touched down on the runway of a private airstrip owned by a shell company called Maine Paper Industries. It taxied to a small darkened building. As it approached, a trio of motion-activated lights on the roof triggered, illuminating a boxy ground power unit and a hydraulic container-loader. The waiting vehicle wasn’t a mom van but a nine-passenger Chevrolet Suburban. It was black with tinted windows. Orphan Annie would have loved it.
The Challenger pulled up close to the Suburban and its engines died. For a moment Tim wasn’t entirely sure that they had, because he could hear a faint hum.
“That’s not the plane,” Luke said. “It’s the kids. It’ll get stronger when we’re closer.”
Tim went to the front of the cabin, threw the big red lever that opened the door, and unfolded the stairs. They came down on the tarmac less than four feet from the Suburban’s driver’s side.
“Okay,” he said, returning to the others. “Here we are. But before we go, Mrs. Sigsby, I have something for you.”
On the table in the Challenger’s conversation area he had found a goodly supply of glossy brochures advertising the various wonders of the totally bogus Maine Paper Industries, and half a dozen Maine Paper Industries gimme caps. He handed one to her and took another for himself.
“Put this on. Jam it down. Your hair’s short, shouldn’t be a problem getting it all underneath.”
Mrs. Sigsby looked at the cap with distaste. “Why?”
“You’re going first. If there are people waiting to ambush us, I’d like you to draw their fire.”
“Why would they put people here when we’re going there?”
“I admit it seems unlikely, so you won’t mind going first.” Tim put on his own gimme cap, only backward, with the adjustable band cutting across his forehead. Luke thought he was too old to wear a hat that way—it was a kid thing—but kept his mouth shut. He thought maybe it was Tim’s way of psyching himself up. “Evans, you’re right behind her.”
“No,” Evans said. “I’m not leaving this plane. I’m not sure I could if I wanted to. My foot is too painful. I can’t put any weight on it.”
Tim considered, then looked at Luke. “What do you think?”
“He’s telling the truth,” Luke said. “He’d have to hop down the stairs, and they’re steep. He might fall.”
“I shouldn’t have been here in the first place,” Dr. Evans said. A fat tear squeezed from one of his eyes. “I’m a medical man!”
“You’re a medical monster,” Luke said. “You watched kids almost drown—they thought they were drowning—and you took notes. There were kids who died because they had a fatal reaction to the shots you and Hendricks gave them. And those who lived really aren’t living at all, are they? Tell you what, I’d like to step on your foot. Grind my heel right into it.”
“No!” Evans squealed. He shrank back in his seat and dragged his swollen foot behind the good one.
“Luke,” Tim said.
“Don’t worry,” Luke said. “I want to but I won’t. Doing that would make me like him.” He looked at Mrs. Sigsby. “You don’t get any choice. Get up and go down those stairs.”
Mrs. Sigsby tugged on the Paper Industries cap and rose from her seat with such dignity as she could manage. Luke started to fall in behind her, but Tim held him back. “You’re behind me. Because you’re the important one.”
Luke didn’t argue.
Mrs. Sigsby stood at the stop of the air-stairs and raised her hands over her head. “It’s Mrs. Sigsby! If anyone is out there, hold your fire!”
Luke caught Tim’s thought clearly: Not as sure as she claimed.
There was no response; no outside sound but the crickets, no inside sound except the faint hum. Mrs. Sigsby made her way slowly down the stairs, holding onto the railing and favoring her bad leg.
Tim knocked on the cockpit door with the butt of the Glock. “Thank you, gentlemen. It was a good flight. You have one passenger still onboard. Take him wherever you want.”
“Take him to hell,” Luke said. “Single fare, no return.”
Tim started down the steps, bracing for a possible gunshot—he hadn’t anticipated her calling out and identifying herself. He should have, of course. In the event, no gunshot came.
“Front passenger seat,” Tim said to Mrs. Sigsby. “Luke, you get in behind her. I’ll have the gun, but you’re my backup. If she tries to make a move on me, use some of your mental juju. Got it?”
“Yes,” Luke said, and got in back.
Mrs. Sigsby sat down and fastened her seatbelt. When she reached to close the door, Tim shook his head. “Not yet.” He stood with one hand on the open door and called Wendy, safe in her room at the Beaufort Econo Lodge.
“The Eagle has landed.”
“Are you all right?” The connection was good; she could have been standing next to him. He wished she was, then remembered where they were going.
“Fine so far. Stand by. I’ll call you when it’s over.”
If I can, he thought.
Tim walked around to the driver’s side and got in. The key was in the cup holder. He nodded to Mrs. Sigsby. “Now you can close the door.”
She did, looked at him disdainfully, and said what Luke had been thinking. “You look remarkably stupid with your hat on that way, Mr. Jamieson.”
“What can I say, I’m an Eminem fan. Now shut up.”
14
In the darkened Maine Paper Industries arrival building, a man knelt by the windows, watching as the Suburban’s lights came on and it started rolling toward the gate, which stood open. Irwin Mollison, an unemployed millworker, was one of the Institute’s many Dennison River Bend stringers. Stackhouse could have ordered Ron Church to stay, but knew from experience that issuing an order to a man who might choose to disobey it was a bad idea. Better to use a stooge who only wanted to make a few extra dollars.
Mollison called a number pre-programmed into his cell. “They’re on their way,” he said. “A man, a woman, and a boy. The woman’s wearing a cap over her hair, couldn’t make out her face, but she stood in the doorway of the plane and yelled out her name. Mrs. Sigsby. Man’s also wearing a cap, but turned around backward. The boy’s the one you’re looking for. Got a bandage on his ear and a hell of a bruise on the side of his face.”
“Good,” Stackhouse said. He had already gotten a call from the Challenger’s co-pilot, who told him Dr. Evans had stayed on the plane. Which was fine.
So far, everything was fine . . . or as fine as it could be, under the circumstances. The bus was parked by the flagpole, as requested. He would place Doug the chef and Chad the caretaker in the trees beyond the admin b
uilding, where the Institute’s driveway began. Zeke Ionidis and Felicia Richardson would take up their stations on the admin building’s roof, behind a parapet that would hide them until the shooting began. Gladys would start the poison sucking into the HVAC system, then join Zeke and Felicia. Those two positions would enable a classic crossfire when the Suburban pulled in—that, at least, was the theory. Standing beside the flagpole with his hand on the hood of the bus, Stackhouse would be at least thirty yards from the crisscrossing bullets. There would be some risk of taking a spare round, he knew that, but it was an acceptable one.
Rosalind he would send to stand guard outside the door to the access tunnel on F-Level of Front Half. He wanted to make sure she didn’t have a chance to realize her long-time and beloved boss was also in the crossfire, but there was more to it than that. He understood that the constant hum was power. Maybe it wasn’t enough to breach the door yet, but maybe it was. Maybe they were just waiting for the Ellis boy to arrive, so they could attack from the rear and cause the sort of chaos they had already brought about in Back Half. The gorks didn’t have brains enough to think of something like that, but there were the others. If that was the case, Rosalind would be there with her S&W .45, and the first ones through that door would wish they had stayed behind it. Stackhouse could only hope the twice-damned Wilholm boy would be leading the charge.
Am I ready for this? he asked himself, and the answer seemed to be yes. As ready as he could be. And it might still be all right. On the outside, after all, it was Ellis they were dealing with. Only a kid and some misguided hero he’d picked up along the way. In just ninety minutes, this shit-show would be over.
15
Three o’clock. The hum was louder now.
“Stop,” Luke said. “Turn there.” He was pointing to a dirt track screened by huge old pines, its mouth barely visible.
“Is this the way you came when you escaped?” Tim asked.
“God, no. They would have caught me.”
“Then how do you—”
“She knows,” Luke said. “And because she does, I do.”
Tim turned to Mrs. Sigsby. “Is there a gate?”
“Ask him.” She nearly spat the words.
“No gate,” Luke said. “Just a big sign that says Maine Paper Industries Experimental Station and no trespassing.”
Tim had to smile at the expression of pure frustration on Mrs. Sigsby’s face. “Kid should be a cop, don’t you think, Mrs. Sigsby? No alibi would get past him.”
“Don’t do this,” she said. “You’re going to get all three of us killed. Stackhouse will stop at nothing.” She looked over her shoulder at Luke. “You’re the mind-reader, you know I’m telling the truth, so tell him.”
Luke said nothing.
“How far to this Institute of yours?” Tim asked.
“Ten miles,” Mrs. Sigsby said. “Maybe a bit more.” She had apparently decided that stonewalling was useless.
Tim turned onto the road. Once he was past the big trees (their branches brushed at the roof and sides of the car), he found it smooth and well maintained. Overhead, a three-quarter moon cleared the slot through the trees, turning the dirt to the color of bone. Tim doused the Suburban’s headlights and drove on.
16
Three-twenty.
Avery Dixon seized Kalisha’s wrist with a cold hand. She had been dozing on Nicky’s shoulder. Now she raised her head. “Avester?”
Wake them up. Helen and George and Nicky. Wake them up.
“What—”
If you want to live, wake them up. It’s going to happen pretty soon.
Nick Wilholm already was awake. “Can we live?” he asked. “Do you think that’s possible?”
“I hear you in there!” Rosalind’s voice, coming from the other side of the door, was only slightly muffled. “What are you talking about? And why are you humming?”
Kalisha shook George and Helen awake. Kalisha could see the colored dots again. They were faint, but they were there. They went whooshing up and down the tunnel like kids on a slide, and that sort of made sense, because in a way they were kids, weren’t they? Or the remains of them. They were thoughts made visible, looping and dancing and pirouetting through the wandering Ward A kids. And did those kids look slightly more lively? A little more there? Kalisha thought so, but maybe that was only her imagination. So much wishful thinking. You got used to wishful thinking in the Institute. You lived on it.
“I have a gun, you know!”
“So do I, lady,” George said. He grabbed his crotch, then turned to Avery. What’s up, Boss Baby?
Avery looked at them, one after another, and Kalisha saw he was crying. That made her stomach feel heavy, as if she had eaten something bad and was going to be sick.
When it happens, you have to go fast.
Helen: When what happens, Avery?
When I talk on the big phone.
Nicky: Talk to who?
The other kids. The far-away kids.
Kalisha nodded to the door. That woman has a gun.
Avery: That’s the last thing you have to worry about. Just go. All of you.
“We,” Nicky said. “We, Avery. We all go.”
But Avery was shaking his head. Kalisha tried to get inside that head, tried to find out what was going on in there, what he knew, but all she got were three words, repeated over and over.
You’re my friends. You’re my friends. You’re my friends.
17
Luke said, “They’re his friends, but he can’t go with them.”
“Who can’t go with who?” Tim asked. “What are you talking about?”
“About Avery. He has to stay. He’s the one who has to call on the big phone.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Luke.”
“I want them, but I want him, too!” Luke cried. “I want all of them! It’s not fair!”
“He’s crazy,” Mrs. Sigsby said. “Surely you realize that n—”
“Shut up,” Tim said. “I’m telling you for the last time.”
She looked at him, read his face, did as he said.
Tim took the Suburban slowly over a rise and came to a stop. The road widened ahead. He could see lights through the trees, and the dark bulk of a building.
“I think we’re here,” he said. “Luke, I don’t know what’s going on with your friends, but that’s out of our hands right now. I need you to get hold of yourself. Can you do that?”
“Yes.” His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yes. Okay.”
Tim got out, walked around to the passenger door, and opened it.
“What now?” Mrs. Sigsby asked. She sounded querulous and impatient, but even in the scant light, Tim could see she was afraid. And she was right to be.
“Get out. You’re driving the car the rest of the way. I’ll be in back with Luke, and if you try anything clever, like driving into a tree before we get to those lights, I’ll put a bullet through the seat and into your spine.”
“No. No!”
“Yes. If Luke is right about what you’ve been doing to those children, you’ve run up quite a bill. This is where it comes due. Get out, get behind the wheel, and drive. Slowly. Ten miles an hour.” He paused. “And turn your cap around backward.”
18
Andy Fellowes called from the computer/surveillance center. His voice was high and excited. “They’re here, Mr. Stackhouse! They’re stopped about a hundred yards from where the road turns into the driveway! Their lights are off, but there’s enough from the moon and the front of the building to see by. If you want me to put it up on your monitor so you can confirm, I—”
“That won’t be necessary.” Stackhouse tossed his box phone on the desk, gave the Zero Phone a final look—it had stayed silent, thank God for that—and headed for the door. His walkie was in his pocket, turned up to high gain and connected to the button in his ear. All of his people were on the same channel.
“Zeke?”
; “I’m here, boss. With the lady doc.”
“Doug? Chad?”
“In place.” That was Doug, the chef. Who, in better days, had sometimes sat with the kids at dinner and showed them magic tricks that made the little ones laugh. “We also see their vehicle. Black nine-seater. Suburban or Tahoe, right?”
“Right. Gladys?”
“On the roof, Mr. Stackhouse. Stuff’s all ready. Only have to combine the ingredients.”
“Start it if there’s shooting.” But it was no longer a question of if, only of when, and when was now only three or four minutes away. Maybe less.
“Roger that.”
“Rosalind?”
“In position. The hum is very loud down here. I think they are conspiring.”
Stackhouse was sure they were, but wouldn’t be for long. They would be too busy choking. “Hold steady, Rosalind. You’ll be back at Fenway watching the Sox before you know it.”
“Will you come with me, sir?”
“Only if I can cheer for the Yankees.”
He went outside. The night air was pleasantly cool after a hot day. He felt a surge of affection for his team. The ones who had stuck with him. They would be rewarded no matter what, if he had anything to say about it. This was hard duty, and they had stayed behind to do it. The man behind the wheel of the Suburban was misguided, all right. What he didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, was that the lives of everyone he had ever loved depended on what they had done here, but that was over now. All the misguided hero could do was die.
Stackhouse approached the schoolbus parked by the flagpole and spoke to his troops for the last time. “Shooters, I want you to concentrate on the driver, all right? The one wearing his hat backward. Then rake the whole damn thing, front to back. Aim high, for the windows, knock out that dark glass, get head shots. Acknowledge.”
They did.
“Start firing when I raise my hand. Repeat, when I raise my hand.”
