The Bachman Books

by Stephen King

  They were moving around him in a slow kind of dance that was nearly beautiful. Fingers pinched and pulled, questions were asked, accusations made. Irma Bates pushed a ruler down the back of his pants. Somehow his shirt was ripped off and flew to the back of the room in two tatters. Ted was breathing in great, high whoops. Anne Lasky began to rub the bridge of his nose with an eraser. Corky scurried back to his desk like a good mouse, found a bottle of Carter's ink, and dumped it in his hair. Hands flew out like birds and rubbed it in briskly.

  Ted began to weep and talk in strange, unconnected phrases.

  "Soul brother?" Pat Fitzgerald asked. He was smiling, whacking Ted's bare shoulders lightly with a notebook in cadence. "Be my soul brother? That right? Little Head Start? Little free lunch? That right? Hum? Hum? Brothers? Be soul brothers?"

  "Got your Silver Star, hero, " Dick said, and raised his knee, placing it expertly in the big muscle of Ted's thigh.

  Ted screamed. His eyes bulged and rolled toward me, the eyes of a horse staved on a high fence. "Please . . . pleeeese, Charlie . . . pleeeeeeeeee-" And then Nancy Caskin stuffed a large wad of notebook paper into his mouth. He tried to spit it out, but Sandra rammed it back in.

  "That will teach you to spit," sire said reproachfully.

  Harmon knelt and pulled off one of his shoes. He rubbed it in Ted's inky hair and then slammed the sole against Ted's chest. It left a huge, grotesque footprint.

  "Admit one!" he crowed.

  Tentatively, almost demurely, Carol stepped on Ted's stockinged foot and twisted her heel. Something in his foot snapped. Ted blubbered.

  He sounded like he was begging somewhere behind the paper, but you couldn't really tell. Pig Pen darted in spiderlike and suddenly bit his nose.

  There was a sudden black pause. I noticed that I had turned the pistol around so that the muzzle was pointed at my head, but of course that would not be at all cricket. I unloaded it and put it carefully in the top drawer, on top of Mrs. Underwood's plan book. I was quite confident that this had not been in today's lesson plan at all.

  They were smiling at Ted, who hardly looked human at all anymore. In that brief flick of time, they looked like gods, young, wise, and golden. Ted did not look like a god. Ink ran down his cheeks in blue-black teardrops. The bridge of his nose was bleeding, and one eye glared disjointedly toward no place. Paper protruded through his teeth. He breathed in great white snuffles of air.

  I had time to think: We have got it on. Now we have got it all the way on.

  They fell on him.

  Chapter 31

  I had Corky pull up the shades before they left. He did it with quick, jerky motions. There were now what seemed like hundreds of cruisers out there, thousands of people. It was three minutes of one.

  The sunlight hurt my eyes.

  "Good-bye," I said.

  "God-bye," Sandra said.

  They all said good-bye, I think, before they went out. Their footfalls made a tunny, echoy noise going down the hall. I closed my eyes and imagined a giant centipede wearing Georgia Giants on each of its one hundred feet. When I opened them again, they were walking across the bright green of the lawn. I wished they had used the sidewalk; even after all that had happened, it was still a hell of a lawn.

  The last thing I remember seeing of them was that their hands were streaked with black ink.

  People enveloped them.

  One of the reporters, throwing caution to the winds, eluded three policemen and raced down to where they were, pell-mell.

  The last one to be swallowed up was Carol Granger. I thought she looked back, but I couldn't tell for sure. Philbrick started to walk stolidly toward the school. Flashbulbs were popping all over the place.

  Time was short. I went over to where Ted was leaning against the green cinderblock wall. He was sitting with his legs splayed out below the bulletin board, which was full of notices from the Mathematical Society of America, which nobody ever read, Peanuts comic strips (the acme of humor, in the late Mrs. Underwood's estimation), and a poster showing Bertrand Russell and a quote: "Gravity alone proves the existence of God. " But any undergraduate in creation could have told Bertrand that it has been conclusively proved that there is no gravity; the earth just sucks.

  I squatted beside Ted. I pulled the crumpled wad of math paper out of his mouth and laid it aside. Ted began to drool.

  "Ted. "

  He looked past me, over my shoulder.

  "Ted," I said, and patted his cheek gently.

  He shrank away. His eyes rolled wildly.

  "You're going to get better," I said. "You're going to forget this day ever happened. "

  Ted made mewling sounds.

  "Or maybe you won't. Maybe you'll go on from here, Ted. Build from this. Is that such an impossible idea?"

  It was, for both of us. And being so close to Ted had begun to make me very nervous.

  The intercom chinked open. It was Philbrick. He was puffing and blowing again.

  "Decker?"

  "Right here."

  "Come out with your hands up."

  I sighed. "You come down and get me, Philbrick, old sport. I'm pretty goddamn tired. This psycho business is a hell of a drain on the glands."

  "All right," he said, tough. "They'll be shooting in the gas canisters in just about one minute."

  "Better not, " I said. I looked at Ted. Ted didn't look back; he just kept on looking into emptiness. Whatever he saw there must have been mighty tasty, because he was still drooling down his chin. "You forgot to count noses. There's still one of them down here. He's hurt." That was something of an understatement.

  His voice was instantly wary. "Who?"

  "Ted Jones."

  "How is he hurt?"

  "Stubbed his toe. "

  "He's not there. You're lying."

  "I wouldn't lie to you, Philbrick, and jeopardize our beautiful relationship. "

  No answer. Puff, snort, blow.

  "Come on down," I invited. "The gun is unloaded. It's in a desk drawer. We can play a couple of cribbage hands, then you can take me out and tell all the papers how you did it single-handed. You might even make the cover of Time if we work it right. "

  Chink. He was off the com.

  I closed my eyes and put my face in my hands. All I saw was gray. Nothing but gray. Not even a flash of white light. For no reason at all, I thought of New Year's Eve, when all those people crowd into Times Square and scream like jackals as the lighted ball slides down the pole, ready to shed its thin party glare on three hundred and sixty-five new days in this best of all possible worlds. I have always wondered what it would be like to be caught in one of those crowds, screaming and not able to hear your own voice, your individuality momentarily wiped out and replaced with the blind empathic overslop of the crowd's lurching, angry anticipation, hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder with no one in particular.

  I began to cry.

  When Philbrick stepped through the door, he glanced down at the drooling Tedthing and then up at me. "What in the name of God did you . . . ?" he began.

  I made as if to grab something behind Mrs. Underwood's desktop row of books and plants. "Here it comes, you shit cop!" I screamed.

  He shot me three times.

  Chapter 32

  THOSE WHO WOULD BE INFORMED IN THIS MATTER DRAW YE NEAR AND KNOW YE THEN BY THESE PRESENTS:

  CHARLES EVERETT DECKER, convicted in Superior Court this day, August 27, 1976, of the willful murder of Jean Alice Underwood, and also convicted this day, August 27, 1976, of the willful murder of John Downes Vance, both human beings.

  It has been determined by five state psychiatrists that Charles Everett Decker cannot at this time be held accountable for his actions, by reason of insanity. It is therefore the decision of this court that he be remanded to the Augusta State Hospital, where he will be held in treatment until such time as he can be certified responsible to answer for his acts.

  To this writ have I set my hand.

  (Signed)

&
nbsp; (Judge) Samuel K. N. Deleavney

  In other words, until shit sticks on the moon, baby.

  Chapter 33

  i n t e r o f f i c e m e m o

  FROM: Dr. Andersen

  TO: Rich Gossage, Admin. Wing

  SUBJECT: Theodore Jones

  Rich,

  Am still loath to try the shock treatments on this boy, altho I can't explain it even to myself-call it hunch. Of course I can't justify hunch to the board of directors, or to Jones's uncle, who is footing the bill, which, in a private institution like Woodlands, don't come cheap, as we both know. If there is no movement in the next four to six weeks, we'll go on with the standard electroshock therapy, but for now I would like to run the standard drug schedule again, plus a few not so standard-I am thinking of both synthetic mescaline and psyilocybin, if you concur. Will Greenberger has had a great deal of success with semi-catatonic patients as you know, and these two hallucinogens have played a major part in his therapy.

  Jones is such a strange case-goddammit, if we only could be sure what had gone on in that classroom after that Decker individual had the shades pulled down!

  Diagnosis hasn't changed. Flat-line catatonic state w /some signs of deterioration.

  I might as well admit to you up front, Rich, that I am not as hopeful for this boy as I once was.

  November 3, 1976

  Chapter 34

  December 5, 1976

  Dear Charlie,

  They tell me you can have mail now, so I thought I would drop you a line. Maybe you noticed this is postmarked Boston-your old buddy finally made the Big Time, and I'm taking sixteen hours here at B.U. (that stands for Bullshit Unlimited). It's all pretty slushy except for my English class. The instructor assigned us a book called The Postman Always Rings Twice that was really good, and I got an A on the exam. It's by James Cain, did you ever read it? I'm thinking about majoring in English, how's that for a laugh? Must be your influence. And you were always the brains of the combination.

  I saw your mom just before I left Placerville, and she said you were just about all healed up and the last of the drains were out three weeks ago. I was sure glad to hear it. She said you aren't talking much. That doesn't sound like you, skinner. It would sure be a loss to the world if you clammed up and just scrunched in a comer all day.

  Although I haven't been home since the semester started, Sandy Cross wrote me a letter with a lot of news about all the people at home. (Will the bastards censor this part? I bet they read all your mail.) Sandy herself decided not to go to college this year. She's just sort of hanging around, waiting for something to happen, I guess. I might as well tell you that I dated her a couple of times last summer, but she just seemed kind of distant. She asked me to say "hi" to you, so "hi" from Sandy.

  Maybe you know what happened to Pig Pen, no one in town can believe it, about him and Dick Keene [following has been censored as possibly upsetting to patient], so you can never tell what people are going to do, can you?

  Carol Granger's validictory (sp?) speech was reprinted by Seventeen magazine. As I remember, it was on "Self-Integrity and a Normal Response to It, " or some such happy horseshit. We would have had some fun ranking that one out, right, Charlie?

  Oh, yeah, and Irma Bates is going out with some "hippie" from Lewiston. I guess they were even in a demonstration when Robt. Dole came to Portland to campaign in the presidential election stuff. They were arrested and then let go when Dole flew out. Mrs. Bates must be having birds about it. Can't you just see Irma trying to brain Robt. Dole with a Gus Hall campaign sign? Ha-ha, that just kills me. We would have had some laughs over that one, too, Charlie. God, I miss your old cracked ass sometimes.

  Gracie Stanner, that cute little chick, is going to get married, and that's also a local sensation. It boggles the mind. [Following has been censored as possibly upsetting to patient.] Anyway, you can never tell what sort of monkeyshines people are going to get up to, right?

  Well, guess that's all for now. I hope they are treating you right, Ferd, as you've got to be out of there as soon as they'll let you. And if they start letting you have visitors, I want you to know that I will be the first in line.

  There are a lot of us pulling for you, Charlie. Pulling hard.

  People haven't forgotten. You know what I mean.

  You have to believe that.

  With love, your friend,

  (Joe McK)

  Chapter 35

  I haven't had any bad dreams for two weeks, almost. I do lots of jigsaw puzzles. They give me custard and I hate it, but I eat it just the same. They think I like it. So I have a secret again. Finally I have a secret again.

  My mom sent me the yearbook. I haven't unwrapped it yet, but maybe I will. Maybe next week I will. I think I could look at all the senior pictures and not tremble a bit. Pretty soon. Just as soon as I can make myself believe that there won't be any black streaks on their hands. That their hands will be clean. With no ink. Maybe next week I'll be completely sure of that.

  About the custard: it's only a little secret, but having a secret makes me feel better. Like a human being again.

  That's the end. I have to turn off the light now. Good night.

  ROADWORK

  Richard Bachman

  [05 feb 2001 – scanned for #bookz, proofread and released – v1]

  What happens when one good-and-angry man fights back is murder - and then some...

  Prologue

  I don't know why. You don't know why. Most likely God don't know why, either. It's just Government business, that's all.

  -Man-in-the-street interview concerning

  Viet Nam, circa 1967

  But Viet Nam was over and the country was getting on.

  On this hot August afternoon in 1972, the WHLM Newsmobile was parked near Westgate at the end of the Route 784 expressway. There was a small crowd around a bunting-covered podium that had been hurriedly tossed together; the bunting was thin flesh on a skeleton of naked planks. Behind it, at the top of a grassy embankment, were the highway tollbooths. In front of it, open, marshy land stretched toward the suburban hem of the city's outskirts.

  A young reporter named Dave Albert was doing a series of man-on-the-street interviews while he and his co-workers waited for the mayor and the governor to arrive for the ground-breaking ceremony.

  He held the microphone toward an elderly man wearing tinted spectacles.

  "Well," the elderly man said, looking tremulously into the camera, "I think it's a great thing for the city. We've needed this a long time. It's . . . a great thing for the city." He swallowed, aware that his mind was broadcasting echos of itself, helpless to stop, hypnotized by the grinding, Cyclopean eye of posterity. "Great," he added limply.

  "Thank you, sir. Thank you very much."

  "Do you think they'll use it? On the news tonight?"

  Albert flashed a professional, meaningless smile. "Hard to tell, sir. There's a good chance."

  His sound man pointed up to the tollgate turnaround, where the governor's Chrysler Imperial had just pulled up, winking and gleaming like a chrome-inlaid eight ball in the summer sunshine. Albert nodded back, held up a single finger. He and the cameraman approached a guy in a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves. The guy was looking moodily at the podium.

  "Would you mind stating your opinion of all this, Mr . . . ?"

  "Dawes. No, I don't mind." His voice was low, pleasant.

  "Speed," the cameraman murmured.

  The man in the white shirt said, still pleasantly, "I think it's a piece of shit."

  The cameraman grimaced. Albert nodded, looking at the man in the white shirt reproachfully, and then made cutting gestures with the first two fingers of his right hand.

  The elderly gentleman was looking at this tableau with real horror. Above, up by the tollbooths, the governor was getting out of his Imperial. His green tie was resplendent in the sun.

  The man in the white shirt said politely: "Will that be on the six or eleven o'clock news?"


  "Ho-ho, fells, you're a riot, " Albert said sourly, and walked away to catch the governor. The cameraman trailed after him. The man in the white shirt watched the governor as he came carefully down the grassy slope.

  Albert met the man in the white shirt again seventeen months later, but since neither of them remembered that they had met before, it might as well have been the first time.

  PART ONE

  November

  Late last night the rain was knocking on my window I moved across the darkened room and in the lampglow I thought I saw down in the street The spirit of the century Telling us that we're all standing on the border.

  -Al Stewart

  November 20, 1973

  He kept doing things without letting himself think about them. Safer that way. It was like having a circuit breaker in his head, and it thumped into place every time part of him tried to ask: But why are you doing this? Part of his mind would go dark. Hey Georgie, who turned out the lights? Whoops, I did. Something screwy in the wiring, I guess. Just a sec. Reset the switch. The lights go back on. But the thought is gone. Everything is fine. Let us continue, Freddy-where were we?

  He was walking to the bus stop when he saw the sign that said:

  AMMO HARVEY'S GUN SHOP AMMO

  Remington Winchester Colt Smith & Wesson

  HUNTERS WELCOME

  It was snowing a little out of a gray sky. It was the first snow of the year and it landed on the pavement like white splotches of baking soda, then melted. He saw a little boy in a red knitted cap go by with his mouth open and his tongue out to catch a flake. It's just going to melt, Freddy, he thought at the kid, but the kid went on anyway, with his head cocked back at the sky.

  He stopped in front of Harvey's Gun Shop, hesitating. There was a rack of late edition newspapers outside the door, and the headline said:

  SHAKY CEASE-FIRE HOLDS

  Below that, on the rack, was a smudged white sign that said:

  PLEASE PAY FOR YOUR PAPER!