The Bachman Books

by Stephen King

  "That's really wonderful," Richards said.

  "The program is one of the surest ways the Network has of getting rid of embryo troublemakers such as yourself, Mr. Richards. We've been on for six years. To date, we have no survivals. To be brutally honest, we expect to have none."

  "Then you're running a crooked table," Richards said flatly.

  Killian seemed more amused than horrified. "But we're not. You keep forgetting you're an anachronism, Mr. Richards. People won't be in the bars and hotels or gathering in the cold in front of appliance stores rooting for you to get away. Goodness! no. They want to see you wiped out, and they'll help if they can. The more messy the better. And there is McCone to contend with. Evan McCone and the Hunters."

  "They sound like a neo-group," Richards said.

  "McCone never loses," Killian said.

  Richards grunted.

  "You'll appear live Tuesday night. Subsequent programs will be a patch-up of tapes, films, and live tricasts when possible. We've been known to interrupt scheduled broadcasting when a particularly resourceful contestant is on the verge of reaching his . . . personal Waterloo, shall we say.

  "The rules are simplicity themselves. You-or your surviving family-will win one hundred New Dollars for each hour you remain free. We stake you to forty-eight hundred dollars conning money on the assumption that you will be able to fox the Hunters for forty-eight hours. The unspent balance refundable, of course, if you fall before the forty-eight hours are up. You're given a twelve-hour head start. If you last thirty days, you win the Grand Prize. One billion New Dollars."

  Richards threw back his head and laughed.

  "My sentiments exactly," Killian said with a dry smile. "Do you have any questions?"

  "Just one," Richards said, leaning forward. The traces of humor had vanished from his face completely. "How would you like to be the one out there, on the run?"

  Killian laughed. He held his belly and huge mahogany laughter rolled richly in the room. "Oh . . . Mr. Richards . . . you must excuse m-me-"and he went off into another gale.

  At last, dabbing his eyes with a large white handkerchief, Killian seemed to get himself under control. "You see, not only are you possessed of a sense of humor, Mr. Richards. You . . . I-" He choked new laughter down. "Please excuse me. You've struck my funnybone."

  "I see I have."

  "Other questions?"

  "No."

  "Very good. There will be a staff meeting before the program. If any questions should develop in that fascinating mind of yours, please hold them until then." Killian pressed a button on his desk.

  "Spare me the cheap snatch," Richards said. "I'm married."

  Killian's eyebrows went up. "Are you quite sure? Fidelity is admirable, Mr. Richards, but it's a long time from Friday to Tuesday. And considering the fact that you may never see your wife again-"

  "I'm married."

  "Very well. " He nodded to the girl in the doorway and she disappeared. "Anything we can do for you, Mr. Richards? You'll have a private suite on the ninth floor, and meal requests will be filled within reason."

  "A good bottle of bourbon. And a telephone so I can talk to my w-"

  "Ah, no, I'm sorry, Mr. Richards. The bourbon we can do. But once you sign this release form,"-he pushed it over to Richards along with a pen-"you're incommunicado until Tuesday. Would you care to reconsider the girl?"

  "No," Richards said, and scrawled his name on the dotted line. "But you better make that two bottles of bourbon."

  "Certainly." Killian stood and offered his hand again.

  Richards disregarded it again, and walked out.

  Killian looked after him and with blank eyes. He was not smiling.

  Minus 086 and COUNTING

  The receptionist popped promptly out of her foxhole as Richards walked through and handed him an envelope. On the front:

  Mr. Richards,

  I suspect one of the things that you will not mention during our interview is the fact that you need money badly right now. Is it not true?

  Despite rumors to the contrary, Games Authority does not give advances. You must not look upon yourself as a contestant with all the glitter that word entails. You are not a Free-Vee star but only a working joe who is being paid extremely well for undertaking a dangerous job.

  However, Games Authority has no rule which forbids me from extending you a personal loan. Inside you will find ten percent of your advance salary-not in New Dollars, I should caution you, but in Games Certificates redeemable for dollars. Should you decide to send these certificates to your wife, as I suspect you will, she will find they have one advantage over New Dollars; a reputable doctor will accept them as legal tender, while a quack will not.

  Sincerely,

  Dan Killian

  Richards opened the envelope and pulled out a thick book of coupons with the Games symbol on the vellum cover. Inside were forty-eight coupons with a face value of ten New Dollars each. Richards felt an absurd wave of gratitude toward Killian sweep him and crushed it. He had no doubt that Killian would attach four hundred and eighty dollars of his advance money, and besides that, four-eighty was a pretty goddam cheap price to pay for insurance on the big show, the continued happiness of the client, and Killian's own big-money job.

  "Shit," he said.

  The receptionist poked attentively out of her foxhole. "Did you say something, Mr. Richards?"

  "No. Which way to the elevators?

  Minus 085 and COUNTING

  The suite was sumptuous.

  Wall-to-wall carpeting almost deep enough to breast stroke in covered the floors of all three rooms: living room, bedroom, and bath. The Free-Vee was turned off; blessed silence prevailed. There were flowers in the vases, and on the wall next to the door was a button discreetly marked SERVICE. The service would be fast, too, Richards thought cynically. There were two cops stationed outside his ninthfloor suite just to make sure he didn't go wandering.

  He pushed the service button, and the door opened. "Yes, Mr. Richards," one of the cops said. Richards fancied he could see how sour that Mister tasted in his mouth. "The bourbon you asked for will be-"

  "It's not that," Richards said. He showed the cop the book of coupons Killian had left for him. "I want you to take this somewhere."

  "Just write the name and address, Mr. Richards, and I'll see that it's delivered."

  Richards found the cobbler's receipt and wrote his address and Sheila's name on the back of it. He gave the tattered paper and the coupon book to the cop. He was turning away when a new thought struck Richards. "Hey! Just a second!"

  The cop turned back, and Richards plucked the coupon book out of his hand. He opened it to the first coupon, and tore one tenth of it along the perforated line. Equivalent value: One New Dollar.

  "Do you know a cop named Charlie Grady?"

  "Charlie?" The cop looked at him warily. "Yeah, I know Charlie. He's got fifth-floor duty. "

  "Give him this." Richards handed him the coupon section. "Tell him the extra fifty cents is his usurer's fee."

  The cop fumed away again, and Richards called him back once more.

  "You'll bring me written receipts from my wife and from Grady, won't you?"

  Disgust showed openly on the cop's face. "Ain't you the trusting soul?"

  "Sure," Richards said, smiling thinly. "You guys taught me that. South of the Canal you taught me all about it."

  "It's gonna be fun," the cop said, "watching them go after you. I'm gonna be glued to my Free-Vee with a beer in each hand."

  "Just bring me the receipts," Richards said, and closed the door gently in the cop's face.

  The bourbon came twenty minutes later, and Richards told the surprised delivery man that he would like a couple of thick novels sent up.

  "Novels?"

  "Books. You know. Read. Words. Movable press." Richards pantomimed flipping pages.

  "Yes, sir," he said doubtfully. "Do you have a dinner order'?"

  Christ, the shit was gett
ing thick. He was drowning in it. Richards saw a sudden fantasy-cartoon: Man falls into outhouse hole and drowns in pink shit that smells like Chanel No. 5. The kicker: It still tastes like shit.

  "Steak. Peas. Mashed potatoes. " God, what was Sheila sitting down to? A protein pill and a cup of fake coffee? "Milk. Apple cobbler with cream. Got it?"

  "Yes, sir. Would you like-"

  "No. " Richards said, suddenly distraught. "No. Get out. " He had no appetite. Absolutely none.

  Minus 084 and COUNTING

  With sour amusement Richards thought that the Games bellboy had taken him literally about the novels: He must have picked them out with a ruler as his only guide. Anything over an inch and a half is okay. He had brought Richards three books he had never heard of: two golden oldies titled God Is an Englishman and Not as a Stranger and a huge tome written three years ago called The Pleasure of Serving. Richards peeked into that one first and wrinkled his nose. Poor boy makes good in General Atomics. Rises from engine wiper to gear tradesman. Takes night courses (on what? Richards wondered, Monopoly money?). Falls in love with beautiful girl (apparently syphilis hadn't rotted her nose off yet) at a block orgy. Promoted to junior technico following dazzling aptitude scores. Three-year marriage contract follows, and-

  Richards threw the book across the room. God Is an Englishman was a little better. He poured himself a bourbon on the rocks and settled into the story.

  By the time the discreet knock came, he was three hundred pages in, and pretty well in the bag to boot. One of the bourbon bottles was empty. He went to the door holding the other in his hand. The cop was there. "Your receipts, Mr. Richards," he said, and pulled the door closed.

  Sheila had not written anything, but had sent one of Cathy's baby pictures. He looked at it and felt the easy tears of drunkenness prick his eyes. He put it in his pocket and looked at the other receipt. Charlie Grady had written briefly on the back of a traffic ticket form:

  Thanks, maggot. Get stuffed.

  Charlie Grady

  Richards snickered and let the paper flitter to the carpet. "Thanks, Charlie," he said to the empty room. "I needed that."

  He looked at the picture of Cathy again, a tiny, red-faced infant of four days at the time of the photo, screaming her head off, swimming in a white cradle dress that Sheila had made herself. He felt the tears lurking and made himself think of good old Charlie's thank-you note. He wondered if he could kill the entire second bottle before he passed out, and decided to find out.

  He almost made it.

  Minus 083 and COUNTING

  Richards spent Saturday living through a huge hangover. He was almost over it by Saturday evening, and ordered two more bottles of bourbon with supper. He got through both of them and woke up in the pale early light of Sunday morning seeing large caterpillars with flat, murderous eyes crawling slowly down the far bedroom wall. He decided then it would be against his best interests to wreck his reactions completely before Tuesday, and laid off the booze.

  This hangover was slower dissipating. He threw up a good deal, and when there was nothing left to throw up, he had dry heaves. These tapered off around six o'clock Sunday evening, and he ordered soup for dinner. No bourbon. He asked for a dozen neo-rock discers to play on the suite's sound system, and tired of them quickly.

  He went to bed early. And slept poorly.

  He spent most of Monday on the tiny glassed-in terrace that opened off the bedroom. He was very high above the waterfront now, and the day was a series of sun and showers that was fairly pleasant. He read two novels, went to bed early again, and slept a little better. There was an unpleasant dream: Sheila was dead, and he was at her funeral. Somebody had propped her up in her coffin and stuffed a grotesque corsage of New Dollars in her mouth. He tried to run to her and remove the obscenity; hands grabbed him from behind. He was being held by a dozen cops. One of them was Charlie Grady. He was grinning and saying: "This is what happens to losers, maggot. " They were putting their pistols to his head when he woke up.

  "Tuesday," he said to no one at all, and rolled out of bed. The fashionable GA sunburst clock on the far wall said it was nine minutes after seven. The live tricast of The Running Man would be going out all over North America in less than eleven hours. He felt a hot drop of fear in his stomach. In twenty-three hours he would be fair game.

  He had a long hot shower, dressed in his coverall, ordered ham and eggs for breakfast. He also got the bellboy on duty to send up a carton of Blams.

  He spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon reading quietly. It was two o'clock on the nose when a single formal rap came at the door. Three police and Arthur M. Burns, looking potty and more than a bit ridiculous in a Games singlet, walked in. All of the cops were carrying move-alongs.

  "It's time for your final briefing, Mr. Richards," Burns said. "Would you-"

  "Sure," Richards said. He marked his place in the book he had been reading and put it down on the coffee table. He was suddenly terrified, close to panic, and he was very glad there was no perceptible shake in his fingers.

  Minus 82 and COUNTING

  The tenth floor of the Games Building was a great deal different from the ones below, and Richards knew that he was meant to go no higher. The fiction of upward mobility which started in the grimy street-level lobby ended here on the tenth floor. This was the broadcast facility.

  The hallways were wide, white, and stark. Bright yellow go-carts powered by G-A solar-cell motors pottered here and there, carrying loads of Free-Vee technicos to studios and control rooms.

  A cart was waiting for them when the elevator stopped, and the five of them-Richards, Burns, and cops-climbed aboard. Necks craned and Richards was pointed out several times as they made the trip. One woman in a yellow Games shorts-and-halter outfit winked and blew Richards a kiss. He gave her the finger.

  They seemed to travel miles, through dozens of interconnecting corridors. Richards caught glimpses into at least a dozen studios, one of them containing the infamous treadmill seen on Treadmill to Bucks. A tour group from uptown was trying it out and giggling.

  At last they came to a stop before a door which read THE RUNNING MAN: ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE. Bums waved to the guard in the bulletproof booth beside the door and then looked at Richards.

  "Put your ID in the slot between the guard booth and the door," Burns said.

  Richards did it. His card disappeared into the slot, and a small light went on in the guard booth. The guard pushed a button and the door slid open. Richards got back into the cart and they were trundled into the room beyond.

  "Where's my card?" Richards asked.

  "You don't need it anymore. "

  They were in a control room. The console section was empty except for a bald technico who was sitting in front of a blank monitor screen, reading numbers into a microphone.

  Across to the left, Dan Killian and two men Richards hadn't met were sitting around a table with frosty glasses. One of them was vaguely familiar, too pretty to be a technico.

  "Hello, Mr. Richards. Hello, Arthur. Would you care for a soft drink, Mr. Richards?"

  Richards found he was thirsty; it was quite warm on ten in spite of the many airconditioning units he had seen. "I'll have a Rooty-Toot," he said.

  Killian rose, went to a cold-cabinet, and snapped the lid from a plastic squeezebottle. Richards sat down and took the bottle with a nod.

  "Mr. Richards, this gentleman on my right is Fred Victor, the director of The Running Man. This other fellow, as I'm sure you know, is Bobby Thompson. "

  Thompson, of course. Host and emcee of The Running Man. He wore a natty green tunic, slightly iridescent, and sported a mane of hair that was silvery-attractive enough to be suspect.

  "Do you dye it?" Richards asked.

  Thompson's impeccable eyebrows went up. "I beg pardon?"

  "Never mind," Richards said.

  "You'll have to make allowances for Mr. Richards, " Killian said, smiling. "He seems afflicted with an extreme case of the
nudes."

  "Quite understandable," Thompson said, and lit a cigarette. Richards felt a wave of unreality surge over him. "Under the circumstances. "

  "Come over here, Mr. Richards, if you please," Victor said, taking charge. He led Richards to the bank of screens on the other side of the room. The technico had finished with his numbers and had left the room.

  Victor punched two buttons and left-right views of The Running Man set sprang into view.

  "We don't do a run-through here," Victor said. "We think it detracts from spontaneity. Bobby just wings it, and he does a pretty damn good job. We go on at six o'clock, Harding time. Bobby is center stage on that raised blue dais. He does the lead-in, giving a rundown on you. The monitor will flash a couple of still pictures. You'll be in the wings at stage right, flanked by two Games guards. They'll come on with you, armed with riot guns. Move-alongs would be more practical if you decided to give trouble, but the riot guns are good theater."

  "Sure," Richards said.

  "There will be a lot of booing from the audience. We pack it that way because it's good theater. Just like the killball matches."

  "Are they going to shoot me with fake bullets?" Richards asked. "You could put a few blood bags on me, to spatter on cue. That would be good theater, too. "

  "Pay attention, please," Victor said. "You and the guards go on when your name is called. Bobby will, uh, interview you. Feel free to express yourself as colorfully as you please. It's all good theater. Then, around six-ten, just before the first Network promo, you'll be given your stake money and exit-sans guards-at stage left. Do you understand?"

  "Yes. What about Laughlin?"

  Victor frowned and lit a cigarette. "He comes on after you, at six-fifteen. We run two contests simultaneously because often one of the contestants is, uh, inadept at staying ahead of the Hunters."

  "With the kid as a back-up?"