Dark Tower VII, The (v. 7)

by Stephen King

  “We are ka-tet,” Roland said, and in unison they answered: “We are one from many.”

  Roland tarried a moment longer, looking at them—more than looking, seeming to savor their faces—and then he led them back inside.

  “Sheemie,” he said.

  “Yes, sai! Yes, Roland, Will Dearborn that was!”

  “We’re going to save the boy you told us about. We’re going to make the bad folk stop hurting him.”

  Sheemie smiled, but it was a puzzled smile. He didn’t remember the boy in his dream, not anymore. “Good, sai, that’s good!”

  Roland turned his attention to Ted. “Once Sheemie gets you back this time, put him to bed. Or, if that would attract the wrong sort of attention, just make sure he takes it easy.”

  “We can write him down for the sniffles and keep him out of The Study,” Ted agreed. “There are a lot of colds Thunder-side. But you folks need to understand that there are no guarantees. He could get us back inside this time, and then—” He snapped his fingers in the air.

  Laughing, Sheemie imitated him, only snapping both sets of fingers. Susannah looked away, sick to her stomach.

  “I know that,” Roland said, and although his tone did not change very much, each member of his ka-tet knew it was a good thing this palaver was almost over. Roland had reached the rim of his patience. “Keep him quiet even if he’s well and feeling fine. We won’t need him for what I have in mind, and thanks to the weapons you’ve left us.”

  “They’re good weapons,” Ted agreed, “but are they good enough to wipe out sixty men, can-toi, and taheen?”

  “Will the two of you stand with us, once the fight begins?” Roland asked.

  “With the greatest pleasure,” Dinky said, baring his teeth in a remarkably nasty grin.

  “Yes,” Ted said. “And it might be that I have another weapon. Did you listen to the tapes I left you?”

  “Yes,” Jake replied.

  “So you know the story about the guy who stole my wallet.”

  This time they all nodded.

  “What about that young woman?” Susannah asked. “One tough cookie, you said. What about Tanya and her boyfriend? Or her husband, if that’s what he is?”

  Ted and Dinky exchanged a brief, doubtful look, then shook their heads simultaneously.

  “Once, maybe,” Ted said. “Not now. Now she’s married. All she wants to do is cuddle with her fella.”

  “And Break,” Dinky added.

  “But don’t they understand …” She found she couldn’t finish. She was haunted not so much by the remnants of her own dream as by Sheemie’s. Now you scar me with nails, the dream-boy had told Sheemie. The dream-boy who had once been fair.

  “They don’t want to understand,” Ted told her kindly. He caught a glimpse of Eddie’s dark face and shook his head. “But I won’t let you hate them for it. You—we—may have to kill some of them, but I won’t let you hate them. They did not put understanding away from them out of greed or fear, but from despair.”

  “And because to Break is divine,” Dinky said. He was also looking at Eddie. “The way the half an hour after you shoot up can be divine. If you know what I’m talking about.”

  Eddie sighed, stuck his hands in his pockets, said nothing. Sheemie surprised them all by picking up one of the Coyote machine-pistols and swinging it in an arc. Had it been loaded, the great quest for the Dark Tower would have ended right there. “I’ll fight, too!” he cried. “Pow, pow, pow! Bam-bam-bam-badam!”

  Eddie and Susannah ducked; Jake threw himself instinctively in front of Oy; Ted and Dinky raised their hands in front of their faces, as if that could possibly have saved them from a burst of a hundred high-caliber, steel-jacketed slugs. Roland plucked the machine-pistol calmly from Sheemie’s hands.

  “Your time to help will come,” he said, “but after this first battle’s fought and won. Do you see Jake’s bumbler, Sheemie?”

  “Aye, he’s with the Rod.”

  “He talks. See if you can get him to talk to you.”

  Sheemie obediently went to where Chucky/Haylis was still stroking Oy’s head, dropped to one knee, and commenced trying to get Oy to say his name. The bumbler did almost at once, and with remarkable clarity. Sheemie laughed, and Haylis joined in. They sounded like a couple of kids from the Calla. The roont kind, perhaps.

  Roland, meanwhile, turned to Dinky and Ted, his lips little more than a white line in his stern face.

  SEVEN

  “He’s to be kept out of it, once the shooting starts.” The gunslinger mimed turning a key in a lock. “If we lose, what happens to him later on won’t matter. If we win, we’ll need him at least one more time. Probably twice.”

  “To go where?” Dinky asked.

  “Keystone World America,” Eddie said. “A small town in western Maine called Lovell. As early in June of 1999 as one-way time allows.”

  “Sending me to Connecticut appears to have inaugurated Sheemie’s seizures,” Ted said in a low voice. “You know that sending you back America-side is apt to make him worse, don’t you? Or kill him?” He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. Just askin, gents.

  “We know,” Roland said, “and when the time comes, I’ll make the risk clear and ask him if—”

  “Oh man, you can stick that one where the sun don’t shine,” Dinky said, and Eddie was reminded so strongly of himself—the way he’d been during his first few hours on the shore of the Western Sea, confused, pissed off, and jonesing for heroin—that he felt a moment of déjà vu. “If you told him you wanted him to set himself on fire, the only thing he’d want to know would be if you had a match. He thinks you’re Christ on a cracker.”

  Susannah waited, with a mixture of dread and almost prurient interest, for Roland’s response. There was none. Roland only stared at Dinky, his thumbs hooked into his gunbelt.

  “Surely you realize that a dead man can’t bring you back from America-side,” Ted said in a more reasonable tone.

  “We’ll jump that fence when and if we come to it,” Roland said. “In the meantime, we’ve got several other fences to get over.”

  “I’m glad we’re taking on the DevarToi first, whatever the risk,” Susannah said. “What’s going on down there is an abomination.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Dinky drawled, and pushed up an imaginary hat. “Ah reckon that’s the word.”

  The tension in the cave eased. Behind them, Sheemie was telling Oy to roll over, and Oy was doing so willingly enough. The Rod had a big, sloppy smile on his face. Susannah wondered when Haylis of Chayven had last had occasion to use his smile, which was childishly charming.

  She thought of asking Ted if there was any way of telling what day it was in America right now, then decided not to bother. If Stephen King was dead, they’d know; Roland had said so, and she had no doubt he was right. For now the writer was fine, happily frittering away his time and valuable imagination on some meaningless project while the world he’d been born to imagine continued to gather dust in his head. If Roland was pissed at him, it was really no wonder. She was a little pissed at him herself.

  “What’s your plan, Roland?” Ted asked.

  “It relies on two assumptions: that we can surprise them and then stampede them. I don’t think they expect to be interrupted in these last days; from Pimli Prentiss down to the lowliest hume guard outside the fence, they have no reason to believe they’ll be bothered in their work, certainly not attacked. If my assumptions are correct, we’ll succeed. If we fail, at least we won’t live long enough to see the Beams break and the Tower fall.”

  Roland found the crude map of the Algul and put it on the floor of the cave. They all gathered around it.

  “These railroad sidetracks,” he said, indicating the hash-marks labeled 10. “Some of the dead engines and traincars on them stand within twenty yards of the south fence, it looks like through the binoculars. Is that right?”

  “Yeah,” Dinky said, and pointed to the center of the nearest line. “Might as well call it
south, anyway—it’s as good a word as any. There’s a boxcar on this track that’s real close to the fence. Only ten yards or so. It says SOO LINE on the side.”

  Ted was nodding.

  “Good cover,” Roland said. “Excellent cover.” Now he pointed to the area beyond the north end of the compound. “And here, all sorts of sheds.”

  “There used to be supplies in them,” Ted said, “but now most are empty, I think. For awhile a gang of Rods slept there, but six or eight months ago, Pimli and the Wease kicked them out.”

  “But more cover, empty or full,” Roland said. “Is the ground behind and around them clear of obstacles and pretty much smooth? Smooth enough for that thing to go back and forth?” He cocked a thumb at Suzie’s Cruisin Trike.

  Ted and Dinky exchanged a glance. “Definitely,” Ted said.

  Susannah waited to see if Eddie would protest, even before he knew what Roland had in mind. He didn’t. Good. She was already thinking about what weapons she’d want. What guns.

  Roland sat quiet for a moment or two, gazing at the map, almost seeming to commune with it. When Ted offered him a cigarette, the gunslinger took it. Then he began to talk. Twice he drew on the side of a weapons crate with a piece of chalk. Twice more he drew arrows on the map, one pointing to what they were calling north, one to the south. Ted asked a question; Dinky asked another. Behind them, Sheemie and Haylis played with Oy like a couple of children. The bumbler mimicked their laughter with eerie accuracy.

  When Roland had finished, Ted Brautigan said: “You mean to spill an almighty lot of blood.”

  “Indeed I do. As much as I can.”

  “Risky for the lady,” Dink remarked, looking first at her and then at her husband.

  Susannah said nothing. Neither did Eddie. He recognized the risk. He also understood why Roland would want Suze north of the compound. The Cruisin Trike would give her mobility, and they’d need it. As for risk, they were six planning to take on sixty. Or more. Of course there would be risk, and of course there would be blood.

  Blood and fire.

  “I may be able to rig a couple of other guns,” Susannah said. Her eyes had taken on that special Detta Walker gleam. “Radio-controlled, like a toy airplane. I dunno. But I’ll move, all right. I’m goan speed around like grease on a hot griddle.”

  “Can this work?” Dinky asked bluntly.

  Roland’s lips parted in a humorless grin. “It will work.”

  “How can you say that?” Ted asked.

  Eddie recalled Roland’s reasoning before their call to John Cullum and could have answered that question, but answers were for their ka-tet’s dinh to give—if he would—and so he left this one to Roland.

  “Because it has to,” the gunslinger said. “I see no other way.”

  CHAPTER XI:

  THE ATTACK ON ALGUL SIENTO

  ONE

  It was a day later and not long before the horn signaled the morning change of shift. The music would soon start, the sun would come on, and the Breaker night-crew would exit The Study stage left while the Breaker day-crew entered stage right. Everything was as it should be, yet Pimli Prentiss had slept less than an hour the previous night and even that brief time had been haunted by sour and chaotic dreams. Finally, around four (what his bedside clock in fact claimed was four, but who knew anymore, and what did it matter anyway, this close to the end), he’d gotten up and sat in his office chair, looking out at the darkened Mall, deserted at this hour save for one lone and pointless robot who’d taken it into its head to patrol, waving its six pincer-tipped arms aimlessly at the sky. The robots that still ran grew wonkier by the day, but pulling their batteries could be dangerous, for some were booby-trapped and would explode if you tried it. There was nothing you could do but put up with their antics and keep reminding yourself that all would be over soon, praise Jesus and God the Father Almighty. At some point the former Paul Prentiss opened the desk drawer above the kneehole, pulled out the .40 Peacemaker Colt inside, and held it in his lap. It was the one with which the previous Master, Humma, had executed the rapist Cameron. Pimli hadn’t had to execute anyone in his time and was glad of it, but holding the pistol in his lap, feeling its grave weight, always offered a certain comfort. Although why he should require comfort in the watches of the night, especially when everything was going so well, he had no idea. All he knew for sure was that there had been some anomalous blips on what Finli and Jenkins, their chief technician, liked to call the Deep Telemetry, as if these were instruments at the bottom of the ocean instead of just in a basement closet adjacent to the long, low room holding the rest of the more useful gear. Pimli recognized what he was feeling—call a spade a spade—as a sense of impending doom. He tried to tell himself it was only his grandfather’s proverb in action, that he was almost home and so it was time to worry about the eggs.

  Finally he’d gone into his bathroom, where he closed the lid of the toilet and knelt to pray. And here he was still, only something had changed in the atmosphere. He’d heard no footfall but knew someone had stepped into his office. Logic suggested who it must be. Still without opening his eyes, still with his hands clasped on the closed cover of the toilet, he called: “Finli? Finli o’ Tego? Is that you?”

  “Yar, boss, it’s me.”

  What was he doing here before the horn? Everyone, even the Breakers, knew what a fiend for sleep was Finli the Weasel. But all in good time. At this moment Pimli was entertaining the Lord (although in truth he’d nearly dozed off on his knees when some deep sub-instinct had warned him he was no longer alone on the first floor of Warden’s House). One did not snub such an important guest as the Lord God of Hosts, and so he finished his prayer—“Grant me the grace of Thy will, amen!”— before rising with a wince. His damned back didn’t care a bit for the belly it had to hoist in front.

  Finli was standing by the window, holding the Peacemaker up to the dim light, turning it to and fro in order to admire the delicate scrollwork on the butt-plates.

  “This is the one that said goodnight to Cameron, true?” Finli asked. “The rapist Cameron.”

  Pimli nodded. “Have a care, my son. It’s loaded.”

  “Six-shot?”

  “Eight! Are you blind? Look at the size of the cylinder, for God’s love.”

  Finli didn’t bother. He handed the gun back to Pimli, instead. “I know how to pull the trigger, so I do, and when it comes to guns that’s enough.”

  “Aye, if it’s loaded. What are you doing up at this hour, and bothering a man at his morning prayers?”

  Finli eyed him. “If I were to ask you why I find you at your prayers, dressed and combed instead of in your bathrobe and slippers with only one eye open, what answer would you make?”

  “I’ve got the jitters. It’s as simple as that. I guess you do, too.”

  Finli smiled, charmed. “Jitters! Is that like heebie-jeebies, and harum-scarum, and hinky-di-di?”

  “Sort of—yar.”

  Finli’s smile widened, but Pimli thought it didn’t look quite genuine. “I like it! I like it very well! Jittery! Jittersome!”

  “No,” Pimli said. “‘Got the jitters,’ that’s how you use it.”

  Finli’s smile faded. “I also have the jitters. I’m heebie and jeebie. I feel hinky-di-di. I’m harum and you’re scarum.”

  “More blips on the Deep Telemetry?”

  Finli shrugged, then nodded. The problem with the Deep Telemetry was that none of them were sure exactly what it measured. It might be telepathy, or (God forbid) teleportation, or even deep tremors in the fabric of reality—precursors of the Bear Beam’s impending snap. Impossible to tell. But more and more of that previously dark and quiet equipment had come alive in the last four months or so.

  “What does Jenkins say?” Pimli asked. He slipped the .40 into his docker’s clutch almost without thinking, so moving us a step closer to what you will not want to hear and I will not want to tell.

  “Jenkins says whatever rides out of his mouth on the flying
carpet of his tongue,” said the Tego with a rude shrug. “Since he don’t even know what the symbols on the Deep Telemetry dials and vid screens signify, how can you ask his opinion?”

  “Easy,” Pimli said, putting a hand on his Security Chief’s shoulder. He was surprised (and a little alarmed) to feel the flesh beneath Finli’s fine Turnbull & Asser shirt thrumming slightly. Or perhaps trembling. “Easy, pal! I was only asking.”

  “I can’t sleep, I can’t read, I can’t even fuck,” Finli said. “I tried all three, by Gan! Walk down to Damli House with me, would you, and have a look at the damned readouts. Maybe you’ll have some ideas.”

  “I’m a trailboss, not a technician,” Pimli said mildly, but he was already moving toward the door. “However, since I’ve nothing better to do—”

  “Maybe it’s just the end coming on,” Finli said, pausing in the doorway. “As if there could be any just about such a thing.”

  “Maybe that’s it,” Pimli said equably, “and a walk in the morning air can’t do us any ha—Hey! Hey, you! You, there! You Rod! Turn around when I talk to you, hadn’t you just better!”

  The Rod, a scrawny fellow in an ancient pair of denim biballs (the deeply sagging seat had gone completely white), obeyed. His cheeks were chubby and freckled, his eyes an engaging shade of blue even though at the moment alarmed. He actually wouldn’t have been bad-looking except for his nose, which had been eaten away almost completely on one side, giving him a bizarre one-nostril look. He was toting a basket. Pimli was pretty sure he’d seen this shufflefoot bah-bo around the ranch before, but couldn’t be sure; to him, all Rods looked alike.

  It didn’t matter. Identification was Finli’s job and he took charge now, pulling a rubber glove out of his belt and putting it on as he strode forward. The Rod cringed back against the wall, clasping his wicker basket tighter and letting go a loud fart that had to have been pure nerves. Pimli needed to bite down on the inside of his cheek, and quite fiercely, to keep a smile from rising on his lips.

  “Nay, nay, nay!” the Security Chief cried, and slapped the Rod briskly across the face with his newly gloved hand. (It did not do to touch the Children of Roderick skin to skin; they carried too many diseases.) Loose spit flew from the Rod’s mouth and blood from the hole in his nose. “Speak not with your ki’box to me, sai Haylis! The hole in thy head’s not much better, but at least it can give me a word of respect. It had better be able to!”