by Stephen King
But was that all? A deeper part of him seemed to doubt the idea. That part thought something else was going on here, something which had little or nothing to do with the paltry memories of a novelist who had fed on war like a buzzard on carrion ... and had subsequently produced exactly the sort of bad book such behavior probably warranted.
All right, then-if it's not you, what is it?
"What did you do then?" Steve asked her.
"Went back to the laundrymat office. I crawled. And when I got there, I crawled into the kneehole under the desk and curled up in there and went to sleep. I was very tired. Seeing all those things ... all that death ... it made me very tired.
"It was thin sleep. I kept hearing things. Gunshots, explosions, breaking glass, screams. I have no idea how much of it was real and how much was just in my mind. When I woke up, it was late afternoon. I was sore all over, at first I thought it had all been a dream, that I might even still be camping. Then I opened my eyes and saw where I was, curled up under a desk, and I smelled bleach and laundry soap, and realized I had to pee worse than ever in my life. Also, both my legs were asleep.
"I started wiggling out from under the desk, telling myself not to panic if I got a little stuck, and that was when I heard somebody come into the front of the store, and I yanked myself back under the desk again. It was him. I knew it just by the way he walked. It was the sound of a man in boots.
"He goes, 'Is anyone here?' and came up the aisle between the washers and dryers. Like he was following my tracks. In a way he was. It was my perfume. I hardly ever wear it, but putting on a dress made me think of it, made me think it might make things go a little smoother at my meeting with Mr. Symes." She shrugged, maybe a little embarrassed. "You know what they say about using the tools."
Cynthia looked blank at this, but Mary nodded.
"'It smells like Opium,' he says. 'Is it, miss? Is that what you're wearing?' I didn't say anything, just curled up there in the kneehole with my arms wrapped around my head. He goes, 'Why don't you come out? If you come out, I'll make it quick. If I have to find you, I'll make it slow.' And I wanted to come out, that's how much he'd gotten to me. How much he'd scared me. I believed he knew for sure that I was still in there somewhere, and that he was going to follow the smell of my perfume to me like a bloodhound, and I wanted to get out from under the desk and go to him so he'd kill me quick. I wanted to go to him the way the people at Jonestown must have wanted to stand in line to get the Kool-Aid. Only I couldn't. I froze up again and all I could do was lie there and think that I was going to die needing to pee. I saw the office chair--I'd pulled it out so I could get into the kneehole of the desk--and I thought, 'When he sees where the chair is, he'll know where I am.' That was when he came into the office, while I was thinking that. 'is someone in here?' he goes. 'Come on out. I won't hurt you. I just want to question you about what's going on. We've got a big problem.' "
Audrey began to tremble, as Johnny supposed she had trembled while she had been hedgehogged in the kneehole of the desk, waiting for Entragian to come the rest of the way into the room, find her, and kill her. Except she was smiling, too, the kind of smile you could hardly bring yourself to look at.
"That's how crazy he was." She clasped her shaking hands together in her lap. "In one breath he says that if you come out he'll reward you by killing you quick; in the next he says he just wants to ask you a few questions. Crazy. But I believed both things at once. So who's the craziest one? Huh? Who's the craziest one?
"He came a couple of steps into the room. I think it was a couple. Far enough for his shadow to fall over the desk and onto the other side, where I was. I remember thinking that if his shadow had eyes, they'd be able to see me. He stood there a long time. I could hear him breathing. Then he said 'Fuck it' and left. A minute or so later, I heard the street door open and close. At first I was sure it was a trick. In my mind's eye I could see him just as clearly as I can see you guys now, opening the door and then closing it again, but still standing there on the inside, next to the machine with the little packets of soap in it. Standing there with his gun out, waiting for me to move. And you know what? I went on thinking that even after he started roaring around the streets in his car again, looking for other people to murder. I think I'd be under there still, except I knew that if I didn't go to the bathroom I was going to wet my pants, and I didn't want to do that. Huhuh, no way. If he was able to smell my perfume, he'd smell fresh urine even quicker. So I crawled out and went to the bathroom--I hobbled like an old lady because my legs were still asleep, but I got there."
And although she spoke for another ten minutes or so, Johnny thought that was where Audrey Wyler's story essentially ended, with her hobbling into the office bathroom to take a leak. Her car was close by and she had the keys in her dress pocket, but it might as well have been on the moon instead of Main Street for all the good it was to her. She'd gone back and forth several times between the office and the laundrymat proper (Johnny didn't doubt for a moment the courage it must have taken to move around even that much), but she had gone no farther. Her nerve wasn't just shot, it was shattered. When the gunshots and the maddening, ceaselessly revving engine stopped for awhile, she would think about making a break for it, she said, but then she would imagine Entragian catching up to her, running her off the road, pulling her out of her car, and shooting her in the head. Also, she told them, she had been convinced that help would arrive. Had to. Desperation was off the main road, yes, sure, but not that far off, and with the mine getting ready to reopen, people were always coming and going.
Some people had come into town, she said. She had seen a Federal Express panel truck around five that afternoon and a Wickoff County Light and Power pickup around noon of the next day, yesterday. Both went by on Main Street. She had heard music coming from the pickup. She didn't hear Entragian's cruiser that time, but five minutes or so after the pickup passed the laundrymat, there were more gunshots, and a man screaming "Oh, don't! Oh, don't!" in a voice so high it could have been a girl's.
After that, another endless night, not wanting to stay, not quite daring to try and make a break for it, eating snacks from the machine that stood at the end of the dryers, drinking water from the basin in the bathroom. Then a new day, with Entragian still circling like a vulture.
She hadn't been aware, she said, that he was bringing people into town and jugging them. By then all she'd been able to think about were plans for getting away, none of them seeming quite good enough. And, in a way, the laundrymat had begun to feel like home ... to feel safe. Entragian had been in here once, had left, and hadn't returned. He might never return.
"I hung onto the idea that he couldn't have gotten everyone, that there had to be others like me, who saw what was going on in time to get their heads down. Some would get out. They'd call the State Police. I kept telling myself it was wiser, at least for the time being, to wait. Then the storm came, and I decided to try to use it for cover. I'd sneak back to the mining office. There's an ATV in the garage of the Hideaway--"
Steve nodded. "We saw it. Got a little cart filled with rock samples behind it."
"My idea was to unhook the gondola and drive northwest back to Highway 50. I could grab a compass out of a supply cabinet, so even in the blow I'd be okay. Of course I knew I might go falling into a crevasse or something, but that didn't seem like much of a risk, not after what I'd seen. And I had to get out. Two nights in a laundrymat ... hey, you try it. I was getting ready to do it when you two came along."
"I damn near brained you," Steve said. "Sorry about that."
She smiled wanly, then looked around once more. "And the rest you know," she said.
I don't agree, Johnny Marinville thought. The throb in his nose was increasing again. He wanted a drink, and badly. Since that would be madness--for him, anyway--he pulled the bottle of aspirin out of his pocket and took two with a sip of spring-water. I don't think we know anything. Not yet, anyway.
4
Mary Ja
ckson said: "hat do we do now? How do we get out of this mess? Do we even try, or do we wait to be rescued?"
For a long time no one replied. Then Steve shifted in the chair he was sharing with Cynthia and said, "We can't wait. Not for long, anyway."
"Why do you say that?" Johnny asked. His voice was curiously gentle, as if he already knew the answer to this question.
"Because somebody should've gotten away, gotten to a phone outside of town and pulled the plug on the murder-machine. No one did, though. Even before the storm started, no one did. Something very powerful's happening here, and I think that counting on help from the outside may only get us killed. We have to count on each other, and we have to get out as soon as possible. That's what I believe."
"I'm not going without finding out what happened to my mom," David said.
"You can't think that way, son," Johnny said.
"Yes I can. I am."
"No," Billingsley said. Something in his voice made David raise his head. "Not with other lives at stake. Not when you're ... special, the way you are. We need you, son."
"That's not fair," David almost whispered.
"No," Billingsley agreed. His lined face was stony. "It ain't."
Cynthia said, "It won't do your mother any good if you--and the rest of us--die trying to find her, kiddo. On the other hand, if we can get out of town, we could come back with help."
"Right," Ralph said, but he said it in a hollow, sick way.
"No, it's not right," David said. "It's a crock of shit, that's what it is."
"David!"
The boy surveyed them, his face fierce with anger and sick with fright. "None of you care about my mother, not one of you. Even you don't, Dad."
"That's untrue," Ralph said. "And it's a cruel thing to say."
"Yeah," David said, "but I think it's true, just the same. I know you love her, but I think you'd leave her because you believe she's already dead." He fixed his father with his gaze, and when Ralph looked down at his hands, tears oozing out of his swollen eye, David switched to the veterinarian. "And I'll tell you something, Mr. Billingsley. Just because I pray doesn't mean I'm a comic-book wizard or something. Praying's not magic. The only magic I know is a couple of card tricks that I usually mess up on anyway."
"David--" Steve began.
"If we go away and come back, it'll be too late to save her! I know it will be! I know that!" His words rang from the stage like an actor's speech, then died away. Outside, the indifferent wind gusted.
"David, it's probably already too late," Johnny said. His voice was steady enough, but he couldn't quite look at the kid as he said it.
Ralph sighed harshly. His son went to him, sat beside him, took his hand. Ralph's face was drawn with weariness and confusion. He looked older now.
Steve turned to Audrey. "You said you knew another way out."
"Yes. The big earthwork you see as you come into town is the north face of the pit we've reopened. There's a road that goes up the side of it, over the top, and into the pit. There's another one that goes back to Highway 50 west of here. It runs along Desperation Creek, which is just a dry-wash now. You know where I mean, Tom?"
He nodded.
"That road--Desperation Creek Road--starts at the motor-pool. There are more ATVs there. The biggest only seats four safely, but we could hook up an empty gondola and the other three could ride in it."
Steve, a ten-year veteran of loadins, load-outs, snap decisions, and rapid getaways (often necessitated by the combination of four-star hotels and rock-band assholes), had been following her carefully. "Okay, what I suggest is this. We wait until morning. Get some rest, maybe even a little sleep. The storm might blow itself out by then--"
"I think the wind has let up a little," Mary said. "Maybe that's wishful thinking, but I really think it has."
"Even if it's still going, we can get up to the motor-pool, can't we, Audrey?"
"I'm sure we can."
"How far is it?"
"Two miles from the mining office, probably a mile and a half from here."
He nodded. "And in daylight, we'll be able to see Entragian. If we try to go at night, in the storm, we can't count on that."
"We can't count on being able to see the ... the wildlife, either," Cynthia said.
"I'm talking about moving fast and armed," Steve said. "If the storm plays out, we can head up to the embankment in my truck--three up front in the cab with me, four back in the box. If the weather is still bad--and I actually hope it will be--I think we should go on foot. We'll attract less attention that way. He might never even know we're gone."
"I imagine the Escolla boy and his friends were thinking about the same way when Collie ran em down," Billingsley said.
"They were headed north on Main Street," Johnny said. "Exactly what Entragian would have been looking for. We'll be going south, toward the mine, at least initially, and leaving the area on a feeder road."
"Yeah," Steve said. "And then bang, we're gone." He went over to David--the boy had left his father and was sitting on the edge of the stage, staring out over the tacky old theater seats--and squatted beside him. "But we'll come back. You hear me, David? We'll come back for your mom, and for anyone else he's left alive. That's a rock-solid promise, from me to you."
David went on staring out over the seats. "I don't know what to do," he said. "I know I need to ask God to help me straighten out my head, but right now I'm so mad at him that I can't. Every time I try to compose my mind, that gets in the way. He let the cop take my mother! Why? Jesus, why?"
Do you know you did a miracle just a little while ago? Steve thought. He didn't say it; it might only make David's confusion and misery worse. After a moment Steve got up and stood looking down at the boy, hands shoved deep into his pockets, eyes troubled.
5
The cougar walked slowly down the alley, head lowered, ears flattened. She avoided the garbage cans and the pile of scrap lumber much more easily than the humans had done; she saw far better in the dark. Still, she paused at the end of the alley, a low, squalling growl rising from her throat. She didn't like this. One of them was strong--very strong. She could sense that one's force even through the brick flank of the building, pulsing like a glow. Still, there was no question of disobedience. The outsider, the one from the earth, was in the cougar's head, its will caught in her mind like a fishhook. That one spoke in the language of the unformed, from the time before, when all animals except for men and the outsider were one.
But she didn't like that sense of force. That glow.
She growled again, a rasp that rose and fell, coming more from her nostrils than her closed mouth. She slipped her head around the comer, wincing at a blast of wind that ruffled her fur and charged her nose with smells of brome grass and Indian paintbrush and old booze and older brick. Even from here she could smell the bitterness from the pit south of town, the smell that had been there since they had charged the last half-dozen blast-holes and reopened the bad place, the one the animals knew about and the men had tried to forget.
The wind died, and the cougar padded slowly down the path between the board fence and the rear of the theater. She stopped to sniff at the crates, spending more time on the one which had been overturned than on the one which still stood against the wall. There were many intermingled scents here. The last person who had stood on the overturned crate had then pushed it off the one still against the wall. The cougar could smell his hands, a different, sharper smell than the others. A skin smell, undressed somehow, tangy with sweat and oils. It belonged to a male in the prime of his life.
She could also smell guns. Under other circumstances that smell would have sent her running, but now it didn't matter. She would go where the old one sent her; she had no choice. The cougar sniffed the wall, then looked up at the window. It was unlocked; she could see it moving back and forth in the wind. Not much, because it was recessed, but enough for her to be sure it was open. She could get inside. It would be easy. The window would pus
h in before her, giving way as man-things sometimes did.
No, the voice of the unformed said. You can't.
An image flickered briefly in her mind: shiny things. Man-drinkers, sometimes smashed to bright fragments on the rocks when the men were done with them. She understood (in the way that a layperson may vaguely understand a complicated geometry proof, if it is carefully explained) that she would knock a number of these man-drinkers onto the floor if she tried to jump through the window. She didn't know how that could be, but the voice in her head said it was, and that the others would hear them break.
The cougar passed beneath the unlatched window like a dark eddy, paused to sniff at the firedoor, which had been boarded shut, then came to a second window. This one was at the same height as the one with the man-drinkers inside of it, and made of the same white glass, but it wasn't unlatched.
It's the one you'll use, though, the voice in the cougar's head whispered. When I tell you it's time, that's the one you'll use.
Yes. She might cut herself on the glass in the window, as she had once cut the pads of her feet on the pieces of man-drinkers up in the hills, but when the voice in her head told her that the time had come, she would jump at the window. Once inside, she would continue to do what the voice told her. It wasn't the way things were supposed to be ... but for now, it was the way things were.
The cougar lay below the bolted men's-room window, curled her tail around her, and waited for the voice of the thing from the pit. The voice of the outsider. The voice of Tak. When it came, she would move. Until it did, she would lie here and listen to the voice of the wind, and smell the bitterness it brought with it, like bad news from another world.
CHAPTER 3
1
Mary watched the old veterinarian take a bottle of whiskey out of the liquor cabinet, almost drop it, then pour himself a drink. She took a step toward Johnny and spoke to him in a low voice. "Make him stop. That's the one with the drunk in it."
