by Stephen King
The Tick-Tock Man shifted his gaze to Hoots, who looked sick with fear. “What about it?” Tick-Tock asked in his soft, terrible voice. “What about it, Hooterman? I know you and Gasher was butt-buddies of old, and I know you’ve the brains of a hung goose, but surely not even you could be stupid enough to write down a password to the inner chamber… could you? Could you?”
“I… I oney thought…” Hoots began.
“Shut up!” Gasher shouted. He shot Jake a look of pure, sick hate. “I’ll kill you for this, dearie-see if I don’t.”
“Take off your scarf, Gasher,” the Tick-Tock Man said. “I want a look inside it.”
Jake sidled a step closer to the podium with the burtons on it.
“No!” Gasher’s hands returned to the scarf and pressed against it as if it might fly away of its own accord. “Be damned if I will!”
“Brandon, grab him,” Tick-Tock said.
Brandon lunged for Gasher. Gasher’s move wasn’t as quick as Tick-Tock’s had been, but it was quick enough; he bent, yanked a knife from the top of his boot, and buried it in Brandon’s arm.
“Oh, you barstard!” Brandon shouted in surprise and pain as blood began to pour out of his arm.
“Lookit what you did!” Tilly screamed.
“Do I have to do everything around here myself?” Tick-Tock shouted, more exasperated than angry, it seemed, and rose to his feet. Gasher retreated from him, weaving the bloody knife back and forth in front of his face in mystic patterns. He kept his other hand planted firmly on top of his head.
“Draw back,” he panted. “I loves you like a brother, Ticky, but if you don’t draw back, I’ll hide this blade in your guts-so I will.”
“You? Not likely,” the Tick-Tock Man said with a laugh. He removed his own knife from its scabbard and held it delicately by the bone hilt. All eyes were on the two of them. Jake took two quick steps to the podium with its little cluster of buttons and reached for the one he thought the Tick-Took man had pushed.
Gasher was backing along the curved wall, the tubes of light painting his mandrus-riddled face in a succession of sick colors: bile-green, fever-red, jaundice-yellow. Now it was the Tick-Tock Man standing below the ventilator grille where Oy was watching.
“Put it down, Gasher,” Tick-Tock said in a reasonable tone of voice. “You brought the boy as I asked; if anyone else gets pricked over this, it’ll be Hoots, not you. Just show me-”
Jake saw Oy crouching to spring and understood two things: what the humbler meant to do and who had put him up to it.
“Oy, no!” he screamed.
All of them turned to look at him. At that moment Oy leaped, hitting the flimsy ventilator grille and knocking it free. The Tick-Tock Man wheeled toward die sound, and Oy fell onto his upturned face, biting and slashing.
32
ROLAND HEARD IT FAINTLY even through the twin doors-Oy, no!-and his heart sank. He waited for the valve-wheel to turn, but it did not. He closed his eyes and sent with all his might: The door, Jake! Open the door!
He sensed no response, and the pictures were gone. His communication line with Jake, flimsy to begin with, had now been severed.
33
THE TICK-TOCK MAN blundered backward, cursing and screaming and grabbing at the writhing, biting, digging thing on his face. He felt Oy’s claws punch into his left eye, popping it, and a horrible red pain sank into his head like a flaming torch thrown down a deep well. At that point, rage overwhelmed pain. He seized Oy, tore him off his face, and held him over his head, meaning to twist him like a rag.
“No!” Jake wailed. He forgot about the button which unlocked the doors and seized the gun hanging from the back of the chair.
Tilly shrieked. The others scattered. Jake levelled the old German machine-gun at the Tick-Tock Man. Oy, upside down in those huge, strong hands and bent almost to the snapping point, writhed madly and slashed his teeth into the air. He shrieked in agony-a horribly human sound.
“Leave him alone, you bastard!” Jake screamed, and pressed the trigger.
He had enough presence of mind left to aim low. The roar of the Schmeisser.40 was ear-splitting in the enclosed space, although it fired only five or six rounds. One of the lighted tubes popped in a burst of cold orange fire. A hole appeared an inch above the left knee of the Tick-Tock Man’s tight-fitting trousers, and a dark red stain began to spread at once. Tick-Tock’s mouth opened in a shocked O of surprise, an expression which said more clearly than words could have done that, for all his intelligence, Tick-Tock had expected to live a long, happy life where he shot people but was never shot himself. Shot at, perhaps, but actually hit? That surprised expression said that just wasn’t supposed to be in the cards.
Welcome to the real world, you fuck, Jake thought.
Tick-Tock dropped Oy to the iron grillework floor to grab at his wounded leg. Copperhead lunged at Jake, got an arm around his throat, and then Oy was on him, barking shrilly and chewing at Copperhead’s ankle through the black silk pants. Copperhead screamed and danced away, shaking Oy back and forth at the end of his leg. Oy clung like a limpet. Jake turned to see the Tick-Tock Man crawling toward him. He had retrieved his knife and the blade was now clamped between his teeth.
“Goodbye, Ticky,” Jake said, and pressed the Schmeisser’s trigger again. Nothing happened. Jake didn’t know if it was empty or jammed, and this was hardly the time to speculate. He took two steps backward before finding further retreat blocked by the big chair which had served the Tick-Tock Man as a throne. Before he could slip around, putting the chair between them, Tick-Tock had grabbed his ankle. His other hand went to the hilt of his knife. The ruins of his left eye lay on his cheek like a glob of mint jelly; the right eye glared up at Jake with insane hatred.
Jake tried to pull away from the clutching hand and went sprawling on the Tick-Tock man’s throne. His eye fell on a pocket which had been sewn into the right-hand arm-rest. Jutting from the elasticized top was the cracked pearl handle of a revolver.
“Oh, cully, how you’ll suffer!” the Tick-Tock Man whispered ecstatically. The O of surprise had been replaced by a wide, trembling grin. “Oh how you’ll suffer! And how happy I’ll be to… What-?”
The grin slackened and the surprised O began to reappear as Jake pointed the cheesy nickel-plated revolver at him and thumbed back the hammer. The grip on Jake’s ankle tightened until it seemed to him that the bones there must snap.
“You dasn’t!” Tick-Tock said in a screamy whisper.
“Yes I do,” Jake said grimly, and pulled the trigger of the Tick-Tock Man’s runout gun. There was a Hat crack, much less dramatic than the Schmeisser’s Teutonic roar. A small black hole appeared high up on the right side of Tick-Tock’s forehead. The Tick-Tock Man went on staring up at Jake, disbelief in his remaining eye.
Jake tried to make himself shoot him again and couldn’t do it.
Suddenly a flap of the Tick-Tock Man’s scalp peeled away like old wallpaper and dropped on his right cheek. Roland would have known what this meant; Jake, however, was now almost beyond coherent thought. A dark, panicky horror was spinning across his mind like a tornado funnel. He cringed back in the big chair as the hand on his ankle fell away and the Tick-Tock Man collapsed forward on his face.
The door. He had to open the door and let the gunslinger in.
Focusing on that and nothing but, Jake let the pearl-handled revolver clatter to the iron grating and pushed himself out of the chair. He was reaching again for the button he thought he had seen Tick-Tock push when a pair of hands settled around his throat and dragged him backward, away from the podium.
“I said I’d kill you for it, my narsty little pal,” a voice whispered in his ear, “and the Gasherman always keeps his promises.”
Jake flailed behind him with both hands and found nothing but thin air. Gasher’s fingers sank into his throat, choking relentlessly. The world started to turn gray in front of his eyes. Gray quickly deepened to purple, and purple to black.
34
A PUMP STARTED UP, and the valve-wheel in the center of the hatch spun rapidly. Gods be thanked! Roland thought. He seized the wheel with his right hand almost before it had stopped moving and yanked it open. The other door was ajar; from beyond it came the sounds of men fighting and Oy’s bark, now shrill with pain and fury.
Roland kicked the door open with his boot and saw Gasher throttling Jake. Oy had left Copperhead and was now trying to make Gasher let go of Jake, but Gasher’s boot was doing double duty: protecting its owner from the bumbler’s teeth, and protecting Oy from the virulent infection which ran in Gasher’s blood. Brandon stabbed Oy in the flank again in an effort to make him stop worrying Gasher’s ankle, but Oy paid no heed. Jake hung from his captor’s dirty hands like a puppet whose strings have been cut. His face was bluish-white, his swollen lips a delicate shade of lavender.
Gasher looked up. “You,” he snarled.
“Me,” Roland agreed. He fired once and tin; left side of Gasher’s head disintegrated. The man went flying backward, bloodstained yellow scarf unravelling, and landed on top of the Tick-Tock Man. His feet drummed spastically on the iron grillework for a moment and then fell still.
The gunslinger shot Brandon twice, fanning the hammer of his revolver with the flat of his right hand. Brandon, who had been bent over Oy for another stroke, spun around, struck the wall, and slid slowly down it, clutching at one of the tubes. Green swamplight spilled out from between his loosening fingers.
Oy limped to where Jake lay and began licking his pale, still face.
Copperhead and Hoots had seen enough. They ran side by side for the small door through which Tilly had gone to get the dipper of water. It was the wrong time for chivalry; Roland shot them both in the back. He would have to move fast now, very fast indeed, and he would not risk being waylaid by these two if they should chance to rediscover their guts.
A cluster of bright orange lights came on at the top of the capsule-shaped enclosure, and an alarm began to go off: in broad, hoarse blats that bartered the walls. After a moment or two, the emergency lights began to pulse in sync with the alarm.
35
EDDIE WAS RETURNING TO Susannah when the alarm began to wail. He yelled in surprise and raised the Ruger, pointing it at nothing. “What’s happening?”
Susannah shook her head-she had no idea. The alarm was scary, but that was only part of the problem; it was also loud enough to be physically painful. Those amplified jags of sound made Eddie think of a tractor-trailer horn raised to the tenth power.
At that moment, the orange arc-sodiums began to pulse. When he reached Susannah’s chair, Eddie saw that the COMMAND and ENTER buttons were also pulsing in bright red beats. They looked like winking eyes.
“Blaine, what’s happening?” he shouted. He looked around but saw only wildly jumping shadows. “Are you doing this?”
Blaine’s only response was laughter-terrible mechanical laughter that made Eddie think of the clockwork clown that had stood outside the House of Horrors at Coney Island when he was a little kid.
“Blaine, stop it!” Susannah shrieked. “How can we think of an answer to your riddle with that air-raid siren going off?”
The laughter stopped us suddenly as it began, but Blaine made no reply. Or perhaps he did; from beyond the bars that separated them from the platform, huge engines powered by frictionless slo-trans turbines awoke at the command of the dipolar computers the Tick-Tock Man had so lusted after. For the first time in a decade, Blaine the Mono was awake and cycling up toward running speed.
36
THE ALARM, WHICH HAD indeed been built to warn Lud’s long-dead residents of an impending air attack (and which had not even been tested in almost a thousand years), blanketed the city with sound. All the lights which still operated came on and began to pulse in sync. Pubes above the streets and Grays below them were alike convinced that the end they had always feared was finally upon them. The Grays suspected some cataclysmic mechanical breakdown was occurring. The Pubes, who had always believed that the ghosts lurking in the machines below the city would some day rise up to take their long-delayed vengeance on the still living, were probably closer to the actual truth of what was happening.
Certainly there had been an intelligence left in the ancient computers below the city, a single living organism which had long ago ceased to exist sanely under conditions that, within its merciless dipolar circuits, could only be absolute reality. It had held its increasingly alien logic within its banks of memory for eight hundred years and might have held them so for eight hundred more, if not for the arrival of Roland and his friends; yet this mens non corpus had brooded and grown ever more insane with each passing year; even in its increasing periods of sleep it could be said to dream, and these dreams grew steadily more abnormal as the world moved on. Now, although the unthinkable machinery which maintained the Beams had weakened, this insane and inhuman intelligence had awakened in the rooms of ruin and had begun once more, although as bodiless as any ghost, to stumble through the halls of the dead.
In other words, Blaine the Mono was preparing to get out of Dodge.
37
ROLAND HEARD A FOOTSTEP behind him as he knelt by Jake and turned, raising his gun. Tilly, her dough-colored face a mask of confusion and superstitious fear, raised her hands and shrieked: “Don’t kill me, sai! Please! Don’t kill me!”
“Run, then,” Roland said curtly, and as Tilly began to move, he struck her calf with the barrel of his revolver. “Not that way-through the door I came in. And if you ever see me again, I’ll be the last thing you ever see. Now go!”
She disappeared into the leaping, circling shadows.
Roland dropped his head to Jake’s chest, slamming his palm against his other ear to deaden the pulse of the alarm. He heard the boy’s heartbeat, slow but strong. He slipped his arms around the boy, and as he did, Jakes’s eyes fluttered open. “You didn’t let me fall this time.” His voice was no more than a hoarse whisper.
“No. Not this time, and not ever again. Don’t try your voice.”
“Where’s Oy?”
“Oy!” the bumbler barked. “Oy!”
Brandon had slashed Oy several times, but none of the wounds seemed mortal or even serious. It was clear that he was in some pain, but it was equally clear he was transported with joy. He regarded Jake with sparkling eyes, his pink tongue lolling out. “Ake, Ake, Ake!”
Jake burst into tears and reached for him; Oy limped into the circle of his arms and allowed himself to be hugged for a moment.
Roland got up and looked around. His gaze fixed on the door on the far side of the room. The two men he’d backshot had been heading in that direction, and the woman had also wanted to go that way. The gunslinger went toward the door with Jake in his arms and Oy at his heel. He kicked one of the dead Grays aside, and ducked through. The room beyond was a kitchen. It managed to look like a hog-wallow in spite of the built-in appliances and the stainless steel walls; the Grays were apparently not much interested in housekeeping.
“Drink,” Jake whispered. “Please… so thirsty.”
Roland felt a queer doubling, as if time had folded backward on itself. He remembered lurching out of the desert, crazy with the heat and the emptiness. He remembered passing out in the stable of the way station, half-dead from thirst, and waking at the taste of cool water trickling down his throat. The boy had taken off his shirt, soaked it under the flow from the pump, and given him to drink. Now it was his turn to do for Jake what Jake had already done for him.
Roland glanced around and saw a sink. He went over to it and turned on the faucet. Cold, clear water rushed out. Over them, around them, under them, the alarm roared on and on.
“Can you stand?”
Jake nodded. “I think so.”
Roland set the boy on his feet, ready to catch him if he looked too wobbly, but Jake hung onto the sink, then ducked his head beneath the flowing water. Roland picked Oy up and looked at his wounds. They were already clotting. You g
ot off very lucky, my furry friend, Roland thought, then reached past Jake to cup a palmful of water for the animal. Oy drank it eagerly.
Jake drew back from the faucet with his hair plastered to the sides of his face. His skin was still too pale and the signs that he had been badly beaten were clearly visible, but he looked better than he had when Roland had first bent over him. For one terrible moment, the gunslinger had been positive Jake was dead.
He found himself wishing he could go back and kill Gasher again, and that led him to another thought.
“What about the one Gasher called the Tick-Tock Man? Did you see him, Jake?”
“Yes. Oy ambushed him. Tore up his face. Then I shot him.”
“Dead?”
Jake’s lips began to tremble. He pressed them firmly together. “Yes. In his…” He tapped his forehead high above his right eyebrow. “I was l-l-… I was lucky.”
Roland looked at him appraisingly, then slowly shook his head. “You know, I doubt that. But never mind now. Come on.”
“Where are we going?” Jake’s voice was still little more than a husky murmur, and he kept looking past Roland’s shoulder toward the room where he had almost died.
Roland pointed across the kitchen. Beyond another hatchway, the corridor continued. “That’ll do for a start.”
“GUNSLINGER,” a voice boomed from everywhere.
Roland wheeled around, one arm cradling Oy and the other around Jake’s shoulders, but there was no one to see.
“Who speaks to me?” he shouted.
“NAME YOURSELF, GUNSLINGER.”
“Roland of Gilead, son of Steven. Who speaks to me?”
“GILEAD IS NO MORE,” the voice mused, ignoring the question.
Roland looked up and saw patterns of concentric rings in the ceiling. The voice was coming from those.
