by Стивен Кинг
“The next time you move, don’t stop,” George said, “because I won’t.
Guaranteed. Now take that mask off.”
“I’m done fucking with you, Jesse. Say hello to God.” George pulled back the hammer of his revolver. The shooter said, “Jesus Christ,” and yanked off his mask. It was George Footman. Not much surprise there. From behind him, the driver gave one more shriek from within the Ford fireball and then was silent. Smoke rose in black billows. More thunder roared. “Mike, go inside and find something to tie him with,” George Kennedy said. “I can hold him another minute—two, if I have to—but I’m bleeding like a stuck pig. Look for strapping tape. That shit would hold Houdini.” Footman stood where he was, looking from Kennedy to me and back to Kennedy again. Then he peered down at Highway 68, which was eerily deserted. Or perhaps it wasn’t so eerie, at that—the coming storms had been well forecast. The tourists and summer folk would be under cover. As for the locals… The locals were… sort of listening.
That was at least close. The minister was speaking about Royce Merrill, a life which had been long and fruitful, a man who had served his country in peace and in war, but the old-timers weren’t listening to him. They were listening to us, the way they had once gathered around the pickle barrel at the Lakeview General and listened to prizefights on the radio. Bill Dean was holding Yvette’s wrist so tightly his fingernails were white. He was hurting her… but she wasn’t complaining. She wanted him to hold onto her. Why? “Mike!” George’s voice was perceptibly weaker. “Please, man, help me. This guy is dangerous."
“Let me go,” Footman said. “You’d better, don’t you think?”
“In your wettest dreams, motherfuck,” George said.
I got up, went past the pot with the key underneath, went up the cement-block steps. Lightning exploded across the sky, followed by a bellow of thunder.
Inside, Rommie was sitting in a chair at the kitchen table. His face was even whiter than George’s. “Kid’s okay,” he said, forcing the words.
“But she looks like waking up. . I can’t walk anymore. My ankle’s totally fucked.” I moved for the telephone.
“Don’t bother,” Rommie said. His voice was harsh and trembling. “Tried it. Dead. Storm must already have hit some of the other towns. Killed some of the equipment. Christ, I never had anything hurt like this in my life.”
I went to the drawers in the kitchen and began yanking them open one by one, looking for strapping tape, looking for clothesline, looking for any damned thing. If Kennedy passed out from blood-loss while I was in here, the other George would take his gun, kill him, and then kill John as he lay unconscious on the smoldering grass. With them taken care of, he’d come in here and shoot Rommie and me. He’d finish with Kyra. “No he won’t,” I said. “He’ll leave her alive.” And that might be even worse.
Silverware in the first drawer. Sandwich bags, garbage bags, and neatly banded stacks of grocery-store coupons in the second. Oven mitts and potholders in the third- “Mike, where’s my Mattie?”
I turned, as guilty as a man who has been caught mixing illegal drugs.
Kyra stood at the living-room end of the hall with her hair falling around her sleep-flushed cheeks and her scrunchy hung over one wrist like a bracelet. Her eyes were wide and panicky. It wasn’t the shots that had awakened her, probably not even her mother’s scream. I had wakened her. My thoughts had wakened her.
In the instant I realized it I tried to shield them somehow, but I was too late. She had read me about Devore well enough to tell me not to think about sad stuff, and now she read what had happened to her mother before I could keep her out of my mind.
Her mouth dropped open. Her eyes widened. She shrieked as if her hand had been caught in a vise and ran for the door.
“No, Kyra, no!” I sprinted across the kitchen, almost tripping over Rommie (he looked at me with the dim incomprehension of someone who is no longer completely conscious), and grabbed her just in time. As I did, I saw Buddy Jellison leaving Grace Baptist by a side door. Two of the men he had been smoking with went with him. Now I understood why Bill was holding so tightly to Yvette, and loved him for it—loved both of them. Something wanted him to go with Buddy and the others… but Bill wasn’t going.
Kyra struggled in my arms, making big convulsive thrusts at the door, gasping in breath and then screaming it out again. “Let me go, want to see Mommy, let me go, want to see Mommy, let me go—”
I called her name with the only voice I knew she would really hear, the one I could use only with her. She relaxed in my arms little by little, and turned to me. Her eyes were huge and confused and shining with tears. She looked at me a moment longer and then seemed to understand that she mustn’t go out. I put her down. She just stood there a moment, then backed up until her bottom was against the dishwasher. She slid down its smooth white front to the floor. Then she began to wail—the most awful sounds of grief I have ever heard. She understood completely, you see. I had to show her enough to keep her inside, I had to… and because we were in the zone together, I could.
Buddy and his friends were in a pickup truck headed this way. BAMM CONSTRUCTION, it said on the side.
“Mike!” George cried. He sounded panicky. “You got to hurry!”
“Hold on!”
I called back. “Hold on, George!”
Mattie and the others had started stacking picnic things beside the sink, but I’m almost positive that the stretch of Formica counter above the drawers had been clean and bare when I hurried after Kyra. Not now.
The yellow sugar cannister had been overturned. Written in the spilled sugar was this:
“No shit,” I muttered, and checked the remaining drawers. No tape, no rope. Not even a lousy set of handcuffs, and in most well-equipped kitchens you can count on finding three or four. Then I had an idea and looked in the cabinet under the sink. When I went back out, our George was swaying on his feet and Footman was looking at him with a kind of predatory concentration. “Did you get some tape?” George Kennedy asked.
“No, something better,” I said. “Tell me, Footman, who actually paid you? Devore or Whitmore? Or don’t you know?”
“Fuck you,” he said. I had my right hand behind my back. Now I pointed down the hill with my left one and endeavored to look surprised. “What the hell’s Osgood doing?
Tell him to go away!” Footman looked in that direction—it was instinctive—and I hit him in the back of the head with the Craftsman hammer I’d found in the toolbox under Mattie’s sink. The sound was horrible, the spray of blood erupting from the flying hair was horrible, but worst of all was the feeling of the skull giving way—a spongy collapse that came right up the handle and into my fingers. He went down like a sandbag, and I dropped the hammer, gagging. “Okay,” George said.
“A little ugly, but probably the best thing you could have done under… under the…” He didn’t go down like Footman—it was slower and more controlled, almost graceful—but he was just as out. I picked up the revolver, looked at it, then threw it into the woods across the road. A gun was nothing for me to have right now; it could only get me into more trouble. A couple of other men had also left the church; a carful of ladies in black dresses and veils, as well. I had to hurry on even faster. I unbuckled George’s pants and pulled them down. The bullet which had taken him in the leg had torn into his thigh, but the wound looked as if it was clotting. John’s upper arm was a different story—it was still pumping out blood in frightening quantities. I yanked his belt free and cinched it around his arm as tightly as I could. Then I slapped him across the face. His eyes opened and stared at me with a bleary lack of recognition. “Open your mouth, John!” He only stared at me. I leaned down until our noses were almost touching and screamed, “OPEN YOUR MOUTH,/ DO IT?
OW,/” He opened it like a kid when the nurse tells him just say aahh. I stuck the end of the belt between his teeth. “Close!” He closed. “Now hold it,” I said. “Even if you pass out, hold it.” I didn’t ha
ve time to see if he was paying attention. I got to my feet and looked up as the whole world went glare-blue. For a second it was like being inside a neon sign. There was a black suspended river up there, roiling and coiling like a basket of snakes. I had never seen such a baleful sky. I dashed up the cement-block steps and into the trailer again. Rom-mie had slumped forward onto the table with his face in his folded arms. He would have looked like a kindergartner taking a timeout if not for the broken salad bowl and the bits of lettuce in his hair. Kyra still sat with her back to the dishwasher, weeping hysterically. I picked her up and realized that she had wet herself. “We have to go now, Ki.”
“I want Mattie! I want Mommy! I want my Mattie, make her stop being hurt,/Make her stop being dead,/” I hurried across the trailer. On the way to the door I passed the end-table with the Mary Higgins Clark novel on it. I noticed the tangle of hair ribbons again—ribbons perhaps tried on before the party and then discarded in favor of the scrunchy. They were white with bright red edges. Pretty. I picked them up without stopping, stuffed them into a pants pocket, then switched Ki to my other arm. “I want Mattie! I want Mommy! Make her come back./” She swatted at me, trying to make me stop, then began to buck and kick in my arms again.
She drummed her fists on the side of my head. “Put me down! Land me!
Land me!”
“No, Kyra.”
“Put me down! Land me,/Land me,/PUT ME DOWN,/” I was losing her. Then, as we came out onto the top step, she abruptly stopped struggling. “Give me Stricken! I want Stricken!” At first I had no idea what she was talking about, but when I looked where she was pointing I understood. Lying on the walk not far from the pot with the key underneath it was the stuffed toy from Ki’s Happy Meal. Strickland had put in a fair amount of outside playtime from the look of him—the light-gray fur was now dark-gray with dust—but if the toy would calm her, I wanted her to have it. This was no time to worry about dirt and germs. “I’ll give you Strickland if you promise to close your eyes and not open them until I tell you. Will you promise?”
“I promise,” she said. She was trembling in my arms, and great globular tears—the kind you expect to see in fairy-tale books, never in real life—rose in her eyes and went spilling down her cheeks. I could smell burning grass and charred beefsteak. For one terrible moment I thought I was going to vomit, and then I got it under control. Ki closed her eyes.
Two more tears fell from them and onto my arm. They were hot. She held out one hand, groping. I went down the steps, got the dog, then hesitated. First the ribbons, now the dog. The ribbons were probably okay, but it seemed wrong to give her the dog and let her bring it along. It seemed wrong but… It’s gray, Irish, the UFO voice whispered.
IOU don’t need to worry about it because it’s gray. The stufd toy in your dream was black. I didn’t know exactly what the voice was talking about and had no time to care. I put the stuffed dog in Kyra’s open hand. She held it up to her face and kissed the dusty fur, her eyes still closed. “Maybe Stricken can make Mommy better, Mike. Stricken a magic dog.”
“Just keep your eyes closed. Don’t open them until I say.”
She put her face against my neck. I carried her across the yard and to my car that way. I put her on the passenger side of the front seat. She lay down with her arms over her head and the dirty stuffed dog clutched in one pudgy hand. I told her to stay just like that, lying down on the seat. She made no outward sign that she heard me, but I knew that she did. We had to hurry because the old-timers were coming. The old-timers wanted this business over, wanted this river to run into the sea. And there was only one place we could go, only one place where we might be safe, and that was Sara Laughs. But there was something I had to do first. I kept a blanket in the trunk, old but clean. I took it out, walked across the yard, and shook it down over Mattie Devote. The hump it made as it settled around her was pitifully slight. I looked around and saw John staring at me. His eyes were glassy with shock, but I thought maybe he was coming back. The belt was still clamped in his teeth; he looked like a junkie preparing to shoot up. “Iss ant eee,” he said—This can’t be. I knew exactly how he felt. “There’ll be help here in just a few minutes. Hang in there. I have to go.”
“Go air?” I didn’t answer.
There wasn’t time. I stopped and took George Kennedy’s pulse. Slow but strong. Beside him, Footman was deep in unconsciousness, but muttering thickly. Nowhere near dead. It takes a lot to kill a daddy. The jerky wind blew the smoke from the overturned car in my direction, and now I could smell cooking flesh as well as barbecued steak. My stomach clenched again. I ran to the Chew, dropped behind the wheel, and backed out of the driveway. I took one more look—at the blanket-covered body, at the three knocked-over men, at the trailer with the line of black bulletholes wavering down its side and its door standing open. John was up on his good elbow, the end of the belt still clamped in his teeth, looking at me with uncomprehending eyes. Lightning flashed so brilliantly I tried to shield my eyes from it, although by the time my hand was up, the flash had gone and the day was as dark as late dusk.
“Stay down, Ki,” I said. “Just like you are.”
“I can’t hear you,” she said in a voice so hoarse and choked with tears that I could barely make out the words. “Ki’s takin a nap wif Stricken.”
“Okay,” I said. “Good.”
I drove past the burning Ford and down to the foot of the hill, where I stopped at the rusty bullet-pocked stop-sign. I looked right and saw the pickup truck parked on the shoulder. BAMM CONSTRUCTION on the side.
Three men crowded together in the cab, watching me. The one by the passenger window was Buddy Jellison; I could tell him by his hat. Very slowly and deliberately, I raised my right hand and gave them the finger. None of them responded and their stony faces didn’t change, but the pickup began to roll slowly toward me. I turned lift onto 68, heading for Sara Laughs under a black sky.
Two miles from where Lane Forty-two branches off the highway and winds west to the lake, there stood an old abandoned barn upon which ILFHEN one could still make out faded letters reading DONCASTER DAIRY. As we approached it, the whole eastern side of the sky lit up in a purple-white blister. I cried out, and the Chevy’s horn honked—by itself, I’m almost positive. A thorn of lightning grew from the bottom of that light-blister and struck the barn. For a moment it was still completely there, glowing like something radioactive, and then it spewed itself in all directions. I have never seen anything even remotely like it outside of a movie theater. The thunderclap which followed was like a bombshell. Kyra screamed and slid onto the floor on the passenger side of the car with her hands clapped to her ears. She still clutched the little stuffed dog in one of them. A minute later I topped Sugar Ridge.
Lane Forty-two splits left from the highway at the bottom of the ridge’s north slope. From the top I could see a wide swath of TR-90—woods and fields and barns and farms, even a darkling gleam from the lake. The sky was as black as coal dust, flashing almost constantly with internal lightnings. The air had a clear ochre glow. Every breath I took tasted like the shavings in a tinderbox. The topography beyond the ridge stood out with a surreal clarity I cannot forget. That sense of mystery swarmed my heart and mind, that sense of the world as thin skin over unknowable bones and gulfs. I glanced into the rearview mirror and saw that the pickup truck had been joined by two other cars, one with a V-plate that means the vehicle is registered to a combat veteran of the armed services. When I slowed down, they slowed down. When I sped up, they sped up. I doubted they would follow us any farther once I turned onto Lane Forty-two, however. “Ki? Are you okay?”
“Sleepun,” she said from the footwell. “Okay,” I said, and started down the hill. I could just see the red bicycle reflectors marking my turn onto Forty-two when it began to hail—great big chunks of white ice that fell out of the sky, drummed on the roof like heavy fingers, and bounced off the hood.
They began to heap in the gutter where my windshield wipers hid. �
��What’s happening?” Kyra cried. “It’s just hail,” I said. “It can’t hurt us.”
This was barely out of my mouth when a hailstone the size of a small lemon struck my side of the windshield and then bounced high into the air again, leaving a white II mark from which a number of short cracks radiated. Were John and George Kennedy lying helpless out in this? I turned my mind in that direction, but could sense nothing. When I made the left onto Lane Forty-two, it was hailing almost too hard to see. The wheelruts were heaped with ice.
The white faded out under the trees, though. I headed for that cover, flipping on my headlights as I went. They cut bright cones through the pelting hail. As we went into the trees, that purple-white blister glowed again, and my rearview mirror went too bright to look at. There was a rending, crackling crash. Kyra screamed again. I looked around and saw a huge old spruce toppling slowly across the lane, its ragged stump on fire. It carried the electrical lines with it. BIOCKED in, I thought.
This end, probably the other end, too. ’re here. For better or jor worse, we’re here. The trees grew over Lane Forty-two in a canopy except for where the road passed beside Tidwell’s Meadow. The sound of the hail in the woods was an immense splintery rattle. Trees were splintering, of course; it was the most damaging hail ever to fall in that part of the world, and although it spent itself in fifteen minutes, that was long enough to ruin a season’s worth of crops. Lightning flashed above us. I looked up and saw a large orange fireball being chased by a smaller one.
They ran through the trees to our left, setting fire to some of the high branches. We came briefly into the clear at Tidwell’s Meadow, and as we did the hail changed to torrential rain. I could not have continued driving if we hadn’t run back into the woods almost immediately, and as it was the canopy provided just enough cover so I could creep along, hunched over the wheel and peering into the silver curtain falling through the fan of my headlights. Thunder boomed constantly, and now the wind began to rise, rushing through the trees like a contentious voice.
