by Stephen King
Hall walked to the brow of the wet hill and looked down. The rat filled the
whole gully at the far end of that noxious tomb. It was a huge and pulsating
grey, eyeless, totally without legs. When Hall's light struck it, it made a
hideous mewling noise. Their queen, then, the magna mater. A huge and nameless
thing whose progeny might some day develop wings. It seemed to dwarf what
remained of Warwick, but that was probably just illusion. It was the shock of
seeing a rat as big as a Holstein calf.
'Goodbye, Warwick;' Hall said. The rat crouched over Mr Foreman jealously,
ripping at one limp arm.
Hall turned away and began to make his way back rapidly, halting the rats with
his hose, which was growing less and less potent. Some of them got through and
attacked his legs above the tops of his boots with biting lunges. One hung
stubbornly on at his thigh, ripping at the cloth of his corduroy pants. Hall
made a fist and smashed it aside.
He was nearly three-quarters of the way back when the huge whirring filled the
darkness. He looked up and the gigantic flying form smashed into his face.
The mutated bats had not lost their tails yet. It whipped around Hall's neck in
a loathsome coil and squeezed as the teeth sought the soft spot under his neck.
It wriggled and flapped with its membranous wings, clutching the tatters of his
shirt for purchase.
Hall brought the nozzle of the hose up blindly and struck at its yielding body
again and again. It fell away and he trampled it beneath his feet, dimly aware
that he was screaming. The rats ran in a flood over his feet, up his legs.
He broke into a staggering run, shaking some off. The others bit at his belly,
his chest. One ran up his shoulder and pressed its questing muzzle into the cup
of his ear.
He ran into the second bat. It roosted on his head for a moment, squealing, and
then ripped away a flap of Hall's scalp.
He felt his body growing numb. His ears filled with the screech and yammer of
many rats. He gave one last heave, stumbled over furry bodies, fell to his
knees. He began to laugh, a high, screaming sound.
Five A.M., Thursday.
'Somebody better go down there,' Brochu said tentatively.
'Not me,' Wisconsky whispered. 'Not me.'
'No, not you, jelly belly,' Ippeston said with contempt.
'Well, let's go,' Brogan said, bringing up another hose. 'Me, Ippeston,
Dangerfield, Nedeau. Stevenson, go up to the office and get a few more lights.'
Ippeston looked down into the darkness thoughtfully. 'Maybe they stopped for a
smoke,' he said. 'A few rats, what the hell.'
Stevenson came back with the lights; a few moments later they started down.
