She saw the kiosk – noting with some sadness that it was empty (she imagined the girl – or boy, she supposed, but doubted – being spirited away in that flash, leaving the theater frontage silent and deserted). She glanced around the cardboard and watched the lights. They were still there.
"I need to get inside," she said. And then, softer, she added, "I need to sleep."
After one final check, Sally scurried crablike past the roped off section onto the carpeted area and headed for the double doors at the end of the corridor, drinking in the familiar movie theater smell of popcorn and disinfectant.
I wonder what they're showing, she thought, suddenly realizing that she hadn't noticed.
And then she was through the doors and into the darkness.
(30)
Rick lifted Johnny by the armpits and dragged him around to the other side of the car. He pulled open the door and dropped him onto the back seat, cracking Johnny's head on the door surround and wincing as Johnny screamed out in pain when he lifted Johnny's twisted leg and jammed it into the footwell so he could close the door.
Rick pulled open the front passenger door and fell in, dragging himself across the seats and the center panel. He was shaking as he slipped into the driver's seat and rested his feet on the pedals.
A loud crummmmp! came from somewhere up above and a thin cloud of dust drifted down onto the windshield and the back window. Johnny leaned forward and looked up through the windshield.
"Something's landed on the roof," he said. It sounded so casual and–
Hey, some pod people have souped up a whole bunch of the townsfolks' autos so's they can fly and they've landed one of them on the garage roof…
–matter-of-fact, and Rick didn't feel that way at all. Mostly, he felt tired.
Outside the garage door, Martha McNeil's rusted old Chevy flatbed did a shaky three-point landing, with Martha at the wheel and Frank and Eleanor Dawson crouched down in the back. Frank and Ellie were over the sides of the Chevy even before Martha had turned off the engine, and Frank was carrying a shotgun.
He shouldered the piece and brought it straight, letting off the barrels one at a time, taking a thick chunk of masonry and wood out of the top left of the garage door frame, and doing some damage to the Dodge's grill. Rick felt the car jolt and hoped it was only lights that had caught the blast.
"I don't care," Melanie was saying between tears. "I don't care about anything. I don't–"
"Shut up, Mel," Rick snapped. Then, "Johnny, I don't know as I can do this."
Johnny shuffled himself into an upright position and faced forward. "Sure you–" He broke off and winced at the stabbing pain that shot up his thigh. "Sure you can. Just like riding a bike – you never forget."
Frank and Ellie Dawson were striding across the concrete towards the garage, Ellie dragging a long-handled ax along behind her and Frank busy trying to load cartridges into his 12-bore.
Rick turned the ignition and–
Just like riding a bike.
–felt the Dodge thrum into life. He placed his hands at ten before two on the wheel, gritted his teeth, shifted the gear lever into drive and–
You never forget.
–looked outside.
Frank and Ellie Dawson had gone. In their place were the shimmering memories of two bedraggled figures, covered in blood, thick slices of flesh hanging from them. One of them – the girl; couldn't have been more than 22, 23 – was wearing cut-off blue denims and–
She had freckles, didn't she Rick? You remember that, don'tcha… You remember seeing her face in that much detail just before?
–the guy was lifting something up–
"Rick–"
–like he was waving–
Hey, asshole, whyn't you come back and finish the job… Think there's a couple of bones here seem to be still in one piece…
–to him but no, he was holding something out towards him…
"Rick! For Christ's sake… He's gonna–"
Johnny's voice broke the spell.
Melanie screamed and Rick felt her head come forward into the back of his seat.
In front of the car, Frank Dawson was clipping the stock into place.
Jim Ferumern walked stiff-legged around the garage door, coming out of nowhere, his gun in his hand. He let off a shot.
Somewhere behind them, in the garage, something gave a thin thunk! and whined.
Now out of the flatbed's cab, Martha McNeil walked jauntily up behind Frank like she was going to tell him something, let him into a secret.
"Rick, drive the fucking car!"
Ellie Dawson reached the hood and brought her ax down into the windshield. The Plexiglas buckled.
Johnny leaned forward and pressed the door catch, listening with satisfaction as all four of the Dodge's doors locked.
In a daze, Rick released the parking brake.
Jim Ferumern lifted his gun and tried to train it. Frank did the same with his 12-bore.
Martha McNeil came up behind Frank and brushed his shoulder, Frank shifting the 12-bore just a fraction to the right as he pulled the trigger for the first barrel, the shot taking off the top of Ellie's head, even as Ellie was hauling back with her ax. She stopped for a second, staggered a little, and then continued to heft the ax.
"Drive for crying–"
Rick stepped on the gas and the Dodge leapt forward, spinning Ellie Dawson around and smacking her into a run of shelving – pots and cans and drill bits spilling onto her and onto the side of the car.
Johnny shouted out in pain as he leaned to the side, resting his head on Melanie's hip.
The Dodge hit Frank in the crotch, doubling him over, the 12bore skittering across the hood to the windshield and then rolling off of the driver's side.
Frank held on as the car screeched out of the station garage, side-swiping Martha's flatbed, the wheels spinning, burning rubber.
Jim Ferumern stood watching, apparently taking everything in, his gun still trained, his eyes unseen behind the dark glasses, holding the gun level with the side windows.
Melanie screamed again.
Jim got off a shot. It went wild.
Rick braked, watching Frank slide forward off the hood.
In the rearview, Rick saw Jim training the gun again, saw Ellie, the top of her head gone and no hair at all, saw her heft the ax and stagger out of the garage. He floored the gas pedal just as Frank slid off the hood, felt the car bump – twice – over the body–
Hey, you're getting real good at this kind of thing, Rick.
–as they spun around on the concrete apron.
Overhead, another car was circling – Rick didn't know what it was.
He heard shots, heard a dull thunnnng! on the roof, and aimed the car for Jack DiChapperlain's Camaro which was parked up outside the station door, all four doors wide open.
Rick took one of the doors clean off, felt the Dodge judder, and bent the other one on that side back flat against the front side-panel.
Roy Clubb stood up from behind the Camaro. He was holding a rifle.
Something went ziiiinnng across the hood and Rick spun the wheel, fanning the Dodge's rear end just as Suzie Mendohlson climbed up from the woods – glancing down, Rick caught sight of Suzie's open-sided Jeepster, lying in the trees on its side. The Dodge hit her legs and sent Suzie up into the air and back down to rejoin her car.
Rick checked the rearview.
There were two cars on the garage roof!
Ellie was lying on the floor.
Jim was walking after them, the gun hanging by his side. Then Roy appeared in the mirror, the rifle held slack. Neither of them appeared to be in any rush.
You heard another engine, didn't you drive-boy?
Rick hammered the gas and spun the wheel to head for the road. As he turned the corner, he saw Jack DiChapperlain waiting for them.
Jack was standing in front of a battered blue-and-white, the furry tail on the antenna telling Rick it was Don Patterson's. The car was
parked right across the road. Jack pulled his rifle up into sight and fired.
Rick lurched to one side and the shot hit the windshield.
Hey, drive-boy, whyn't you fire back?
He reached into his pocket, pulled out Sammy Lescombe's gun. He slammed the brakes and knocked out the buckled Plexiglas just as Jack was preparing for another shot.
Rick held the gun as steady as he could and pulled the trigger.
The shot went wild.
"Rick!"
Jack tilted his head and lifted the rifle.
Rick fired again.
Jack staggered, a red patch spreading around his gut. He looked down at himself, regained his balance, and lifted the rifle again.
Rick pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
"Hit the fucker!" Johnny screamed from the back seat.
Rick stomped on the gas and drove. He was suddenly aware he was screaming, and Johnny was screaming, and now Melanie, she was screaming too.
The Dodge caught Jack DiChapperlain and carried him the three or four yards to the blue-and-white and squashed him like a bug. Rick lurched forward, his head colliding with the rearview and swiveling it out of place, just as Jack slumped forward onto the hood. The blue-and-white hadn't moved.
Rick adjusted the rearview and checked the road behind. It looked crowded.
Now, alongside or slightly behind Frank Dawson, came Daryl Engstrom – carrying what looked like the old hat stand from the station – J. J. Poskett, some kid whose name Rick couldn't remember, Shirley Pakard and three or four more people – Eddie from the sheriff's office, Luke Napier, Janey from the deli, and someone else that Rick didn't recognize. They looked for all the world like the Wild Bunch or the Dirty Dozen, walking down the road with the station in the background, various articles in their hands. Frank raised his shotgun and let off a shot. It didn't connect with anything.
Rick faced forward and stared at the blue-and-white.
Then he glanced up at the rearview.
He shifted the lever into reverse and hit the gas.
"What the fuck…"
"No choice, amigo," Rick said to Johnny, half turned around in his seat, his arm resting on the back of the empty passenger seat alongside him. "Got to build up some speed if we're gonna move the patrol car." He gave a little shrug.
The Dodge careened back up the road, the townsfolk growing bigger through the back window.
Melanie shook her head. "You think you'll do it?"
Rick didn't answer. He hit the brake about ten or twelve feet away from Frank Dawson, and shifted into forward gear again.
"Do or die," Rick said as they started forward again.
Someone fired a shot but it didn't hit them.
"Amen to that," Johnny said.
Melanie patted Rick's shoulder and braced herself against his seat-back.
Rick aimed the Dodge at the blue-and-white's hood. "Hold on!" he shouted.
Jack DiChapperlain's body was still twitching when the Dodge hit it, jerked a foot or so into the air and sent the blue-andwhite's front end spinning. The Dodge was almost by before the blue-and-white's trunk jackknifed around from the other direction and hit their trunk, sending the Dodge's wheels spinning dangerously close to the edge of the grass which fell away sharply on the left down to the woods. But Rick kept control, twisting the steering wheel first one way and then the other, the wind blowing in his face through the smashed windshield.
They lurched down the road until they came to the bridge and the fork left down into Jesman's Bend. Rick brought the Dodge to a halt.
"Where to?" Melanie asked.
Rick shook his head.
They all turned around and looked back up the road. The sun's rays were clear from behind the station, a bright glow of hope.
"Uh oh," Rick said, a cold knot in his gut.
"Oh no," Melanie said.
The familiar sight of Martha McNeil's Chevy rose up, swaying side to side in the first touch of dawn's light, and then veered off towards town.
"They're– they're not coming after us," Johnny said.
Rick watched as the Jeepster rose up and followed the Chevy. "Doesn't look like it." He shielded his eyes against the still watery light, and thought of all the dark glasses the townsfolk were wearing, even at night.
He turned back to face front and leaned forward looking up into the sky. It was blue now – still a murky blue with shades of night mixed in, but the blackness had gone. He pressed down on the gas.
"The interstate," he said.
Johnny tried to straighten his leg and yelped. "Then where?"
"Then we need to find others… we need to find out what's happening, why it's happening and what we can do about it."
By the time they pulled onto the Interstate, the sun was coming up on a world that was both empty and, aside from the occasional car and truck smashed through the central barrier or upturned on the grass at the side of the road, deserted.
"You know," Rick said into the wind buffeting his face, "I'd forgotten just how much I like driving."
(31)
Sally opened her eyes and blinked.
She had heard something but she wasn't sure whether it had been in her dreams or somewhere around her. Without moving, she held her breath and scanned the area around her.
There seemed to be no movement, but it wasn't that easy to make everything out. She would have to wait until her eyes adjusted.
The movie theatre had seemed lighter than this when she had come in off the street. How long ago was that? Sally twisted her wrist and, without moving her head, jiggled her hand until the watch face presented itself to her. Not much use. It could be something after five o'clock or something to eight o'clock. It could, in fact, be any damn time at all. How long had she been in here, for Chriss–
There it was again. This time she heard it for sure. It wasn't a single sharp sound, like something maybe falling over – something that had been sitting there, in the same position that someone had put it into before the light, and had finally succumbed to the gentlest breeze and tipped over. No, it was nothing like that. It was a prolonged sound of movement. And it reminded Sally of the sound of the people walking down the corridor of the Brown Palace Hotel.
There was someone in here with her.
Maybe they were not close by and maybe they were not even aware she was here, but there was definitely someone else.
Or very heavy-footed rats, one of Sally's cerebral progeny offered.
Sally was curled up in one of the bench seats in the back row and she was pleased to note that, if she couldn't see the person in here with her, then it followed that the person in here with her probably couldn't see her. Very carefully, she lifted her head while strenuously avoiding moving any of the rest of her body. It didn't help.
One of the doors at the front of the theater, at the side of the screen – it was the right side, she thought; that was the direction of the noise – clunked closed. So someone had either come into the theatre from wherever or they were already here and they had just left. Paradoxically, she liked the sound of the latter even less than the former. Sally didn't like to think of herself snuggling down for a little shut-eye off the streets when someone else – perhaps even several someone elses – was sitting just a few rows away from her. It felt like the old silent comedy screen gag of the hapless explorer finding a cave to get out of the elements and, in the darkness, settling down using a bear's back as a pillow thinking it was a convenient rock outcrop.
Mommy, I'm frightened, whispered one of Sally's constant children, somewhere deep in the back of her brain.
Without thinking, she let out the start of a shhh! before she realized she was doing it. Sally clamped her lips tightly closed and buried her head back into the muscle of her upper arm, which was crooked beneath as a support.
He's heard me, she thought. It was a certainty, she realized. There was the unmistakable sound of a cessation of sound. Somebody had been moving, slowly, shuffling
along, and now they had stopped. She could imagine the scene without even lifting her head. Someone was standing at the front of the theater and, right at this very instant, they were scanning the spread of rows of seats stretching all the way to the back wall, from which, through two small square windows, the projectors beamed the moving images onto the giant screen.
Darkness Falling Page 28
