Lawry obeyed him, and Roland sat down. He kept his hand on the pistol, and the pistol in his lap.
Kempka's face folded into a smile. "Would you like something to drinki Pepsii Cokei Seven-Upi How about something strongeri" He laughed in his high, shrill voice, and his many chins wobbled. "You are of legal age, aren't youi"
"I'll take a Pepsi."
"ah. Good. Judd, would you get us two Pepsis, pleasei"
Lawry got up and went to another room, which Roland figured must be a kitchen.
"What'd you want to see me abouti" Roland asked.
"a business deal. a proposition." Kempka leaned back, and his chair popped and creaked like fireworks going off. He wore an open-collared sport shirt that showed wiry brown hair on his flabby chest, and his belly flopped over the belt line of his lime-green polyester trousers. Kempka's hair had been freshly pomaded and combed, and the interior of the trailer smelled like cheap, sweet cologne. "You strike me as a very intelligent young boy, Roland. Young man, I should say." He grinned. "I could tell right off that you had intelligence. and fire, too. Oh, yes! I like young men with fire." He glanced at the pistol Roland held. "You can put that aside, you know. I want to be your friend."
"That's nice." Roland kept the pistol aimed in Freddie Kempka's direction. On the wall behind the Fat Man, the many rifles and handguns on their hooks caught the baleful yellow lamplight.
"Well," Kempka shrugged, "we can talk anyway. Tell me about yourself. Where are you fromi What happened to your parentsi"
My parents, Roland thought. What had happened to themi He remembered them all going into Earth House together, remembered the earthquake in the cafeteria, but everything else was still crazy and disjointed. He couldn't even recall exactly what his mother and father had looked like. They had died in the cafeteria, he thought. Yes. Both of them had been buried under rock. He was a King's Knight now, and there was no turning back. "That's not important," he decided to say. "Is that what you wanted to talk abouti"
"No, it's not. I wanted to - ah, here are our refreshments!"
Lawry came in with Pepsis in two plastic glasses; he set one glass in front of Kempka and handed Roland the other. Lawry started to walk behind Roland, but the boy said sharply, "Stay in front of me while I'm in here," and Lawry stopped. The man smiled, lifted his hands in a gesture of peace and sat on a pile of boxes against the wall.
"as I say, I like young men with fire." Kempka sipped at his drink. It had been a long time since Roland had tasted a soft drink, and he chugged almost half the glassful down without stopping. The drink had lost most of its fizz, but it was still about the best stuff he'd ever tasted.
"So what is iti" Roland asked. "Something about the drugsi"
"No, nothing about that." He smiled again, a fleeting smile, "I want to know about Colonel Macklin." He leaned forward, and the chair squalled; he rested his forearms on the table and laced his thick fingers together. "I want to know... what Macklin offers you that I can't."
"Whati"
"Look around," Kempka said. "Look what I've got here: food, drink, candy, guns, bullets - and power, Roland. What does Macklin havei a wretched little tent. and do you know whati That's all he'll ever have. I run this community, Roland. I guess you could say I'm the law, the mayor, the judge and the jury all rolled up into one! Righti" He glanced quickly at Lawry, and the other man said, "Right," with the conviction of a ventriloquist's dummy.
"So what does Macklin do for you, Rolandi" Kempka lifted his eyebrows. "Or should I ask what you do for himi"
Roland almost told the Fat Man that Macklin was the King - shorn of his crown and kingdom now, but destined to return to power someday - and that he had pledged himself as a King's Knight, but he figured Kempka was about as smart as a bug and wouldn't understand the grand purpose of the game. So Roland said, "We travel together."
"and where are you goingi To the same garbage dump Macklin is headed towardi No, I think you're smarter than that."
"What do you meani"
"I mean... that I have a large and comfortable trailer, Roland. I have a real bed." He nodded toward a closed door. "It's right through there. Would you like to see iti"
It suddenly dawned on Roland what Freddie Kempka had been getting at. "No," he said, his gut tightening. "I wouldn't."
"Your friend can't offer you what I can, Roland," Kempka said in a silken voice. "He has no power. I have it all. Do you think I let you in here just because of the drugsi No. I want you, Roland. I want you here, with me."
Roland shook his head. Dark motes seemed to spin before his eyes, and his head felt heavy, as if he couldn't balance it any longer on his neck.
"You're going to find that power rules this world." Kempka's voice sounded to Roland like a record played too fast. "It's the only thing that's worth a damn anymore. Not beauty, not love - nothing but power. and the man who has it can take anything he wants."
"Not me," Roland said. The words felt like marbles rolling off his tongue. He thought he was about to puke, and there was a needles-and-pins sensation in his legs. The lamplight was hurting his eyes, and when he blinked it took an effort to lift his lids again. He looked down into the plastic glass he held, and he could see grainy things floating at the bottom. He tried to stand up, but his legs gave way and he fell to his knees on the floor. Someone was bending over him, and he felt the .45 being taken from his nerveless fingers. Too late, he tried to grasp it back, but Lawry was grinning and stepping out of reach.
"I found a use for some of those drugs you brought me." Now Kempka's voice was slow and murky, an underwater slur. "I mashed up a few of those pills and made a nice little mixture. I hope you enjoy your trip." and the Fat Man began to rise ponderously from his chair and stalk across the room toward Roland Croninger while Lawry went outside to smoke a cigarette.
Roland shivered, though sweat was bursting out on his face, and scurried away from the man on his hands and knees. His brain was doing flip-flops, everything was lurching, speeding up and then slowing to a crawl. The whole trailer wobbled as Kempka went to the door and threw the latches. Roland squeezed himself into a corner like a trapped animal, and when he tried to shout for the King to help him his voice almost blew his eardrums out.
"Now," Kempka said, "we'll get to know each other better, won't wei"
Macklin stood in cold water up to the middle of his thighs, the wind whipping into his face and wailing off beyond the encampment. His groin crawled, and his hand gripped the knife so hard his knuckles had gone bone-white. He looked at the infected wound, saw the dark swelling that he needed to probe with the knife's gleaming tip. Oh, God, he thought; dear God, help me...
"Discipline and control." The Shadow Soldier was standing behind him. "That's what makes a man, Jimmy boy."
My father's voice, Macklin thought. God bless dear old Dad, and I hope the worms have riddled his bones.
"Do it!" the Shadow Soldier commanded.
Macklin lifted the knife, took aim, drew in a breath of frigid air and brought the point of the blade down, down, down into the festered swelling.
The pain was so fierce, so white-hot, so all-consuming that it was almost pleasure.
Macklin threw back his head and screamed, and as he screamed he dug the blade deeper into the infection, deeper still, and the tears were running down his face and he was on fire between pain and pleasure. He felt his right arm becoming lighter as the infection drained out of it. and as his scream went up into the night where the other screams had gone before his, Macklin threw himself forward into the salt water and immersed the wound.
"ah!" The Fat Man stopped a few feet from Roland and cocked his head toward the door. Kempka's face was flushed, his eyes shining. The scream was just drifting away. "Listen to that music!" he said. That's the sound of somebody being reborn." He began to unbuckle his belt and draw it through the many loops of his huge waistband.
The images tumbling through Roland's brain were a mixture of funhouse and haunted house. In his mind he was hacking at the wrist of the King's right arm, and as the blade severed the hand a spray of blood-red flowers shot from the wound; a chorus line of mangled corpses in top hats and tuxedos kicked their way down the wrecked corridor of Earth House; he and the King were walking on a superhighway under a sullen scarlet sky, and the trees were made of bones and the lakes were steaming blood, and half-rotted remnants of human beings sped past in battered cars and tractor-trailer trucks; he was standing on a mountaintop as the gray clouds boiled above him. Below, armies fought with knives, rocks and broken bottles. a cold hand touched his shoulder and a voice whispered, "It can all be yours, Sir Roland."
He was afraid to turn his head and look at the thing that stood behind him, but he knew he must. The power of hideous hallucination forced his head around, and he stared into a pair of eyes that wore army surplus goggles. The flesh of that face was mottled with brown, leprous growths, the lips all but eaten away to reveal misshapen, fanged teeth. The nose was flat, the nostrils wide and ravaged. The face was his own, but distorted, ugly, reeking evil and bloodlust. and from that face his own voice whispered, "It can all be yours, Sir Roland - and mine, too."
Towering over the boy, Freddie Kempka tossed his belt to the floor and began to shimmy out of his polyester trousers. His breathing sounded like the rumbling of a furnace.
Roland blinked, squinted up at the Fat Man. The hallucinatory visions were tumbling madly away, but he could still hear the thing's whisper. He was shaking, couldn't stop. another vision whirled up from his mind, and he was on the ground, trembling as Mike armbruster towered over him, about to beat him to a bloody pulp as the other high school kids and football jocks shouted and jeered. He saw Mike armbruster's crooked grin, and Roland felt a surge of maniacal hatred more powerful than anything he'd ever known. Mike armbruster had already beaten him once, had already kicked him and spat on him as he was sobbing in the dust - and now he wanted to do it all over again.
But Roland knew he was far different - far stronger, far more cunning - than the little pansy-assed wimp who'd let himself be beaten until he'd peed in his pants. He was a King's Knight now, and he'd seen the underside of Hell. He was about to show Mike armbruster how a King's Knight gets even.
Kempka had one leg out of his pants. He was wearing red silk boxer shorts. The boy was staring up at him, eyes slitted behind those damned goggles, and now the boy began to make a deep, animalish sound down in his throat, a cross between a growl and an unearthly moan.
"Stop that," Kempka told him. That noise gave him the creeps. The boy didn't stop, and the awful sound was getting louder. "Stop it, you little bastard!" He saw the boy's face changing, tightening into a mask of utter, brutal hatred, and the sight of it scared the shit out of Freddie Kempka. He realized that the mind-altering drugs were doing something to Roland Croninger that he hadn't counted on. "Stop it!" he shouted, and he lifted his hand to slap Roland across the face.
Roland leaped forward, and like a battering ram his head plowed into Kempka's bulging stomach. The Fat Man cried out and fell backward, his arms windmilling. The trailer rocked back and forth, and before Kempka could recover, Roland plowed into him again with a force that sent Kempka crashing to the floor. Then the boy was all over him, punching and kicking and biting. Kempka shouted, "Lawry! Help me!" but even as he said it he remembered that he had double-bolted the door to keep the boy from escaping. Two fingers jabbed into his left eye and almost ripped it from the socket; a fist crunched into his nose, and Roland's head came forward in a vicious butting blow that hit Kempka full in the mouth, split his lips and knocked two of his front teeth into his throat. "Help me!" he shrieked, his mouth full of blood. He hit Roland with a flailing forearm and swiped him off, then flopped over on his stomach and began to crawl toward that locked door. "Help me, Lawry!" he yelled through his cracked lips.
Something went around Kempka's throat and tightened, catching the blood in the Fat Man's head and reddening his face like an overripe tomato. He realized, panic-stricken, that the lunatic boy was strangling him with his own belt.
Roland rode on Kempka's back like ahab on the white whale. Kempka gagged, fighting to pry the belt loose. The blood pulsed in his head with a force that he feared would blow his eyeballs out. There was a hammering at the door, and Lawry's voice shouted, "Mr. Kempka! What is iti"
The Fat Man reared up, twisted his shuddering body and slammed Roland against the wall, but still the boy held on. Kempka's lungs strained for air, and again he threw his body to the side. This time he heard the boy's cry of pain, and the belt loosened. Kempka squalled like a hurt pig, scrabbling wildly toward the door. He reached up to release one of the latches - and a chair smashed him across the back, splintering and shooting agony up his spine. Then the boy was beating at him with a chair leg, hitting him in the head and face, and Kempka screamed, "He's gone crazy! He's gone crazy!"
Lawry pounded at the door. "Let me in!"
Kempka took a dazing blow to the forehead, felt blood running down his face, and he struck out blindly at Roland. His left fist connected, and he heard the breath whoosh out of the boy. Roland collapsed to his knees.
Kempka wiped blood out of his eyes, reached up and tried to slide the first bolt back. There was blood on his fingers, and he couldn't get a good grip. Lawry was pounding on the door, trying to force it open. "He's crazy!" Kempka wailed. "He's trying to kill me!"
"Hey, you dumb fuck!" the boy snarled behind him.
Kempka looked back and whined with terror.
Roland had picked up one of the kerosene lamps that illuminated the trailer. He was grinning madly, his goggles streaked with blood. "Here you go, Mike!" he yelled, and he flung the lamp.
It hit the Fat Man's skull and shattered, dousing his face and chest with kerosene that rippled into flame, setting his beard, hair and the front of his sport shirt on fire. "Burnin' me! Burnin' me!" Kempka squalled, rolling and thrashing.
The door shuddered as Lawry kicked it, but the airstream trailer people had built it to be strong.
as Kempka jitterbugged horizontally and Lawry kicked at the door, Roland turned his attention to the rack of rifles and the handguns on their hooks. He had not finished showing Mike armbruster how a King's Knight gets even. Oh, no... not yet.
He walked around the table and chose a beautiful .38 Special with a mother-of-pearl handle. He opened the cylinder and found three bullets inside. He smiled.
On the floor, the Fat Man had beaten the fire out. His face was a mass of scorched flesh, burned hair and blisters, his eyes so swollen he could hardly see. But he could see the boy well enough, approaching him with the gun in his hand. The boy was smiling, and Kempka opened his mouth to scream, but a croak came out.
Roland knelt in front of him. The boy's face was covered with sweat, and a pulse beat at his temple. He cocked the .38 and held the barrel about three inches from Kempka's skull.
"Please," Kempka begged. "Please... Roland... don't..."
Roland's smile was rigid, his eyes huge behind the goggles. He said, "Sir Roland. and don't you forget it."
Lawry heard a shot. Then, about ten seconds later, there was a second shot. He gripped the boy's automatic in his right hand and threw his shoulder against the door. It still wouldn't give. He kicked at it again, but the damned thing was stubborn. He was about to start shooting through the door when he heard the bolts being thrown back.
The door opened.
The boy was standing there, a .38 dangling in his hand, gore splattered across his face and in his hair. He was grinning, and he said in a fast, excited, drugged voice, "It's over I did it I did it I showed him how a King's Knight gets even I did it!"
Lawry lifted the automatic to blow the boy away.
But the twin barrels of a shotgun probed the back of his neck.
"Uh-uh," Sheila Fontana said. She'd heard the commotion and had come over to see what was happening, and other people were coming through the dark as well, carrying lanterns and flashlights. "Drop it or you get dropped."
The automatic hit the ground.
"Don't kill me," Lawry whimpered. "Okayi I just worked for Mr. Kempka. That's all. I just did what he said. Okayi"
"Want me to kill himi" Sheila asked Roland. The boy just stared and grinned. He's shitfaced, she thought. He's either drunk or stoned!
"Listen, I don't care what the kid did to Kempka." Lawry's voice cracked. "He wasn't anything to me. I just drove for him. Just followed his orders. Listen, I can do the same for you, if you want. You, the kid and Colonel Macklin. I can take care of things for you - keep everybody around here in line. I'll do whatever you say to do. You say jump, I'll ask how high."
"I showed him I sure did," Roland rattled on, beginning to weave on his feet. "I showed him!"
"Listen, you and the kid and Colonel Macklin are the head honchos around here, as far as I can see," Lawry told Sheila. "I mean... if Kempka's dead."
"Let's go take a look, then." Sheila poked his neck with the shotgun, and Lawry eased past Roland into the trailer.
They found the Fat Man crumpled in a bloody heap against one wall. There was the smell of burnt skin in the air. Kempka had been shot through the skull and through the heart at close range.
"all the guns, the food and everything are yours now," Lawry said. "I just do what I'm told. You just tell me what to do, I'll do it. I swear to God."
"Drag that fat carcass out of our trailer, then."
Startled, Sheila looked toward the door.
Macklin stood there, leaning against the doorframe, shirt-less and dripping. The black overcoat was draped over his shoulders, the stump of his right arm hidden in its folds. His face was pale, his eyes sunken in violet hollows. Roland stood beside him, weaving and swaying, about to collapse. "I don't know... what the hell happened here," Macklin said, speaking with an effort, "but if everything belongs to us now... we're moving into the trailer. Get that thing out of here."
Lawry looked stricken. "By myselfi I mean... he's gonna be damned heavy!"
"Either drag him or join him."
Lawry went to work.
"and clean up this mess when you get through," Macklin told him, going over to the rack of rifles and handguns. God, what an arsenal! he thought. He had no idea what had transpired here, but Kempka was dead and somehow they were in control. The trailer was theirs, the food, the water, the arsenal, the whole encampment was theirs! He was stunned, still exhausted by the pain he'd endured - but he felt somehow stronger, too, somehow... cleaner. He felt like a man again instead of a sniveling, scared dog. Colonel James B. Macklin had been reborn.
Lawry had almost manhandled the corpse to the door. "I can't make it!" he protested, trying to catch his breath. "He's too heavy!"
Macklin whirled around and walked toward Lawry, stopping only when their faces were about four inches apart. Macklin's eyes were bloodshot, and they bored into the other man's with furious intensity. "You listen to me, slime," Macklin said menacingly. Lawry listened. "I'm in charge here now. Me. What I say goes, without question. I'm going to teach you about discipline and control, mister. I'm going to teach everybody about discipline and control. There will be no questions, no hesitations when I give an order, or there will be... executions. Public executions. You care to be the firsti"
"No," Lawry said in a small, scared voice.
"No... whati"
"No... sir," was the reply.
"Good. But you spread the word around, Lawry. I'm going to get these people organized and off their asses. If they don't like my way of doing things, they can get out."
"Organizedi Organized for whati"
"You think there won't come a time when we'll have to fight to keep what we've goti Mister, there are going to be plenty of times we'll have to fight - if not to keep what we have, then... to take what we want."
"We're not any fucking army!" Lawry said.
"You will be," Macklin promised, and he motioned toward the arsenal. "You're going to learn to be, mister. and so is everybody else. Now get that piece of shit out of here... Corporal."
"Huhi"
"Corporal Lawry. That's your new rank. and you'll be living in the tent out there. This trailer is for headquarters staff."
Oh, Christ! Lawry thought. This guy's gone wacko! But he kind of liked the idea of being a corporal. That sounded important. He turned away from the colonel and started hauling Kempka's body again. a funny thought hit him, and he almost giggled, but he held it back. The king is dead! he thought. Long live the king! He hauled the corpse down the steps, and the trailer door shut. He saw several men standing around, attracted by all the ruckus, and he began barking orders at them to pick up Freddie Kempka's corpse and carry it out to the edge of the dirtwart land. They obeyed him like automatons, and Judd Lawry figured he might grow to enjoy playing soldiers.
SEVEN
Thinking about Tomorrow
Forty-one
"My name is alvin Mangrim. I'm Lord alvin now. Welcome to my kingdom." The young blond madman, sitting on his toilet-throne, motioned with a slender hand. "Do you like iti"
Josh was sickened by the smell of death and decay. He, Swan and Leona were sitting together on the floor of the K-Mart's pet department at the rear of the store. In the small cages around them were dozens of dead canaries and parakeets, and dead fish lay moldering in their tanks. Beyond a glassed-in display area, a few kittens and puppies were drawing flies.
He longed to bash that grinning, blond-bearded face, but his wrists and ankles were chained and padlocked. Both Swan and Leona were bound by ropes. around them stood the bald-headed Neanderthal, the man with bulging fish-eyes, and about six or seven others. The black-bearded man and the dwarf in the shopping cart lurked nearby, the dwarf clutching Swan's dowsing rod in his stubby fingers.
"I fixed the juice," Lord alvin offered, reclining on his throne and eating grapes. "That's why the lights are on." His murky green eyes shifted from Josh to Swan and back again. Leona was still bleeding from the gash in her head, and her eyes fluttered as she fought off shock. "I hooked a couple of portable generators up to the electrical system. I've always been good with electricity. and I'm a very good carpenter, too. Jesus was a carpenter, you know." He spat out seeds. "Do you believe in Jesusi"
"Yes," Josh managed to croak.
"I do, too. I had a dog named Jesus once. I crucified him, but he didn't come back to life. Before he died, he told me what to do to the people in the brick house. Off went their heads."
Josh sat very still, looking up into those green, bottomless eyes.
Lord alvin smiled, and for a moment he resembled a choirboy, all draped in purple and ready to sing. "I fixed the lights here so we'd attract plenty of fresh meat - like you folks. Plenty of play toys. See, everybody left us at Pathway. all the lights went out, and the doctors went home. But we found some of them, like Dr. Baylor. and then I baptized my disciples in the blood of Dr. Baylor and sent them out into the world, and the rest of us stayed here." He cocked his head to one side, and his smile faded. "It's dark outside," he said. "It's always dark, even in the daytime. What's your name, friendi"
Josh told him. He could smell his own scared sweat over the odor of dead animals.
"Josh," Lord alvin repeated. He ate a grape. "Mighty Joshua. Blew those old walls of Jericho right fucking down, didn't youi" He smiled again and motioned at a young man with slicked-back black hair and red paint circling his eyes and mouth. The young man came forward, holding a jar of something.
Swan heard some of the men giggle with excitement. Her heart was still pounding, but the tears were gone now, and so was the molasses that had been jamming up her brain gears. She knew these crazy men had escaped from the Pathway place, and she knew that death was before her, sitting on a toilet. She wondered what had happened to Mule, and since she'd bumped into the mannequins - she shoved that memory quickly aside - there'd been no sight or sound of the terrier.
The young man with red paint on his face knelt in front of Josh, unscrewed the lid of the jar and revealed white greasepaint. He got a dab of the stuff on his forefinger and reached toward Josh's face; Josh jerked his head back, but the Neanderthal gripped Josh's skull and held it steady as the greasepaint was applied.
"You're going to look pretty, Josh," Lord alvin told him. "You're going to enjoy this."
Through the waves of pain in her legs and the numbing frost of shock, Leona watched the greasepaint going on. She realized the young man was painting Josh's face to resemble a skull.
"I know a game," Lord alvin said. "a game called Straitjacket. I made it up. Know whyi Dr. Baylor said, 'Come on, alvin! Come get your pill like a good boy,' and I had to walk down that long, stinking corridor every day." He held up two fingers. "Twice a day. I'm a very good carpenter, though." He paused, blinking slowly as if trying to get his thoughts back in whack. "I used to build dog houses. Not just ordinary dog houses. I built mansions and castles for dogs. I built a replica of the Tower of London for Jesus. That's where they chopped the heads of witches off." The corner of his left eye began ticking. He was silent, staring into space as the finishing touches were put to the greasepaint skull that covered Josh's face.
When the job was done, the Neanderthal released Josh's head. Lord alvin finished his grapes and licked his fingers. "In the Straitjacket game," he said between licks, "you get taken to the front of the store. The lady and the kid stay here. Now, you get a choice - what do you want freed, your arms or your legsi"
"What's the point of this shiti"
Lord alvin waggled an admonishing finger. "arms or legs, Joshi"
I need my legs free, Josh reasoned. Then: no, I can always hop or hobble. I've got to have my arms free. No, my legs! It was impossible to decide without knowing what was going to happen. He hesitated, trying to think clearly. He felt Swan watching him; he looked at her, but she shook her head, could offer no help. "My legs," Josh finally said.
"Good. That didn't hurt, did iti" again, there was a giggle and rustle of excitement from the onlookers. "Okay, you get taken up to the front and your legs are freed. Then you get five minutes to make it all the way through the store back here." He pulled up the right sleeve of his purple robe. On his arm were six wristwatches. "See, I can keep the time to the exact second. Five minutes from when I say go - and not one second more, Josh."
Josh released a sigh of relief. Thank God he'd chosen his legs to be freed! He could see himself crawling and hobbling through the K-Mart in this ridiculous farce!
"Oh, yes," Lord alvin continued. "My subjects are going to try their best to kill you between the front of the store and here." He smiled cheerfully. "They'll be using knives, hammers, axes - everything except guns. See, guns wouldn't be fair. Now, don't worry too much: You can use the same things, if you find them - and if you can get your hands on them. Or you can use anything else to protect yourself with, but you won't find any guns out there. Not even a pellet rifle. Isn't that a fun gamei"
Josh's mouth tasted like sawdust. He was afraid to ask, but he had to: "What... if I don't get back here... in five minutesi"
The dwarf jumped up and down in the shopping cart and pointed the dowsing rod at him like a jester's scepter. "Death! Death! Death!" he yelled.
"Thank you, Imp," Lord alvin said. "Josh, you've seen my mannequins, haven't youi aren't they prettyi So lifelike, too! Want to know how we make themi" He glanced up at someone behind Josh and nodded.
Immediately there was a guttural growl that ascended into a high-pitched whining. Josh smelled gasoline. He already knew what the sound was, and his gut clenched. He looked over his shoulder and saw the Neanderthal standing there holding a whirring chainsaw that was streaked and clumped with dried gore.
"If you don't beat the clock, friend Josh," Lord alvin said, leaning forward, "the lady and the child will join my mannequin collection. Their heads will, I mean." He lifted a finger, and the chainsaw rattled to a halt.
"Heads will roll!" Imp jumped and grinned. "Heads will roll!"
"Of course," the madman in the purple robe added, "if they kill you out there, it won't matter very much, will iti We'd have to find a big body to go along with your head, wouldn't wei Welli are we readyi"
"Ready!" Imp shouted.
"Ready!" the black-bearded brute said.
"Ready!" the others hollered, dancing and capering. "Reaaaady!"
Lord alvin reached over and took the dowsing rod from Imp. He tossed it to the floor about three feet away. "Cross that line, friend Josh, and you shall know wonders."
He'll kill us anyway, Josh knew. But he had no choice; his eyes met Swan's. She stared at him calmly and resolutely, and she tried to send the thought "I believe in you" to him. He gritted his teeth. Protect the child. Yeah! I've done a damned fine job, haven't Ii
The black-bearded man and another of the lunatics hauled Josh to his feet.
"Kick ass," Leona whispered, the pain in her skull all but blinding her.
Josh was half carried, half dragged out of the pet department, through the housewares, the sporting goods, and then out along the center aisle to the row of cash registers at the front. a third man was waiting, armed with a double-barreled shotgun and a ring of keys dangling from his belt. Josh was thrown to the floor, the breath whistling between his teeth, "Legs," he heard the bearded man say, and the one with the keys bent down to unsnap the padlocks.
Josh was aware of a steady roaring noise, and he looked at the windows. a torrential rain was falling, some of it sweeping in through the broken glass. There was no sign of the horse, and Josh hoped it would find a dry place to die in. God help us all! he thought. Though he hadn't seen any of the other maniacs when he was being brought to the front, he knew they were out there in the store - hiding, waiting, getting ready for the game to begin.
Protect the child. The rasping voice that had come from PawPaw's throat was fresh in his mind. Protect the child. He had to get across that line in five minutes, no matter what the crazy shitters threw at him. He would have to use all the moves he remembered from his football days, have to make those rusty knees young again. Oh, Lord, he prayed, if You ever smiled on a dumb fool, show those pearly whites right now!
The last padlock was unsnapped, and the chains were removed from Josh's legs. He was pulled to his feet, his wrists still shackled tightly together, the chain curled around his forearms and hands as well. He could open and close iris left hand, but the right was balled shut and immobile. He looked toward the rear of the K-Mart, and his heart lurched; the damned place seemed as long as ten football fields.
In the pet department, Swan had laid her head on Leona's shoulder. The woman was breathing erratically, fighting to keep her eyes open. Swan knew Josh was going to do all he could to reach them, but she knew also that he might fail. Lord alvin was smiling at her beatifically, like a saint's smile on a stained-glass window. He regarded the watches on his wrist, then pointed the electric bullhorn toward the front and blared, "Let the Straitjacket game start... now! Five minutes, friend Josh!"
Swan flinched and waited for what would be.
Forty-two
Josh jumped at the sound of the bullhorn. Before he could take one stride forward, an arm clamped around his neck from behind and started squeezing. It was old Blackbeard, he realized. Bastard's trying to nail me right off!
Instinctively, Josh threw his head backward in what was known as a "Reverse Coconut Butt" in the ring - but this time he let it go full-throttle. His skull smacked into Black-beard's forehead, and suddenly the restraining arm was gone. Josh spun around to finish the job and found Blackbeard sitting on his ass, his eyes glazed and his forehead already purpling. The other lunatic swung the shotgun up. "Go," he ordered, and he grinned with green teeth.
Josh had no time to waste; he turned and started running full-bore along the center aisle.
He'd taken six long strides when a baseball bat swung out along the floor and clipped his right ankle. He fell, hit the floor on his belly and slid another eight feet across the linoleum. Instantly he twisted to face his attacker, who'd been hiding behind a counter of socks and underwear. The man, who wore a red football helmet, rose up and rushed Josh, swinging the bat for a game-ending home run.
Josh drew his knees to his chest, kicked out and up and caught the maniac right in the stomach with both feet, lifting him about four feet in the air. The man came down on his tailbone, and Josh scrambled up to kick him in the groin as if he were making a fifty-yard field goal. as the man contorted into a shivering ball, Josh got his left hand around the bat and snatched it up; he worked his grip down to the handle, and though he had no real leverage, at least he had a weapon. He turned to continue along the aisle - and faced a skinny dude with an axe and another bastard with a blue-painted face who was carrying a sledgehammer.
No way! Josh thought, and he darted along one of the other aisles, intending to swing toward the pet department from a different angle. He skidded into a female mannequin, and the brown-haired head tumbled off the shoulders to the floor.
"Four minutes, friend Josh!" Lord alvin's voice announced.
a figure with an upraised butcher knife burst from amid a rack of dresses in Josh's path. Can't stop! Josh knew, unable to lock his knees in time. Instead, he plowed forward, threw himself off his feet in a body block that slammed into the knife wielder and drove him into the dress rack, which collapsed around them. The man struck with the knife, missed, struck again and snagged the blade in fabric. Josh got astride his chest and brought the bat's shaft down on the man's skull - once, twice and a third time. The body quivered as if plugged into an electric socket.
a stabbing pain hit Josh in the neck. He looked around and saw a dungareed, leering maniac holding a fishing rod. The line was taut between them, and Josh knew there was a hook in his skin. The lunatic fisherman wrenched on the rod as if he were landing a prize marlin, and the hook ripped out of Josh's neck. The rod was snapped again, the hook flashing toward Josh's face, but he ducked it and scrabbled out of the dresses, regaining his feet and running for the pet department again.
"Three minutes left, friend Josh!"
No! Josh thought. No! The bastard was cheating! another minute couldn't have passed yet!
He sprinted past a well-dressed mannequin in the men's department - but suddenly the mannequin came to life and leapt on his back, fingers clawing at his eyes. He kept running as the man held on, the jagged fingernails carving Josh's cheeks, and ahead of him stood a lean, bare-chested black man with a screwdriver in one hand and a garbage can lid in the other.
Josh ran full steam at the waiting assassin, then abruptly stopped, sliding across the floor. He hunched over and spun his shoulders. The man on his back lost his grip and hurtled through the air, but Josh's aim was off. Instead of crashing into the black man, as Josh had hoped, the well-dressed lunatic sailed over a counter full of summer shirts and hit the floor.
The black man attacked, moving like a panther. Josh swung the bat, but the garbage can lid was there to deflect it. The screwdriver drove in at Josh's stomach; he twisted away, and the weapon grazed his ribs. They fought at close quarters, Josh desperately avoiding the thrusts of the screwdriver and trying vainly to get a good strike with his bat. as they grappled, Josh caught movement on both sides - more of them, coming in for the kill. He knew he was finished if he couldn't get away from this crazy bro, because a husky man with garden shears was almost upon him. The black man's teeth snapped at Josh's cheek; Josh saw his opening and dropped to his knees, scooting between the man's legs like a greased pig. When the bro whirled around, he was met by a blow that crumpled his face and knocked teeth through the air. He took two wobbly steps and fell like a tree.
Josh kept going, the breath wheezing in his lungs.
"Two minutes!" Lord alvin crowed.
Faster! Josh urged himself. Faster, damn it! The pet department was still so far away, and the sonofabitch was rushing time! Protect the child! Got to protec -
a maniac with a white-powdered face rose up from behind a counter and slammed a tire iron across Josh's left shoulder. Josh cried out in pain and tumbled into a display of Quaker State oil cans, agony shooting from his shoulder to his fingertips. He'd lost the baseball bat; it was rolling across the aisle, way out of reach. The white-faced madman attacked him, flailing wildly with the tire iron while Josh fought in a frenzy. The tire iron smashed down beside Josh's head and burst one of the cans open, and then they were fighting like two animals, kill or be killed.
Josh caught the man in the ribs with a knee and drove him back, but he leapt in again. They rolled in motor oil across the floor, Josh's opponent squirming like an eel. and then the man was up on his feet; he charged Josh, the tire iron upraised for a blow to the skull.
But his shoes slipped out from under him in the oil, and he crashed to the floor on his back. at once Josh got astride him, one knee trapping the tire iron and the other knee pressed to the man's throat. He lifted both hands and heard himself bellow with fury as he brought the chain down, at the same time putting all his weight on the throat. He felt his knee break through something soft, and the scarlet imprint of the chain was left on the distorted face like a tattoo.
Josh struggled to his feet, his lungs heaving. His shoulder pounded with excruciating pain, but he couldn't give in to it. Keep going! he told himself. Move, you fool! a hammer sailed past him, clattering into a display of hubcabs. He slipped, fell to his knees. Blood was in his mouth and crawling down his face, and the seconds were ticking. He thought of the roach on the barn floor, the survivor of insecticides and stomping boots and a nuclear holocaust. If such a thing as that had the will to live, then he damned well did, too.
Josh stood up. He ran along the aisle, saw three more figures coming toward him; he jumped over a counter into another aisle. a left turn, and a clear aisle lined with housewares, pots and pans stretched before him.
and way down at the end of it sat Lord alvin, watching from his throne. On the wall behind him was the sign Pets. Josh could see the dwarf jumping up and down in the shopping cart, and Swan's face was turned toward him. Crybaby lay so close, but so far away.
"One minute!" Lord alvin announced through the bullhorn.
I've made it! Josh realized. Dear God, I'm almost there! It can't be more than forty feet to the dowsing rod!
He started forward.
But he heard the low growl and the rising whine, and the Neanderthal with the chainsaw stepped into the aisle to block his way.
Josh stopped with a jolt. The Neanderthal, his bald head shining under the lights, smiled faintly and waited for him, the chainsaw's teeth a blur of deadly metal.
Josh looked around for some other way to go. The house-wares aisle was an unbroken sweep of kitchen items, glasses and crockery except for an aisle that turned to the right about ten feet away - and three maniacs guarded that portal, all armed with knives and garden tools. He turned to retrace his path, and about five yards away stood the madman with the fishing rod and the green-toothed lunatic with the shotgun. He saw more of them coming, taking positions to watch the finale of the Straitjacket game.
The ass is grass, Josh knew. But not just his - Swan and Leona were dead if he didn't reach the finish line. There was no way except through the Neanderthal.
"Forty seconds, friend Josh!"
The Neanderthal swiped at the air with the chainsaw, daring Josh to come on.
Josh was almost used up. The Neanderthal handled that chainsaw with childish ease. Had they come all this way to die in a damned K-Mart full of escaped fruitcakesi Josh didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so he just said, "Shit!" Well, he decided, if they were going to die, he was going to do his best to take the Neanderthal with him - and Josh stood to his full height, swelled out his chest and let loose a roaring laugh.
The Neanderthal grinned too.
"Thirty seconds," Lord alvin said.
Josh threw his head back, released a war whoop at the top of his lungs, and then he charged like a runaway Mack truck.
The Neanderthal stood his ground, braced his legs and swung the chainsaw.
But Josh suddenly juked back out of range, the chainsaw's breeze brushing his face as it swept past. The other man's rib cage was an open target, and before the Neanderthal could bring the chainsaw back around, Josh kicked those ribs like he was aiming at next week.
The man's face scrunched up with pain, and he went back a few feet but did not go down. Then he was balanced again, and now he was rushing forward and the chainsaw was coming at Josh's head.
Josh had no time to think, just to act. He flung his arms up in front of his face. The saw's teeth hit the chains around his wrists, shooting sparks. The vibration sent Josh and the Neanderthal reeling in opposite directions, but still neither one fell.
"Twenty seconds!" the bullhorn blared.
Josh's heart was hammering, but he was strangely calm. It was reach the finish line or not, and that was it. He crouched and warily advanced, hoping to trip the other man up somehow. and then the Neanderthal sprang forward, faster than Josh had expected the big man to move, and the chainsaw slashed at Josh's skull; Josh started to leap back, but the chainsaw strike was a feint. The Neanderthal's booted right foot came up and caught Josh in the stomach, knocking him along the aisle. He crashed into the counter of pots, pans and kitchen tools, clattering around him in a shower of metal. Roll! Josh screamed mentally, and as he whipped aside the Neanderthal brought the chainsaw down where he'd been lying, carving a foot-long trench across the floor.
Quickly, Josh twisted back to the other side and kicked upward, hitting his opponent just under the jawbone. The Neanderthal was lifted off his feet, and then he, too, crashed into the housewares display - but he kept tight hold of the saw and started getting to his feet as blood dribbled from both corners of his mouth.
The audience hooted and clapped.
"Ten seconds!"
Josh was on his knees before he realized what was scattered around him: not only pots and pans, but an array of carving knives. One with a blade about eight inches long lay right in front of him. He put his left hand around its grip and forced the fingers shut with sheer willpower, and the knife was his.
The Neanderthal, his eyes clouded with pain, spat out teeth and what might have been part of his tongue.
Josh was on his feet. "Come on!" he shouted, feinting with the knife. "Come on, you crazy asshole!"
The other man obliged him; he began stalking down the aisle toward Josh, sweeping the chainsaw back and forth in a deadly arc.
Josh kept moving backward. He glanced quickly over his shoulder, saw the mad fisherman and the shotgun wielder about five feet behind him. In a fraction of a second, he realized that Green Teeth was holding his shotgun in a loose, casual grip. The ring of keys dangled at the man's belt.
The Neanderthal was advancing steadily, and when he grinned blood drooled out.
"You're going the wrong way, friend Josh!" Lord alvin said. "It doesn't matter, anyway. Time's up! Come on and take your pill!"
"Kiss my ass!" Josh shouted - and then he whirled around in a blur of motion and drove the blade up to the hilt in Green Teeth's chest, just above the heart. as the madman's mouth opened in a shriek, Josh clamped his left hand around the shotgun's trigger guard, wrenching the weapon loose. The man fell to the floor in a spray of arterial blood.
The Neanderthal charged.
Josh turned in what seemed like nightmarish slow motion. He fought to hold the shotgun steady, trying to get his finger on the trigger. The Neanderthal was almost on him, and the saw was coming up for a vicious, sideswiping slash. Josh braced the butt of the shotgun against his chest, felt the awful breeze of the chainsaw. His finger found the trigger, and he squeezed.
The Neanderthal was within three feet, the chainsaw about to bite flesh.
But in the next instant a fist-sized hole opened in his stomach and half his back blew out. The force of the blast shook Josh and almost knocked the Neanderthal out of his boots. The chainsaw flashed past Josh's face, its weight spinning the dead man like a top along the bloody-floored aisle.
"No fair!" Lord alvin shouted, jumping up from his throne. "You didn't play right!"
The corpse hit the floor, still gripping the chainsaw, and the metal teeth chewed a circle in the linoleum.
Josh saw Lord alvin throw aside the bullhorn and reach into his robes; the madman's hand emerged with an extra gleaming finger - a crescent-bladed hunting knife, like a miniature scythe. Lord alvin turned upon Swan and Leona.
With the shotgun's blast, the other psychos had fled for cover. Josh had one shell left, and he couldn't afford to waste it. He sprinted forward, leaped over the jittering body, and barreled for the pet department, where Lord alvin - his face contorted with a mixture of rage and what might have been pity - knelt before Swan and grasped the back of her neck with his free hand.
"Death! Death!" Imp shrieked.
Swan looked up into Lord alvin's face and knew she was about to die. Tears burned her eyes, but she lifted her chin defiantly.
"Time to go to sleep," Lord alvin whispered. He lifted the crescent blade.
Josh slipped on the bloody floor and went down, skidding into a counter six feet short of the dowsing rod. He scrambled to get up, but he knew that he'd never make it.
Lord alvin smiled, two tears rolling from his murky green eyes. The crescent blade was poised, about to fall. "Sleep," he said.
But a small gray form had already streaked out from behind sacks of dog food and kitty litter and, growling like a hound from Hell, it leaped toward Lord alvin's face.
The terrier snapped his teeth around alvin Mangrim's thin and delicate nose, crunched through flesh and cartilage and snapped the man's head back. Lord alvin fell on his side, writhing and screaming, frantically trying to push the animal away, but the terrier kept hold.
Josh jumped over Crybaby, saw Swan and Leona still alive, saw the terrier gnawing on Lord alvin's nose and the madman flailing with his hunting knife. Josh aimed the shotgun at Lord alvin's skull, but he didn't want to hit the dog and he knew he'd need that shell. The terrier suddenly freed Lord alvin and scrambled back with bloody flesh between his teeth, then planted his paws and let out a fusillade of barks.
Lord alvin sat up, what remained of his nose hanging from his face and his eyes wide with shock. Shrieking "Blasphemy! Blasphemy!" he bolted to his feet and ran, still screaming, out of the pet department. Nearby, Imp was the last of Lord alvin's subjects left in the vicinity; the dwarf was hissing curses at Josh, who lunged over to the shopping cart, spun it around and sent it flying down the aisle. Imp bailed out a few seconds before it crashed into fish tanks and upended.
alvin Mangrim had left his knife behind, and Josh spent a couple of anxious minutes cutting the ropes loose from Swan and Leona. When Swan's hands were freed, she put her arms around Josh's neck and held tight, her body shaking like a tough sapling in a tornado. The terrier came close enough for Josh to touch and sat back on its haunches, its muzzle scarlet with Lord alvin's blood. For the first time, Josh saw that the dog was wearing a flea collar, and on it was a little metal name tag that said "Killer."
Josh knelt over Leona and shook her. The woman's eyelids fluttered, her face slack, a terrible purple swelling around the gash over her left eye. Concussion, Josh realized. Or worse. She lifted a hand to touch the smeared greasepaint on Josh's face, and then her eyes opened. She smiled weakly. "You done good," she said.
He helped her up. They had to get out fast. Josh braced the shotgun against his belly and started along the aisle where the Neanderthal lay. Swan retrieved the dowsing rod, grasped Leona's hand and pulled her forward like a sleepwalker. Still barking, Killer darted ahead.
Josh came to Green Teeth's body and took the ring of keys. He'd worry later about which key unlocked his wrist chains. Right now they had to get out of this asylum before Lord alvin rallied the maniacs.
They sensed furtive movements on both sides of the aisle as they continued through the K-Mart, but Lord alvin's subjects had no initiative of their own. Someone threw a shoe, and a red rubber ball came bouncing at them, but otherwise they made the front doors without incident.
Cold rain was still pouring down, and within seconds they were drenched. The parking lot lamps cast harsh yellow halos over the abandoned cars. Josh felt the weight of exhaustion creeping up on him. They found their wheelbarrow overturned, their supplies either stolen or scattered. Their bags and belongings were gone, including Swan's Cookie Monster doll. Swan looked down and saw a few of Leona's tarot cards lying on the wet pavement, along with broken shards of her crystal ball collection. Lord alvin's subjects had left them nothing but the soaked clothes sticking to their bodies.
Swan glanced back toward the K-Mart and felt horror like a cold hand placed to a burn.
They were coming out the doors. Ten or eleven figures, led by one in a purple robe that blew around his shoulders. Some of them were carrying rifles.
"Josh!" she shouted.
He kept walking, about ten feet ahead. He hadn't heard her for the storm.
"Josh!" she shouted again, and then she sprinted the distance between them and whacked him across the back with Crybaby.
He spun around, eyes stricken - and then he saw them coming, too. They were thirty yards away, zigzagging between the cars. There was a flash of gunfire, and the rear windshield of a Toyota van behind Josh exploded. "Get down!" he yelled, shoving Swan to the pavement. He grabbed Leona as more pinpoints of fire sparked. another car's windshield blew out, but by then Josh, Swan and Leona were huddled in the shelter of a blue Buick with two flat tires.
Bullets ricocheted, and glass showered around them. Josh crouched, waiting for the bastards to come closer before he reared up and fired the last shell.
a hand grasped the shotgun's barrel.
Leona's face was drawn and weary, but the heat of life shone in her eyes. She gripped the shotgun firmly, trying to pull it away from him. He resisted, shaking his head. Then he saw the blood that trickled from a corner of Leona's mouth.
He looked down. The bullet wound was just below her heart.
Leona smiled wanly, and Josh could just make out what she said from the movement of her lips: "Go." She nodded toward the far expanse of the rainswept parking lot. "Now," she told him.
He'd already seen how much blood she was losing. She knew, too; it was in her face. She wouldn't let go of the shotgun, and she spoke again. Josh couldn't hear her, but he thought it might have been: "Protect the child."
The rain was streaming down Josh's face. There was so much to say, so much, but neither of them could hear the other over the voice of the storm, and words were flimsy. Josh glanced at Swan, saw that she'd seen the wound, too. Swan lifted her gaze to Leona's, then to Josh's, and she knew what had been decided.
"No!" she shouted. "I won't let you!" She grabbed Leona's arm.
a gunshot blasted the side window of a pickup truck nearby. More bullets hit the truck's door, blew out the front tire and whined off the wheel.
Josh looked into the woman's eyes. He released the shotgun. She pulled it to her and put her finger on the trigger, then motioned for them to go. Swan clung to her. Leona grasped Crybaby and pushed the dowsing rod firmly against Swan's chest, then deliberately pulled her arm free from Swan's fingers. The decision was made. Now Leona's eyes were clouding, the flow of blood fast and fatal.
Josh kissed her cheek, hugged her tight to him for a few seconds. and then he mouthed the words "Follow me" to Swan and started off in a half crawl, half crouch between the cars. He couldn't bear to look at Leona again, but he would remember every line in her face until the day he died.
Leona ran the fingers of one hand over Swan's cheek and smiled, as if she'd seen the child's inside face and held it like a cameo in her heart. Then Swan saw the woman's eyes go hard, preparing for what was ahead. There was nothing more. Swan lingered as long as she dared before she followed Josh into the maze of vehicles.
Leona rose to a crouch. The pain below her heart was an irritating sting compared to her rheumatic knees. She waited, the rain pounding down on her, and she was not afraid. It was time to fly from this body now, time to see clearly what she'd only beheld through a dark glass.
She waited a moment longer, and then she stood up and stepped out from behind the Buick, facing the K-Mart like a gunfighter at the O.K. Corral.
Four of them were standing about six feet away, and behind them were two others. She didn't have time to make sure the one in the purple robe was there; she aimed the shotgun in their midst and pulled the trigger even as two of the madmen fired their guns at her.
Josh and Swan broke from the cover of the cars and ran across the open lot. Swan almost looked back, almost, but did not. Josh staggered, the exhaustion about to drive him down. Off to the side, the terrier kept pace with them, looking like a drowned rat.
Swan wiped rain from her eyes. There was motion ahead. Something was coming through the storm. Josh had seen it, too, couldn't tell what it was - but if the lunatics had circled around them, they were finished.
The piebald horse broke from a sweeping curtain of rain, charging toward them - but it didn't appear to be the same animal. This horse looked stronger, somehow more valiant, with a straighter back and courage in its forward-thrust neck. Josh and Swan both could have sworn they saw Mule's hooves striking showers of sparks off the pavement.
The horse careened to a stop in front of them, reared and pawed at the air. When the animal came down again, Josh grabbed Swan's arm by his free hand and flung her up onto Mule. He wasn't sure which he was more scared of, riding the horse or facing the madmen; but when he dared to look around, he saw figures running through the rain, and he made up his mind right quick.
He swung up behind Swan and kicked Mule's ribs with both heels. The horse reared again, and Josh saw the pursuing figures abruptly stop. The one in the lead wore purple, had long, wet blond hair and a mangled nose. Josh had a second to lock stares with Lord alvin, the hatred flaming through his bones, and he thought, Someday, you sonofabitch. Someday you'll pay.
Gunfire leapt. Mule whirled around and raced out of the parking lot as if he were going for the roses in the Kentucky Derby. Killer followed behind, plowing through the storm.
Swan gripped hold of Mule's mane to guide him, but the horse was deciding their direction. They sped away from the K-Mart, away from the dead town of Matheson, through the rain along a highway that stretched into darkness.
But in the last of the light from the lunatic K-Mart, they saw a roadside sign that read Welcome to Nebraska, the Cornhusker State. They passed it in a blur, and Swan wasn't sure what it had said. The wind blew into her face, and she held Crybaby in one hand and Mule's mane with the other, and they seemed to be cleaving a fiery path through the dark and leaving a sea of sparks in their wake.
