by Stephen King
“They’re the strongest, sweetest food! Have you never eaten veal? Or calves’ liver?”
“You don’t just eat them, you ejaculate on them.” Her mouth twisted in disgust. “You splooge on them. Oough!”
“To leave DNA!” he shouted.
“You could leave it other ways!” she shouted back, and something else fell from the eggshell ceiling above them. “But you don’t put your thing in, do you? Is it because you’re impotent?” She raised a finger, then let it curl. “Is it is it is it?”
“Shut up!”
“You take children because you’re a child rapist who can’t even do it with his penis, you have to use a—”
He ran at her, his face twisting into an expression of hate that had nothing of Claude Bolton or Terry Maitland in it; this was its own thing, as black and awful as the lower depths where the Jamieson twins had finally surrendered their lives. Ralph raised his gun, but Holly stepped into his line of fire before he could get off a round.
“Don’t shoot, Ralph, don’t shoot!”
Something else fell, this time something big, smashing the outsider’s cot and cooler and sending shards of mineral-sparkling stones spinning across the polished floor.
Holly pulled something from a pocket of her suit coat on the side that always sagged. The thing was long and white and stretched, as if it contained something heavy. At the same time, she turned on the UV flashlight and shined it full in the outsider’s face. He winced, made a snarling sound, and turned his head, still reaching for her with Claude Bolton’s tattooed hands. She drew the white thing cross-body above her small breasts, all the way to her shoulder, and swung it with all her strength. The loaded end connected with the outsider’s head just below the hairline, at the temple.
What Ralph saw then would haunt his dreams for years to come. The left half of the outsider’s head caved in as if it had been made of papier-mâché rather than bone. The brown eye jumped in its socket. The thing went to its knees, and its face seemed to liquefy. Ralph saw a hundred features slide across it in mere seconds, there and gone: high foreheads followed low ones, bushy eyebrows and ones so blond they were hardly there, deepset eyes and ones that bulged, lips both wide and thin. Buck teeth protruded, then disappeared; chins jutted and sank. Yet the last face, the one that lingered longest, almost certainly the outsider’s true face, was utterly nondescript. It was the face of anyone you might pass on the street, seen at one moment and forgotten the next.
Holly swung again, striking the cheekbone this time and driving the forgettable face into a hideous crescent. It looked like something out of an insane children’s book.
In the end, it’s nothing, Ralph thought. Nobody. What looked like Claude, what looked like Terry, what looked like Heath Holmes . . . nothing. Only false fronts. Only stage dressing.
Reddish wormlike things began to pour from the hole in the outsider’s head, from its nose, from the cramped teardrop which was all that remained of its unsteady mouth. The worms fell to the stone floor of the Chamber of Sound in a squirming flood. Claude Bolton’s body first began to tremble, then to buck, then to shrivel inside its clothes.
Holly dropped the flashlight and raised the white thing over her head (it was a sock, Ralph saw, a man’s long white athletic sock), now holding it in both hands. She brought it down one final time, crashing it into the top of the thing’s head. Its face split down the middle like a rotted gourd. There was no brain in the cavity thus revealed, only a writhing nest of those worms, inescapably reminding Ralph of the maggots he had discovered in that long-ago cantaloupe. Those already released were squirming across the floor toward Holly’s feet.
She backed away from them, ran into Ralph, then buckled at the knees. He grabbed her and held her up. All the color had left her face. Tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Drop the sock,” he said in her ear.
She looked at him, dazed.
“Some of those things are on it.”
When she still did nothing but look at him with a kind of dazed wonder, Ralph attempted to pull it from her fist. At first he couldn’t. She had it in a death grip. He pried at her fingers, hoping he wouldn’t have to break them to make her let go, but he would if he had to. If that was what it took. Those things would be a lot worse than poison ivy if they touched her. And if they got under her skin . . .
She seemed to come back to herself—a little, anyway—and opened her hand. The sock dropped, the toe making a clunking sound when it hit the stone floor. He backed away from the worms, which were still blindly seeking (or maybe not blind at all; they were coming right for the two of them), pulling Holly by the hand, which was still curled from the fierce grip she’d had on the sock. She looked down, saw the danger, and drew in a breath.
“Don’t scream,” he told her. “Can’t risk anything else falling down. Just climb.”
He began to pull her up the stairs. After the first four or five she was able to climb on her own, but they were going backward in order to keep an eye on the worms, which were still spilling from the outsider’s cloven head. Also from the teardrop mouth.
“Stop,” she whispered. “Stop, look at them, they’re just milling around. They can’t get up the steps. And they’re starting to die.”
She was right. They were slowing down, and a great heap of them near the outsider wasn’t moving at all. But the body was; somewhere inside it, the animating force was still trying to live. The Bolton-thing humped and jerked, arms waving in a kind of semaphore. As they watched, the neck shortened. The remains of the head began to draw into the collar of the shirt. Claude Bolton’s black hair at first stuck up, then was gone.
“What is it?” Holly whispered. “What are they?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Ralph said. “I only know that you’ll never have to buy a drink for the rest of your life, at least when you’re with me.”
“I rarely drink alcohol,” she said. “It goes badly with my medicine. I think I told you tha—”
She abruptly leaned over the rail and vomited. He held her while she did it.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be. Let’s—”
“Get the frack out of here,” she finished for him.
22
Sunlight had never felt so good.
They got as far as the Chief Ahiga sign before Holly said she felt lightheaded and had to sit down. Ralph found a flat rock that was big enough for both of them, and sat beside her. She glanced at the sprawled body of Jack Hoskins, made a desolate squeaking sound, and began to cry. At first it came out in a series of choked, reluctant sobs, as if someone had told her it was terribly wrong to weep in front of another person. Ralph put an arm around her shoulders, which felt sadly thin. She buried her face against the front of his shirt and began to sob in earnest. They had to get back to Yune, who might have been more badly hurt than it had seemed—they had been under fire, after all, hardly the time to make an accurate diagnosis. Even at best, the man had a broken elbow and a dislocated shoulder. But she needed at least a little time, and she had earned it by doing what he, the big detective, had been unable to do.
Within forty-five seconds, the storm had begun to lessen. In a minute, it was over. She was good. Strong. Holly looked up at him, eyes red and swimming, but Ralph wasn’t entirely sure she knew at first where she was. Or who he was, for that matter.
“I can’t do it again, Bill. Not ever. Ever ever ever! And if this one comes back the way Brady did, I’ll kill myself. Do you hear me?”
He shook her gently. “He’s not coming back, Holly. I promise you.”
She blinked. “Ralph. I meant to say Ralph. Did you see what came out of his . . . did you see those worms?”
“Yes.”
“Oough! Oough!” She made a retching noise, and covered her mouth.
“Who told you how to make a blackjack out of a sock? And how hard it can hit if the sock is one of the long ones? Was it Bill Hodges?”
Holly nodded.
“Ball bearings, just like Bill’s. I bought them in the Walmart automotive department, back in Flint City. Because I can’t use guns. I didn’t think I’d have to use the Happy Slapper, either, it was only an impulse.”
“Or an intuition.” He smiled, although he was hardly aware of it; he still felt numb all over, and kept looking around to make sure none of those worms were squirming after them, desperate to survive in a new host. “Is that what you call it? The Happy Slapper?”
“It’s what Bill called it. Ralph, we have to go. Yune—”
“I know. But I have to do something first. Sit where you are.”
He went to Hoskins’s body and made himself hunt through the dead man’s pockets. He found the keys to the pickup truck and returned to Holly. “Okay.”
They started down the path. Holly stumbled once and he grabbed her. Then it was his turn to almost go down, and it was she grabbing him.
Like a couple of damn cripples, he thought. But after what we saw—
“There’s so much we don’t know,” she said. “Where he came from. If those bugs were a disease or maybe even some kind of alien life-form. Who his victims were—not just the children he killed, but the ones who got blamed for the killings. There must have been a lot of them. A lot. Did you see his face at the end? How it changed?”
“Yes,” Ralph said. He would never forget it.
“We don’t know how long he lived. How he could project himself. What he was.”
“That much we do know,” Ralph said. “He—it—was El Cuco. Oh, and something else: the sonofabitch is dead.”
23
They were most of the way down the path when a horn began to beep in short blasts. Holly stopped, biting at lips which had already taken a lot of abuse.
“Relax,” Ralph said. “I think that’s Yune.”
The path was wider now, and less steep, so they were able to move faster. When they came around the storage shed, they saw it was indeed Yune, sitting half in and half out of Hoskins’s pickup, beeping the horn with his right hand. His swollen and bloody left arm lay in his lap like a log.
“You can quit that now,” Ralph said. “Mother and Father are here. How are you?”
“My arm hurts like blue fuck, but otherwise I’m okay. Did you get him? El Cuco?”
“We got him,” Ralph said. “Holly got him. He wasn’t human, but he died, just the same. His days of killing children are over.”
“Holly got him?” He looked at her. “How?”
“We can talk about that later,” she said. “Right now I’m more concerned about you. Have you passed out? Are you lightheaded?”
“I got a little dizzy walking over here. Seemed to take forever, and I had to rest a couple of times. I was hoping I’d meet you coming out. Praying, more like it. Then I saw this truck. Must belong to the shooter. John P. Hoskins, according to the registration. Is he who I think he is?”
Ralph nodded. “Of the Flint City police. And it’s was. He’s dead, too. I shot him.”
Yune’s eyes widened. “What the hell was he doing here?”
“The outsider sent him. How he managed that I have no idea.”
“I thought he might have left the keys, but no joy on that. And nothing for pain relief in the glove compartment, either. Just the registration, his insurance card, and a bunch of crap.”
“I’ve got the keys,” Ralph said. “They were in his pocket.”
“And I’ve got something for pain,” Holly said. She reached into one of the voluminous side pockets of her beat-up suit coat and brought out a large brown prescription bottle. It was unlabeled.
“What else have you got in there?” Ralph asked. “A camp stove? Coffee pot? Shortwave radio?”
“Work on that sense of humor, Ralph.”
“That’s not me being funny, that’s true admiration.”
“I concur most heartily,” Yune said.
She opened her traveling pharmacy, dumped an assortment of pills into her palm, and put the bottle carefully down on the truck’s dashboard. “These are Zoloft . . . Paxil . . . Valium, which I rarely take anymore . . . and these.” She carefully slid the rest of the pills back into the bottle, saving out two orange ones. “Motrin. I take it for tension headaches. Also for TMJ pain, although that’s better since I started using a night guard. I have the hybrid model. It’s expensive but it’s the best one on the . . .” She saw them looking at her. “What?”
Yune said, “Just more admiration, querida. I love a woman who comes prepared for all eventualities.” He took the pills, swallowed them dry, and closed his eyes. “Thank you. So much. May your night guard never fail you.”
She looked at him doubtfully as she stored the bottle back in her pocket. “I have two more when you need them. Have you heard any fire sirens?”
“No,” Yune said. “I’m starting to think they’re not coming.”
“They will,” Ralph said, “but you won’t be here when they arrive. You need to go to the hospital. Plainville’s a little closer than Tippit, plus the Bolton place is on the way. You’ll need to stop there. Holly, will you be okay driving if I stay here?”
“Yes, but why . . .” Then she hit her forehead lightly with the palm of her hand. “Mr. Gold and Mr. Pelley.”
“Yes. I have no intention of leaving them where they fell.”
“Messing up a crime scene is generally frowned on,” Yune said. “As I think you know.”
“I do, but won’t allow two good men to cook in the hot sun and next to a burning vehicle. Do you have a problem with that?”
Yune shook his head. Droplets of sweat shone in the bristles of his Marine-style haircut. “Por supuesto no.”
“I’ll drive us around to the parking lot, and then Holly can take over. Are you getting any relief from that Motrin, amigo?”
“I am, actually. It ain’t great, but it’s better.”
“Good. Because before we get rolling, we have to talk.”
“About?”
“About how we’re going to explain this,” Holly said.
24
Once they were in the parking lot, Ralph got out. He met Holly coming around the hood of the truck, and this time it was she who hugged him. It was brief but strong. The rental SUV had mostly burned itself out, and the smoke was thinning.
Yune moved—carefully, with several winces and hisses of pain—into the passenger seat. When Ralph leaned in, he said, “You’re sure he’s dead?” Ralph knew it wasn’t Hoskins he was asking about. “You’re sure?”
“Yes. He didn’t exactly melt like the Wicked Witch of the West, but close. When the shit hits the fan out here, they’re going to find nothing but his clothes and maybe a bunch of dead worms.”
“Worms?” Yune frowned.
“Based on how fast they were dying,” Holly said, “I think the worms will decay very rapidly. But there will be DNA on the clothes, and if they should happen to run it against Claude’s, they could get a match.”
“Or a mix of Claude’s and Terry’s, because his change-over wasn’t complete. You saw that, right?”
Holly nodded.
“Which would make it worthless. I think Claude is going to be all right.” Ralph took his cell phone from his pocket and put it in Yune’s good hand. “You’ll be okay to make the calls as soon as you start getting some bars?”
“Claro.”
“And you know the order of the calls?”
As Yune ticked them off, they heard faint sirens coming from the direction of Tippit. Someone had noticed the smoke after all, it seemed, but the person who saw it hadn’t bothered to come and investigate himself. Which was probably good. “DA Bill Samuels. Then your wife. Chief Geller after that. Finishing up with Captain Horace Kinney of the Texas Highway Patrol. All the numbers are in your contacts. The Boltons we talk to in person.”
“I’ll talk to them,” Holly said. “You’re going to sit still and rest your arm.”
“Very important
Claude and Lovie get on board with the story,” Ralph said. “Now go on. If you’re still here when the fire trucks arrive, you’ll be stuck.”
With the seat and the mirror adjusted to her satisfaction, Holly turned to Yune and to Ralph, still leaning in the passenger door. She looked tired but not exhausted. Her tears had passed. He saw nothing on her face but concentration and purpose.
“We need to keep this simple,” she said. “As simple and as close to the truth as we can get.”
“You’ve been through this before,” Yune said. “Or something like it. Haven’t you?”
“Yes. And they will believe us, even if they’re left with questions that can never be answered. You both know why. Ralph, those sirens are getting closer and we have to go.”
Ralph closed the passenger door and watched them drive away in the dead Flint City detective’s pickup. He considered the hardpan Holly would have to cross in order to avoid the chain, and thought she’d manage it just fine, skirting the worst of the holes and washes in order to spare Yune’s arm. Just when he thought he couldn’t admire her more . . . he did.
He went to Alec’s body first, because it was the harder one to retrieve. The vehicle fire was almost out, but the heat radiating from it was fierce. Alec’s face and arms had blackened, his head had been burned bald, and as Ralph grabbed him by the belt and began hauling him toward the gift shop, he tried not to think of the crispy bits and melted gobbets that were being left behind. And of how much Alec now looked like the man who had been at the courthouse that day. All he needs is the yellow shirt over his head, Ralph thought, and that was too much. He let go of the belt and managed to stagger twenty paces before bending over, grasping his knees, and throwing up everything in his stomach. When that part was done, he went back and finished what he had started, dragging first Alec and then Howie Gold into the shade of the gift shop.
He rested, getting his breath back, then examined the shop’s door. It was padlocked, but the door itself looked weather-worn and flimsy. The second time he hit it, the hinges gave way. The interior was shadowy and explosively hot. The shelves were not entirely empty; a few souvenir tee-shirts emblazoned with I EXPLORED THE MARYSVILLE HOLE still remained. He took two and shook off the dust as best he could. Outside, the sirens were very close. Ralph thought they wouldn’t want to drive their expensive equipment across the hardpan; they’d stop to cut the chain, instead. He still had a little time.