by Stephen King
“Thought you said you were gonna take a shit. What were you doing in there?”
Luke waited for Mattie to say There’s a kid stowed away in that box, gave me some crazy story about being kidnapped up in Maine and stuck in a water-tank so he don’t have to go with his uncle.
“I did my bi’ness then wanted a look at those Kubota walk-behinds,” Mattie said. “My Lawn-Boy’s just about to drop dead.”
“Well, come on, train can’t wait. Hey, you didn’t see any kid running around, did you? Like maybe he hopped onboard up north and decided Wimmington would be a nice place to visit?”
There was a pause. Then Mattie said, “No.”
Luke had been sitting forward. At that single word, he put his head back against the boxcar wall and closed his eyes.
Ten minutes or so later, Train 9956 gave a hard jerk that ran through the cars—there were now an even one hundred—like a shudder. The trainyard began to roll past, slowly at first, then picking up speed. The shadow of a signal tower ran across the floor of the boxcar, and then another shadow appeared. A man-shadow. A grease-spotted paper bag flew into the car and landed on the floor.
He didn’t see Mattie, only heard him: “Good luck, outlaw.” Then the shadow was gone.
Luke crawled out of his hiding place so fast he cracked the good-ear side of his head on the housing of a riding lawnmower. He didn’t even notice. Heaven was in that bag. He could smell it.
Heaven turned out to be a cheese-and-sausage biscuit, a Hostess Fruit Pie, and a bottle of Carolina Sweetheart Spring Water. Luke had to use all his willpower to keep from drinking the whole sixteen-ounce bottle of water at a single go. He left a quarter of it, set it down, then snatched it up again and screwed on the cap. He thought if the train took a sudden yaw and it spilled, he would go insane. He gobbled the sausage biscuit in five snatching bites and chased it with another big swallow of water. He licked the grease from his palm, then took the water and the Hostess pie and crept back into his nest. For the first time since riding down the river in the S.S. Pokey and looking up at the stars, he felt that his life might be worth living. And although he did not exactly believe in God, having found the evidence against just slightly stronger than the evidence for, he prayed anyway, but not for himself. He prayed for the highly hypothetical higher power to bless the man who had called him outlaw and thrown that brown bag into the boxcar.
24
With his belly full, he felt like dozing again, but forced himself to stay awake.
Train’s gonna stop in Georgia, then at Tampa, and finish up its run in Miami, Mattie had said. If people are looking for you, they’ll be looking in all those places. But the next place it stops is just a shit-splat on the map.
There might be people watching for him even in a little town, but Luke had no intention of going on to Tampa and Miami. Getting lost in a large population had its attractions, but there were too many cops in big cities, and by now all of them probably had a photo of the boy suspected of killing his parents. Besides, logic told him he could only run so long. That Mattie hadn’t turned him in had been a fantastic stroke of good fortune; to count on another would be idiotic.
Luke thought he might have one high card in his hand. The paring knife Maureen had left under his mattress had disappeared somewhere along the way, but he still had the flash drive. He had no idea what was on it, for all he knew nothing but a rambling, guilt-ridden confession that would sound like gibberish, stuff about the baby she’d given away, maybe. On the other hand, it might be proof. Documents.
At last the train began to slow again. Luke went to the door, held it to keep his balance, and leaned out. He saw a lot of trees, a two-lane blacktop road, then the backs of houses and buildings. The train passed a signal: yellow. This might be the approach to the shit-splat Mattie had told him about; it might just be a slowdown while his train waited for another to clear the tracks somewhere up ahead. That might actually be better for him, because if there was a concerned uncle waiting for him at the next stop, he’d be at the depot. Up ahead he could see warehouses with glittering metal roofs. Beyond the warehouses was the two-lane road, and beyond the road were more trees.
Your mission, he told himself, is to get off this train and into those trees as fast as you can. And remember to hit the ground running so you don’t face-plant in the cinders.
He began to sway back and forth, still holding the door, lips pressed together in a thin stress-line of concentration. It was the stop Mattie had told him about, because now he could see a station-house up ahead. On the roof, DUPRAY SOUTHERN & WESTERN had been painted on faded green shingles.
Got to get off now, Luke thought. Absolutely do not want to meet any uncles.
“One . . .”
He swayed forward.
“Two . . .”
He swayed back.
“Three!”
Luke jumped. He started running in midair, but hit the cinders beside the track with his body going at train speed, which was still a bit faster than his legs could carry him. His upper body tilted forward, and with his arms extended behind him in an effort to maintain his balance, he looked like a speed-skater approaching the finish line.
Just as he began to think he might catch up with himself before he went sprawling, someone shouted “Hey, look out!”
He snapped his head up and saw a man on a forklift halfway between the warehouses and the depot. Another man was rising from a rocker in the shade of the station’s roof, the magazine he’d been reading still in his hand. This one shouted “Ware that post!”
Luke saw the second signal-post, this one flashing red, too late to slow down. He instinctively turned his head and tried to raise his arm, but hit the steel post at full running speed before he could get it all the way up. The right side of his face collided with the post, his bad ear taking the brunt of the blow. He rebounded, hit the cinders, and rolled away from the tracks. He didn’t lose consciousness, but he lost the immediacy of consciousness as the sky swung away, swung back, then swung away again. He felt warmth cascading down his cheek and knew his ear had opened up again—his poor abused ear. An interior voice was screaming at him to get up, to beat feet into the woods, but hearing and heeding were two different things. When he tried scrambling to his feet, it didn’t work.
My scrambler’s broke, he thought. Shit. What a fuckup.
Then the man from the forklift was standing over him. From where Luke lay, he looked about sixteen feet tall. The lenses of his glasses caught the sun, making it impossible to see his eyes. “Jesus, kid, what in the hell did you think you were doing?”
“Trying to get away.” Luke wasn’t sure he was actually speaking, but thought he probably was. “I can’t let them get me, please don’t let them get me.”
The man bent down. “Stop trying to talk, I can’t understand you anyway. You took a hell of a whack on that post, and you’re bleeding like a stuck pig. Move your legs for me.”
Luke did.
“Now move your arms.”
Luke held them up.
Rocking Chair Man joined Forklift Man. Luke tried to use his newly acquired TP to read one or both of them, find out what they knew. He got nothing; when it came to thought-reading, the tide was currently out. For all he knew, the whack he’d taken had knocked the TP clean out of his head.
“He all right, Tim?”
“I think so. I hope so. First aid protocol says not to move a head injury, but I’m going to take a chance.”
“Which of you is supposed to be my uncle?” Luke asked. “Or is it both of you?”
Rocking Chair Man frowned. “Can you understand what he’s saying?”
“No. I’m going to put him in Mr. Jackson’s back room.”
“I’ll take his legs.”
Luke was coming back now. His ear was actually helping in that regard. It felt as if it wanted to drill right into his head. And maybe hide there.
“No, I got him,” Forklift Man said. “He’s not heavy. I want you to call Doc
Roper, and ask him to make a house call.”
“More of a warehouse call,” Rocking Chair Man said, and laughed, exposing the yellowed pegs of his teeth.
“Whatever. Go and do it. Use the station phone.”
“Yessir.” Rocking Chair Man gave Forklift Man a half-assed salute, and set off. Forklift Man picked Luke up.
“Put me down,” Luke said. “I can walk.”
“You think so? Let’s see you do it.”
Luke swayed on his feet for a moment, then steadied.
“What’s your name, son?”
Luke considered, not sure he wanted to give it when he didn’t know if this man was an uncle. He looked okay . . . but then, so did Zeke back at the Institute, when he was in one of his rare good moods.
“What’s yours?” he countered.
“Tim Jamieson. Come on, let’s at least get you out of the sun.”
25
Norbert Hollister, owner of a decrepit motel which only kept operating thanks to his monthly stipend as an Institute stringer, used the station-house phone to call Doc Roper, but first he used his cell to call a number he had gotten in the early hours of the morning. Then, he had been pissed off at being awakened. Now, however, he was delighted.
“That kid,” he said. “He’s here.”
“Just a second,” Andy Fellowes said. “I’m transferring you.”
There was a brief silence and then another voice said, “Are you Hollister? In DuPray, South Carolina?”
“Yeah. That kid you’re looking for just jumped off a freight. Ear’s all tore up. Is there still a reward for him?”
“Yes. And it will be bigger if you make sure he stays in town.”
Norbert laughed. “Oh, I think he’ll be stayin. He banged into a signal-post and it conked him silly.”
“Don’t lose track of him,” Stackhouse said. “I want a call every hour. Understood?”
“Like an update.”
“Yes, like that. We’ll take care of the rest.”
HELL IS HERE
1
Tim led the bloodied-up kid, obviously still dazed but walking on his own, through Craig Jackson’s office. The owner of DuPray Storage & Warehousing lived in the nearby town of Dunning, but had been divorced for five years, and the spacious, air-conditioned room behind the office served him as auxiliary living quarters. Jackson wasn’t there now, which was no surprise to Tim; on days when ’56 stopped rather than barreling straight on through, Craig had a tendency to make himself scarce.
Past the little kitchenette with its microwave, hotplate, and tiny sink was a living area that consisted of an easy chair planted in front of an HD television set. Beyond that, old centerfolds from Playboy and Penthouse looked down on a neatly made camp bed. Tim’s idea was to get the kid to lie down on it until Doc Roper came, but the boy shook his head.
“Chair.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
The kid sat. The cushion made a tired woofing sound. Tim took a knee before him. “Now how about a name?”
The kid looked at him doubtfully. He had stopped bleeding, but his cheek was covered with gore, and his right ear was a tattered horror. “Were you waiting for me?”
“For the train. I work here mornings. Longer, when the 9956 is scheduled. Now what’s your name?”
“Who was the other guy?”
“No more questions until I get a name.”
The kid thought it over, then licked his lips and said, “I’m Nick. Nick Wilholm.”
“Okay, Nick.” Tim made a peace sign. “How many fingers do you see?”
“Two.”
“Now?”
“Three. The other guy, did he say he was my uncle?”
Tim frowned. “That was Norbert Hollister. He owns the local motel. If he’s anyone’s uncle, I don’t know about it.” Tim held up a single finger. “Follow it. Let me see your eyes move.”
Nicky’s eyes followed his finger left and right, then up and down.
“I guess you’re not scrambled too badly,” Tim said. “We can hope, anyway. Who are you running away from, Nick?”
The kid looked alarmed and tried to get out of the chair. “Who told you that?”
Tim pushed him gently back. “No one. It’s just that whenever I see a kid in dirty torn-up clothes and a torn-up ear jump from a train, I make this wild assumption that he’s a runaway. Now who—”
“What’s all the shouting about? I heard . . . oh dear-to-Jesus, what happened to that boy?”
Tim turned and saw Orphan Annie Ledoux. She must have been in her tent behind the depot. She often went there to snooze in the middle of the day. Although the thermometer outside the station had registered eighty-five degrees at ten that morning, Annie was dressed in what Tim thought of as her Full Mexican outfit: serape, sombrero, junk bracelets, and rescued cowboy boots sprung along the seams.
“This is Nick Wilholm,” Tim said. “He’s visiting our fair village from God knows where. Jumped off the ’56 and ran full-tilt-boogie into a signal-post. Nick, this is Annie Ledoux.”
“Very pleased to meet you,” Luke said.
“Thank you, son, same goes back. Was it the signal-post that ripped off half his ear, Tim?”
“I don’t believe so,” Tim said. “I was hoping to get that story.”
“Were you waiting for the train to come in?” the boy asked her. He seemed fixated on that. Maybe because he’d had his bell rung pretty hard, maybe for some other reason.
“I’m waiting for nothing but the return of Our Lord Jesus Christ,” Annie said. She glanced around. “Mr. Jackson has naughty pictures on his wall. I can’t say I’m surprised.” Can’t came out cain’t.
Just then an olive-skinned man wearing biballs over a white shirt and dark tie came into the room. A railroader’s pillowtick cap was perched on his head. “Hello, Hector,” Tim said.
“Hello to you,” Hector said. He glanced at the bloody boy sitting in Craig Jackson’s easy chair, not showing much interest, then returned his attention to Tim. “My secondman tells me I have a couple of generators for you, a bunch of lawn tractors and such, about a ton of canned goods, and another ton of fresh produce. I am running late, Timmy my boy, and if you don’t unload me, you can send the fleet of trucks this town doesn’t have to pick up your goods in Brunswick.”
Tim stood up. “Annie, can you keep this young man company until the doctor gets here? I have to go run a forklift for awhile.”
“I can handle that. If he pitches a fit I’ll put something in his mouth.”
“I’m not going to pitch a fit,” the boy said.
“That’s what they all say,” Annie retorted, rather obscurely.
“Son,” Hector said, “did you stow away on my train?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Well, since you’re off it now that’s nothing to me. The cops’ll deal with you, I guess. Tim, I see you got a situation here, but goods won’t wait, so help a man out. Where’s your goddam crew? I only seen one guy, and he’s in the office on the phone.”
“That’s Hollister from the local motel, and I can’t see him unloading anything. Except maybe for his bowels, first thing in the morning.”
“Nasty,” Orphan Annie said, although she might have been referring to the gatefolds, which she was still studying.
“The Beeman boys are supposed to be here, but those two no-accounts seem to be running late. Like you.”
“Ah, Christ.” Hector took off his cap and ran a hand through his thick black hair. “I hate these milk-runs. Unloading went slow in Wilmington, too. A goddam Lexus got stuck on one of the carriers. Well, let’s see what we can do.”
Tim followed Hector to the door, then turned back. “Your name isn’t Nick, is it?”
The boy considered, then said, “It will do for now.”
“Don’t let him move,” Tim said to Annie. “If he tries, give me a holler.” And to the bloody boy, who looked very small and badly used: “We’re going to discuss this wh
en I get back. That work for you?”
The kid thought it over, then gave a tired nod. “I guess it has to.”
2
When the men were gone, Orphan Annie found a couple of clean rags in a basket under the sink. After wetting them with cold water, she wrung one out tight and the other loose. She handed him the tight one. “Put that on your ear.”
Luke did so. It stung. She used the other to clean the blood from his face, working with a gentleness that made him think of his mother. Annie stopped what she was doing and asked him—with equal gentleness—why he was crying.
“I miss my mom.”
“Why, now, I bet she misses you, too.”
“Not unless consciousness somehow continues after death. I’d like to believe it, but empirical evidence suggests that’s not the case.”
“Continues? Oh, it surely does.” Annie went to the sink and began rinsing blood from the rag she’d been using. “Some say that souls gone on take no interest in the earthly sphere, nummore than we care about the goings-ons of ants in anthills, but I ain’t one of those some. I believe they pay attention. I’m sorry she’s passed, son.”
“Do you think their love continues?” The idea was silly, he knew that, but it was good silly.
“Sure. Love don’t die with the earthly body, son. It’s a purely ridiculous notion. How long since she went on?”
“Maybe a month, maybe six weeks. I’ve pretty much lost track of time. They were murdered, and I was kidnapped. I know that’s hard to believe—”
Annie went to work on the rest of the blood. “Not hard if you’re in the know.” She tapped her temple below the brim of her sombrero. “Did they come in black cars?”
“I don’t know,” Luke said, “but I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“And were they doing experiments on you?”
Luke’s mouth dropped open. “How did you know that?”
“George Allman,” she said. “He’s on WMDK from midnight until four in the morning. His show is about walk-ins, and UFOs, and psychic powers.”