by Stephen King
But not now. He was too tired now. The climb had exhausted him, and the stupendous sight of that dissipating mushroom cloud had exhausted him even more. He felt no jubilation, only dull and grinding weariness. He lay down on the pavement and his last thought before drifting off to sleep was: How many megatons'? He didn’t think anyone would ever know, or want to know.
He awoke after six. The mushroom cloud was gone, but the western sky was an angry pinkish-red, like a bright weal of burnflesh. Stu hauled himself over into the breakdown lane and lay down, exhausted all over again. The shakes were back. And the fever.
Kojak came out of the early evening with a rabbit. He laid it at Stu’s feet and wagged his tail, waiting to be complimented. “Good dog,” Stu said tiredly. “That’s a good dog.” Kojak’s tail wagged faster, but he remained looking at Stu, seeming to wait for something. Part of the ritual was incomplete. Stu tried to think what it was. His brain was moving very slowly; while he was sleeping, someone seemed to have poured molasses all over his interior gears.
“Good dog,” he repeated, and then looked at the dead rabbit. Then he remembered, although he wasn’t even sure he had his matches anymore. “Fetch, Kojak,” he said, mostly to please the dog. Kojak bounced away and soon returned with a good chunk of dry wood.
He did have his matches, but a good breeze had sprung up and his hands were shaking badly. It took a long time to get a fire going. He got the kindling he had stripped lighted on the tenth match, and then the breeze gusted rougishly, puffing out the flames. Stu rebuilt it carefully, shielding it with his body and his hands. He had eight remaining matches in a LaSalle Business School folder. He cooked the rabbit, gave Kojak his half, and could eat only a little of his share. He tossed Kojak what was left. Kojak didn’t pick it up. He looked at it, then whined uneasily at Stu.
“Go on, boy. I can’t.”
Kojak ate up. Stu looked at him and shivered. His two blankets were, of course, below.
The sun went down, and the western sky was grotesque with color. It was the most spectacular sunset Stu had ever seen in his life . . . and it was poison. He could remember the narrator of a MovieTone newsreel saying enthusiastically back in the mid-fifties that there were beautiful sunsets for weeks after a nuclear test. And, of course, after earthquakes.
Kojak came up from the washout with something in his mouth— one of Stu’s blankets. He dropped it in Stu’s lap. “Hey,” Stu said, hugging him unsteadily. “You’re some kind of dog, you know it?”
Kojak wagged his tail to show that he knew it.
Stu wrapped the blanket around him and moved closer to the fire. Kojak lay next to him, and soon they both slept. But Stu’s sleep was light and uneasy, skimming in and out of delirium. Sometime after midnight he roused Kojak, yelling in his sleep.
“Hap!” Stu cried. “You better turn off y’pumps! He’s coming! Black man’s coming for you! Better turn off y’pumps! He’s in the old car yonder!”
Kojak whined uneasily. The man was sick. He could smell the sickness and mingling with that smell was a new one. It was the smell the rabbits had on them when he pounced. The smell had been on the wolf he had disemboweled under Mother Abagail’s house in Hemingford Home. The smell had been on the towns he had passed through on his way to Boulder and Glen Bateman. It was the smell of death. If he could have attacked it and driven it out of this Man, he would have. But it was inside the Man. The Man drew in good air and sent out that smell of coming death, and there was nothing to do but wait and see it through to the end. Kojak whined again, low, and then slept.
Stu woke up the next morning more feverish than ever. The glands under his jaw had swollen to the size of golfballs. His eyes were hot marbles.
I’m dying . . . yes, that’s affirmative.
He called Kojak over and removed the keychain and his note from the Lucite address-holder. Printing carefully, he added what he had seen and replaced the note. He lay back down and slept. And then, somehow, it was nearly dark again. Another spectacular, horrible sunset burned in the west. And Kojak had brought a gopher for dinner.
“This the best y’could do?”
Kojak wagged his tail and grinned shamefacedly.
Stu cooked it, divided it, and managed to eat his entire half. It was tough, and it had a horrible wild taste, and when he was done he had a nasty bout of stomach cramps.
“When I die, I want you to go back to Boulder,” he told the dog. “You go back and find Fran. Find Frannie. Okay, big old dumb dog?”
Kojak wagged his tail doubtfully.
He awoke in the small hours and got up on his elbows, his head buzzing with fever. The fire had gone out, he saw. It didn’t matter. He was pretty well done up.
Some sound in the darkness had awakened him. Pebbles and stones. Kojak coming up the embankment from the cut, that’s all it was . . .
Except the Kojak was beside him, sleeping.
Even as Stu glanced at him, the dog woke up. His head came off his paws and a moment later he was on his feet, facing the cut, growling deep in his throat.
Rattling pebbles and stones. Someone—something—coming up.
Stu struggled into a sitting position. It’s him, he thought. He was there, but somehow he got away.
Kojak’s growl became stronger. His hackles stood, his head was down. The rattling sound was closer now. Stu could hear a low panting sound. There was a pause then, long enough for Stu to arm sweat off his forehead. A moment later a dark shape humped against the edge of the cut, head and shoulders blotting out the stars.
Kojak advanced, stifflegged, still growling.
“Hey!” a bewildered voice said. “Hey, is that Kojak? Is it?”
The growling stopped immediately. Kojak bounded forward joyfully, tail wagging.
“No!” Stu croaked. “It’s a trick! Kojak ...!’’
But Kojak was jumping up and down on the figure that had finally gained the pavement. And that shape . . . something about the shape was familiar. It advanced toward him with Kojak at his heel. Kojak was volleying joyful barks. Stu licked his lips and got ready to fight if he had to. He thought he could manage one good punch, maybe two.
“Who is it?” he called. “Who is that there?”
The dark figure paused, then spoke.
“Well, it’s Tom Cullen, that’s who, my laws, yes. M-O-O-N, that spells Tom Cullen. Who’s that?”
“Stu,” he said, and his voice seemed to come from far away. Everything was far away now. “Hello, Tom, it’s good to see you.” But he didn’t see him, not that night. Stu fainted.
He came around at ten in the morning on October 2, although neither he nor Tom knew that was the date. Tom had built a huge bonfire and had wrapped Stu in his sleeping bag and his blankets. Tom himself was sitting by the fire and roasting a rabbit. Kojak lay contentedly on the ground between the two of them.
“Tom,” Stu managed.
Tom came over. He had grown a beard, Stu saw; he hardly looked like the man who had left Boulder for the west five weeks ago. His blue eyes glinted happily. “Stu Redman! You’re awake now, my laws, yes! I’m glad. Boy, it’s good to see you. What did you do to your leg? Hurt it, I guess. I hurt mine once. Jumped off a haystack and broke it, I guess. Did my daddy whip me? My laws, yes! That was before he run off with DeeDee Packalotte.”
“Tom, I’m awful thirsty—”
“Oh, there’s water. All kinds! Here.”
He handed Stu a plastic bottle that might once have held milk. The water was clear and delicious. No grit in it at all. Stu drank greedily and then threw it all up.
“Slow and easy does it,” Tom said. “That’s the ticket. Slow and easy. Boy, it’s good to see you. Hurt your leg, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I broke it. Week ago, maybe longer.” He drank more water, and this time it stayed down. “But there’s more wrong than the leg. I’m bad sick, Tom. Fever. Listen to me.”
“Right! Tom’s listening. Just tell me what to do.” Tom leaned forward and Stu thought, Why, he looks brighter. Is that po
ssible? Where had Tom been? Did he know anything about the Judge? About Dayna? So many things to talk about, but there was no time now. He was getting worse. There was a deep rattling sound in his chest, like padded chains. Symptoms so much like the superflu. It was really quite funny.
“I’ve got to knock down the fever,” he said to Tom. “That’s the first thing. I need aspirin. Do you know aspirin?”
“Sure. Aspirin. For fast-fast-fast relief.”
“That’s the stuff. You start walking up the road, Tom. Look in the glove-box of every car you come to. Look for a first aid kit, a box with a red cross on it. When you find some aspirin in one of those boxes, bring it back here. And if you should find a car with camping gear in it, bring back a tent. Okay?”
“Sure.” Tom stood up. “Aspirin and a tent, then you’ll be all better again, right?”
“Well, it’ll be a start.”
“Say,” Tom said, “how’s Nick? I’ve been dreaming about him. In the dreams he tells me where to go, because in the dreams he can talk. Dreams are funny, aren’t they? But when I try to talk to him, he always goes away. He’s okay, isn’t he?” Tom looked at Stu anxiously.
“Not now,” Stu said. “I... I can’t talk now. Not about that. Just get the aspirin, okay? Then we’ll talk.”
“Okay . . .” But fear had settled onto Tom’s face like a gray cloud. “Kojak, want to come with Tom?”
Kojak did. They walked off together, heading east. Stu lay down and put an arm over his eyes.
When Stu slipped back into reality again, it was twilight. Tom was shaking him. “Stu! Wake up! Wake up, Stu!”
Tom had to help him sit up, and when he was sitting, he had to lean his head between his legs and cough. He coughed so long and hard that he almost passed out again. Tom watched him with alarm. Little by little, Stu got control of himself. He pulled the blankets closer around him. He was shivering again.
“What did you find, Tom?”
Tom held out a first aid kit. Inside were Band-Aids, Mer-curochrome, and a big bottle of Anacin. Stu was shocked to find he could not work the child-proof cap. He had to give it to Tom, who finally got it open. Stu washed down three aspirin with water from the plastic bottle.
“And I found this,” Tom said. “It was in a car full of camping stuff, but there was no tent.” It was a huge, puffy double sleeping bag, fluorescent orange on the outside, the lining done in a gaudy stars-and-bars pattern.
“Yeah, that’s great. Almost as good as a tent. You did fine, Tom.” “And these. They were in the same car.” Tom reached into his jacket and produced half a dozen foil packages. Stu could hardly believe his eyes. Freeze-dried concentrates. Eggs. Peas. Squash. Dried beef. “Food, isn’t it, Stu? It’s got pictures of food on it, laws, yes.” “It’s food,” Stu agreed gratefully. “Just about the only kind I can
eat, I think.” His head was buzzing, and far away, at the center of his brain, a sweetly sickening high C hummed on and on. “Can we heat some water? We don’t have a pot or a kettle.”
“I’ll find something.”
“Yeah, fine.”
“Stu—”
Stu looked into that troubled, miserable face, still a boy’s face in spite of the beard, and slowly shook his head. “Dead, Tom,” he said gently. “Nick’s dead. Almost a month ago. It was a ... a political thing. Assassination, I s’pose you’d say. I’m sorry.”
Tom lowered his head, and in the freshly built-up fire, Stu saw his tears fall into his lap. But he was silent. At last he looked up, his blue eyes brighter than ever. He wiped at them with the heel of his hand.
“I knew he was,” he said huskily. “He kept turning his back and going away. Tom Cullen knew he was, laws, yes. But I’m going to see him in heaven. Tom Cullen will see him there. And he’ll be able to talk and I’ll be able to think. Isn’t that right?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me at all, Tom.”
“It was the bad man killed Nick. Tom knows. But God fixed that bad man. I saw it. The hand of God came down out of the sky.” There was a cold wind whistling over the floor of the Utah badlands, and Stu shivered violently in its clasp. “Fixed him for what he did to Nick and to the poor Judge. Laws, yes.”
“What do you know about the Judge, Tom?”
“Dead! Up in Oregon! Shot him!”
Stu nodded wearily. “And Dayna? Do you know anything about her?”
“Tom saw her, but he doesn’t know. They gave me a job cleaning up. And when I came back one day I saw her doing her job. She was up in the air changing a streetlight bulb. She looked at me and . . .” He fell silent for a moment, and when he spoke again it was more to himself than to Stu. “Did she see Tom? Did she know Tom? Tom doesn’t know. Tom . . . thinks . . . she did. But Tom never saw her again.”
Tom left to go foraging shortly after, and Stu dozed. He returned not with a big tin can, which was the best Stu had hoped for, but with a broiling pan big enough to hold a Christmas turkey. Stu grinned in spite of the painful fever blisters that had begun to form on his lips. Tom told him he had gotten the pan from an orange truck with a big U on it—someone who had been fleeing the superflu with all their worldly possessions, Stu guessed.
Half an hour later there was food. Stu ate carefully, sticking to the vegetables, watering the concentrates enough to make a thin gruel. He held everything down and felt a little better, at least for the time being. Not long after supper, he and Tom went to sleep with Kojak between them.
“Tom, listen to me.”
Tom hunkered down by Stu’s big, fluffy sleeping bag. It was the next morning. Stu had been able to eat only a little breakfast; his throat was sore and badly swollen, all his joints painful. The cough was worse, and the aspirin wasn’t doing much of a job of knocking back the fever.
“I got to get inside and get some medicine into me or I’m gonna die. And it has to be today. Now, the closest town is Green River, and that’s sixty miles east of here. We’ll have to drive.”
“Tom Cullen can’t drive a car. Stu. Laws, no!”
“Yeah, I know. It’s gonna be a chore for me, because as well as being as sick as a dog, I broke the wrong friggin leg. But we won’t even worry about that now, because that ain’t the first problem. The first problem is getting a car to start. Most of them have been sitting out here three months or more. The batteries will be as flat as pancakes. So we’ll need a little luck. We got to find a stalled car with a standard shift at the top of one of these hills. We might do. It’s pretty hilly country.” He didn’t add that the car would have to have been kept reasonably tuned, would have to have some gas in it . . . and an ignition key. All those guys on TV might know how to hotwire a car, but Stu hadn’t the slightest idea.
He looked up at the sky, which was scumming over with clouds. “Most of it’s on you, Tom. You got to be my legs.”
“All right, Stu. When we get the car, are we going back to Boulder? Tom wants to go to Boulder, don’t you?”
“More than anything, Tom.” He looked toward the Rockies, which were a dim shadow on the horizon. Had the snow started falling up in the high passes yet? Almost certainly. And if not yet, then soon. Winter came early in this high and forsaken part of the world. “It may take awhile,” he said.
“How do we start?”
“By making a travois.” Stu gave Tom his pocket knife. “You’ve got to make holes in the bottom of this sleeping bag. One on each side.”
It took them an hour to make the travois. Tom found a couple of fairly straight sticks to ram down into the sleeping bag and out the holes at the bottom. Tom got some rope from the U-Haul where he had gotten the broiling pan, and Stu used it to secure the sleeping bag to the poles. When it was done, it reminded Stu more of a crazy rickshaw than a travois like the ones the plains Indians had used.
Tom picked up the poles and looked doubtfully over his shoulder. “Are you in, Stu?”
“Yeah.” He wondered how long the seams would hold before unraveling straight up the sides of the bag. “How heavy
am I, Tommy?”
“Not bad. I can haul you a long way. Giddup!”
They started moving. The gully where Stu had broken his leg— where he had been sure he was going to die—fell slowly behind them. Weak though he was, Stu felt a mad sort of exultation. Not there, anyway. He was going to die somewhere, and probably soon, but it wasn’t going to be alone in that muddy ditch. The sleeping bag swayed back and forth, lulling him. He dozed. Tom pulled him along under a thickening scud of clouds. Kojak padded along beside them.
Stu woke up when Tom eased him down.
“Sorry,” Tom said. “I had to rest my arms.”
“You rest all you want,” Stu said. “Slow and easy.” His head was thudding. He found the Anacin and dry-swallowed two of them. It felt like someone was striking matches on the sandpaper of his throat. He opened his eyes and checked the sleeping bag seams. As he had expected, they were coming unraveled, but it wasn’t too bad yet. They were on a long, gradual upslope, exactly the sort of thing he had been looking for. On a slope like this, better than two miles long, a car with the clutch disengaged could get cruising along pretty good. You could try to pop-start it in second, maybe third gear.
He looked longingly to the left, where a plum-colored Triumph was parked askew in the breakdown lane. Something skeletal in a bright woolen sweater leaned behind the wheel. T^he Triumph would have a manual transmission, but there was no way in God’s world that he could get his splinted leg into that small cabin.
“How far have we come?” he asked Tom, but Tom could only shrug. It had been quite a piece, anyway, Stu thought. The old landmarks were gone in the distance. Tom, who was built like a young bull, had dragged him maybe six or eight miles while he dozed. “You rest all you want,” he said.
Tom wolfed a huge lunch, and Stu managed to eat a little. Then they went on. The road continued to curve upward, and Stu began to realize it had to be this hill. If they crested it without finding the right car, it would take them another two hours to get to the next one. Then dark. Rain or snow, from the look of the sky. A nice cold night out in the wet. And goodbye, Stu Redman.