by Stephen King
14
Not really wild, the gunslinger could have told Eddie. When you feel the wind of the slug on your cheek, you can’t really call it wild.
He thumbed the hammer of his gun back and pulled the trigger again as he recoiled from Andolini’s shot. This time the bullet in the chamber fired—the dry, authoritative crack echoed up and down the beach. Gulls asleep on rocks high above the lobstrosities awoke and flew upward in screaming, startled packs.
The gunslinger’s bullet would have stopped Andolini for good in spite of his own involuntary recoil, but by then Andolini was also in motion, falling sideways, dazed by the blow on the head. The crack of the gunslinger’s revolver seemed distant, but the searing poker it plunged into his left arm, shattering the elbow, was real enough. It brought him out of his daze and he rose to his feet, one arm hanging broken and useless, the gun wavering wildly about in his other hand, looking for a target.
It was Eddie he saw first, Eddie the junkie, Eddie who had somehow brought him to this crazy place. Eddie was standing there as naked as the day he had been born, shivering in the chilly wind, clutching himself with both arms. Well, he might die here, but he would at least have the pleasure of taking Eddie Fucking Dean with him.
Andolini brought his gun up. The little Cobra now seemed to weigh about twenty pounds, but he managed.
15
This better not be another misfire, Roland thought grimly, and thumbed the hammer back again. Below the din of the gulls, he heard the smooth oiled click as the chamber revolved.
16
It was no misfire.
17
The gunslinger hadn’t aimed at Andolini’s head but at the gun in Andolini’s hand. He didn’t know if they still needed this man, but they might; he was important to Balazar, and because Balazar had proved to be every bit as dangerous as Roland had thought he might be, the best course was the safest one.
His shot was good, and that was no surprise; what happened to Andolini’s gun and hence to Andolini was. Roland had seen it happen, but only twice in all the years he had seen men fire guns at each other.
Bad luck for you, fellow, the gunslinger thought as Andolini wandered off toward the beach, screaming. Blood poured down his shirt and pants. The hand which had been holding the Colt Cobra was missing below the middle of the palm. The gun was a senseless piece of twisted metal lying on the sand.
Eddie stared at him, stunned. No one would ever misjudge Jack Andolini’s caveman face again, because now he had no face; where it had been there was now nothing but a churned mess of raw flesh and the black screaming hole of his mouth.
“My God, what happened?”
“My bullet must have struck the cylinder of his gun at the second he pulled the trigger,” the gunslinger said. He spoke as dryly as a professor giving a police academy ballistics lecture. “The result was an explosion that tore the back off his gun. I think one or two of the other cartridges may have exploded as well.”
“Shoot him,” Eddie said. He was shivering harder than ever, and now it wasn’t just the combination of night air, sea breeze, and naked body that was causing it. “Kill him. Put him out of his misery, for God’s s—”
“Too late,” the gunslinger said with a cold indifference that chilled Eddie’s flesh all the way in to the bone.
And Eddie turned away just too late to avoid seeing the lobstrosities swarm over Andolini’s feet, tearing off his Gucci loafers . . . with the feet still inside them, of course. Screaming, waving his arms spasmodically before him, Andolini fell forward. The lobstrosities swarmed greedily over him, questioning him anxiously all the while they were eating him alive: Dad-a-chack? Did-a-chick? Dum-a-chum? Dod-a-chock?
“Jesus,” Eddie moaned. “What do we do now?”
“Now you get exactly as much of the (devil-powder the gunslinger said; cocaine Eddie heard) as you promised the man Balazar,” Roland said, “no more and no less. And we go back.” He looked levelly at Eddie. “Only this time I have to go back with you. As myself.”
“Jesus Christ,” Eddie said. “Can you do that?” And at once answered his own question. “Sure you can. But why?”
“Because you can’t handle this alone,” Roland said. “Come here.”
Eddie looked back at the squirming hump of clawed creatures on the beach. He had never liked Jack Andolini, but he felt his stomach roll over just the same.
“Come here,” Roland said impatiently. “We’ve little time, and I have little liking for what I must do now. It’s something I’ve never done before. Never thought I would do.” His lips twisted bitterly. “I’m getting used to doing things like that.”
Eddie approached the scrawny figure slowly, on legs that felt more and more like rubber. His bare skin was white and glimmering in the alien dark. Just who are you, Roland? he thought. What are you? And that heat I feel baking off you—is it just fever? Or some kind of madness? I think it might be both.
God, he needed a fix. More: he deserved a fix.
“Never done what before?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”
“Take this,” Roland said, and gestured at the ancient revolver slung low on his right hip. Did not point; there was no finger to point with, only a bulky, rag-wrapped bundle. “It’s no good to me. Not now, perhaps never again.”
“I . . .” Eddie swallowed. “I don’t want to touch it.”
“I don’t want you to either,” the gunslinger said with curious gentleness, “but I’m afraid neither of us has a choice. There’s going to be shooting.”
“There is?”
“Yes.” The gunslinger looked serenely at Eddie. “Quite a lot of it, I think.”
18
Balazar had become more and more uneasy. Too long. They had been in there too long and it was too quiet. Distantly, maybe on the next block, he could hear people shouting at each other and then a couple of rattling reports that were probably firecrackers . . . but when you were in the sort of business Balazar was in, firecrackers weren’t the first thing you thought of.
A scream. Was that a scream?
Never mind. Whatever’s happening on the next block has nothing to do with you. You’re turning into an old woman.
All the same, the signs were bad. Very bad.
“Jack?” he yelled at the closed bathroom door.
There was no answer.
Balazar opened the left front drawer of his desk and took out the gun. This was no Colt Cobra, cozy enough to fit in a clamshell holster; it was a .357 Magnum.
“ ’Cimi!” he shouted. “I want you!”
He slammed the drawer. The tower of cards fell with a soft, sighing thump. Balazar didn’t even notice.
’Cimi Dretto, all two hundred and fifty pounds of him, filled the doorway. He saw that Da Boss had pulled his gun out of the drawer, and ’Cimi immediately pulled his own from beneath a plaid jacket so loud it could have caused flash-burns on anyone who made the mistake of looking at it too long.
“I want Claudio and Tricks,” he said. “Get them quick. The kid is up to something.”
“We got a problem,” ’Cimi said.
Balazar’s eyes flicked from the bathroom door to ’Cimi. “Oh, I got plenty of those already,” he said. “What’s this new one, ’Cimi?”
’Cimi licked his lips. He didn’t like telling Da Boss bad news even under the best of circumstances; when he looked like this . . .
“Well,” he said, and licked his lips. “You see—”
“Will you hurry the fuck up?” Balazar yelled.
19
The sandalwood grips of the revolver were so smooth that Eddie’s first act upon receiving it was to nearly drop it on his toes. The thing was so big it looked prehistoric, so heavy he knew he would have to lift it two-handed. The recoil, he thought, is apt to drive me right through the nearest wall. That’s if it fires at all. Yet there was some part of him that wanted to hold it, that responded to its perfectly expressed purpose, that sensed its dim and bloody history and wanted to be part o
f it.
No one but the best ever held this baby in his hand, Eddie thought. Until now, at least.
“Are you ready?” Roland asked.
“No, but let’s do it,” Eddie said.
He gripped Roland’s left wrist with his left hand. Roland slid his hot right arm around Eddie’s bare shoulders.
Together they stepped back through the doorway, from the windy darkness of the beach in Roland’s dying world to the cool fluorescent glare of Balazar’s private bathroom in The Leaning Tower.
Eddie blinked, adjusting his eyes to the light, and heard ’Cimi Dretto in the other room. “We got a problem,” ’Cimi was saying. Don’t we all, Eddie thought, and then his eyes riveted on Balazar’s medicine chest. It was standing open. In his mind he heard Balazar telling Jack to search the bathroom, and heard Andolini asking if there was any place in there he wouldn’t know about. Balazar had paused before replying. There is a small panel on the back wall of the medicine cabinet, he had said. I keep a few personal things in there.
Andolini had slid the metal panel open but had neglected to close it. “Roland!” he hissed.
Roland raised his own gun and pressed the barrel against his lips in a shushing gesture. Eddie crossed silently to the medicine chest.
A few personal things—there was a bottle of suppositories, a copy of a blearily printed magazine called Child’s Play (the cover depicting two naked girls of about eight engaged in a soul-kiss) . . . and eight or ten sample packages of Keflex. Eddie knew what Keflex was. Junkies, prone as they were to infections both general and local, usually knew.
Keflex was an antibiotic.
“Oh, I got plenty of those already,” Balazar was saying. He sounded harried. “What’s this new one, ’Cimi?”
If this doesn’t knock out whatever’s wrong with him nothing will, Eddie thought. He began to grab the packages and went to stuff them into his pockets. He realized he had no pockets and uttered a harsh bark that wasn’t even close to laughter.
He began to dump them into the sink. He would have to pick them up later . . . if there was a later.
“Well,” ’Cimi was saying, “you see—”
“Will you hurry the fuck up?” Balazar yelled.
“It’s the kid’s big brother,” ’Cimi said, and Eddie froze with the last two packages of Keflex still in his hand, his head cocked. He looked more like the dog on the old RCA Victor records than ever.
“What about him?” Balazar asked impatiently.
“He’s dead,” ’Cimi said.
Eddie dropped the Keflex into the sink and turned toward Roland.
“They killed my brother,” he said.
20
Balazar opened his mouth to tell ’Cimi not to bother him with a bunch of crap when he had important things to worry about—like this impossible-to-shake feeling that the kid was going to fuck him, Andolini or no Andolini—when he heard the kid as clearly as the kid had no doubt heard him and ’Cimi. “They killed my brother,” the kid said.
Suddenly Balazar didn’t care about his goods, about the unanswered questions, or anything except bringing this situation to a screeching halt before it could get any weirder.
“Kill him, Jack!” he shouted.
There was no response. Then he heard the kid say it again: “They killed my brother. They killed Henry.”
Balazar suddenly knew—knew—it wasn’t Jack the kid was talking to.
“Get all the gentlemen,” he said to ’Cimi. “All of them. We’re gonna burn his ass and when he’s dead we’re gonna take him in the kitchen and I’m gonna personally chop his head off.”
21
“They killed my brother,” the prisoner said. The gunslinger said nothing. He only watched and thought: The bottles. In the sink. That’s what I need, or what he thinks I need. The packets. Don’t forget. Don’t forget.
From the other room: “Kill him, Jack!”
Neither Eddie nor the gunslinger took any notice of this.
“They killed my brother. They killed Henry.”
In the other room Balazar was now talking about taking Eddie’s head as a trophy. The gunslinger found some odd comfort in this: not everything in this world was different from his own, it seemed.
The one called ’Cimi began shouting hoarsely for the others. There was an ungentlemanly thunder of running feet.
“Do you want to do something about it, or do you just want to stand here?” Roland asked.
“Oh, I want to do something about it,” Eddie said, and raised the gunslinger’s revolver. Although only moments ago he had believed he would need both hands to do it, he found that he could do it easily.
“And what is it you want to do?” Roland asked, and his voice seemed distant to his own ears. He was sick, full of fever, but what was happening to him now was the onset of a different fever, one which was all too familiar. It was the fever that had overtaken him in Tull. It was battle-fire, hazing all thought, leaving only the need to stop thinking and start shooting.
“I want to go to war,” Eddie Dean said calmly.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Roland said, “but you are going to find out. When we go through the door, you go right. I have to go left. My hand.”
Eddie nodded. They went to their war.
22
Balazar had expected Eddie, or Andolini, or both of them. He had not expected Eddie and an utter stranger, a tall man with dirty gray-black hair and a face that looked as if it had been chiseled from obdurate stone by some savage god. For a moment he was not sure which way to fire.
’Cimi, however, had no such problems. Da Boss was mad at Eddie. Therefore, he would punch Eddie’s clock first and worry about the other catzarro later. ’Cimi turned ponderously toward Eddie and pulled the trigger of his automatic three times. The casings jumped and gleamed in the air. Eddie saw the big man turning and went into a mad slide along the floor, whizzing along like some kid in a disco contest, a kid so jived-up he didn’t realize he’d left his entire John Travolta outfit, underwear included, behind; he went with his wang wagging and his bare knees first heating and then scorching as the friction built up. Holes punched through plastic that was supposed to look like knotty pine just above him. Slivers of it rained down on his shoulders and into his hair.
Don’t let me die naked and needing a fix, God, he prayed, knowing such a prayer was more than blasphemous; it was an absurdity. Still he was unable to stop it. I’ll die, but please, just let me have one more—
The revolver in the gunslinger’s left hand crashed. On the open beach it had been loud; over here it was deafening.
“Oh Jeez!”’Cimi Dretto screamed in a strangled, breathy voice. It was a wonder he could scream at all. His chest suddenly caved in, as if someone had swung a sledgehammer at a barrel. His white shirt began to turn red in patches, as if poppies were blooming on it. “Oh Jeez! Oh Jeez! Oh J—”
Claudio Andolini shoved him aside. ’Cimi fell with a thud. Two of the framed pictures on Balazar’s wall crashed down. The one showing Da Boss presenting the Sportsman of the Year trophy to a grinning kid at a Police Athletic League banquet landed on ’Cimi’s head. Shattered glass fell on his shoulders.
“oh jeez” he whispered in a fainting little voice, and blood began to bubble from his lips.
Claudio was followed by Tricks and one of the men who had been waiting in the storage room. Claudio had an automatic in each hand; the guy from the storage room had a Remington shotgun sawed off so short that it looked like a derringer with a case of the mumps; Tricks Postino was carrying what he called The Wonderful Rambo Machine—this was an M-16 rapid-fire assault weapon.
“Where’s my brother, you fucking needle-freak?” Claudio screamed. “What’d you do to Jack?” He could not have been terribly interested in an answer, because he began to fire with both weapons while he was still yelling. I’m dead, Eddie thought, and then Roland fired again. Claudio Andolini was propelled backwards in a cloud of his own blood. The automatics flew
from his hands and slid across Balazar’s desk. They thumped to the carpet amid a flutter of playing cards. Most of Claudio’s guts hit the wall a second before Claudio caught up with them.
“Get him!” Balazar was shrieking. “Get the spook! The kid ain’t dangerous! He’s nothing but a bare-ass junkie! Get the spook! Blow him away!”
He pulled the trigger on the .357 twice. The Magnum was almost as loud as Roland’s revolver. It did not make neat holes in the wall against which Roland crouched; the slugs smashed gaping wounds in the fake wood to either side of Roland’s head. White light from the bathroom shone through the holes in ragged rays.
Roland pulled the trigger of his revolver.
Only a dry click.
Misfire.
“Eddie!” the gunslinger yelled, and Eddie raised his own gun and pulled the trigger.
The crash was so loud that for a moment he thought the gun had blown up in his hand, as Jack’s had done. The recoil did not drive him back through the wall, but it did snap his arm up in a savage arc that jerked all the tendons under his arm.
He saw part of Balazar’s shoulder disintegrate into red spray, heard Balazar screech like a wounded cat, and yelled, “The junkie ain’t dangerous, was that what you said? Was that it, you numb fuck? You want to mess with me and my brother? I’ll show you who’s dangerous! I’ll sh—”
There was a boom like a grenade as the guy from the storage room fired the sawed-off. Eddie rolled as the blast tore a hundred tiny holes in the walls and bathroom door. His naked skin was seared by shot in several places, and Eddie understood that if the guy had been closer, where the thing’s pattern was tight, he would have been vaporized.
Hell, I’m dead anyway, he thought, watching as the guy from the storage room worked the Remington’s jack, pumping in fresh cartridges, then laying it over his forearm. He was grinning. His teeth were very yellow—Eddie didn’t think they had been acquainted with a toothbrush in quite some time.