by Stephen King
On the wall to his left was a framed photograph of a small brown dog with eerily intelligent eyes. On the matting beneath the photo, carefully printed in block letters, was DAISY, PEMBROKE CORGI, AGE 9. COULD COUNT. SHOWED APPARENT ABILITY TO ADD SMALL NUMBERS. To the left of Daisy, its glass now splattered with the thin woman’s blood, was a Collie that seemed to be grinning for the camera. The printed legend beneath this one read: CHARLOTTE, BORDER COLLIE, AGE 6. COULD SORT PHOTOS AND CULL OUT THOSE OF HUMANS KNOWN TO HER.
To the left of Charlotte was a photograph of a parrot which appeared to be smoking a Camel.
“None of this is happening,” Steve said in a conversational—almost jovial—tone of voice. He didn’t know if he was talking to Cynthia or to himself. “I think I’m in a hospital somewhere. I had a head-on in the truck out on the thruway, that’s what I think. It’s like Alice in Wonderland, only the Nine Inch Nails version.”
Cynthia opened her mouth to reply and then the old guy—the one who had presumably observed Daisy the Pembroke Corgi adding six and two and coming up with eight,
ABSOLUTELY NO PROBLEM FOR DAISY—
came in carrying an old black bag. The cop (was his name actually Collie, Steve wondered, or was that just some weird fantasy engendered by the photographs on the walls of this room?) followed him, pulling his belt out of its loops. Last in line, drifting, looking dazed, came Peter What’s-His-Face, husband of the woman who was lying dead out there.
“Help her!” Gary yelled, forgetting Steve and his conspiracy theories, at least for the time being. “Help her, Doc, she’s bleedin like a stuck pig!”
“You know I’m not a real physician, don’t you, Gary? Just an old horse-doctor is all I—”
“Don’t you call me a pig,” Marielle interrupted him. Her voice was almost too low to be heard, but her eyes, fixed on her husband, glowed with baleful life. She tried to straighten up, couldn’t, and slipped lower against the wall instead. “Don’t you . . . call me that.”
The old horse-doctor turned to the cop, who was standing just inside the kitchen doorway, barechested with the belt now stretched between his fists. He looked like the bouncer in a leather-bar where Steve had once worked the board for a group called The Big Chrome Holes.
“I have to?” the barechested cop asked. He was pretty pale himself, but Steve thought he looked game, at least so far.
Billingsley nodded and put his bag down on the big easy-chair that sprawled in front of the television. He snapped it open and began rummaging through it. “And hurry. The more blood she loses, the worse her chances become.” He looked up, a spool of suture in one gnarled old hand, a pair of bentnosed surgical scissors in the other. “This is no fun for me, either. The last time I saw a patient in anything like this situation, it was a pony that had been mistaken for a deer and shot in the foreleg. Get it as high on her shoulder as you can. Turn the buckle toward the breast and pull it tight.”
“Where’s Mary?” Peter asked. “Where’s Mary? Where’s Mary? Where’s Mary?” Each time he asked the question his voice grew more plaintive. The fourth repetition was a little more than a falsetto squeak. Abruptly he clutched his face in his hands and turned away from all of them, leaning his forehead against the wall between BARON, a Labrador retriever that could spell its name with blocks, and DIRTYFACE, a morose-looking goat that was apparently able to play a number of rudimentary tunes on the harmonica. It occurred to Steve that if he ever heard a goat playing “The Yellow Rose of Texas” on a Hohner, he would probably fucking kill himself.
Marielle Soderson, meanwhile, was staring at Billingsley with the intensity of a vampire looking at a man with a shaving cut. “Hurts,” she croaked. “Give me something for it.”
“Yes,” Billingsley said, “but first we tourniquet.”
He nodded impatiently at the cop. The cop started forward. He had the tongue of his belt threaded through the buckle now, making a loop. He reached out gingerly to the skinny woman, whose blond hair had gone two shades darker with sweat. She reached out with her good arm and pushed him with surprising strength. The cop wasn’t expecting it. He went back two steps, hit the arm of the old guy’s sprawled-out easy-chair, and fell into it. He looked like a comic who’s just taken a pratfall in a movie.
The skinny woman didn’t give him a second glance. Her attention was focused on the old guy, and the old guy’s black bag.
“Now!” she barked at him, and it really did sound as if she were barking. “Give me something for it now, you quacky old fuck, it’s killing me!”
The cop struggled out of the chair and caught Steve’s eye. Steve got the message, nodded, and began edging toward the woman named Marielle, drifting in from the right, flanking her. Be careful, he told himself, she’s flipped out, apt to scratch or bite or any damn thing, so be careful.
Marielle thrust herself away from the wall, swayed, steadied, and advanced on the old guy. She was once more holding her arm out in front of her, as if it were Exhibit A in a trial. Billingsley backed up a step, looking nervously from the barechested cop to Steve.
“Give me some Demerol, you weasel!” she cried in her barking, exhausted voice. “You give it to me or I’ll choke you until you bark like a bloodhound! I’ll—”
The cop nodded to Steve again and sprang forward on the left. Steve moved with him and threw an arm around the woman’s neck. He didn’t want to choke her, but he was scared to go around her back, maybe grabbing her wounded arm by mistake and hurting it worse. “Hold still!” he shouted. He didn’t mean to shout, he meant to just say it, but that wasn’t how it came out. At the same moment the cop slipped the loop of his belt over her left hand and up her arm.
“Hold her, buddy!” the cop cried. “Hold her still!”
For a second or two Steve did, and then a drop of sweat, warm and stinging, ran into his eye, and he relaxed his choke-hold just as Collie Entragian ran the makeshift belt tourniquet tight. Marielle lurched to the right, her baleful falcon’s gaze still fixed on the old guy, and her arm came off in the barechested cop’s hands. Steve could see her wristwatch, an Indiglo with the second-hand stopped dead between the four and the five. The belt held on at her shoulder for a moment and then dropped to the floor, a loop with nothing in it. The counter-girl shrieked, her huge eyes fixed on the arm. The cop looked down at it with his mouth open.
“Get it on ice!” Gary bawled. “Get it on ice right away! Right aw—” Then, all at once, he seemed to really realize what had happened. What the cop was holding. He opened his mouth, twisted his head in a peculiar way, and unloaded on the photo of the cigarette-smoking parrot.
Marielle noticed none of it. She staggered toward the clearly terrified veterinarian, her remaining hand outstretched. “I want a shot and I want it now!” she croaked. “Do you hear me, you old woman? I want a fucking shuh-shuh—”
She collapsed onto her knees. Her head drooped, hung. Then, with an immense effort, she got her chin up again. For a moment her gimlet gaze met Steve’s. “Who the fuck’re you?” she asked in a clear, perfectly understandable voice, then slid forward on her face. The top of her head came to rest inches from the heels of Peter, the man who had lost his wife. Jackson, Steve thought suddenly. That’s his last name, Jackson. Peter Jackson was still turned to the wall with his face clutched in his hands. If he takes a step backward, Steve thought, he’ll trip over her.
“Fuck a duck,” the cop said in a low, amazed voice. Then he looked down and realized he was still holding the woman’s arm. He walked stiffly toward the kitchen with it held out in front of him. The sound of rain hissing down seemed very loud in Steve’s ears.
“Come on,” the old party said, rousing himself. “We’re not done yet. Get that belt on her, son. Buckle in toward the breast. You game?”
“I guess,” Steve said, but he was very relieved when Cynthia the counter-girl picked the belt up and then knelt beside the unconscious woman with it in her hands.
From “The Force Corridor,” Episode 55 of MotoKops 2200, ori
ginal teleplay by Allen Smithee:
ACT 2
FADE IN ON:
INT. CRISIS CENTER, MOTOKOPS’ HQ
The room is dominated, is always, by the huge Situscreen. Standing before it on a floatpad is COLONEL HENRY, looking grave. Sitting at the horse-shoe-shaped Crisis Desk are the rest of the MotoKops squad: SNAKE HUNTER, BOUNTY, MAJOR PIKE, ROOTY, AND CASSIE.
On the Situscreen we see a SPACE VIEW. In the distance is Earth, just a blue-green coin at this distance. It looks peaceful enough.
SNAKE HUNTER (with customary scorn)
So what’s the big deal? I don’t see anything that looks very—What the—??!!
Suddenly the FORCE CORRIDOR appears on the Situscreen, almost filling it, blotting out the stars on either side. It’s like watching the arrival of Darth Vader’s dreadnought at the beginning of the first Star Wars movie; in a word, awesome!
The CORRIDOR consists of two long metal plates with big square protrusions sticking out at intervals. The CORRIDOR HUMS OMINOUSLY, and BLUE FIRE CRACKLES from side to side between the square protrusions.
CASSIE STYLES gasps, looks at the Situscreen with dismay. COLONEL HENRY pushes a button on his hand-control, and the screen goes into FREEZE MODE. We can still see Earth, but with the corridor on either side, it looks caught in a potentially lethal WEB OF ELECTRICITY!
COLONEL HENRY (to SNAKE HUNTER)
That’s the big deal! The Force Corridor, artifact of a long-vanished alien race! Destructive . . . and headed directly toward Earth!
CASSIE (dismay)
Oh, gosh!
COLONEL HENRY
Relax, Cassie—it’s still over 150,000 light-years away. This is a composite shot.
MAJOR PIKE
Yeah, but how fast is it moving?
COLONEL HENRY
That’s the problem. Let’s just say that if we don’t resolve this crisis in the next seventy-two hours, I think you can cancel your weekend plans.
ROOTY
Root-root-root-root!
SNAKE HUNTER
Shut up, Rooty.
(to COLONEL HENRY)
So what’s our plan?
COLONEL HENRY takes the floatpad further up, so he can use his high-lighter to circle a couple of the protrusions on the inner sides of the corridor.
COLONEL HENRY
Drone telemetry reports that the Force Corridor itself is over 200,000 miles long and 50,000 miles wide, a hallway of death in which nothing can live! But it may have a weakness! I think these square shapes are power-generators. If we could knock ’em out—
BOUNTY
Are we talkin’ Power Wagon assault, boss?
We move in on COLONEL HENRY’S grim face.
COLONEL HENRY
It’s Earth’s only chance.
INT. CRISIS DESK, WITH THE MOTOKOPS
SNAKE HUNTER
A deep-space Power Wagon assault? Could be a quick trip to that Boot Hill in the sky!
ROOTY
Root-root-root-root!
ALL
Shut up, Rooty!
INT. A HALLWAY IN THE CRISIS CENTER
COLONEL HENRY and CASSIE STYLES are in the lead, the other MotoKops behind them. ROOTY, as usual, is bumbling along in the rear.
COLONEL HENRY
You’re worried, little one.
CASSIE
Of course I’m worried! Snake Hunter is right! The Power Wagons were never designed for the stresses of a deep-space assault!
COLONEL HENRY
But that’s not all that’s on your mind.
CASSIE
Sometimes I hate your telepathy, Hank.
COLONEL HENRY
Come on . . . give.
CASSIE
Something bothers me about those shapes inside the Force Corridor. What if they aren’t power-generators?
COLONEL HENRY
What else could they be?
They have reached the slide-door to the Power Wagon Corral. COLONEL HENRY slaps his hand into the palm-lock and the door slides up.
CASSIE
I don’t know, but . . .
INT. THE POWER WAGON CORRAL, FEATURING THE MOTOKOPS
CASSIE gasps with shock, eyes widening! COLONEL HENRY, looking grim, puts his arm around her. The other squad-members gather round.
ROOTY
Root-root-root-root!
SNAKE HUNTER
Yeah, Rooty, I couldn’t agree more!
He stares bitterly at:
INT. THE POWER WAGON CORRAL, MOTOKOPS’ POV
Floating in the middle of the parked Power Wagons, between SNAKE HUNTER’S Tracker Arrow and the silver-sided Rooty-Toot, is a grim visitor: the Meatwagon, HUMMING SOFTLY.
INT. RESUME MOTOKOPS SQUAD
COLONEL HENRY
MotoKops, prepare for battle!
SNAKE HUNTER (his Stunpistol already out)
Way ahead of you, boss.
The others draw.
INT. RESUME MEATWAGON
The Doom Turret SLIDES BACK, revealing NO FACE, sinister as always in his black uniform. Sitting behind him at the controls, with her customary look of sexy hauteur, is COUNTESS LILI. The Hypno-Jewel around her neck FLICKERS WILDLY through the color spectrum.
NO FACE
Floatpad, Countess. Now!
COUNTESS LILI
Yes, Excellent One.
The COUNTESS pulls a lever. A floatpad appears. NO FACE steps onto it and is wafted down to the floor of the Corral. He is unarmed, and as COLONEL HENRY steps forward, he holsters his own stunner.
COLONEL HENRY
Aren’t you a little far from home, No Face?
NO FACE
Home is where the heart is, my dear Hank.
BOUNTY
This is no time for games.
NO FACE
As it happens, I couldn’t agree more. The Force Corridor approaches. You, Colonel Henry, are planning a Power Wagon assault—
MAJOR PIKE
How do you know that?
NO FACE (icy)
Because it’s what I’d do, you idiot!
(to COLONEL HENRY)
A Power Wagon assault is incredibly risky, but it may also be Earth’s only chance. You’ll need all the help you can get, and you have no vehicle at your command as powerful as the Meatwagon.
SNAKE HUNTER
That’s a matter of opinion, you mutt. My Tracker Arrow—
COLONEL HENRY
Stow the gab!
(to NO FACE)
What are you offering?
NO FACE
A partnership until the crisis is past. Old quarrels put aside, at least temporarily. A joint attack on the Force Corridor.
He offers his black-gloved hand. COLONEL HENRY starts to reciprocate, and then MAJOR PIKE steps forward. His almond-shaped eyes are wide, and his mouth—horn quivers with alarm.
MAJOR PIKE
Don’t do it, Hank! You can’t trust him! It’s a trick!
NO FACE
I understand how you feel, Major . . . we both do, do we not, Countess?
COUNTESS LILI
Yes, Excellent One.
NO FACE
But this time there are no tricks, no hidden cards.
COLONEL HENRY (to MAJOR PIKE)
And we have no choice.
NO FACE
Indeed we don’t. Time is running out.
COLONEL HENRY reaches out and takes NO FACE’S hand.
NO PACE
Partners?
COLONEL HENRY
For now.
ROOTY
Root-root-root-root!
WE FADE TO BLACK. ENDS ACT 2.
CHAPTER 6
1
Now speaking in the voice of Ben Cartwright, patriarch of the Ponderosa, Tak said: “Ma’am, it looks to me like you were planning on skedaddling.”
“No . . .” It was her voice, but weak and distant, like a radio transmission coming in from the West Coast on a rainy night. “N
o, I was just going to the store. Because we’re out of . . .” Out of what? What could they possibly be out of that this monster would care about, believe in? And, blessedly, something came to her. “Chocolate syrup! Hershey’s!”
It came toward her from the den doorway, Seth Garin in MotoKops Underoos, only now she saw an amazing, horrid thing: the child’s bare toes were dragging across the living-room carpet, but otherwise it was floating along like a boy-shaped balloon. It was Seth’s body, poignantly grimy at the wrists and ankles, but there was no Seth in the eyes. None at all. Now it was just the thing that looked like it belonged in a swamp.
“Says she was just going to take a mosey down to the general store,” said the voice of Ben Cartwright. Whatever else Tak might be, it was a hellishly good mimic. You had to give it that. “What do you think, Adam?”
“Think she’s lying, Paw,” said the voice of Pernell Roberts, the actor who had played Adam Cartwright. Roberts had lost his hair over the years, but he had gotten the best of the deal, anyway; the actors who had played his father and his brothers had all died in the years since Bonanza had galloped off into the sunset of reruns and cable TV.
Back to the voice of Ben as the thing drifted closer, close enough for her to be able to smell sour sweat and a sweet lingering ghost of No More Tears shampoo. “What do you think, Hoss? Speak up, boy.”
“Lyin, Paw,” Dan Blocker’s voice said . . . and for a moment the almost-floating child actually looked like Blocker.
“Little Joe?”
“Lyin, Paw.”
“Root-root-root-root!”
“Shut up, Rooty,” said Snake Hunter’s voice. It was as if some invisible ensemble of talented lunatics were putting on a show for her. When the thing in front of her spoke again, Snake Hunter was gone and Ben Cartwright was back, that stern Moses of the Sierra Nevada. “We don’t much abide liars on the Ponderosa, ma’am. Skedaddlers, either. Now what do you reckon we should do with you?”