The Collective

by The Collective [lit]

  The bartender approached cautiously, tucking the dog-eared copy

  of Blood Brides of Sitting Bull into his back pocket. "

  Wal, Mr. Slade, we got about the usual - The Geronimo, The Fort

  Bragg Backbreaker, Popskull Pete, Sourdough Armpit -"

  "How about a shot of Digger's Rye (206 proof)?" Mose Hart said

  with a glassy grin.

  "Shut up," Slade growled. He turned to the bartender and drew one

  of his sinister.45s.

  "If you don't produce a drink that I ain't never had before, friend,

  you're gonna be pushing up daisies before dawn."

  The bartender went white, "W-well, we do have drink of my own

  invention, Mr. Slade. But it's so potent that I done stopped serving

  them. I got plumb tired of having people pass out on the roulette

  wheel"

  "What's it called?"

  "We call it a zombie," the bartender said.

  "Well mix me up three of them and make it fast!" Slade

  commanded.

  "Three zombies?" Mose Hart said with popping eyes. "M'God, are

  you crazy?"

  Slade turned to him coldly "Friend, smile when you say that."'

  Hart smiled and took another drink of Digger's Rye.

  "Okay," Slade said, when the three drinks had been placed in front

  of him. They came in huge beer steins and smelled like the wrath

  of God. He drained the first one at a single draught, blew out his

  breath, staggered a little, and lit one of his famous Mexican cigars.

  Then he turned to Mose.

  "Now just where is Sam Columbine's ranch?" He asked.

  "Three miles west and across the ford," Mose said. "It's called the

  Rotten Vulture Ranch"

  "That figursh," Slade said, draining his second drink to the ice-

  cubes. He was beginning to feel a trifle woozy. It probably had

  something to do with the lateness of the hour, he thought, and

  began to work on his third drink.

  "Say " Mose Hart said timidly, "I don't really think you're in any

  shape to go up against Sam Columbine, Slade. He's apt to put a

  crimp in your style."

  "Doan tell me w'hat to do," Slade, swaggering over to pat General

  Custer. He breathed in the dog's face and General Custer promptly

  went to sleep. "If there'sh one thing that I can do, it's lick my

  holder, I mean hold my liquor. Ho get out of my way before I blon

  you in tno."

  "The door's out the other way," the bartender said cautiously.

  "Coursh it is. You think I doan tinow where I'm goin'?"

  Slade staggered across the bar, stepping on General Custer's tail

  (the dog didn't wake up) and managed to make his way out through

  the batwing doors where he almost fell off the sidewalk. Just then a

  steely arm clamped his elbow. Slade looked around blearily.

  "I'm Deputy Marshall Hoagy Charmichael," the stranger said, "and

  rm taking yuh in-"

  "On what charge?" Slade asked.

  "Public intoxication. Now let's go."

  Slade burped. "Everything happen'sh to me," he groaned. The two

  of them started off for the Dead Steer Springs jail.

  After Slade was sprung from the pokey, Sandra Dawson's top

  hand, Mose Hart, went his bail. Slade filled both Hart an Deputy

  Marshall Hoagy Charmichael full of lead (blame it on his terrible

  hangover). Then, mounting his huge black stallion, Stokely, Slade

  made it out to the Rotten Vulture Ranch to have it out once an for

  all with Sam Columbine.

  But Columbine was not there. He was off torturing ex border

  guards, leaving Sandra Dawson under the watch of three trusted

  henchmen - Big Fran Nixon, "Quick Draw" John Mitchell, and

  Shifty Ron Ziegfeld. After a heated shootout, Slade dropped al

  three of them in their slimy tracks and freed the fair Sandra.

  The acrid, choking smell of gunsmoke filled the room where the

  lovely Sandra Dawson had been held prisoner. As she saw Slade

  standing tall and victorious, with a sinister.45 in each hand and a

  Mexican cigar clenched between his teeth, her eyes filled with love

  and passion.

  "Slade!" she cried, jumping to her feet and running to him. "'I'm

  saved! Thank heaven! When Sam Columbine got back from

  torturing the Mexican border guards, he was going to feed me to

  his alligators! You came just in time!"

  "Damn right," Slade gritted. "I always do. Steve King sees to that."

  Her firm, supple, silken fleshed body swooned into his arms, and

  her lush lips sought Slade's mouth with ripe humid passion. Slade

  promptly clubbed her over the head with one sinister.45 and threw

  his Mexican cigar away, a snarl pulling at his lips.

  "Watch it," he growled "my mom told me about girls like you."

  And he strode off to find Sam Columbine.

  Slade strode out of the bunk-room leaving Sandra Dawson in the

  smoke-filled chamber to rub the bump on her head where he had

  clouted her with the barrel of his sinister.45. He mounted his huge

  black stallion, Stokely, and headed for the border, where Sam

  Columbine was torturing Mexican customs men with the help of

  his A No.1 Top Gun - "Pinky" Lee. The only two men in the

  American Southwest that could ever approach "Pinky" for pure,

  dad-ratted evil were Hunchback Fred Agnew (who Slade gunned

  down three weeks ago) and Sam Columbine himself. "Pinky" had

  gotten his infamous nickname during the Civil War when he rode

  with Captain Quantrill and his Regulators. While passed out in the

  kitchen of a fancy bordello in Bleeding Heart, Kansas, a Union

  officer named Randolph P. Sorghum dropped a homemade bomb

  down the kitchen chimney. "Pinky"' lost all his hair, his eyebrows,

  and all the fingers on his left hand, except for the forth, and

  smallest. His hair and eyebrows grew back. His fingers did not. He

  has, however, still faster than greased lightning and meaner than

  heIl. He had sworn to find Randolph P. Sorghum some day and

  stake him over the nearest anthill.

  But Slade was not worried about Lee, because his heart was pure

  and his strength was as ten.

  In a short time the agonized screams of the Mexican customs

  officials told him he was nearing the border. He dismounted, tied

  Stokely to a parking-meter and advanced through the sagebrush as

  noiselessly as a cat. The night was dark and moonless.

  "No More! amigo!" The guard was screaming. "I

  confess! I confess! I am - who am I?"

  "Fergetful bastid, ain't ye?" Pinky said. "Yore Randolph P.

  Sorghum, the sneakun' low life that blew off 90% 0' my hand

  durin' the Civil War."

  "I admit it! I admit it!"

  Slade had crept close enough now to see what was happening. Lee

  had the customs official tied to a straight-backed chair, with his

  bare feet on a hassock. Both feet were coated with honey and Lee's

  trained bear, Whomper, was licking it off with his long tongue.

  "I can't stand it!" The guard screamed. "I am theese

  whatyoumacalluma, Sorghum!"

  "Caught you at last!" Lee gloated. He pulled out his sinister

  Buntline Special and prepared to blow the poor old fellow all the

  way to Trinidad. Sam Columbine, who was standing far back in

  the shadows, was ready t
o bring in the next guard.

  Slade stood up suddenly. "Okay, you two skulkin' varmits! Hold it

  right there!"

  Pinky Lee dropped to his chest, fanning the hammer of his sinister

  Buntline Special. Slade felt bullets race all around him. He fired

  back twice, but curse it - the hammers of his two sinister .45s only

  clicked on empty chambers. He had forgotten to load up after

  downing the three badmen back at the Rotten Vulture.

  Lee rolled to cover behind a barrel of taco chips. Columbine was

  already crouched behind a giant bottle of mayonnaise that had been

  air-dropped a month before after the worst flood disaster in

  American Southwest history (why drop mayonnaise after a

  disaster? None of your damn business).

  "Who's that out there?" Lee yelled.

  Slade thought quickly. "It's Randolph P. Sorghum" Hh cried. "The

  real McCoy, Lee! And this time I'm gunna blow off more than

  three fingers!"

  His crafty challenge had the desired effect. Pinky rushed rashly (or

  rashly rushed if you preferred) from cover, his sinister Buntline

  Special blazing. "I'll blow ya apart!" he yelled "I'll -"

  But at that moment Slade carefully put a bullet through his head.

  Pinky Lee flopped, his evil days done.

  "Lee?" Sam Columbine called. "Pinky: You out there:" A craven

  cowardly note had crept into his voice. "I just dropped him,

  Columbine!" Slade yelled. "And now it's just you and me...and I'm

  comin' to get you!"

  Sinister.45s blazing, a Mexican cigar clamped between his teeth,

  Slade started down the hill after Sam Columbine.

  Halfway down the slope, Sam Columbine let loose such a volley of

  shots that Slade had to duck behind a barrel cactus. He could not

  get off a clear shot at Columbine because the wily villain had

  hidden behind a convenient, giant bottle of mayonnaise.

  "Slade!" Columbine yelled. "It's time we settled this like men!

  Holster yore gun and I'll holster mine! Then we'll come out an'

  draw! The better man will walk away!"

  "Okay, you lowdown sidewinder!" Slade yelled back. He holstered

  his sinister.45s and stepped out from behind the barrel cactus.

  Columbine stepped out from behind the bottle of mayonnaise. He

  was a tall man with an olive complexion and an evil grin. His hand

  hovered over the barrel of the sinister Smith & Wesson pistol that

  hung on his hip.

  "Well, this is it, pard!" Slade sneered. There was a Mexican cigar

  clamped between his teeth as he started to walk toward Columbine.

  "Say hello to everyone in hell for me, Columbine!"

  "We'll see," Columbine sneered back, but his knees were knocking

  as he halted, ready for the showdown.

  "Okay!" Slade called. "Go fer yore gun!"

  "Wait," Someone screamed. "Wait, wait, WAIT!"

  They both stared. It was Sandra Dawson! She was runniug toward

  them breathless.

  "Slade!" She cried. "Slade!"

  "Get down!" Slade growled. "Sam Columbine is-"

  "I had to tell you, Slade! I couldn't let you go off, maybe to get

  killed! And you'd never know!"

  "Know what?" Slade asked.

  "That I'm Polly Peachtree!"

  Slade gaped at her. "But you can't be Polly Peachtree! She was my

  one true love and she was killed by a flaming Montgolfer balloon

  while milking the cows!"

  "I escaped but I had amnesia!" She cried. "It's all just come back to

  me tonight. Look!" And she pulled off a blond wig she had been

  wearing. She was indeed the beautiful Polly Peachtree of Paduka,

  returned from the dead!

  "POLLY!!!"

  "SLADE!!!"

  Slade rushed to her and they embraced, Sam Columbine forgotten.

  Slade was just about to ask her how things were going when Sam

  Columbine, evil rat that he was, crept up behind him and shot

  Slade in the back three times.

  "Thank God!" Polly whispered as she and Sam embraced "At last.

  he's gone and we are free, my darling!"

  Yeah," Sam growled "How are things going Polly?"

  tYou don't know how terrible it's been," she sobbed "Not only was

  he killing everybody, but he was queerer than a three-dollar bill."

  "Well it's over," Sam said.

  "Like fun!" Slade said. He sat up and blasted them both. "Good

  thing I was wearing my bullet proof underwear," he said lighting a

  new Mexican cigar. He stared at the cooling bodies of Sam

  Columbine and Polly Peachtree, and a great wave of sadness swept

  over him. He threw away his cigar and lit a joint. Then he walked

  over to where he had tethered Stokely, his black stallion. He

  wrapped his arms around Stokely's neck and held him close.

  "At last, darling," Slade whispered. "We're alone."

  After a long while, Slade and Stokely rode off into the sunset in

  search of new adventures.

  THE END

  Squad D

  Stephen King

  Written for

  Dangerous Visions #3

  Billy Clewson died all at once, with nine of the ten other members

  of D Squad on April 8, 1974. It took his mother two years, but she

  got started right away on the afternoon the telegram announcing

  her son's death came, in fact. Dale Clewson simply sat on the

  bench in the front hall for five minutes, the sheet of yellow flimsy

  paper dangling from his fingers, not sure if he was going to faint or

  puke or scream or what. When he was able to get up, he went into

  the living room. He was in time to observe Andrea down the last

  swallow of the first drink and pour the post-Billy era's second

  drink. A good many more drinks followed - it was really amazing,

  how many drinks that small and seemingly frail woman had been

  able to pack into a two-year period. The written cause - that which

  appeared on her death certificate - was liver dysfunction and renal

  failure. Both Dale and the family doctor knew that was formalistic

  icing on an extremely alcoholic cake - baba au rum, perhaps. But

  only Dale knew there was a third level. The Viet Cons had killed

  their son in a place called Ky Doe, and Billy's death had killed his

  mother.

  It was three years - three years almost to the day - after Billy's

  death on the bridge that Dale Clewson began to believe that he

  must be going mad.

  Nine, he thought. There were nine. There were always nine. Until

  now.

  Were there? His mind replied to itself. Are you sure? Maybe you

  really counted - the lieutenant's letter said there were nine, and

  Bortman's letter said there were nine. So just how can you be so

  sure? Maybe you just assumed.

  But he hadn't just assumed, and he could be sure because he knew

  how many nine was, and there had been nine boys in the D Squad

  photograph which had come in the mail, along with Lieutenant

  Anderson's letter.

  You could be wrong, his mind insisted with an assurance that was

  slightly hysterical. You're been through a lot these last couple of

  years, what with losing first Billy and then Andrea. You could be

  wrong.

  It was really surprising, he thought, to what insane lengths the

  human mind would go to
protect its own sanity.

  He put his finger down on the new figure - a boy of Billy's age, but

  with blonde crewcut hair, looking no more than sixteen, surely too

  young to be on the killing ground. He was sitting cross-legged in

  front of Gibson, who had, according to Billy's letters, played the

  guitar, and Kimberley, who told lots of dirty Jokes. The boy with

  the blonde hair was squinting slightly into the sun - so were several

  of the others, but they had always been there before. The new boy's

  fatigue shirt was open, his dog tags lying against his hairless chest.

  Dale went into the kitchen, sorted through what he and Andrea had

  always called "the jumble drawers," and came up with an old,

  scratched magnifying glass. He took it and the picture over the

  living room window, tilted the picture so there was no glare, and

  held the glass over the new boy's dog-tags. He couldn't read them.

  Thought, in fact, that the tags were both turned over and lying face

  down against the skin.

  And yet, a suspicion had dawned in his mind - it ticked there like

  the clock on the mantle. He had been about to wind that clock

  when he had noticed the change in the picture. Now he put the

  picture back in its accustomed place, between a photograph of

  Andrea and Billy's graduation picture, found the key to the clock.

  And wound it.

  Lieutenant's Anderson's letter had been simple enough. Now Dale

  found it in his study desk and read it again. Typed lines on Army

  stationary. The prescribed follow-up to the telegram, Dale had

  supposed. First: Telegram. Second: Letter of Condolence from

  Lieutenant. Third: Coffin, One Boy Enclosed. He had noticed then

  and noticed again now that the typewriter Anderson used had a

  Flying "o". Clewson kept coming out Clewson.

  Andrea had wanted to tear the letter up. Dale insisted that they

  keep it. Now he was glad.

  Billy's squad and two others had been involved in a flank sweep of

  a jungle quadrant of which Ky Doe was the only village. Enemy

  contact had been anticipated, Anderson's letter said, but there

  hadn't been any. The Cong which had been reliably reported to be

  in the area had simply melted away into the jungle - it was a trick

  with which the American soldiers had become very familiar over

  the previous ten years or so.

  Dale could imagine them heading back to their base at Homan,

  happy, relieved. Squads A and C had waded across the Ky River,