The Langoliers fpm-1

by Stephen King

  A shrill, panicked scream drifted up to them, cutting across the low rattling background noise like a fork drawn across a slate blackboard. It was followed by running footfalls on the ladder. Nick turned in that direction and his hands came up in a gesture Albert recognized at once; he had seen some of the martial-arts freaks at school back home practicing the move. It was the classic Tae Kwan Do defensive position. A moment later Bethany’s pallid, terrified face appeared in the doorway and Nick let his hands relax.

  “Come!” Bethany screamed. “You’ve got to come!” She was panting, out of breath, and she reeled backward on the platform of the ladder. For a moment Albert and Brian were sure she was going to tumble back down the steep steps, breaking her neck on the way. Then Nick leaped forward, cupped a hand on the nape of her neck, and pulled her into the plane. Bethany did not even seem to realize she had had a close call. Her dark eyes blazed at them from the white circle of her face. “Please come! He’s stabbed her! I think she’s dying!”

  Nick put his hands on her shoulders and lowered his face toward hers as if he intended to kiss her. “Who has stabbed whom?” he asked very quietly. “Who is dying?”

  “I... she... Mr T-T-Toomy…”

  “Bethany, say teacup.”

  She looked at him, eyes shocked and uncomprehending. Brian was looking at Nick as though he had gone insane.

  Nick gave the girl’s shoulders a little shake.

  “Say teacup. Right now.”

  “T-T-Teacup.”

  “Teacup and saucer. Say it, Bethany.”

  “Teacup and saucer.”

  “All right. Better?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Good. If you feel yourself losing control again, say teacup at once and you’ll come back. Now — who’s been stabbed?”

  “The blind girl. Dinah.”

  “Bloody shit. All right, Bethany. Just—” Nick raised his voice sharply as he saw Brian move behind Bethany, headed for the ladder, with Albert right behind him. “No!” he shouted in a bright, hard tone that stopped both of them. “Stay fucking put!”

  Brian, who had served two tours in Vietnam and knew the sound of unquestionable command when he heard it, stopped so suddenly that Albert ran face-first into the middle of his back. I knew it, he thought. I knew he’d take over. It was just a matter of time and circumstance.

  “Do you know how this happened or where our wretched travelling companion is now?” Nick asked Bethany.

  “The guy... the guy in the red shirt said”

  “All right. Never mind.” He glanced briefly up at Brian. His eyes were red with anger. “The bloody fools left him alone. I’d wager my pension on it. Well, it won’t happen again. Our Mr Toomy has cut his last caper.”

  He looked back at the girl. Her head drooped; her hair hung dejectedly in her face; she was breathing in great, watery swoops of breath.

  “Is she alive, Bethany?” he asked gently.

  “I... I... I... I…”

  “Teacup, Bethany.”

  “Teacup!” Bethany shouted, and looked up at him from teary, red-rimmed eyes. “I don’t know. She was alive when I... you know, came for you. She might be dead now. He really got her. Jesus, why did we have to get stuck with a fucking psycho? Weren’t things bad enough without that?”

  “And none of you who were supposed to be minding this fellow have the slightest idea where he went following the attack, is that right?”

  Bethany put her hands over her face and began to sob. It was all the answer any of them needed.

  “Don’t be so hard on her,” Albert said quietly, and slipped an arm around Bethany’s waist. She put her head on his shoulder and began to sob more strenuously.

  Nick moved the two of them gently aside. “If I was inclined to be hard on someone, it would be myself, Ace. I should have stayed behind.”

  He turned to Brian.

  “I’m going back into the terminal. You’re not. Mr Jenkins here is almost certainly right; our time here is short. I don’t like to think just how short. Start the engines but don’t move the aircraft yet. If the girl is alive, we’ll need the stairs to bring her up. Bob, bottom of the stairs. Keep an eye out for that bugger Toomy. Albert, you come with me.”

  Then he said something which chilled them all.

  “I almost hope she’s dead, God help me. It will save time if she is.”

  2

  Dinah was not dead, not even unconscious. Laurel had taken off her sunglasses to wipe away the sweat which had sprung up on the girl’s face, and Dinah’s eyes, deep brown and very wide, looked up unseeingly into Laurel’s blue-green ones. Behind her, Don and Rudy stood shoulder to shoulder, looking down anxiously.

  “I’m sorry,” Rudy said for the fifth time. “I really thought he was out. Out cold.”

  Laurel ignored him. “How are you, Dinah?” she asked softly. She didn’t want to look at the wooden handle growing out of the girl’s dress, but couldn’t take her eyes from it. There was very little blood, at least so far; a circle the size of a demitasse cup around the place where the blade had gone in, and that was all.

  So far.

  “It hurts,” Dinah said in a faint voice. “It’s hard to breathe. And it’s hot.”

  “You’re going to be all right,” Laurel said, but her eyes were drawn relentlessly back to the handle of the knife. The girl was very small, and she couldn’t understand why the blade hadn’t gone all the way through her. Couldn’t understand why she wasn’t dead already.

  “... out of here,” Dinah said. She grimaced, and a thick, slow curdle of blood escaped from the corner of her mouth and ran down her cheek.

  “Don’t try to talk, honey,” Laurel said, and brushed damp curls back from Dinah’s forehead.

  “You have to get out of here,” Dinah insisted. Her voice was little more than a whisper. “And you shouldn’t blame Mr Toomy. He’s... he’s scared, that’s all. Of them.”

  Don looked around balefully. “If I find that bastard, I’ll scare him,” he said, and curled both hands into fists. A lodge ring gleamed above one knuckle in the growing gloom. “I’ll make him wish he was born dead.”

  Nick came into the restaurant then, followed by Albert. He pushed past Rudy Warwick without a word of apology and knelt next to Dinah. His bright gaze fixed upon the handle of the knife for a moment, then moved to the child’s face.

  “Hello, love.” He spoke cheerily, but his eyes had darkened. “I see you’ve been air-conditioned. Not to worry; you’ll be right as a trivet in no time flat.”

  Dinah smiled a little. “What’s a trivet?” she whispered. More blood ran out of her mouth as she spoke, and Laurel could see it on her teeth. Her stomach did a slow, lazy roll.

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s something nice,” Nick replied. “I’m going to turn your head to one side. Be as still as you can.”

  “Okay.”

  Nick moved her head, very gently, until her cheek was almost resting on the carpet. “Hurt?”

  “Yes,” Dinah whispered. “Hot. Hurts to... breathe.” Her whispery voice had taken on a hoarse, cracked quality. A thin stream of blood ran from her mouth and pooled on the carpet less than ten feet from the place where Craig Toomy’s blood was drying.

  From outside came the sudden high-pressure whine of aircraft engines starting. Don, Rudy, and Albert looked in that direction. Nick never looked away from the girl. He spoke gently. “Do you feel like coughing, Dinah?”

  “Yes... no... don’t know.”

  “It’s better if you don’t,” he said. “If you get that tickly feeling, try to ignore it. And don’t talk anymore, right?”

  “Don’t... hurt... Mr Toomy.” Her words, whispered though they were, conveyed great emphasis, great urgency.

  “No, love, wouldn’t think of it. Take it from me.”

  “... don’t... trust... you...”

  He bent, kissed her cheek, and whispered in her ear: “But you can, you know — trust me, I mean. For now, all you’ve got to
do is lie still and let us take care of things.”

  He looked up at Laurel.

  “You didn’t try to remove the knife?”

  “I... no.” Laurel swallowed. There was a hot, harsh lump in her throat. The swallow didn’t move it. “Should I have?”

  “If you had, there wouldn’t be much chance. Do you have any nursing experience?”

  “No.”

  “All right, I’m going to tell you what to do... but first I need to know if the sight of blood — quite a bit of it — is going to make you pass out. And I need the truth.”

  Laurel said, “I haven’t really seen a lot of blood since my sister ran into a door and knocked out two of her teeth while we were playing hide-and-seek. But I didn’t faint then.”

  “Good. And you’re not going to faint now. Mr Warwick, bring me half a dozen tablecloths from that grotty little pub around the corner.” He smiled down at the girl. “Give me a minute or two, Dinah, and I think you’ll feel much better. Young Dr Hopewell is ever so gentle with the ladies — especially the ones who are young and pretty.”

  Laurel felt a sudden and absolutely absurd desire to reach out and touch Nick’s hair.

  What’s the matter with you? This little girl is probably dying, and you’re wondering what his hair feels like! Quit it! How stupid can you be?

  Well, let’s see... Stupid enough to have been flying across the country to meet a man I first contacted through the personals column of a so-called friendship magazine. Stupid enough to have been planning to sleep with him if he turned out to be reasonably presentable... and if he didn’t have bad breath, of course.

  Oh, quit it! Quit it, Laurel!

  Yes, the other voice in her mind agreed. You’re absolutely right, it’s crazy to be thinking things like that at a time like this, and I will quit it... but I wonder what young Dr Hopewell would be like in bed? I wonder if he would be gentle or Laurel shivered and wondered if this was the way your average nervous breakdown started.

  “They’re closer,” Dinah said. “You really” She coughed, and a large bubble of blood appeared between her lips. It popped, splattering her cheeks. Don Gaffney muttered and turned away. “really have to hurry,” she finished.

  Nick’s cheery smile didn’t change a bit. “I know,” he said.

  3

  Craig dashed across the terminal, nimbly vaulted the escalator’s handrail, and ran down the frozen metal steps with panic roaring and beating in his head like the sound of the ocean in a storm; it even drowned out that other sound, the relentless chewing, crunching sound of the langoliers. No one saw him go. He sprinted across the lower lobby toward the exit doors... and crashed into them. He had forgotten everything, including the fact that the electric-eye door-openers wouldn’t work with the power out.

  He rebounded, the breath knocked out of him, and fell to the floor, gasping like a netted fish. He lay there for a moment, groping for whatever remained of his mind, and found himself gazing at his right hand. It was only a white blob in the growing darkness, but he could see the black splatters on it, and he knew what they were: the little girl’s blood.

  Except she wasn’t a little girl, not really. She lust looked like a little girl. She was the head langolier, and with her gone the others won’t be able to... won’t be able to... to...

  To what?

  To find him?

  But he could still hear the hungry sound of their approach: that maddening chewing sound, as if somewhere to the east a tribe of huge, hungry insects was on the march.

  His mind whirled. Oh, he was so confused.

  Craig saw a smaller door leading outside, got up, and started in that direction. Then he stopped. There was a road out there, and the road undoubtedly led to the town of Bangor, but so what? He didn’t care about Bangor; Bangor was most definitely not part of that fabled BIG PICTURE. It was Boston that he had to get to. If he could get there, everything would be all right. And what did that mean? His father would have known. It meant he had to STOP SCAMPERING AROUND and GET WITH THE PROGRAM.

  His mind seized on this idea the way a shipwreck victim seizes upon a piece of wreckage — anything that still floats, even if it’s only the shithouse door, is a prize to be cherished. If he could get to Boston, this whole experience would be... would be...

  “Set aside,” he muttered.

  At the words, a bright beam of rational light seemed to shaft through the darkness inside his head, and a voice (it might have been his father’s) cried out YES!! in affirmation.

  But how was he to do that? Boston was too far to walk and the others wouldn’t let him back on board the only plane that still worked. Not after what he had done to their little blind mascot.

  “But they don’t know,” Craig whispered. “They don’t know I did them a favor, because they don’t know what she is.” He nodded his head sagely. His eyes, huge and wet in the dark, gleamed.

  Stow away, his father’s voice whispered to him. Stow away on the plane.

  Yes! his mother’s voice added. Stow away! That’s the ticket. Craiggy-weggy! Only if you do that, you won’t need a ticket, will you?

  Craig looked doubtfully toward the luggage conveyor belt. He could use it to get to the tarmac, but suppose they had posted a guard by the plane? The pilot wouldn’t think of it — once out of his cockpit, the man was obviously an imbecile — but the Englishman almost surely would.

  So what was he supposed to do?

  If the Bangor side of the terminal was no good, and the runway side of the terminal was also no good, what was he supposed to do and where was he supposed to go?

  Craig looked nervously at the dead escalator. They would be hunting him soon — the Englishman undoubtedly leading the pack — and here he stood in the middle of the floor, as exposed as a stripper who has just tossed her pasties and g-string into the audience.

  I have to hide, at least for awhile.

  He had heard the jet engines start up outside, but this did not worry him; he knew a little about planes and understood that Engle couldn’t go anywhere until he had refuelled. And refuelling would take time. He didn’t have to worry about them leaving without him.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Hide, Craiggy-weggy. That’s what you have to do right now. You have to hide before they come for you.

  He turned slowly, looking for the best place, squinting into the growing dark. And this time he saw a sign on a door tucked between the Avis desk and the Bangor Travel Agency.

  AIRPORT SERVICES

  it read. A sign which could mean almost anything.

  Craig hurried across to the door, casting nervous looks back over his shoulder as he went, and tried it. As with the door to Airport Security, the knob would not turn but the door opened when he pushed on it. Craig took one final look over his shoulder, saw no one, and closed the door behind him.

  Utter, total dark swallowed him; in here, he was as blind as the little girl he had stabbed. Craig didn’t mind. He was not afraid of the dark; in fact, he rather liked it. Unless you were with a woman, no one expected you to do anything significant in the dark. In the dark, performance ceased to be a factor.

  Even better, the chewing sound of the langoliers was muffled.

  Craig felt his way slowly forward, hands outstretched, feet shuffling. After three of these shuffling steps, his thigh came in contact with a hard object that felt like the edge of a desk. He reached forward and down. Yes. A desk. He let his hands flutter over it for a moment, taking comfort in the familiar accoutrements of white-collar America: a stack of papers, an IN/OUT basket, the edge of a blotter, a caddy filled with paper-clips, a pencil-and-pen set. He worked his way around the desk to the far side, where his hip bumped the arm of a chair. Craig maneuvered himself between the chair and the desk and then sat down. Being behind a desk made him feel better still. It made him feel like himself — calm, in control. He fumbled for the top drawer and pulled it open. Felt inside for a weapon — something sharp. His hand happened almost immediately upon a letter-opene
r.

  He took it out, shut the drawer, and put it on the desk by his right hand.

  He just sat there for a moment, listening to the muffled whisk-thud of his heartbeat and the dim sound of the jet engines, then sent his hands fluttering delicately over the surface of the desk again until they re-encountered the stack of papers. He took the top sheet and brought it toward him, but there wasn’t a glimmer of white... not even when he held it right in front of his eyes.

  That’s all right, Craiggy-weggy. You just sit here in the dark. Sit here and wait until it’s time to move. When the time comes

  I’ll tell you, his father finished grimly.

  “That’s right,” Craig said. His fingers spidered up the unseen sheet of paper to the righthand corner. He tore smoothly downward.

  Riii-ip.

  Calm filled his mind like cool blue water. He dropped the unseen strip on the unseen desk and returned his fingers to the top of the sheet. Everything was going to be fine, just fine. He began to sing under his breath in a tuneless little whisper.

  “Just call me angel... of the morn-ing, ba-by—”

  Riii-ip.

  “Just touch my cheek before you leave me... ba-by.”

  Calm now, at peace, Craig sat and waited for his father to tell him what he should do next, just as he had done so many times as a child.

  4

  “Listen carefully, Albert,” Nick said. “We have to take her on board the plane, but we’ll need a litter to do it. There won’t be one on board, but there must be one in here. Where?”

  “Gee, Mr Hopewell, Captain Engle would know better than—”

  “But Captain Engle isn’t here,” Nick said patiently. “We shall have to manage on our own.”

  Albert frowned... then thought of a sign he had seen on the lower level. “Airport Services?” he asked. “Does that sound right?”