by Stephen King
Craig came gliding out through the door with the letter-opener raised. He moved like a dancing shadow in the dark. “I see you, sonny,” he breathed. “I see you just like a cat.”
He began to slide forward. Albert backed away from him. At the same time he began to pendulum the toaster back and forth, reminding himself that he would have only one good shot before Toomy moved in and planted the blade in his throat or chest.
And if the toaster goes flying out of the goddam pocket before it hits him, I’m a goner.
Craig closed in, weaving the top half of his body from side to side like a snake coming out of a basket. An absent little smile touched the corners of his lips and made small dimples there. That’s right, Craig’s father said grimly from his undying stronghold inside Craig’s head. If you have to pick them off one by one, you can do that. EPO, Craig, remember? EPO. Effort Pays Off.
That’s right, Craiggy-weggy, his mother chimed in. You can do it, and you have to do it.
“I’m sorry,” Craig murmured to the white-faced boy through his smile. “I’m really, really sorry, but I have to do it. If you could see things from my perspective, you’d understand.”
He closed in on Albert, raising the letter-opener to his eyes.
12
Albert shot a quick glance behind him and saw he was backing toward the United Airlines ticket desk. If he retreated much further, the backward are of his swing would be restricted. It had to be soon. He began to pendulum the toaster more rapidly, his sweaty hand clutching the twist of tablecloth.
Craig caught the movement in the dark, but couldn’t tell what it was the kid was swinging. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t let it matter. He gathered himself, then sprang forward.
“I’M GOING TO BOSTON!” he shrieked. “I’M GOING TO—”
Albert’s eyes were adjusting to the dark, and he saw Craig make his move. The toaster was on the rearward half of its are. Instead of snapping his wrist forward to reverse its direction, Albert let his arm go with the weight of the toaster, swinging it up and over his head in an exaggerated pitching gesture. At the same time he stepped to the left. The lump at the end of the tablecloth made a short, hard circlet in the air, held firmly in its pocket by centripetal force. Craig cooperated by stepping forward into the toaster’s descending arc. It met his forehead and the bridge of his nose with a hard, toneless crunch.
Craig wailed with agony and dropped the letter-opener. His hands went to his face and he staggered backwards. Blood from his broken nose poured between his fingers like water from a busted hydrant. Albert was terrified of what he had done but even more terrified of letting up now that Toomy was hurt. Albert took another step to the left and swung the tablecloth sidearm. It whipped through the air and smashed into the center of Craig’s chest with a hard thump. Craig fell over backward, still howling.
For Albert “Ace” Kaussner, only one thought remained; all else was a tumbling, fragmented swirl of color, image, and emotion.
I have to make him stop moving or he’ll get up and kill me. I have to make him stop moving or he’ll get up and kill me.
At least Toomy had dropped his weapon; it lay glinting on the lobby carpet. Albert planted one of his loafers on it and unloaded with the toaster again. As it came down. Albert bowed from the waist like an old-fashioned butler greeting a member of the royal family. The lump at the end of the tablecloth smashed into Craig Toomy’s gasping mouth. There was a sound like glass being crushed inside of a handkerchief.
Oh God, Albert thought. That was his teeth.
Craig flopped and squirmed on the floor. It was terrible to watch him, perhaps more terrible because of the poor light. There was something monstrous and unkillable and insectile about his horrible vitality.
His hand closed upon Albert’s loafer. Albert stepped away from the letter-opener with a little cry of revulsion, and Craig tried to grasp it when he did. Between his eyes, his nose was a burst bulb of flesh. He could hardly see Albert at all; his vision was eaten up by a vast white corona of light. A steady high keening note rang in his head, the sound of a TV test-pattern turned up to full volume.
He was beyond doing any more damage, but Albert didn’t know it. In a panic, he brought the toaster down on Craig’s head again. There was a metallic crunch-rattle as the heating elements inside it broke free.
Craig stopped moving.
Albert stood over him, sobbing for breath, the weighted tablecloth dangling from one hand. Then he took two long, shambling steps toward the escalator bowed deeply again, and vomited on the floor.
13
Brian crossed himself as he thumped back the black plastic shield which covered the screen of the 767’s INS video-display terminal, half-expecting it to be smooth and blank. He looked at it closely... and let out a deep sigh of relief.
LAST PROGRAM
COMPLETE,
it informed him in cool blue-green letters, and below that:
NEW PROGRAM? Y N
Brian typed Y, then:
REVERSE
AP29:LAX/LOGAN
The screen went dark for a moment. Then:
INCLUDE DIVERSION IN AP 29? Y N
Brian typed Y.
REVERSE
the screen informed him, and, less than five seconds later:
PROGRAM
COMPLETE
“Captain Engle?”
He turned around. Bethany was standing in the cockpit doorway. She looked pale and haggard in the cabin lights.
“I’m a little busy right now, Bethany.”
“Why aren’t they back?”
“I can’t say.”
“I asked Bob — Mr Jenkins — if he could see anyone moving around inside the terminal, and he said he couldn’t. What if they’re all dead?”
“I’m sure they’re not. If it will make you feel better, why don’t you join him at the bottom of the ladder? I’ve got some more work to do here. At least I hope I do.”
“Are you scared?” she asked.
“Yes. I sure am.”
She smiled a little. “I’m sort of glad. It’s bad to be scared all by yourself — totally bogus. I’ll leave you alone now.”
“Thanks. I’m sure they’ll be out soon.”
She left. Brian turned back to the INS monitor and typed:
ARE THERE PROBLEMS WITH THIS PROGRAM?
He hit EXECUTE.
NO PROBLEMS. THANK YOU FOR FLYING AMERICAN PRIDE.
“You’re welcome, I’m sure,” Brian murmured, and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
Now, he thought, if only the fuel will burn.
14
Bob heard footsteps on the ladder and turned quickly. It was only Bethany, descending slowly and carefully, but he still felt jumpy. The sound coming out of the cast was gradually growing louder.
Closer.
“Hi, Bethany. May I borrow another of your cigarettes?”
She offered the depleted pack to him, then took one herself. She had tucked Albert’s book of experimental matches into the cellophane covering the pack, and when she tried one it lit easily.
“Any sign of them?”
“Well, it all depends on what you mean by ‘any sign,’ I guess,” Bob said cautiously. “I think I heard some shouting just before you came down.”
“What he had heard actually sounded like screaming — shrieking, not to put too fine a point on it — but he saw no reason to tell the girl that.” She looked as frightened as Bob felt, and he had an idea she’d taken a liking to Albert.
“I hope Dinah’s going to be all right,” she said, “but I don’t know. He cut her really bad.”
“Did you see the captain?”
Bethany nodded. “He sort of kicked me out. I guess he’s programming his instruments, or something.”
Bob Jenkins nodded soberly. “I hope so.”
Conversation lapsed. They both looked east. A new and even more ominous sound now underlay the crunching, chewing noise: a high, inanimate screaming. It was a strangely mechanic
al sound, one that made Bob think of an automatic transmission low on fluid.
“It’s a lot closer now, isn’t it?”
Bob nodded reluctantly. He drew on his cigarette and the glowing ember momentarily illuminated a pair of tired, terrified eyes.
“What do you suppose it is, Mr Jenkins?”
He shook his head slowly. “Dear girl, I hope we never have to find out.”
15
Halfway down the escalator, Nick saw a bent-over figure standing in front of the useless bank of pay telephones. It was impossible to tell if it was Albert or Craig Toomy. The Englishman reached into his right front pocket, holding his left hand against it to prevent any jingling, and by touch selected a pair of quarters from his change. He closed his right hand into a fist and slipped the quarters between his fingers, creating a makeshift set of brass knuckles. Then he continued down to the lobby.
The figure by the telephones looked up as Nick appeared. It was Albert. “Don’t step in the puke,” he said dully.
Nick dropped the quarters back into his pocket and hurried to where the boy was standing with his hands propped above his knees like an old man who has badly overestimated his capacity for exercise. He could smell the high, sour stench of vomit. That and the sweaty stink of fear coming off the boy were smells with which he was all too familiar. He knew them from the Falklands, and even more intimately from Northern Ireland. He put his left arm around the boy’s shoulders and Albert straightened very slowly.
“Where are they, Ace?” Nick asked quietly. “Gaffney and Toomy — where are they?”
“Mr Toomy’s there.” He pointed toward a crumpled shape on the floor. “Mr Gaffney’s in the Airport Services office. I think they’re both dead. Mr Toomy was in the Airport Services office. Behind the door, I guess. He killed Mr Gaffney because Mr Gaffney walked in first. If I’d walked in first, he would have killed me instead.”
Albert swallowed hard.
“Then I killed Mr Toomy. I had to. He came after me, see? He found another knife someplace and he came after me.” He spoke in a tone which could have been mistaken for indifference, but Nick knew better. And it was not indifference he saw on the white blur of Albert’s face.
“Can you get hold of yourself, Ace?” Nick asked.
“I don’t know. I never k-k-killed anyone before, and—” Albert uttered a strangled, miserable sob.
“I know,” Nick said. “It’s a horrible thing, but it can be gotten over. I know. And you must get over it, Ace. We have miles to go before we sleep, and there’s no time for therapy. The sound is louder.”
He left Albert and went over to the crumpled form on the floor. Craig Toomy was lying on his side with one upraised arm partially obscuring his face. Nick rolled him onto his back, looked, whistled softly. Toomy was still alive — he could hear the harsh rasp of his breath — but Nick would have bet his bank account that the man was not shamming this time. His nose hadn’t just been broken; it looked vaporized. His mouth was a bloody socket ringed with the shattered remains of his teeth. And the deep, troubled dent in the center of Toomy’s forehead suggested that Albert had done some creative retooling of the man’s skull-plate.
“He did all this with a toaster?” Nick muttered. “Jesus and Mary, Tom, Dick and Harry.” He got up and raised his voice. “He’s not dead, Ace.”
Albert had bent over again when Nick left him. Now he straightened slowly and took a step toward him. “He’s not?”
“Listen for yourself. Out for the count, but still in the game.” Not for long, though; not by the sound of him. “Let’s check on Mr Gaffney — maybe he got off lucky, too. And what about the stretcher?”
“Huh?” Albert looked at Nick as though he had spoken in a foreign language.
“The stretcher,” Nick repeated patiently as they walked toward the open Airport Services door.
“We found it,” Albert said.
“Did you? Super!”
Albert stopped just inside the door. “Wait a minute,” he muttered, then squatted and felt around for Don’s lighter. He found it after a moment or two. It was still warm. He stood up again. “Mr Gaffney’s on the other side of the desk, I think.”
They walked around, stepping over the tumbled stacks of paper and the IN/OUT basket. Albert held the lighter and flicked the wheel. On the fifth try the wick caught and burned feebly for three or four seconds. It was enough. Nick had actually seen enough in the spark-flashes the lighter’s wheel had struck, but he hadn’t liked to say so to Albert. Don Gaffney lay sprawled on his back, eyes open, a look of terrible surprise still fixed on his face. He hadn’t gotten off lucky after all.
“How was it that Toomy didn’t get you as well?” Nick asked after a moment. “I knew he was in here,” Albert said. “Even before he struck Mr Gaffney, I knew.” His voice was still dry and shaky, but he felt a little better. Now that he had actually faced poor Mr Gaffney — looked him in the eye, so to speak — he felt a little better.
“Did you hear him?”
“No — I saw those. On the desk.” Albert pointed to the little heap of torn strips.
“Lucky you did.” Nick put his hand on Albert’s shoulder in the dark. “You deserve to be alive, mate. You earned the privilege. All right?”
“I’ll try,” Albert said.
“You do that, old son. It saves a lot of nightmares. You’re looking at a man who knows.”
Albert nodded.
“Keep it together, Ace. That’s all there is to it — just keep things together and you’ll be fine.”
“Mr Hopewell?”
“Yes?”
“Would you mind not calling me that? I—” His voice clogged, and Albert cleared his throat violently. “I don’t think I like it anymore.”
16
They emerged from the dark cave which was Airport Services thirty seconds later, Nick carrying the folded stretcher by the handle. When they reached the bank of phones, Nick handed the stretcher to Albert, who accepted it wordlessly. The tablecloth lay on the floor about five feet away from Toomy, who was snoring now in great rhythmless snatches of air.
Time was short, time was very fucking short, but Nick had to see this. He had to.
He picked up the tablecloth and pulled the toaster out. One of the heating elements caught in a bread slot; the other tumbled out onto the floor. The timer-dial and the handle you used to push the bread down fell off. One corner of the toaster was crumpled inward. The left side was bashed into a deep circular dent.
That’s the part that collided with Friend Toomy’s sniffer, Nick thought. Amazing. He shook the toaster and listened to the loose rattle of broken parts inside.
“A toaster,” he marvelled. “I have friends, Albert — professional friends — who wouldn’t believe it. I hardly believe it myself. I mean... a toaster.”
Albert had turned his head. “Throw it away,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t want to look at it.”
Nick did as the boy asked, then clapped him on the shoulder. “Take the stretcher upstairs. I’ll join you directly.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I want to see if there’s anything else we can use in that office.”
Albert looked at him for a moment, but he couldn’t make out Nick’s features in the dark. At last he said, “I don’t believe you.”
“Nor do you have to,” Nick said in an oddly gentle voice. “Go on, Ace. Albert, I mean. I’ll join you soon. And don’t look back.”
Albert stared at him a moment longer, then began to trudge up the frozen escalator, his head down, the stretcher dangling like a suitcase from his right hand. He didn’t look back.
17
Nick waited until the boy had disappeared into the gloom. Then he walked back over to where Craig Toomy lay and squatted beside him. Toomy was still out, but his breathing seemed a little more regular. Nick supposed it was not impossible, given a week or two of constant-care treatment in hospital, that Toomy might recover. He had proved at least one thing: he had an
awesomely hard head.
Shame the brains underneath are so soft, mate, Nick thought. He reached out, meaning to put one hand over Toomy’s mouth and the other over his nose — or what remained of it. It would take less than a minute, and they would not have to worry about Mr Craig Toomy anymore. The others would have recoiled in horror at the act — would have called it cold-blooded murder — but Nick saw it as an insurance policy, no more and no less. Toomy had arisen once from what appeared to be total unconsciousness and now one of their number was dead and another was badly, perhaps mortally, wounded. There was no sense taking the same chance again.
And there was something else. If he left Toomy alive, what, exactly, would he be leaving him alive for? A short, haunted existence in a dead world? A chance to breathe dying air under a moveless sky in which all weather patterns appeared to have ceased? An opportunity to meet whatever was approaching from the east... approaching with a sound like that of a colony of giant, marauding ants?
No. Best to see him out of it. It would be painless, and that would have to be good enough.
“Better than the bastard deserves,” Nick said, but still he hesitated.
He remembered the little girl looking up at him with her dark, unseeing eyes.
Don’t you kill him! Not a plea; that had been a command. She had summoned up a little strength from some hidden last reserve in order to give him that command. All I know is that we need him.
Why is she so bloody protective of him?
He squatted a moment longer, looking into Craig Toomy’s ruined face. And when Rudy Warwick spoke from the head of the escalator, he jumped as if it had been the devil himself.
“Mr Hopewell? Nick? Are you coming?”
“In a jiffy!” he called back over his shoulder. He reached toward Toomy’s face again and stopped again, remembering her dark eyes.