by Stephen King
Tony never hesitated, just went ahead and lied. He undoubtedly would have done the same thing even if the reporter presenting himself that day had been case-hardened old Trevor Ronnick, who owned the American and had forgotten more stories than the redhead would ever write.
"Car's gone," Tony said, and there it was: lie told, Rubicon crossed.
"Gone?" Homer Oosler asked, clearly disappointed. He had a big old Minolta camera on his lap. PROPERTY OF COUNTY AMERICAN was Dymotaped across the back of the case. "Gone where?"
"State Impound Bureau," Tony said, creating this impressive-sounding organization on the spot. "In Philly."
"Why?"
"They auction unclaimed rolling iron. After they search em for drugs, of course."
"Course. Do you have any paperwork on it?"
"Must have," Tony said. "Got it on everything else. I'll look for it, give you a ring."
"How long do you think that'll take, Sergeant Schoondist?"
"Awhile, son." Tony waved his hand at his in/out basket, which was stacked high with papers. Oosler didn't need to know that most of them were the week's junkalogue from Scranton--everything from updates on retirement benefits to the schedule for autumn softball--and would be in the wastebasket before the Sarge went home. That weary wave of the hand suggested that there were similar piles of paper everywhere. "Hard keeping up with all this stuff, you know. They say things'll change when we start getting computerized, but that won't be this year."
"I go back to school next week."
Tony leaned forward in his chair and looked at Oosler keenly. "And I hope you work hard," he said. "It's a tough world out there, son, but if you work hard you can make it."
A couple of days after Homer Oosler's visit, the Buick fired up another of its lightstorms. This time it happened on a day that was filled with bright sun, but it was still pretty spectacular. And all Curtis's worries about missing the next manifestation proved groundless.
The shed's temperature made it clear the Buick was building up to something again, dropping from the mid-seventies to the upper fifties over a course of five days. Everyone became anxious to take a turn out in the hutch; everyone wanted to be the one on duty when it happened, whatever "it" turned out to be this time.
Brian Cole won the lottery, but all the Troopers at the barracks shared the experience at least to some extent. Brian went into Shed B at around two P.M. to check on Jimmy and Roslyn. They were fine as paint, Roslyn in the habitat's dining room and Jimmy busting heavies on the exercise wheel in the gym. But as Brian leaned farther into the Buick to check the water reservoir, he heard a humming noise. It was deep and steady, the kind of sound that vibrates your eyes in their sockets and rattles your fillings. Below it (or entwined with it) was something a lot more disturbing, a kind of scaly, wordless whispering. A purple glow, very dim, was spreading slowly across the dashboard and the steering wheel.
Mindful of Ennis Rafferty, gone with no forwarding address for well over a month by then, Trooper Cole vacated the Buick's vicinity in a hurry. He proceeded without panic, however, taking the video camera from the hutch, screwing it on to its tripod, loading in a fresh tape, checking the time-code (it was correct) and the battery level (all the way in the green). He turned on the overheads before going back out, then placed the tripod in front of one of the windows, hit the RECORD button, and double-checked to make sure the Buick was centered in the viewfinder. It was. He started toward the barracks, then snapped his fingers and went back to the hutch. There was a little bag filled with camera accessories in there. One of them was a brightness filter. Brian attached this to the video camera's lens without bothering to hit the PAUSE button (for one moment the big dark shapes of his hands blot out the image of the Buick, and when they leave the frame again the Buick reappears as if in a deep twilight). If there had been anyone there watching him go about his business--one of those visiting John Q.'s curious about how his tax dollars were spent, perhaps--he never would have guessed how fast Trooper Cole's heart was beating. He was afraid as well as excited, but he did okay. When it comes to dealing with the unknown, there's a great deal to be said for a good shot of police training. All in all, he forgot only one thing.
He poked his head into Tony's office at about seven minutes past two and said, "Sarge, I'm pretty sure something's happening with the Buick."
Tony looked up from his yellow legal pad, where he was scribbling the first draft of a speech he was supposed to give at a law enforcement symposium that fall, and said: "What's that in your hand, Bri?"
Brian looked down and saw he was holding the gerbils" water reservoir. "Ah, what the hell," he said. "They may not need it anymore, anyway."
By twenty after two, Troopers in the barracks could hear the humming clearly. Not that there were many in there; most were lined up at the windows in Shed B's two roll-up doors, hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder. Tony saw this, debated whether or not to order them away, and finally decided to let them stay where they were. With one exception.
"Arky."
"Yessir, Sarge?"
"I want you to go on out front and mow the lawn."
"I just mow it on Monday!"
"I know. Seemed like you spent the last hour doing the part under my office window. I want you to do it again just the same. With this in your back pocket." He handed Arky a walkie-talkie. "And if anyone comes calling who shouldn't see ten Pennsylvania State Troopers lined up in front of that shed like there was a big-money cockfight going on inside, shoot me the word. Got it?"
"Yeah, you betcha."
"Good. Matt! Matt Babicki, front and center!"
Matt rushed up, puffing and red-faced with excitement. Tony asked him where Curt was. Matt said he was on patrol.
"Tell him to return to base, code D and ride quiet, got that?"
"Code D and ride quiet, roger."
To ride quiet is to travel sans flashers and siren. Curt presumably obeyed this injunction, but he was still back at the barracks by quarter to three. No one dared ask him how far he'd come in half an hour. However many miles it might have been, he arrived alive and before the silent fireworks started up again. The first thing he did was to remove the videocam from the tripod. Until the fireworks were over, the visual record would be Curtis Wilcox's baby.
The tape (one of many squirreled away in the storage closet) preserves what there was to see and hear. The Buick's hum is very audible, sounding like a loose wire in a stereo speaker, and it gets appreciably louder as time passes. Curt got footage of the big thermometer with its red needle standing at just a hair past 54. There's dirt's voice, asking permission to go in and check on Jimmy and Roslyn, and Sergeant Schoondist's voice coming back with "Permission denied" almost at once, brisk and sure, brooking no argument.
At 3:08:41P, according to the time-code on the bottom of the screen, a blush like a violet sunrise begins to rise on the Buick's windshield. At first a viewer might pass this phenomenon off as a technical glitch or an optical illusion or perhaps some sort of reflection.
Andy Colucci: "What's that?"
Unknown speaker: "A power surge or a--"
Curtis Wilcox: "Those of you with goggles better put them on. Those of you without them, this is risky, I'd back the hell off. We have--"
Jackie O'Hara (probably): "Who took--"
Phil Candleton (probably): "My God!"
Huddie Royer: "I don't think we should--"
Sergeant Commanding Schoondist, sounding as calm as an Audubon guide on a nature hike: "Get those goggles down, fellas, I would. Chop-chop."
At 3:09:24, that violet light took an auroral leap in all the Buick's windows, turning them into brilliant purple mirrors. If one slows the tape down and then advances it frame by frame, one can see actual reflections appearing in the formerly clear window-glass: the tools hung on their pegs, the orange plow-blade stored against one wall, the men outside, peering in. Most are wearing goggles and look like aliens in a cheap science fiction movie. One can isolate Curt because of the vid
eo camera blocking the left side of his face. The hum gets louder and louder. Then, about five seconds before the Buick starts shooting off those flashes, the sound stops. A viewer of this tape can hear an excited babble of voices, none identifiable, all seeming to ask questions.
Then the image disappears for the first time. The Buick and the shed are both gone, lost in the white.
"Jesus Christ, did you guys see that?" Huddie Royer screams.
There are cries of Get back, Holy fuck, and everyone's favorite in times of trouble, Oh shit. Someone says Don't look at it and someone else says It's pissing lightning in that weirdly matter-of-fact tone one can sometimes hear on cockpit flight recorders, a pilot who's talking without realizing it, who only knows that he's down to the last ten or twelve seconds of his life.
Then the Buick returns from the land of overexposure, looking first like a meaningless clot, then taking back its actual form. Three seconds later it flashes out again. The glare shoots thick rays from every window and then whites out the image once more. During this one Curt says We need a better filter and Tony replies Maybe next time.
The phenomenon continues for the next forty-six minutes, every bit of it captured on tape. At first the Buick whites out and disappears with every flash. Then, as the phenomenon starts to weaken, the viewer can see a vague car-shape sunk deep in soundless lightbursts that are more purple than white. Sometimes the image joggles and there's a fast, blurry pan of human faces as Curtis hurries to a different observation point, hoping for a revelation (or perhaps just a better view).
At 3:28:17, one can observe a jagged line of fire burst up from (or maybe it's through) the Buick's closed trunk. It shoots all the way to the ceiling, where it seems to splash outward like water from a fountain.
Unidentified voice: "Holy shit, high voltage, high voltage!"
Tony: "The hell it is." Then, presumably to Curt: "Keep taping."
Curt: "Oh yeah. You better believe it."
There are several more of the lightning bolts, some shooting out of the Buick's windows, some rising from the roof or the trunk. One leaps out from beneath the car and fires itself directly at the rear roll-up door. There are surprised yells as the men back away from that one, but the camera stays steady. Curt was basically too excited to be afraid.
At 3:55:03 there's a final weak blip--it comes from the back seat, behind the driver's position--and then there's no more. You can hear Tony Schoondist say, "Why don't you save the battery, Curt? The show seems to be over." At that point the tape goes momentarily black.
When the picture resumes at 4:08:16, Curt is onscreen. There's something yellow wrapped around his midsection. He waves jauntily and says, "I'll be right back."
Tony Schoondist--he's the one running the camera at that point--replies, "You better be." And he doesn't sound jaunty in the least.
Curt wanted to go in and check on the gerbils--to see how they were, assuming they were still there at all. Tony refused permission adamantly and at once. No one was going in Shed B for quite awhile, he said, not until they were sure it was safe to do so. He hesitated, maybe replaying that remark in his head and realizing the absurdity of it--as long as the Buick Roadmaster was in Shed B it was never going to be safe--and changed it to: "Everyone stays out until the temperature's back over sixty-five."
"Someone's gotta go," Brian Cole said. He spoke patiently, as if discussing a simple addition problem with a person of limited intelligence.
"I fail to see why, Trooper," Tony said.
Brian reached into his pocket and pulled out Jimmy and Roslyn's water-reservoir. "They got plenty of those pellets they eat, but without this, they'll die of thirst."
"No, they won't. Not right away."
"It might be a couple of days before the temperature in there goes up to sixty-five, Sarge. Would you want to go forty-eight hours without a drink?"
"I know I wouldn't," Curt said. Trying not to smile (and smiling a little anyway), he took the calibrated plastic tube from Brian. Then Tony took it from him before it could start to feel at home in Curt's hand. The SC did not look at his fellow scholar as he did this; he kept his eyes fixed on Trooper Brian Cole.
"I'm supposed to allow one of the men under my command to risk his life in order to bring water to a pair of pedigreed mice. Is that what you're telling me, Trooper? I just want to be clear on this."
If he expected Brian to blush or scuffle, he was disappointed. Brian just kept looking at him in that patient way, as if to say Yes, yes, get it out of your system, boss--the sooner you get it out of your system, the sooner you'll be able to relax and do the right thing.
"I can't believe it," Tony said. "One of us has lost his mind. Probably it's me."
"They're just little guys," Brian said. His voice was as patient as his face. "And we're the ones who put them in there, Sarge, they didn't exactly volunteer. We're responsible. Now I'll do it if you want, I'm the one who forgot--"
Tony raised his hands to the sky, as if to ask for divine intervention, then dropped them back to his sides. Red was creeping out of his collar, up his neck, and over his jaw. It met the red patches on his cheeks: howdy-do, neighbor. "Hair pie!" he muttered.
The men had heard him say this before, and knew better than to crack a smile. It is at this point that many people -perhaps even a majority--would be apt to yell, "Oh, screw it! Do what you want!" and stamp away. But when you're in the big chair, getting the big bucks for making the big decisions, you can't do that. The D Troopers gathered in front of the shed knew this, and so, of course, did Tony. He stood there, looking down at his shoes. From out front of the barracks came the steady blat of Arky's old red Briggs & Stratton mower.
"Sarge--" Curtis began.
"Kid, do us all a favor and shut up."
Curt shut up.
After a moment, Tony raised his head. "The rope I asked you to pick up--did you get it?"
"Yes, sir. It's the good stuff. You could take it mountain-climbing. At least that's what the guy at Calling All Sports said."
"Is it in there?" Tony nodded at the shed.
"No, in the trunk of my car."
"Well thank God for small favors. Bring it over here. And I hope we never have to find out how good it is." He looked at Brian Cole. "Maybe you'd like to to go down to the Agway or the Giant Eagle, Trooper Cole. Get them a few bottles of Evian or Poland Spring Water. Hell, Perrier! How about some Perrier?"
Brian said nothing, just gave the Sergeant a little more of that patient look. Tony couldn't stand it and looked away. "Mice with pedigrees! Hair pie!"
*
Curt brought the rope, a length of triple-braided yellow nylon at least a hundred feet long. He made a sliding loop, cinched it around his waist, then gave the coil to Huddie Royer, who weighed two-fifty and always anchored when D Troop played tug-of-war against the other PSP octets during the Fourth of July picnic.
"If I give you the word," Tony told Huddie, "you yank him back like he just caught fire. And don't worry about breaking his collarbone or his thick skull pulling him through the door. Do you understand that?"
"Yes, Sarge."
"If you see him fall down, or just start swaying on his feet like he's lightheaded, don't wait for the word. Just yank. Got it?"
"Yes, Sarge."
"Good. I'm very glad that someone understands what's going on here. Fucking hair-pie summer camp snipe-hunt is what it is." He ran his hand through the short bristles of his hair, then turned to Curt again. "Do I need to tell you to turn around and come out of there if you sense anything--any slightest thing--wrong?"
"No."
"And if the trunk of that car comes open, Curtis, you fly. Got it? Fly out of there like a bigass bird."
"I will."
"Give me the video camera."
Curtis held it out arid Tony took it. Sandy wasn't there--missed the whole thing--but when Huddie later told him it was the only time he had ever seen the Sarge looking scared, Sandy was just as glad he spent that afternoon out on patrol. There
were some things you just didn't want to see.
"You have one minute in the shed, Trooper Wilcox. After that I drag you out whether you're fainting, farting, or singing "Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean"."
"Ninety seconds."
"No. And if you try one more time to bargain with me, your time goes down to thirty seconds."
*
Curtis Wilcox is standing in the sun outside the walk-in door on the north side of Shed B. The rope is tied around his waist. He looks young on the tape, younger with each passing year. He looked at that tape himself from time to time and probably felt the same, although he never said. And he doesn't look scared. Not a bit. Only excited. He waves to the camera and says, "I'll be right back."
"You better be," Tony replies.
Curt turns and goes into the shed. For a moment he looks ghostly, hardly there, then Tony moves the camera forward to get it out of the bright sun and you can see Curt clearly again. He crosses directly to the car and starts around to the back.
"No!" Tony shouts. "No, you dummy, you want to foul the rope? Check the gerbils, give em their goddam water, and get the hell out of there!"
Curt raises one hand without turning, giving him a thumbs-up. The picture jiggles as Tony uses the zoom to get in tighter on him.
Curtis looks in the driver's-side window, then stiffens and calls: "Holy shit!"
"Sarge, should I pull--" Huddie begins, and then Curt looks back over his shoulder. Tony's juggling the picture again--he doesn't have Curt's light touch with the camera and the image is going everywhere--but it's still easy enough to read the wide-eyed expression of shock on Curtis's face.