Desperation by Stephen King

Author:Stephen King
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3, pdf
Publisher: Signet
Published: 1997-08-02T04:00:00+00:00

2

As Tom Billingsley led Mary, the Carvers, and America’s greatest living novelist (at least in the novelist’s opinion) down the alley between The American West and the Desperation Feed and Grain, the wind hooted above them like air blown across the mouth of a pop bottle.

“Don’t use the flashlights,” Ralph said.

“Right,” Billingsley said. “And watch out here. Garbage cans, and a pile of old crap. Lumber, tin cans.”

They skirted around the huddle of cans and the pile of scrap lumber. Mary gasped as Marinville took her arm, at first not sure who it was. When she saw the long, somehow theatrical hair, she attempted to pull free. “Spare me the chivalry. I’m doing fine.”

“I’m not,” he said, holding on. “I don’t see for shit at night anymore. It’s like being blind.” He sounded different. Not humble, exactly—she had an idea that John Marinville could no more be humble than some people could sing middle C off a pitch-pipe—but at least human. She let him hold on.

“Do you see any coyotes?” Ralph asked her in a low voice.

She restrained an urge to make a smart come-back—at least he hadn’t called her “ma’am.” “No. But I can barely see my own hand in front of my face.”

“They’re gone,” David said. He sounded completely sure of himself. “At least for now.”

“How do you know?” Marinville asked.

David shrugged in the gloom. “Just do.”

And Mary thought they could probably trust him on it. That was how crazy things had gotten.

Billingsley led them around the corner. A rickety board fence ran along the backside of the movie theater, leaving a gap of about four feet. The old man walked slowly along this path with his hands held out. The others followed in single file; there was no room to double up. Mary was just starting to think Billingsley had gotten them down here on some sort of wild-goose chase when he stopped.

“Here we are.”

He bent, and Mary saw him pick something up—a crate, it looked like. He put it on top of another one, then stepped up onto the makeshift platform with a wince. He was standing in front of a dirty frosted-glass window. He put his hands on this, the fingers spread like starfish, and pushed. The window slid up.

“It’s the ladies’,” he said. “Watch out. There’s a little drop.”

He turned around and slid through, looking like a large, wrinkled boy entering the Over-the-Hill Gang’s club-house. David followed, then his father. Johnny Marinville went next, first almost falling off the crate platform as he turned around. He really was close to blind in the dark, she thought, and reminded herself never to ride in a car this man was driving. And a motorcycle? Had he really crossed the country on a motorcycle? If so, God must love him a lot more than she ever would.

She grabbed him by the back of the belt and steadied him. “Thanks,” he said, and this time he did sound humble. Then he was wriggling through the window, puffing and grunting, his long hair hanging in his face.

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