The Stand Read online

  He went back to the sandtrack, put it in gear, and drove it through the crash barriers. They broke off with a snapping, grinding sound and the crawler's big balloon tires rolled over them. The desert sun pounded down. Trashcan Man's peculiar eyes sparkled happily. In front of the gate, he got out of the sandtrack and then put it in gear again. The driverless track rolled forward and pushed the gate all the way open. Trashcan Man darted into the guardhouse.

  He squinched his eyes shut, but there was no explosion. That was good; they really had shut down completely. Their emergency systems might have run a month, perhaps even two, but in the end the heat and lack of regular maintenance had killed them. Still, he would be careful.

  Meanwhile, his sandtrack was rolling serenely toward the corrugated wall of a long Quonset hut. Trashcan Man trotted onto the base after it and caught up with it just as it was bumping over the curb of what a sign announced was Illinois Street. He put it back into neutral, and the sandtrack stopped. He got in, reversed, and drove around to the front of the Quonset.

  It was a barracks. The shadowy interior was filled with that sugar-and -cinnamon smell. There were perhaps twenty soldiers scattered among the fifty or so beds. Trashcan Man walked up the aisle between them, wondering where he was going. There was nothing in here for him, was there? These men had once been weapons of a sort, but they had been neutralized by the flu.

  But there was something at the very rear of the building that interested him. A sign. He walked up to read it. The heat in here was tremendous. It made his head thump and swell. But when he stood in front of the sign, he began to smile. Yes, it was here. Somewhere on this base was what he had been looking for.

  The sign showed a cartoon man in a cartoon shower. He was soaping his cartoon genitals busily; they were almost entirely covered with a drift of cartoon bubbles. The caption beneath read: REMEMBER! IT IS IN YOUR BEST INTEREST TO SHOWER DAILY!

  Below that was a yellow-and-black emblem that showed three triangles pointed downward.

  The symbol for radiation.

  Trashcan Man laughed like a child and clapped his hands in the stillness.

  CHAPTER 69

  Whitney Horgan found Lloyd in his room, lying on the big round bed he had most recently shared with Dayna Jurgens. There was a large gin and tonic balanced on his bare chest. He was staring solemnly up at his reflection in the overhead mirror.

  "Come on in," he said when he saw Whitney. "Don't stand on ceremony, for Chrissake. Don't bother to knock. Bastard." It came out as bassard.

  "You drunk, Lloyd?" Whitney asked cautiously.

  "Nope. Not yet. But I'm gettin there."

  "Is he here?"

  "Who? Fearless Leader?" Lloyd sat up. "He's around someplace. The Midnight Rambler." He laughed and lay back down.

  Whitney said in a low voice, "You want to watch what you're saying. You know it's not a good idea to hit the hard stuff when he's--"

  "Fuck it."

  "Remember what happened to Hec Drogan. And Strellerton. "

  Lloyd nodded. "You're right. The walls have ears. The fucking walls have ears. You ever hear that saying?"

  "Yeah, once or twice. It's a true saying around here, Lloyd."

  "You bet." Lloyd suddenly sat up and threw his drink across the room. The glass shattered. "There's one for the sweeper, right, Whitney?"

  "You okay, Lloyd?"

  "I'm all right. You want a gin and tonic?"

  Whitney hesitated for a moment. "Naw. I don't like them without the lime."

  "Hey, Jesus, don't say no just because of that! I got lime. Comes out of a little squeeze bottle." Lloyd went over to the bar and held up a plastic ReaLime. "Looks just like the Green Giant's left testicle. Funny, huh?"

  "Does it taste like lime?"

  "Sure," Lloyd said morosely. "What do you think it tastes like? Fuckin Cheerios? So what do you say? Be a man and have a drink with me."

  "Well ... okay."

  "We'll have them by the window and take in the view."

  "No," Whitney said, harshly and abruptly. Lloyd paused on his way to the bar, his face suddenly paling. He looked toward Whitney, and for a moment their eyes met.

  "Yeah, okay," Lloyd said. "Sorry, man. Poor taste."

  "That's okay."

  But it wasn't okay, and both of them knew it. The woman Flagg had introduced as his "bride" had taken a high dive the day before. Lloyd remembered Ace High saying that Dayna couldn't jump from the balcony because the windows didn't open. But the penthouse had a sundeck. Guess they must have thought none of the real high rollers--Arabs, most of them--would ever take the dive. A lot they knew.

  He fixed Whitney a gin and tonic and they sat and drank in silence for a while. Outside, the sun was going down in a red glare. At last Whitney said in a voice almost too low to be heard: "Do you really think she went on her own?"

  Lloyd shrugged. "What does it matter? Sure. I think she dived. Wouldn't you, if you was married to him? You ready?"

  Whitney looked at his glass and saw with some surprise that he was indeed ready. He handed it to Lloyd, who took it over to the bar. Lloyd was pouring the gin freehand, and Whitney had a nice buzz on.

  Again they drank in silence for a while, watching the sun go down.

  "What do you hear about that guy Cullen?" Whitney asked finally.

  "Nothing. Doodley-squat. El-zilcho. I don't hear nothing, Barry don't hear nothing. Nothing from Route 40, from Route 30, from Route 2 and 74 and I-15. Nothing from the back roads. They're all covered and they're all nothing. He's out in the desert someplace, and if he keeps moving at night and if he can figure out how to keep moving east, he's going to slip through. And what does it matter, anyhow? What can he tell them?"

  "I don't know."

  "I don't either. Let him go, that's what I say."

  Whitney felt uncomfortable. Lloyd was getting perilously close to criticizing the boss again. His buzz-on was stronger, and he was glad. Maybe soon he would find the nerve to say what he had come here to say.

  "I'll tell you something," Lloyd said, leaning forward. "He's losing his stuff. You ever hear that fucking saying? It's the eighth inning and he's losing his stuff and there's no-fucking-body warming up in the bullpen."

  "Lloyd, I--"

  "You ready?"

  "Sure, I guess."

  Lloyd made them new drinks. He handed one to Whitney, and a little shiver went through him as he sipped. It was almost raw gin.

  "Losing his stuff," Lloyd said, returning to his text. "First Dayna, then this guy Cullen. His own wife--if that's what she was--goes and takes a dive. Do you think her double-fucking-gainer from the penthouse balcony was in his game plan?"

  "We shouldn't be talking about it."

  "And Trashcan Man. Look what that guy did all by himself. With fiends like that, who needs enemas? That's what I'd like to know."

  "Lloyd--"

  Lloyd was shaking his head. "I don't understand it at all. Everything was going so good, right up to the night he came and said the old lady was dead over there in the Free Zone. He said the last obstacle was out of our way. But that's when things started to get funny."

  "Lloyd, I really don't think we should be--"

  "Now I just don't know. We can take em by land assault next spring, I guess. We sure as shit can't go before then. But by next spring, God knows what they might have rigged up over there, you know? We were going to hit them before they could think up any funny surprises, and now we can't. Plus, holy God on His throne, there's Trashy to think about. He's out there in the desert ramming around someplace, and I sure as hell--"

  "Lloyd," Whitney said in a low, choked voice. "Listen to me."

  Lloyd leaned forward, concerned. "What? What's the trouble, old hoss?"

  "I didn't even know if I'd have the guts to ask you," Whitney said. He was squeezing his glass compulsively. "Me and Ace High and Ronnie Sykes and Jenny Engstrom. We're cutting loose. You want to come? Christ, I must be crazy telling you this, with you so close to him."
/>   "Cutting loose? Where are you going?"

  "South America, I guess. Brazil. That ought to be just about far enough." He paused, struggling, then plunged on. "A lot of people have been leaving. Well, maybe not a lot, but quite a few, and there's more every day. They don't think Flagg can cut it. Some are going north, up to Canada. That's too frigging cold for me. But I got to get out. I'd go east if I thought they'd have me. And if I was sure we could get through." Whitney stopped abruptly and looked at Lloyd miserably. It was the face of a man who thinks he has gone much too far.

  "You're all right," Lloyd said softly. "I ain't going to blow the whistle on you, old hoss."

  "It's just ... all gone bad here," Whitney said miserably.

  "When you planning to go?" Lloyd asked.

  Whitney looked at him with narrow suspicion.

  "Aw, forget I asked," Lloyd said. "You ready?"

  "Not yet," Whitney said, looking into his glass.

  "I am." He went to the bar. With his back to Whitney he said, "I couldn't."

  "Huh?"

  "Couldn't!" Lloyd said sharply, and turned back to Whitney. "I owe him something. I owe him a lot. He got me out of a bad jam back in Phoenix and I been with him since then. Seems longer than it really is. Sometimes it seems like forever."

  "I'll bet."

  "But it's more than that. He's done something to me, made me brighter or something. I don't know what it is, but I ain't the same man I was, Whitney. Nothing like. Before ... him ... I was nothing but a minor leaguer. Now he's got me running things here, and I do okay. It seems like I think better. Yeah, he's made me brighter." Lloyd lifted the flawed stone from his chest, looked at it briefly, then dropped it again. He wiped his hand against his pants as though it had touched something nasty. "I know I ain't no genius now. I have to write everything I'm s'posed to do in a notebook or I forget it. But with him behind me I can give orders and most times things turn out right. Before, all I could do was take orders and get in jams. I've changed ... and he changed me. Yeah, it seems a lot longer than it really is.

  "When we got to Vegas, there were only sixteen people here. Ronnie was one of them; so was Jenny and poor old Hec Drogan. They were waiting for him. When we got into town, Jenny Engstrom got down on those pretty knees of hers and kissed his boots. I bet she never told you that in bed." He smiled crookedly at Whitney. "Now she wants to cut and run. Well, I don't blame her, or you either. But it sure doesn't take much to sour a good operation, does it?"

  "You're going to stick?"

  "To the very end, Whitney. His or mine. I owe him that." He didn't add that he still had enough faith in the dark man to believe that Whitney and the others would end up riding crosstrees, more likely than not. And there was something else. Here he was Flagg's second-in-command. What could he be in Brazil? Why, Whitney and Ronnie were both brighter than he was. He and Ace High would end up low chickens, and that wasn't to Lloyd's taste. Once he wouldn't have minded, but things had changed. And when your head changed, he was finding out, it most always changed forever.

  "Well, it might work out for all of us," Whitney said lamely.

  "Sure," Lloyd said, and thought: But I wouldn't want to be walking in your shoes if it comes out right for Flagg after all. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes when he finally has time to notice you down there in Brazil. Riding a crosstree might be the least of your worries then ...

  Lloyd raised his glass. "A toast, Whitney."

  Whitney raised his own glass.

  "Nobody gets hurt," Lloyd said. "That's my toast. Nobody gets hurt."

  "Man, I'll drink to that," Whitney said fervently, and they both did.

  Whitney left soon after. Lloyd kept on drinking. He passed out around nine-thirty and slept soddenly on the round bed. There were no dreams, and that was almost worth the price of the next day's hangover.

  When the sun rose on the morning of September 17, Tom Cullen made his camp a little north of Gunlock, Utah. It was cold enough for him to be able to see his breath puffing out in front of him. His ears were numb and cold. But he felt good. He had passed quite close to a rutted bad road the night before, and he had seen three men gathered around a small spluttering campfire. All three had guns.

  Trying to ease past them through a tangled field of boulders--he was now on the western edge of the Utah badlands--he had sent a small splatter of pebbles rolling and tumbling into a dry-wash. Tom froze. Warm wee-wee spilled down his legs, but he wasn't even aware that he'd done it in his pants like a little baby until an hour or so later.

  All three of them turned around, two of them bringing their weapons up to port arms. Tom's cover was thin, barely adequate. He was a shadow among shadows. The moon was behind a reef of clouds. If it chose this moment to come out ...

  One of them relaxed. "It's a deer," he said. "They're all over the place."

  "I think we should investigate," another had said.

  "Put your thumb up your asshole and investigate that," the third replied, and that was the end of it. They sat by the fire again, and Tom began to creep along, feeling for each step, watching as their campfire receded with agonizing slowness. An hour and it was only a spark on the slope below him. Finally it was gone and a great weight seemed to slip off his shoulders. He began to feel safe. He was still in the West and he knew enough to be careful--laws, yes--but the danger no longer seemed as thick, as if there were Indians or outlaws all around.

  And now, with the sun coming up, he rolled into a tight ball in the low thicket of bushes and prepared to go to sleep. Got to get some blankets, he thought. It's getting cold. Then sleep took him, suddenly and completely, as it always did.

  He dreamed of Nick.

  CHAPTER 70

  Trashcan Man had found what he wanted.

  He came along a hallway deep underground, a hallway as dark as a mine pit. In his left hand he held a flashlight. In his right hand he held a gun, because it was spooky down here. He was riding an electric tram that rolled almost silently along the wide corridor. The only sound it made was a low, almost subaural hum.

  The tram consisted of a seat for the driver and a large carry space. Resting in the carry space was an atomic warhead.

  It was heavy.

  Trash could not make an intelligent guess as to just how heavy it was, because he hadn't even been able to budge it by hand. It was long and cylindrical. It was cold. Running his hand over its curved surface, he had found it hard to believe that such a cold dead lump of metal could have the potential for so much heat.

  He had found it at four in the morning. He had gone back to the motor pool and had gotten a chainfall. He had brought the chainfall back down and had rigged it over the warhead. Ninety minutes later, it was nestled cozily into the electric tram, nose up. Stamped on the nose was A161410USAF. The hard rubber tires of the tram had settled appreciably when he put it in.

  Now he was coming to the end of the hallway. Straight ahead was the large freight elevator with its doors standing invitingly open. It was plenty big enough to take the tram, but of course there was no electricity. Trash had gotten down by the stairs. He had brought the chainfall down the same way. The chainfall was light compared to the warhead. It only weighed a hundred and fifty pounds or so. And still it had been a major chore getting it down five courses of stairs.

  How was he going to get the warhead up those stairs?

  Power-driver winch, his mind whispered.

  Sitting on the driver's seat and shining his flash randomly around, Trash nodded to himself. Sure, that was the ticket. Winch it up. Set a motor topside and pull it up, stair-riser by stair-riser, if he had to. But where was he going to find five hundred feet of chain all in one piece?

  Well, he probably wasn't. But he could weld pieces of chain together. Would that work? Would the welds hold? It was hard to say. And even if they did, what about all the switchbacks the stairs made going up?

  He hopped down and ran a caressing hand over the smooth, deadly surface of the warhead in the silent darkness.r />
  Love would find a way.

  Leaving the warhead in the tram, he began to climb the stairs again to see what he could find. A base like this, there would be a little of everything. He would find what he needed.

  He climbed two flights and paused to catch his breath. He suddenly wondered: Have I been taking radiation? They shielded all that stuff, shielded it with lead. But in the movies you saw on TV, the men who handled radioactive stuff were always wearing those protective suits and film badges that turned color if you got a dose. Because it was silent. You couldn't see it. It just settled into your flesh and your bones. You didn't even know you were sick until you started puking and losing your hair and having to run to the bathroom every few minutes.

  Was all that going to happen to him?

  He discovered that he didn't care. He was going to get that bomb up. Somehow he was going to get it up. Somehow he was going to get it back to Las Vegas. He had to make up for the terrible thing he had done at Indian Springs. If he had to die to atone, then he would die.

  "My life for you," he whispered in the darkness, and began to climb the stairs again.

  CHAPTER 71

  It was nearly midnight on the evening of September 17. Randall Flagg was in the desert, wrapped in three blankets, from toes to chin. A fourth blanket was swirled around his head in a kind of burnoose, so that only his eyes and the tip of his nose were visible.

  Little by little, he let all thoughts slip away. He grew still. The stars were cold fire, witchlight.

  He sent out the Eye.

  He felt it separate from himself with a small and painless tug. It went flying away, silent as a hawk, rising on dark thermals. Now he had joined with the night. He was eye of crow, eye of wolf, eye of weasel, eye of cat. He was the scorpion, the strutting trapdoor spider. He was a deadly poison arrow slipping endlessly through the desert air. Whatever else might have happened, the Eye had not left him.

  Flying effortlessly, the world of earthbound things spread out below him like a clockface.

  They're coming ... they're almost in Utah now ...

  He flew high, wide, and silent over a graveyard world. Below him the desert lay like a whited sepulcher cut by the dark ribbon of the interstate highway. He flew east, over the state line now, his body far behind, glittering eyes rolled up to blind whites.