Desperation

by Stephen King

We’re behaving like characters in a cheap horror movie, she thought dismally, staying when we know we should go, poking where we have no business poking.

Wasn’t that what most of the bad stuff in the world was about, staying when you knew damned well you should go, pushing on when you knew you should cut and run?

Several large rattlesnakes were on the table, crawling restlessly among the dishes, shaking their tails.

Several large rattlesnakes were on the table, crawling restlessly among the dishes, shaking their tails. As she looked, the bodice of the woman’s apron bulged. For one moment Cynthia thought the woman was still alive in spite of her purple face and glazed eyes, that she was breathing, and then a triangular snake’s head pushed up through the ruffles, and tiny black buckshot eyes looked across at her. The snake opened its mouth and hissed. Its tongue danced. And more of them. Snakes on the floor under the table, crawling over the dead man’s shoes. Snakes beyond them, in the kitchen—she could see a huge one, a diamond-back, slithering along the Formica counter beneath the microwave.

She hated snakes above all creatures; they revolted her in some fundamental sense far below her ability to articulate or understand.

Those trailers were now drawn across the road, the biggest in front, the others behind it like a secondary wall put up in case the main line of defense is breached.

Cynthia looked to her left and saw that the stake fence between the road and the trailer park had been knocked over. Three of the trailers—the biggest ones—were gone; she could tell where they had been by the cement-block foundations upon which they had sat. Those trailers were now drawn across the road, the biggest in front, the others behind it like a secondary wall put up in case the main line of defense is breached. One of these latter two was the rusty Airstream on which the Rattlesnake Trailer Park’s satellite dish had been mounted. The dish itself now lay upended at the edge of the park like a vast black hubcap. It had taken down some lady’s clothesline when it fell. Pants and shirts flapped from it.

There was another hard thud, this one from over their heads. She looked up and saw the roof of the cab was dented down. “Steve, get us out of here!” she cried.

He turned on the wipers, and one of them pushed the squashed buzzard down onto the outside air vents.

“Under the trailer. Coming out from under that trailer. See them?”

Emerging from beneath the trailer, strutting like the vanguard of an advancing army, was a battalion of scorpions.

The buzzard hit the passenger window of the truck like a bomb filled with blood instead of explosive.

“It’s okay, they can’t get in!”

“It’s all right!” he cried, almost laughing and putting an arm around her as he echoed her thought. “It’s okay, they can’t get in!” “Yes, they can!” she shouted back. “The birds can, if we stay here! If we give them time! And the snakes . . . the scorpions . . .” “What? What are you saying?” “Could they make holes in the tires?” It was the RV she was seeing in her mind’s eye, all its tires flat . . . the RV, and the purplefaced man back there in the ranch-house, his face tattooed with holes in pairs, holes so small they looked almost like flecks of red pepper. “They could, couldn’t they? Enough of them, all stinging and biting at once, they could.”

The cellular phone was lying all the way across the holding area, at the foot of a file-cabinet with a PAT BUCHANAN FOR PRESIDENT sticker on it. The gadget didn’t look broken, but— Johnny pulled up the antenna and flipped it open. The phone beeped and the S appeared, good, but there were no transmission-bars, bad. Very bad. Still, he had to try. He pushed the NAME/MENU button until STEVE appeared, then squeezed the SEND button.

“Movie theater,” Mary said. “I saw it when he drove us into town. It looked closed up.”

Johnny looked ahead at Billingsley, who just happened to know a way into the town’s old deserted movie theater.

“Something wants to keep us in town,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”

The radio turned on and off when you touched it, the lights flickered, the aquarium fucking exploded. Of course it’s powerful.

There ought to be a picture of that thing next to ugly in the dictionary, Cynthia had said, and she was right about that, oh yes, no question, but Steve was suddenly overwhelmed by the idea that anything that ugly also had to be powerful. Are you kidding? he thought distractedly. The radio turned on and off when you touched it, the lights flickered, the aquarium fucking exploded. Of course it’s powerful. “What was that little piece of statuary we found back there?” he asked. “What was up with that?” “I don’t know. I only know that when I touched it . . .” “What? When you touched it, what?” “It seemed like I remembered every rotten thing that ever happened to me in my life,” she said.

Are you a nice person? Not a crazy serial killer or anything? Are you nice, are you nice, are you a nice person?

“What’s wrong?” she moaned from beside him. “Oh, Jesus, Steve, I didn’t mean to do that, what’s wrong with us?” “I don’t know,” he said hoarsely, “but I’ll tell you something I do know—we just got us a little taste of what happened in this town, and I don’t like it much. I can’t get that fucking stone thing out of my mind.”

It was a timberwolf, easily the length and height of a German Shepherd, but leaner.

She reached out and grabbed his arm. Steve followed her gaze and saw something come slinking into the arc of the truck’s headlights. The dust was now so thick that at first the animal looked like a ghost, some Indian-conjured spirit from a hundred years ago. It was a timberwolf, easily the length and height of a German Shepherd, but leaner. Its eyes were sockets of crimson in the headlights. Following it like attendants in some malign fairy-tale were two files of desert scorpions with their stingers furled over their backs. Flanking the scorpions were coyotes, two on each side. They appeared to be grinning nervously.

It was the statue-fragment, lying there on its side at the entrance to the cafe parking lot, lying there in the blowing dust, mouth snarling, head twisted, eyes starting from their sockets. Fury, rage, sex, power—it seemed to broadcast these things at the truck in a tight cone, like some sort of magnetic field.

Because in a very real sense, they would be gone.

And if they saw him before they made it down to the movie theater, they could always duck into one of these other places.

He held the useless phone out to the boy, and as David took it, Johnny saw three transmission-bars appear beside the S. Not one or two but three.

“Mr. Marinville’s here. He’s okay. Are you all right?” “I don’t know,” Steve said. “There’s a wolf, and he brought this thing . . . it’s like a statue, only—”

Cynthia honked the horn again. The wolf got to its feet. Its ears were still laid back. It looked pissed, but it also looked confused. When Cynthia honked the horn a third time, Steve put both of his hands over hers and helped. The wolf looked at them a moment longer, its head cocked and its eyes a nasty yellow-green in the glare of the headlights. Then it bent, seized the piece of statuary in its teeth, and disappeared back the way it had come.

It’ll do you good not to be able to have what you want, Johnny, she thought. Do you a world of good.

He doesn’t want the coyotes across the street to hear what he’s saying.

He doesn’t want the coyotes across the street to hear what he’s saying. I know how crazy that sounds, but it’s what he’s doing. And you know something even crazier? I think he’s right.

“There’s an old movie theater,” David said in a low voice. “It’s called The American West.” He glanced at Billingsley for confirmation.

“How’d you do it, David? Magic?” The kid looked at him as if Marinville were crazy. “God,” he said. “God, you dope,” Mary said, smiling in a way that did not feel familiar to her at all. This wasn’t the time to be pulling Marinville’s chain, but she simply couldn’t resist.

Then he clapped his hands together once, sharply. “Tak!” One of the coyotes lifted its snout and howled. The sound made Mary shudder. “Tak, ah lah! Tak!”

Marinville stepped off the sidewalk and into the street, his long gray hair blowing out and making him look like an Old Testament prophet. The coyotes got to their feet, and the wind brought her the sound of their growls. Marinville had to be hearing them, too, but he went on another step or two nevertheless. He half-closed his eyes for a moment, not as if the sand was bothering them but as if he was trying to remember something. Then he clapped his hands together once, sharply. “Tak!” One of the coyotes lifted its snout and howled. The sound made Mary shudder. “Tak, ah lah! Tak!” The coyotes appeared to move a little closer together, but that was all. Marinville clapped his hands again. “Tak! . . . Ah lah . . . Tak! . . . oh, shit on this, I was never any good at foreign languages, anyhow.” He stood looking disgusted and uncertain. That they might attack him—him and his unloaded Mossberg .22—seemed the furthest thing from his mind.

“Don’t speak to them in the language of the dead, Mr. Marinville.”

The five of them began trudging north along Main Street toward The American West.

“Where you going? I thought the kid told you the movie theater!”

A rickety board fence ran along the backside of the movie theater, leaving a gap of about four feet.

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.

It’s just an old movie theater, there’s rats and the seats are full of mildew, but so what?

“How many people are we talking about?” Ralph asked. “In Desperation? Hundred and ninety, maybe two hundred. With the new mine people starting to trickle in, maybe fifty or sixty more. Although it’s hard to tell how many of em would’ve been here and how many up to the pit.”

He sat at the desk for a little while and said some stuff. That’s when I started to think he must be crazy, because none of it made sense.”

I didn’t know he was crazy, not then, how could I? He was quiet, but he didn’t give any signs that he was crazy. I started to get that idea later, but at first I was just convinced I’d done something bad in a blackout. That I’d been out driving, maybe, and hurt someone. I . . . I did something like that once before.” “When did he come for you?” Mary asked. Billingsley had to think about it in order to be sure. “Day before yesterday. Just before sundown. I was in bed, my head hurting, thinking about getting something for my hangover. An aspirin, and a little hair of the dog that bit me. He came and got me right out of bed. I didn’t have anything on but my underwear shorts. He let me dress. Helped me. But he wouldn’t let me take a drink even though I was shaking all over, and he wouldn’t tell me why he was taking me in.” He paused, still rubbing the flesh beneath his eyes. Mary wished he would stop doing that, it was making her nervous. “Later on, after he had me in a cell, he brought me a hot dinner. He sat at the desk for a little while and said some stuff. That’s when I started to think he must be crazy, because none of it made sense.” “ ‘I see holes like eyes,’ ” Mary said. Billingsley nodded. “Yeah, like that. ‘My head is full of blackbirds,’ that’s another one I remember. And a lot more I don’t. They were like Thoughts for the Day out of a book written by a crazy person.”

Mary began to giggle. It made her need to pee worse, but she couldn’t help it. It was all just too perfect, too wonderfully round.

“He picked you out,” David persisted. “Well . . . maybe. I can’t say for sure. Everything seemed jake until he found the dope.” Mary held her hands up. “Whoa, whoa, time out.” Marinville looked at her. “This dope you had—” “It wasn’t mine, don’t go getting that idea. You think I’d try driving cross-country on a Harley with half a pound of grass in my saddlebag? My brains may be fried, but not that fried.” Mary began to giggle. It made her need to pee worse, but she couldn’t help it. It was all just too perfect, too wonderfully round. “Did it have a smile-sticker on it?” she asked, giggling harder than ever. She didn’t really need an answer to this question, but she wanted it, just the same. “Mr. Smiley-Smile?”

“Jews,” the driver said, “must die. And Catholics. Mormons, too. Tak.”

In the holding area, all the cells which had been occupied were now standing open and empty.

The door opened. One foot swung out, then another. The figure in the Sam Browne belt stood up, slammed the door shut. It held its new hat under its arm for the time being. In its other hand it held the shotgun the woman, Mary, had grabbed off the desk. It walked around to the front door. Here, flanking the steps, were two coyotes. They whined uneasily and shrank down on their haunches, grinning sycophantic doggy grins at the approaching figure, which passed them with no acknowledgment at all. It reached for the door, and then its hand froze. The door was ajar. A vagary of the wind had sucked it most of the way shut . . . but not completely. “What the fuck?” it muttered, and opened the door. It went upstairs fast, first putting the hat on (jamming it down hard; it didn’t fit so well now) and then shifting the shotgun to both hands. A coyote lay dead at the top of the stairs. The door which led into the holding area was also standing open. The thing with the shotgun in its hands stepped in, knowing already what it would see, but the knowing did not stop the angry roar which came out of its chest. Outside, at the foot of the steps, the coyotes whined and cringed and squirted urine. On the police-cruiser, the buzzards also heard the cry of the thing upstairs and fluttered their wings uneasily, almost lifting off and then settling back, darting their heads restlessly at each other, as if to peck. In the holding area, all the cells which had been occupied were now standing open and empty. “That boy,” the figure in the doorway whispered. Its hands were white on the stock of the shotgun. “That nasty little drug user.”

The woman Collie Entragian had taken from the detention area and down the stairs had been five-six, a hundred and thirty pounds. This thing looked like that woman’s very big sister: six-three, broad-shouldered, probably two hundred pounds.

It stood there a moment longer, then stepped slowly into the room. Its eyes shifted back and forth in its expressionless face. Its hat—a Smokey-style with a flat brim—was slowly rising again as the thing’s hair pushed it up. It had a great deal more hair than the hat’s previous owner. The woman Collie Entragian had taken from the detention area and down the stairs had been five-six, a hundred and thirty pounds. This thing looked like that woman’s very big sister: six-three, broad-shouldered, probably two hundred pounds. It was wearing a coverall it had taken from the supply shed before driving back out of what the mining company called Rattlesnake Number Two and the townspeople had for over a hundred years called the China Pit. The coverall was a bit tight in the breast and the hip, but still better than this body’s old clothes; they were as useless to it now as Ellen Carver’s old concerns and desires. As for Entragian, it had his belt, badge, and hat; it wore his pistol on her hip.

“Tak ah wan! Tak ah lah! Mi him, en tow! En tow!”

“Tak!” the creature standing by the desk said. Its face was slack and doughy, a cruel parody of the face of the woman who, ten hours before, had been reading her daughter a Curious George book and sharing a cup of cocoa with her. Yet the eyes in that face were alive and aware and venomous, hideously like the eyes of the thing resting on her palm. Now she took it in her other hand and raised it over her head, into the light of the hanging glass globe over the desk. “Tak ah wan! Tak ah lah! Mi him, en tow! En tow!” Recluse spiders came hurrying toward it from the darkness of the stairwell, from cracks in the baseboard, from the dark corners of the empty cells. They gathered around it in a circle. Slowly, it lowered the stone spider to the desk. “Tak!” it cried softly. “Mi him, en tow.”

It raised Ellen Carver’s hands and began tapping Ellen Carver’s fingers meditatively against Ellen Carver’s collarbones.

She continued to look at Billingsley as if she had never seen a bigger fool. “Ever heard of keys, oldtimer? The cops have keys to all the businesses in these little towns.” “To the open ones, that’s so,” Billingsley replied quietly. “But The American West hasn’t been open for a long time. The doors ain’t just locked, they’re boarded shut. The kids used the fire escape to get in up front, but that ended last March, when it fell down. Nope, I reckon we’re as safe here as anywhere.”

“I don’t think it was radiation sickness,” Mary said. “I’ve seen pictures of that, and—”

“I think that friend Entragian may be dead by the time the storm ends,” he said. “If he’s not already.” Ralph looked over and nodded. David hunkered by the TV, hands loosely clasped between his knees, looking at Johnny with deep concentration. “Why?” Audrey asked. “How?” “You haven’t seen him?” Mary asked her. “Of course I have. Just not today. Today I only heard him driving around . . . walking around . . . and talking to himself. I haven’t actually seen him since yesterday.” “Is there anything radioactive around here, ma’am?” Ralph asked Audrey. “Was it ever, like, some sort of dumping ground for nuclear waste, or maybe old weapons? Missile warheads, or something? Because the cop looked like he was falling apart.” “I don’t think it was radiation sickness,” Mary said. “I’ve seen pictures of that, and—”

“What that kid did back there—the way he got out of that cell—that was impossible,” Billingsley said.

“What that kid did back there—the way he got out of that cell—that was impossible,” Billingsley said. “Then we must still be back there, locked up,” Johnny said. He thought he sounded all right—pretty much like himself—but what the old veterinarian was saying had already occurred to him. Even a phrase to describe it had occurred to him—unobtrusive miracles. He would have written it down in his notebook, if he hadn’t dropped it beside Highway 50. “Is that what you think?” “No, we’re here, and we saw him do what he did,” Billingsley said. “Greased himself up with soap and squeezed out through the bars like a watermelon seed. Looked like it made sense, didn’t it? But I tell you, friend, not even Houdini could have done it that way. Because of the head. He shoulda stuck at the head, but he didn’t.” He looked them over, one by one, finishing with Ralph. Ralph was looking at Billingsley now instead of at the seats, but Johnny wasn’t sure he understood what the old guy was saying. And maybe that was for the best.

It picked the dead coyote up and examined it. “Soma dies; pneuma departs; only sarx remains,” it said in a voice that was a paradox: both sonorous and entirely without tone.

It picked the dead coyote up and examined it. “Soma dies; pneuma departs; only sarx remains,” it said in a voice that was a paradox: both sonorous and entirely without tone. “So it has always been; so shall it always be; life sucks, then you die.” It carried the animal downstairs, paws and shattered head dangling, body swaying like a bloody fur stole. The creature holding it stood for a moment inside the main doors of the Municipal Building, looking out into the blowy dark, listening to the wind. “So cah set!” it exclaimed, then turned away and took the animal into the Town Office.

As if the closed book could be reopened and read again, with a different ending.

It looked at the coathooks to the right of the door and saw immediately that the girl—Pie, to her brother—had been taken down and wrapped in a drape. Its pale face twisted in anger as it looked at the child’s covered form. “Took her down!” it told the dead coyote in its arms. “Rotten boy took her down! Stupid, troublemaking boy!” Yes. Feckless boy. Rude boy. Foolish boy. In some ways that last was the best, wasn’t it? The truest. Foolish prayboy trying to make at least some part of it come right, as if any part of a thing like this ever could be, as if death were an obscenity that could be scrubbed off life’s wall by a strong arm. As if the closed book could be reopened and read again, with a different ending. Yet its anger was twisted through with fear, like a yellow stitch through red cloth, because the boy was not giving up, and so the rest of them were not giving up. They should not have dared to run from (Entragian her it them) even if their cell doors had been standing wide open. Yet they had. Because of the boy, the wretched overblown prideful praying boy . . .

That he should have covered her!

A kind of dull warmth on its fingers and palms. It looked down and saw that it had plunged Ellen’s hands into the coyote’s belly all the way to the wrists. It had intended to hang the coyote on one of the hooks, simply because that was what it had done with some of the others, but now another idea occurred. It carried the coyote across to the green bundle on the floor, knelt, and pulled the drape open. It looked down with a silent snarling mouth at the dead girl who had grown inside this present body. That he should have covered her! It pulled Ellen’s hands, now dressed in lukewarm blood-gloves, out of the coyote and laid the animal down on top of Kirsten. It opened the coyote’s jaws and placed them around the child’s neck. There was something both grisly and fantastic about this tableau de la mort; it was like a woodcut illustration from a black fairy-tale.

how naturally zero reasserted itself in the artificially concocted integers of men.