Night Shift

by Stephen King

They breasted a gentle rise and there was Gatlin below them, all three blocks of it, looking like a set from a movie about the Depression. “There'll be a constable,” Burt said, and wondered why the sight of that hick one-timetable town dozing in the sun should have brought a lump of dread into his throat. They passed a speed sign proclaiming that no more than thirty was now in order, and another sign, rust-flecked, which said: YOU ARE NOW ENTERING GATLIN, NICEST LITTLE TOWN IN NEBRASKA—OR ANYWHERE ELSE! POP. 5431. Dusty elms stood on both sides of the road, most of them diseased. They passed the Gatlin Lumberyard and a 76 gas station, where the price signs swung slowly in a hot noon breeze: REG 35.9 HI-TEST 38.9, and another which said: HI TRUCKERS DIESEL FUEL AROUND BACK. They crossed Elm Street, then Birch Street, and came up on the town square. The houses lining the streets were plain wood with screened porches. Angular and functional. The lawns were yellow and dispirited. Up ahead a mongrel dog walked slowly out into the middle of Maple Street, stood looking at them for a moment, then lay down in the road with its nose on its paws. “Stop,” Vicky said. “Stop right here.” Burt pulled obediently to the curb. “Turn around. Let's take the body to Grand Island. That's not too far, is it? Let's do that.” “Vicky, what's wrong?” “What do you mean, what's wrong?” she asked, her voice rising thinly. “This town is empty, Burt. There's nobody here but us. Can't you feel that?” He h...