Stephen King - Joyland

As she put the gun back on the counter, Lane used his bandanna to wipe a smutch of sweat and grime from the back of his neck. He spoke very softly as he did this chore. “Jesus Horatio Christ. Nobody gets eight peeps.”

“I only nicked the last one, and at this range I should have had them all.” She wasn’t boasting, just stating a fact.

Mike said, almost apologetically: “Told you she was good.” He curled a fist over his mouth and coughed into it. “She was thinking about the Olympics, only then she dropped out of college.”

“You really are Annie Oakley,” Lane said, stuffing his bandanna back into a rear pocket. “Any prize, pretty lady. You pick.”

“I already have my prize,” she said. “This has been a wonderful, wonderful day. I can never thank you guys enough.” She turned in my direction. “And this guy. Who actually had to talk me into it. Because I’m a fool.” She kissed the top of Mike’s head. “But now I better get my boy home. Where’s Milo?”

We looked around and saw him halfway down Joyland Avenue, sitting in front of Horror House with his tail curled around his paws.

“Milo, come!” Annie called.

His ears pricked up but he didn’t come. He didn’t even turn in her direction, just stared at the façade of Joyland’s only dark ride. I could almost believe he was reading the drippy, cobweb-festooned invitation: COME IN IF YOU DARE.

While Annie was looking at Milo, I stole a glance at Mike. Although he was all but done in from the excitements of the day, his expression was hard to mistake. It was satisfaction. I know it’s crazy to think he and his Jack Russell had worked this out in advance, but I did think it.

I still do.

“Roll me down there, Mom,” Mike said. “He’ll come with me.”

“No need for that,” Lane said. “If you’ve got a leash, I’m happy to go get him.”

“It’s in the pocket on the back of Mike’s wheelchair,” Annie said.

“Um, probably not,” Mike said. “You can check but I’m pretty sure I forgot it.”

Annie checked while I thought, In a pig’s ass you forgot.

“Oh, Mike,” Annie said reproachfully. “Your dog, your responsibility. How many times have I told you?”

“Sorry, Mom.” To Fred and Lane he said, “Only we hardly ever use it because Milo always comes.”

“Except when we need him to.” Annie cupped her hands around her mouth. “Milo, come on ! Time to go home!” Then, in a much sweeter voice: “Biscuit, Milo! Come get a biscuit!”

Her coaxing tone would have brought me on the run—probably with my tongue hanging out—but Milo didn’t budge.

“Come on Dev,” Mike said. As if I were also in on the plan but had missed my cue, somehow. I grabbed the wheelchair’s handles and rolled Mike down Joyland Avenue toward the funhouse. Annie followed. Fred and Lane stayed where they were, Lane leaning on the chump board among the laid-out popguns on their chains. He had removed his derby and was spinning it on one finger.

When we got to the dog, Annie regarded him crossly. “What’s wrong with you, Milo?”

Milo thumped his tail at the sound of Annie’s voice, but didn’t look at her. Nor did he move. He was on guard and intended to stay that way unless he was hauled away.

“Michael, please make your dog heel so we can go home. You need to get some r—”

Two things happened before she could finish. I’m not exactly sure of the sequence. I’ve gone over it often in the years since then—most often on nights when I can’t sleep—and I’m still not sure. I think the rumble came first: the sound of a ride-car starting to roll along its track. But it might have been the padlock dropping. It’s even possible that both things happened at the same time.

The big American Master fell off the double doors below the Horror House façade and lay on the boards, gleaming in the October sunshine. Fred Dean said later that the shackle must not have been pushed firmly into the locking mechanism, and the vibration of the moving car caused it to open all the way. This made perfect sense, because the shackle was indeed open when I checked it.

Still bullshit, though.

I put that padlock on myself, and remember the click as the shackle clicked into place. I even remember tugging on it to make sure it caught, the way you do with a padlock. And all that begs a question Fred didn’t even try to answer: with the Horror House breakers switched off, how could that car have gotten rolling in the first place? As for what happened next…

Here’s how a trip through Horror House ended. On the far side of the Torture Chamber, just when you thought the ride was over and your guard was down, a screaming skeleton (nicknamed Hagar the Horrible by the greenies) came flying at you, seemingly on a collision course with your car. When it pulled away, you saw a stone wall dead ahead. Painted there in fluorescent green was a rotting zombie and a gravestone with END OF THE LINE printed on it. Of course the stone wall split open just in time, but that final double-punch was extremely effective. When the car emerged into the daylight, making a semicircle before going back in through another set of double doors and stopping, even grown men were often screaming their heads off. Those final shrieks (always accompanied by gales of oh-shit-you-got-me laughter) were Horror House’s best advertisement.

There were no screams that day. Of course not, because when the double doors banged open, the car that emerged was empty. It rolled through the semicircle, bumped lightly against the next set of double doors, and stopped.

“O -kay,” Mike said. It was a whisper so low that I barely heard it, and I’m sure Annie didn’t—all her attention had been drawn to the car. The kid was smiling.

“What made it do that?” Annie asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Short-circuit, maybe. Or some kind of power surge.” Both of those explanations sounded good, as long as you didn’t know about the breakers being off.

I stood on my tiptoes and peered into the stalled car. The first thing I noticed was that the safety bar was up. If Eddie Parks or one of his greenie minions forgot to lower it, the bar was supposed to snap down automatically once the ride was in motion. It was a state-mandated safety feature. The bar being up on this one made a goofy kind of sense, though, since the only rides in the park that had power that morning were the ones Lane and Fred had turned on for Mike.

I spotted something beneath the semicircular seat, something as real as the roses Fred had given Annie, only not red.

It was a blue Alice band.

We headed back to the van. Milo, once more on best behavior, padded along beside Mike’s wheelchair.

“I’ll be back as soon as I get them home,” I told Fred. “Put in some extra hours.”

He shook his head. “You’re eighty-six for today. Get to bed early, and be here tomorrow at six. Pack a couple of extra sandwiches, because we’ll all be working late. Turns out that storm’s moving a little faster than the weather forecasters expected.”

Annie looked alarmed. “Should I pack some stuff and take Mike to town, do you think? I’d hate to when he’s so tired, but—”

“Check the radio this evening,” Fred advised. “If NOAA issues a coastal evacuation order, you’ll hear it in plenty of time, but I don’t think that’ll happen. This is just going to be your basic cap of wind. I’m a little worried about the high rides, that’s all—the Thunderball, the Shaker, and the Spin.”

“They’ll be okay,” Lane said. “They stood up to Agnes last year, and that was a bona fide hurricane.”

“Does this storm have a name?” Mike asked.