Stephen King: Dreamcatcher

That’s an eagle, Owen thought.

He managed to get a breath, and although the exhale was more blood than air, he was able to get up on his elbows. He saw two figures emerge from the tangle of birches and pines, bent low, very much in combat-advance mode. One was squat and broad-shouldered, the other slim and gray-haired and positively perky. Johnson and Kurtz. The bulldog and the greyhound. His luck had run out after all. In the end, luck always did.

Kurtz knelt beside him, eyes sparkling. In one hand he held a triangle of newspaper. It was battered and slightly curved from its long trip in Kurtz’s rear pocket, but still recognizable. It was a cocked hat. A fool’s hat. “Tough luck, buck,” Kurtz said.

Owen nodded. It was. Very tough luck. “I see you found time to make me a little something. “'I did. Did you achieve your prime objective, at least?” Kurtz lifted his chin in the direction of the shaft house. “Got him,” Owen managed, His mouth was full of blood. He spat it out, tried to pull in another breath, and heard the good part of it wheeze out of some new hole instead.

“Well, then,” Kurtz said benevolently, “all’s well that ends well, wouldn’t you say?” He put the newspaper hat tenderly on Owen’s head. Blood soaked it immediately, spreading upward, turning the UFO story red.

There was another scream from somewhere out over the Reservoir, perhaps from one of the islands that were actually hills poking up from a purposely drowned landscape. “That’s an eagle,” Kurtz said, and patted Owen’s shoulder. “Count yourself lucky, laddie. God sent you a warbird to sing you to-'Kurtz’s head exploded in a spray of blood and brains and bone.

Owen saw one final expression in the man’s blue, white-lashed eyes: amazed disbelief. For a moment Kurtz remained on his knees, then toppled forward on what remained of his face. Behind him, Freddy Johnson stood with his carbine still raised and smoke drifting from the muzzle.

Freddy, Owen tried to say. No sound came out, but Freddy must have read his lips. He nodded. “didn’t want to, but the bastard was going to do it to me. Didn’t have to read his mind to know that. Not after all these years.” Finish it, Owen tried to say. Freddy nodded again. Perhaps there was a vestige of that goddam telepathy left inside Freddy, after all.

Owen was fading. Tired and fading. Goodnight, sweet ladies, goodnight, David, goodnight, Chet. Goodnight, sweet prince. He lay back on the snow and it was like falling back into a bed stuffed with the softest down. From somewhere, faint and far, he heard the eagle scream again. They had invaded its territory, disturbed its snowy autumn peace, but soon they would be gone. The eagle would have the reservoir to itself again.

We were heroes, Owen thought. Damned if we weren’t. Fuck your hat, Kurtz, we were h -

He never heard the final shot.

There had been more firing; now there was silence. Henry sat in the back seat of the Humvee beside his dead friend, trying to decide what to do next. The chances that they had all killed each other seemed slim. The chances that the good guys-correction, the good guy had taken out the bad ones seemed slimmer still.

His first impulse following this conclusion was to vacate the Hummer posthaste and hide in the woods. Then he looked at the snow (If I ever see snow again, he thought, it’ll be too soon) and rejected the idea. If Kurtz or whoever was with him came back in the next half hour, Henry’s tracks would still be there. They would follow his trail, and at the end of it they’d shoot him like a rabid dog. Or a weasel.

Get a gun, then. Shoot them before they can shoot you.

A better idea. He was no Wyatt Earp, but he could shoot straight. Shooting men was a lot different from shooting deer, you didn’t have to be a headshrinker to know that, but he believed, given a clear line of fire, he could shoot these guys with very little hesitation.

He was reaching for the doorhandle when he heard a surprised curse, a thump, yet another gunshot. This one was very close. Henry thought someone had lost his footing and gone down in the snow, discharging his weapon when he landed on his ass. Perhaps the son of a bitch had just shot himself? Was that too much to hope for? Wouldn’t that just-

But no. No joy. Henry heard a low grunt as the person who’d fallen got up and came on again. There was only one option, and Henry took it. He lay back down on the seat, put Duddits’s arms around him again (as best he could), and played dead. He didn’t think there was much chance this hugger-mugger would work, The bad guys had passed by on their way in-obviously, as he was still alive-but on their way in they must have been in a pants-ripping hurry. Now they would be a lot less likely to be fooled by a few bullet holes, some broken glass, and the blood of poor old Duddits’s final hemorrhages.

Henry heard soft, crunching footsteps in the snow. Only one set, by the sound. Probably the infamous Kurtz. Last man standing. Darkness approaching. Death in the afternoon. No longer his old friend-now he was only playing dead-but approaching, just the same.

Henry closed his eyes… waited…

The footsteps passed the Humvee without slowing.

Freddy Johnson’s strategic goal was, for the time being, both extremely practical and extremely short-term: he wanted to get the goddam Hummer turned around without getting stuck. If he managed that, he wanted to get past the break in East Street (where the Subaru Owen had been chasing had come to grief) without getting ditched himself If he made it back to the access road, he might widen his horizons a trifle. The idea of the Mass Pike surfaced briefly in his mind as he swung open the door of the boss’s Hummer and slid behind the wheel. There was a lot of western America down 1-90. A lot of places to hide.

The stench of stale farts and chilly ethyl alcohol struck him like a slap as he swung the door closed. Pearly! Goddam Pearly! In the excitement, he had forgotten all about that little motherfucker.

Freddy turned, raising the carbine but Pearly was still out cold. No need to use another bullet. He could just tip Perlmutter out into the snow. If he was lucky, Pearly would freeze to death without ever waking up. Him, and his little sideki-

Pearly wasn’t sleeping, though. Nor out cold. Nor in a coma, not even that. Pearly was dead. And he was… shrunken, somehow. Almost mummified. His cheeks were drawn in, hollow, wrinkled. The sockets of his eyes were deep divots, as if behind the thin veils of his closed lids the eyeballs had fallen into what was now a hollow bucket. And he was tilted strangely against the passenger door, one leg raised, almost crossed over the other. It was as if he had died trying to perform the ever-popular one-cheek-sneak. His fatigue pants were now dark, the muted colors turned to mud, and the seat under him was wet. The fingers of the stain spreading toward Freddy were red.

“What the f-”

From the back seat there arose an ear-splitting yammering; it was like listening to a powerful stereo turned rapidly up to full volume. Freddy caught movement from the comer of his right eye. A creature beyond belief appeared in the rearview mirror. It tore off Freddy’s ear and then struck at his cheek, punched through into his mouth, and latched onto his jaw at the inner gumline. And then Archie Perlmutter’s shit-weasel tore off the side of Freddy’s face as a hungry man might tear a drumstick off a chicken.

Freddy shrieked and discharged his weapon into the passenger door of the Hummer. He got an arm up and tried to shove the thing off, his fingers slipped on its slick, newborn skin. The weasel withdrew, tossed its head back, and swallowed what it had tom off like a parrot with a piece of raw steak. Freddy flailed for the driver’s-side doorhandle and found it, but before he could yank it up the thing struck again, this time burying its mouth in the muscular flesh where Freddy’s neck and shoulder merged. There was a vast jet of blood as his jugular opened; it spurted up to the Humvee’s roof, then began to drip back like red rain.