Stephen King - The Langoliers

Did someone tell you that? he wondered suddenly. That his eyes were bugging out, that there was foam on his mouth? Did someone actually tell you that — Mother, perhaps, when she was drunk — or was it just wishful thinking?

“Mr Toomy? Did they?”

“Yes,” Craig said thoughtfully. “I guess he was, and I guess they did.”

“Mr Toomy?”

“What?”

“I’m not the way you see me. I’m not ugly. None of us are.”

He looked at her, startled. “How would you know how you look to me, little blind miss?”

“You might be surprised,” Dinah said.

Laurel turned toward her, suddenly more uneasy than ever... but of course there was nothing to see. Dinah’s dark glasses defeated curiosity.

The other passengers stood on the far side of the waiting room, listening to that low rattling sound and saying nothing. It seemed there was nothing left to say.

“What do we do now?” Don asked. He seemed to have wilted inside his red lumberjack’s shirt. Albert thought the shirt itself had lost some of its cheerfully macho vibrancy.

“I don’t know,” Brian said. He felt a horrible impotence toiling away in his belly. He looked out at the plane, which had been his plane for a little while, and was struck by its clean lines and smooth beauty. The Delta 727 sitting to its left at the jetway looked like a dowdy matron by comparison. It looks good to you because it’s never going to fly again, that’s all. It’s like glimpsing a beautiful woman for just a moment in the back seat of a limousine — she looks even more beautiful than she really is because you know she’s not yours, can never be yours.

“How much fuel is left, Brian?” Nick asked suddenly. “Maybe the burn-rate isn’t the same over here. Maybe there’s more than you realize.”

“All the gauges are in apple-pie working order,” Brian said. “When we landed, I had less than 600 pounds. To get back to where this happened, we’d need at least 50,000.”

Bethany took out her cigarettes and offered the pack to Bob. He shook his head. She stuck one in her mouth, took out her matches, and struck one.

It didn’t light.

“Oh-oh,” she said.

Albert glanced over. She struck the match again... and again... and again. There was nothing. She looked at him, frightened.

“Here,” Albert said. “Let me.”

He took the matches from her hand and tore another one loose. He struck it across the strip on the back. There was nothing.

“Whatever it is, it seems to be catching,” Rudy Warwick observed.

Bethany burst into tears, and Bob offered her his handkerchief.

“Wait a minute,” Albert said, and struck the match again. This time it lit... but the flame was low, guttering, unenthusiastic. He applied it to the quivering tip of Bethany’s cigarette and a clear image suddenly filled his mind: a sign he had passed as he rode his ten-speed to Pasadena High School every day for the last three years. CAUTION, this sign said. TWO-WAY TRAFFIC AHEAD.

What in the hell does that mean?

He didn’t know... at least not yet. All he knew for sure was that some idea wanted out but was, at least for the time being, stuck in the gears.

Albert shook the match out. It didn’t take much shaking.

Bethany drew on her cigarette, then grimaced. “Blick! It tastes like a Carlton, or something.”

“Blow smoke in my face,” Albert said.

“What?”

“You heard me. Blow some in my face.”

She did as he asked, and Albert sniffed at the smoke. Its former sweet fragrance was now muted.

Whatever it is, it seems to be catching

CAUTION: TWO-WAY TRAFFIC AHEAD.

“I’m going back to the restaurant,” Nick said. He looked depressed. “Yon Cassius has a lean and slippery feel. I don’t like leaving him with the ladies for too long.”

Brian started after him and the others followed. Albert thought there was something a little amusing about these tidal flows — they were behaving like cows which sense thunder in the air.

“Come on,” Bethany said. “Let’s go.” She dropped her half-smoked cigarette into an ashtray and used Bob’s handkerchief to wipe her eyes. Then she took Albert’s hand.

They were halfway across the waiting room and Albert was looking at the back of Mr Gaffney’s red shirt when it struck him again, more forcibly this time: TWO-WAY TRAFFIC AHEAD.

“Wait a minute!” he yelled. He suddenly slipped an arm around Bethany’s waist, pulled her to him, put his face into the hollow of her throat, and breathed in deeply.

“Oh my! We hardly know each other!” Bethany cried. Then she began to giggle helplessly and put her arms around Albert’s neck. Albert, a boy whose natural shyness usually disappeared only in his daydreams, paid no notice. He took another deep breath through his nose. The smells of her hair, sweat, and perfume were still there, but were faint; very faint.

They all looked around, but Albert had already let Bethany go and was hurrying back to the windows.

“Wow!” Bethany said. She was still giggling a little, and blushing brightly. “Strange dude!”

Albert looked at Flight 29 and saw what Brian had noticed a few minutes earlier: it was clean and smooth and almost impossibly white. It seemed to vibrate in the dull stillness outside.

Suddenly the idea came up for him. It seemed to burst behind his eyes like a firework. The central concept was a bright, burning ball; implications radiated out from it like fiery spangles and for a moment he quite literally forgot to breathe.

“Albert?” Bob asked. “Albert, what’s wro—”

“Captain Engle!” Albert screamed. In the restaurant, Laurel sat bolt upright and Dinah clasped her arm with hands like talons. Craig Toomy craned his neck to look. “Captain Engle, come here!”

Outside, the sound was louder.

To Brian it was the sound of radio static. Nick Hopewell thought it sounded like a strong wind rattling dry tropical grasses. Albert, who had worked at McDonald’s the summer before, was reminded of the sound of french fries in a deep-fat fryer, and to Bob Jenkins it was the sound of paper being crumpled in a distant room.

The four of them crawled through the hanging rubber strips and then stepped down into the luggage-unloading area, listening to the sound of what Craig Toomy called the langoliers.

“How much closer is it?” Brian asked Nick.

“Can’t tell. It sounds closer, but of course we were inside before.”

“Come on,” Albert said impatiently. “How do we get back aboard? Climb the slide?”

“Won’t be necessary,” Brian said, and pointed. A rolling stairway stood on the far side of Gate 2. They walked toward it, their shoes clopping listlessly on the concrete.

“You know what a long shot this is, don’t you, Albert?” Brian asked as they walked.

“Yes, but—”

“Long shots are better than no shots at all,” Nick finished for him.

“I just don’t want him to be too disappointed if it doesn’t pan out.”

“Don’t worry,” Bob said softly. “I will be disappointed enough for all of us. The lad’s idea makes good logical sense. It should prove out... although, Albert, you do realize there may be factors here which we haven’t discovered, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

They reached the rolling ladder, and Brian kicked up the foot-brakes on the wheels. Nick took a position on the grip which jutted from the left railing, and Brian laid hold of the one on the right.

“I hope it still rolls,” Brian said.

“It should,” Bob Jenkins answered. “Some — perhaps even most — of the ordinary physical and chemical components of life seem to remain in operation; our bodies are able to process the air, doors open and close.”