Stephen King - The Langoliers

He fashioned tight rabbit’s-ear knots in the corners to make a pocket. When he gripped the loose end of the tablecloth and stood up, the wrapped toaster had become a rock in a makeshift sling.

“When I was a kid, we used to play Indiana Jones,” Albert said apologetically. “I made something like this and pretended it was my whip. I almost broke my brother David’s arm once. I loaded an old blanket with a sashweight I found in the garage. Pretty stupid, I guess. I didn’t know how hard it would hit. I got a hell of a spanking for it. It looks stupid, I guess, but it actually works pretty well. It always did, at least.”

Nick looked at Albert’s makeshift weapon dubiously but said nothing. If a toaster wrapped in a tablecloth made Albert feel more comfortable about going downstairs in the dark, so be it.

“Good enough, then. Now go find a stretcher and bring it back. If there isn’t one in the Airport Services office, try someplace else. If you don’t find anything in fifteen minutes — no, make that ten — just come back and we’ll carry her.”

“You can’t do that!” Laurel cried softly. “If there’s internal bleeding—”

Nick looked up at her. “There’s internal bleeding already. And ten minutes is all the time I think we can spare.”

Laurel opened her mouth to answer, to argue, but Dinah’s husky whisper stopped her. “He’s right.”

Don slipped the blade of his knife into his belt. “Come on, son,” he said. They crossed the terminal together and started down the escalator to the first floor. Albert wrapped the end of his loaded tablecloth around his hand as they went.

Nick turned his attention back to the girl on the floor. “How are you feeling, Dinah?”

“Hurts bad,” Dinah said faintly.

“Yes, of course it does,” Nick said. “And I’m afraid that what I’m about to do is going to make it hurt a good deal more, for a few seconds, at least. But the knife is in your lung, and it’s got to come out. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Her dark, unseeing eyes looked up at him. “Scared.”

“So am I, Dinah. So am I. But it has to be done. Are you game?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl.” Nick bent and planted a soft kiss on her cheek. “That’s a good, brave girl. It won’t take long, and that’s a promise. I want you to lie just as still as you can, Dinah, and try not to cough. Do you understand me? It’s very important. Try not to cough.”

“I’ll try.”

“There may be a moment or two when you feel that you can’t breathe. You may even feel that you’re leaking, like a tire with a puncture. That’s a scary feeling, love, and it may make you want to move around, or cry out. You mustn’t do it. And you mustn’t cough.”

Dinah made a reply none of them could hear.

Nick swallowed, armed sweat off his forehead in a quick gesture, and turned to Laurel. “Fold two of those tablecloths into square pads. Thick as you can. Kneel beside me. Close as you can get. Warwick, take off your belt.”

Rudy began to comply at once.

Nick looked back at Laurel. She was again struck, and not unpleasantly this time, by the power of his gaze. “I’m going to grasp the handle of the knife and draw it out. If it’s not caught on one of her ribs — and judging from its position, I don’t think it is — the blade should come out in one slow, smooth pull. The moment it’s out, I will draw back, giving you clear access to the girl’s chest area. You will place one of your pads over the wound and press. Press hard. You’re not to worry about hurting her, or compressing her chest so much she can’t breathe. She’s got at least one perforation in her lung, and I’m betting there’s a pair of them. Those are what we’ve got to worry about. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“When you’ve placed the pad, I’m going to lift her against the pressure you’re putting on. Mr Warwick here will then slip the other pad beneath her if we see blood on the back of her dress. Then we’re going to tie the compresses in place with Mr Warwick’s belt.” He glanced up at Rudy. “When I call for it, my friend, give it to me. Don’t make me ask you twice.”

“I won’t.”

“Can you see well enough to do this, Nick?” Laurel asked.

“I think so,” Nick replied. “I hope so.” He looked at Dinah again. “Ready?”

Dinah muttered something.

“All right,” Nick said. He drew in a long breath and then let it out. “Jesus help me.”

He wrapped his slim, long-fingered hands around the handle of the knife like a man gripping a baseball bat. He pulled. Dinah shrieked. A great gout of blood spewed from her mouth. Laurel had been leaning tensely forward, and her face was suddenly bathed in Dinah’s blood. She recoiled.

“No!” Nick spat at her without looking around. “Don’t you dare go weaksister on me! Don’t you dare!”

Laurel leaned forward again, gagging and shuddering. The blade, a dully gleaming triangle of silver in the deep gloom, emerged from Dinah’s chest and glimmered in the air. The little blind girl’s chest heaved and there was a high, unearthly whistling sound as the wound sucked inward.

“Now!” Nick grunted. “Press down! Hard as you can!”

Laurel leaned forward. For just a moment she saw blood pouring out of the hole in Dinah’s chest, and then the wound was covered. The tablecloth pad grew warm and wet under her hands almost immediately.

“Harder!” Nick snarled at her. “Press harder! Seal it! Seal the wound!”

Laurel now understood what people meant when they talked about coming completely unstrung, because she felt on the verge of it herself. “I can’t! I’ll break her ribs if—”

“Fuck her ribs! You have to make a seal!”

Laurel rocked forward on her knees and brought her entire weight down on her hands. Now she could feel liquid seeping slowly between her fingers, although she had folded the tablecloth thick.

The Englishman tossed the knife aside and leaned forward until his face was almost touching Dinah’s. Her eyes were closed. He rolled one of the lids. “I think she’s finally out,” he said. “Can’t tell for sure because her eyes are so odd, but I hope to heaven she is.” Hair had fallen over his brow. He tossed it back impatiently with a jerk of his head and looked at Laurel. “You’re doing well. Stay with it, all right? I’m rolling her now. Keep the pressure on as I do.”

“There’s so much blood,” Laurel groaned. “Will she drown?”

“I don’t know. Keep the pressure on. Ready, Mr Warwick?”

“Oh Christ I guess so,” Rudy Warwick croaked.

“Right. Here we go.” Nick slipped his hands beneath Dinah’s right shoulderblade and grimaced. “It’s worse than I thought,” he muttered. “Far worse. She’s soaked.” He began to pull Dinah slowly upward against the pressure Laurel was putting on. Dinah uttered a thick, croaking moan. A gout of half-congealed blood flew from her mouth and spattered across the floor. And now Laurel could hear a rain of blood pattering down on the carpet from beneath the girl.

Suddenly the world began to swim away from her.

“Keep that pressure on!” Nick cried. “Don’t let up!”

But she was fainting.

It was her understanding of what Nick Hopewell would think of her if she did faint which caused her to do what she did next. Laurel stuck her tongue out between her teeth like a child making a face and bit down on it as hard as she could. The pain was bright and exquisite, the salty taste of her own blood immediately filled her mouth... but that sensation that the world was swimming away from her like a big lazy fish in an aquarium passed. She was here again.

Downstairs, there was a sudden shriek of pain and surprise. It was followed by a hoarse shout. On the heels of the shout came a loud, drilling scream.