Stephen King - The Langoliers

Craig came gliding out through the door with the letter-opener raised. He moved like a dancing shadow in the dark. “I see you, sonny,” he breathed. “I see you just like a cat.”

He began to slide forward. Albert backed away from him. At the same time he began to pendulum the toaster back and forth, reminding himself that he would have only one good shot before Toomy moved in and planted the blade in his throat or chest.

And if the toaster goes flying out of the goddam pocket before it hits him, I’m a goner.

Craig closed in, weaving the top half of his body from side to side like a snake coming out of a basket. An absent little smile touched the corners of his lips and made small dimples there. That’s right, Craig’s father said grimly from his undying stronghold inside Craig’s head. If you have to pick them off one by one, you can do that. EPO, Craig, remember? EPO. Effort Pays Off.

That’s right, Craiggy-weggy, his mother chimed in. You can do it, and you have to do it.

“I’m sorry,” Craig murmured to the white-faced boy through his smile. “I’m really, really sorry, but I have to do it. If you could see things from my perspective, you’d understand.”

He closed in on Albert, raising the letter-opener to his eyes.

Albert shot a quick glance behind him and saw he was backing toward the United Airlines ticket desk. If he retreated much further, the backward are of his swing would be restricted. It had to be soon. He began to pendulum the toaster more rapidly, his sweaty hand clutching the twist of tablecloth.

Craig caught the movement in the dark, but couldn’t tell what it was the kid was swinging. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t let it matter. He gathered himself, then sprang forward.

“I’M GOING TO BOSTON!” he shrieked. “I’M GOING TO—”

Albert’s eyes were adjusting to the dark, and he saw Craig make his move. The toaster was on the rearward half of its are. Instead of snapping his wrist forward to reverse its direction, Albert let his arm go with the weight of the toaster, swinging it up and over his head in an exaggerated pitching gesture. At the same time he stepped to the left. The lump at the end of the tablecloth made a short, hard circlet in the air, held firmly in its pocket by centripetal force. Craig cooperated by stepping forward into the toaster’s descending arc. It met his forehead and the bridge of his nose with a hard, toneless crunch.

Craig wailed with agony and dropped the letter-opener. His hands went to his face and he staggered backwards. Blood from his broken nose poured between his fingers like water from a busted hydrant. Albert was terrified of what he had done but even more terrified of letting up now that Toomy was hurt. Albert took another step to the left and swung the tablecloth sidearm. It whipped through the air and smashed into the center of Craig’s chest with a hard thump. Craig fell over backward, still howling.

For Albert “Ace” Kaussner, only one thought remained; all else was a tumbling, fragmented swirl of color, image, and emotion.

I have to make him stop moving or he’ll get up and kill me. I have to make him stop moving or he’ll get up and kill me.

At least Toomy had dropped his weapon; it lay glinting on the lobby carpet. Albert planted one of his loafers on it and unloaded with the toaster again. As it came down. Albert bowed from the waist like an old-fashioned butler greeting a member of the royal family. The lump at the end of the tablecloth smashed into Craig Toomy’s gasping mouth. There was a sound like glass being crushed inside of a handkerchief.

Oh God, Albert thought. That was his teeth.

Craig flopped and squirmed on the floor. It was terrible to watch him, perhaps more terrible because of the poor light. There was something monstrous and unkillable and insectile about his horrible vitality.

His hand closed upon Albert’s loafer. Albert stepped away from the letter-opener with a little cry of revulsion, and Craig tried to grasp it when he did. Between his eyes, his nose was a burst bulb of flesh. He could hardly see Albert at all; his vision was eaten up by a vast white corona of light. A steady high keening note rang in his head, the sound of a TV test-pattern turned up to full volume.

He was beyond doing any more damage, but Albert didn’t know it. In a panic, he brought the toaster down on Craig’s head again. There was a metallic crunch-rattle as the heating elements inside it broke free.

Craig stopped moving.

Albert stood over him, sobbing for breath, the weighted tablecloth dangling from one hand. Then he took two long, shambling steps toward the escalator bowed deeply again, and vomited on the floor.

Brian crossed himself as he thumped back the black plastic shield which covered the screen of the 767’s INS video-display terminal, half-expecting it to be smooth and blank. He looked at it closely... and let out a deep sigh of relief.

LAST PROGRAM

COMPLETE,

it informed him in cool blue-green letters, and below that:

NEW PROGRAM? Y N

Brian typed Y, then:

REVERSE

AP29:LAX/LOGAN

The screen went dark for a moment. Then:

INCLUDE DIVERSION IN AP 29? Y N

Brian typed Y.

REVERSE

the screen informed him, and, less than five seconds later:

PROGRAM

COMPLETE

“Captain Engle?”

He turned around. Bethany was standing in the cockpit doorway. She looked pale and haggard in the cabin lights.

“I’m a little busy right now, Bethany.”

“Why aren’t they back?”

“I can’t say.”

“I asked Bob — Mr Jenkins — if he could see anyone moving around inside the terminal, and he said he couldn’t. What if they’re all dead?”

“I’m sure they’re not. If it will make you feel better, why don’t you join him at the bottom of the ladder? I’ve got some more work to do here. At least I hope I do.”

“Are you scared?” she asked.

“Yes. I sure am.”

She smiled a little. “I’m sort of glad. It’s bad to be scared all by yourself — totally bogus. I’ll leave you alone now.”

“Thanks. I’m sure they’ll be out soon.”

She left. Brian turned back to the INS monitor and typed:

ARE THERE PROBLEMS WITH THIS PROGRAM?

He hit EXECUTE.

NO PROBLEMS. THANK YOU FOR FLYING AMERICAN PRIDE.

“You’re welcome, I’m sure,” Brian murmured, and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

Now, he thought, if only the fuel will burn.

Bob heard footsteps on the ladder and turned quickly. It was only Bethany, descending slowly and carefully, but he still felt jumpy. The sound coming out of the cast was gradually growing louder.

Closer.

“Hi, Bethany. May I borrow another of your cigarettes?”

She offered the depleted pack to him, then took one herself. She had tucked Albert’s book of experimental matches into the cellophane covering the pack, and when she tried one it lit easily.

“Any sign of them?”

“Well, it all depends on what you mean by ‘any sign,’ I guess,” Bob said cautiously. “I think I heard some shouting just before you came down.”

“What he had heard actually sounded like screaming — shrieking, not to put too fine a point on it — but he saw no reason to tell the girl that.” She looked as frightened as Bob felt, and he had an idea she’d taken a liking to Albert.

“I hope Dinah’s going to be all right,” she said, “but I don’t know. He cut her really bad.”

“Did you see the captain?”

Bethany nodded. “He sort of kicked me out. I guess he’s programming his instruments, or something.”

Bob Jenkins nodded soberly. “I hope so.”