Stephen King - The Stand

“Go on, boy. I can’t.”

Kojak ate up. Stu looked at him and shivered. His two blankets were, of course, below.

The sun went down, and the western sky was grotesque with color. It was the most spectacular sunset Stu had ever seen in his life… and it was poison. He could remember the narrator of a MovieTone newsreel saying enthusiastically back in the early sixties that there were beautiful sunsets for weeks after a nuclear test. And, of course, after earthquakes.

Kojak came up from the washout with something in his mouth—one of Stu’s blankets. He dropped it in Stu’s lap. “Hey,” Stu said, hugging him unsteadily. “You’re some kind of dog, you know it?”

Kojak wagged his tail to show that he knew it.

Stu wrapped the blanket around him and moved closer to the fire. Kojak lay next to him, and soon they both slept. But Stu’s sleep was light and uneasy, skimming in and out of delirium. Sometime after midnight he roused Kojak, yelling in his sleep.

“Hap!” Stu cried. “You better turn off y’pumps! He’s coming! Black man’s coming for you! Better turn off y’pumps! He’s in the old car yonder!”

Kojak whined uneasily. The Man was sick. He could smell the sickness and mingling with that smell was a new one. A black one. It was the smell the rabbits had on them when he pounced. The smell had been on the wolf he had disemboweled under Mother Abagail’s house in Hemingford Home. The smell had been on the towns he had passed through on his way to Boulder and Glen Bateman. It was the smell of death. If he could have attacked it and driven it out of this Man, he would have. But it was inside this Man. The Man drew in good air and sent out that smell of coming death, and there was nothing to do but wait and see it through to the end. Kojak whined again, low, and then slept.

Stu woke up the next morning more feverish than ever. The glands under his jaw had swollen to the size of golfballs. His eyes were hot marbles.

I’m dying… yes, that’s affirmative .

He called Kojak over and removed the keychain and his note from the Lucite address-holder. Printing carefully, he added what he had seen and replaced the note. He lay back down and slept. And then, somehow, it was nearly dark again. Another spectacular, horrible sunset burned and jittered in the West. And Kojak had brought a gopher for dinner.

“This the best y’could do?”

Kojak wagged his tail and grinned shamefacedly.

Stu cooked it, divided it, and managed to eat his entire half. It was tough, and it had a horrible wild taste, and when he was done he had a nasty bout of stomach cramps.

“When I die, I want you to go back to Boulder,” he told the dog. “You go back and find Fran. Find Frannie. Okay, big old dumb dog?”

Kojak wagged his tail doubtfully.

An hour later, Stu’s stomach rumbled once in warning. He had just time enough to roll over on one elbow to avoid fouling himself before his share of the gopher came up in a rush.

“Shit,” he muttered miserably, and dozed off.

He awoke in the small hours and got up on his elbows, his head buzzing with fever. The fire had gone out, he saw. It didn’t matter. He was pretty well done up.

Some sound in the darkness had awakened him. Pebbles and stones. Kojak coming up the embankment from the cut, that’s all it was…

Except that Kojak was beside him, sleeping.

Even as Stu glanced at him, the dog woke up. His head came off his paws and a moment later he was on his feet, facing the cut, growling deep in his throat.

Rattling pebbles and stones. Someone—some thing —coming up.

Stu struggled into a sitting position. It’s him , he thought. He was there, but somehow he got away. Now he’s here, and he means to do me before the flu can .

Kojak’s growl became stronger. His hackles stood, his head was down. The rattling sound was closer now. Stu could hear a low panting sound. There was a pause then, long enough for Stu to arty sweat off his forehead. A moment later a dark shape humped against the edge of the cut, head and shoulders blotting out the stars.

Kojak advanced, stiff-legged, still growling.

“Hey!” a bewildered but familiar voice said. “Hey, is that Kojak? Is it?”

The growling stopped immediately. Kojak bounded forward joyfully, tail wagging.

“No!” Stu croaked. “It’s a trick! Kojak… ! ”

But Kojak was jumping up and down on the figure that had finally gained the pavement. And that shape… something about the shape was also familiar. It advanced toward him with Kojak at his heel. Kojak was volleying joyful barks. Stu licked his lips and got ready to fight if he had to. He thought he could manage one good punch, maybe two.

“Who is it?” he called. “Who is that there?”

The dark figure paused, then spoke.

“Well, it’s Tom Cullen, that’s who, my laws, yes. M-O-O-N, that spells Tom Cullen. Who’s that ?”

“Stu,” he said, and his voice seemed to come from far away. Everything was far away now. “Hello, Tom, it’s good to see you.” But he didn’t see him, not that night. Stu fainted.

He came around at ten in the morning on October 2, although neither he nor Tom knew that was the date. Tom had built a huge bonfire and had wrapped Stu in his sleeping bag and his blankets. Tom himself was sitting by the fire and roasting a rabbit. Kojak lay contentedly on the ground between the two of them.

“Tom,” Stu managed.

Tom came over. He had grown a beard, Stu saw; he hardly looked like the man who had left Boulder for the West five weeks ago. His blue eyes glinted happily. “Stu Redman! You’re awake now, my laws, yes! I’m glad. Boy, it’s good to see you. What did you do to your leg? Hurt it, I guess. I hurt mine once. Jumped off a haystack and broke it, I guess. Did my daddy whip me? My laws, yes! That was before he run off with DeeDee Packalotte.”

“Mine’s broken, too. And how. Tom, I’m awful thirsty—”

“Oh, there’s water. All kinds! Here.”

He handed Stu a plastic bottle that might once have held milk. The water was clear and delicious. No grit at all. Stu drank greedily and then threw it all up.

“Slow and easy does it,” Tom said. “That’s the ticket. Slow and easy. Boy, it’s good to see you. Hurt your leg, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I broke it. Week ago, maybe longer.” He drank more water, and this time it stayed down. “But there’s more wrong than the leg. I’m bad sick, Tom. Fever. Listen to me.”

“Right! Tom’s listening. Just tell me what to do.” Tom leaned forward and Stu thought, Why, he looks brighter. Is that possible? Where had Tom been? Did he know anything about the Judge? About Dayna? So many things to talk about, but there was no time now. He was getting worse. There was a deep rattling sound in his chest, like padded chains. Symptoms so much like the superflu. It was really quite funny.

“I’ve got to knock down the fever,” he said to Tom. “That’s the first thing. I need aspirin. Do you know aspirin?”

“Sure. Aspirin. For fast-fast-fast relief.”

“That’s the ticket, all right. You start walking up the road, Tom. Look in the glove-box of every car you come to. Look for a first-aid kit—it’ll most likely be a box with a red cross on it. When you find some aspirin in one of those boxes, bring it back here. And if you should find a car with camping gear in it, bring back a tent. Okay?”

“Sure.” Tom stood up. “Aspirin and a tent, then you’ll be all better again, right?”

“Well, it’ll be a start.”

“Say,” Tom said, “how’s Nick? I’ve been dreaming about him. In the dreams he tells me where to go, because in the dreams he can talk. Dreams are funny, aren’t they? But when I try to talk to him, he always goes away. He’s okay, isn’t he?” Tom looked at Stu anxiously.