Stephen King - Wolves of the Calla

"If I thought you were going to lose, I'd never agree to go out there with the kids." He paused. "Or send my own."

"Thank you, Ben. Thee's a good man."

Slightman lowered his voice even further. "Which of the mines is it going to be? The Gloria or the Redbird?" And when Roland didn't answer immediately: "Of course I understand if ye'd rather not tell-"

"It's not that," Roland said. "It's that we haven't decided."

"But it'll be one or the other."

"Oh, aye, where else?" Roland said absently, and began to roll a smoke.

"And ye'll try to get above them?"

"Wouldn't work," Roland said. "Angle's wrong." He patted his chest above his heart. "Have to hit em here, remember. Other places… no good. Even a bullet that goes through armor wouldn't do much damage to a zombi ."

"It's a problem, isn't it?"

"It's an opportunity ," Roland corrected. "You know the scree that spreads out below the adits of those old garnet mines? Looks like a baby's bib?"

"Aye?"

"We'll hide ourselves in there. Under there . And when they ride toward us, we'll rise up and…" Roland cocked a thumb and forefinger at Slightman and made a trigger-pulling gesture.

A smile spread over the foreman's face. "Roland, that's brilliant!"

"No," Roland contradicted. "Only simple. But simple's usually best. I think we'll surprise them. Hem them in and pick them off. It's worked for me before. No reason it shouldn't work again."

"No. I suppose not."

Roland looked around. "Best we not talk about such things here, Ben. I know you're safe, but-"

Ben nodded rapidly. "Say n'more, Roland, I understand."

The springball rolled to Slightman's feet. His son held up his hands for it, smiling. "Pa! Throw it!"

Ben did, and hard. The ball sailed, just as Molly's plate had in Gran-pere's story. Benny leaped, caught it one-handed, and laughed. His father grinned at him fondly, then glanced at Roland. "They's a pair, ain't they? Yours and mine?"

"Aye," Roland said, almost smiling. "Almost like brothers, sure enough."

The ka-tet ambled back toward the rectory, riding four abreast, feeling every town eye that watched them go: death on horseback.

"You happy with how it went, sugar?" Susannah asked Roland.

"It'll do," he allowed, and began to roll a smoke.

"I'd like to try one of those," Jake said suddenly.

Susannah gave him a look both shocked and amused. "Bite your tongue, sugar-you haven't seen thirteen yet."

"My Dad started when he was ten."

"And'll be dead by fifty, like as not," Susannah said sternly.

"No great loss," Jake muttered, but he let the subject drop.

"What about Mia?" Roland asked, popping a match with his thumbnail. "Is she quiet?"

"If it wasn't for you boys, I'm not sure I'd believe there even was such a jane."

"And your belly's quiet, too?"

"Yes." Susannah guessed everyone had rules about lying; hers was that if you were going to tell one, you did best to keep it short. If she had a chap in her belly-some sort of monster-she'd let them help her worry about it a week from tonight. If they were still able to worry about anything, that was. For the time being they didn't need to know about the few little cramps she'd been having.

"Then all's well," the gunslinger said. They rode in silence for awhile, and then he said: "I hope you two boys can dig. There'll be some digging to do."

"Graves?" Eddie asked, not sure if he was joking or not.

"Graves come later." Roland looked up at the sky, but the clouds had advanced out of the west and stolen the stars. "Just remember, it's the winners who dig them."

Rising up from the darkness, dolorous and accusatory, came the voice of Henry Dean, the great sage and eminent junkie. "I'm in hell, bro! I'm in hell and I can't get a fix and it's all your fault !"

"How long will we have to be here, do you think?" Eddie asked Callahan. They had just reached the Doorway Cave, and the great sage's little bro was already shaking a pair of bullets in his right hand like dice-seven-come-eleven, baby need a little peace n quiet. It was the day after the big meeting, and when Eddie and the Pere had ridden out of town, the high street had seemed unusually quiet. It was almost as if the Calla was hiding from itself, overwhelmed by what it had committed itself to.

"I'm afraid it'll be awhile," Callahan admitted. He was neatly (and nondescriptly, he hoped) dressed. In the breast pocket of his shirt was all the American money they'd been able to put together: eleven crumpled dollars and a pair of quarters. He thought it would be a bitter joke if he turned up in a version of America where Lincoln was on the single and Washington on the fifties. "But we can do it in stages, I think."

"Thank God for small favors," Eddie said, and dragged the pink bag out from behind Tower's bookcase. He lifted it with both hands, began to turn, then stopped. He was frowning.

"What is it?" Callahan asked.

"There's something in here."

"Yes, the box."

"No, something in the bag . Sewn into the lining, I think. It feels like a little rock. Maybe there's a secret pocket."

"And maybe," Callahan said, "this isn't the time to investigate it."

Still, Eddie gave the object another small squeeze. It didn't feel like a stone, exactly. But Callahan was probably right. They had enough mysteries on their hands already. This one was for another day.

When Eddie slid the ghostwood box out of the bag, a sick dread invaded both his head and his heart. "I hate this thing. I keep feeling like it's going to turn on me and eat me like a… a taco-chip."

"It probably could," Callahan said. "If you feel something really bad happening, Eddie, shut the damn thing."

"Your ass would be stuck on the other side if I did."

"It's not as though I'm a stranger there," Callahan said, eyeing the unfound door. Eddie heard his brother; Callahan heard his mother, endlessly hectoring, calling him Donnie. He'd always hated being called Donnie. "I'll just wait for it to open again."

Eddie stuffed the bullets into his ears.

"Why are you letting him do that, Donnie?" Callahan's mother moaned from the darkness. "Bullets in your ears, that's dangerous!"

"Go on," Eddie said. "Get it done." He opened the box. The chimes attacked Callahan's ears. And his heart. The door to everywhere clicked open.

He went through thinking about two things: the year 1977 and the men's room on the main floor of the New York Public Library. He stepped into a bathroom stall with graffiti on the walls (BANGO SKANK had been there) and the sound of a flushing urinal somewhere to his left. He waited for whoever it was to leave, then stepped out of the stall.

It took him only ten minutes to find what he needed. When he stepped back through the door into the cave, he was holding a book under his arm. He asked Eddie to step outside with him, and didn't have to ask twice. In the fresh air and breezy sunshine (the previous night's clouds had blown away), Eddie took the bullets from his ears and examined the book. It was called Yankee Highways .

"The Father's a library thief," Eddie remarked. "You're exactly the sort of person who makes the fees go up."

"I'll return it someday," Callahan said. He meant it. "The important thing is I got lucky on my second try. Check page one-nineteen."

Eddie did. The photograph showed a stark white church sitting on a hill above a dirt road. East Stoneham Methodist Meeting Hall , the caption said. Built 1819 . Eddie thought: Add em, come out with nineteen. Of course .