Stephen King - It

He turned around and lay flat on the sagging pavement, trying to distribute his weight as evenly as possible, the way you were supposed to do on thin ice. He reached down for Bev. She grasped his wrists and, with what seemed to be the last of his strength, he pulled her up. The sun, which had disappeared again, now ran out from behind a brace of mackerel-scale clouds and gave them their shadows back. Beverly looked up, startled, caught Bill’s eyes, and smiled.

“I love you, Bill,” she said. “And I pray she’ll be all right.”

“Thuh-hank you, Bevvie,” he said, and his kind smile made her start to cry a little. He hugged her and the small crowd gathered behind the crash barrier applauded. A photographer from the Derry News snapped a picture. It appeared in the June 1st edition of the paper, which was printed in Bangor because of water damage to the News’s presses. The caption was simple enough, and true enough for Bill to cut the picture out and keep it tucked away in his wallet for years to come: SURVIVORS, the caption read. That was all, but that was enough.

It was six minutes of eleven in Derry, Maine.

The glass corridor between the Children’s Library and the adult library had exploded at 10:30 A.M. At 10:33, the rain stopped. It didn’t taper off; it stopped all at once, as if Someone Up There had flicked a toggle switch. The wind had already begun to fall, and it fell so rapidly that people stared at each other with uneasy, superstitious faces. The sound was like the wind-down of a 747’s engines after it has been safely parked at the gate. The sun peeked out for the first time at 10:47. By midafternoon the clouds had burned away entirely, and the day had come off fair and hot. By 3:30 P.M. the mercury in the Orange Crush thermometer outside the door of Secondhand Rose, Secondhand Clothes read eighty-three-the highest reading of the young season. People walked through the streets like zombies, not talking much. Their expressions were remarkably similar: a kind of stupid wonder that would have been funny if it was not also so frankly pitiable. By evening reporters from ABC, CBS, NBC, and CNN had arrived in Derry, and the network news reporters would bring some version of the truth home to most people; they would make it real… although there were those who might have suggested that reality is a highly untrustworthy concept, something perhaps no more solid than a piece of canvas stretched over an interlacing of cables like the strands of a spiderweb. The following morning Bryant Gumble and Willard Scott of the Today show would be in Derry. During the course of the program, Gumble would interview Andrew Keene. “Whole Standpipe just crashed over and rolled down the hill,” Andrew said. “It was like wow. You know what I mean? Like Steven Spielberg eat your heart out, you know? Hey, I always got the idea looking at you on TV that you were, you know, a lot bigger.” Seeing themselves and their neighbors on TV-that would make it real. It would give them a place from which to grasp this terrible, ungraspable thing. It had been a FREAK STORM. In the days following, THE DEATH-COUNT would rise in THE WAKE OF THE KILLER STORM. It was, in fact, THE WORST SPRING STORM IN MAINE HISTORY. All of these headlines, as terrible as they were, were useful-they helped to blunt the essential strangeness of what had happened… or perhaps strangeness was too mild a word. Insanity might have been better. Seeing themselves on TV would help make it concrete, less insane. But in the hours before the news crews arrived, there were only the people from Derry, walking through their rubble-strewn, mud-slicked streets with expressions of stunned unbelief on their faces. Only the people from Derry, not talking much, looking at things, occasionally picking things up and then tossing them down again, trying to figure out what had happened during the last seven or eight hours. Men stood on Kansas Street, smoking, looking at houses lying upside down in the Barrens. Other men and women stood beyond the white-and-orange crash barriers, looking into the black hole that had been downtown until ten that morning. The headline of that Sunday’s paper read: WE WILL REBUILD, vows DERRY MAYOR, and perhaps they would. But in the weeks that followed, while the City Council wrangled over how the rebuilding should begin, the huge crater that had been downtown continued to grow in an unspectacular but steady way. Four days after the storm, the office building of the Bangor Hydroelectric Company collapsed into the hole. Three days after that, the Flying Doghouse, which sold the best kraut- and chili-dogs in eastern Maine, fell in. Drains backed up periodically in houses, apartment buildings, and businesses. It got so bad in the Old Cape that people began to leave. June 10th was the first evening of horse-racing at Bassey Park; the first race was scheduled for 8:00 P.M. and that seemed to cheer everyone up. But a section of bleachers collapsed as the trotters in the first race turned into the home stretch, and half a dozen people were hurt. One of them was Foxy Foxworth, who had managed the Aladdin Theater until 1973. Foxy spent two weeks in the hospital, suffering from a broken leg and a punctured testicle. When he was released, he decided to go to his sister’s in Somersworth, New Hampshire.

He wasn’t the only one. Derry was falling apart.

They watched the orderly slam the back doors of the ambulance and go around to the passenger seat. The ambulance started up the hill toward the Derry Home Hospital. Richie had flagged it down at severe risk of life and limb, and had argued the irate driver to a draw when the driver insisted he just didn’t have any more room. He had ended up stretching Audra out on the floor.

“Now what?” Ben asked. There were huge brown circles under his eyes and a grimy ring of dirt around his neck.

“I’m g-going back to the Town House,” Bill said. “G-Gonna sleep for about suh-hixteen hours.”

“I second that,” Richie said. He looked hopefully at Bev. “Got any cigarettes, purty lady?”

“No,” Beverly said. “I think I’m going to quit again.”

“Sensible enough idea.”

They began to walk slowly up the hill, the four of them side by side.

“It’s o-o-over,” Bill said.

Ben nodded. “We did it. You did it, Big Bill.”

“We all did it,” Beverly said. “I wish we could have brought Eddie up. I wish that more than anything.”

They reached the corner of Upper Main and Point Street. A kid in a red rainslicker and green rubber boots was sailing a paper boat along the brisk run of water in the gutter. He looked up, saw them looking at him, and waved tentatively. Bill thought it was the boy with the skateboard-the one whose friend had seen Jaws in the Canal. He smiled and stepped toward the boy.

“It’s all right n-n-now,” he said.

The boy studied him gravely, and then grinned. The smile was sunny and hopeful. “Yeah,” he said. “I think it is.”

“Bet your a-a-ass.”

The kid laughed.

“You g-gonna be careful on thuh-hat skateboard?”

“Not really,” the kid said, and this time Bill laughed. He restrained an urge to ruffle the kid’s hair-that probably would have been resented-and returned to the others.

“Who was that?” Richie asked.

“A friend,” Bill said. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “do you remember it? When we came out before?”

Beverly nodded. “Eddie got us back to the Barrens. Only we ended up on the other side of the Kenduskeag somehow. The Old Cape side.”

“You and Haystack pushed the lid off one of those pumping-stations,” Richie said to Bill, “because you had the most weight.”

“Yeah,” Ben said. “We did. The sun was out, but it was almost down.”