Stephen King - The Running Man

She nodded and Richards crumpled the paper and stuffed it into the ashtray embedded in the armrest. He lit the paper. It puffed into flame and blazed brightly for a moment, kindling a tiny reflective glow in the window. Then it collapsed into ashes which Richards poked thoughtfully.

About five minutes later Amelia Williams began to moan. It sounded so real that for a moment Richards was startled. Then it flashed across his mind that it probably was real.

“Please don’t,” she said. “Please don’t make that man… have to try you. I never did anything to you. I want to go home to my husband. We have a daughter, too. She’s six. She’ll wonder where her mommy is.”

Richards felt his eyebrow rise and fall twice in an involuntary tic. He didn’t want her to be that good. Not that good.

“He’s dumb,” he told her, trying not to speak for an unseen audience, “but I don’t think he’s that dumb. It will be all right, Mrs. Williams.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’ve got nothing to lose.”

He didn’t answer her. She was so patently right. Nothing, anyway, that he hadn’t lost already.

“Show it to him,” she pleaded. “For God’s sake, why don’t you show it to him? Then he’d have to believe you… call off the people on the ground. They’re tracking us with missiles. I heard him say so.”

“I can’t show him,” Richards said. “To take it out of my pocket would mean putting the ring on safety or taking the full risk of blowing us up accidentally. Besides,” he added, injecting mockery into his voice, “I don’t think I’d show him if I could. He’s the maggot with something to lose. Let him sweat it.”

“I don’t think I can stand it,” she said dully. “I almost think I’d rather joggle you and have it over. That’s the way it’s going to end anyway, isn’t it?”

“You haven’t-” he began, and then the door between first and second was snapped open and McCone half strode, half lunged through. His face was calm, but beneath the calm was an odd sheeny look which Richards recognized immediately. The sheen of fear, white and waxy and glowing.

“Mrs. Williams,” he said briskly. “Coffee, if you please. For seven. You’ll have to play stewardess on this flight, I’m afraid.”

She got up without looking at either of them. “Where?”

“Forward,” McCone said smoothly. “Just follow your nose.” He was a mild, blinking sort of man-and ready to lunge at Amelia Williams the moment she showed a sign of going for Richards.

She made her way up the aisle without looking back.

McCone stared at Richards and said: “Would you give this up if I could promise you amnesty, pal?”

“Pal. That word sounds really greasy in your mouth,” Richards marveled. He flexed his free hand, looked at it. The hand was caked with small runnels of dried blood, dotted with tiny scrapes and scratches from his broken-ankle hike through the southern Maine woods. “Really greasy. You make it sound like two pounds of fatty hamburger cooking in the pan. The only kind you can get at the Welfare Stores in Co-Op City.” He looked at McCone’s well-concealed pot. “That, now. That looks more like a steak gut. Prime cut. No fat on prime cut except that crinkly little ring around the outside right?”

“Amnesty,” McCone repeated. “How does that word sound?”

“Like a lie,” Richards said, smiling. “Like a fat fucking lie. Don’t you think I know you’re nothing but the hired help?”

McCone flushed. It was not a soft flush at all; it was hard and red and bricklike. “It’s going to be good to have you on my home court,” he said. “We’ve got hi-impact slugs that will make your head look like a pumpkin dropped on a sidewalk from the top floor of a skyscraper. Gas filled. They explode on contact. A gut shot, on the other hand-”

Richards screamed: “ Here it goes! I’m pulling the ring!”

McCone screeched. He staggered back two steps, his rump hit the well-padded arm of seat number 95 across the way, he overbalanced and fell into it like a man into a sling, his arms flailing the air around his head in crazed warding-off gestures.

His hands froze about his head like petrified birds, splay fingered. His face stared through their grotesque frame like a plaster death-mask on which someone had hung a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles for a joke.

Richards began to laugh. The noise of it was cracked at first, hesitant, foreign to his own ears. How long had it been since he had had a real laugh, an honest one, the kind that comes freely and helplessly from the deepest root of the stomach? It seemed to him that he had never had one in his whole gray, straggling, earnest life. But he was having one now.

You bastard.

McCone’s voice had failed him; he could only mouth the words. His face was twisted and scrunched like the face of a badly used teddy bear.

Richards laughed. He held on to one arm of his seat with his free hand and just laughed and laughed and laughed.

When Holloway’s voice informed Richards that the plane was crossing the bonier between Canada and the state of Vermont (Richards supposed he knew his business; he himself could see nothing but darkness below them, interrupted by occasional clusters of light), he set his coffee down carefully and said:

“Could you supply me with a map of North America, Captain Holloway?”

“Physical or political?” A new voice cut in. The navigator’s, Richards supposed. Now he was supposed to play obligingly dumb and not know which map he wanted. Which he didn’t.

“Both,” he said flatly.

“Are you going to send the woman up for them?”

“What’s your name, pal?”

The hesitant pause of a man who realizes with sudden trepidation that he has been singled out. “Donahue.”

“You’ve got legs, Donahue. Suppose you trot them back here yourself.”

Donahue trotted them back. He had long hair combed back greaser fashion and pants tailored tight enough to show what looked like a bag of golf balls at the crotch. The maps were encased in limp plastic. Richards didn’t know what Donahue’s balls were encased in.

“I didn’t mean to mouth off,” he said unwillingly. Richards thought he could peg him. Well-off young men with a lot of free time often spent much of it roaming the shabby pleasure areas of the big cities, roaming in well-heeled packs, sometimes on foot, more often on choppers. They were queer-stompers. Queers, of course, had to be eradicated. Save our bathrooms for democracy. They rarely ventured beyond the twilight pleasure areas into the full darkness of the ghettos. When they did, they got the shit kicked out of them.

Donahue shifted uneasily under Richards’s long gaze. “Anything else?”

“You a queer-stomper, pal?”

“ Huh? ”

“Never mind. Go on back. Help them fly the plane.”

Donahue went back at a fast shuffle.

Richards quickly discovered that the map with the towns and cities and roads was the political map. Pressing one finger down from Derry to the Canada-Vermont border in a western-reaching straightedge, he located their approximate position.

“Captain Holloway?”

“Yes.”

“Turn lleft.”

“Huh?” Holloway sounded frankly startled.

“South, I mean. Due south. And remember-”

“I’m remembering,” Holloway said. “Don’t worry.”

The plane banked. McCone sat hunched in the seat he had fallen into, staring at Richards with hungry, wanting eyes.

Richards found himself drifting in and out of a daze, and it frightened him. The steady drone of the engines were insidious, hypnotic. McCone was aware of what was happening, and his leaning posture became more and more vulpine. Amelia was also aware. She cringed miserably in a forward seat near the galley, watching them both.