Стивен Кинг - If It Bleeds

“I might have been able to earlier, but I took some cold medicine before I laid down for a nap and overslept. Now I don’t dare chance it. There are still washouts and plugged culverts from last winter. A hard rain like this is apt to put long stretches of the road underwater. The Suburban might make it, but if it didn’t, I could be stranded six miles from the cabin and nine miles from the Big 90.”

There was a pause, and in it Drew fancied he could hear what she was thinking: Had to be a man about it, didn’t you, just another damn fool . Because sometimes I told you so was just not enough.

The wind gusted and the lights flickered again. (Or maybe they stuttered.) The phone gave a cicada buzz, then cleared.

“Drew? Are you still there?”

“I’m here.”

“The phone made a funny sound.”

“I heard it.”

“You have food?”

“Plenty.” Not that he felt like eating.

She sighed. “Then hunker down. Call me tonight if the phone still works.”

“I will. And when the weather breaks, I’ll come home.”

“Not if there are trees down, you won’t. Not until somebody decides to come in and clear the road.”

“I’ll clear them myself,” Drew said. “Pop’s chainsaw is in the equipment shed, unless one of the renters decided to take it. Any gas that was in the tank will have evaporated, but I can siphon some out of the Suburban.”

“If you don’t get sicker.”

“I won’t—”

“I’m going to tell the kids you’re fine.” Talking to herself more than him now. “No sense worrying them, too.”

“That’s a good—”

“This is fucked up, Drew.” She hated it when he interrupted her, but had never had any qualms about doing it herself. “I want you to know that. When you put yourself in this position, you put us in it, too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Is the book still going well? It better be. It better be worth all the worry.”

“It’s going fine.” He was no longer sure of this, but what else could he tell her? The shit’s starting again, Lucy, and now I’m sick as well ? Would that ease her mind?

“All right.” She sighed. “You’re an idiot, but I love you.”

“Love you, t—” The wind whooped, and suddenly the only light in the cabin was the dim and watery stuff coming in through the windows. “Lucy, I just lost the lights.” He sounded calm, and that was good.

“Look in the equipment shed,” she said. “There might be a Coleman lantern—”

There was another of those cicada buzzes, and then nothing but silence. He replaced the old-fashioned phone in its cradle. He was on his own.

He grabbed a musty old jacket from one of the hooks by the door and fought his way to the equipment shed through the late light, raising his arm once to fend off a flying branch. Maybe it was being sick, but the wind felt like it was already blowing forty per. He fumbled through the keys, cold water trickling down the back of his neck in spite of the jacket’s turned-up collar, and had to try three before he found the one that fit the padlock on the door. Once again he had to diddle it back and forth to get it to turn, and by the time it did, he was soaked and coughing.

The shed was dark and full of shadows even with the door wide open, but there was enough light to see Pop’s chainsaw sitting on a table at the back. There were also a couple of other saws, one a two-handed buck, and probably that was good, because the chainsaw looked useless. The yellow paint of the body was almost obscured by ancient grease, the cutting chain was badly rusted, and he couldn’t imagine mustering the energy to yank the starter cord, anyway.

Lucy was right about the Coleman lantern, though. There were actually two of them sitting on a shelf to the left of the door, along with a gallon can of fuel, but one of them was clearly useless, the globe shattered and the handle gone. The other one looked okay. The silk mantles were attached to the gas jets, which was good; with his hands shaking the way they were, he doubted if he would have been able to tie them down. Should have thought of this sooner , he scolded himself. Of course I should have gone home sooner. When I still could .

When Drew tipped the can of fuel to the dimming afternoon light, he saw Pop’s backslanted printing on a strip of adhesive: USE THIS NOT UNLEADED GAS! He shook the can. It was half full. Not great, but maybe enough to last a three-day blow if he rationed his use.

He took the can and unbroken lantern back to the house, started to put them on the dining room table, then thought better of it. His hands were shaking, and he was bound to spill at least some of the fuel. He put the lantern in the sink instead, then shucked the sodden jacket. Before he could think about fueling the lantern, the coughing started again. He collapsed into one of the dining room chairs, hacking away until he felt he might pass out. The wind was howling, and something thudded on the roof. A much bigger branch than the one he’d fended off, from the sound.

When the coughing passed, he unscrewed the tap on the lantern’s reservoir and went looking for a funnel. He didn’t find one, so he tore off a strip of aluminum foil and fashioned a half-assed funnel from that. The fumes wanted to start the coughing again, but he controlled it until he got the lantern’s little tank filled. When it was, he let go and bent over the counter with his burning forehead on one arm, hacking and choking and gasping for breath.

The fit eventually passed, but the fever was worse than ever. Getting soaked probably didn’t help , he thought. Once he got the Coleman lit— if he got it lit—he’d take some more aspirin. Add a shot of headache powder and a knock of Dr. King’s for good measure.

He pumped the little gadget on the side to build pressure, opened the tap, then struck a kitchen match and slipped it through the ignition hole. For a moment there was nothing, but then the mantles lit up, the light so bright and concentrated it made him wince. He took the Coleman to the cabin’s single closet, looking for a flashlight. He found clothes, orange vests for hunting season, and an old pair of ice skates (he vaguely remembered skating on the brook with his brother on the few occasions they’d been up here in the winter). He found hats and gloves and an elderly Electrolux vacuum cleaner that looked about as useful as the rusty chainsaw in the equipment shed. There was no flashlight.

The wind rose to a shriek around the eaves, making his head hurt. Rain lashed the windows. The last of the daylight continued to drain away, and he thought this was going to be a very long night. His expedition to the shed and his struggle to get the lamp lit had occupied him, but now that those chores were done, he had time to be afraid. He was stuck here because of a book that was (he could admit it now) starting to unravel like the others. He was stuck, he was sick, and he was apt to get sicker.

“I could die out here,” he said in his new hoarse voice. “I really could.”

Best not to think of that. Best to load up the woodstove and get it cranking, because the night was going to be cold as well as long. Temperatures are going to fall radically when this front comes through , wasn’t that what the scruffy weather geek had said? And the counter woman with the lip stud had said the same thing. Right down to the same metaphor (if it was a metaphor), which likened temperature to a physical object that could roll off a table.

That brought him back to Deputy Jep, who was not the smartest kid in the classroom. Really? Had he actually thought that would do? It was a shitty metaphor (if it even was a metaphor). Not just weak, dead on arrival. As he loaded the stove, his feverish mind seemed to open a secret door and he thought, A sandwich short of a picnic.