Stephen King - The Mist

«I want to go home,» he said. «I want to see my mommy.,

I comforted him as best I could. Which probably wasn't very well.

The talk finally turned into less frightening and destructive channels. The plate-glass windows, the market's obvious weak point, were mentioned. Mike Haden asked what other entrances there were, and Ollie and Brown quickly ticked them off-two loading doors in addition to the one Norm had opened. The main IN'OUT doors. The window in the manager's office (thick, reinforced glass, securely locked).

Talking about these things had a paradoxical effect. It made the danger seem more real but at the same time made us feel better. Even Billy felt it. He asked if he could go get a candy bar. I told him it would be all right so long as he didn't go near the big windows.

When he was out of earshot, a man near Mike Haden said, «Okay, what are we going to do about those windows? The old lady may be as crazy as a bedbug, but she could be right about something moving in after dark.»

«Maybe the fog will blow over by then,» a woman said.

«Maybe,» the man said. «And maybe not.»

«Any ideas?» I asked Bud and Ollie.

«Hold on a sec,» the man near Haden said. «I'm Dan Miller. From Lynn, Mass. You don't know me, no reason why you should, but I got a place on Highland Lake. Bought it just this year. Got held up for it, is more like it, but I had to have it.» There were a few chuckles. «Anyway, I saw a whole pile of fertilizer and lawn-food bags down there. Twenty-five-pound sacks, most of them. We could put them up like sandbags. Leave loopholes to look out through …»

Now more people were nodding and talking excitedly. I almost said something, then held it back. Miller was right. Putting those bags up could do no harm, and might do some good. But my mind went back to that tentacle squeezing the dog-food bag. I thought that one of the bigger tentacles could probably do the same for a twenty-five-pound bag of Green Acres lawn food or Vigoro. But a sermon on that wouldn't get us out or improve anyone's mood.

People began to break up, talking about getting it done, and Miller yelled: «Hold it! Hold it! Let's thrash this out while we're all together!»

They came back, a loose congregation of fifty or sixty people in the corner formed by the beer cooler, the storage doors, and the left end of the meat case, where Mr. McVey always seems to put the things no one wants, like sweetbreads and Scotch eggs and sheep's brains and head cheese. Billy wove his way through them with a five-year-old's unconscious agility in a world of giants and held up a Hershey bar. «Want this, Daddy?»

«Thanks.» I took it. It tasted sweet and good.

«This is probably a stupid question,» Miller resumed, «but we ought to fill in the blanks. Anyone got any firearms?»

There was a pause. People looked around at each other and shrugged. An old man with grizzled white hair who introduced himself as Ambrose Cornell said he had a shotgun in the trunk of his car. «I'll try for it, if you want.»

Ollie said, «Right now I don't think that would be a good idea, Mr. Cornell.»

Cornell grunted. «Right now, neither do I, son. But I thought I ought to make the offer.»

«Well, I didn't really think so,» Dan Miller said. «But I thought-»

«Wait, hold it a minute,» a woman said. It was the lady in the cranberry-colored sweatshirt and the dark-green slacks. She had sandy-blond hair and a good figure. A very pretty young woman. She opened her purse and from it she produced a medium-sized pistol. The crowd made an ahhhh-ing sound, as if they had just seen a magician do a particularly fine trick. The woman, who had been blushing, blushed that much the harder. She rooted in her purse again and brought out a box of Smith Wesson ammunition.

«I'm Amanda Dumfries,» she said to Miller. «This gun … my husband's idea. He thought I should have it for protection. I've carried it unloaded for two years.»

«Is your husband here, ma'am?»

«No, he's in New York. On business. He's gone on business a lot. That's why he wanted me to carry the gun.»

«Well,» Miller said, «if you can use it, you ought to keep it. What is it, a thirty-eight?

«Yes. And I've never fired it in my life except on a target range once.»

Miller took the gun, fumbled around, and got the cylinder to open after a few moments. He checked to make sure it was not loaded. «Okay,» he said. «We got a gun. Who shoots good? I sure don't.»

People glanced at each other. No one said anything at first. Then, reluctantly, Ollie said: «I target-shoot quite a lot. I have a Colt.45 and a Llama. 25.»

«You?» Brown said. «Huh. You'll be too drunk to see by dark.»

Ollie said very clearly, «Why don't you just shut up and write down your names?»

Brown goggled at him. Opened his mouth. Then decided, wisely, I think, to shut it again.

«It's yours,» Miller said, blinking a little at the exchange. He handed it over and Ollie checked it again, more professionally. He put the gun into his right-front pants pocket and slipped the cartridge box into his breast pocket, where it made a bulge like a pack of cigarettes. Then he leaned back against the cooler, round face still trickling sweat, and cracked a fresh beer. The sensation that I was seeing a totally unsuspected Ollie Weeks persisted.

«Thank you, Mrs. Dumfries,» Miller said.

«Don't mention it,» she said, and I thought fleetingly that if I were her husband and proprietor of those green eyes and that full figure, I might not travel so much. Giving your wife a gun could be seen as a ludicrously symbolic act.

«This may be silly, too,» Miller said, turning back to Brown with his clipboard and Ollie with his beer, «but there aren't anything like flamethrowers in the place, are there?»

«Ohhh, shit,» Buddy Eagleton said, and then went as red as Amanda Dumfries had done.

«What is it?» Mike Haden asked.

«Well … until last week we had a whole case of those little blowtorches. The kind you use around your house to solder leaky pipes or mend your exhaust system or whatever. You remember those, Mr. Brown?»

Brown nodded, looking sour.

«Sold out?» Miller asked.

«No, they didn't go at all. We only sold three or four and sent the rest of the case back. What a pisser. I mean … what a shame.» Blushing so deeply he was almost purple, Buddy Eagleton retired into the background again.

We had matches, of course, and salt (someone said vaguely that he had heard salt was the thing to put on bloodsuckers and things like that); and all kinds of O'Cedar mops and long-handled brooms. Most of the people continued to look heartened, and Jim and Myron were too plotzo to sound a dissenting note, but I met Ollie's eyes and saw a calm hopelessness in them that was worse than fear. He and I had seen the tentacles. The idea of throwing salt on them or trying to fend them off with the handles of O'Cedar mops was funny, in a ghastly way.

«Mike,» Miller said, «why don't you crew this little adventure? I want to talk to Ollie and Dave here for a minute.»

«Glad to.» Haden clapped Dan Miller on the shoulder. «Somebody had to take charge, and you did it good. Welcome to town.»

«Does this mean I get a kickback on my taxes? Miller asked. He was a banty little guy with red hair that was receding. He looked like the sort of guy you can't help liking on short notice and-just maybe-the kind of guy you can't help not liking after he's been around for a while. The kind of guy who knows how to do everything better than you do.

«Noway,» Haden said, laughing.

Haden walked off. Miller glanced down at my son.

«Don't worry about Billy,» I said.

«Man, I've never been so worried in my whole life,» Miller said.