Needful Things - Stephen King [320]
One of his wrinkled hands was pressed squarely in the middle of his chest.
"Seat, where's Alan?"
"Dunno," Seat said, and looked at Norris with dull, frightened eyes. "Something bad's happening, Norris. Really bad. All over town.
The phones are out, and that shouldn't be, because most of the lines are underground now. But do you know something? I'm glad they're out.
I'm glad because I don't want to know."
"You should be in the hospital," Norris said, looking at the old man with concern.
"I should be in Kansas," Seat said drearily. "Meantime, I'm just gonna sit here and wait for it to be over. I ain't-" The bridge blew up then, cutting him off-that great rifleshot noise ripped the night like a claw.
'Jesus!" Norris and Joe Price cried in unison.
"Yep," Seat Thomas said in his weary, frightened, nagging, unsurprised voice, "they're going to blow up the town, I guess. I guess that comes next."
Suddenly, shockingly, the old man began to weep.
"Where's Henry Payton?" Norris shouted at Trooper Price.
Price ignored him. He was running for the door to see what had blown up.
Norris spared a glance at Seaton Thomas, but Seat was staring gloomily out into space, tears rolling down his face and his hand still planted squarely in the center of his chest. Norris followed Trooperjoe Price and found him in the Municipal Building parking lot, where Norris had ticketed Buster Keeton's red Cadillac about a thousand years ago. A pillar of dying fire stood out clearly in the rainy night, and in its glow both of them could see that Castle Stream Bridge was gone. The traffic light at the far end of town had been knocked into the street.
"Mother of God," Trooper Price said in a reverent voice. "I'm sure glad this isn't my town." The firelight had put roses on his cheeks and embers in his eyes.
Norris's urge to locate Alan had deepened. He decided he had better get back in his cruiser and try to find Henry Payton firstif there was some sort of big brawl going on, that shouldn't be too difficult. Alan might be there, too.
He was almost across the sidewalk when a stroke of lightning showed him two figures trotting around the corner of the courthouse next to the Municipal Building. They appeared to be heading for the bright yellow newsvan. One of them he was not sure of, but the other figure-portly and a little bow-legged-was impossible to mistake. It was Danforth Keeton.
Norris Ridgewick took two steps to the right and planted his back against the brick wall at the mouth of the alley. He drew his service revolver. He raised it to shoulder level, its muzzle pointing up into the rainy sky, and screamed "HALT!" at the top of his lungs.
3
Polly backed her car down the driveway, switched on the windshield wipers, and made a left turn. The pain in her hands had been joined by a deep, heavy burning in her arms, where the spider's muck had fallen on her skin. It had poisoned her somehow, and the poison seemed to be working its way steadily into her. But there was no time to worry about it now.
She was approaching the stop-sign at Laurel and Main when the bridge went up. She winced away from that massive rifleshot and stared for a moment, amazed, at the bright gout of flame which rose up from Castle Stream. For a moment she saw the gantry-like silhouette of the bridge itself, all black angles against the strenuous light, and then it was swallowed in flame.
She turned left again onto Main, in the direction of Needful Things.
4
At one time, Alan Pangborn had been a dedicated maker of home movies-he had no idea how many people he had bored to tears with jumpy films, projected on a sheet tacked to the living-room wall, of his diapered children toddling their uncertain way around the living room, of Annie giving them baths, of birthday parties, of family outings. In all these films, people waved and mugged at the camera. It was as though there were some sort of unspoken law: When someone points a movie camera at you, you must wave, or mug, or