Song of Susannah - Stephen King [53]
“Eddie, to me!” Roland bellowed, scrambling to his feet. Bitter agony exploded in his right hip and raced almost all the way down to his knee, but he gave no sign. Barely registered it, in fact. He hauled Eddie with him toward a building, some building, and past what even Roland recognized as oil or gasoline pumps. These were marked MOBIL instead of CITGO or SUNOCO, two other names with which the gunslinger was familiar.
Eddie was semiconscious at best. His left cheek was drenched with blood from a laceration in his scalp. Nevertheless, he put his legs to work as best he could and stumbled up three wooden steps to what Roland now recognized as a general store. It was quite a bit smaller than Took’s, but otherwise not much d—
A limber whipcrack of sound came from behind and slightly to the right. The shooter was close enough for Roland to feel confident that if he had heard the sound of the shot, the man with the rifle had already missed.
Something passed within an inch of his ear, making its own perfectly clear sound: Mizzzzzz! The glass in the little mercantile’s front door shattered inward. The sign which had been hanging there (WE’RE OPEN, SO COME IN ’N VISIT) jumped and twisted.
“Rolan…” Eddie’s voice, weak and distant, sounded as if it were coming through a mouthful of mush. “Rolan wha…who…OWF!” This last a grunt of surprise as Roland threw him flat inside the door and landed on top of him.
Now came another of those limber whipcracks; there was a gunner with an extremely high-powered rifle out there. Roland heard someone shout “Aw, fuck ’at, Jack!” and a moment later a speed-shooter—what Eddie and Jake called a machine-gun—opened up. The dirty display windows on both sides of the door came crashing down in bright shards. The paperwork which had been posted inside the glass—town notices, Roland had no doubt—went flying.
Two women and a gent of going-on-elderly years were the only customers in the store’s aisles. All three were turned toward the front—toward Roland and Eddie—and on their faces was the eternal uncomprehending look of the gunless civilian. Roland sometimes thought it a grass-eating look, as though such folk—those in Calla Bryn Sturgis mostly no different—were sheep instead of people.
“Down!” Roland bellowed from where he lay on his semiconscious (and now breathless) companion. “For the love of your gods get DOWN! ”
The going-on-elderly gent, who was wearing a checked flannel shirt in spite of the store’s warmth, let go of the can he’d been holding (there was a picture of a tomato on it) and dropped. The two women did not, and the speed-shooter’s second burst killed them both, caving in the chest of one and blowing off the top of the other’s head. The chest-shot woman went down like a sack of grain. The one who’d been head-shot took two blind, blundering steps toward Roland, blood spewing from where her hair had been like lava from an erupting volcano. Outside the store a second and third speed-shooter began, filling the day with noise, filling the air above them with a deadly crisscross of slugs. The woman who’d lost the top of her head spun around twice in a final dance-step, arms flailing, and then collapsed. Roland went for his gun and was relieved to find it still in its holster: the reassuring sandalwood grip. So that much was well. The gamble had paid off. And he and Eddie certainly weren’t todash. The gunners had seen them, seen them very well.
More. Had been waiting for them.
“Move in!” someone was screaming. “Move in, move in, don’t give em a chance to find their peckers, move in, you catzarros !”
“Eddie!” Roland roared. “Eddie, you have to help me now!”
“Hizz…?” Faint. Bemused. Eddie looking at him with only one eye, the right. The left was temporarily drowned in blood from his scalp-wound.
Roland reached out and slapped him hard enough to make blood fly from his hair. “Harriers! Coming to