The Dark Tower - Stephen King [45]
Ake! Oy responded, and took a tentative step forward. The boy’s body wavered from side to side, out to the very edge of balance and then beyond. Ake’s stupid two-legs body tumbled sideways. Oy tried to save it and only made the tumble worse, going down on the boy’s right side and bumping Ake’s furry head.
Oy tried to bark his frustration. What came out of Ake’s mouth was a stupid thing that was more word than sound: “Bark! Ark! Shit-bark!”
“I hear him!” someone shouted. “Run! Come on, double-time, you useless cunts! Before the little bastard gets to the door!”
Ake’s ears weren’t keen, but with the way the tile walls magnified sounds, that was no problem. Oy could hear their running footfalls.
“You have to get up and go!” Jake tried to yell, and what came out was a garbled, barking sentence: “Ake-Ake, affa! Up n go!” Under other circumstances it might have been funny, but not under these.
Oy got up by putting Ake’s back against the wall and pushing with Ake’s legs. At last he was getting the hang of the motor controls; they were in a place Ake called Dogan and were fairly simple. Off to the left, however, an arched corridor led into a huge room filled with mirror-bright machinery. Oy knew that if he went into that place—the chamber where Ake kept all his marvelous thoughts and his store of words—he would be lost forever.
Luckily, he didn’t need to. Everything he needed was in the Dogan. Left foot…forward. (And pause.) Right foot…forward. (And pause.) Hold the thing that looks like a billy-bumbler but is really your friend and use the other arm for balance. Resist the urge to drop to all fours and crawl. The pursuers will catch up if he does that; he can no longer smell them (not with Ake’s amazingly stupid little bulb of a snout), but he is sure of it, all the same.
For his part, Jake could smell them clearly, at least a dozen and maybe as many as sixteen. Their bodies were perfect engines of stink, and they pushed the aroma ahead of them in a dirty cloud. He could smell the asparagus one had had for dinner; could smell the meaty, wrong aroma of the cancer which was growing in another, probably in his head but perhaps in his throat.
Then he heard the triceratops roar again. It was answered by the bird-thing riding the air overhead.
Jake closed his—well, Oy’s—eyes. In the dark, the bumbler’s side-to-side motion was even worse. Jake was concerned that if he had to put up with much of it (especially with his eyes shut), he would ralph his guts out. Just call him ’Bama the Sea-sick Sailor.
Go, Oy, he thought. Fast as you can. Don’t fall down again, but…fast as you can!
Nine
Had Eddie been there, he might have been reminded of Mrs. Mislaburski from up the block: Mrs. Mislaburski in February, after a sleet storm, when the sidewalk was glazed with ice and not yet salted down. But, ice or no ice, she would not be kept from her daily chop or bit of fish at the Castle Avenue Market (or from mass on Sunday, for Mrs. Mislaburski was perhaps the most devout Catholic in Co-Op City). So here she came, thick legs spread, candy-pink in their support hose, one arm clutching her purse to her immense bosom, the other held out for balance, head down, eyes searching for the islands of ashes where some responsible building super had already been out (Jesus and Mother Mary bless those good men), also for the treacherous patches that would defeat her, that would send her whoopsy with her large pink knees flying apart, and down she’d come on her sit-upon, or maybe on her back, a woman could break her spine, a woman could be paralyzed like poor Mrs. Bernstein’s daughter that was in the car accident in Mamaroneck, such things happened. And so she ignored the catcalls of the children (Henry Dean and his little brother Eddie often among them) and went on her way, head down, arm outstretched for balance, sturdy black old lady’s purse curled to her midsection, determined that if she did go whoopsy-my-daisy she would protect her purse and its contents