The drawing of the three - Stephen King [61]
It was Eddie he saw first, Eddie the junkie, Eddie who had somehow brought him to this crazy place. Eddie was standing there as naked as the day he had been born, shivering in the chilly wind, clutching himself with both arms. Well, he might die here, but he would at least have the pleasure of taking Eddie Fucking Dean with him.
Andolini brought his gun up. The little Cobra now seemed to weigh about twenty pounds, but he managed.
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This better not be another misfire, Roland thought grimly, and thumbed the hammer back again. Below the din of the gulls, he heard the smooth oiled click as the chamber revolved.
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It was no misfire.
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The gunslinger hadn’t aimed at Andolini’s head but at the gun in Andolini’s hand. He didn’t know if they still needed this man, but they might; he was important to Balazar, and because Balazar had proved to be every bit as dangerous as Roland had thought he might be, the best course was the safest one.
His shot was good, and that was no surprise; what happened to Andolini’s gun and hence to Andolini was. Roland had seen it happen, but only twice in all the years he had seen men fire guns at each other.
Bad luck for you, fellow, the gunslinger thought as Andolini wandered off toward the beach, screaming. Blood poured down his shirt and pants. The hand which had been holding the Colt Cobra was missing below the middle of the palm. The gun was a senseless piece of twisted metal lying on the sand.
Eddie stared at him, stunned. No one would ever misjudge Jack Andolini’s caveman face again, because now he had no face; where it had been there was now nothing but a churned mess of raw flesh and the black screaming hole of his mouth.
“My God, what happened?”
“My bullet must have struck the cylinder of his gun at the second he pulled the trigger,” the gunslinger said. He spoke as dryly as a professor giving a police academy ballistics lecture. “The result was an explosion that tore the back off his gun. I think one or two of the other cartridges may have exploded as well.”
“Shoot him,” Eddie said. He was shivering harder than ever, and now it wasn’t just the combination of night air, sea breeze, and naked body that was causing it. “Kill him. Put him out of his misery, for God’s s—”
“Too late,” the gunslinger said with a cold indifference that chilled Eddie’s flesh all the way in to the bone.
And Eddie turned away just too late to avoid seeing the lobstrosities swarm over Andolini’s feet, tearing off his Gucci loafers . . . with the feet still inside them, of course. Screaming, waving his arms spasmodically before him, Andolini fell forward. The lobstrosities swarmed greedily over him, questioning him anxiously all the while they were eating him alive: Dad-a-chack? Did-a-chick? Dum-a-chum? Dod-a-chock?
“Jesus,” Eddie moaned. “What do we do now?”
“Now you get exactly as much of the (devil-powder the gunslinger said; cocaine Eddie heard) as you promised the man Balazar,” Roland said, “no more and no less. And we go back.” He looked levelly at Eddie. “Only this time I have to go back with you. As myself.”
“Jesus Christ,” Eddie said. “Can you do that?” And at once answered his own question. “Sure you can. But why?”
“Because you can’t handle this alone,” Roland said. “Come here.”
Eddie looked back at the squirming hump of clawed creatures on the beach. He had never liked Jack Andolini, but he felt his stomach roll over just the same.
“Come here,” Roland said impatiently. “We’ve little time, and I have little liking for what I must do now. It’s something I’ve never done before. Never thought I would do.” His