The Regulators - Stephen King [40]
No one here but her and her dead friends on the TV.
Open the front door and just run like hell.
How many times had she considered it? But there was Seth to think about; he was as much a hostage as she was, and maybe more. Autistic he might be, but he was still a human being. She didn't like to think what Tak might do to him, if it was crossed. And Seth was still there, all of him — she knew that. Parasites feed on their hosts but don't kill them . . . unless it's on purpose. Because they're pissed off, maybe.
She had herself to think about, too. Janice could talk about escape, just opening the door and running like hell, but what Janice perhaps didn't understand was that if Tak caught her before she was able to get away, it would almost certainly kill her. And if she did get out of the house, how far would she have to go before she was safe? Across the street? To the bottom of the block? Terre Haute? New Hampshire? Micronesia? And even in Micronesia, she didn't think she would be able to hide. Because there was a mental link between them. The little red PlaySkool phone — the Tak-phone — proved that.
Yes, she wanted to get away. Oh yes, so much. But sometimes the devil you knew was better than the devil you didn't.
She started for the kitchen again, then stopped again, this time staring at the big window with its view of the street. She had thought the rain was pelting the glass hard enough to look like smoke, but actually the first fury of the storm was already passing. What she was seeing didn't just look like smoke; it was smoke.
She hurried to the window, looked down the street, and saw that the Hobart place was burning in the rain, sending big white clouds up into the gray sky. She saw no vehicles or people around it (and the smoke itself obscured her view of the dead boy and dog), so she looked up toward Bear Street. Where were the police cars? The fire engines? She didn't see them, but she saw enough to make her cry out softly through hands — she didn't know how they had gotten there — that were cupped to her mouth.
A car, Mary Jackson's, she was quite sure, was on the grass between the Jackson house and Old Doc's place, its nose almost up against the stake fence between the two properties. The trunk-lid had popped open, and the rear end looked trashed. The car wasn't what had made her cry out, though. Beyond it, sprawled on Doc's lawn like a fallen piece of statuary, was a woman's body. Audrey's mind made a brief attempt to persuade her it was something else — a department store mannequin, perhaps, dumped for some reason on Billingsley's lawn — then gave it up. It was a body, all right. It was Mary Jackson, and she was as dead as ... well, as dead as Audrey's own late husband.
Tak, she thought. Was it Tak? Has it been out?
You knew it's been getting ready for something, she thought coldly. You knew that. You've felt it gathering its forces, always in the sandbox playing with those damned vans or in front of the TV, eating hamburger meals, drinking chocolate milk, and watching, watching, watching. You've felt it, like a thunderstorm building up on a hot afternoon —
Beyond the woman, at the Carvers' house, were two more bodies. David Carver, who had sometimes played poker with Herb and Herb's friends on Thursday nights, lay on his front walk like a beached whale. There was an enormous hole in his stomach above the bathing suit he always wore when he washed the car. And, lying face-down on the Carver stoop, there was a woman in white shorts. Yards of red hair spilled out around her head in a frizzy corona. Rain glistened on her bare back.