The Regulators - Stephen King [61]
Johnny looked down. It was Peter Jackson, all right. He was on Doc's lawn, kneeling beside his wife. He had gotten her into a sitting position again. One arm was around her back. He was working the other under her cocked knees. Her skirt was well up on her thighs, and Johnny thought again about her missing pants. Well, so what? So fucking what? Johnny could see the man's back shaking as sobs racked him.
Silver light ran across the top of his vision.
He looked up and saw what looked like an old Airstream trailer — or maybe a lunch-wagon — turning left on to Poplar from Hyacinth. Close behind it was the red van that had taken care of the dog and the paperboy, and behind that was the one with the dark blue metal-flake paint. He looked the other way, up toward Bear Street, and saw the van with the Mary Kay paintjob and the Valentine radar-dish, the yellow one that had first rear-ended Mary and then rode her off the street, and the black one with the turret.
Six of them. Six in two converging lines of three. He had seen American LAC vehicles in the same formation a long time ago, in Vietnam.
They were creating a fire-corridor.
For a moment he couldn't move. His hands seemed to hang at the ends of his arms like plugs of cement. You can't, he thought with a kind of sick, unbelieving fury. You can't come back, you bastards, you can't keep coming back.
Brad didn't see them; he was looking at the man on the lawn of the house next door, absorbed in Peter's effort to get up with his wife's dead weight in his arms. And Peter . . .
Johnny got his right hand moving. He wanted it to streak; it seemed to float instead. He got it around the handle of the gun and pulled it out of the waistband of his pants. Couldn't shoot it; no loads in the chambers. Couldn't load it, either, not in his current state. So he brought it down butt-first, shattering the glass of Ellen's bedroom window.
'Get inside!' he screamed at Peter, and his voice came out sounding low and strengthless to his own ears. Dear God, what nightmare was this, and how had they stumbled into it? 'Get inside! They're coming again! They're back! They're coming again!'
Drawing found folded into an unfitted notebook which apparently served as Audrey Wyler's journal. Although unsigned, it is almost certainly the work of Seth Garin. If one assumes that its placement in the journal corresponds to the time it was done, then it was made in the summer of 1995, after the death of Herbert Wyler and the Hobart family's abrupt departure from Poplar Street.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Poplar Street/4:44 p.m./July 15, 1996
They seem to come out of the mist rising off the street like materializing metal dinosaurs. Windows slide down; the porthole on the flank of the pink Dream Floater irises open again; the windshield of Bounty's blue Freedom van retracts into a smooth darkness from which three grayish shotgun barrels bristle.
Thunder rumbles and somewhere a bird cries harshly. There is a beat of silence, and then the shooting begins.
It's like the thunderstorm all over again, only worse, because this time it's personal. And the guns are louder than before; Collie Entragian, lying face-down in the doorway between Billingsley's kitchen and living room, is the first to notice this, but the others are not long in realizing it for themselves. Each shot is almost like a grenade blast, and each is followed by a low moaning sound, something caught between a buzz and a whistle.
Two shots from the red Tracker Arrow and the top of Collie Entragian's chimney is nothing but maroon dust in the wind and pebble-sized chunks of brick pattering down on his roof. A shot strikes the plastic spread over Gary Ripton, making it ripple like a parachute, and another tears off the rear wheel of his bike. Ahead of Tracker Arrow is the silver van, the one that looks like an old-fashioned lunch-wagon. Part of its roof rises at an angle, and a silver figure