The Regulators - Stephen King [95]
7
Johnny rammed both elbows back into Dave Reed's stomach, which was trim and hard but unprepared. Dave let out a surprised Ooof! and Johnny tore out of his grasp. Before Jim could fire again, Johnny had seized his arm and twisted it savagely. The boy screamed in pain. His hand opened and David Carver's pistol thumped to the path.
'What are you doing?' Dave yelled. 'He'll kill us, are you crazy?'
'Your brother just shot Collie Entragian from down the block, how's that for crazy?' Johnny said. Yes, that was what the boy had done, but whose fault was it? He was the adult here. He should have taken the gun as soon as they were safely away from Cammie Reed's fanatic eyes and dry orders. He could have done it; why hadn't he?
'No,' Jim whispered, turning to him, shaking his head. 'No!' But his eyes already knew; they were huge, and filling with tears.
'Why would he be out here?' Dave asked. 'Why didn't he warn us, for God's — '
The growl, which had never really stopped, reasserted itself in the hot red air, quickly rising to a snarl. The man who was still on his feet — the guy from the rental truck — turned toward it, instinctively raising his hands. The rifle in them was a very small one, and the guy might be right to use it that way, shielding his neck with it rather than pointing it.
Then the creature which had chased them up the path sprang out of the woods. Johnny's ability to think consciously and coherently ceased when he saw it — all he could do was see. That clear sight — more curse than blessing — had never failed him before, nor did it now.
The thing was a nightmare with a tawny brown coat, crooked green eyes, and a mouthful of jagged orange teeth. Not a cat but a misbegotten feline freak. It leaped, splintering the upheld Mossberg rifle with its enormous claws and tearing it away from the clenched hands which had held it. Then, still snarling, it went for Steve's throat.
From Audrey Wyler's journal
June 12, 1995
It happened again — the daydream thing. If that's what it is. 3rd or 4th time, but the first (I think) since I've been keeping this journal, by far the most vivid. It always seems to happen when things around here aren't going well, oh God are things around here ever not going well!
Herb got up with Seth this morning, ran through the shower with him (saves lots of time), and when they came down Seth was sulking Herb had. the start of a black eye. I didn't have to ask him about it. Seth made him punch himself, of course, the same way he made him twist his lip when we got back from the ice cream parlor and Seth discovered his damned Power Wagon was gone. I looked at Herb he gave me a little head-shake, telling me to keep quiet. Which I did. I've discovered you can always find something to be grateful for, in this case that making Herb punch himself was all Seth did (although it's not really Seth who does the bad stuff but the other one, the Stalky Little Boy). Seth likes to stand by the bathroom sink and watch Herb shave in the mornings. The SLB could have popped out and made him cut his throat with his own Bic disposable, I suppose. Frightens me to write such a thing, but sometimes it's better to have it out on the page. Like squeezing infected material out of a cut.
The Stalky Little Boy started in before I even had breakfast on the table — I always know when it's him instead of Seth because his eyes aren't dark brown but almost black. 'Where my Dweem Fwoatah?' he asked.
'We haven't found Dream Floater yet,' I said, 'but I'm sure we will.'
1want my Dweem Fwoatah! he screamed, at the top of his lungs, and Herb kind of winced. I didn't. At least when he's screaming he's not throwing things. 'I want my fucking DWEEM FWOATAH!'
'Don't you swear like that in front of your Aunt Audrey,' Herb said, and