The Running Man - Stephen King [83]
“Amnesty,” McCone repeated. “How does that word sound?”
“Like a lie,” Richards said, smiling. “Like a fat fucking lie. Don’t you think I know you’re nothing but the hired help?”
McCone flushed. It was not a soft flush at all; it was hard and red and bricklike. “It’s going to be good to have you on my home court,” he said. “We’ve got hi-impact slugs that will make your head look like a pumpkin dropped on a sidewalk from the top floor of a skyscraper. Gas filled. They explode on contact. A gut shot, on the other hand—”
Richards screamed: “Here it goes! I’m pulling the ring!”
McCone screeched. He staggered back two steps, his rump hit the well-padded arm of seat number 95 across the way, he overbalanced and fell into it like a man into a sling, his arms flailing the air around his head in crazed warding-off gestures.
His hands froze about his head like petrified birds, splay fingered. His face stared through their grotesque frame like a plaster death-mask on which someone had hung a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles for a joke.
Richards began to laugh. The noise of it was cracked at first, hesitant, foreign to his own ears. How long had it been since he had had a real laugh, an honest one, the kind that comes freely and helplessly from the deepest root of the stomach? It seemed to him that he had never had one in his whole gray, struggling, earnest life. But he was having one now.
You bastard.
McCone’s voice had failed him; he could only mouth the words. His face was twisted and scrunched like the face of a badly used teddy bear.
Richards laughed. He held on to one arm of his seat with his free hand and just laughed and laughed and laughed.
…Minus 022 and COUNTING…
When Holloway’s voice informed Richards that the plane was crossing the border between Canada and the state of Vermont (Richards supposed he knew his business; he himself could see nothing but darkness below them, interrupted by occasional clusters of light), he set his coffee down carefully and said:
“Could you supply me with a map of North America, Captain Holloway?”
“Physical or political?” A new voice cut in. The navigator’s, Richards supposed. Now he was supposed to play obligingly dumb and not know which map he wanted. Which he didn’t.
“Both,” he said flatly.
“Are you going to send the woman up for them?”
“What’s your name, pal?”
The hesitant pause of a man who realizes with sudden trepidation that he has been singled out. “Donahue.”
“You’ve got legs, Donahue. Suppose you trot them back here yourself.”
Donahue trotted them back. He had long hair combed back greaser fashion and pants tailored tight enough to show what looked like a bag of golf balls at the crotch. The maps were encased in limp plastic. Richards didn’t know what Donahue’s balls were encased in.
“I didn’t mean to mouth off,” he said unwillingly. Richards thought he could peg him. Well-off young men with a lot of free time often spent much of it roaming the shabby pleasure areas of the big cities, roaming in well-heeled packs, sometimes on foot, more often on choppers. They were queer-stompers. Queers, of course, had to be eradicated. Save our bathrooms for democracy. They rarely ventured beyond the twilight pleasure areas into the full darkness of the ghettos. When they did, they got the shit kicked out of them.
Donahue shifted uneasily under Richards’s long gaze. “Anything else?”
“You a queer-stomper, pal?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Go on back. Help them fly the plane.”
Donahue went back at