The Running Man - Stephen King [95]
Richards lurched up the narrow corridor, holding both sides for support. Past Donahue. Past Friedman and his radical dental surgery. Numbness crawling up his arms, yet the pain in his belly (what had been his belly) growing worse. Still, even through all this he moved, and his ruptured body tried to carry out the commands of the insane Napoleon caged inside his skull.
My God, can this be the end of Rico?
He would not have believed he had so many death-bed cliches inside him. It seemed that his mind was turning inward, eating itself in its last fevered seconds.
One. More. Thing.
He fell over Holloway’s sprawled body and lay there, suddenly sleepy. A nap. Yes. Just the ticket. Too hard to get up. Otto, humming. Singing the birthday boy to sleep. Shhh, shhh, shhh. The sheep’s in the meadow, the cow’s in the corn.
He lifted his head—tremendous effort, his head was steel, pig iron, lead—and stared at the twin controls going through their dance. Beyond him, in the plexiglass windows, Harding.
Too far.
He’s under the haystack, fast asleep.
…Minus 004 and COUNTING…
The radio was squawking worriedly: “Come in, C-one-niner-eight-four. You’re too low. Acknowledge. Acknowledge. Shall we assume Guidance control? Acknowledge. Acknowledge Ack—”
“Eat it,” Richards whispered.
He began to crawl toward the dipping, swaying controls. In and out went the pedals. Twitch-twitch went the wheels. He screamed as new agony flared. A loop of his intestines had caught under Holloway’s chin. He crawled back. Freed them. Started to crawl again.
His arms went slack and for a moment he floated, weightless, with his nose in the soft, deep-pile carpet. He pushed himself up and began to crawl again.
Getting up and into Holloway’s seat was Everest.
…Minus 003 and COUNTING…
There it was. Huge, bulking square and tall into the night, silhouetted black above everything else. Moonlight had turned it alabaster.
He tweaked the wheel just a little. The floor fell away to the left. He lurched in Holloway’s seat and almost fell out. He turned the wheel back, overcorrected again, and the floor fell away to the right. The horizon was tilting crazily.
Now the pedals. Yes. Better.
He pushed the wheel in gingerly. A dial in front of his eyes moved from 2000 to 1500 in the wink of an eye. He eased the wheel back. He had very little sight left. His right eye was almost completely gone. Strange that they should go one at a time.
He pushed the wheel in again. Now it seemed that the plane was floating, weightless. The dial slipped from 1500 to 1200 to 900. He pulled it back out.
“C-one-niner-eight-four.” The voice was very alarmed now. “What’s wrong? Acknowledge!”
“Speak, boy,” Richards croaked. “Rowf! Rowf!”
…Minus 002 and COUNTING…
The big plane cruised through the night like a sliver of ice and now Co-Op City was spread out below like a giant broken carton.
He was coming at it, coming at the Games Building.
…Minus 001 and COUNTING…
Now the jet cruised across the canal, seemingly held up by the hand of God, giant, roaring. A Push freak in a doorway stared up and thought he was seeing a hallucination, the last dope dream, come to take him away, perhaps to General Atomics heaven where all the food was free and all the piles were clean breeders.
The sound of its engines drove people into doorways, their faces craning upwards like pale flames. Glass show-windows jingled and fell inward. Gutter litter was sucked down bowling-alley streets in dervishes. A cop dropped his move-along and wrapped his hands around his head and screamed and could not hear himself.
The plane was still dropping and now it moved over rooftops like a cruising silver bat; the starboard wingtip missed the side of the Glamour Column Store by a bare twelve feet.
All over Harding, Free-Vees went white with interference and people stared at them with stupid, fearful incredulity.
The thunder filled the world.
Killian looked up from his desk and stared into the wall-to-wall window that