Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [315]
Enough thinking, Cort said in his head. If you mean to move, maggot, this is your only chance.
Roland shot to his feet. Directly across from him, protected by the cluster of tumbled boulders which marked the East Road end of the arroyo path, stood Jake and Benny Slightman, with the Tavery boy supported between them. The kid was bloody both north and south; gods knew what had happened to him. His sister was looking over his shoulder. In that instant they looked not just like twins but Kaffin twins, joined at the body.
Roland jerked both hands extravagantly back over his head, as if clawing for a grip in the air: To me, come! Come! At the same time, he looked east. No sign of the Wolves; good. The hill had momentarily blocked them all.
Jake and Benny sprinted across the road, still dragging the boy between them. Frank Tavery’s shor’boots dug fresh grooves in the oggan. Roland could only hope the Wolves would attach no especial significance to the marks.
The girl came last, light as a sprite. “Down!” Roland snarled, grabbing her shoulder and throwing her flat. “Down, down, down!” He landed beside her and Jake landed on top of him. Roland could feel the boy’s madly beating heart between his shoulderblades, through both of their shirts, and had a moment to relish the sensation.
Now the hoofbeats were coming hard and strong, swelling every second. Had they been seen by the lead riders? It was impossible to know, but they would know, and soon. In the meantime they could only go on as planned. It would be tight quarters in the hide with three extra people in there, and if the Wolves had seen Jake and the other three crossing the road, they would all no doubt be cooked where they lay without a single shot fired or plate thrown, but there was no time to worry about that now. They had a minute left at most, Roland estimated, maybe only forty seconds, and that last little bit of time was melting away beneath them.
“Get off me and under cover,” he said to Jake. “Right now.”
The weight disappeared. Jake slipped into the hide.
“You’re next, Frank Tavery,” Roland said. “And be quiet. Two minutes from now you can scream all you want, but for now, keep your mouth shut. That goes for all of you.”
“I’ll be quiet,” the boy said huskily. Benny and Frank’s sister nodded.
“We’re going to stand up at some point and start shooting,” Roland said. “You three—Frank, Francine, Benny—stay down. Stay flat.” He paused. “For your lives, stay out of our way.”
Fourteen
Roland lay in the leaf-and dirt-smelling dark, listening to the harsh breathing of the children on his left. This sound was soon overwhelmed by that of approaching hooves. The eye of imagination and that of intuition opened once more, and wider than ever. In no more than thirty seconds—perhaps as few as fifteen—the red rage of battle would do away with all but the most primitive seeing, but for now he saw all, and all he saw was exactly as he wanted it to be. And why not? What good did visualizing plans gone astray ever do anyone?
He saw the twins of the Calla lying sprawled like corpses in the thickest, wettest part of the rice, with the muck oozing through their shirts and pants. He saw the adults beyond them, almost to the place where rice became riverbank. He saw Sarey Adams with her plates, and Ara of the Manni—Cantab’s wife—with a few of her own, for Ara also threw (although as one of the Manni-folk, she could never be at fellowship with the other women). He saw a couple of the men