Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [327]
Four
Yet in his heart, Eddie knew Roland was right. He attacked the path to the Doorway Cave not with hope but with a kind of desperate determination. At the place where the boulder had fallen, blocking most of the path, they found an abandoned vehicle with three balloon tires and an electric motor that was still softly humming, a low and constant ummmmm sound. To Eddie, the gadget looked like one of those funky ATV things they sold at Abercrombie & Fitch. There was a handgrip accelerator and handgrip brakes. He bent close and read what was stamped into the steel of the left one:
“SQUEEZIE-PIE” BRAKES, BY NORTH CENTRAL POSITRONICS
Behind the bicycle-style seat was a little carry-case. Eddie flipped it up and was totally unsurprised to see a six-pack of Nozz-A-La, the drink favored by discriminating bumhugs everywhere. One can had been taken off the ring. She’d been thirsty, of course. Moving fast made you thirsty. Especially if you were in labor.
“This came from the place across the river,” Jake murmured. “The Dogan. If I’d gone out back, I would have seen it parked there. A whole fleet of them, probably. I bet it was Andy.”
Eddie had to admit it made sense. The Dogan was clearly an outpost of some sort, probably one that predated the current unpleasant residents of Thunderclap. This was exactly the sort of vehicle you’d want to make patrols on, given the terrain.
From this vantage-point beside the fallen boulder, Eddie could see the battleground where they’d stood against the Wolves, throwing plates and lead. That stretch of East Road was so full of people it made him think of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. The whole Calla was out there partying, and oh how Eddie hated them in that moment. My wife’s gone because of you chickenshit motherfuckers, he thought. It was a stupid idea, stupendously unkind, as well, yet it offered a certain hateful satisfaction. What was it that poem by Stephen Crane had said, the one they’d read back in high school? “I like it because it is bitter, and because it is my heart.” Something like that. Close enough for government work.
Now Roland was standing beside the abandoned, softly humming trike, and if it was sympathy he saw in the gunslinger’s eyes—or, worse, pity—he wanted none of it.
“Come on, you guys. Let’s find her.”
Five
This time the voice that greeted them from the Doorway Cave’s depths belonged to a woman Eddie had never actually met, although he had heard of her—aye, much, say thankya—and knew her voice at once.
“She’s gone, ye great dick-led galoot!” cried Rhea of the Cöos from the darkness. “Taken her labor elsewhere, ye ken! And I’ve no doubt that when her cannibal baby finally comes out, it’ll munch its mother north from the cunt, aye!” She laughed, a perfect (and perfectly grating) Witch Hazel cackle. “No titty-milk fer this one, ye grobbut lost lad! This one’ll have meat!”
“Shut up!” Eddie screamed into the darkness. “Shut up, you…you fucking phantom!”
And for a wonder, the phantom did.
Eddie looked around. He saw Tower’s goddamned two-shelf bookcase—first editions under glass, may they do ya fine—but no pink metal-mesh bag with MID-WORLD LANES printed on it; no engraved ghostwood box, either. The unfound door was still here, its hinges still hooked to nothing, but now it had a strangely dull look. Not just unfound but unremembered; only one more useless piece of a world that had moved on.
“No,” Eddie said. “No, I don’t accept that. The power is still here. The power is still here.”
He turned to Roland, but Roland wasn’t looking at him. Incredibly, Roland was studying the books. As if the search for Susannah had begun to bore him and he was looking for a good read to pass the time.
Eddie took Roland’s shoulder, turned him. “What happened, Roland? Do you know?”
“What happened is obvious,” Roland said. Callahan had come up beside him. Only Jake, who was visiting the Doorway Cave for the first time, hung back at the entrance. “She took her wheelchair as far as she could, then went on her hands and knees to the foot of the path,