Slowly, rolling at thirty, Ben Richards passed between them.
Minus 038 and COUNTING
An hour passed. It was four o'clock. Shadows crawled across the road.
Richards, slumped down below eye level in his seat, floated in and out of consciousness effortlessly. He had clumsily pulled his shirt out of his pants to look at the new wound. The bullet had dug a deep and ugly canal in his side that had bled a great deal. The blood had clotted, but grudgingly. When he had to move quickly again, the wound would rip open and bleed a great deal more. Didn't matter. They were going to blow him up. In the face of this massive armory, his plan was a joke. He would go ahead with it, fill in the blanks until there was an "accident" and the air car was blown into bent bolts and shards of metal (" . . . terrible accident . . . the trooper has been suspended pending a full investigation . . . regret the loss of innocent life . . . "-all this buried in the last newsie of the day, between the stock-market report and the Pope's latest pronouncement), but it was only reflex. He had become increasingly worried about Amelia Williams, whose big mistake had been picking Wednesday morning to do her marketing.
"There are tanks out there," she said suddenly. Her voice was light, chatty, hysterical. "Can you imagine it? Can you-" She began to cry.
Richards waited. Finally, he said: "What town are we in?"
"W-W-Winterport, the sign s-said. Oh, I can't! I can't wait for them to do it! can't!"
"Okay," he said.
She blinked slowly, giving an infinitesimal shake of her head as if to clear it. "What?"
"Stop. Get out."
"But they'll kill y-"
"Yes. But there won't be any blood. You won't see any blood. They've got enough firepower out there to vaporize me and the car, too."
"You're lying. You'll kill me."
The gun had been dangling between his knees. He dropped it on the floor. It clunked harmlessly on the rubber floor-mat.
"I want some pot," she said mindlessly. "Oh God, I want to be high. Why didn't you wait for the next car? Jesus! Jesus!"
Richards began to laugh. He laughed in wheezy, shallow-chested heaves that still hurt his side. He closed his eyes and laughed until tears oozed out from under the lids.
"It's cold in here with that broken windshield," she said irrelevantly. "Turn on the heater. "
Her face was a pale blotch in the shadows of late afternoon.
Minus 037 and COUNTING
"We're in Derry," she said.
The streets were black with people. They hung over roof ledges and sat on balconies and verandahs from which the summer furniture had been removed. They ate sandwiches and fried chicken from greasy buckets.
"Are there jetport signs?"
"Yes. I'm following them. They'll just close the gates."
"I'll just threaten to kill you again if they do."
"Are you going to skyjack a plane?"
"I'm going to try."
"You can't."
"I'm sure you're right."
They made a right, then a left. Bullhorns exhorted the crowd monotonously to move back, to disperse.
"Is she really your wife? That woman in the pictures?"
"Yes. Her name is Sheila. Our baby, Cathy, is a year and a half old. She had the flu. Maybe she's better now. That's how I got into this."
A helicopter buzzed them, leaving a huge arachnid shadow on the road ahead. A grossly amplified voice exhorted Richards to let the woman go. When it was gone and they could speak again, she said:
"Your wife looks like a little tramp. She could take better care of herself."
"The picture was doctored," Richards said tonelessly.
"They would do that?"
"They would do that. "
"The jetport. We're coming up to it."
"Are the gates shut?"
"I can't see . . . wait . . . open but blocked. A tank. It's pointing its shooter at us."
"Drive to within thirty feet of it and stop."
The car crawled slowly down the four-lane access road between the parked police cars, between the ceaseless scream and babble of the crowd. A sign loomed over them: VOIGT AIRFIELD. The woman could see an electrified cyclone fence which crossed a marshy, worthless sort of field on both sides of the road. Straight ahead was a combination information booth and check-in point on a traffic island. Beyond that was the main gate, blocked by an A-62 tank capable of firing one-quarter-megaton shells from its cannon. Farther on, a confusion of roads and parking lots, all tending toward the complex jet-line terminals that blocked the runways from view. A huge control tower bulked over everything like an H. G. Wells Martian, the westering sun glaring off its polarized bank of windows and turning them to fire. Employees and passengers alike had crowded down to the nearest parking lot where they were being held back by more police. There was a pulsing, heavy whine in their ears, and Amelia saw a steel-gray Lockheed/G-A Superbird rising into a flat, powerful climb from one of the runways behind the main buildings.
"RICHARDS!"
She jumped and looked at him, frightened. He waved his hand at her nonchalantly. It's all right, Ma. I'm only dying.
"YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED INSIDE," the huge amplified voice admonished him. "LET THE WOMAN GO. STEP OUT."
"What now?" she asked. "It's a stand-off. They'll just wait until-"
"Let's push them a little farther," Richards said. "They'll bluff along a little more. Lean out. Tell them I'm hurt and half-crazy. Tell them I want to give up to the Airline Police."
"You want to do what?"
"The Airline Police are neither state enforcement nor federal. They've been international ever since the UN treaty of 1995. There used to be a story that if you gave up to them, you'd get amnesty. Sort of like landing on Free Parking in Monopoly. Full of shit, of course. They turn you over to the Hunters and the Hunters drag you out in back of the barn. "
She winced.
"But maybe they'll think I believe it. Or that I've fooled myself into believing it. Go ahead and tell them."
She leaned out and Richards tensed. If there was going to be an "unfortunate accident" which would remove Amelia from the picture, it would probably happen now. Her head and upper body were clearly and cleanly exposed to a thousand guns. One squeeze on one trigger and the entire farce would come to a quick end.
"Ben Richards wants to give up to the Airline Police!" she cried. "He's shot in two places! " She threw a terrified glance over her shoulder and her voice broke, high and clear in the sudden silence the diminishing jet had left. "He's been out of his mind half the time and God I'm so frightened . . . please . . . please ... PLEASE!"
The cameras were recording it all, sending it on a live feed that would be broadcast all over North America and half the world in a matter of minutes. That was good. That was fine. Richards felt tension stiffen his limbs again and knew he was beginning to hope.
Silence for a moment; there was a conference going on behind the check-point booth.
"Very good," Richards said softly.
She looked at him. "Do you think it's hard to sound frightened? We're not in this together, whatever you think. I only want you to go away."
Richards noticed for the first time how perfect her breasts were beneath the bloodstained black and green blouse. How perfect and how precious.
There was a sudden, grinding roar and she screamed aloud.
"It's the tank," he said. "It's okay. Just the tank."
"It's moving," she said. "They're going to let us in."
"RICHARDS! YOU WILL PROCEED TO LOT 16. AIRLINE POLICE WILL BE WAITING THERE TO TAKE YOU INTO CUSTODY!"
"All right," he said thinly. "Drive on. When you get a half a mile inside the gate, stop. "
"You're going to get me killed," she said hopelessly. "All I need to do is use the bathroom and you're going to get me killed."