But Stillson stared up into the gallery and for the second time their eyes locked together in a perfect sort of understanding, and Stillson only ducked at the same instant Johnny fired. The rifle's roar was loud, filling the place, and the slug took away nearly one whole corner of the podium, peeling it back to the bare, bright wood. Splinters flew. One of them struck the microphone, and there was another monstrous whine of feedback that suddenly ended in a guttural, low-key buzzing.
Johnny pumped another cartridge into the chamber and fired again. This time the slug punched a hole through the dusty carpeting of the dais.
The crowd had started to move, panicky as cattle. They all drove into the center aisle. The people who had been standing at the rear escaped easily, but then a bottleneck of cursing, screaming men and women formed in the double doorway.
There were popping noises from the other side of the hall, and suddenly part of the gallery railing splintered up in front of Johnny's eyes. Something screamed past his ear a second later. Then an invisible finger gave the collar of his shirt a flick. All three of them across the way were holding handguns, and because Johnny was up in the gallery, their field of fire was crystal clear-but Johnny doubted if they would have bothered overmuch about innocent bystanders anyway.
One of the trio of old women grabbed Moochie's arm. She was sobbing, trying to ask something. He flung her away and steadied his gun in both hands. There was a stink of gunpowder in the hall now. It had been about twenty seconds since Johnny had stood up.
“Down! Down, Greg!”
Stillson was still standing at the edge of the dais, crouching slightly, looking up. Johnny brought the rifle down, and for an instant Stilison was dead-bang in front sight. Then a pistol-slug grooved his neck, knocking him backward, and his own shot went wild into the air. The window across the way dissolved in a tinkling rain of glass. Thin screams drifted up from below. Blood poured down and across his shoulder and chest.
Oh, you're doing a great job of killing him, he thought hysterically, and pushed back to the railing again. He levered another cartridge into the breech and threw it to his shoulder again. Now Stilison was on the move. He darted down the steps to floor4evel and then glanced up at Johnny again.
Another bullet whizzed by his temple. I'm bleeding like a stuck pig, he thought. Come on. Come on and get this over.
The bottleneck at the entryway broke, and now people began to pour out. A puff of smoke rose from the barrel of one of the pistols across the way, there was a bang, and the invisible finger that had flicked his collar a few seconds ago now drew a line of fire across the side of Johnny's head. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except taking Stillson. He brought the rifle down again.
Make this one count -Stillson moved with good speed for such a big man.
The dark-haired young woman Johnny had noticed earlier was about halfway up the center aisle, holding her crying son in her arms, still trying to shield him with her body. And what Stillson did then so dumbfounded Johnny that he almost dropped the rifle altogether. He snatched the boy from his mother's arms, whirled toward the gallery, holding the boy's body in front of him. It was no longer Greg Stillson in the front sight, but a small squirming figure in
(the filter blue filter yellow stripes tiger stripes)
a dark blue snowmobile suit with bright yellow piping. Johnny's mouth dropped open. It was Stillson, all right. The tiger. But he was behind the filter now.
What does it mean? Johnny screamed, but no sound passed his lips.
The mother screamed shrilly then; but Johnny had heard it all somewhere before. “Tommy! Give him to me!
TOMMY! GIVE HIM TO ME, YOU BASTARD!”
Johnny's head was swelling blackly, expanding like a bladder. Everything was starting to fade. The only brightness left was centered around the notched gunsight, the gunsight now laid directly over the chest of that blue snowmobile suit.
Do it, oh for Christ's sake you have to do it he'll get away -And now-perhaps it was only his blurring eyesight that made it seem so-the blue snowmobile suit began to spread, its color washing out to the light robin's egg color of the vision, the dark yellow stretching, striping, until everything began to be lost in it.
(behind the filter. yes, he's behind the filter, but what does it mean? does it mean it's safe or just that he's beyond my reach? what does it)
Warm fire flashed somewhere below and was gone. Some dim part of Johnny's mind registered it as a flashbulb.
Stilison shoved the woman away and backed toward the door, eyes squeezed into calculating pirate's slits. He held the squirming boy firmly by the neck and the crotch.
Can't. Oh dear God forgive me, I can't.
Two more bullets struck him then, one high in the chest, driving him back against the wall and bouncing him off it, the second into the left side of his midsection, spinning him around into the gallery railing. He was dimly aware that he had lost the rifle. It struck the gallery floor and discharged point-blank into the wall. Then his upper thighs crashed into the ballustrade and he was falling. The town hall turned over twice before his eyes and then there was a splintering crash as he struck two of the benches, breaking his back and both legs.
He opened his mouth to scream, but what came out was a great gush of blood. He lay in the splintered remains of the benches he had struck and thought: It's over. I punked out. Blew it.
Hands were on him, not gentle. They were turning him over. Elliman, Moochie, and the other guy were there. Elliman was the one who had turned him over.
Stillson came, shoving Moochie aside.
“Never mind this guy,” he said harshly. “Find the son of a bitch that took that picture. Smash his camera.
Moochie and the other guy left. Somewhere close by the woman with the dark hair was crying out:
behind a kid, hiding behind a kid and I'll tell every-body…”
“Shut her up, Sonny,” Stillson said.
“Sure,” Sonny said, and left Stillson's side.
Stillson got down on his knees above Johnny. “Do we know each other, fella? No sense lying. You've had the course.”
Johnny whispered, “We knew each other.”
“It was that Trimbull rally, wasn't it?”
Johnny nodded.
Stillson got up abruptly, and with the last bit of his strength Johnny reached out and grasped his ankle. It was only for a second; Stillson pulled free easily. But it was long enough.
Everything had changed.
People were drawing near him now, but he saw only feet and legs, no faces. It didn't matter. Everything had changed.
He began to cry a little. Touching Stillson this time had been like touching a blank. Dead battery. Fallen tree. Empty house. Bare bookshelves. Wine bottles ready for candles.
Fading. Going away. The feet and legs around him were becoming misty and indistinct. He heard their voices, the excited gabble of speculation, but not the words. Only the sound of the words, and even that was fading, blurring into a high, sweet humming sound.
He looked over his shoulder and there was the corridor he had emerged from so long ago. He had come out of that corridor and into this bright placental place. Only then his mother had been alive and his father had been there, calling him by name, until he broke through to them. Now it was only time to go back. Now it was right to go back.
I did it. Somehow I did it. I don't understand how, but I have.
He let himself drift toward that corridor with the dark chrome walls, not knowing if there might be something at the far end of it or not, content to let time show him that. The sweet hum of the voices faded. The misty brightness faded. But he was still he-Johnny Smith-intact.
Get into the corridor, he thought. All right.
He thought that if he could get into that corridor, he would be able to walk.