At this point any reasonable driver would pull over to the side of the road, stop his vehicle, and take care of his wayward animal. Bryan Smith, however, has never gotten high marks for reason when behind the wheel, and has the driving record to prove it. Instead of pulling over, he twists around to the right, steering with his left hand and shoving ineffectually at the top of the rottweiler's flat head with his right.
"Leave 'at alone!" he shouts at Bullet as his minivan drifts first toward the righthand shoulder and then onto it. "Din'you hear me, Bullet? Aw you foolish? Leave 'at alone! "He actually succeeds in shoving the dog's head up for a moment, but there's no fur for his fingers to grasp and Bullet, while no genius, is smart enough to know he has at least one more chance to grab the stuff in the white paper, the stuff radiating that entrancing red smell. He dips beneath Bryan's hand and seizes the wrapped package of hamburger in his jaws.
"Drop it!" Bryan screams. "You drop it right... NOW!"
In order to gain the purchase necessary to twist further in the driver's bucket, he presses down firmly with both feet. One of them, unfortunately, is on the accelerator. The van puts on a burst of speed as it rushes toward the top of the hill. At this moment, in his excitement and outrage, Bryan has completely forgotten where he is (Route 7) and what he's supposed to be doing (driving a van). All he cares about is getting the package of meat out of Bullet's jaws.
"Gimme it!" he shouts, tugging. Tail wagging more furiously than ever (to him it's now a game as well as a meal), Bullet tugs back.
There's the sound of ripping butcher's paper. The van is now all the xoay off the road. Beyond it is a grove of old pines lit by lovely afternoon light: a haze of green and gold. Bryan thinks only of the meat. He's not going to eat hamburg with dog-drool on it, and you best believe it.
"Gimme it!" he says, not seeing the man in the path of his van, not seeing the truck that has now pulled up just behind the man, not seeing the truck's passenger door open or the lanky cowboy-type who leaps out, a revolver with big yellow grips spilling from the holster on his hip and onto the ground as he does; Bryan Smith's world has narrowed to one very bad dog and one package of meat. In the struggle for the meat, blood-roses are blooming on the butcher's paper like tattoos.
NINETEEN
"There he is!" the boy named Jake shouted, but Irene Tassenbaum didn't need him to tell her. Stephen King was wearing jeans, a chambray workshirt, and a baseball cap. He was well beyond the place where the road to Warrington's intersected with Route 7, about a quarter of the way xxp the slope.
She punched the clutch, downshifted to Second like a NASCAR driver with the checkered flag in view, then turned hard left, hauling on the wheel with both hands. Chip McAvoy's pickup truck teetered but did not roll. She saw the twinkle of sun on metal as a vehicle coming the other way reached the top of the hill King was climbing. She heard the man sitting by the door shout, "Pull in behind him!"
She did as he told her, even though she could now see that the oncoming vehicle was off the road and thus apt to broadside them. Not to mention crushing Stephen King in a metal sandwich between them.
The door popped open and the one named Roland halfrolled, halfjumped out of the truck.
After that, things happened very, very fast.
Chapter II:VES’-KA GAN
ONE
What happened was lethally simple: Roland's bad hip betrayed him. He went to his knees with a cry of mingled rage, pain, and dismay. Then the sunlight was blotted out as Jake leaped over him without so much as breaking stride. Oy was barking crazily from the cab of the truck: "Ake-Ake! Ake-Ake!"
"Jake, no!"Roland shouted. He saw it all with a terrible clarity.
The boy seized the writer around the waist as the blue vehicle-neither a truck nor a car but seemingly a cross between the two-bore down upon them in a roar of dissonant music.
Jake turned King to the left, shielding him widi his body, and so it was Jake the vehicle struck. Behind the gunslinger, who was now on his knees with his bleeding hands buried in the dirt, the woman from the store screamed.
"JAKE, NO!"Roland bellowed again, but it was too late. The boy he thought of as his son disappeared beneath the blue vehicle. The gunslinger saw one small upraised hand-would never forget it-and then that was gone, too. King, struck first by Jake and then by the weight of the van behind Jake, was thrown to the edge of the little grove of trees, ten feet from the point of impact. He landed on his right side, hitting his head on a stone hard enough to send the cap flying from his head.
Then he rolled over, perhaps intending to try for his feet. Or perhaps intending nothing at all; his eyes were shocked zeroes.