Callahan heard savage howls, not of anger or fear but of hunger. The aroma of blood had finally penetrated the old ones'jaded nostrils, and nothing would stop them now. So, if he didn't want to join them-
Pere Callahan, once Father Callahan of 'salem's Lot, turned the Ruger's muzzle on himself. He wasted no time looking for eternity in the darkness of the barrel but placed it deep against the shelf of his chin.
"Hile, Roland!" he said, and knew
(the wave they are lifted by the wave)
that he was heard. "Hile, gunslinger!"
His finger tightened on the trigger as the ancient monsters fell upon him. He was buried in the reek of their cold and bloodless breath, but not daunted by it. He had never felt so strong. Of all the years in his life he had been happiest when he had been a simple vagrant, not a priest but only Callahan O'The Roads, and felt that soon he would be let free to resume that life and wander as he would, his duties fulfilled, and that was well.
"May you find your Tower, Roland, and breach it, and may you climb to the top!"
The teeth of his old enemies, these ancient brothers and sisters of a thing which had called itself Kurt Barlow, sank into him like stingers. Callahan felt them not at all. He was smiling as he pulled the trigger and escaped them for good.
Chapter II:LIFTED ON THE WAVE
ONE
On their way out along the dirt camp-road which had taken them to the writer's house in the town of Bridgton, Eddie and Roland came upon an orange pickup truck with the words CENTRAL MAINE POWER MAINTENANCE painted on the sides. Nearby, a man in a yellow hardhat and an orange high-visibility vest was cutting branches that threatened the low-hanging electrical lines. And did Eddie feel something then, some gathering force? Maybe a precursor of the wave rushing down the Path of the Beam toward them? He later thought so, but couldn't say for sure. God knew he'd been in a weird enough mood already, and why not? How many people got to meet their creators? Well...
Stephen King hadn't created Eddie Dean, a young man whose Co-Op City happened to be in Brooklyn rather than the Bronx-not yet, not in that year of 1977, but Eddie felt certain that in time King would. How else could he be here?
Eddie nipped in ahead of the power-truck, got out, and asked the sweating man with the brush-hog in his hands for directions to Turtleback Lane, in the town of Lovell. The Central Maine Power guy passed on the directions willingly enough, then added: "If you're serious about going to Lovell today, you're gonna have to use Route 93. The Bog Road, some folks call it."
He raised a hand to Eddie and shook his head like a man forestalling an argument, although Eddie had not in fact said a word since asking his original question.
It's seven miles longer, I know, and jouncy as a bugger, but you can't get through East Stoneham today. Cops've got it blocked off. State Bears, local yokels, even the Oxford County Sheriffs Department."
"You're kidding," Eddie said. It seemed a safe enough response.
The power guy shook his head grimly. "No one seems to know exactly what's up, but there's been shootin-automatic weapons, maybe-and explosions." He patted the battered and sawdusty walkie-talkie clipped to his belt. "I've even heard the t-word once or twice this afternoon. Not s'prised, either."
Eddie had no idea what the t-word might be, but knew Roland wanted to get going. He could feel the gunslinger's impatience in his head; could almost see Roland's impatient finger-twirling gesture, the one that meant Let's go, let's go.
"I'm talking 'bout terrorism," the power guy said, then lowered his voice. "People don't uiink shit like that can happen in America, buddy, but I got news for you, it can. If not today, then sooner or later. Someone's gonna blow up the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building, that's what I think-the right-wingers, the left-wingers, or the goddam A-rabs. Too many crazy people."
Eddie, who had a nodding acquaintance with ten more years of history than this fellow, nodded. "You're probably right. In any case, thanks for the info."
"Just tryin to save you some time." And, as Eddie opened the driver's-side door of John Cullum's Ford sedan: 'You been in a fight, mister? You look kinda bunged up. Also you're limping."
Eddie had been in a fight, all right: had been grooved in the arm and plugged in the right calf. Neither wound was serious, and in the forward rush of events he had nearly forgotten them. Now they hurt all over again. Why in God's name had he turned down Aaron Deepneau's bottle of Percocet tablets?
"Yeah," he said, "diat's why I'm going to Lovell. Guy's dog bit me. He and I are going to have a talk about it." Bizarre story, didn't have much going for it in the way of plot, but he was no writer. That was King's job. In any case, it was good enough to get him back behind the wheel of Cullum's Ford Galaxie before the power guy could ask him any more questions, and Eddie reckoned that made it a success. He drove away quickly.
"You got directions?" Roland asked.
"Yeah."
"Good. Everything's breaking at once, Eddie. We have to get to Susannah as fast as we can. Jake and Pere Callahan, too.