The Dead Zone by Stephen King Page B

running out of it? Do you want it to turn black? Do you want it to rot off? Huh? Huh? Huh?
    She began to shake him back and forth then, and he began to blubber with fear, even then she was a big woman, a dominant and overbearing ocean liner of a woman, and he was not the killer then, he was not slick then, he was a little boy blubbering with fear, and his thing had collapsed and was trying to shrivel back into his body.
    She had made him wear a clothespin on it for two hours, so he would know how those diseases felt.
    The pain was excruciating.
    The little snow flurry had passed. He brushed the image of his mother out of his mind, something he could do effortlessly when he was feeling good, something he couldn’t do at all when he was feeling depressed and low.
    His thing was standing up now.
    He glanced at his watch. 3:07. He dropped his cigarette half-smoked. Someone was coming.
    He recognized her. It was Alma, Alma Frechette from the Coffee Pot across the street. Just coming off-shift. He knew Alma; he had dated her up once or twice, shown her a good time. Took her to Serenity Hill over in Naples. She was a good dancer. Nasty-fuckers often were. He was glad it was Alma coming.
    She was by herself.
    Back in the US, back in the US, back in the USSR—
    â€œAlma!” he called and waved. She started a little, looked around, and saw him. She smiled and walked over to the bench where he sat, saying hello and calling him by name. He stood up, smiling. He wasn’t worried about anyone coming. He was untouchable. He was Superman.
    â€œWhy you wearing that?” she asked, looking at him.
    â€œSlick, isn’t it?” he said, smiling.
    â€œWell, I wouldn’t exactly . . .”
    â€œYou want to see something?” he asked. “On the bandstand. It’s the goddamdest thing.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œCome and look.”
    â€œAll right.”
    As simple as that. She went with him to the bandstand. If anyone had been coming, he still could have called it off. But no one came. No one passed. They had the common tothemselves. The white sky brooded over them. Alma was a small girl with light blonde hair. Dyed blonde hair, he was quite sure. Sluts dyed their hair.
    He led her up onto the enclosed bandstand. Their feet made hollow, dead echoes on the boards. An overturned music stand lay in one corner. There was an empty Four Roses bottle. This was a place where the nasty-fuckers came, all right.
    â€œWhat?” she asked, sounding a little puzzled now. A little nervous.
    The killer smiled joyously and pointed to the left of the music stand. “There. See?”
    She followed his finger. A used condom lay on the boards like a shriveled snakeskin.
    Alma’s face went tight and she turned to go so quickly that she almost got by the killer. “That’s not very funny . . .”
    He grabbed her and threw her back. “Where do you think you’re going?”
    Her eyes were suddenly watchful and frightened. “Let me out of here. Or you’ll be sorry. I don’t have any time for sick jokes . . .”
    â€œIt’s no joke,” he said. “It’s no joke, you nasty-fucker.” He was light-headed with the joy of naming her, naming her for what she was. The world whirled.
    Alma broke left, heading for the low railing that surrounded the bandstand, meaning to leap over it. The killer caught the back of her cheap cloth coat at the collar and yanked her back again. The cloth ripped with a low purring sound and she opened her mouth to scream.
    He slammed his hand over her mouth, mashing her lips back against her teeth. He felt warm blood trickle over his palm. Her other hand was beating at him now clawing for purchase, but there was no purchase. There was none because he . . . he was . . .
    Slick!
    He threw her to the board floor. His hand came off her mouth, which was now smeared with blood, and she opened her