The Stand

That had been another chance to avert the murder and destruction… one he could never bring himself to tell anybody about. Had it really been in the works even then? Probably. If not the specifics of the dynamite bomb wired to the walkie-talkie, then at least some general plan.

Flagg’s plan.

Yes—in the background there was always Flagg, the dark puppet master, pulling the strings on Harold, Nadine, on Charlie Impening, God knew how many others. The people in the Zone would happily lynch Harold on sight, but it was Flagg’s doing… and Nadine’s. And who had sent her to Harold, if not Flagg? But before she had gone to Harold she had come to Larry. And he had sent her away.

How could he have said yes? There was his responsibility to Lucy. That had been all-important, not just because of her but because of himself—he sensed it would take only one or two more fades to destroy him as a man for good. So he had sent her away, and he supposed Flagg was well pleased with the previous night’s work… if Flagg was really his name. Oh, Stu was still alive, and he spoke for the committee—he was the mouth that Nick could never use. Glen was alive, and Larry supposed he was the point-man of the committee’s mind, but Nick had been the heart of the committee, and Sue, along with Frannie, had served as its moral conscience. Yes, he thought bitterly, all in all, a good evening’s work for that bastard. He ought to reward Harold and Nadine well when they got over there.

He turned from the window, feeling a dull throb behind his forehead. Richardson was taking Mother Abagail’s pulse. Laurie was fiddling with the IV bottles hung on their T-shaped rack. Dick Ellis was standing by. Lucy sat by the door, looking at Larry.

“How is she?” Larry asked George.

“The same,” Richardson said.

“Will she live through the night?”

“I can’t say, Larry.”

The woman on the bed was a skeleton covered with thinly stretched, ash-gray skin. She seemed without sex. Most of her hair was gone; her breasts were gone; her mouth hung unhinged and her breath rasped through it harshly. To Larry, she looked like pictures he had seen of the Yucatan mummies—not decayed but shriveled; cured; dry; ageless.

Yes, that’s what she was now, not a mother but a mummy. There was only that harsh sigh of her respiration, like a light breeze through hay-stubble. How could she still be alive? Larry wondered… and what God would put her through it? To what purpose? It had to be a joke, a big cosmic horselaugh. George said he had heard of similar cases, but never of one so extreme, and he himself had never expected to see one. She was somehow… eating herself. Her body had kept running long after it should have succumbed to malnutrition. She was breaking down parts of herself for nourishment that had never been meant to be broken down. Lucy, who had lifted her onto the bed, had told him in a low, marveling voice that she seemed to weigh no more than a child’s box kite, a thing only waiting for a puff of wind to blow it away forever.

And now Lucy spoke from her corner by the door, startling all of them: “She’s got something to say.”

Laurie said uncertainly, “She’s in deep coma, Lucy… the chances that she can ever regain consciousness…”

“She came back to tell us something. And God won’t let her go until she does.”

“But what could it be, Lucy?” Dick asked her.

“I don’t know,” Lucy said, “but I’m afraid to hear it. I know that. The dying ain’t over. It’s just got started. That’s what I fear.”

There was a long silence that George Richardson finally broke. “I’ve got to get up to the hospital. Laurie, Dick, I’m going to need both of you.”

You aren’t going to leave us alone with this mummy, are you? Larry almost asked, and pinched his lips shut to keep it in.

The three of them went to the door, and Lucy got them their coats. The temperature was barely sixty this night, and riding a cycle in shirtsleeves was uncomfortable.

“Is there anything we can do for her?” Larry asked George quietly.

“Lucy knows about the IV drip,” George said. “There’s nothing else. You see…” He trailed off. Of course they all saw. It was on the bed, wasn’t it?

“Good night, Larry, Lucy,” Dick said.

They went out. Larry drifted back to the window. Outside, everyone had come to their feet, watching. Was she alive? Dead? Dying? Perhaps healed by the power of God? Had she said anything?

Lucy slipped an arm around his waist, making him jump a little. “I love you,” she said.

He groped for her, held her. He put his head down and began to shudder helplessly.

“I love you,” she said calmly. “It’s all right. Let it come. Let it come out, Larry.”

He cried. The tears were as hot and hard as bullets. “Lucy—”

“Shhh.” Her hands on the back of his neck; her soothing hands.

“Oh Lucy, my God, what is all this? ” he cried out against her neck, and she held him as tight as she could, not knowing, not knowing yet, and Mother Abagail breathed harshly behind them, holding on in the depths of her coma.

George drove up the street at walking speed, passing the same message over and over again: Yes, still alive. Prognosis is poor. No, she hasn’t said anything and isn’t likely to. You might as well go home. If anything happens, you’ll hear.

When they reached the corner they accelerated, turning toward the hospital. The exhaust of their bikes crackled and echoed back, hitting buildings and bouncing off them, finally fading away to nothing.

People did not go home. They remained standing for a while, renewing their conversations, examining each word George had said. Prognosis, now what might that mean? Coma. Brain-death. If her brain was dead, that was it. Might as well expect a can of peas to talk as a person with a dead brain. Well, maybe that would be it if this was a natural situation, but things were hardly natural anymore, were they?

They sat down again. Darkness came. The glow of Coleman lamps came on in the house where the old woman lay. They would go home later, and lie sleepless.

Talk turned hesitantly to the dark man. If Mother Abagail died, didn’t that mean he was stronger?

What do you mean, “not necessarily”?

Well I hold he’s Satan, pure and simple.

The Antichrist, that’s what I think. We’re living out the Book of Revelation right in our own time… how can you doubt it? “And the seven vials were opened…” Sure sounds like the superflu to me.

Ah, balls, people said Hitler was the Antichrist.

If those dreams come back, I’ll kill myself.

In mine I was in a subway station and he was the ticket-taker, only I couldn’t see his face. I was scared. I ran into the subway tunnel. Then I could hear him, running after me. And gaining.

In mine I was going down cellar to get a jar of pickled watermelon slices and I saw someone standing by the furnace… just a shape. And I knew it was him.

Crickets began to chirrup. Stars spread across the sky. The chill in the air was duly commented on. Drinks were drunk. Pipes and cigarettes glowed in the dark.

I heard the Power people went right ahead turning things off.

Good for them. If they don’t get the lights and heat back on pretty quick, we’re going to be in a peck of trouble.

Low murmur of voices, now faceless in the gloom.

I guess we’re safe for this winter. Sure enough. No way he can get over the passes. Too full of cars and snow. But in the spring…

Suppose he’s got a few A-bombs?

Fuck the A-bomb, what if he’s got a few of those dirty neutron bombs? Or the other six of Sally’s seven vials?

Or planes?

What’s to do?

I don’t know.