The Stand

They kept walking. The men at the roadblock split into two groups, about five men in front, guns aimed at the party of three walking toward them, and three more crouched behind the cars.

“Eight of them, Larry?” Glen asked.

“I make it eight, yeah. How are you doing, anyhow?”

“I’m okay,” Glen said.

“Ralph?”

“Just as long as we know what to do when the time comes,” Ralph said. “That’s all I want.”

Larry gripped his hand for a moment and squeezed it. Then he took Glen’s and did likewise.

They were less than a mile from the cruisers now. “They’re not going to shoot us outright,” Ralph said. “They would have done it already.”

Now they could discern faces, and Larry searched them curiously. One was heavily bearded. Another was young but mostly bald—must have been a bummer for him to start losing his hair while he was still in school, Larry thought. Another was wearing a bright yellow tank top with a picture of a grinning camel on it, and below the camel the word SUPERHUMP in scrolled, old-fashioned letters. Another of them had the look of an accountant. He was fiddling with a .357 Magnum, and he looked three times as nervous as Larry felt; he looked like a man who was going to blow off one of his own feet if he didn’t settle down.

“They don’t look no different from our guys,” Ralph said.

“Sure they do,” Glen answered. “They’re all packing iron.”

They approached to within twenty feet of the police cars blocking the road. Larry stopped, and the others stopped with him. There was a dead moment of silence as Flagg’s men and Larry’s band of pilgrims looked each other over. Then Larry Underwood said mildly: “How-do.”

The little man who looked like a CPA stepped forward. He was still twiddling with the Magnum. “Are you Glendon Bateman, Lawson Underwood, Stuart Redman, and, Ralph Brentner?”

“Say, you dummy,” Ralph said, “can’t you count?”

Someone snickered. The CPA type flushed. “Who’s missing?”

Larry said, “Stu met with an accident on the way here. And I do believe you’re going to have one yourself if you don’t stop fooling with that gun.”

There were more snickers. The CPA managed to tuck the pistol into the waistband of his gray slacks, which made him look more ridiculous than ever; a Walter Mitty outlaw daydream.

“My name is Paul Burlson,” he said, “and by virtue of the power vested in me, I arrest you and order you to come with me.”

“In whose name?” Glen said immediately.

Burlson looked at him with contempt… but the contempt was mixed with something else. “You know who I speak for.”

“Then say it.”

But Burlson was silent.

“Are you afraid?” Glen asked him. He looked at all eight of them. “Are you so afraid of him you don’t dare speak his name? Very well, I’ll say it for you. His name is Randall Flagg, also known as the dark man, also known as the tall man, also known as the Walkin Dude. Don’t some of you call him that?” His voice had climbed to the high, clear octaves of fury. Some of the men looked uneasily at each other and Burlson fell back a step. “Call him Beelzebub, because that’s his name, too. Call him Nyarlahotep and Ahaz and Astaroth. Call him R’yelah and Seti and Anubis. His name is legion and he’s an apostate of hell and you men kiss his ass.” His voice dropped to a conversational pitch again; he smiled disarmingly. “Just thought we ought to have that out front.”

“Grab them,” Burlson said. “Grab them all and shoot the first one that moves.”

For one strange second no one moved at all and Larry thought: They’re not going to do it, they’re as afraid of us as we are of them, more afraid, even though they have guns —

He looked at Burlson and said, “Who are you kidding, you little scumbucket? We want to go. That’s why we came.”

Then they moved, almost as though it was Larry who had ordered them. He and Ralph were bundled into the back of one cruiser, Glen into the back of the other. They were behind a steel mesh grill. There were no inside doorhandles.

We’re arrested, Larry thought. He found that the idea amused him.

Four men smashed into the front seat. The cruiser backed up, turned around, and began to head west. Ralph sighed.

“Scared?” Larry asked him in a low voice.

“I’ll be frigged if I know. It feels so-good to be off m’dogs, I can’t tell.”

One of the men in front said: “The old man with the big mouth. He in charge?”

“No. I am.”

“What’s your name?”

“Larry Underwood. This is Ralph Brentner. The other guy is Glen Bateman.” He looked out the back window. The other cruiser was behind them.

“What happened to the fourth guy?”

“He broke his leg. We had to leave him.”

“Tough go, all right. I’m Barry Dorgan. Vegas security.”

Larry felt an absurd response, Pleased to meet you, rise to his lips and had to smile a little. “How long a drive is it to Las Vegas?”

“Well, we can’t whistle along too fast because of the stalls in the road. We’re clearing them out from the city, but it’s slow going. We’ll be there in about five hours.”

“Isn’t that something,” Ralph said, shaking his head. “We’ve been on the road three weeks, and just five hours in a car takes you there.”

Dorgan squirmed around until he could look at them. “I don’t understand why you were walking. For that matter I don’t understand why you came at all. You must have known it would end like this.”

“We were sent,” Larry said. “To kill Flagg, I think.”

“Not much chance of that, buddy. You and your friends are going right into the Las Vegas County Jail. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. He’s got a special interest in you. He knew you were coming.” He paused. “You just want to hope he makes it quick for you. But I don’t think he will. He hasn’t been in a very good mood lately.”

“Why not?” Larry asked.

But Dorgan seemed to feel he had said enough—too much, maybe. He turned around without answering, and Larry and Ralph watched the desert flow by. In just three weeks, speed had become a novelty all over again.

It actually took them six hours to reach Vegas. It lay in the middle of the desert like some improbable gem. There were a lot of people on the streets; the workday was over, and they were enjoying the early evening cool on lawns and benches and at bus stops, or sitting in the doorways of defunct wedding chapels and hockshops. They rubber-necked the Utah S.P. cars as they went by and then went back to whatever they had been talking about.

Larry was looking around thoughtfully. The electricity was on, the streets were cleared, and the rubble of looting was gone. “Glen was right,” he said. “He’s got the trains running on time. But still I wonder if this is any way to run a railroad. Your people all look like they’ve got the nervous complaint, Dorgan.”

Dorgan didn’t reply.

They arrived at the county jail and drove around to the rear. The two police cars parked in a cement courtyard. When Larry got out, wincing at the stiffness that had settled into his muscles, he saw that Dorgan had two sets of handcuffs.

“Hey, come on,” he said. “Really.”

“Sorry. His orders.”

Ralph said, “I ain’t never been handcuffed in my life. I was picked up and throwed in the drunk tank a couple of times before I was married, but never was I cuffed.” Ralph was speaking slowly, his Oklahoma accent becoming more pronounced, and Larry realized he was totally furious.

“I have my orders,” Dorgan said. “Don’t make it any tougher than it has to be.”