r back in 1966, when Roger McGuinn was still eight miles high. Or eight hundred. And still Larry wandered from mike to mike, trying to find at least one he could adjust. But they were all at least nine feet tall and frozen solid. They looked like stainless steel cobras. Someone in the crowd began to yell for "Baby, Can You Dig Your Man?" I don't do that number anymore, he tried to say. I stopped doing that one when the world ended. They couldn't hear him, and a chant began to arise, starting in the back rows, then sweeping the Garden, gaining strength and volume: "Baby Can You Dig Your Man! Baby Can You Dig Your Man! BABY CAN YOU DIG YOUR MAN!"
He awoke with the chant in his ears. Sweat had popped out all over his body.
He didn't need Glen to tell him what kind of dream that had been, or what it meant. The dream where you can't reach the mikes, can't adjust them, is a common one for rock musicians, just as common as dreaming that you're on stage and can't remember a single lyric. Larry guessed that all performers had a variation on one of those before--
Before a performance.
It was an inadequacy dream. It expressed that one simple overriding fear: What if you can't? What if you want to, but you can't? The terror of being unable to make the simple leap of faith which is the place where any artist--singer, writer, painter, musician--begins.
Make it nice for the people, Larry.
Whose voice was that? His mother's?
You're a taker, Larry.
No, Mom--no I'm not. I don't do that number anymore. I stopped doing that one when the world ended. Honest.
He lay back down and drifted off to sleep again. His last thought was that Stu had been right: The dark man was going to grab them. Tomorrow, he thought. Whatever we're coming to, we're almost there.
But they saw no one on the twenty-fifth. The three of them walked stolidly along under the bright blue skies, and they saw birds and beasts in plenty, but no people.
"It's amazing how rapidly the wildlife is coming back," Glen said. "I knew it would be a fairly rapid process, and of course the winter is going to prune it back some, but this is still amazing. It's only been about a hundred days since the first outbreaks."
"Yeah, but there's no dogs or horses," Ralph said. "That just doesn't seem right, you know it? They invented a bug that killed pretty near all the people, but that wasn't enough. It had to take out his two favorite animals, too. It took man and man's best friends."
"And left the cats," Larry said morosely.
Ralph brightened. "Well, there's Kojak--"
"There was Kojak."
That killed the conversation. The buttes frowned down at them, hiding places for dozens of men with rifles and scopes. Larry's premonition that it was to be today hadn't left him. Each time they topped a rise, he expected to see the road blocked below them. And each time it wasn't, he thought about ambush.
They talked about horses. About dogs and buffalo. The buffalo were coming back, Ralph told them--Nick and Tom Cullen had seen them. The day was not so far off--in their lifetimes, maybe--when the buffalo might darken the plains again.
Larry knew it was the truth, but he also knew it was bushwa--their lifetimes might amount to no more than another ten minutes.
Then it was nearly dark, and time to look for a place to camp. They came to the top of one final rise and Larry thought: Now. They'll be right down there.
But there was no one.
They camped near a green reflectorized sign that said LAS VEGAS 260. They had eaten comparatively well that day: taco chips, soda, and two Slim Jims that they shared out equally.
Tomorrow, Larry thought again, and slept. That night he dreamed that he and Barry Greig and the Tattered Remnants were playing at Madison Square Garden. It was their big chance--they were opening for some supergroup that was named after a city. Boston, or maybe Chicago. And all the microphone stands were at least nine feet tall again and he began to stumble from one to the other again as the audience began to clap rhythmically and call for "Baby, Can You Dig Your Man?" again.
He looked down in the first row and felt a slapping dash of cold icewater fear. Charles Manson was there, the x on his forehead healed to a white, twisted scar, clapping and chanting. And Richard Speck was there, looking up at Larry with cocky, impudent eyes, an unfiltered cigarette jittering between his lips. They were flanking the dark man. John Wayne Gacy was behind them. Flagg was leading the chant.
Tomorrow, Larry thought again, stumbling from one too-tall mike to the next under the hot dreamlights of Madison Square Garden. I'll see you tomorrow.
But it was not the next day, or the day after that. On the evening of September 27 they camped in the town of Freemont Junction, and there was plenty to eat.
"I keep expecting it to be over," Larry told Glen that evening. "And every day that it's not, it gets worse."
Glen nodded. "I feel the same way. It would be funny if he was just a mirage, wouldn't it? Nothing but a bad dream in our collective consciousness. "
Larry looked at him with momentary surprised consideration. Then he shook his head slowly. "No. I don't think it's just a dream."
Glen smiled. "Nor do I, young man. Nor do I."
They made contact the following day.
At just past ten in the morning, they topped a rise and below them and to the west, five miles away, two cars were parked nose-to-nose, blocking the highway. It all looked exactly as Larry had thought it would.
"Accident?" Glen asked.
Ralph was shading his eyes. "I don't think so. Not parked that way."
"His men," Larry said.
"Yeah, I think so," Ralph agreed. "What do we do now, Larry?"
Larry took his bandanna out of his back pocket and wiped his face with it. Today either summer had come back or they were starting to feel the southwestern desert. The temperature was in the low eighties.
But it's a dry heat, he thought calmly. I'm only sweating a little. Just a little. He stuffed the bandanna back into his pocket. Now that it was actually on, he felt all right. Again there was that queer feeling that it was a performance, a show to be played.
"We go down and see if God really is with us. Right, Glen?"
"You're the boss."
They started to walk again. Half an hour brought them close enough to see that the nose-to-nose cars had once belonged to the Utah State Patrol. There were several armed men waiting for them.
"Are they going to shoot us?" Ralph asked conversationally.
"I don't know," Larry said.
"Because some of the rifles are wowsers. Scope-equipped. I can see the sun ticking off the lenses. If they want to knock us down, we'll be in range anytime."
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 rubbernecked 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."
"Your orders," Ralph said. "I know who gives your orders. He murdered my friend Nick. What are you doing hooked up with that hellhound? You seem like a nice enough fella when you're by yourself." He was looking at Dorgan with such an expression of angry interrogation that Dorgan shook his head and looked away.
"This is my job," he said, "and I do it. End of story. Put your wrists out or I'll have somebody do it for you."
Larry put his hands out and Dorgan cuffed him. "What were you?" Larry asked curiously. "Before?"
"Santa Monica Police. Detective second."
"And you're with him. It's ... forgive me for saying so, but it's really sort of funny."
Glen Bateman was pushed over to join them.
"What are you shoving him around for?" Dorgan asked angrily.
"If you had to listen to six hours of this guy's bullshit, you'd do some pushing, too," one of the men said.
"I don't care how much bullshit you had to listen to, keep your hands to yourself." Dorgan looked at Larry. "Why is it funny that I should be with him? I was a cop for ten years before Captain Trips. I saw what happens when guys like you are in charge, you see."
"Young man," Glen said mildly, "your experiences with a few battered babies and drug abusers does not justify your embrace of a monster. "
"Get them out of here," Dorgan said evenly. "Separate cells, separate wings. "
"I don't think you'll be able to live with your choice, young man," Glen said. "There doesn't seem to be quite enough Nazi in you."
This time Dorgan pushed Glen himself.
Larry was separated from the other two and taken down an empty corridor graced with signs reading NO SPITTING, THIS WAY TO SHOWERS & DELOUSING, and one that read, YOU ARE NOT A GUEST.
"I wouldn't mind a shower," he said.
"Maybe," Dorgan said. "We'll see."
"See what?"
"How cooperative you can be."
Dorgan opened a cell at the end of the corridor and ushered Larry in.
"How about the bracelets?" Larry asked, holding them out.
"Sure." Dorgan unlocked them and took them off. "Better?"
"Much."
"Still want that shower?"
"I sure do." More than that, Larry didn't want to be left alone, listening to the echoey sound of footfalls going away. If he was left alone, the fear would start to come back.
Dorgan produced a small notebook. "How many are you? In the Zone?"
"Six thousand," Larry said. "We all play Bingo every Thursday night and the prize in the cover-all game is a twenty-pound turkey."
"Do you want that shower or not?"
"I want it." But he no longer thought he was going to get it.
"How many of you over there?"
"Twenty-five thousand, but four thousand are under twelve and get in free at the drive-in. Economically speaking, it's a bummer."
Dorgan snapped his notebook shut and looked at him.
"I can't, man," Larry said. "Put yourself in my place."
Dorgan shook his head. "I can't do that, because I'm not nuts. Why are you guys here? What good do you think it's going to do you? He's going to kill you dead as dogshit tomorrow or the next day. And if he wants you to talk, you will. If he wants you to tapdance and jerk off at the same time, you'll do that, too. You must be crazy."
"We were told to come by the old woman. Mother Abagail. Probably you dreamed about her."
Dorgan shook his head, but suddenly his eyes wouldn't meet Larry's. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Then let's leave it at that."
"Sure you don't want to talk to me? Get that shower?"
Larry laughed. "I don't work that cheap. Send your own spy over to our side. If you can find one that doesn't look like a weasel the second Mother Abagail's name gets mentioned, that is."
"Any way you want it," Dorgan said. He walked back down the hallway under the mesh-enclosed lights. At the far end he stepped past a steel-barred gate that rolled shut behind him with a hollow crash.
Larry looked around. Like Ralph, he had been in jail on a couple of occasions--public intoxication once, possession of an ounce of marijuana on another. Flaming youth.
"It's not the Ritz," he muttered.
The mattress on the bunk looked decidedly moldy, and he wondered a little morbidly if someone had died on it back in June or early July. The toilet worked but filled with rusty water the first time he