Stephen King – The Waste Lands

to say that stuff like that doesn’t happen, and of course you’re right, and part of my mind

knows you’re right, but most of my mind knows that you’re wrong. It did happen. I did die.

If he said something like that, Mr. Bissette would be on the phone to Elmer Chambers at

once, and Jake thought that Sunnyvale Sanitarium would probably look like a rest-cure

after all the stuff his father would have to say on the subject of lads who started having

crazy notions just before Finals Week. Kids who did things that couldn’t be discussed over

lunch or cocktails. Kids Who Let Down The Side.

Jake forced himself to smile at Mr. Bissette. “I’m a little worried about exams, that’s all.”

Mr. Bissette winked. “You’ll do fine.”

Ms. Franks began to ring the Assembly Bell. Each peal stabbed into Jake’s ears and then

seemed to flash across his brain like a small rocket.

“Come on,” Mr. Bissette said. “We’ll be late. Can’t be late on the first day of Finals Week, can we?”

They went in past Ms. Franks and her clashing bell. Mr. Bissette headed toward the row of

seats called Faculty Choir. There were lots of cute names like that at Piper School; the

auditorium was the Com- mon Room, lunch-hour was Outs, seventh- and eighth-graders

were Upper Boys and Girls, and, of course, the folding chairs over by the piano (which Ms.

Franks would soon begin to pound as mercilessly as she rang her silver bell) was Faculty

Choir. All part of the tradition, Jake supposed. If you were a parent who knew your kid had

Outs in the Common Room at noon instead of just slopping up Tuna Surprise in the caff,

you relaxed into the assurance that everything was A-OK in the education department.

He slipped into a seat at the rear of the room and let the morn- ing’s announcements wash over him. The terror ran endlessly on in his mind, making him feel like a rat trapped on an

exercise wheel. And when he tried to look ahead to some better, brighter time, he could see

only darkness.

The ship was his sanity, and it was sinking.

Mr. Harley, the headmaster, approached the podium and imparted a brief exordium about

the importance of Finals Week, and how the grades they received would constitute another

step upon The Great Road of Life. He told them that the school was depending on them, he

was depending on them, and their parents were depending on them. Me did not tell them

that the entire free world was depending on them, but he strongly implied that this might be

so. He finished by telling them that bells would be suspended during Finals Week (the first

and only piece of good news Jake had received that morning).

Ms. Franks, who had assumed her seat at the piano, struck an invocatory chord. The

student body, seventy boys and fifty girls, each turned out in a neat and sober way that

bespoke their parents’ taste and financial stability, rose as one and began to sing the school

song. Jake mouthed the words and thought about the place where he had awakened after

dying. At first he had believed himself to be in hell . . . and when the man in the black

hooded robe came along, he had been sure of it.

Then, of course, the other man had come along. A man Jake had almost come to love.

But he let me fall. He killed me.

He could feel prickly sweat breaking out on the back of his neck and between his

shoulderblades.

“So we hail the halls of Piper,

Hold its banner high;

Hail to thee, our alma mater,

Piper, do or die!”

God, what a shitty song, Jake thought, and it suddenly occurred to him that his father

would love it.

2

PERIOD ONE WAS ENGLISH Comp, the only class where there was no final. Their

assignment had been to write a Final Essay at home. This was to be a typed document

between fifteen hundred and four thousand words long. The subject Ms. Avery had

assigned was My Understanding of Truth. The Final Essay would count as twenty-five per

cent of their final grade for the semester.

Jake came in and took his seat in the third row. There were only eleven pupils in all. Jake

remembered Orientation Day last September, when Mr. Harley had told them that Piper

had The Highest Teacher To Student Ratio Of Any Fine Private Middle School In The East.

He had popped his fist repeatedly on the lectern at the front of the Common Room to

emphasize this point. Jake hadn’t been terribly impressed, but he had passed the

information along to his lather. He thought his father would be impressed, and he had not

been wrong.

He unzipped his bookbag and carefully removed the blue folder which contained his Final

Essay. He laid it on his desk, meaning to give it a final look-over, when his eye was caught

by the door at the left side of the room. It led, he knew, to the cloakroom, and it was closed

today because it was seventy degrees in New York and no one had a coat which needed

storage. Nothing back there except a lot of brass coathooks in a line on the wall and a long

rubber mat on the floor for boots. A few boxes of school supplies—chalk, blue-books and

such—were stored in the far corner.

No big deal.

All the same, Jake rose from his seat, leaving the folder unopened on the desk, and walked

across to the door. He could hear his classmates murmuring quietly together, and the riffle

of pages as they checked their own Final Essays for that crucial misplaced modifier or

fuzzy phrase, but these sounds seemed far away.

It was the door which held his attention.

In the last ten days or so, as the voices in his head grew louder and louder, Jake had

become more and more fascinated with doors—all kinds of doors. He must have opened

the one between his bedroom and the upstairs hallway five hundred times in just the last

week, and the one between his bedroom and the bathroom a thousand. Each time he did it,

he felt a tight ball of hope and anticipation in his chest, as if the answer to all of his

problems lay somewhere behind this door or that one and he would surely find it …

eventually. But each time it was only the hall, or the bathroom, or the front walk, or

whatever.

Last Thursday he had come home from school, thrown himself on his bed, and had fallen

asleep—sleep, it seemed, was the only refuge which remained to him. Except when he’d

awakened forty-five minutes later, he had been standing in the bathroom doorway, peering dazedly in at nothing more exciting than the toilet and the basin. Luckily, no one had seen

him.

Now, as he approached the cloakroom door, he felt that same daz- zling burst of hope, a

certainty that the door would not open on a shad- owy closet containing only the persistent

smells of winter—flannel, rubber, and wet wool—but on some other world where he could

be whale again. Hot, dazzling light would fall across the classroom floor in a widening

triangle, and he would see birds circling in a faded blue sky the color of

(his eyes)

old jeans. A desert wind would blow his hair back and dry the nervous sweat on his brow.

He would step through this door and be healed.

Jake turned the knob and opened the door. Inside was only darkness and a row of gleaming

brass hooks. One long-forgotten mitten lay near the stacked piles of blue-books in the

corner.

His heart sank, and suddenly Jake felt like simply creeping into that dark room with its

bitter smells of winter and chalkdust. He could move the mitten and sit in the corner under

the coathooks. He could sit on the rubber mat where you were supposed to put your boots

in the winter- time. He could sit there, put his thumb in his mouth, pull his knees tight

against his chest, close his eyes, and . . . and . . .

And just give up.

This idea—the relief of this idea—was incredibly attractive. It would be an end to the

terror and confusion and dislocation. That last was somehow the worst; that persistent

feeling that his whole life had turned into a funhouse mirror-maze.

Yet there was deep steel in Jake Chambers as surely as there was deep steel in Eddie and

Susannah. Now it flashed out its dour blue lighthouse gleam in the darkness. There would

be no giving up. What- ever was loose inside him might tear his sanity away from him in the

end, but he would give it no quarter in the meantime. Be damned if he would.

Never! he thought fiercely. Never! Nev—