Stephen King – The Waste Lands

probably a conservative estimate.

Eddie peered at the huge concrete caissons to which the main cables were anchored and

thought the one on the right side of the bridge looked as if it had been pulled partway out of

the earth. He decided he might do well not to mention this fact to the others; it was bad

enough that the bridge was swaying slowly but perceptibly back and forth. Just looking at it

made him feel seasick. “Well?” he asked Roland. “What do you think?”

Roland pointed to the right side of the bridge. Here was a canted walkway about five feet

wide. It had been constructed atop a series of smaller concrete boxes and was, in effect, a

separate deck. This seg- mented deck appeared to be supported by an undercable—or

perhaps it was a thick steel rod—anchored to the main support cables by huge bow-clamps.

Eddie inspected the closest one with the avid interest of a man who may soon be entrusting

his life to the object he is studying. The bow-clamp appeared rusty but still sound. The

words LaMERK FOUNDRY had been stamped into its metal. Eddie was fascinated to

realize he no longer knew if the words were in the High Speech or in English.

“I think we can use that,” Roland said. “There’s only one bad place. Do you see it?”

“Yeah—it’s land of hard to miss.”

The bridge, which had to be at least three quarters of a mile long, might not have had any

proper maintenance for over a thousand years, but Roland guessed that the real destruction

might have been going on for only the last fifty or so. As the hangers on the right snapped,

the bridge had listed farther and farther to the left. The greatest twist had occurred in the

center of the bridge, between the two four-hundred-foot cable-towers. At the place where

the pressure of the twist was the great- est, a gaping, eye-shaped hole ran across the deck.

The break in the walkway was narrower, but even so, at least two adjoining concrete

box-sections had fallen into the Send, leaving a gap at least twenty or thirty feet wide.

Where these boxes had been, they could clearly see the rusty steel rod or cable which

supported the walkway. They would have to use it to get across the gap.

“I think we can cross,” Roland said, calmly pointing. “The gap is inconvenient, but the

side-rail is still there, so we’ll have something to hold onto.”

Eddie nodded, but he could feel his heart pounding hard. The exposed walkway support

looked like a big pipe made of jointed steel, and was probably four feet across at the top. In

his mind’s eye he could see how they would have to edge across, feet on the broad, slightly

curved back of the support, hands clutching the rail, while the bridge swayed slowly like a

ship in a mild swell.

“Jesus,” he said. He tried to spit, but nothing came out. His mouth was too dry. “You sure, Roland?”

“So far as I can see, it’s the only way.” Roland pointed downriver and Eddie saw a second bridge. This one had fallen into the Send long ago. The remains stuck out of the water in a

rusted tangle of ancient steel.

“What about you, Jake?” Susannah asked.

“Hey, no problem,” Jake said at once. He was actually smiling.

“I hate you, kid,” Eddie said.

Roland was looking at Eddie with some concern. “If you feel you can’t do it, say so now.

Don’t get halfway across and then freeze up.”

Eddie looked along the twisted surface of the bridge for a long time, then nodded. “I guess I can handle it. Heights have never been my favorite thing, but I’ll manage.”

“Good.” Roland surveyed them. “Soonest begun, soonest done. I’ll go first, with Susannah.

Then Jake, and Eddie’s drogue. Can you handle the wheelchair?”

“Hey, no problem,” Eddie said giddily.

“Let’s go, then.”

10

As SOON AS HE stepped onto the walkway, fear filled up Eddie’s hollow places like cold

water and he began to wonder if he hadn’t made a very dangerous mistake. From solid

ground, the bridge seemed to be swaying only a little, but once he was actually on it, he felt

as if he were standing on the pendulum of the world’s biggest grandfather clock. The

movement was very slow, but it was regular, and the length of the swings was much longer

than he had anticipated. The walkway’s surface was badly cracked and canted at least ten

degrees to the left. His feet gritted in loose piles of powdery concrete, and the low squealing sound of the box-segments grinding together was constant. Beyond the bridge,

the city skyline tilted slowly back and forth like the artificial horizon of the world’s

slowest-moving video game.

Overhead, the wind hummed constantly in the taut hangers. Below, the ground fell away

sharply to the muddy northwest bank of the river. He was thirty feet up … then sixty . . .

then a hundred and ten. Soon he would be over the water. The wheelchair banged against

his left leg with every step.

Something furry brushed between his feet and he clutched madly for the rusty handrail

with his right hand, barely holding in a scream. Oy went trotting past him with a brief

upward glance, as if to say Excuse me—-just passing.

“Fucking dumb animal,” Eddie said through gritted teeth.

He discovered that, although he didn’t like looking down, he had an even greater aversion

to looking at the hangers which were still managing to hold the deck and the overhead

cables together. They were sleeved with rust and Eddie could see snarls of metal thread

poking out of most—these snarls looked like metallic puffs of cotton. He knew from his

Uncle Reg, who had worked on both the George Washington and Triborough bridges as a

painter, that the hangers and overhead cables were “spun” from thousands of steel threads.

On this bridge, the spin was finally letting go. The hangers were quite literally becoming

unravelled, and as they did, the threads were snapping, one interwoven strand at a time.

It’s held this long, it’ll hold a little longer. You think this thing’s going to fall into the river just because you’re crossing it? Don’t flatter yourself.

He wasn’t comforted, however. For all Eddie knew, they might be the first people to

attempt the crossing in decades. And the bridge, after all, would have to collapse sometime,

and from the look of things, it was going to be soon. Their combined weight might be the

straw that broke the camel’s back.

His moccasin struck a chunk of concrete and Eddie watched, sick- ened but helpless to

look away, as the chunk fell down and down and down, turning over as it went. There was

a small—very small—splash when it hit the river. The freshening wind gusted and stuck

his shirt against his sweaty skin. The bridge groaned and swayed. Eddie tried to remove his

hands from the side-rail, but they seemed frozen to the pitted metal in a deathgrip.

He closed his eyes for a moment. You’re not going to freeze. You’re not. I … I forbid it. If

you need something to look at, make it long tall and ugly. Eddie opened his eyes again,

fixed them on the gunslinger, forced his hands to open, and began to move forward again.

11

ROLAND REACHED THE GAP and looked back. Jake was five feet behind him. Oy was

at his heels. The bumbler was crouched down with his neck stretched forward. The wind

was much stronger over the river-cut, and Roland could see it rippling Oy’s silky fur. Eddie

was about twenty-five feet behind Jake. His face was tightly drawn, but he was still

shuffling grimly along with Susannah’s collapsed wheelchair in his left hand. His right was

clutching the rail like grim death.

“Susannah?”

“Yes,” she responded at once. “Fine.”

“Jake?”

Jake looked up. He was still grinning, and the gunslinger saw there was going to be no

problem there. The boy was having the time of his life. His hair blew back from his finely

made brow in waves, and his eyes sparkled. He jerked one thumb up. Roland smiled and

returned the gesture.

“Eddie?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

Eddie appeared to be looking at Roland, but the gunslinger decided he was really looking

past him, at the windowless brick buildings which crowded the riverbank at the far end of

the bridge. That was all right; given his obvious fear of heights, it was probably the best

thing he could do to keep his head.

“All right, I won’t,” Roland murmured. “We’re going to cross the hole now, Susannah. Sit easy. No quick movements. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“If you want to adjust your position, do it now.”

“I’m fine, Roland,” she said calmly. “I just hope Eddie will be all right.”

“Eddie’s a gunslinger now. He’ll behave like one.”