‘Mr Toomy!’ Bethany screamed suddenly. ‘It’s Mr Toomy!’
Nick beat Brian out the door and into first class, but they were both in time to see Craig go shambling and lurching across the taxiway. He ignored the plane completely. His destination appeared to be an empty triangle of grass bounded by a pair of crisscrossing taxiways.
‘What’s he doing?’ Rudy breathed.
‘Never mind him,’ Brian said. ‘We’re all out of time. Nick? Go down the ladder ahead of me. Hold me while I uncouple the hose.’ Brian felt like a man standing naked on a beach as a tidal wave humps up on the horizon and rushes toward the shore.
Nick followed him down and laid hold of Brian’s belt again as Brian leaned out and twisted the nozzle of the hose, unlocking it. A moment later he yanked the hose free and dropped it to the cement, where the nozzle-ring clanged dully. Brian slammed the fuel-port door shut.
‘Come on,’ he said after Nick had pulled him back. His face was dirty gray. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
But Nick did not move. He was frozen in place, staring to the east. His skin had gone the color of paper. On his face was an expression of dreamlike horror. His upper lip trembled, and in that moment he looked like a dog that is too frightened to snarl.
Brian turned his head slowly in that direction, hearing the tendons in his neck creak like a rusty spring on an old screen door as he did so. He turned his head and watched as the langoliers finally entered stage left.
18
‘So you see,’ Craig said, approaching the empty chair at the head of the table and standing before the men seated around it, ‘the brokers with whom I did business were not only unscrupulous; many of them were actually CIA plants whose job it was to contact and fake out just such bankers as myself – men looking to
fill up skinny portfolios in a hurry. As far as they are concerned, the end – keeping communism out of South America – justifies any available means.’
‘What procedures did you follow to check these fellows out?’ a fat man in an expensive blue suit asked. ‘Did you use a bond-insurance company, or does your bank retain a specific investigation firm in such cases?’
Blue Suit’s round, jowly face was perfectly shaved; his cheeks glowed either with good health or forty years of Scotch and sodas; his eyes were merciless chips of blue ice. They were wonderful eyes; they were father-eyes.
Somewhere, far away from this boardroom two floors below the top of the Prudential Center, Craig could hear a hell of a racket going on. Road construction, he supposed. There was always road construction going on in Boston, and he suspected that most of it was unnecessary, that in most cases it was just the old, old story – the unscrupulous taking cheerful advantage of the unwary. It had nothing to do with him. Nothing whatever. His job was to deal with the man in the blue suit, and he couldn’t wait to get started.
‘We’re waiting, Craig,’ the president of his own banking institution said. Craig felt momentary surprise – Mr Parker hadn’t been scheduled to attend this meeting – and then the feeling was overwhelmed by happiness.
‘No procedures at all!’ he screamed joyfully into their shocked faces. ‘I just bought and bought and bought!
I followed No … PROCEDURES … AT ALL!’
He was about to go on, to elaborate on this theme, to really expound on it, when a sound stopped him. This sound was not miles away; this sound was close, very close, perhaps in the boardroom itself.
A whickering chopping sound, like dry hungry teeth.
Suddenly Craig felt a deep need to tear some paper – any paper would do. He reached for the legal pad in front of his place at the table, but the pad was gone. So was the table. So were the bankers. So was Boston.
‘Where am I?’ he asked in a small, perplexed voice, and looked around. Suddenly he realized … and suddenly he saw them.
The langoliers had come.
They had come for him.
Craig Toomy began to scream.
19
Brian could see them, but could not understand what it was he was seeing. In some strange way they seemed to defy seeing, and he sensed his frantic, overstressed mind trying to change the incoming information, to make the shapes which had begun to appear at the east end of Runway 21 into something it could understand.
At first there were only two shapes, one black, one a dark tomato red.
Are they balls? his mind asked doubtfully. Could they be balls?
Something actually seemed to click in the center of his head and they were balls, sort of like beachballs, but balls which rippled and contracted and then expanded again, as if he was seeing them through a heat-haze.
They came bowling out of the high dead grass at the end of Runway 21, leaving cut swaths of blackness behind them. They were somehow cutting the grass
No, his mind reluctantly denied. They are not just cutting the grass, and you know it. They are cutting a lot more than the grass.
What they left behind were narrow lines of perfect blackness. And now, as they raced playfully down the white concrete at the end of the runway, they were still leaving narrow dark tracks behind. They glistened like tar.
No. his mind reluctantly denied. Not tar. You know what that blackness is. It’s nothing. Nothing at all. They are eating a lot more than the surface of the runway.
There was something malignantly joyful about their behavior. They crisscrossed each other’s paths, leaving a wavery black X on the outer taxiway. They bounced high in the air, did an exuberant, crisscrossing maneuver, and then raced straight for the plane.
As they did, Brian screamed and Nick screamed beside him. Faces lurked below the surfaces of the racing balls – monstrous, alien faces. They shimmered and twitched and wavered like faces made of glowing swamp-gas. The eyes were only rudimentary indentations, but the mouths were huge: semicircular caves lined with gnashing, blurring teeth.
They ate as they came, rolling up narrow strips of the world.
A Texaco fuel truck was parked on the outer taxiway. The langoliers pounced upon it, high-speed teeth whirring and crunching and bulging out of their blurred bodies. They went through it without pause. One of them burrowed a path directly through the rear tires, and for a moment, before the tires collapsed, Brian could see the shape it had cut – a shape like a cartoon mouse-hole in a cartoon baseboard.
The other leaped high, disappeared for a moment behind the Texaco truck’s boxy tank, and then blasted straight through, leaving a metal-ringed hole from which av-gas sprayed in a dull amber flood. They struck the ground, bounced as if on springs, crisscrossed again, and raced on toward the airplane. Reality peeled away in narrow strips beneath them, peeled away wherever and whatever they touched, and as they neared, Brian realized that they were unzipping more than the world – they were opening all the depths of forever.
They reached the edge of the tarmac and paused. They jittered uncertainly in place for a moment, looking like the bouncing balls that hopped over the words in old movie-house sing-alongs.
Then they turned and zipped off in a new direction.
Zipped off in the direction of Craig Toomy who stood watching them and screaming into the white day.
With a huge effort, Brian snapped the paralysis which held him. He elbowed Nick, who was still frozen below him. ‘Come on!’ Nick didn’t move and Brian drove his elbow back harder this time, connecting solidly with Nick’s forehead. ‘Come on, I said! Move your ass! We’re getting out of here!’
Now more black and red balls were appearing at the edge of the airport. They bounced, danced, circled …
and then raced toward them.
20
You can’t get away from them, his father had said, because of their legs. Their fast little legs.
Craig tried, nevertheless.
He turned and ran for the terminal, casting horrified grimacing looks behind him as he did. His shoes rattled on the pavement. He ignored the American Pride 767, which was now cycling up again, and ran for the luggage area instead.
No, Craig, his father said. You may THINK you’re running, but you’re not. You know what you’re really doing – you’re SCAMPERING!
Behind him the two ball-shapes sped up, closing the gap with effortless, happy speed. They crisscrossed twice, just a pair of daffy showoffs in a dead world, leaving spiky lines of blackness behind them. They rolled after Craig about seven inches apart, creating what looked like negative ski-tracks behind their weird, shimmering bodies. They caught him twenty feet from the luggage conveyor belt and chewed off his feet in a millisecond. At one moment his briskly scampering feet were there. At the next, Craig was three inches shorter; his feet, along with his expensive Bally loafers, had simply ceased to exist. There was no blood; the wounds were cauterized instantly in the langoliers’ scorching passage.