Eddie’s head connected with the side of the Unfound Door. But Eddie was groaning, still trying
to talk, so he was at least partly aware.
” Eddie, to me.” Roland bellowed, scrambling to his feet. Bitter agony exploded in his right hip and raced almost all the way down to his knee, but he gave no sign. Barely registered it, in fact.
He hauled Eddie with him toward a building, some building, and past what even Roland
recognized as oil or gasoline pumps. These were marked MOBIL instead of CITGO or
SUNOCO, two other names with which the gunslinger was familiar.
Eddie was semiconscious at best. His left cheek was drenched with blood from a laceration in
his scalp. Nevertheless, he put his legs to work as best he could and stumbled up three wooden
steps to what Roland now recognized as a general store. It was quite a bit smaller than Took’s, but otherwise not much d —
A limber whipcrack of sound came from behind and slightly to the right. The shooter was
close enough for Roland to feel confident that if he had heard the sound of the shot, the man with the rifle had already missed.
Something passed within an inch of his ear, making its own perfectly clear sound: Mizzzzzz!
The glass in the little mercantile’s front door shattered inward. The sign which had been hanging there (WE’RE OPEN, SO COME IN ‘N VISIT) jumped and twisted.
“Rolan . . .” Eddie’s voice, weak and distant, sounded as if it were coming through a mouthful of mush. “Rolan wha . . . who . . . OWF! ” This last a grunt of surprise as Roland threw him flat inside the door and landed on top of him.
Now came another of those limber whipcracks; there was a gunner with an extremely high-powered rifle out there. Roland heard someone shout “Aw, fuck ‘at, Jack!” and a moment later a speed-shooter — what Eddie and Jake called a machine-gun — opened up. The dirty display
windows on both sides of the door came crashing down in bright shards. The paperwork which
had been posted inside the glass —town notices, Roland had no doubt — went flying.
Two women and a gent of going-on-elderly years were the only customers in the store’s aisles.
All three were turned toward the front — toward Roland and Eddie — and on their faces was the
eternal uncomprehending look of the gunless civilian. Roland sometimes thought it a grass-
eating look, as though such folk — those in Calla Bryn Sturgis mostly no different — were sheep instead of people.
” Down! ” Roland bellowed from where he lay on his semiconscious (and now breathless) companion. “For the love of your gods get DOWN! ”
The going-on-elderly gent, who was wearing a checked flannel shirt in spite of the store’s
warmth, let go of the can he’d been holding (there was a picture of a tomato on it) and dropped.
The two women did not, and the speed-shooter’s second burst killed them both, caving in the
chest of one and blowing off the top of the other’s head. The chest-shot woman went down like a sack of grain. The one who’d been head-shot took two blind, blundering steps toward Roland,
blood spewing from where her hair had been like lava from an erupting volcano. Outside the
store a second and third speed-shooter began, filling the day with noise, filling the air above them with a deadly crisscross of slugs. The woman who’d lost the top of her head spun around
twice in a final dance-step, arms flailing, and then collapsed. Roland went for his gun and was relieved to find it still in its holster: the reassuring sandalwood grip. So that much was well. The gamble had paid off. And he and Eddie certainly weren’t todash. The gunners had seen them,
seen them very well.
More. Had been waiting for them.
“Move in!” someone was screaming. “Move in, move in, don’t give em a chance to find their peckers, move in, you catzarros! ”
“Eddie!” Roland roared. “Eddie, you have to help me now!”
“Hizz . . .?” Faint. Bemused. Eddie looking at him with only one eye, the right. The left was temporarily drowned in blood from his scalp-wound.
Roland reached out and slapped him hard enough to make blood fly from his hair. ” Harriers!
Coming to kill us! Kill all here!”
Eddie’s visible eye cleared. It happened fast. Roland saw the effort that took — not to regain
his wits but to regain them at such speed, and despite a head that must be pounding monstrously
— and took a moment to be proud of Eddie. He was Cuthbert Allgood all over again, Cuthbert to
the life.
“What the hell’s this?” someone called in a cracked, excited voice. “Just what in the blue hell is this? ”
“Down,” Roland said, without looking around. “If you want to live, get on the floor.”
“Do what he says, Chip,” someone else replied — probably, Roland thought, the man who’d been holding the can with the tomato on it.
Roland crawled through litters of broken glass from the door, feeling pricks and prinks of pain as some cut his knees and knuckles, not caring. A bullet buzzed past his temple. Roland ignored that, too. Outside was a brilliant summer day. In the foreground were the two oil-pumps with
MOBIL printed on them. To one side was an old car, probably belonging to either the women
shoppers (who’d never need it again) or to Mr. Flannel Shirt. Beyond the pumps and the oiled
dirt of the parking area was a paved country road, and on the other side of that a little cluster of buildings painted a uniform gray. One was marked TOWN OFFICE, one STONEHAM FIRE
AND RESCUE. The third and largest was the TOWN GARAGE. The parking area in front of
these buildings was also paved (metaled was Roland’s word for it), and a number of vehicles had been parked there, one the size of a large bucka-waggon. From behind them came more than half
a dozen men at full charge. One hung back and Roland recognized him: Enrico Balazar’s ugly
lieutenant, Jack Andolini. The gunslinger had seen this man die, gunshot and then eaten alive by the carnivorous lobstrosities which lived in the shallow waters of the Western Sea, but here he was again. Because infinite worlds spun on the axle which was the Dark Tower, and here was
another of them. Yet only one world was true; only one where, when things were finished, they
stayed finished. It might be this one; it might not be. In either case, this was no time to worry about it.
Up on his knees, Roland opened fire, fanning the trigger of his revolver with the hard ridge of his right hand, aiming first at the boys with the speed-shooters. One of them dropped dead on the country road’s white centerline with blood boiling out of his throat. The second was flung backward all the way to the road’s dirt shoulder with a hole between his eyes.
Then Eddie was beside him, also on his knees, fanning the trigger of Roland’s other gun. He
missed at least two of his targets, which wasn’t surprising, given his condition. Three others
dropped to the road, two dead and one screaming ” I’m hit! Ah, Jack, help me, I’m hit in the guts! ”
Someone grabbed Roland’s shoulder, unaware of what a dangerous thing that was to do to a
gunslinger, especially one in a fire-fight. “Mister, what in the hell — ”
Roland took a quick look, saw a fortyish man wearing both a tie and a butcher’s apron, had
time to think, Shopkeeper, probably the one who gave Pere directions to the post office, and then shoved the man violently backward. A split second later, blood dashed backward from the left
side of the man’s head. Grooved, the gunslinger judged, but not seriously hurt, at least not yet. If Roland hadn’t pushed him, however —
Eddie was reloading. Roland did the same, taking a bit longer thanks to the missing fingers on
his right hand. Meanwhile, two of the surviving harriers had taken cover behind one of the old
cars on this side of the road. Too close. Not good. Roland could hear the rumble of an
approaching motor. He looked back at the fellow who’d been quickwitted enough to drop when
Roland told him to, thus avoiding the fate of the ladies.
“You!” Roland said. “Do you have a gun?”
The man in the flannel shirt shook his head. His eyes were a brilliant blue. Frightened, but not, Roland judged, panicky. In front of this customer, the shopkeeper was sitting up, spread-legged, looking with sickened amazement at the red droplets pattering down and spreading on his white
apron.
“Shopkeeper, do you keep a gun?” Roland asked.
Before the shopkeeper could answer — if he was capable of answering — Eddie grabbed