Stephen King: The Dead Zone

Stillson was wearing faded jeans and a two-pocket Army fatigue shirt with the words GIVE PEACE A CHANCE embroidered on one pocket and MOM’S APPLE PIE on the

other. There was a hi-impact construction worker’s helmet cocked at an arrogant, rakish angle on his head, and plastered to the front of it was a green American flag ecology sticker. Beside him was a stainless steel cart of some kind. From the twin loudspeakers came the sound of John Denver singing ‘Thank God I’m a Country Boy.’

‘What’s that cart?’ Johnny asked.

‘You’ll see,’ Roger said, still grinning hugely.

Herman said: ‘The wild card is Gregory Ammas Stillson, forty-three, ex-salesman for the Truthway Bible Company of America, ex-housepainter, and, in Oklahoma, where he grew up, one-time rainmaker.’

‘Rainmaker,’ said Johnny, bemused.

‘Oh, that’s one of his planks,’ Roger said. ‘If he’s elected, we’ll have rain whenever we need it.’

George Herman went on: Stillson’s platform is … well, refreshing.’

John Denver finished singing with a yell that brought answering cheers from the crowd.

Then Stillson started talking, his voice booming at peak amplification. His PA system at least was sophisticated; there was hardly any distortion. His voice made Johnny vaguely uneasy. The man had the high, hard, pumping delivery of a revival preacher. You could see a fine spray of spittle from his lips as he talked.

‘What are we gonna do in Washington? Why do we want to go to Washington?’ Stillson roared. ‘What’s our platform? Our platform got five boards, my friends n neighbors, five old boards! And what are they? I’ll tell you up front! First board: THROW THE BUMS

OUT!’

A tremendous roar of approval ripped out of the crowd. Someone threw double handfuls of confetti into the air and someone else yelled, ‘Yaaaah-HOO!’ Stillson leaned over his podium.

‘You wanna know why I’m wearing this helmet, friends n neighbors? I’ll tell you why. I’m wearin it because when you send me up to Washington, I’m gonna go through them like you-know-what through a canebrake! Gonna go through em just like this!’

And before Johnny’s wondering eyes, Stillson put his head down and began to charge up and down the podium stage like a bull, uttering a high, yipping Rebel yell as he did so.

Roger Chatsworth simply dissolved in his chair, laughing helplessly. The crowd went wild. Stillson charged back to the podium, took off his construction helmet, and spun it into the crowd. A minor riot over possession of it immediately ensued.

‘Second board!’ Stillson yelled into the mike. ‘We’re gonna throw out anyone in the government, from the highest to the lowest, who is spending time in bed with some gal who ain’t his wife! If they wanna sleep around, they ain’t gonna do it on the public tit!’

‘What did he say?’ Johnny asked, blinking.

‘Oh, he’s just getting warmed up,’ Roger said. He wiped his streaming eyes and went off into another gale of laughter. Johnny wished it seemed that funny to him.

‘Third board!’ Stillson roared. ‘We’re gonna send all the pollution right into outer space!

Gonna put it in Hefty bags! Gonna put it in Glad bags! Gonna send it to Mars, to Jupiter, and the rings of Saturn! We’re gonna have clean air and we’re gonna have clean water and we’re gonna have it in SIX MONTHS!’

The crowd was in paroxysms of joy. Johnny saw many people in the crowd who were almost killing themselves laughing, as Roger Chatsworth was presently doing.

‘Fourth board! We’re gonna have all the gas and oil we need! We’re gonna stop playing games with these Arabs and get down to brass tacks! Ain’t gonna be no old people in New Hampshire turned into Popsicles this coming winter like there was last winter!’

This brought a solid roar of approval. The winter before an old woman in Portsmouth had been found frozen to death in her third-floor apartment, apparently following a turn-off by the gas company for nonpayment.

‘We got the muscle, friends n neighbors, we can do it! Anybody out there think we can’t do it?’

‘NO!’ The crowd bellowed back.

‘Last board,’ Stillson said, and approached the metal cart. He threw back the hinged lid and a cloud of steam puffed out. ‘HOT DOGS!!’

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