He felt like screaming, but had no taste for it, no voice for it.
The one image he never escaped
(as the blue filter began to creep in)
was Greg Stillson taking the oath of office. It was being administered by an old man with the humble, frightened eyes of a fieldmouse trapped by a terribly proficient, battlescarred (tiger)
barnyard tomcat. One of Stillson’s hands clapped over a Bible, one upraised. It was years in the future because Stillson had lost most of his hair. The old man was speaking, Stillson was following. Stillson was saying
(the blue filter is deepening, covering things, blotting them out bit by bit, merciful blue filter, Stillson’s face is behind the blue … and the yellow -. – the yellow like tiger-stripes) he would do it ‘So help him God.’ His face was solemn, grim, even, but a great hot joy clapped in his chest and roared in his brain. Because the man with the scared fieldmouse eyes was the Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court and
(oh dear God the filter the filter the blue filter the yellow stripes)
now all of it began to disappear slowly behind that blue filter – except it wasn’t a filter; it was something real. It was
(in the future in the dead zone)
something in the future. His? Stillson’s? Johnny didn’t know.
There was the sense of flying – flying through the blue – above scenes of utter desolation that could not quite be seen. And cutting through this came the disembodied voice of Greg Stillson, the voice of a cut-rate God or a comic-opera engine of the dead: ‘I’M
GONNA GO THROUGH THEM LIKE BUCKWHEAT THROUGH A GOOSE! GONNA
GO THROUGH THEM LIKE SHIT THROUGH A CANEBRAKE!’
‘The tiger,’ Johnny muttered thickly. ‘The tiger’s behind the blue. Behind the yellow.’
Then all of it, pictures, images, and words, broke up in the swelling, soft roar of oblivion.
He seemed to smell some sweet, coppery scent, like burning high-tension wires. For a moment that inner eye seemed to open even wider, searching; the blue and yellow that had obscured everything seemed about to solidify into … into something, and from somewhere inside, distant and full of terror, he heard a woman shriek: ‘Give him to me, you bastard!’
Then it was gone.
How long did we stand together like that? he would ask himself later. His guess was maybe five seconds. Then Stillson was pulling his hand away, ripping it away, staring at Johnny with his mouth open, the color draining away from beneath the deep tan of the summertime campaigner. Johnny could see the fillings in the man’s back teeth.
His expression was one of revolted horror.
Good! Johnny wanted to scream. Good! Shake yourself to pieces! Total yourself!
Destruct! Implode! Disintegrate! Do the world a favor!
Two of the motorcycle guys we’re rushing forward and now the sawedoff pool cues were out and Johnny felt a stupid kind of terror because they were going to hit him, hit him over the head with their cues, they were going to make believe Johnny Smith’s head was the eight ball and they were going to blast it right into the side pocket, right back into the blackness of coma and he would never come out of it this time, he would never be able to tell anyone what he had seen or change anything.
That sense of destruction – God! It had been everything!
He tried to backpedal. People scattered, pressed back, yelled with fear (or perhaps with excitement). Stillson was turning toward his bodyguards, already regaining his composure, shaking his head, restraining them.
Johnny never saw what happened next. He swayed on his feet, head lowered, blinking slowly like a drunk at the bitter end of a week-long binge. Then the soft, swelling roar of oblivion overwhelmed him and Johnny let it; he gladly let it. He blacked out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
1.
‘No,’ the Trimbull chief of police said in answer to Johnny’s question, ‘you’re not charged with anything. You’re not under detention. And you don’t have to answer any questions.
We’d just be very grateful if you would.’
‘Very grateful,’ the man in the conservative business suit echoed. His name was Edgar Lancte. He was with the Boston office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He thought that Johnny Smith looked like a very sick man. There was a puffed bruise above his left eyebrow that was rapidly turning purple. When he blacked out, Johnny had come down very hard – either on the shoe of a marching-bandsman or on the squared-off toe of a motorcycle boot. Lancte mentally favored the latter possibility. And possibly the motorcycle boot had been in motion at the instant of contact.