quite painful, although probably not as painful as going the way the dog out there was going. But . . .
She seemed to remember reading that there were only two instances where people had lived through an advanced case of rabies—a case, that is, that had not been diagnosed until the carriers had begun exhibiting symptoms. One of the survivors was a boy who had recovered entirely. The other had been an animal researcher who had suffered permanent brain damage. The good old CNS had just fallen apart.
The longer the disease went untreated, the less chance there was. She rubbed her forehead and her hands skidded across a film of cold sweat.
How long was too long? Hours? Days? Weeks? A month, maybe? She didn’t know.
Suddenly the car seemed to be shrinking. It was the size of a Honda, then the size of one of those strange little three-wheelers they used to give disabled people in England, then the size of an enclosed motorcycle sidecar, finally the size of a coffin. A double coffin for her and Tad. They had to get out, get out, get out—
Her hand was fumbling for the doorhandle before she got hold of herself again. Her heart was racing, accelerating the thudding in her head. Please, she thought. It’s bad enough without claustrophobia, so please . . . please . . . please.
Her thirst was back again, raging.
She looked out and Cujo stared implacably back at her, his body seemingly split in two by the silver crack running through the window.
Help us, someone, she thought. Please, please, help us.
Roscoe Fisher was parked back in the shadows of Jerry’s Citgo when the call came in. He was ostensibly watching for speeders, but in actual fact he was cooping. At twelve thirty on a Wednesday morning, Route 117 was totally dead. He had a little alarm clock inside his skull, and he trusted it to wake him up around one, when the Norway Drive-In let out. Then there might be some action.
“Unit three, come in, unit three. Over.”
Roscoe snapped awake, spilling cold coffee in a Styrofoam cup down into his crotch.
He grabbed the mike and pushed the button on the side. “I copy, base.” He would have liked to have added that he hoped it was good because he was sitting with his balls in a puddle of cold coffee, but you never knew who was monitoring police calls on his or her trusty Bearcat scanner . . . even at twelve thirty in the morning.
“Want you to take a run up to Eighty-three Larch Street,” Billy said. “Residence of Mr. and Mrs. Victor Trenton. Check the place out. Over.”
“What am I checking for, base? Over.”
“Trenton’s in Boston and no one’s answering his calls. He thinks someone should be home. Over.”
Well, that’s wonderful, isn’t it? Roscoe Fisher thought sourly. For this I got a four-buck cleaning bill, and if I do have to stop a speeder, the guy’s going to think I got so excited at the prospect of a collar that I pissed myself.
“Ten-four and time out,” Roscoe said, starting his cruiser. “Over.”
“I make it twelve thirty-four A.M.,” Billy said. “There’s a key hanging on a nail under the front porch eave, unit three. Mr. Trenton would like you to go right on inside and look around if the premises appear deserted. Over.”
“Roger, base. Over and out.”
“Out.”
Roscoe popped on his headlights and cruised down Castle Rock’s deserted Main Street, past the Common and the bandstand with its conical green roof. He went up the hill and turned right on Larch Street near the top. The Trentons’ was the second house from the corner, and he saw that in the daytime they would have a nice view of the town below. He pulled the Sheriff’s Department Fury III up to the curb and got out, closing the door quietly. The street was dark, fast asleep.
He paused for a moment, putting the wet cloth of his uniform trousers away from his crotch (grimacing as he did it), and then went up the driveway. The driveway was empty, and so was the small one-car garage at the end of it. He saw a Big Wheels trike parked inside. It was just like the one his own son had.
He closed the garage door and went around to the front porch. He saw that this week’s copy of the Call was leaning against the porch door. Roscoe picked