a horse. There had been a day when, if she had crossed from the school to the library alone, Dodd would have had her instead of Mary Kate Hendrasen. When—
(move your ass)
Bannerman got to his feet. Everything was sunshine and brightness and all his insides seemed to want to slip out of the hole the dog had torn in him. The car. The police radio. Behind him, the dog was distracted; he was throwing himself crazily against the Pinto’s buckled side door again and again, barking and snarling.
Bannerman staggered toward the cruiser. His face was as white as pie dough. His lips were blue gray. It was the biggest dog he had ever seen, and it had gutted him. Gutted him, for Christ’s sake, and why was everything so hot and so bright?
His intestines were slipping through his fingers.
He reached the car door. He could hear the radio under the dash, crackling out its message. Should have called in first. That’s procedure. You never argue with procedure, but if I’d believed that, I never would have called Smith in the Dodd case. Vicky, Katrina, I’m sorry—
The boy. He had to get help for the boy.
He almost fell and grabbed the edge of the door for support.
And then he heard the dog coming for him and he began to scream again. He tried to hurry. If he could only get the door shut . . . oh, God, if only he could close the door before the dog got to him again . . . oh, God . . .
(oh GOD)
Tad was screaming again, screaming and clawing at his face, whipping his head from side to side as Cujo thudded against the door, making it rock.
Holding Tad against her breasts, Donna turned her head in time to see Cujo strike the man as he tried to swing into his car. The force of it knocked his hand loose from the door.
After that she couldn’t watch. She wished she could block her ears somehow as well from the sounds of Cujo finishing with whoever it had been.
He hid, she thought hysterically. He heard the car coming and he hid.
The porch door. Now was the time to go for the porch door while Cujo was . . . occupied.
She put her hand on the doorhandle, yanked it, and shoved. Nothing happened. The door wouldn’t open. Cujo had finally buckled the frame enough to seal it shut.
“Tad,” she whispered feverishly. “Tad, change places with me, quick. Tad? Tad?”
Tad was shivering all over. His eyes had rolled up again.
“Ducks,” he said gutturally. “Go see the ducks. Monster Words. Daddy. Ah . . . ahhh . . . ahhhhhhh—”
He was convulsing again. His arms flopped bonelessly. She began to shake him, crying his name over and over again, trying to keep his mouth open, trying to keep the airway open. There was a monstrous buzzing in her head and she began to be afraid that she was going to faint This was hell, they were in hell. The morning sun streamed into the car, creating the greenhouse effect, dry and remorseless.
At last Tad quieted. His eyes had closed again. His breathing was very rapid and shallow. When she put her fingers on his wrist she found a runaway pulse, weak, thready, and irregular.
She looked outside. Cujo had hold of the man’s arm and was shaking it the way a puppy will shake a rag toy. Every now and then he would pounce on the limp body. The blood . . . there was so much blood.
As if aware he was being observed, Cujo looked up, his muzzle dripping. He looked at her with an expression (could a dog have an expression? she wondered madly) that seemed to convey both sternness and pity . . . and again Donna had the feeling that they had come to know each other intimately, and that there could be no stopping or resting for either of them until they had explored this terrible relationship to some ultimate conclusion.
It pounced on the man in the blood-spattered blue shirt and the khaki pants again. The dead man’s head lolled on his neck. She looked away, her empty stomach sour with hot acid. Her torn leg ached and throbbed. She had torn the wound there open yet again.