one of the guide-ropes which marked the way to the security checkpoint and hugged her tight. She tried to soothe the girl, but those last words echoed and rang in Laurel's confused, shocked mind: If we haven't gone when it gets here, we're going to die.
We're all going to die.
12
Craig Toomy heard the brat begin to caterwaul back there someplace and ignored it. He had found what he was looking for in the third locker he opened, the one with the name MARKEY Dymotaped to the front. Mr Markey's lunch - a sub sandwich poking out of a brown paper bag - was on the top shelf. Mr Markey's street shoes were placed neatly side by side on the bottom shelf. Hanging in between, from the same hook, were a plain white shirt and a gunbelt. Protruding from the holster was the butt of Mr Markey's service revolver.
Craig unsnapped the safety strap and took the gun out. He didn't know much about guns - this could have been a .32, a .38, or even a .45, for all of him - but he was not stupid, and after a few moments of fumbling he was able to roll the cylinder. All six chambers were loaded. He pushed the cylinder back in, nodding slightly when he heard it click home, and then inspected the hammer area and both sides of the grip. He was looking for a safety catch, but there didn't appear to be one. He put his finger on the trigger and tightened until he saw both the hammer and the cylinder move slightly. Craig nodded, satisfied.
He turned around and without warning the most intense loneliness of his adult life struck him. The gun seemed to take on weight and the hand holding it sagged. Now he stood with his shoulders slumped, the briefcase dangling from his right hand, the security guard's pistol dangling from his left. On his face was an expression of utter, abject misery. And suddenly a memory recurred to him, something he hadn't thought of in years: Craig Toomy, twelve years old, lying in bed and shivering as hot tears ran down his face. In the other room the stereo was turned up loud and his mother was singing along with Merrilee Rush in her droning off-key drunk's voice: "Just call me angel... of the morn-ing, bay-bee... just touch my cheek... before you leave me, bay-bee..."
Lying there in bed. Shaking. Crying. Not making a sound. And thinking: Why can't you love me and leave me alone, Momma? Why can't you just love me and leave me alone?
"I don't want to hurt anyone," Craig Toomy muttered through his tears. "I don't want to, but this... this is intolerable."
Across the room was a bank of TV monitors, all blank. For a moment, as he looked at them, the truth of what had happened, what was still happening, tried to crowd in on him. For a moment it almost broke through his complex system of neurotic shields and into the air-raid shelter where he lived his life.
Everyone is gone, Craiggy-weggy. The whole world is gone except for you and the people who were on that plane.
"No," he moaned, and collapsed into one of the chairs standing around the Formica-topped kitchen table in the center of the room. "No, that's not so. That's just not so. I refute that idea. I refute it utterly."
The langoliers were here, and they will be back, his father said. It overrode the voice of his mother, as it always had. You better be gone when they get here... or you know what will happen.
He knew, all right. They would eat him. The langoliers would eat him up.
"But I don't want to hurt anyone," he repeated in a dreary, distraught voice. There was a mimeographed duty roster lying on the table. Craig let go of his briefcase and laid the gun on the table beside him. Then he picked up the duty roster, looked at it for a moment with unseeing eyes, and began to tear a long strip from the lefthand side.
Rii-ip.
Soon he was hypnotized as a pile of thin strips - maybe the thinnest ever! - began to flutter down onto the table. But even then the cold voice of his father would not entirely leave him:
Or you know what will happen.
Chapter 5
A Book of Matches. The Adventure of the Salami Sandwich. Another Example of the Deductive Method. The Arizona