He snapped his head up and saw a man on a forklift halfway between the warehouses and the depot. Another man was rising from a rocker in the shade of the station’s roof, the magazine he’d been reading still in his hand. This one shouted “Ware that post!”
Luke saw the second signal-post, this one flashing red, too late to slow down. He instinctively turned his head and tried to raise his arm, but hit the steel post at full running speed before he could get it all the way up. The right side of his face collided with the post, his bad ear taking the brunt of the blow. He rebounded, hit the cinders, and rolled away from the tracks. He didn’t lose consciousness, but he lost the immediacy of consciousness as the sky swung away, swung back, then swung away again. He felt warmth cascading down his cheek and knew his ear had opened up again—his poor abused ear. An interior voice was screaming at him to get up, to beat feet into the woods, but hearing and heeding were two different things. When he tried scrambling to his feet, it didn’t work.
My scrambler’s broke, he thought. Shit. What a fuckup.
Then the man from the forklift was standing over him. From where Luke lay, he looked about sixteen feet tall. The lenses of his glasses caught the sun, making it impossible to see his eyes. “Jesus, kid, what in the hell did you think you were doing?”
“Trying to get away.” Luke wasn’t sure he was actually speaking, but thought he probably was. “I can’t let them get me, please don’t let them get me.”
The man bent down. “Stop trying to talk, I can’t understand you anyway. You took a hell of a whack on that post, and you’re bleeding like a stuck pig. Move your legs for me.”
Luke did.
“Now move your arms.”
Luke held them up.
Rocking Chair Man joined Forklift Man. Luke tried to use his newly acquired TP to read one or both of them, find out what they knew. He got nothing; when it came to thought-reading, the tide was currently out. For all he knew, the whack he’d taken had knocked the TP clean out of his head.
“He all right, Tim?”
“I think so. I hope so. First aid protocol says not to move a head injury, but I’m going to take a chance.”
“Which of you is supposed to be my uncle?” Luke asked. “Or is it both of you?”
Rocking Chair Man frowned. “Can you understand what he’s saying?”
“No. I’m going to put him in Mr. Jackson’s back room.”
“I’ll take his legs.”
Luke was coming back now. His ear was actually helping in that regard. It felt as if it wanted to drill right into his head. And maybe hide there.
“No, I got him,” Forklift Man said. “He’s not heavy. I want you to call Doc Roper, and ask him to make a house call.”
“More of a warehouse call,” Rocking Chair Man said, and laughed, exposing the yellowed pegs of his teeth.
“Whatever. Go and do it. Use the station phone.”
“Yessir.” Rocking Chair Man gave Forklift Man a half-assed salute, and set off. Forklift Man picked Luke up.
“Put me down,” Luke said. “I can walk.”
“You think so? Let’s see you do it.”
Luke swayed on his feet for a moment, then steadied.
“What’s your name, son?”
Luke considered, not sure he wanted to give it when he didn’t know if this man was an uncle. He looked okay… but then, so did Zeke back at the Institute, when he was in one of his rare good moods.
“What’s yours?” he countered.
“Tim Jamieson. Come on, let’s at least get you out of the sun.”
25
Norbert Hollister, owner of a decrepit motel which only kept operating thanks to his monthly stipend as an Institute stringer, used the station-house phone to call Doc Roper, but first he used his cell to call a number he had gotten in the early hours of the morning. Then, he had been pissed off at being awakened. Now, however, he was delighted.
“That kid,” he said. “He’s here.”
“Just a second,” Andy Fellowes said. “I’m transferring you.”
There was a brief silence and then another voice said, “Are you Hollister? In DuPray, South Carolina?”
“Yeah. That kid you’re looking for just jumped off a freight. Ear’s all tore up. Is there still a reward for him?”
“Yes. And it will be bigger if you make sure he stays in town.”
Norbert laughed. “Oh, I think he’ll be stayin. He banged into a signal-post and it conked him silly.”
“Don’t lose track of him,” Stackhouse said. “I want a call every hour. Understood?”
“Like an update.”
“Yes, like that. We’ll take care of the rest.”
HELL IS HERE
1
Tim led the bloodied-up kid, obviously still dazed but walking on his own, through Craig Jackson’s office. The owner of DuPray Storage & Warehousing lived in the nearby town of Dunning, but had been divorced for five years, and the spacious, air-conditioned room behind the office served him as auxiliary living quarters. Jackson wasn’t there now, which was no surprise to Tim; on days when ’56 stopped rather than barreling straight on through, Craig had a tendency to make himself scarce.
Past the little kitchenette with its microwave, hotplate, and tiny sink was a living area that consisted of an easy chair planted in front of an HD television set. Beyond that, old centerfolds from Playboy and Penthouse looked down on a neatly made camp bed. Tim’s idea was to get the kid to lie down on it until Doc Roper came, but the boy shook his head.
“Chair.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
The kid sat. The cushion made a tired woofing sound. Tim took a knee before him. “Now how about a name?”
The kid looked at him doubtfully. He had stopped bleeding, but his cheek was covered with gore, and his right ear was a tattered horror. “Were you waiting for me?”
“For the train. I work here mornings. Longer, when the 9956 is scheduled. Now what’s your name?”
“Who was the other guy?”
“No more questions until I get a name.”
The kid thought it over, then licked his lips and said, “I’m Nick. Nick Wilholm.”
“Okay, Nick.” Tim made a peace sign. “How many fingers do you see?”
“Two.”
“Now?”
“Three. The other guy, did he say he was my uncle?”
Tim frowned. “That was Norbert Hollister. He owns the local motel. If he’s anyone’s uncle, I don’t know about it.” Tim held up a single finger. “Follow it. Let me see your eyes move.”
Nicky’s eyes followed his finger left and right, then up and down.
“I guess you’re not scrambled too badly,” Tim said. “We can hope, anyway. Who are you running away from, Nick?”
The kid looked alarmed and tried to get out of the chair. “Who told you that?”
Tim pushed him gently back. “No one. It’s just that whenever I see a kid in dirty torn-up clothes and a torn-up ear jump from a train, I make this wild assumption that he’s a runaway. Now who—”
“What’s all the shouting about? I heard… oh dear-to-Jesus, what happened to that boy?”
Tim turned and saw Orphan Annie Ledoux. She must have been in her tent behind the depot. She often went there to snooze in the middle of the day. Although the thermometer outside the station had registered eighty-five degrees at ten that morning, Annie was dressed in what Tim thought of as her Full Mexican outfit: serape, sombrero, junk bracelets, and rescued cowboy boots sprung along the seams.