Never mind. One thing at a time. Settle theshaman’s hash first. Turn the Grandfathers loose on him. Then go after the boy,perhaps shouting that his friend wanted him after all, that might work—

Meiman (the Canaryman to Mia, Tweety Birdto Jake) crept forward, grasping Andrew—the fat man in the tux with theplaid lapels—with one hand and Andrew’s even fatter jilly with the other.He gestured at Callahan’s turned back.

Tirana shook her head vehemently. Meimanopened his beak and hissed at her. She shrank away from him. Detta Walker hadalready gotten her fingers into the mask Tirana wore and it hung in shredsabout her jaw and neck. In the middle of her forehead, a red wound opened andclosed like the gill of a dying fish.

Meiman turned to Andrew, released him longenough to point at the shaman, then drew the talon that served him as a handacross his feathered throat in a grimly expressive gesture. Andrew nodded andbrushed away his wife’s pudgy hands when they tried to restrain him. The maskof humanity was good enough to show the low man in the garish tuxedo visiblygathering his courage. Then he leaped forward with a strangled cry, seizingCallahan around the neck not with his hands but his fat forearms. At the samemoment his jilly lunged and struck the ivory turtle from the Pere’s hand,screaming as she did so. The sköldpadda tumbled to the red rug,bounced beneath one of the tables, and there (like a certain paper boat some ofyou may remember) passes out of this tale forever.

The Grandfathers still held back, as didthe Type Three vampires who had been dining in the public room, but the low menand women sensed weakness and moved in, first hesitantly, then with growingconfidence. They surrounded Callahan, paused, and then fell on him in all theirnumbers.

“Let me go in God’s name!” Callahan cried,but of course it did no good. Unlike the vampires, the things with the redwounds in their foreheads did not respond to the name of Callahan’s God. All hecould do was hope Jake wouldn’t stop, let alone double back; that he and Oywould go like the wind to Susannah. Save her if they could. Die with her ifthey could not. And kill her baby, if chance allowed. God help him, but he hadbeen wrong about that. They should have snuffed out the baby’s life back in theCalla, when they had the chance.

Something bit deeply into his neck. Thevampires would come now, cross or no cross. They’d fall on him like the sharksthey were once they got their first whiff of his life’s blood. Help me God,give me strength, Callahan thought, and felt the strength flow into him. Herolled to his left as claws ripped into his shirt, tearing it to ribbons. For amoment his right hand was free, and the Ruger was still in it. He turned ittoward the working, sweaty, hate-congested face of the fat one named Andrew andplaced the barrel of the gun (bought for home protection in the long-distantpast by Jake’s more than a little paranoid TV-executive father) against thesoft red wound in the center of the low man’s forehead.

“No-ooo, you daren’t!” Tirana cried,and as she reached for the gun, the front of her gown finally burst, spillingher massive breasts free. They were covered with coarse fur.

Callahan pulled the trigger. The Ruger’sreport was deafening in the dining room. Andrew’s head exploded like a gourdfilled with blood, spraying the creatures who had been crowding in behind him.There were screams of horror and disbelief. Callahan had time to think, Itwasn’t supposed to be this way, was it? And: Is it enough to put me inthe club? Am I a gunslinger yet?

Perhaps not. But there was the bird-man,standing right in front of him between two tables, its beak opening andclosing, its throat beating visibly with excitement.

Smiling, propping himself on one elbow asblood pumped onto the carpet from his torn throat, Callahan leveled Jake’sRuger.

“No!” Meiman cried, raising hismisshapen hands to his face in an utterly fruitless gesture of protection. “No,you CAN’T—”

Can so, Callahan thought withchildish glee, and fired again. Meiman took two stumble-steps backward, then athird. He struck a table and collapsed on top of it. Three yellow feathers hungabove him on the air, seesawing lazily.

Callahan heard savage howls, not of angeror fear but of hunger. The aroma of blood had finally penetrated the old ones’jaded nostrils, and nothing would stop them now. So, if he didn’t want to jointhem—

Pere Callahan, once Father Callahan of‘Salem’s Lot, turned the Ruger’s muzzle on himself. He wasted no time lookingfor eternity in the darkness of the barrel but placed it deep against the shelfof his chin.

“Hile, Roland!” he said, and knew

(the wave they are lifted by the wave)

that he was heard. “Hile, gunslinger!”

His finger tightened on the trigger as theancient monsters fell upon him. He was buried in the reek of their cold andbloodless breath, but not daunted by it. He had never felt so strong. Of allthe years in his life he had been happiest when he had been a simple vagrant,not a priest but only Callahan o’ the Roads, and felt that soon he would be letfree to resume that life and wander as he would, his duties fulfilled, and thatwas well.

“May you find your Tower, Roland, andbreach it, and may you climb to the top!”

The teeth of his old enemies, these ancientbrothers and sisters of a thing which had called itself Kurt Barlow, sank intohim like stingers. Callahan felt them not at all. He was smiling as he pulledthe trigger and escaped them for good.

Chapter II:

Lifted on the Wave

One

On their way out along the dirt camp-roadwhich had taken them to the writer’s house in the town of Bridgton, Eddie andRoland came upon an orange pickup truck with the words CENTRAL MAINE POWERMAINTENANCE painted on the sides. Nearby, a man in a yellow hardhat and an orangehigh-visibility vest was cutting branches that threatened the low-hangingelectrical lines. And did Eddie feel something then, some gathering force?Maybe a precursor of the wave rushing down the Path of the Beam toward them? Helater thought so, but couldn’t say for sure. God knew he’d been in a weirdenough mood already, and why not? How many people got to meet their creators?Well… Stephen King hadn’t created Eddie Dean, a young man whose Co-OpCity happened to be in Brooklyn rather than the Bronx—not yet, not inthat year of 1977, but Eddie felt certain that in time King would. How elsecould he be here?

Eddie nipped in ahead of the power-truck,got out, and asked the sweating man with the brush-hog in his hands fordirections to Turtleback Lane, in the town of Lovell. The Central Maine Powerguy passed on the directions willingly enough, then added: “If you’re seriousabout going to Lovell today, you’re gonna have to use Route 93. The Bog Road,some folks call it.”

He raised a hand to Eddie and shook hishead like a man forestalling an argument, although Eddie had not in fact said aword since asking his original question.

“It’s seven miles longer, I know, andjouncy as a bugger, but you can’t get through East Stoneham today. Cops’ve gotit blocked off. State Bears, local yokels, even the Oxford County Sheriff’sDepartment.”

“You’re kidding,” Eddie said. It seemed asafe enough response.

The power guy shook his head grimly. “Noone seems to know exactly what’s up, but there’s been shootin—automaticweapons, maybe—and explosions.” He patted the battered and sawdustywalkie-talkie clipped to his belt. “I’ve even heard the t-word once or twicethis afternoon. Not s’prised, either.”