"Buckle your seatbelt!'' Clark bellowed at Mary as she sat up.
She snatched the buckle and jammed it home, watching with horrified fascination as the thing on the hood reached forward with its left hand and grabbed the windshield wiper in front of her. It began to haul itself forward. The wiper snapped off. The thing on the hood glanced at it, tossed it overboard, and reached for the wiper on Clark's side.
Before he could get it, Clark tramped on the brake again -- this time with both feet. Mary's seatbelt locked, biting painfully into the underside of her left breast. For a moment there was a terrible feeling of pressure inside her, as if her guts were being shoved up into the funnel of her throat by a ruthless hand. The thing on the hood was thrown clear of the car and landed in the street. Mary heard a brittle crunching sound, and blood splattered the pavement in a starburst pattern around its head.
She glanced back and saw the others running toward the car. Janis was leading them, her face twisted into a hag-like grimace of hate and excitement.
In front of them, the short-order cook sat up with the boneless ease of a puppet. The big grin was still on his face.
"Clark, they're coming!" Mary screamed.
He glanced briefly into the rear-view, then floored the accelerator again. The Princess leaped ahead. Mary had time to see the man sitting in the street raise one arm to shield his face, and wished that was all she'd had time to see, but there was something else, as well, something worse: beneath the shadow of his raised arm, she saw he was still grinning.
Then two tons of German engineering hit him and bore him under. There were crackling sounds that reminded her of a couple of kids rolling in a pile of autumn leaves. She clapped her hands over her ears -- too late, too late -- and screamed.
"Don't bother," Clark said. He was looking grimly into the rear-view mirror. "We couldn't have hurt him too badly -- he's getting up again."
"What?"
"Except for the tire-track across his shirt, he's -- " He broke off abruptly, looking at her. "Who hit you, Mary?"
"What?"
"Your mouth is bleeding. Who hit you?"
She put a finger to the corner of her mouth, looked at the red smear on it, then tasted it. "Not blood -- pie," she said, and uttered a desperate, cracked laugh. "Get us out of here, Clark, please get us out."
"You bet," he said, and turned his attention back to Main Street, which was wide and -- for the time being, at least -- empty. Mary noticed that, guitars and amps on the town common or not, there were no power-lines on Main Street, either. She had no idea where Rock and Roll Heaven was getting its power (well... maybe some idea), but it certainly wasn't from Central Oregon Power and Light.
The Princess was gaining speed as all diesels seem to - not fast, but with a kind of relentless strength -- and chumming a dark brown cloud of exhaust behind her. Mary caught a blurred glimpse of a department store, a bookstore, and a maternity shop called Rock and Roll Lullabye. She saw a young man with shoulder-length brown curls standing outside The Rock Em & Sock Em Billiards Emporium, his arms folded across his chest and one snakeskin boot propped against the whitewashed brick. His face was handsome in a heavy, pouting way, and Mary recognized him at once.
So did Clark. "That was the Lizard King himself," he said in a dry, emotionless voice.
"I know. I saw."
Yes -- she saw, but the images were like dry paper bursting into flame under a relentless, focused light which seemed to fill her mind; it was as if the intensity of her horror had turned her into a human magnifying glass, and she understood that if they got out of here, no memories of this Peculiar Little Town would remain; the memories would be just ashes blowing in the wind. That was the way these things worked, of course. A person could not retain such hellish images, such hellish experiences, and remain rational, so the mind turned into a blast-furnace, crisping each one as soon as it was created.
That must be -why most people can still afford the luxury of disbelieving in ghosts and haunted houses, she thought. Because when the mind is turned toward the terrifying and the irrational, like someone who is turned and made to look upon the face of Medusa, it forgets. It has to forget. And God! Except for getting out of this hell, forgetting is the only thing in the world I want.