Can't. Oh dear God forgive me, I can't.
Two more bullets struck him then, one high in the chest, driving him back against the wall and bouncing him off it, the second into the left side of his midsection, spinning him around into the gallery railing. He was dimly aware that he had lost the rifle. It struck the gallery floor and discharged point-blank into the wall. Then his upper thighs crashed into the ballustrade and he was falling. The town hall turned over twice before his eyes and then there was a splintering crash as he struck two of the benches, breaking his back and both legs.
He opened his mouth to scream, but what came out was a great gush of blood. He lay in the splintered remains of the benches he had struck and thought: It's over. I punked out. Blew it.
Hands were on him, not gentle. They were turning him over. Elliman, Moochie, and the other guy were there. Elliman was the one who had turned him over.
Stillson came, shoving Moochie aside.
'Never mind this guy,' he said harshly. 'Find the son of a bitch that took that picture. Smash his camera.
Moochie and the other guy left. Somewhere close by the woman with the dark hair was crying out:
behind a kid, hiding behind a kid and I'll tell every-body...'
'Shut her up, Sonny,' Stillson said.
'Sure,' Sonny said, and left Stillson's side.
Stillson got down on his knees above Johnny. 'Do we know each other, fella? No sense lying. You've had the course.'
Johnny whispered, 'We knew each other.'
'It was that Trimbull rally, wasn't it?'
Johnny nodded.
Stillson got up abruptly, and with the last bit of his strength Johnny reached out and grasped his ankle. It was only for a second; Stillson pulled free easily. But it was long enough.
Everything had changed.
People were drawing near him now, but he saw only feet and legs, no faces. It didn't matter. Everything had changed.
He began to cry a little. Touching Stillson this time had been like touching a blank. Dead battery. Fallen tree. Empty house. Bare bookshelves. Wine bottles ready for candles.
Fading. Going away. The feet and legs around him were becoming misty and indistinct. He heard their voices, the excited gabble of speculation, but not the words. Only the sound of the words, and even that was fading, blurring into a high, sweet humming sound.
He looked over his shoulder and there was the corridor he had emerged from so long ago. He had come out of that corridor and into this bright placental place. Only then his mother had been alive and his father had been there, calling him by name, until he broke through to them. Now it was only time to go back. Now it was right to go back.
I did it. Somehow I did it. I don't understand how, but I have.
He let himself drift toward that corridor with the dark chrome walls, not knowing if there might be something at the far end of it or not, content to let time show him that. The sweet hum of the voices faded. The misty brightness faded. But he was still he - Johnny Smith - intact.
Get into the corridor, he thought. All right.
He thought that if he could get into that corridor, he would be able to walk.
PART THREE
Notes from the Dead Zone
1.
Dear Dad,
Portsmouth, N.H. January23, 1979