And the hood was uncrimping, straightening out and down to cover the motor
cavity again. Two of the headlights flickered, then came back strong. The
mudguard and the right-hand side of her body—I only caught a glimpse, but I
swear it's true—they were…
reknitting
themselves, red metal appearing
from nowhere and slipping down in smooth automotive curves to cover the
right front tire and the right side of the engine compartment again. The cracks
in the windscreen were running inward and disappearing. And the tire that
had been pulled off its rim looked as good as new.
It
all
looks as good as new
, I thought.
God help us.
She was going directly for the wall between the garage and the office. I let
the mop-handle off the clutch fast, hoping to interpose the tanker's body, but
Christine got past me. Petunia backed into nothing but thin air. Oh, I was
doing great. I backed all the way across the floor and crashed into the dented
tool-lockers ranged there. They crashed to the floor with dull metallic
janglings. Through the windscreen I saw Christine hit the wall between the
garage and Will's office. She never slowed; she went full speed ahead.
I'll never forget those next few moments—they remain hypnotically clear in
my memory, as if seen through a magnifying crystal. Leigh saw Christine
coming and stumbled backward. Her bloody hair was matted to her head. She
fell over Will's swivel chair. She hit the floor, out of sight behind his desk.
An instant later—and I mean the barest
instant
—Christine slammed into the
wall. The big window Will had used to keep track of the comings and goings
out in his garage exploded inward. Glass flew like a cluster of deadly
spears. Christine's front end bulged with the impact. The hood popped up and
then tore off, flying back over the roof to land on the concrete with a metallic
sound that was much like the sound the falling tool-lockers had made.
Her windscreen shattered. Michael Cunningham's body flew through the
jagged opening, legs trailing, his head a grotesque flattened football. He was
catapulted through Will's window; he struck Will's desk with a heavy
grainsack thud and skidded over onto the floor. His shoes stuck up.
Leigh began to scream.
Her fall had probably saved her from being badly lacerated or killed by the
flying glass, but when she rose from behind the desk her face was contorted
with horror, and utter hysteria had its hold on her. Michael had skidded from
the desk and his arms had looped themselves over her shoulders and as Leigh
struggled to her feet she appeared to be waltzing with the corpse. Her
screams were like fireballs. Her blood, still flowing, sparkled deadly bright.
She dumped Michael and ran for the door.
"Leigh, no!"
I screamed, and slammed down the clutch with the mop again.
The handle snapped cleanly in two, leaving me with a stump five inches long.
"Ohhhh-SHIT!"
Christine reversed away from the broken window, leaving water, antifreeze,
and oil puddled on the floor.
I stamped down on the clutch with my left foot, barely feeling the pain now,
bracing my left knee with my left hand as I worked the gearshift.
Leigh tore the office door open and ran out.
Christine turned toward her, its smashed, snarling snout sighting down on her.
I revved Petunia's engine and roared at her, and as that damned car from hell
grew in the windscreen, I saw the purple, swollen face of a child pressed to
the rear window, watching me, seeming to beg me to stop.
I struck her hard. The boot lid popped up and gaped like a mouth. The rear
end heeled around and Christine went skidding sideways past Leigh, who
fled with her eyes seeming to swallow her face. I remember the spray of
blood along the fur fringe of her parka's hood, tiny droplets like an evil fall
of dew.
I was in it now. I was in the peak seat. Even if they had to take my leg off at
the groin when this was done, I was going to drive.
Christine hit the wall and bounced back. I stamped the clutch, rammed the
gearshift into reverse, backed up ten feet, stamped the clutch again, rammed it
back into first. Engine revving, Christine tried to pull away along the wall. I
cut to the left and hit her again, crushing her almost wasp-waisted in the
middle. The doors popped out of their frames at the top and the bottom.
LeBay was behind the wheel, now a skull, now a decayed and stinking
cameo of humanity, now a hale and hearty man in his fifties with a crew-cut
turning white. He stared out at me with his devil's grin, one hand on the
wheel, one balled into a fist that he shook at me.
And still her engine would not die.
I got into reverse again, and now my leg was white iron and the pain was all
the way up to my left armpit. The hell it was. The pain was
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