Page 27 of The End of the World As We Know It: New Tales of Stephen King’s The Stand

It was indeed the same boat as before, and when it beached, Gene got off first, followed by two others.

Ricky recognized one of them who’d been with Gene before.

The one that had run away from the hog. The second one was a stranger.

Gene had found a new acolyte, a fat guy with a nearly bald head.

And there was still the same guy who remained on the boat the last time.

He was moving slowly, as if injured. He was holding the same rifle and didn’t get off the boat.

Gene was carrying a large club and had a pistol in his belt. The recognizable one from Gene’s band of brothers was armed with a crowbar, and the fat one had a tire tool. At least they weren’t carrying a lot of artillery.

As Gene and his assholes moved into the woods, Ricky and Jett went silently away from the ladder, higher up the hill, taking a small trail that led off of the main one, still climbing.

He was hoping Gene and his crew would search and decide it wasn’t worth it, go back home, and end up eating each other.

That was as likely as a helicopter dropping a rope to pull him and Jett up to safety, whisking them away to Shangri-la. They climbed. Jett was in front of him, going fast. She was moving like a rocket-propelled mountain goat.

They were sighted quickly. It had to be partly because the little climbing trail they were on wasn’t entirely sheltered by thick trees and fat leaves. Maybe Gene was a better tracker than Ricky assumed. Whatever the case, they had been spotted because he heard Gene yell, “ There they are! ”

Jett made a whimpering sound and climbed even faster. Ricky worked to keep up with her, making his own whimpers as he went.

Gene and his mugs weren’t right on top of them, but they were close. Ricky could see them down the hill, now at the base of the trail, all sweat-grimed and limb-scratched, working their way up.

“ I’m going to eat your balls, Ricky! ” Gene yelled. “ Your balls! ”

“You’ll choke on ’em!” Ricky yelled back.

This seemed to inflame Gene and his comrades, and they really dug in, coming up the hill, the fat one in the lead, which, considering how much meat he was carrying, was surprising.

Ricky wheeled about, slipped a stone from his ammunition bag into the pouch on the slingshot, drew it back, and let it go.

The rock sailed smoothy and quickly and hit the fat guy between the eyes.

And like Goliath falling from David’s slingshot, back the man tumbled.

Rolling, he knocked the skinny guy’s feet out from under him.

Gene barely dodged the rolling bodies, leaping up and over the barrel like a dog in a circus act.

The fat man didn’t get up. He lay still and was now sliding slowly down the hill on his back. He finally came to a stop.

The skinny guy leaned over the fat one, said, “He’s done killed him with a fucking rock!”

Ricky knew the shot had been true. Shit, he was good.

When Ricky got to the top of the hill just behind Jett, the trees broke open and the hill sloped down and there was a marshy stretch below them.

A dozen hogs moved through the marsh, four of them piglets.

Ricky saw a frog jump in the marsh grass.

A blue crane sloped downward and skimmed over the back of one incredibly large hog.

It was Big Boy.

Big Boy looked up the hill at them. His nose twitched.

Hogs in front, assholes to the rear, all looking for a meal.

Ricky grabbed Jett’s elbow and they ran along the ridge, through the trees that were sparser here. They went along quick, and twice a pistol shot rang out but missed them. One was so close it clipped a small limb near Ricky’s head.

“Go, Jett—I’ll catch up.”

Ricky turned and saw Gene and his skinny pal were close.

Ricky dropped to one knee and picked his target.

Gene was in the lead, pointing his pistol.

Ricky let the rock fly. It tumbled, slightly off the mark.

It missed Gene by less than an inch, hit a tree, bounced off, and clipped the skinny dude in the side of the jaw.

Skinny went to his knees, said, “Motherfucker!” His voice sounded as if it came through a mouthful of cotton.

Gene fired a shot that hit Ricky in his lower left side, clipping off a piece of his shirt and sizzling into his flesh. The burning feeling made Ricky yelp.

Ricky was up and running again. He could feel blood running down his side, along his leg and into his boot. He didn’t feel too bad, though, and concluded he had only been grazed by the bullet.

Glancing back, Ricky saw Gene running along the ridge, and now Skinny, who had recovered from the ricochet, was running behind Gene, but not briskly.

Ahead of him, Ricky saw Jett dodge downward on the side where the river would be, and scuttle out of sight.

He knew she was going for one of the climbing trees, and though that would do all right to save her from a wild pig, it wouldn’t protect her from the men if she were found.

If they didn’t look up, it just might. But if they did, Gene would shoot her out of the tree as if she were a squirrel.

For now, they hadn’t seen her.

Ricky kept running along the ridge of the hill until it broadened and the trees gathered tighter.

He could lead them away from Jett this way, and the tree area he knew well, and could get through with relative ease.

Gene and his partner, unfamiliar with the terrain, would have their work cut out for them.

But Ricky was growing tired, and they were gaining.

As soon as he was in the thickness of trees, he loaded another rock into his slingshot.

Turned about and saw them. He took a deep breath.

He lifted the sling. Gene fired a shot. It smacked into the pine tree he was partially behind. Bark and resin jumped into the air.

Ricky let the rock fly. Gene ducked. The rock caught Skinny, who was close behind him, and this time teeth and blood flew. That motherfucker was cursed.

Skinny went tumbling partly down the hill.

Coming up the hill from the marsh was Big Boy and the other hogs.

They caught Skinny and went at him with snorts and grunts.

Teeth chomped and blood flew. Big Boy stripped a piece of flesh off Skinny’s face like he was tearing a rotten cotton shirt.

He stood there patiently munching it while the other hogs, including the piglets, took their turn.

Skinny screamed. The hogs were all over him. Slinging him about, ripping his clothes. Skinny struck out with the crowbar once, but it was useless.

Gene paused and took a shot at Big Boy. The bullet hit, made a smacking sound like a child kissing its mother with a mouthful of jelly. Big Boy, finishing up his strip of Skinny’s face, stopped in mid-munch, flesh hanging from his mouth, and glared at Gene. The shot had merely annoyed him.

Ricky ran away then, leaving them to it. He heard one more shot.

Threading his way through the trees, he paused and pulled aside his rotting shirt, pushed his pants down enough that he could see his bullet wound. It was bleeding a lot, but the grazing didn’t really look too bad.

Dropping to one knee, Ricky pulled in some deep, slow breaths. The air had turned cooler and smelled of rain. The day was starting to fade. Shadows crept through the trees like ninja assassins.

Ricky thought that even if Gene escaped the hogs while they were chowing down on Skinny, went down to the boat and cruised away, he would come back. It was Gene’s nature. He had been humiliated by a man with a slingshot.

No matter the situation, Ricky had to get to him. He had to kill him before he motored away, leaving him and Jett (if Jett was okay) to fret for his return on another day.

As Ricky was regrouping, he heard a crashing sound, and Gene broke through the underbrush, staggered between two trees, grabbed at one for support.

Gene saw Ricky, too. They were only about twenty feet apart, but in that moment, it was obvious Gene had more pressing matters. It was every man for himself. Behind Gene came Big Boy, looking in that moment more like a rhinoceros than a hog.

Gene ran right toward Ricky because Ricky, still kneeling, was on the only passable trail, narrow and uneven as it was. Ricky stood up, clutching his slingshot. He didn’t have time to reload.

Ricky tried to turn and run, but Gene in his haste to get away from Big Boy smashed up against him and they both went rolling downhill, banging into trees, until there was just the grassy hill and finally, below them, the marsh.

They both rolled to the edge of the marsh, colliding. They tried to get up, but the swampy ground made it hard, and it couldn’t be managed before Big Boy came squealing and grunting down the hill.

Gene was closest, so the hog picked him. It used its tusks to hook him. Gene flipped up in the air, the empty revolver flying from his hand and into the grass. The hog hooked him again, tossing him.

Big Boy nosed and bit at Gene. Gene screamed. The hog grunted. The hog’s snout was coated with Gene’s blood. Ricky could see the hog was bleeding, too. Had to be from gunshot wounds.

Ricky got up and was pleased to discover he still had the slingshot in his hand. He had clung to it all the way down the hill.

Ricky loaded a rock into the pouch and pulled it back. Big Boy had tired of Gene and was now coming after him; a new toy had been discovered.

In that moment, in the dying light, it was as if the hog were lit up internally. The recent wafer-like moon was in its eye.

In that eye Ricky felt as if he could see all the way back to the Stone Age. That he could see the bottom of the world.

He let the projectile go. The sling snapped loudly and the stone was propelled.