JК
Desperation :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 392 из 422Mary had also had a flashlight—the one she’d found in the field office-and she thought she had tucked it into the waistband of her jeans after dis-abling the—pickup trucks. If so, it was gone now. The hatchet, too. She must have lost both items in her flight from the pit.
“Crap,” Johnny said. “Boy Scouts we ain’t.”
“There’s one in the truck, behind the seat,” Steve said. “Under the maps.”
“Why don’t you go get it.” Johnny said, but for a moment or two, Steve didn’t move.
He—was looking at Johnny with a strange expression, one Mary couldn’t quite read, on his face. Johnny saw it, too. “What. Some-thing wrong.”
“Nope,” Steve said. “Nothing wrong, boss.”
“Then step on it.”
Steve Ames marked the exact moment when control over their little expeditionary force passed from David to Johnny; the moment when the boss became the boss again. Why don’t you go get it, he’d said, a question that wasn’t a question at all but the first real order Mar-inville had given him since they’d started out in Con-necticut, Johnny on his motorcycle, Steve rolling leisurely along behind in the truck, puffing the occasional cheap cigar. He had called him boss (until Johnny told him to stop) because it was a tradition in the entertainment busi-ness: in the theater, sceneshifters called the stage manager boss; on a movie set, key grips called the director boss; out on tour, roadies called the tour-manager or the guys in the band boss. He had simply carried that part of his old life over into this job, but he hadn’t thought of Johnny as the boss, in spite of his booming stage-voice and his chin—thrust-forward, I-know-exactly-what-I’ rn-doing manner, until now. And this time, when Steve had called him boss, Johnny hadn’t objected.
Why don’t you go get it.
Anominal question, just six words, and everything had changed.
What’s changed. What, exactly.
“I don’t know,” he muttered, opening the driver’ s-side door of the Ryder truck and starting to rummage through the crap behind the seat. “That’s the hell of it, I don’t really know. — The flashlight-a long-barrelled, six-battery job-was under a crushed litter of maps, along with the first-aid kit and a cardboard box with a few road-flares in it. He tried the light, saw that it worked, and jogged back to the others.
“Look for spiders first,” Cynthia said. Her voice was just a little too high for normal conversation. “Spiders and snakes, just like in that old song. God, I hate em.
“Crap,” Johnny said. “Boy Scouts we ain’t.”
“There’s one in the truck, behind the seat,” Steve said. “Under the maps.”
“Why don’t you go get it.” Johnny said, but for a moment or two, Steve didn’t move.
He—was looking at Johnny with a strange expression, one Mary couldn’t quite read, on his face. Johnny saw it, too. “What. Some-thing wrong.”
“Nope,” Steve said. “Nothing wrong, boss.”
“Then step on it.”
Steve Ames marked the exact moment when control over their little expeditionary force passed from David to Johnny; the moment when the boss became the boss again. Why don’t you go get it, he’d said, a question that wasn’t a question at all but the first real order Mar-inville had given him since they’d started out in Con-necticut, Johnny on his motorcycle, Steve rolling leisurely along behind in the truck, puffing the occasional cheap cigar. He had called him boss (until Johnny told him to stop) because it was a tradition in the entertainment busi-ness: in the theater, sceneshifters called the stage manager boss; on a movie set, key grips called the director boss; out on tour, roadies called the tour-manager or the guys in the band boss. He had simply carried that part of his old life over into this job, but he hadn’t thought of Johnny as the boss, in spite of his booming stage-voice and his chin—thrust-forward, I-know-exactly-what-I’ rn-doing manner, until now. And this time, when Steve had called him boss, Johnny hadn’t objected.
Why don’t you go get it.
Anominal question, just six words, and everything had changed.
What’s changed. What, exactly.
“I don’t know,” he muttered, opening the driver’ s-side door of the Ryder truck and starting to rummage through the crap behind the seat. “That’s the hell of it, I don’t really know. — The flashlight-a long-barrelled, six-battery job-was under a crushed litter of maps, along with the first-aid kit and a cardboard box with a few road-flares in it. He tried the light, saw that it worked, and jogged back to the others.
“Look for spiders first,” Cynthia said. Her voice was just a little too high for normal conversation. “Spiders and snakes, just like in that old song. God, I hate em.