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'Put him down, ' Beverly said. 'He can stay here. '

'It's too dark, ' Richie sobbed. 'You know. . . it's too dark. Eds. . . he. . . '

'No, it's okay, ' Ben said. 'Maybe this is where he's supposed to be. I think maybe it is. '

They put him down, and Richie kissed Eddie's cheek. Then he looked blindly up at Ben.

'You sure? '

'Yeah. Come on, Richie. '

Richie got up and turned toward the door. 'Fuck you, Bitch! ' he cried suddenly, and kicked the door shut with his foot. It made a solid chukking sound as it closed and latched.

'Why'd you do that? ' Beverly asked.

'I don't know, ' Richie said, but he knew well enough. He looked back over his shoulder just as the match Beverly was holding went out. 'Bill — the mark on the door? ' 'What about it? ' Bill panted.

Richie said: 'It's gone. '

Derry / 10: 30 A. M.

The glass corridor connecting the adult library to the Children's Library suddenly exploded in a single brilliant flare of light. Glass flew out in an umbrella shape, whickering through the straining whipping trees which dotted the library grounds. Someone could have been severely hurt or even killed by such a deadly fusillade, but there was no one there, either inside or out. The library had not been opened that day at all. The tunnel which had so fascinated Ben Hanscom as a boy would never be replaced; there had been so much costly destruction in Derry that it seemed simpler to leave the two libraries as separate unconnected buildings. In time, no one on the Derry City Council could even remember what that glass umbilicus had been for. Perhaps only Ben himself could really have told them how it was to stand outside In the still cold of a January night, your nose running, the tips of your fingers numb inside your mittens, watching the people pass back and forth inside, walking through winter with their coats off and surrounded by light. He could have told them. but maybe it wasn't the sort of thing you could have gotten up and testified about at a City Council meeting — how you stood out in the cold dark and learned to love the light. All of that's as may be; the facts were just these: the glass corridor blew up for no apparent reason, no one was hurt (which was a blessing, since the final toll taken by that morning's storm — in human terms, at least — was sixty-seven killed and better than three hundred and twenty injured), and it was never rebuilt. After May 31st of 1985, if you wanted to get from the Children's Library to the adult library, you had to walk outside to do it. And if it was cold, or raining, or snowing, you had to put on your coat.

Out / 10: 54 A. M., May 31st, 1985

'Wait, ' Bill gasped. 'Give me a chance. . . rest. '

'Let me help you with her, ' Richie said again. They had left Eddie back in the Spider's lair, and that was something none of them wanted to talk about. But Eddie was dead and Audra was still alive — at least, technically.

'I'll do it, ' Bill said between choked gasps for air.

'Bullshit. You'll give yourself a fucking heart attack. Let me help you, Big Bill. '

'How's your h-h-head? '

'Hurts, ' Richie said. 'Don't change the subject. '

Reluctantly, Bill let Richie take her. It could have been worse; Audra was a tall girl whose normal weight was one hundred and forty pounds. But the part she'd been scheduled to play in Attic Room was that of a young woman being held hostage by a borderline psychotic who fancied himself a political terrorist. Because Freddie Firestone had wanted to shoot all of the attic sequences first, Audra had gone on a strict poultry — cottage-cheese — tuna-fish diet and lost twenty pounds. Still, after stumble-staggering along with her in the dark for a quarter of a mile (or a half, or three-quarters of a mile, or who knew), that one hundred and twenty felt more like two hundred. 'Th-Thanks, m-m-man, ' he said.

'Don't mention it. Your turn next, Haystack. '

'Beep-beep, Richie, ' Ben said, and Bill grinned in spite of himself. It was a tired grin, and it didn't last long, but a little was better than none.

'Which way, Bill? ' Beverly asked. 'That water sounds louder than ever. I don't really fancy drowning down here. '

'Straight ahead, then left, ' Bill said. 'Maybe we better try to go a little faster. '

They went on for half an hour, Bill calling the lefts and rights. The sound of the water continued to swell until it seemed to surround them, a scary Dolby stereo effect in the dark. Bill felt his way around a corner, one hand trailing over damp brick, and suddenly water was running over his shoes. The current was shallow and fast.

'Give me Audra, ' he said to Ben, who was panting loudly. 'Upstream now. ' Ben passed her carefully back to Bill, who managed to sling her over his shoulder ma fireman's carry. If she'd only protest. . . move. . . do something. 'How's matches, Bev? '

'Not many. Half a dozen, maybe. Bill. . . do you know where you're going? '

'I think I d-d-do, ' he said. 'Come on. '

They followed him around the corner. The water foamed about Bill's ankles, then it was up to his shins, and then it was thigh-deep. The thunder of the water had deepened to a steady bass roar. The tunnel they were in was shaking steadily. For awhile Bill thought the current was going to become too strong to walk against, but then they passed a feeder-pipe that was pouring a huge jet of water nito their tunnel — he marvelled at the white-water force of it —

and the current slacked off somewhat, although the water continued to deepen. It — I saw the water coming out of that feeder-pipe! Saw it!

'H-H-Hey! ' he shouted. 'Can y-y-you guys see a-any thing? '

'It's been getting lighter for the last fifteen minutes or so! ' Beverly shouted back. 'Where are we, Bill? Do you know? '

I thought I did, Bill almost said. 'No! Come on! '

He had believed they must be approaching the concrete-channelled section of the

Kenduskeag that was called the Canal. . . the part that went under downtown and came out in

Bassey Park. But there was light down here, light, and surely there could be no light in the Canal under the city. But it brightened steadily just the same.

Bill was beginning to have serious problems with Audra. It wasn't the current — that had slackened — it was the depth. Pretty soon I'll be floating her, he thought. He could see Ben on his left and Beverly on his right; by turning his head slightly, he could see Richie behind Ben. The footing was getting decidedly odd. The bottom of the tunnel was now heaped and mounded with detritus — bricks, it felt like. And up ahead, something was sticking out of the water like, the prow of a ship that is in the process of sinking.

Ben floundered toward it, shivering in the cold water. A soggy cigar box floated into his face. He pushed it aside and grabbed at the thing sticking out of the water. His eyes widened. It appeared to be a large sign. He was able to read the letters AL, and below that, FUT. And suddenly he knew.

'Bill! Richie! Bev! ' He was laughing with astonishment.

'What is it, Ben? ' Beverly shouted.

Grabbing it with both hands, Ben rocked it back. There was a grating sound as one side of the sign scraped along the wall of the tunnel. Now they could read: ALADDI, and, below that, BACK TO THE FUTURE.

'It's the marquee for the Aladdin, ' Richie said. 'How — '

'The street caved in, ' Bill whispered. His eyes were widening. He stared up the tunnel. The light was brighter still up ahead.

'What, Bill? '

'What the fuck happened?

'Bill? Bill? What — '

'All these drains! ' Bill said wildly. 'All these old drains! There's been another flood! And I think this time — '

He began to flounder ahead again, holding Audra up. Ben, Bev, and Richie fell in behind him. Five minutes later Bill looked up and saw blue sky. He was looking through a crack in the ceiling of the tunnel, a crack that widened to better than seventy feet across as it ran away from where he stood. The water was broken by many islands and archipelagos up ahead — piles of bricks, the back deck of a Plymouth sedan with its trunk sprung open and pouring water, a parking-meter leaning against the tunnel wall at a drunken slant, its red VIOLATION flag up.

The footing had become almost impossible now — mini-mountains that rose and fell with no rhyme or reason, inviting a broken ankle. The water ran mildly around their armpits.

Mild now, Bill thought. But if we'd been here two hours ago, even one, I think we might have gotten the ride of our lives.

'What the fuck is this, Big Bill? ' Richie asked. He was standing at Bill's left elbow, his face soft with wonder as he looked up at the rip in the roof of the tunnel — except it's not the roof of any tunnel Bill thought. It's Main Street. At least it used to be.

'I think most of downtown Derry is now in the Canal and being carried down the

Kenduskeag River. Pretty soon it'll be in the Penobscot and then it will be in the Atlantic

Ocean and good fucking riddance. Can you help me with Audra, Richie? I don't think I can — '

'Sure, ' Richie said. 'Sure, Bill. No sweat. '

He took Audra from Bill. In this light, Bill could see her better than he perhaps wanted to - her pallor masked but not hidden by the dirt and ordure that smeared her forehead and caked her cheeks. Her eyes were still wide open. . . wide open and innocent of all sense. Her hair hung lank and wet. She might as well have been one of those inflatable doilies they sold at the Pleasure Chest in New York or along the Reeperbahn in Hamburg. The only difference was her slow, steady respiration. . . and that might have been a clockwork trick, no more than that.

'How are we going to get up from here? ' he asked Richie.

'Get Ben to give you ten fingers, ' Richie said. 'You can yank Bev up, and the two of you can get your wife. Ben can boost me and we'll get Ben. And after that I'll show you how to set up a volleyball tournament for a thousand sorority girls. '

'Beep-beep, Richie. '

'Beep-beep your ass, Big Bill. '

The tiredness was going through him in steady waves. He caught Beverly's level gaze and held it for a moment. She nodded to him slightly, and he made a smile for her.

'Give me ten fingers, B-B-Ben? '

Ben, who also looked unutterably weary, nodded. A deep scratch ran down one cheek. 'I think I can handle that. '

He stooped slightly and laced his hands together. Bill hiked one foot, stepped into Ben's hand, and jumped up. It wasn't quite enough. Ben lifted the step he had made with his hands and Bill grabbed the edge of the broken-in tunnel roof. He yanked himself up. The first thing he saw was a white-and-orange crash barrier. The second thing was a crowd of milling men and women beyond the barrier. The third was Freese's Department Store — only it had an oddly bulged-out, foreshortened look. It took him a moment to realize that almost half of Freese's had sunk into the street and the Canal beneath. The top half had slued out over the street and seemed in danger of toppling over like a pile of badly stacked books.

'Look! Look! There's someone in the street! '

A woman was pointing toward the place where Bill's head had poked out of the crevasse in the shattered pavement.

'Praise God, there's someone else! '

She started forward, an elderly woman with a kerchief tied over her head peasant-style. A cop held her back. 'Not safe out there, Mrs Nelson. You know it. Rest of the street might go any time. '

Mrs Nelson, Bill thought. I remember you. Your sister used to sit George and me sometimes. He raised his hand to show her he was all right, and when she raised her own hand in return, he felt a sudden surge of good feelings — and hope.

He turned around and lay flat on the sagging pavement, trying to distribute his weight as evenly as possible, the way you were supposed to do on thin ice. He reached down for Bev. She grasped his wrists and, with what seemed to be the last of his strength, he pulled her up. The sun, which had disappeared again, now ran out from behind a brace of mackerel-scale clouds and gave them their shadows back. Beverly looked up, startled, caught Bill's eyes, and smiled.

'I love you, Bill, ' she said. 'And I pray she'll be all right. '

'Thuh-hank you, Bevvie, ' he said, and his kind smile made her start to cry a little. He hugged her and the small crowd gathered behind the crash barrier applauded. A photographer from the Derry News snapped a picture. It appeared in the June 1st edition of the paper, which was printed in Bangor because of water damage to the News's presses. The caption was simple enough, and true enough for Bill to cut the picture out and keep it tucked away in his wallet for years to come: SURVIVORS, the caption read. That was all, but that was enough. It was six minutes of eleven in Derry, Maine.

Derry / Later the Same Day

The glass corridor between the Children's Library and the adult library had exploded at 10: 30

A. M. At 10: 33, the rain stopped. It didn't taper off; it stopped all at once, as if Someone Up There had flicked a toggle switch. The wind had already begun to fall, and it fell so rapidly that people stared at each other with uneasy, superstitious faces. The sound was like the wind-down of a 747's engines after it has been safely parked at the gate. The sun peeked out for the first time at 10: 47. By midafternoon the clouds had burned away entirely, and the day had come off fair and hot. By 3: 30 P. M. the mercury in the Orange Crush thermometer outside the door of Secondhand Rose, Secondhand Clothes read eighty-three — the highest reading of the young season. People walked through the streets like zombies, not talking much. Their expressions were remarkably similar: a kind of stupid wonder that would have been funny if it was not also so frankly pitiable. By evening reporters from ABC, CBS, NBC, and CNN had arrived in Derry, and the network news reporters would bring some version of the truth home to most people; they would make it real. . . although there were those who might have suggested that reality is a highly untrustworthy concept, something perhaps no more solid than a piece of canvas stretched over an interlacing of cables like the strands of a spiderweb. The following morning Bryant Gumble and Willard Scott of the Today show would be in Derry. During the course of the program, Gumble would interview Andrew Keene. 'Whole Standpipe just crashed over and rolled down the hill, ' Andrew said. 'It was like wow. You know what I mean? Like Steven Spielberg eat your heart out, you know? Hey, I always got the idea looking at you on TV that you were, you know, a lot bigger. ' Seeing themselves and their neighbors on TV — that would make it real. It would give them a place from which to grasp this terrible, ungraspable thing. It had been a FREAK STORM. In the days following, THE DEATH-COUNT would rise in THE WAKE OF THE KILLER STORM. It was, in fact, THE WORST SPRING STORM IN MAINE HISTORY. All of these headlines, as terrible as they were, were useful — they helped to blunt the essential strangeness of what had happened. . . or perhaps strangeness was too mild a word. Insanity might have been better. Seeing themselves on TV would help make it concrete, less insane. But in the hours before the news crews arrived, there were only the people from Derry, walking through their rubble-strewn, mudslicked streets with expressions of stunned unbelief on their faces. Only the people from Derry, not talking much, looking at things, occasionally picking things up and then tossing them down again, trying to figure out what had happened during the last seven or eight hours. Men stood on Kansas Street, smoking, looking at houses lying upside down in the Barrens. Other men and women stood beyond the white-and-orange crash barriers, looking into the black hole that had been downtown until ten that morning. The headline of that Sunday's paper read: WE WILL REBUILD, vows DERRY MAYOR, and perhaps they would. But in the weeks that followed, while the City Council wrangled over how the rebuilding should begin, the huge crater that had been downtown continued to grow in an unspectacular but steady way. Four days after the storm, the office building of the Bangor Hydroelectric Company collapsed into the hole. Three days after that, the Flying Doghouse, which sold the best kraut- and chili-dogs in eastern Maine, fell in. Drains backed up periodically in houses, apartment buildings, and businesses. It got so bad in the Old Cape that people began to leave. June 10th was the first evening of horse-racing at Bassey Park; the first race was scheduled for 8: 00 P. M. and that seemed to cheer everyone up. But a section of bleachers collapsed as the trotters in the first race turned into the home stretch, and half a dozen people were hurt. One of them was Foxy Foxworth, who had managed the Aladdin Theater until 1973. Foxy spent two weeks in the hospital, suffering from a broken leg and a punctured testicle. When he was released, he decided to go to his sister's in Somersworth, New Hampshire. He wasn't the only one. Derry was falling apart.

They watched the orderly slam the back doors of the ambulance and go around to the passenger seat. The ambulance started up the hill toward the Derry Home Hospital. Richie had flagged it down at severe risk of life and limb, and had argued the irate driver to a draw when the driver insisted he just didn't have any more room. He had ended up stretching Audra out on the floor.

'Now what? ' Ben asked. There were huge brown circles under his eyes and a grimy ring of dirt around his neck.

'I'm g-going back to the Town House, ' Bill said. 'G-Gonna sleep for about suh-hixteen hours. '

'I second that, ' Richie said. He looked hopefully at Bev. 'Got any cigarettes, purty lady? '

'No, ' Beverly said. 'I think I'm going to quit again. '

'Sensible enough idea. '

They began to walk slowly up the hill, the four of them side by side.

'It's o-o-over, ' Bill said.

Ben nodded. 'We did it. You did it, Big Bill. '

'We all did it, ' Beverly said. 'I wish we could have brought Eddie up. I wish that more than anything. '

They reached the corner of Upper Main and Point Street. A kid in a red rainslicker and green rubber boots was sailing a paper boat along the brisk run of water in the gutter. He looked up, saw them looking at him, and waved tentatively. Bill thought it was the boy with the skateboard — the one whose friend had seen Jaws in the Canal. He smiled and stepped toward the boy.

'It's all right n-n-now, ' he said.

The boy studied him gravely, and then grinned. The smile was sunny and hopeful. 'Yeah, ' he said. 'I think it is. ' 'Bet your a-a-ass. ' The kid laughed.

'You g-gonna be careful on thuh-hat skateboard? '

'Not really, ' the kid said, and this time Bill laughed. He restrained an urge to ruffle the kid's hair — that probably would have been resented — and returned to the others.

'Who was that? ' Richie asked.

'A friend, ' Bill said. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. 'Do you remember it? When we came out before? '

Beverly nodded. 'Eddie got us back to the Barrens. Only we ended up on the other side of the Kenduskeag somehow. The Old Cape side. '

'You and Haystack pushed the lid off one of those pumping-stations, ' Richie said to Bill,

'because you had the most weight. '

'Yeah, ' Ben said. 'We did. The sun was out, but it was almost down. '

'Yeah, ' Bill said. 'And we were all there. '

'But nothing lasts forever, ' Richie said. He looked back down the hill they had just climbed and sighed. 'Look at this, for instance. '

He held his hands out. The tiny scars in the palms were gone. Beverly put her hands out; Ben did the same; Bill added his. All were dirty but unmarked.

'Nothing lasts forever, ' Richie repeated. He looked up at Bill, and Bill saw tears cut slowly through the dirt on Richie's cheeks.

'Except maybe for love, ' Ben said.

'And desire, ' Beverly said.

'How about friends? ' Bill asked, and smiled. 'What do you think, Trashmouth? '

'Well, ' Richie said, smiling and rubbing his eyes, 'Ah got to thank about it, boy; Ah say, Ah say Ah got to thank about it. '

Bill put his hands out and they joined theirs with his and stood there for a moment, seven who had been reduced to four but who could still make a circle. They looked at each other. Ben was crying now too, the tears spilling from his eyes. But he was smiling.

'I love you guys so much, ' he said. He squeezed Bev's and Richie's hands tight-tight-tight for a moment, and then dropped them. 'Now could we see if they've got such a thing as

breakfast in this place? And we ought to call Mike. Tell him we're okay. '

'Good thinnin, senhorr, ' Richie said. 'Every now an then I theenk you might turn out okay. Watchoo theenk, Beeg Beel? '

'I theenk you ought to go fuck yourself, ' Bill said.

They walked into the Town House on a wave of laughter, and as Bill pushed through the glass door, Beverly caught sight of something which she never spoke of but never forgot. For just a moment she saw their reflections in the glass — only there were six, not four, because Eddie was behind Richie and Stan was behind Bill, that little half-smile on his face.

Out / Dusk, August 10th, 1958

The sun sits neatly on the horizon, a slightly oblate red ball that throws a flat feverish light over the Barrens. The iron cover on top of one of the pumping-stations rises a little, settles, rises again, and begins to slide.

'P-P-Push it, Buh-Ben, it's bruh-breaking my shoulder —

The cover slides farther, tilts, and falls into the shrubbery that has grown up around the concrete cylinder. Seven children come out one by one and look around, blinking owlishly in silent wonder. They are like children who have never seen daylight before. 'It's so quiet, ' Beverly says softly.

The only sounds are the loud rush of water and the somnolent hum of insects. The storm is over but the Kenduskeag is still very high. Closer to town, not far from the place where the river is corseted in concrete and called a canal, it has overflowed its banks, although the flooding is by no means serious — a few wet cellars is the worst of it. This time.

Stan moves away from them, his face blank and thoughtful. Bill looks around and at first he thinks Stan has seen a small fire on the riverbank — fire is his first impression: a red glow almost too bright to look at. But when Stan picks the fire up in his right hand the angle of the light changes, and Bill sees it's nothing but a Coke bottle, one of the new clear ones, which someone has dropped by the river. He watches as Stan reverses it, holds it by the neck, and brings it down on a shelf of rock jutting out of the bank. The bottle breaks, and Bill is aware they are all watching Stan now as he pokes through the shattered remains of the bottle, his face sober and studious and absorbed. At last he picks up a narrow wedge of glass. The westering sun throws red glints from it, and Bill thinks again: Like a fire.

Stan looks up at him and Bill suddenly understands: it is perfectly clear to him, and perfectly right. He steps forward toward Stan with his hands held out, palms up. Stan backs away, into the water. Small black bugs stitch along just above the surface, and Bill can see an iridescent dragonfly go bussing off into the reeds along the far bank like a small flying rainbow. A frog begins a steady bass thud, and as Stan takes his left hand and draws the edge of glass down his palm, peeling skin and bringing thin blood, Bill thinks in a kind of ecstasy: There's so much life down here!

'Bill? '

'Sure. Both. '

Stan cuts his other hand. There is pain, but not much. A whippoorwill has begun to call somewhere, a cool sound, peaceful. Bill thinks: That whippoorwill is raising the moon. He looks at his hands, both of them bleeding now, and then around him. The others are there — Eddie with his aspirator clutched tightly in one hand; Ben with his big belly pushing palely out through the tattered remains of his shirt; Richie, his face oddly naked without his glasses; Mike, silent and solemn, his normally full lips compressed to a thin line. And Beverly, her head up, her eyes wide and clear, her hair still somehow lovely in spite of the dirt that mats it.

All of us. All of us are here.

And he sees them, really sees them, for the last time, because in some way he understands that they will never all be together again, the seven of them — not this way. No one talks. Beverly holds out her hands, and after a moment Richie and Ben hold out theirs. Mike and Eddie do the same. Stan cuts them one by one as the sun begins to slip behind the horizon, cooling that red furnace-glow to a dusky rose-pink. The whippoorwill cries again, Bill can see the first faint swirls of mist on the water, and he feels as if he has become a part of everything — this is a brief ecstasy which he will no more talk about than Beverly will later talk about the brief reflection she sees of two dead men who were, as boys, her friends. A breeze touches the trees and bushes, making them sigh, and he thinks: This is a lovely place, and I'll never forget it. It's lovely, and they are lovely; each one of them is gorgeous.

The whippoorwill cries again, sweet and liquid, and for a moment Bill feels at one with it, as if he could sing and then be gone into the dusk — as if he could fly away, brave in the air. He looks at Beverly and she is smiling at him. She closes her eyes and holds her hands out to either side. Bill takes her left; Ben her right. Bill can feel the warmth of her blood mixing with his own. The others join in and they stand in a circle, all of their hands now sealed in that peculiarly intimate way.

Stan is looking at Bill with a kind of urgency; a kind of fear.

'Swuh-Swear to muh-me that you'll c-c-c-come buh-back, ' Bill says. 'Swear to me that if lhIh-It isn't d-d-dead, you'll cuh-home back. ' 'Swear, ' Ben said.

'Swear. ' Richie.

'Yes — I swear. ' Bev.

'Swear it, ' Mike Hanlon mutters.

'Yeah. Swear. ' Eddie, his voice a thin and reedy whisper.

'I swear too, ' Stan whispers, but his voice falters and he looks down as he speaks.

'I-I swuh-swuh-swear. '

That was it; that was all. But they stand there for awhile longer, feeling the power that is in their circle, the closed body that they make. The light paints their faces in pale fading colors; the sun is now gone and sunset is dying. They stand together in a circle as the darkness creeps down into the Barrens, filling up the paths they have walked this summer, the clearings where they have played tag and guns, the secret places along the riverbanks where they have sat and discussed childhood's long questions or smoked Beverly's cigarettes or where they have merely been silent, watching the passage of the clouds reflected in the water.

The eye of the day is closing.

At last Ben drops his hands. He starts to say something, shakes his head, and walks away. Richie follows him, then Beverly and Mike, walking together. No one talks; they climb the embankment to Kansas Street and simply take leave of one another. And when Bill thinks it over twenty-seven years later, he realizes that they really never did all get together again. Four of them quite often, sometimes five, and maybe six once or twice. But never all seven. He's the last to go. He stands for a long time with his hands on the rickety white fence, looking down into the Barrens as, overhead, the first stars seed the summer sky. He stands under the blue and over the black and watches the Barrens fill up with darkness.

I never want to play down there again, he thinks suddenly and is amazed to find the thought is not terrible or distressing but tremendously liberating.

He stands there a moment longer and then turns away from the Barrens and starts home, walking along the dark sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, glancing from time to time at the houses of Derry, warmly lit against the night.

After a block or two he begins to walk faster, thinking of supper. . . and a block or two after that, he begins to whistle.

'" The ocean, in these times, is a perfect fleet of ships, and we can hardly fail to encounter many, in running over. It is merely crossing, ' said Mr Micawber trifling with his eyeglass, 'merely crossing. The distance is quite imaginary. " '

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