It (175 page)

“Richie!”
Ben shouted, and shook him.
“Richie, come on! Come on, goddammit!”
Ben's voice was blurring now, becoming shaky.
“RICHIE WILL YOU WAKE THE FUCK UP?”

And in the dark, Richie said in a sleepy, irritable, just-coming-out-of-it voice: “All rye, Haystack. All rye. We doan need no stinkin batches. . . .”

“Richie!”
Bill screamed.
“Richie, are you all right?”

“Bitch threw me,” Richie muttered in that same tired, just-coming-out-of-sleep voice. “I hit something hard. That's all . . . all I remember. Where's Bevvie?”

“Back this way,” Ben said. Quickly, he told them about the eggs. “I stamped over a hundred. I think I got all of them.”

“I pray to God you did,” Richie said. He was starting to sound better. “Put me down, Big Bill. I can walk. . . . Is the water louder?”

“Yes,” Bill said. The three of them were holding hands in the dark. “How's your head?”

“Hurts like hell. What happened after I got knocked out?”

Bill told them as much as he could bring himself to tell.

“And It's dead,” Richie marvelled. “Are you sure, Bill?”

“Yes,” Bill said. “This time I'm really shuh-hure.”

“Thank God,” Richie said. “Hold onto me, Bill, I gotta barf.”

Bill did, and when Richie was done they walked on. Every now and then his foot struck something brittle that rolled off into the darkness. Parts of the Spider's eggs that Ben had tromped to pieces, he supposed, and shivered. It was good to know they were going in the right direction, but he was still glad he couldn't see the remains.

“Beverly!”
Ben shouted.
“Beverly!”

“Here—”

Her cry was faint, almost lost in the steady rumble of the water. They moved forward in the dark, calling to her steadily, zeroing in.

When they finally reached her, Bill asked if she had any matches left. She put half a pack in his hand. He lit one and saw their faces spring into ghostly being—Ben with his arm around Richie, who was standing slumped, blood running from his right temple, Beverly with Eddie's head in her lap. Then he turned the other way. Audra was lying crumpled on the flagstones, her legs asprawl, her head turned away. The webbing had mostly melted off her.

The match burned his fingers and he let it drop. In the darkness he misjudged the distance, tripped over her, and nearly went sprawling.

“Audra! Audra, can you h-h-hear m-me?”

He got an arm under her back and sat her up. He slipped a hand
under the sheaf of her hair and pressed his fingers against the side of her neck. Her pulse was there: a slow, steady beat.

He lit another match, and as it flared he saw her pupils contract. But that was an involuntary function; the fix of her gaze did not change, even when he brought the match close enough to her face to redden her skin. She was alive, but unresponsive. Hell, it was worse than that and he knew it. She was catatonic.

The second match burned his fingers. He shook it out.

“Bill, I don't like the sound of that water,” Ben said. “I think we ought to get out of here.”

“How will we do it without Eddie?” Richie murmured.

“We can do it,” Bev said. “Bill, Ben's right. We have to get out.”

“I'm taking her.”

“Of course. But we ought to go now.”

“Which way?”

“You'll know,” Beverly said softly. “You killed It. You'll know, Bill.”

He picked Audra up as he had picked Richie up and went back to the others. The feel of her in his arms was disquieting, creepy; she was like a breathing waxwork.

“Which way, Bill?” Ben asked.

“I d-d-don't—”

(you'll know, you killed It and you'll know)

“Well, c-come on,” Bill said. “Let's see if we can't find out. Beverly, gruh-gruh-hab these.” He handed her the matches.

“What about Eddie?” she asked. “We have to take him out.”

“How c-can w-we?” Bill asked. “It's . . . B-Beverly, the pluh-hace is f-falling apart.”

“We
gotta
get him out of here, man,” Richie said. “Come on, Ben.”

Between them they managed to hoist up Eddie's body. Beverly lit them back to the fairytale door. Bill took Audra through it, holding her up from the floor as best he could. Richie and Ben carried Eddie through.

“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 in a 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 into 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-anything?”

“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—”