Thursday, November 13, 2014

Article Number: 9925








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Ý "Cain Rose UP" Ý Þ°



Ý Story by Stephen King A ßßßßß°



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Ý Written By: Doctor Murdock Distribution Þ°



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°°°The°Pirates'°Hollow°-°415/236/2371°°The°Electric°Pub°-°415/236/4380°°°°















CAIN ROSE UP





Author: Stephen King



Typed by: Doctor Murdock



=============================================================









Garrish walked out of the bright May sunshine and into the



coolness of the dorm. It took his eyes a moment to adjust, and at



first Harry the Beaver was just a bodiless voice from the shadows.



"It was a bitch, wasn't it?" the Beaver asked. "Wasn't that one a



really truly bitch?"



"Yes," Garrish said. "It was tough."



Now his eyes pulled in the Beaver. He was rubbing a hand across



the pimples on his forehead and sweating under his eyes. He was



wearing sandals and a 69 T-Shirt with a button on the front that said



Howdy Doody was a pervert. The Beavers huge buck teeth loomed in the



gloom.



"I was gonna drop it in January," the Beaver said. "I kept



telling myself to do it while there was still time. And then add-



drop was over and it was either go for it or pick up an incomplete.



I think, Curt. Honest to God."



The housemother stood in the corner by the mailboxes. She was an



extremely tall woman who looked vaguely like Rudulph Valentino. She



was trying to push a slip strap back up with one hand while she



tacked up a dorm sign-out sheet with the other.



"Tough," Garrish repeated.



"I wanted to bag a few off you but I didn't dare, honest to God,



that guy's got eyes like an eagle. You think you got you A all



right?"



"I guess maybe I flunked," Garrish said.



The Beaver gaped. "You think you FLUNKED? You think you---"



"I'm going to go take a shower, okay?"



"Yeah, sure, Curt. Sure. Was that you last test?"



"Yes," Garrish said. "That was my last test."



Garrish crossed the lobby and pushed through the doors and began



to climb. The stairwell smelled like an athletic supporter. Same



old stairs. His room was on the fifth floor.



Quinn and that other idiot from three, the one with the hairy



legs, piled by him, tossing a softball back and forth. A little



fellow wearing horned rimmed glasses and valiantly struggling goatee



passed him between four and five, holding a calculus book in his



chest like a Bible, his lips moving in a rosary of logarithms. His



eyes were blank as blackboards.



Garrish paused and looked after him, wondering if he wouldn't be



better off dead, but the little fellow was now only a bobbing,



disappearing shadow on the wall. It bobbed once more and was gone.



Garrish climbed to five and walked down the hall to his room. Pig



Pen had left two days ago. Four finals in three days, wham bam and



thank-ya-ma'am. Pig Pen knew how to arrange things. He had left



only his pin-ups, two dirty mismatched sweat socks, and a ceramic



parody of Rodin's THINKER perched on a toilet seat.



Garrish put his key in the lock and turned it.



"Curt! Hey, Curt!"



Rollins, the asinine floor counselor who had just sent Jimmy Brody



up to visit the Dean of Men for a drinking offense, was coming down



the hall and waving at him. He was tall, well built, crewcut,



symmetrical. He looked varnished.



"You all done?" Rollins asked.



"Yeah."



"Don't forget to sweep the floor of the room and fill out the



damage report, okay?"



"Yeah."



"I slid a damage report under your door last Thursday, didn't I?"



"Yeah."



"If I'm not in my room, just slide the damage report and the key



under the door."



"Okay."



Rollins seized his hand and shook it twice, fast, pumppump.



Rollins palm was dry, the skin grainy. Shaking hands with Rollins



was like shaking hand with a fistful of salt.



"Have yourself a good summer, m'man."



"Right."



"Don't work too hard."



"No."



"Use it but don't abuse it."



"I will and I won't"



Rollins look momentarily puzzled and then he laughed. "Take care,



now." He slapped Garrish's shoulder and then walked back down the



hall, pausing once to tell Ron Frane to turn down his stereo.



Garrish could see Rollins lying dead in a ditch with maggots in his



eyes. Rollins wouldn't care. Neither would the maggots. You either



ate the world or the world ate you and it was okay either way.



Garrish stood thoughtfully, watching until Rollins was out of



sight, and then he let himself into his room.



With Pig Pens cyclonic clutter gone it looked barren and sterile.



The swirled, heaped, drifted pile that had been Pig Pens bed was



stripped down to the bare---if slightly comestained---mattress pad.



Two Playboy gatefolds look down at him with frozen two-dimensional



come-ons.



Not much changed in Garrish's half of the room, which had always



been barracks neat. You could drop a quarter on the top blanket of



Garrish's bed and it would bounce. All that neat had gotten on



Piggy's nerves. He was an English major with a fine turn of phrase.



He called Garrish a pigeonholer. The only thing on the wall above



Garrish's bed was a huge blow-up of Humphrey Bogart that he had



gotten in the college bookstore. Bogie had an automatic pistol in



each hand and was wearing suspenders. Piggy said pistols and braces



were impotency symbols. Garrish doubted if Bogie had been impotent,



although he had never read anything about him.



He went to the closet door, unlocked it, and brought out the big



walnut stocked .352 Magnum that his father, a Methodist minister, had



bought him for Christmas. He had bought the telescopic sight himself



last March.



You weren't supposed to have guns in your room, not even hunting



rifles, but it hadn't been hard. He had signed it out of the



university gun storage room the day before with a forged withdrawl



slip. He put it in his waterproof leather scabbard, and left it in



the woods behind the football field. Then, this morning around three



a.m. he just went out and got it and brought it upstairs through the



sleeping corridors.



He sat down on the bed with the gun across his knees and wept a



little bit. The THINKER on the toilet seat was looking at him.



Garrish put the gun on his bed, crossed the room, and slapped it off



Piggy's table onto the floor, where it shattered. There was a knock



at the door.



Garrish put the rifle under his bed. "Come in."



It was Baily, standing there in his skivies. There was a puff of



lint in his bellybutton. There was no future for Baily. Baily would



marry a stupid girl and they would have stupid kids. Later on he



would die of cancer or maybe renal failure.



"How was the chem final, Curt?"



"All right."



"I just wondered if I could borrow your notes. I've got it



tomorrow."



"I burned them with my trash this morning."



"Oh. Hey, Jesus! Did Piggy go and do that?" He pointed at the



remains of the THINKER.



"I guess so."



Why did he want to go and do that? I liked that thing. I was



going to buy it off him." Baily had sharp, ratty little features.



His skivies were thready and saggy-seated. Garrish could see exactly



how he would look, dying of emphysema or something in an oxygen tent.



How he would look yellow. I could help you, Garrish thought.



"You think he'd mind if I scoffed up those pinups?"



"I guess not."



"Okay." Baily crossed the room, stepping his bare feet gingerly



over the pottery shards, and untacked the Playmates. "That picture



of Bogie is really sharp, too. No tits, but, hey! You know?" Baily



peered at Garrish to see if Garrish would smile. When Garrish did



not, he said, "I don't suppose you plan on throwing it away, or



anything?"



"No. I was just getting ready to take a shower."



"Okay. Have a good summer if I don't see you again, Curt."



"Thanks."



Baily went back to the door, the seat of his skivies flapping. He



paused at the door. "Another four-points this semester, Curt?"



"At least."



"Good deal. See you next year."



He went out and closed the door. Garrish sat on the bed for a



little while, then took the gun out, stripped it, and cleaned it. He



put the muzzle to his eye and looked at the tinny circle of light at



the far end. The barrel was clean. He reintegrated the gun.



In the third drawer of his bureau were three heavy boxes of



Winchester ammunition. He laid these on the windowsill. He pulled



the blinds up.



The mall was bright and green, peppered with strolling students.



Quinn and his idiot friend had gotten up a raggle taggle softball



game. The scurried back and forth like cripple ants escaping a



broken burrow.



"Let me tell you something," Garrish told Bogie. "God got mad at



Cain because Cain had an idea God was a vegetarian. His brother knew



better. God made the world in His image, and if you don't eat the



world, the world eats you. So Cain says to his brother, 'Why didn't



you tell me?' And his brother says, 'Why didn't you listen?' And Cain



says, 'Okay, I'm listening now.' So he waxes his brother and says,



'Hey God! You want meat? Here it is! You want roast or ribs or



Abelburgers or what?' And God told him to put on his boogie shoes.



So...what do you think?"



No reply from Bogie.



Garrish put the window up and rested his elbows on the ledge, not



letting the barrel of the .352 project out into the sunlight. He



looked into the sight.



He was centered on Carlton Memorial women's dormitory across the



mall. Carlton was more popularly known as the dog kennels. He put



the crosshairs on a big Ford wagon. A blonde coed in jeans and a



blue shell top was talking to her mother while her father, red-faced



and balding, loaded suitcases in the back.



Someone knocked on the door.



Garrish waited.



The knock came again.



"Curt? I'll give you half a rock for that Bogart poster."



Baily.



Garrish said nothing. The girl and her mother were laughing at



something, not knowing there were microbes in their intestines,



feeding, dividing, multiplying. The girls father joined them and



they stood in the sunlight together, a family portrait in the



crosshairs.



"Damn it all," Baily said. His feet padded down the hall.



Garrish squeezed the trigger.



The gun kicked hard against his shoulder, the good, padded kick



you get when you have seated the gun in exactly the right place. The



smiling girls blonde head sheared itself away.



Her mother went on smiling for a moment, and then her hand went to



her mouth. She screamed through her hand. Garrish shot through it.



Hand and head disappeared in a red spray. The man who had been



loading the suitcases broke into a lumbering run.



Garrish tracked him and shot him in the back. He raised his head,



looked out of the sight for a moment. Quinn was holding the softball



and looking at the blonde girls brains, which were splattered on the



NO PARKING sign behind her prone body. Quinn didn't move. All



across the mall people stood frozen, like children engaged in a game



of statues.



Somebody pounded on the door, the rattled the handle. Baily



again. "Curt? You all right, Curt? I think somebody's---"



"Good drink, good meat, good God, let's eat!" Garrish exclaimed,



and shot at Quinn. He pulled instead of squeezing and the shot went



wide. Quinn was running. No problem. The second shot took Quinn in



the neck and he flew maybe twenty feet.



"CURT GARRISH IS KILLING HIMSELF!" Baily was screaming.



"ROLLINS! ROLLINS! COME QUICK!"



His footsteps faded down the hall.



Now they were starting to run. Garrish could hear them screaming.



Garrish could hear the faint smack-smack sound of their shoes on the



walks.



He looked up at Bogie. Bogie held his two guns and looked beyond



him. He looked at the shattered remnants of Piggy's THINKER and



wondered what Piggy was doing today, if he was sleeping or watching



TV or eating some great big wonderful meal. Eat the world, Piggy,



Garrish thought. You gulp that sucker right down.



"Garrish!" It was Rollins now, pounding on the door. "Open up,



Garrish!"



"It's locked," Baily panted. "He looked lousy, he killed himself,



I know it."



Garrish pushed the muzzle out of the window again. A boy in a



madras shirt was crouched down behind a bush, scanning the dormitory



windows with desperate intensity. He wanted to run for it, Garrish



saw, but his legs were frozen.



"Good God, let's eat," Garrish murmured, and began to pull the



trigger again.











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