(no subject)
The meeting of the Boulder Free Zone Committee had been going smoothly up to the point that everything went to hell. It came on suddenly, the feeling that something -everything was wrong. Fran jumped up from her seat and was saying something, her wild gaze flitting from face to face. "We have to get out of here. Right...now."
That was sure true. But Nick felt as though his legs had turned to concrete, and he never even tried to run. It was panic, to a degree, but something else held him to the spot, something intangible and dancing on the edge of his consciousness. Everyone turned to the windows and lights flashed through the curtains. Headlights. Then everyone was running for the door.
But Nick didn't hear the motorcycle engines on the lawn, he was absorbed in those few seconds by the growing feeling that something was in the house, something terrible. Fran was shaking him, and it seemed to jar that intuition loose and into the light. The closet. It was in the closet. Nick shoved Frannie away, motioning for her to GO! and bolted for the hall. Scarves and shoes and other sundries flew behind him as Nick desperately searched.
NO. This is MY house. It's Ralph and Nancy's house and you can't take it from us. I'm not running anymore, I've found where I belong. I've decided to stay somewhere, make my home -my stand somewhere and you're not going to drive me out with your threats or your tricks or--
In that moment two things happened. Nick Andros found what he had been looking for, and Nick Andros realized he was a dead man. The walkie-talkie in the shoebox he had unearthed had come to life and the little red light on its front was pulsing, but Nick couldn't have heard it even if hearing was a possibility for him, because the activity had triggered the detonation of three adjacent sticks of dynamite. Nick didn't even have time to squeeze his eyes shut against the blast that killed him. He was free falling in blinding light.
...
It didn't hurt, apparently, when you died. It felt more like falling from a great height into a cold, deep pool of water. Water that stung like a sonofabitch in your damaged right eye. Because you also got to keep your injuries in heaven. If he was in heaven. Nick didn't think he was going the other way, but really it was down to not believing in an afterlife at all. Nick Andros, until this moment, would have put his money on oblivion. But apparently, what came after death was a cleansing dunk in salt water.
Even here, though, you couldn't just let fate take over. If he was conscious in the afterlife, there must be free will too, so Nick struggled. He swam clumsily in the direction he guessed was up and broke through to air, gasping in a few frantic, silent breaths. With his good eye he looked around him, treading water and blinking in the glaring sunshine. What the hell? He could see an island not that far away, maybe half a mile, with palm trees on its shoreline. But... He was dead! Wasn't the work supposed to be over? Nick was so tired already, his nerves frayed all to hell from finding that bomb. Too late. The bastards. Hoping fervently that he wouldn't find any other Committee members waiting for him on that beach, Nick began to swim, knowing that if he waited much longer, he might drown today in addition to getting blown up.
[Some of this is directly quoted from The Stand, but not enough that SK is gonna work me over in the parking lot or anything. Remember Nick is dead and mute, so don't get perplexed or offended if he's hard to communicate with.]
That was sure true. But Nick felt as though his legs had turned to concrete, and he never even tried to run. It was panic, to a degree, but something else held him to the spot, something intangible and dancing on the edge of his consciousness. Everyone turned to the windows and lights flashed through the curtains. Headlights. Then everyone was running for the door.
But Nick didn't hear the motorcycle engines on the lawn, he was absorbed in those few seconds by the growing feeling that something was in the house, something terrible. Fran was shaking him, and it seemed to jar that intuition loose and into the light. The closet. It was in the closet. Nick shoved Frannie away, motioning for her to GO! and bolted for the hall. Scarves and shoes and other sundries flew behind him as Nick desperately searched.
NO. This is MY house. It's Ralph and Nancy's house and you can't take it from us. I'm not running anymore, I've found where I belong. I've decided to stay somewhere, make my home -my stand somewhere and you're not going to drive me out with your threats or your tricks or--
In that moment two things happened. Nick Andros found what he had been looking for, and Nick Andros realized he was a dead man. The walkie-talkie in the shoebox he had unearthed had come to life and the little red light on its front was pulsing, but Nick couldn't have heard it even if hearing was a possibility for him, because the activity had triggered the detonation of three adjacent sticks of dynamite. Nick didn't even have time to squeeze his eyes shut against the blast that killed him. He was free falling in blinding light.
...
It didn't hurt, apparently, when you died. It felt more like falling from a great height into a cold, deep pool of water. Water that stung like a sonofabitch in your damaged right eye. Because you also got to keep your injuries in heaven. If he was in heaven. Nick didn't think he was going the other way, but really it was down to not believing in an afterlife at all. Nick Andros, until this moment, would have put his money on oblivion. But apparently, what came after death was a cleansing dunk in salt water.
Even here, though, you couldn't just let fate take over. If he was conscious in the afterlife, there must be free will too, so Nick struggled. He swam clumsily in the direction he guessed was up and broke through to air, gasping in a few frantic, silent breaths. With his good eye he looked around him, treading water and blinking in the glaring sunshine. What the hell? He could see an island not that far away, maybe half a mile, with palm trees on its shoreline. But... He was dead! Wasn't the work supposed to be over? Nick was so tired already, his nerves frayed all to hell from finding that bomb. Too late. The bastards. Hoping fervently that he wouldn't find any other Committee members waiting for him on that beach, Nick began to swim, knowing that if he waited much longer, he might drown today in addition to getting blown up.
[Some of this is directly quoted from The Stand, but not enough that SK is gonna work me over in the parking lot or anything. Remember Nick is dead and mute, so don't get perplexed or offended if he's hard to communicate with.]