The sun was down. Darkness had come.
14
Detta saw herself in the doorway, saw herself through her eyes, saw herself through the gunslinger’s eyes, and her sense of dislocation was as sudden as Eddie’s, but much more violent.
She was here.
She was there, in the gunslinger’s eyes.
She heard the oncoming train.
Odetta! she screamed, suddenly understanding everything: what she was and when it had happened.
Detta! she screamed, suddenly understanding everything: what she was and who had done it.
A brief sensation of being turned inside out . . . and then a much more agonizing one.
She was being torn apart.
15
Roland shambled down the short slope to the place where Eddie lay. He moved like a man who has lost his bones. One of the lobster-things clawed at Eddie’s face. Eddie screamed. The gunslinger booted it away. He bent rustily and grabbed Eddie’s arms. He began to drag him backwards, but it was too late, his strength was too little, they were going to get Eddie, hell, both of them—
Eddie screamed again as one of the lobstrosities asked him did-a-chick? and then tore a swatch of his pants and a chunk of meat to go along with it. Eddie tried another scream, but nothing came out but a choked gargle. He was strangling in Detta’s knots.
The things were all around them, closing in, claws clicking eagerly. The gunslinger threw the last of his strength into a final yank . . . and tumbled backwards. He heard them coming, them with their hellish questions and clicking claws. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, he thought. He had staked everything, and that was all he had lost.
The thunder of his own guns filled him with stupid wonder.
16
The two women lay face to face, bodies raised like snakes about to strike, fingers with identical prints locked around throats marked with identical lines.
The woman was trying to kill her but the woman was not real, no more than the girl had been real; she was a dream created by a falling brick . . . but now the dream was real, the dream was clawing her throat and trying to kill her as the gunslinger tried to save his friend. The dream-made-real was screeching obscenities and raining hot spittle into her face. “I took the blue plate because that woman landed me in the hospital and besides I didn’t get no forspecial plate an I bust it cause it needed bustin an when I saw a white boy I could bust why I bust him too I hurt the white boys because they needed hurtin I stole from the stores that only sell things that are forspecial to whitefolks while the brothers and sisters go hungry in Harlem and the rats eat their babies, I’m the one, you bitch, I’m the one, I . . . I . . . I!
Kill her, Odetta thought, and knew she could not.
She could no more kill the hag and survive than the hag could kill her and walk away. They could choke each other to death while Eddie and the （Roland）/（Really Bad Man） one who had called them were eaten alive down there by the edge
of the water. That would finish all of them. Or she could
（love）/（hate） let go.
Odetta let go of Detta’s throat, ignored the fierce hands throttling her, crushing her windpipe. Instead of using her own hands to choke, she used them to embrace the other.
“No, you bitch!” Detta screamed, but that scream was infinitely complex, both hateful and grateful. “No, you leave me lone, you jes leave me—”
Odetta had no voice with which to reply. As Roland kicked the first attacking lobstrosity away and as the second moved in to lunch on a chunk of Eddie’s arm, she could only whisper in the witch-woman’s ear: “I love you.”
For a moment the hands tightened into a killing noose . . . and then loosened.