It struck Andolini high on the back of the head and bounced away. Blood sprayed from a ragged hanging flap in Jack Andolini’s scalp. Andolini fired, but the bullet that surely would have killed the gunslinger otherwise went wild.
14
Not really wild, the gunslinger could have told Eddie. When you feel the wind of the slug on your cheek, you can’t really call it wild.
He thumbed the hammer of his gun back and pulled the trigger again as he recoiled from Andolini’s shot. This time the bullet in the chamber fired—the dry, authoritative crack echoed up and down the beach. Gulls asleep on rocks high above the lobstrosities awoke and flew upward in screaming, startled packs.
The gunslinger’s bullet would have stopped Andolini for good in spite of his own involuntary recoil, but by then Andolini was also in motion, falling sideways, dazed by the blow on the head. The crack of the gunslinger’s revolver seemed distant, but the searing poker it plunged into his left arm, shattering the elbow, was real enough. It brought him out of his daze and he rose to his feet, one arm hanging broken and useless, the gun wavering wildly about in his other hand, looking for a target.
It was Eddie he saw first, Eddie the junkie, Eddie who had somehow brought him to this crazy place. Eddie was standing there as naked as the day he had been born, shivering in the chilly wind, clutching himself with both arms. Well, he might die here, but he would at least have the pleasure of taking Eddie Fucking Dean with him.
Andolini brought his gun up. The little Cobra now seemed to weigh about twenty pounds, but he managed.
15
This better not be another misfire, Roland thought grimly, and thumbed the hammer back again. Below the din of the gulls, he heard the smooth oiled click as the chamber revolved.
16
It was no misfire.
17
The gunslinger hadn’t aimed at Andolini’s head but at the gun in Andolini’s hand. He didn’t know if they still needed this man, but they might; he was important to Balazar, and because Balazar had proved to be every bit as dangerous as Roland had thought he might be, the best course was the safest one.
His shot was good, and that was no surprise; what happened to Andolini’s gun and hence to Andolini was. Roland had seen it happen, but only twice in all the years he had seen men fire guns at each other.
Bad luck for you, fellow, the gunslinger thought as Andolini wandered off toward the beach, screaming. Blood poured down his shirt and pants. The hand which had been holding the Colt Cobra was missing below the middle of the palm. The gun was a senseless piece of twisted metal lying on the sand.
Eddie stared at him, stunned. No one would ever misjudge Jack Andolini’s caveman face again, because now he had no face; where it had been there was now nothing but a churned mess of raw flesh and the black screaming hole of his mouth.
“My God, what happened?”
“My bullet must have struck the cylinder of his gun at the second he pulled the trigger,” the gunslinger said. He spoke as dryly as a professor giving a police academy ballistics lecture. “The result was an explosion that tore the back off his gun. I think one or two of the other cartridges may have exploded as well.”
“Shoot him,” Eddie said. He was shivering harder than ever, and now it wasn’t just the combination of night air, sea breeze, and naked body that was causing it. “Kill him. Put him out of his misery, for God’s s—”
“Too late,” the gunslinger said with a cold indifference that chilled Eddie’s flesh all the way in to the bone.
And Eddie turned away just too late to avoid seeing the lobstrosities swarm over Andolini’s feet, tearing off his Gucci loafers . . . with the feet still inside them, of course. Screaming, waving his arms spasmodically before him, Andolini fell forward. The lobstrosities swarmed greedily over him, questioning him anxiously all the while they were eating him alive: Dad-a-chack? Did-a-chick? Dum-a-chum? Dod-a-chock?