Bill arrives first and settles into one of the wing-back chairs just inside the Reading Room door, observing Mike as he wraps up with the library’s last patrons of the night. There’s an elderly woman with a stack of paperback novels, a man with a large historical book on the Civil War, and a young boy waiting to check out a novel marked for a seven-day rental. Bill notes, with a sense of resignation rather than surprise, that the book is his latest novel. He feels that genuine surprise is no longer part of his life, and what he once believed to be serendipity now seems like an elusive dream.
A young woman in a tartan skirt, secured with a large gold safety pin, is at the Xerox machine making copies while keeping an eye on the large pendulum clock behind the checkout desk. The library’s sounds are soft and soothing: the gentle squeak of shoes on the red-and-black linoleum, the steady tick of the clock, and the soft hum of the copier.
The boy collects his book and approaches the girl at the copier, who is finishing up and organizing her pages.
“You can leave that copy on the desk, Mary,” Mike says. “I’ll put it away.”
She smiles gratefully. “Thanks, Mr. Hanlon.”
“Goodnight,” Mike replies. “Goodnight, Billy. Make sure you both head home safely.”
Billy, the skinny kid, responds with a playful chant, “The boogeyman will get you if you don’t watch out!” as he puts an arm around the girl’s waist.
Mike chuckles. “Well, I don’t think he’d be interested in you two, but do be careful.”
Mary nods seriously and gives Billy a gentle punch on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go,” she says with a laugh. As they pass Bill, he is struck by the girl’s youthful charm, and he feels a pang of worry for their safety. He wants to caution the boy to stay on well-lit streets and to be aware of his surroundings.
A voice in his head echoes a warning, but Bill just smiles wistfully, knowing that the boy is likely to take risks. He watches as the boy opens the door for the girl, and he muses that he would bet the royalties of his book that they shared a kiss before heading out.
Mike calls out, “I’ll be right with you, Bill. Just need to finish up here.”
Bill nods and shifts in his chair, the paper bag on his lap crinkling slightly. Inside is a pint of bourbon, and he feels a strong urge to drink, though he knows Mike can provide some water to help with the craving.
His thoughts drift back to Silver, leaning against the wall of Mike’s garage, and from there to the day they had met in the Barrens, except for Mike. They had each shared their stories of strange occurrences: eerie sights, unsettling sounds, and unexplained phenomena.
Bill recalls their time in the Barrens before the Fourth of July. It was hot in town but cool in the shaded area by the Kenduskeag. He remembers the humming of a nearby concrete cylinder, similar to the hum of the copier from earlier. When the stories were finished, the others had looked to him for guidance, and he had felt a sense of desperation, not knowing what to say.
He now realizes that the uncertainty stemmed from their incomplete understanding at that time. The resolution had come later at the gravel pit near the dump, where they could easily climb out of the Barrens. Bill remembers how they had sought his direction, and he had felt the weight of the responsibility he hadn’t anticipated.
Looking back, he remembers the music and the bright reflections from Richie’s radio. Despite the cool shade, the sunlight bounced off the radio, causing Bill discomfort. He had asked Richie to turn off the radio, which made the silence seem even more pronounced.
Bill reflects on how he had felt under pressure to provide answers, feeling like he was the designated leader despite his own doubts. The others had looked to him for direction, and he had been deeply affected by the responsibility placed upon him.
In retrospect, Bill acknowledges that Henry Bowers, though he harbored animosity towards the Losers’ Club, directed his most intense dislike towards Mike Hanlon, a fact that was fueled by unjust biases and personal vendettas.
It was believed by some that the difficulties they faced in 1956, when their well went dry, were the result of various misfortunes.
Later that same year, Henry, who was then ten years old, began feeding Mike’s dog, Mr. Chips, old stew bones and bags of potato chips. Mr. Chips grew accustomed to Henry and his treats, and would come running when Henry called. One day, after Mr. Chips had become used to Henry’s treats, Henry fed him a pound of hamburger meat laced with insect poison. Henry had saved for three weeks to buy the meat from Costello’s and found the poison in the back shed.
Mr. Chips ate half of the poisoned meat and then stopped. “Go on, finish your treat,” Henry had said. Mr. Chips wagged his tail, believing this was his name. As the dog began to suffer, Henry tied Mr. Chips to a birch tree with a piece of clothesline to prevent him from running away. He then sat on a sun-warmed rock, rested his chin in his palms, and watched the dog die. The process took some time, but Henry felt it was time well spent. In the end, Mr. Chips began to convulse, and a thin green foam ran from his mouth.
“How do you like that?” Henry asked as Mr. Chips rolled his dying eyes toward him and tried to wag his tail. “Did you like your lunch?”
When Mr. Chips was dead, Henry removed the clothesline, went home, and told his father what he had done. By that time, Oscar Bowers was deeply troubled; a year later, his wife would leave him after a severe incident. Henry was also afraid of his father and harbored a deep resentment, though he also loved him. That afternoon, after telling his father, Henry felt he had finally earned his father’s affection when Oscar patted him on the back and gave him a beer. It was Henry’s first beer, and he would always associate the taste with feelings of victory and approval.
The residents of the Losers’ Club knew Mike by sight since he was the only Black child in town, but they knew little more about him because he didn’t attend Derry Elementary School. His mother was a devout Baptist, so Mike went to Neibolt Street Church School, which focused on Bible drills, lessons on moral issues, and discussions on how to handle everyday problems.
Mike thought Church School was okay. While he sometimes felt he was missing out on social interactions, he was hopeful for high school. Though he was apprehensive about being treated differently due to his skin color, he saw that his parents had been well treated in town and hoped for the same if he treated others with respect.
Henry Bowers was an exception. Despite Mike’s efforts to avoid trouble, he was always fearful of Henry. In 1958, Mike was slim, well-built, and fast, which had helped him avoid several beatings. Because of their different schools and ages, their paths rarely crossed. Ironically, despite Henry’s hatred for Mike, Mike had been relatively less harmed compared to others.
One spring day, after Henry had poisoned Mike’s dog, he ambushed Mike while he was walking to the library. The weather was warm enough for biking, but Witcham Road had turned to mud beyond the Bowers place, making biking impossible. Henry taunted Mike with offensive remarks and advanced on him. Mike tried to evade Henry, but the muddy conditions caused him to slip, and Henry caught up with him.
Henry covered Mike in mud and continued to taunt him, using derogatory language as he smeared mud across Mike’s face and body. When Henry finally left, Mike, covered in mud and weeping, returned home.
Mike’s mother was furious and wanted to call the authorities, but his father, Will, explained that Chief Borton was not likely to help. Will had encountered similar prejudices and felt that Mike would have to navigate such challenges throughout his life. Despite his mother’s anger, Will’s practical advice was for Mike to stay cautious and avoid unnecessary confrontations.
The following day, Will spoke to Mike about avoiding trouble with Henry Bowers. He warned Mike about Henry’s dangerous behavior and emphasized the importance of staying out of trouble. Will acknowledged the ongoing struggle against prejudice and the need for Mike to be careful about his interactions.
As Henry Bowers and his friends pursued Mike through the train yard, Bill and the rest of the Losers’ Club were discussing their problem at the Kenduskeag. Bill mentioned his recent inquiry into the sewers, and Zack explained their importance in managing waste and runoff. Despite Bill’s stutter, Zack patiently explained the details of the drainage system and its significance.
“Someday they’ll put an end to dumping raw sewage into the river, and that’ll resolve the whole issue. But for now, we’ve got those pumps in the… what did your friend call them?”
“Morlock holes,” Bill said, speaking clearly; neither he nor his father noticed the stutter.
“Yeah, the pumps in the Morlock holes are supposed to handle that, and they generally work well unless there’s too much rain and the streams overflow. Even though the gravity drains and the sewers with the pumps were meant to be separate systems, they actually crisscross all over the place. See?” He drew a series of “X”s radiating out from the line representing the Kenduskeag River, and Bill nodded. “The main thing to understand about water drainage is that it will go wherever it can. When it gets high, it starts to fill up the drains as well as the sewers. When the water in the drains reaches those pumps, it can short them out, causing trouble for me because I have to fix them.”
“Dad, how big are the sewers and drains?”
“You mean, what’s their diameter?”
Bill nodded.
“The main sewers are about six feet across. The secondary ones, from the residential areas, are three or four feet, maybe a bit larger in some places. Believe me when I tell you, Bill, and you can pass this on to your friends: you never want to go into those pipes, not as a game, not on a dare, not for any reason.”
“Why?”
“Several town governments have built on them since around 1885. During the Depression, the WPA installed a secondary drain system and a tertiary sewer system; there was a lot of funding for public works back then. But the person who managed those projects was killed in World War II, and about five years later, the Water Department discovered that most of the system blueprints were missing. That’s a significant amount of documentation that disappeared sometime between 1937 and 1950. My point is, nobody knows where all the sewers and drains lead or why.
“When everything works, nobody minds. When they don’t, there are a few unfortunate souls from Derry Water who have to figure out which pump is malfunctioning or where the blockage is. And when they go down there, they definitely bring supplies. It’s dark, it’s smelly, and there are rats. Those are good reasons to stay out, but the best reason is that you could get lost. It’s happened before.”
The idea of being lost underground, in the sewers, and in the dark was so unsettling that Bill was momentarily silent. Then he asked, “But haven’t they ever sent people down to map—”
“I should finish these dowels,” Zack said abruptly, turning his back and pulling away. “Go on inside and see what’s on TV.”
“B-but Dad—”
“Go on, Bill,” Zack said, and Bill felt the coldness again. That coldness made meals feel like a kind of punishment as his father leafed through electrical journals (hoping for a promotion the following year), while his mother read one of her endless British mysteries: Marsh, Sayers, Innes, Allingham. Eating in that coldness made food taste bland; it was like eating frozen dinners that had never seen an oven. Sometimes, afterward, he would go up to his room and lie on his bed, holding his aching stomach, and think: He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts. He thought of that more and more since Georgie had died, although his mother had taught him the phrase two years before. It had taken on a talismanic significance in his mind: the day he could walk up to his mother and simply recite that phrase without tripping or stuttering, looking her right in the eye, the coldness would disappear; her eyes would light up, and she would hug him and say, “Wonderful, Billy! What a good boy! What a good boy!”
He had, of course, told this to no one. Wild horses wouldn’t drag it from him; neither torture nor coercion would make him give up this secret fantasy, which lay at the very center of his heart. If he could say this phrase, which she had taught him casually one Saturday morning as he and Georgie sat watching The Adventures of Wild Bill Hickok, it would be like the kiss that awakened Sleeping Beauty from her cold dreams to the warmer world of the fairytale prince’s love.
He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts.
Nor did he tell his friends on that July 3rd—but he told them what his father had said about the Derry sewer and drain systems. He was a boy to whom invention came easily and naturally (sometimes more easily than telling the truth), and the story he painted was quite different from the actual conversation: he and his dad had been watching TV together, he said, having cups of coffee.
“Your dad lets you have coffee?” Eddie asked.
“S-s-sure,” Bill said.
“Wow,” Eddie said. “My mother would never let me have coffee. She says the caffeine is dangerous.” He paused. “She drinks quite a bit of it herself, though.”
“My dad lets me have coffee if I want it,” Beverly said, “but he’d be angry if he knew I smoked.”
“What makes you so sure it’s in the sewers?” Richie asked, looking from Bill to Stan Uris and then back to Bill again.
“E-e-everything goes back to that,” Bill said. “The voices Beverly heard came from the drain. And the blood. When the clown chased us, those orange buttons were by a sewer. And Georgie—”
“It wasn’t a clown, Big Bill,” Richie said. “I told you that. I know it sounds crazy, but it was a werewolf.” He looked at the others defensively. “Honest to God. I saw it.”
Bill said, “It was a werewolf for you.”
“Huh?”
Bill said, “Don’t you see? It was a werewolf for you because you saw that dumb movie at the Aladdin.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I think I do,” Ben said quietly.
“I went to the library and looked it up,” Bill said. “I think It’s a… a glamour.” He paused, throat straining, and then said it clearly.
“Glamour?” Eddie asked doubtfully.
“G-L-A-M-O-U-R,” Bill said, and spelled it. He told them about an encyclopedia entry and a chapter in a book called Night’s Truth. Glamour, he explained, was the Gaelic name for the creature haunting Derry; other cultures had different names for it, but they all meant the same thing. The Plains Indians called it a manitou, which could take the shape of animals like mountain lions or eagles. In the Himalayas, it was called a tallus or taelus, meaning an evil magic being that could read minds and take the shape of the thing you feared most. In Central Europe, it was called eylak, related to the vampire. In France, it was le loup-garou, or skin-changer, a concept crudely translated as werewolf, but Bill told them le loup-garou could be anything: a wolf, a hawk, a sheep, or even a bug.
“Did any of those articles tell you how to defeat a glamour?” Beverly asked.
Bill nodded, but he didn’t look hopeful. “The Himalayans had a ritual to get rid of it, but it’s pretty gruesome.”
They looked at him, not wanting to hear but needing to.
“It was called the Ritual of Chüd,” Bill said, and explained what it involved. If you were a Himalayan holy-man, you tracked the taelus. The taelus stuck its tongue out. You stuck yours out. You both bit into each other’s tongues, connecting them.
“Oh, I think I’m going to be sick,” Beverly said, rolling over on the dirt. Ben patted her back tentatively, then looked around to see if he had been observed. He hadn’t; the others were looking at Bill, mesmerized.
“What then?” Eddie asked.
“Well,” Bill said, “this sounds strange, but the book said you started telling jokes and riddles.”
“What?” Stan asked.
Bill nodded, his face serious. “First the taelus would tell one, then you had to tell one, and you went on like that, taking turns—”
Beverly sat up again, knees against her chest, hands linked around her shins. “I don’t see how people could talk with their tongues nailed together.”
Richie immediately stuck out his tongue, gripped it with his fingers, and intoned, “My father works in a junkyard!” This broke them all up for a while, even though it was a simple joke.
“Maybe it was supposed to be telepathy,” Bill said. “Anyway, if the human made the taelus laugh first, it had to leave for a hundred years.”
“Did the book say where something like that would come from?” Ben asked.
Bill shook his head.
“Do you believe any of it?” Stan asked, sounding as if he wanted to scoff but couldn’t quite muster the conviction.
Bill shrugged and said, “I almost do.” He seemed about to say more, then shook his head and remained silent.
“It explains a lot,” Eddie said slowly. “The clown, the leper, the werewolf…” He looked at Stan. “The dead boys, too, I guess.”
“This sounds like a job for Richard Tozier,” Richie said, in a mock newsreel voice
“Man of a thousand jokes and six thousand riddles.”
“If we sent you to do it, we’d all get hurt,” Ben said. “Slowly. In great pain.” They all laughed again.
“So what do we do about it?” Stan demanded, and once again Bill could only shake his head… and feel he almost knew. Stan stood up. “Let’s go somewhere else,” he said. “I’m getting bored.”
“I like it here,” Beverly said. “It’s shady and nice.” She glanced at Stan. “I suppose you want to do something childish like going down to the dump and breaking bottles with rocks.”
“I like breaking bottles with rocks,” Richie said, standing up beside Stan. “It’s the rebellious side of me.” He flipped up his collar and began to stalk around like James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause. “They hurt me,” he said, looking moody and scratching his chest. “You know, like my parents. School. Society. Everyone. It’s pressure, man. It’s—”
“It’s frustrating,” Beverly said, and sighed.
“I’ve got some firecrackers,” Stan said, and they forgot all about glamours, manitous, and Richie’s bad James Dean imitation as Stan produced a package of Black Cats from his hip pocket. Even Bill was impressed.
“W-Where did you get those?” Bill asked.
“I traded a bunch of Superman and Little Lulu comic books with a kid I know,” Stan said.
“Let’s go have some fun!” Richie cried excitedly. The others laughed as they started making plans to set them off. Beverly giggled, nearly breathless with laughter, and even Stan joined in. Their laughter echoed across the water, a cheerful sound carried by the wind on a sunny day, as none of them noticed the pair of orange eyes observing them from a nearby thicket.
That same day, Mike had a run-in with Henry Bowers and his group. The Church School band, where Mike played trombone, was to march in the Fourth of July parade, playing patriotic songs. Mike, excited about the event, left early to polish his trombone, unaware of the trouble that awaited him.
As he neared the Church School on Neibolt Street, Henry and his friends were trailing behind him, planning mischief. Had Mike looked back, he would have seen them closing in. Unbeknownst to Mike, this was just the beginning of a series of events that seemed too perfectly aligned to be mere coincidences. Mike would later reflect on the strange summer, considering whether they were ever truly in control of their actions or if some other force was guiding them.
Victor and the others had gathered at Henry’s place, lured by the promise of firecrackers. Although reluctant to spend time at Henry’s farm due to his father’s erratic behavior, the boys couldn’t resist the allure of fireworks.
Henry’s father was settled on the porch, preoccupied with his own interests, allowing the boys some freedom. As the group left the farm, Henry spotted Mike ahead. Excited, Henry urged his friends to catch up to Mike, but he cautioned them to proceed carefully, knowing Mike was quick on his feet.
“What are you planning, Henry?” Victor asked, uneasy about Henry’s intentions. Henry, without taking his eyes off Mike, described his plan to scare Mike a bit by taking his shoes and clothing. Although Victor was concerned, he followed Henry, not realizing how the events of that day would impact them all.
**Edited Story**
“We should include him in the plan,” Belch said, his eyes suddenly shining with enthusiasm. “Alright, Henry? How does that sound?”
“Sounds good to me,” Henry replied in a nonchalant manner that made Victor feel uneasy. “We’ll go ahead with it, just like the other time.”
Henry grinned, revealing teeth that showed signs of neglect even at twelve. “And I’ve got something to tell him. I don’t think he really understood me before.”
“What’s that, Henry?” Peter asked. Peter Gordon was curious and eager. Coming from a well-off family in Derry, he lived on West Broadway and expected to go to prep school in Groton in two years. He was smarter than Vic Criss but hadn’t been around long enough to see how Henry was changing. “You’ll find out,” Henry said. “Let’s stay focused. We’re getting close.”
They were about twenty-five yards behind Mike, and just as Henry was about to give the signal, Moose Sadler set off a loud firecracker. Moose had quite the meal last night, and the sound was nearly as loud as a gunshot.
Mike turned around, his eyes widening.
“Go get him!” Henry yelled.
Mike hesitated for a moment, then bolted, running as fast as he could.
**6**
The group moved through the bamboo in the Barrens, lined up in this order: Bill, Richie, Beverly following Richie in her jeans and white sleeveless top, Ben trying not to breathe too heavily in his oversized sweatshirt, Stan, and Eddie bringing up the rear with his inhaler sticking out of his pocket.
Bill had slipped into one of his frequent jungle-safari fantasies as they walked through the dense bamboo. The tall, white stalks limited their view to the path they had carved. The ground was dark and soggy, with patches of mud that they had to avoid or jump over to keep their shoes clean. The puddles had a rainbow sheen, and the air smelled like a mix of the dump and rotting plants.
Bill stopped just before the Kenduskeag and turned to Richie. “Tiger up ahead, Tozier.”
Richie nodded and turned back to Beverly. “Tiger,” he whispered. “Tiger,” she passed on to Ben.
“Man-eater?” Ben asked, trying to keep his breath steady. “There’s blood all over it,” Beverly said.
“Man-eating tiger,” Ben repeated to Stan, who then relayed the message to Eddie, whose excitement was evident.
They quietly retreated into the bamboo, leaving the path empty. The tiger, a heavy creature with powerful muscles under its striped fur, seemed to pass by, almost visible to them all. They imagined its green eyes and the blood on its snout from its last meal.
The bamboo rustled softly, a sound both musical and haunting, then fell silent. It might have been a breeze… or the passage of a tiger on its way across the Barrens.
“Gone,” Bill said, exhaling and stepping back onto the path. The others followed.
Richie, armed with a toy cap-pistol, pushed his glasses up with the muzzle. “I could’ve gotten it if you’d moved, Big Bill,” he said, serious.
“There could be Watusis around,” Bill replied. “Can’t risk a shot. You want them on top of us?”
“Oh,” Richie said, convinced.
Bill gestured for them to continue, and they followed the path, which narrowed at the end of the bamboo patch. They emerged onto the Kenduskeag bank, where stepping stones led across the river. Ben had shown them the simple technique of placing rocks to cross the shallow river without getting wet.
They proceeded down the bank in single file and carefully crossed the stones.
“Bill!” Beverly called out urgently.
He stopped immediately, arms outstretched. “What?”
“There are piranha fish here! I saw them take down a cow the other day. It was just bones in a minute. Don’t fall!”
“Right,” Bill said. “Be careful, everyone.”
They cautiously made their way across the rocks. A freight train’s horn startled Eddie as he neared the middle, and he briefly lost his balance, catching a glimpse of what he thought were piranhas in the water. They looked like oversized goldfish with big jaws, gnashing their teeth.
Eddie nearly fell in, but Stanley Uris grabbed his wrist and steadied him.
“Close call,” Stan said. “If you fell in, your mom would be upset.”
For once, Eddie wasn’t thinking about his mother. The others had reached the bank and were counting the train cars. Eddie looked into the water again but only saw a floating potato-chip bag. He turned to Stan.
“Stan, I saw—”
“What?”
Eddie shook his head. “Nothing, I guess,” he said. “Just a bit jumpy. The tiger, maybe. Let’s keep going.”
The western bank of the Kenduskeag was usually muddy, but it had dried after two weeks without rain, leaving a cracked surface. Cement pipes stuck out, casting small shadows, and a pipe down the bank poured a thin stream of murky water into the river.
“It’s creepy here,” Ben said quietly, and the others agreed.
Bill led them up the bank and into the thick shrubbery. Bugs buzzed, and birds occasionally took flight. A squirrel and later a rat crossed their path as they neared the ridge by the town dump.
The dump’s smell was now clear, with smoke rising in the sky. The ground, though overgrown, was littered with trash. Bill called this “dump-dandruff,” a term Richie loved.
They saw a broken doll, pink and crawling with beetles. Beverly picked it up and dropped it quickly, wiping her fingers on her jeans.
At the top of the ridge, they looked down into the dump.
“We can’t go down there,” Ben agreed. The dumpkeeper, Mandy Fazio, didn’t allow kids in the dump due to the rats, poison, and potential dangers. “Ain’t you kids nice?” Mandy would shout at any kids he caught. “Go to the park or the library. Be nice!”
“Nope,” Richie said. “Guess the dump’s out.”
They watched Mandy work on his bulldozer, hoping he’d leave but knowing he likely wouldn’t. The dump was the best place to set off firecrackers.
“Wish we had some M-80s,” Richie said, not knowing what was coming.
“My mom says we should be happy with what we have,” Eddie said, making them all laugh.
As the laughter faded, they looked to Bill.
Bill thought for a moment. “I know a place. An old gravel pit by the trainyards—”
“Yeah!” Stan said, excited. “You’re a genius, Bill!”
“They’ll really echo there,” Beverly agreed.
“Let’s go,” Richie said.
The six of them, one shy of the magic number, walked along the brow of the hill that circled the dump. Mandy Fazio glanced up once and saw them silhouetted against the blue sky like adventurers on a journey. He thought about calling out to them—the Barrens was no place for kids—but then he turned back to his work. At least they weren’t in his dump.
Mike Hanlon ran past the Church School without pausing and headed straight up Neibolt Street toward the Derry trainyards. There was a janitor at the NCS, but Mr. Gendron was very old and even deafer than Mandy Fazio. Also, he liked to spend most of his summer days asleep in the basement by the summer-silent boiler, stretched out in a battered old reclining chair with the Derry News in his lap. Mike would still be pounding on the door and shouting for the old man to let him in when Henry Bowers caught up with him.
So Mike just ran.
But not blindly; he was trying to pace himself, control his breathing, and not go all out just yet. Henry, Belch, and Moose Sadler presented no problems; even relatively fresh, they ran like wounded buffalo. Victor Criss and Peter Gordon, however, were much faster. As Mike passed the house where Bill and Richie had seen the clown—or the werewolf—he glanced back and was alarmed to see that Peter Gordon had almost closed the distance. Peter was grinning cheerfully—a confident, competitive grin, and Mike thought: I wonder if he’d still be grinning if he knew what might happen if they catch me. Does he think they’re just going to say “Tag, you’re it,” and run away?
As the trainyard gate with its sign—PRIVATE PROPERTY KEEP OUT VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED—loomed up, Mike had to push himself to the limit. There was no pain—his breathing was rapid yet still controlled—but he knew everything would start hurting if he had to keep up this pace for long.
The gate was standing halfway open. He glanced back again and saw he’d pulled away from Peter. Victor was about ten paces behind Peter, the others now forty or fifty yards back. Even in that quick glance, Mike could see the anger on Henry’s face.
He skittered through the opening, whirled, and slammed the gate closed. He heard the click as it latched. A moment later, Peter Gordon slammed into the chain-link, and a moment after that, Victor Criss ran up beside him.
Peter’s smile was gone; a sulky, frustrated look had replaced it. He grabbed for the latch, but there was none: the latch was on the inside.
Incredibly, he said: “Come on, kid, open the gate. That’s not fair.” “What’s your idea of fair?” Mike asked, panting. “Five against one?”
“Fair-up,” Peter repeated, as if he hadn’t heard Mike at all.
Mike looked at Victor and saw the troubled look in Victor’s eyes. He started to speak, but then the others pulled up to the gate.
“Open up!” Henry shouted. He began to shake the chain-link with such ferocity that Peter looked at him, startled. “Open up! Open up right now!”
“I won’t,” Mike said quietly.
“Open up!” Belch shouted. “Open up!”
Mike backed away from the gate, his heart beating heavily in his chest. He couldn’t remember ever being quite this scared, quite this upset. They lined their side of the gate, shouting at him. He was barely aware that Henry was taking something from his pocket, that he had popped a wooden match alight with his thumbnail—and then a round red something came over the fence, and he flinched instinctively away as the cherry bomb exploded to his left, kicking up dust.
The bang silenced them all for a moment—Mike stared unbelievingly at them through the fence, and they stared back. Peter Gordon looked utterly shocked, and even Belch looked stunned.
They’re scared of him now, Mike thought suddenly, and a new voice spoke inside him, perhaps for the first time, a voice that was disturbingly adult. They’re scared, but that won’t stop them. You’ve got to get away, Mikey, or something’s going to happen. Not all of them will want it to happen, maybe—not Victor and maybe not Peter Gordon—but it will happen anyway because Henry will make it happen. So get away. Get away fast.
He backed up another two or three steps, and then Henry Bowers said: “I was the one who hurt your dog.”
Mike froze, feeling as if he had been hit in the belly with a bowling ball. He stared into Henry Bowers’s eyes and understood that Henry was telling the simple truth: he had hurt Mr. Chips.
That moment of understanding seemed nearly eternal to Mike—looking into Henry’s crazed, sweat-ringed eyes and his rage-blackened face, it seemed to him that he understood a great many things for the first time, and the fact that Henry was far angrier than Mike had ever dreamed was only the least of them. He realized above all that the world was not kind, and it was more this than the news itself that forced the cry from him: “You cruel jerk!”
Henry uttered a shriek of rage and attacked the fence, climbing his way toward the top with a brute strength that was terrifying. Mike paused a moment longer, wanting to see if that adult voice that had spoken inside had been a true voice, and yes, it had been true: after the slightest hesitation, the others spread out and also began to climb.
Mike turned and ran again, sprinting across the trainyards, his shadow trailing squat at his feet. The freight which the Losers had seen crossing the Barrens was long gone now, and there was no sound but Mike’s own breathing in his ears and the musical jingle of chain-link as Henry and the others climbed the fence.
Mike ran across one triple set of tracks, his sneakers kicking back cinders as he ran across the space between. He stumbled crossing the second set of tracks and felt pain flare briefly in his ankle. He got up and ran on again.
He heard a thud as Henry jumped down from the top of the fence behind him. “Here I come!” Henry shouted.
Mike’s reasoning self had decided that the Barrens were his only chance now. If he could get down there, he could hide in the tangles of underbrush, in the bamboo…or, if things became really desperate, he could climb into one of the drainpipes and wait it out.
He could do those things, maybe…but there was a hot spark of fury in his chest that had nothing to do with his reasoning self. He could understand Henry chasing after him when he got the chance, but Mr. Chips?…hurting Mr. Chips? My DOG wasn’t a problem, you cheap jerk, Mike thought as he ran, and the bewildered anger grew.
Now he heard another voice, this one his father’s. I don’t want you to make a career out of running away…and what it all comes down to is that you have to be careful where you take your stand. You have to ask yourself if Henry Bowers is worth the trouble…
Mike had been running a straight line across the trainyards toward the storage quonsets. Beyond them, another chain-link fence divided the trainyards from the Barrens. He had been planning to scale that fence and jump over to the other side. Instead, he veered hard right, toward the gravel pit.
This gravel pit had been used as a coal pit until 1935 or so—it had been a stoking point for the trains that ran through the Derry yards. Then the diesels came and the electrics. For a number of years after the coal was gone (much of the remainder stolen by people with coal-fired furnaces), a local contractor had dug gravel there, but he went bust in 1955, and since then, the pit had been deserted. A spur railroad line still ran in a loop up to the pit and then back toward the switching yards, but the tracks were dull with rust, and ragweed grew up between the rotting ties. These same weeds grew in the pit itself, vying for space with goldenrod and nodding sunflowers. Amid the vegetation, there was still plenty of slag coal—the stuff people had once called “clinkers.”
As Mike ran toward this place, he took his shirt off. He reached the rim of the pit and looked back. Henry was coming across the tracks, his buddies spread out around him. That was okay, maybe.
Moving as quickly as he could, using his shirt for a bindle, Mike picked up half a dozen handfuls of hard clinkers. Then he ran back toward the fence, swinging his shirt by the arms. Instead of climbing the fence when he reached it, he turned so his back was against it. He dumped the coal out of his shirt, stooped, and picked up a couple of chunks.
Henry didn’t see the coal; he only saw that he had Mike trapped against the fence. He sprinted toward him, yelling.
“This is for my dog, you jerk!” Mike cried, unaware that he had begun to cry. He threw one of the chunks of coal overhand. It flew in a hard direct line. It struck Henry’s forehead with a loud bonk! and then rebounded into the air. Henry stumbled to his knees. His hands went to his head. Blood seeped through his fingers at once, like a magician’s surprise.
The others skidded to a stop, their faces stamped with identical expressions of disbelief. Henry uttered a high scream of pain and got to his feet. A big triangular flap of skin and hair had been knocked up by the impact of the coal. It lay on his head like a mockery of a rooster’s comb, and blood coursed down his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose.
Mike looked at them grimly, holding the other chunk of coal in his hand. “Get away from me,” he said. “Leave me alone. You guys get away.”
“Henry, let’s go,” Belch said uneasily. “You’re bleedin’ like crazy.”
Henry took a step forward. The others drew away from him. Even Victor Criss, who looked scared. Henry was looking at Mike, but he was also looking through him. He took another step, and Mike threw the other chunk of coal. Henry ducked wildly, as if dodging a live grenade. The coal sailed over his shoulder, missing his ear by an inch or so.
“Mike, Henry,” Victor said, looking back and forth. “Let’s go. This is crazy.”
But Henry seemed as incapable of retreating as a rat lured from his hole by food and now half hypnotized. “I’m going to get you for that,” he said, and began to advance again.
Mike picked up another chunk of coal, and the others drew further away from Henry. “You leave me alone,” Mike said.
“You think you’re gonna scare me off with some lousy—”
Mike threw again. This chunk of coal hit Henry’s left shoulder. Henry grunted, staggered, and kept coming. Mike turned and climbed the fence quickly. He half-expected one of them to pull him off, but no one did. He looked back when he reached the top. They stood in a clump, looking up at him silently.
He jumped down and began to walk quickly through the deep grass and weeds. He didn’t look back again.
Here is a rewritten version of the passage with offensive and derogatory content removed:
—
“Sure,” Richie said.
“P-P-Put them a-a-away,” Bill stammered.
They looked at Bill questioningly, a little scared—it was his abrupt tone more than what he had said.
“P-P-Puh-hut them a-a-a-away,” Bill repeated, his face contorting with the effort he was making to get the words out. Spit flew from his lips. “S-S-Suh-homething’s g-g-gonna h-h-happen.”
Eddie licked his lips, Richie pushed his glasses up the sweaty slope of his nose with his thumb, and Ben moved closer to Beverly without even thinking about it.
Stan opened his mouth to say something, and then there was another, smaller explosion—another cherry-bomb.
“Ruh-Rocks,” Bill said. “What, Bill?” Stan asked.
“Ruh-Ruh-Rocks. A-A-Ammo.” Bill began to pick up stones, stuffing them into his pockets until they bulged. The others stared at him as though he had gone crazy, and then Eddie felt sweat break on his forehead. All of a sudden, he knew what a malaria attack felt like. He had sensed something like this on the day he and Bill had met Ben, the day Henry Bowers had casually bloodied his nose—but this felt worse. This felt like maybe it was going to be Hiroshima time in the Barrens.
Ben started to get rocks, then Richie, moving quickly, not talking now. His glasses slipped all the way off and clicked to the gravelly surface of the ground. He folded them up absently and put them inside his shirt.
“Why did you do that, Richie?” Beverly asked. Her voice sounded thin, too taut.
“Don’t know, keed,” Richie said, and went on picking up rocks. “Beverly, maybe you better, uh, go back toward the dump for a while,” Ben said. His hands were full of rocks.
“No way,” she said. “Absolutely not, Ben Hanscom.” She bent and began to gather rocks herself.
Stan looked at them thoughtfully as they grubbed for rocks like determined farmers. Then he began to gather them himself, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Eddie felt the familiar tightening sensation as his throat began to close up to a pinhole.
Not this time, he thought suddenly. Not if my friends need me. Like Bev said, no way. He also began to gather rocks.
—
Henry Bowers had gotten too big too fast to be either quick or agile under ordinary circumstances, but these circumstances were not ordinary. He was in a frenzy of pain and rage, and these lent him a temporary unthinking physical genius. Conscious thought was gone; his mind felt like a late-summer grassfire looks as dusk comes on, all rose-red and smoke-gray. He took after Mike Hanlon like a bull after a red flag. Mike was following a rudimentary path along the side of the big pit, a path which would eventually lead to the dump, but Henry was too far gone to bother with such niceties as paths; he slammed through the bushes and the brambles on a straight line, feeling neither the tiny cuts inflicted by the thorns nor the slaps of limber bushes striking his face, neck, and arms. The only thing that mattered was catching up to Mike, who was drawing closer. Henry had one of the M-80s in his right hand and a wooden match in his left. When he caught Mike, he was going to light the fuse.
Mike knew that Henry was gaining, and the others were close on his heels. He tried to push himself faster. He was badly scared now, keeping panic at bay only by a grim effort of will. He had turned his ankle more seriously crossing the tracks than he had thought at first, and now he was limp-skipping along. The crackle and crash of Henry’s go-for-broke progress behind him called up unpleasant images of being chased by a killer dog or a rogue bear.
The path opened out just ahead, and Mike more fell than ran into the gravel pit. He rolled to the bottom, got to his feet, and was halfway across before he realized that there were kids there, six of them. They were spread out in a straight line, and there was a funny look on their faces. It wasn’t until later, when he’d had a chance to sort out his thoughts, that he realized what was so odd about that look: it was as if they had been expecting him.
“Help,” Mike managed as he limped toward them. He spoke instinctively to the tall boy with the red hair. “Kids… big kids—”
That was when Henry burst into the gravel pit. He saw the six of them and came to a skidding halt. For a moment, his face was marked with uncertainty, and he looked back over his shoulder. He saw his friends, and when Henry looked back at the Losers (Mike was now standing beside and slightly behind Bill Denbrough, panting rapidly), he was grinning.
“I know you, kid,” he said, speaking to Bill. He glanced at Richie. “I know you, too. Where’s your glasses, four-eyes?” And before Richie could reply, Henry saw Ben. “Well, look who it is! The whole gang’s here! Is that your girlfriend, Ben?” Ben jumped a little, as if startled.
Just then, Peter Gordon pulled up beside Henry. Victor arrived and stood on Henry’s other side; Belch and Moose Sadler arrived last. They flanked Peter and Victor, and now the two opposing groups stood facing each other in neat, almost formal lines.
Panting heavily as he spoke and still sounding more than a little like a human bull, Henry said, “I got issues with a lot of you, but I can let that go for today. I want Mike. So you all clear out.”
“Right!” Belch said smartly.
“He killed my dog!” Mike cried out, his voice shrill and breaking. “He said so!”
“You come on over here right now,” Henry said, “and maybe I won’t hurt you.”
Mike trembled but did not move.
Speaking softly and clearly, Bill said: “The B-Barrens are ours. You all get out of here.”
Henry’s eyes widened. It was as if he’d been slapped unexpectedly. “Who’s gonna make me?” he asked. “You, stutter-bug?”
“Uh-Uh-Us,” Bill said. “We’re through t-t-taking your bullying, B-B-Bowers. Get ow-ow-out.”
“You stuttering freak,” Henry said. He lowered his head and charged. Bill had a handful of rocks; all of them had a handful except Mike and Beverly, who was only holding one. Bill began to throw at Henry, not hurrying his throws, but chucking hard and with fair accuracy. The first rock missed; the second struck Henry on the shoulder. If the third had missed, Henry might have closed with Bill and wrestled him to the ground, but it didn’t miss; it struck Henry’s lowered head.
Henry cried out in surprised pain, looked up, and was hit four more times: a little hit from Richie Tozier on the chest, one from Eddie that ricocheted off his shoulder blade, one from Stan Uris that struck his shin, and Beverly’s one rock, which hit him in the belly.
He looked at them unbelievingly, and suddenly the air was full of whizzing missiles. Henry fell back, that same bewildered, pained expression on his face. “Come on, you guys!” he shouted. “Help me!”
“Ch-ch-charge them,” Bill said in a low voice, and not waiting to see if they would or not, he ran forward.
They came with him, firing rocks not only at Henry now but at all the others. The big boys were grubbing on the ground for ammunition of their own, but before they could gather much, they had been peppered. Peter Gordon screamed as a rock thrown by Ben glanced off his cheekbone and drew blood. He backed up a few steps, paused, threw a hesitant rock or two back, and then fled. He had had enough; things were not done this way on West Broadway.
Henry grabbed up a handful of rocks in a savage sweeping gesture. Most of them, fortunately for the Losers, were pebbles. He threw one of the larger ones at Beverly, and it cut her arm. She cried out.
Bellowing, Ben ran for Henry Bowers, who looked around in time to see him coming but not in time to sidestep. Henry was off-balance; Ben was one hundred and fifty trying for one-sixty; the result was no contest. Henry did not go sprawling but flying. He landed on his back and skidded. Ben ran toward him again and was only vaguely aware of a warm, blooming pain in his ear as Belch Huggins nailed him with a rock roughly the size of a golf ball.
Henry was getting groggily to his knees as Ben reached him and kicked him hard, his sneakered foot connecting solidly with Henry’s left hip. Henry rolled over heavily on his back. His eyes blazed up at Ben.
“You’re not supposed to throw rocks at girls!” Ben shouted. He could not remember ever in his life feeling so outraged. “You aren’t—”
Then he saw a flame in Henry’s hand as Henry popped the wooden match alight. He touched it to the thick fuse of the M-80, which he then threw at Ben’s face. Acting with no thought at all, Ben struck the M-80 with the palm of his hand, swinging at it as one would swing a racket at a badminton birdie. The M-80 went back down
“Sure,” Richie said.
“P-P-Put them a-a-away.”
They looked at Bill, a bit apprehensive. It was his tone that caught their attention more than his words.
“P-P-Puh-hut them a-a-a-away,” Bill repeated, struggling to get the words out. He spat as he spoke. “S-S- Suh-homething’s g-g-gonna h-h-happen.”
Eddie licked his lips, Richie adjusted his glasses, and Ben moved closer to Beverly instinctively.
Stan was about to say something when another small explosion rang out—a cherry-bomb.
“Ruh-Rocks,” Bill said. “What, Bill?” Stan asked.
“Ruh-Ruh-Rocks. A-A-Ammo.” Bill began to gather stones, stuffing them into his pockets until they bulged. The others stared, uncertain, but then Eddie felt a bead of sweat roll down his forehead. Suddenly, he sensed a tension in the air, much like the day they first met Ben, when Henry Bowers had given him a bloody nose—but this felt more intense, more dangerous.
Ben began to gather rocks, then Richie followed, moving quickly without a word. His glasses slipped off and landed on the gravel. He folded them up and tucked them into his shirt.
“Why did you do that, Richie?” Beverly asked, her voice thin and strained.
“Don’t know, kid,” Richie said, continuing to pick up rocks. “Beverly, maybe you should head back toward the dump for a while,” Ben suggested, his hands full of rocks.
“No way,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.” She bent down and started picking up rocks too.
Stan watched them thoughtfully before joining in, his lips pressed into a determined line.
Eddie felt his throat tightening, a familiar sensation. But this time, he was resolved. “Not if my friends need me,” he thought. He began to gather rocks as well.
Henry Bowers had grown too fast to be either quick or agile in normal circumstances, but these circumstances were far from normal. He was driven by pain and rage, giving him a temporary burst of strength and recklessness. Conscious thought was gone; his mind was aflame with fury. He chased Mike Hanlon with relentless determination. Mike was following a basic path along the pit’s edge, leading to the dump, but Henry was too far gone to care about paths; he charged through bushes and brambles in a straight line, ignoring the cuts from thorns and the slaps from branches. His focus was on Mike’s head, which was getting closer. Henry had an M-80 in his right hand and a wooden match in his left. He planned to catch Mike, light the fuse, and throw the firecracker.
Mike knew Henry was gaining on him, and the others were close behind. He pushed himself to go faster, his fear growing. His ankle hurt more than he initially thought, and he was limping. The sound of Henry crashing through the bushes behind him reminded him of being chased by a wild animal.
The path opened up ahead, and Mike stumbled into the gravel pit. He got up and was halfway across before he realized there were six kids there. They were spread out in a line and had a strange look on their faces, as if they had been expecting him.
“Help,” Mike managed to say as he limped toward them, addressing the tall boy with red hair. “There are big kids—”
That’s when Henry burst into the gravel pit. He saw the six of them and hesitated. His face showed uncertainty, and he looked over his shoulder at his friends. When he looked back at the group of kids, Mike now standing beside Bill, he was grinning.
“I know you, kid,” he said to Bill, then glanced at Richie. “And you, too. Where’s your glasses, four-eyes?” Before Richie could respond, Henry saw Ben. “Well, look who’s here! Is that your girlfriend, Ben?” Ben flinched slightly.
Peter Gordon arrived next to Henry. Victor joined them on Henry’s other side, and Belch and Moose Sadler came last. They stood in a line facing the group of kids.
Henry, panting heavily, said, “I’ve got issues with a lot of you, but I can let it go for now. I want Mike. So, leave.”
“Right!” Belch chimed in.
“He hurt my dog!” Mike cried out.
“Come over here, Mike,” Henry said, “and maybe I won’t hurt you.”
Mike trembled but didn’t move.
Bill spoke clearly, “The Barrens are ours. You need to leave.”
Henry’s eyes widened. “Who’s going to make me? You?”
“Us,” Bill said. “We’re done taking your bullying. Leave.”
“You stuttering fool,” Henry said. He lowered his head and charged. Bill had a handful of rocks; they all did, except Mike and Beverly, who held one each. Bill started throwing at Henry, not rushing but aiming carefully. The first rock missed; the second hit Henry on the shoulder. If the third had missed, Henry might have reached Bill, but it hit Henry’s head.
Henry cried out in pain, looked up, and was hit four more times: Richie’s rock hit his chest, Eddie’s bounced off his shoulder, Stan’s hit his shin, and Beverly’s hit his stomach.
Henry looked at them in disbelief, and suddenly the air was filled with flying rocks. Henry fell back, a bewildered, pained expression on his face. “Come on, you guys!” he shouted. “Help me!”
“Charge them,” Bill said quietly, and without waiting, he ran forward.
The others followed, throwing rocks not only at Henry but at the rest of the older kids. The big boys tried to gather rocks to throw back, but before they could gather much, they were pelted. Peter Gordon screamed as a rock thrown by Ben hit his cheek, drawing blood. He stepped back, threw a rock or two, then fled. He’d had enough.
Henry grabbed a handful of rocks and threw one at Beverly, cutting her arm. She cried out.
Ben charged at Henry, who was off-balance. Ben weighed more, and the result was one-sided. Henry flew backward, landing on his back. Ben ran toward him again, vaguely aware of pain in his ear as Belch hit him with a rock.
Henry was getting up as Ben reached him and kicked him hard, knocking him over. Henry glared up at Ben.
“You don’t throw rocks at girls!” Ben shouted. He couldn’t remember feeling so outraged.
Then he saw Henry light a match. He touched it to the M-80’s fuse and threw it at Ben. Ben acted instinctively, swatting the firecracker away. It exploded a moment later, burning Henry’s shirt.
Moose Sadler hit Ben, knocking him down. Ben blinked, dazed. Moose was coming at him, but Bill and Richie began throwing rocks at Moose. Richie was unimpressed with Moose’s claims of fair fighting; he’d seen them chase one scared kid, and he didn’t think that was honorable. Richie’s rock hit Moose above the eye. Moose howled.
Eddie and Stan joined Bill and Richie. Beverly moved in with them, her arm bleeding but her eyes bright. Rocks flew. Belch screamed as a rock hit his elbow. He started dancing, rubbing his arm. Henry stood up, his shirt in tatters. Ben threw a rock that hit the back of his head, sending him to his knees.
Victor Criss was the most effective that day, partly because he was a decent pitcher, but mainly because he was less emotionally involved. He didn’t want to be there, knowing people could get seriously hurt in a rock fight. But he was there and planned to fight.
He took time to gather a handful of good-sized rocks. He threw one at Eddie, hitting his chin. Eddie fell, crying, blood flowing. Ben turned to help, but Eddie was already getting up, eyes narrowed.
Victor threw at Richie, hitting him in the chest. Richie threw back, but Victor dodged and threw one at Bill, hitting his cheek.
Bill turned to Victor. Their eyes locked, and Victor felt a chill. Bill started toward him, and Victor met him. They began to throw rocks at each other, closing the distance. The fighting around them slowed as everyone watched.
Victor dodged, but Bill made no effort to. Victor’s rocks hit him in the chest, shoulder, and stomach. One grazed his ear. Bill kept throwing, each rock with force. One hit Victor’s knee, and Victor groaned, out of rocks. Bill had one left, smooth and white. It looked hard.
Bill was five feet away.
“You leave now,” he said, “or I’m going to hurt you. I mean it.”
Victor saw he meant it. Without a word, he turned and left.
Belch and Moose looked around, uncertain. Moose had a cut on his mouth, and blood was streaming down Belch’s face.
Henry’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. Bill turned to him. “Get out,” he said.
“What if I don’t?” Henry tried to sound tough, but Bill saw fear in his eyes. He knew Henry would go.
“If you don’t,” Bill said, “we’ll take you down. All of us.”
“Seven,” Mike Hanlon said, joining them with rocks in his hands. “Just try it, Henry.”
Henry’s voice broke. That took the fight out of Belch and Moose; they backed away, dropping their rocks. Moose looked around, confused.
“Get out of here,” Beverly said.
“Shut up,” Henry said. “You—” Four
