Free Skeleton Crew by Stephen King

you old bag! Stop rappin’ that crazy bullshit!”
    “Please!” Norton yelled. “If we just wait a few moments until it blows over and we can see—”
    A babble of conflicting shouts greeted this.
    “He’s right,” I said, shouting to be heard over the noise. “Let’s just try to keep cool.”
    “I think that was an earthquake,” a bespectacled man said. His voice was soft. In one hand he held a package of hamburger and a bag of buns. The other hand was holding the hand of a little girl, maybe a year younger than Billy. “I really think that was an earthquake.”
    “They had one over in Naples four years ago,” a fat local man said.
    “That was in Casco,” his wife contradicted immediately. She spoke in the unmistakable tones of a veteran contradictor.
    “Naples,” the fat local man said, but with less assurance.
    “Casco,” his wife said firmly, and he gave up.
    Somewhere a can that had been jostled to the very edge of its shelf by the thump, earthquake, whatever it had been, fell off with a delayed clatter. Billy burst into tears. “I want to go home! I want my MOTHER!”
    “Can’t you shut that kid up?” Bud Brown asked. His eyes were darting rapidly but aimlessly from place to place.
    “Would you like a shot in the teeth, motormouth?” I asked him.
    “Come on, Dave, that’s not helping,” Norton said distractedly.
    “I’m sorry,” the woman who had screamed earlier said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay here. I’ve got to get home and see to my kids.”
    She looked around at us, a blond woman with a tired, pretty face.
    “Wanda’s looking after little Victor, you see. Wanda’s only eight and sometimes she forgets ... forgets she’s supposed to be ... well, watching him, you know. And little Victor ... he likes to turn on the stove burners to see the little red light come on ... he likes that light . . . and sometimes he pulls out the plugs ... little Victor does . . . and Wanda gets ... bored watching him after a while . . . she’s just eight . . .” She stopped talking and just looked at us. I imagine that we must have looked like nothing but a bank of merciless eyes to her right then, not human beings at all, just eyes. “Isn’t anyone going to help me?” she screamed. Her lips began to tremble. “Won’t . . . won’t anybody here see a lady home?”
    No one replied. People shuffled their feet. She looked from face to face with her own broken face. The fat local man took a hesitant half-step forward and his wife jerked him back with one quick tug, her hand clapped over his wrist like a manacle.
    “You?” the blond woman asked Ollie. He shook his head. “You?” she said to Bud. He put his hand over the Texas Instruments calculator on the counter and made no reply. “You?” she said to Norton, and Norton began to say something in his big lawyer’s voice, something about how no one should go off half-cocked, and ... and she dismissed him and Norton just trailed off.
    “You?” she said to me, and I picked Billy up again and held him in my arms like a shield to ward off her terrible broken face.
    “I hope you all rot in hell,” she said. She didn’t scream it. Her voice was dead tired. She went to the OUT door and pulled it open, using both hands. I wanted to say something to her, call her back, but my mouth was too dry.
    “Aw, lady, listen—” the teenage kid who had shouted at Mrs. Carmody began. He held her arm. She looked down at his hand and he let her go, shamefaced. She slipped out into the fog. We watched her go and no one said anything. We watched the fog overlay her and make her insubstantial, not a human being anymore but a pencil-ink sketch of a human being done on the world’s whitest paper, and no one said anything. For a moment it was like the letters of the KEEP RIGHT sign that had seemed to float on nothingness; her arms and legs and pallid blond hair were all gone and only the misty remnants of her red summer dress remained, seeming to dance in