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Night Shift—Stephen King’s first collection of stories—is an early showcase of the depths that King’s wicked imagination could plumb. In these 20 tales, we see mutated rats gone bad (“Graveyard Shift”); a cataclysmic virus that threatens humanity (“Night Surf,” the basis for The Stand); a smoker who will try anything to stop (“Quitters, Inc.”); a reclusive alcoholic who begins a gruesome transformation (“Gray Matter”); and many more. This is Stephen King at his horrifying best.
Alice took them. “This looks like multiple-choice stuff.” “It is. Ed says it's Branner's last year's final word for word.” Alice said flatly, “I don't believe it.” “But it covers all the material!” “Still don't believe it.” She handed the sheets back. “Just because this spook—” “He isn't a spook. Don't call him that.” “Okay. This little guy hasn't got you bamboozled into just memorizing this and not studying at all, has he?” “Of course not,” she said uneasily. “And even if this is like
and strange and hungry. He Who Walks Behind the Rows. Burt felt a chill creep into his flesh. Vicky, let me tell you a story. It's about Amos Deigan, who was born Richard Deigan on September 4, 1945. He took the name Amos in 1964, fine Old Testament name, Amos, one of the minor prophets. Well, Vicky, what happened—don't laugh—is that Dick Deigan and his friends—Billy Renfrew, George Kirk, Roberta Wells, and Eddie Hollis among others—they got religion and they killed off their parents. All of
pulled him onto his feet. “Are you all—” “Never mind me,” he says. “We've got to get hold of him, Booth.” We went after him as fast as we could, which wasn't very fast with the snow hip-deep in some places. But then he stopped and we caught up to him. “Mr. Lumley—” Tookey started, laying a hand on his shoulder. “This way,” Lumley said. “This is the way they went. Look!” We looked down. We were in a kind of dip here, and most of the wind went right over our heads. And you could see two sets
of tracks, one large and one small, just filling up with snow. If we had been five minutes later, they would have been gone. He started to walk away, his head down, and Tookey grabbed him back. “No! No, Lumley!” Lumley turned his wild face up to Tookey's and made a fist. He drew it back . . . but something in Tookey's face made him falter. He looked from Tookey to me and then back again. “She'll freeze,” he said, as if we were a couple of stupid kids. “Don't you get it? She doesn't have her
looked at Tookey. “What do we do now?” “Follow him,” Tookey says. His hair was plastered with snow, and he did look a little bit loony. “I can't just leave him out here. Booth. Can you?” “No,” I says. “Guess not.” So we started to wade through the snow after Lumley as best we could. But he kept getting further and further ahead. He had his youth to spend, you see. He was breaking the trail, going through that snow like a bull. My arthritis began to bother me something terrible, and I started