The Regulators (Hörbuch)

Collie, who had been working his way around a particularly vicious clump of thornbushes, looked back at him. 'Say what?'
'I asked if these trees are poplars. Since Poplar Street is where we came from, I just wondered.'
'Oh.' Collie looked around doubtfully, swapping the .30-.06 from one hand to the other and then running an arm across his forehead. It was very hot in the greenbelt. 'I don't know if they're poplars or pines or goddam eucalyptuses, to tell you the truth. Botany was never my thing. That one over there is a skinny-ass birch, and that's about all I know on the subject.' With that, he started off again.
Five minutes later (Steve wondering by now if there really was a path back here, or only wishful thinking), Collie stopped. He looked back past Steve, his eyes so intense that Steve turned himself to see what he was looking at. He saw nothing but the tangled greenery through which they had already made their way. No sign of Old Doc's house; the Jacksons', either. He could see a tiny wedge of red that he thought might be the chimney atop the Carver house, but that was all. They almost could have been a hundred miles from the nearest human habitation. Thinking that - and realizing it was a true thought - gave Steve a chill.
'What?' he asked, thinking the cop would ask him why they couldn't hear any cars, not even some kid's glasspack-equipped low-rider, or a single bass-powered sound-system, or a motorcycle, or a horn, or a shout, or anything.
Instead, Collie said: 'We're losing the light.'
'We can't be. It's only - ' Steve looked at his watch, but it had stopped. The battery had given out, probably; he'd never replaced it since his sister had given it to him for Christmas a couple of years ago. It was odd, though, that it should have stopped just past four o'clock, which had to be not long after the time he had first wheeled into this marvellous little neighborhood.
'Only what?'
'I can't say exactly, my watch has stopped, but just think about it. It can't be much more than five-thirty, five forty-five. Maybe even earlier. Don't they say you overestimate elapsed time when you're in a crisis situation?'
'I don't even know who 'they' are, never have,' Collie said. 'But look at the light. The quality of the light.'
Steve did, and yes, the cop had a point. Steve didn't like to admit it, but he did. The light slanted through the tangle (and that was the proper word for it, not greenbelt) in hot red shafts. Red sun at night, sailor's delight, he thought, and suddenly, as if that was a trigger, it all tried to crash in on him, all the things that were wrong, and he couldn't stand it. He raised his hands and clapped them over his eyes, whacking himself a damned good one on the side of the head with the butt of the .22 he was carrying, feeling his bladder go loose, knowing he was close to watering his underwear and not caring. He staggered backward and - from a distance, it seemed - heard Collie Entragian asking if he was okay. With what felt like the greatest effort of his life, Steve said that he was and forced himself to lower his hands, to look into that delirious red light again.

'What?' he asked.
Collie said: 'We're losing the light.'
'We can't be. It's only - ' Steve looked at his watch, but it had stopped. 'It can't be much more than five-thirty, five forty-five. Don't they say you overestimate elapsed time when you're in a crisis?'
'I don't even know who 'they' are, never have,' Collie said. 'But look at the light.'
It slanted through the tangle in hot red shafts. Red sun at night, sailor's delight, Steve thought, and suddenly, as if that was a trigger, it all tried to crash in on him, all the things that were wrong.