It

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 (except Eddie, like the others, was already coming to think of Ben as Haystack), 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 awhile,’ Ben said. His hands were full of rocks.
‘Shit on that,’ she said. ‘Shit all over that, Ben Hanscom.’ She bent and began to gather rocks herself.
Stan looked at them thoughtfully as they grubbed for rocks like lunatic farmers. Then he began to gather them himself, his lips pressed into a thin and prissy line.
Eddie felt the familiar tightening sensation as his throat began to close up to a pinhole.
Not this time, dammit, he thought suddenly. Not if my friends need me. Like Bev said, shit all over that.
He also began to gather rocks.
9
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 an ephemeral unthinking physical genius. Conscious thought was gone; his mind felt the way a late-summer gr assfire 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 matte red was the nigger’s kinky head, drawing closer. Henry had one of the M-80s in his right hand and a wooden match in his left. When he caught the nigger he was going to strike the match, light the fuse, and stuff that ashcan right down the front of his pants.
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 al ter, 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 troops, 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, son of a bitch! The Jew and the fatboy are here too! That your girlfriend, fatboy?’
Ben jumped a little, as if goosed.
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