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Cujo tensed down。
'e on； then！' she screamed at him； and Cujo leaped。
She swung the bat like Micky Mantle going after a high fastball。 She missed Cujo's head but the bat struck him in the ribs。 There was a heavy； dull thump and a snapping sound from somewhere inside Cujo。 The dog uttered a sound like a screarn and went sprawling in the gravel。 She felt the bat give sickeningly under the friction tape … but for the moment it still held。
Donna cried out in a high； breaking voice and brought the bat down on Cujo's hindquarters。 Something else broke。 She heard it。 The dog bellowed and tried to scramble away but she was on it again； swinging。 pounding； screaming。 Her head was high wine and deep iron。 The world danced。 She was the harpies； the Weird Sisters； she was all vengeance not for herself。 but for what had been done to her boy。 The splintered handle of the bat bulged and pumped like a racing heart beneath her hands and beneath its binding of friction tape。
The bat was bloody now。 Cujo was still trying to get away； but his movements had slowed。 He ducked one blow … the head of the bat skittered through the gravel but the next one struck him midway on his back； driving him to his rear legs。
She thought he was done； she even backed off a step or two； her breath screaming in and out of her lungs like some hot liquid。 Then he uttered a deep snarl of rage and leaped at her again 。。。 but as Cujo went rolling in the gravel； the old bat finally split in two。 The fat part flew away and struck the right front hubcap of the Pinto with a musical bong！ She was left with a splintered eighteen…inch wand in her hand。
Cujo was getting to his feet again 。。。 dragging himself to his feet。 Blood poured down his sides。 His eyes flickered like lights on a defective pinball machine。
And still it seemed to her that he was grinning。
'e on； then！' she shrieked。
For the last time the dying ruin that had been Brett Camber's good dog Cujo leaped at THE WOMAN that had caused all his misery。 Donna lunged forward with the remains of the baseball bat； and a long； sharp hickory splinter plunged deep into Cujo's right eye and then into his brain。 There was a small and unimportant popping sound … the sound a grape might make when squeezed suddenly between the fingers。 Cujo's forward motion carried him into her and knocked her sprawling。 His teeth now snapped and snarled bare inches from her neck。 She put her arm up as Cujo crawled farther on top of her。 His eye was now oozing down the side of his face。 His breath was hideous。 She tried to push his muzzle up； and his jaws clamped on her forearm。
'Stop！' she screamed 'Oh stop； won't you ever stop？ Please！ Please！ Please！'
Blood was flowing down onto her face in a sticky drizzle …her blood； the dog's blood。 The pain in her arm was a sheeting flare that seemed to fill the whole world 。。。 and little by little he was forcing it down。 The splintered handle of the bat wavered and jiggled grotesquely； seeming to grow from his head where his eye had been。
He went for her neck。
Donna felt his teeth there and with a final wavering cry she pistoned her arms out and pushed him aside。 Cujo thudded heavily to the ground。
His rear legs scratched at the gravel。 They slowed 。。。 slowed 。。。 stopped。 His remaining eye glared up at the hot summer sky。 His tail lay across her shins； as heavy as a Turkish rug runner。 He pulled in a breath and let it out。 He took another。 He made a thick snorting sound； and suddenly a rill of blood ran from his mouth。 Then he died。
Donna Trenton howled her triumph。 She got halfway to her feet； fell down； and managed to get up again。 She took two shuffling steps and stumbled over the dog's body； scoring her knees with scrapes。 She crawled to where the heavy end of the baseball bat lay； its far end streaked with gore。 She picked it up and gained her feet again by holding on to the hood of the Pinto。 She tottered back to where Cujo lay。 She began to pound him with the baseball bat。 Each downward swing ended with a heavy meat thud。 Black strips of friction tape danced and flew in the hot air。 Splinters gouged into the soft pads of her palms； and blood ran down her wrists and forearms。 She was still screaming； but her voice had broken with that first howl of triumph and all that came out now was a series of growling croaks； she sounded as Cujo himself had near the end。 The bat rose and fell。 She bludgeoned the dead dog。 Behind her； Vic's jag turned into the Camber's driveway。
He didn't know what he had expected； but it hadn't been this。 Fie had been afraid； but the sight of his wife … could that really be Donna？ … standing over the twisted and smashed thing in the driveway； striking it again and again with something that looked like a caveman's club 。。。 that turned his fear to a bright； silvery panic that almost precluded thought。 For one infinite moment； which he would never admit to himself later； he felt an impulse to throw the jag in reverse and drive away 。。。 to drive forever。 What was going on in this still and sunny dooryard was monstrous。
Instead； he turned off the engine and leaped out。 'Donna！ Donna！'
She appeared not to hear him or to even realize that he was there。 Her cheeks and forehead were savagely welted with sunburn。 The left leg of her slacks was shredded and soaked with blood。 And her belly looked 。。。 it looked gored。
The baseball bat rose and fell； rose and fell。 She made harsh cawing sounds。 Blood flew up from the dog's limp carcass。
'Donna！'
He got hold of the baseball bat on the backswing and wrenched it out of her hands。 He threw it away and grabbed her naked shoulder。 She turned to face him； her eyes blank and hazed； her hair straggling； witchlike； any way。 She stared at him 。 。 。 shook her head 。。。 and stepped away。
'Donna； honey； my jesus；' he said softly。
It was Vic； but Vic couldn't be here。 It was a mirage。 It was the dog's sickening disease at work in her； making her hallucinate。 She stepped away 。。。 rubbed her eyes 。 。 。 and he was still there。 She stretched out one trembling hand； and the mirage folded strong brown hands over it。 That was good。 Her hands hurt dreadfully。
'Vuh？' she croaked in a whisper。 'Vuh …Vuh … Vic？'
'Yes； honey。 It's me。 Where's Tad？'
The mirage was real。 It was really him。 She wanted to cry； but no tears came。 Her eyes only moved in their sockets like overheated ball bearings。
'Vic？ Vic？'
He put an arm around her。 'Where's Tad； Donna？'
'Car。 Car。 Sick。 Hospital。' She could now barely whisper； and even that was failing her。 Soon she would be able to do no more than mouth words。 But it didn't matter； did It？ Vic was here。 She and Tad were saved。
He left her and went to the car。 She stood where he had left her； looking fixedly down at the dog's battered body。 At the end； it hadn't been so bad； had it？ When there was nothing left but survival； when you were right down to the strings and nap and ticking of yourself； you survived or you died and that seemed perfectly all right。 The blood didn't seem so bad now； nor the brains that were leaking out of Cujo's cloven head。 Nothing seemed so bad now。 Vic was here and they were saved。
'Oh my God；' Vic said； his voice rising thinly in the stillness。
She looked over and saw him taking something out of the back of her Pinto。 A sack of something。 Potatoes？ Oranges？ What？ Had she been shopping before all this happened？ Yes； but she had taken the groceries into the house。 She and Tad had taken them in。 They used his wagon。 So what
Tad！ she tried to say； and ran to him。
Vic carried Tad into the thin shade at the side of the house and laid him down。 Tad's face was very white。 His hair lay like straw on his fragile skull。 His hands lay on the grass； seemingly without enough weight to crush the stems beneath their backs。
Vic put his head on Tad's chest。 He looked up at Donna。 His face was white but calm enough。
'How long has he been dead； Donna？'
Dead？ she tried to scream at him。 Her mouth moved like the mouth of a figure on a TV set the volume control of which has been turned all the way down。 He's not dead； he wasn't dead when I put him in the hatchback； what are you telling me； he's dead？ What are you telling me； you bastard/
She tried to say those things in her voiceless voice。 Had Tad's life slid away at the same time the dog's fife had slid away？ It was impossible。 No God； no fate； could be so monstrously cruel。
She ran at her husband and shoved him。 Vic； expecting anything but that； fell over on his butt。 She crouched over Tad。 She put his hands above his head。 She opened his mouth； pinched his nostrils shut； and breathed her voiceless breath into her son's lungs。
In the driveway； the somnolent summer flies had found the corpse of Cujo and that of Sheriff Bannerman； husband to Victoria； father to Katrina。 They had no preference between the dog and the man。 They were democratic flies。 The sun blared triumphantly down。 It was ten minutes of one now； and the fields shimmered and danced with silent summer。 The sky was faded blue denim。 Aunt Evvie's prediction had e true。
She breathed for her son。 She breathed。 She breathed。 Her son was not dead； she had not gone through this hell for her son to be dead； and it simply would not be。
It would not be。
She breathed。 She breathed。 She breath