I have been a Stephen King fan for a long time. Long before Alby and SkinnyJ burned my copy of The Stand, I have been reading his books and enjoying how he has intertwined worlds….especially with the ties into the Dark Tower series.
This is why – after reading ZA Architects plans to revitalize the “Chernobyl Exclusion Zone” to turn it into a tourist attraction – I believed I had finally found “The Path of the Beam” and it leads through the Ukraine.
With maps that look like they are taken straight out of Disney, what could possibly go wrong with ZA Architects plan? I mean – you have nearby the deadliest piece of radioactive material (called the Elephant’s Foot), you are in one of the most corrupt countries in world AND it is the middle of nowhere – so if there are any problems….be ready to live the rest of your (shortened) life like a bad Sci-Fi Movie.
Of course – When you read this passage from The Dark Tower – The Wastelands, and compare the artist rendition to the Dark Tower artwork…..you will see where I am coming from when stating that I have found the Path of the Beam.
Two or three hundred wheels outside Candleton, as one travelled along the Path of the Beam, the radiation levels and concentrations of DEP3 in the soil fell rapidly. Here the mono’s track swooped down to less than ten feet off the ground, and here a doe that looked almost normal walked prettily from piney woods to drink from a stream in which the water had three-quarters cleansed itself. The doe was not normal—a stumpish fifth leg dangled down from the center of her lower belly like a teat, waggling bonelessly to and fro when she walked, and a blind third eye peered milkily from the left side of her muzzle. Yet she was fertile, and her DNA was in reasonably good order for a twelfth-generation mutie. In her six years of life she had given birth to three live young. Two of these fawns had been not just viable but normal—threaded stock, Aunt Talitha of River Crossing would have called them. The third, a skinless, bawling horror, had been killed quickly by its sire. The world—this part of it, at any rate—had begun to heal itself. The deer slipped her mouth into the water, began to drink, then looked up, eyes wide, muzzle dripping. Off in the distance she could hear a low humming sound. A moment later it was joined by an eyelash of light. Alarm flared in the doe’s nerves, but although her reflexes were fast and the light when first glimpsed was still many wheels away across the desolate countryside, there was never a chance for her to escape. Before she could even begin to fire her muscles, the distant spark had swelled to a searing wolf’s eye of light that flooded the stream and the clearing with its glare. With the light came the maddening hum of Blaine’s slo trans engines, running at full capacity. There was a blur of pink above the concrete ridge which bore the rail; a rooster-tail of dust, stones, small dismembered animals, and whirling foliage followed along after. The doe was killed instantly by the concussion of Blaine’s passage. Too large to be sucked in the mono’s wake, she was still yanked forward almost seventy yards, with water dripping from her muzzle and hoofs. Much of her hide (and the boneless fifth leg) was torn from her body and pulled after Blaine like a discarded garment.