sk.petsematary-第85节

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while　he…　Louis　watched　it　billow　down　over　Jud's　body　like　a　collapsing　parachute；　mercifully　covering　that　dead　face。　Almost　immediately；　tiny　rosepetals　of　deepest；　darkest　scarlet　began　to　stain　the　white　lawn。
　　〃I'm　sorry；〃　he　said　for　a　third　time。　〃So　sor…〃
　　Then　something　moved　overhead；　something　scraped；　and　the　word　broke　off　between　his　lips。　It　had　been　soft；　it　had　been　stealthy；　but　it　had　been　deliberate。　Oh　yes；　he　was　convinced　of　that。　A　sound　he　had　been　meant　to　hear。
　　His　hands　wanted　to　tremble；　but　he　would　not　allow　them。　He　stepped　over　to　the　kitchen　table　with　its　checkered　oilcloth　covering　and　reached　into　his　pocket。　He　removed　three　more　Becton…Dickson　syringes；　stripped　them　of　their　paper　coverings；　and　laid　them　out　in　a　neat　row。　He　removed　three　more　multidose　vials　and　filled　each　of　the　syringes　with　enough　morphine　to　kill　a　horse…or　Hanratty　the　bull；　if　it　came　to　that。　He　put　them　in　his　pocket　again。
　　He　left　the　kitchen；　crossed　the　living　room；　and　stood　at　the　base　of　the　stairs。
　　〃Cage？〃
　　From　somewhere　in　the　shadows　above　there　came　a　giggling
　　…a　cold　and　sunless　laughter　that　made　the　skin　on　Louis's　back　prickle。
　　He　started　up。
　　It　was　a　long　walk　to　the　top　of　those　stairs。　He　could　well　imagine　a　condemned　man　taking　a　walk　almost　as　long　（and　as　horribly　short）　to　the　platform　of　a　scaffold　with　his　hands　tied　behind　his　back；　knowing　that　he　would　piss　when　he　could　no　longer　whistle。
　　He　reached　the　top　at　last；　one　hand　in　his　pocket；　staring　only　at　the　wall。　How　long　did　he　stand　that　way？　He　did　not　know。　He　could　now　feel　his　sanity　beginning　to　give　way。　This　was　an　actual　sensation；　a　true　thing。　It　was　interesting。　He　imagined　a　tree　overloaded　with　ice　in　a　terrible　storm　would　feel　this　way…　if　trees　could　feel　anything…shortly　before　toppling。　It　was　interesting。　。　。　and　it　was　sort　of　amusing。
　　〃Gage；　want　to　go　to　Florida　with　me？〃
　　That　giggle　again。
　　Louis　turned　and　was　greeted　by　the　sight　of　his　wife；　to　whom　he　had　once　carried　a　rose　in　his　teeth；　lying　halfway　down　the　hall；　dead。　Her　legs　were　splayed　out　as　Jud's　had　been。　Her　back　and　head　were　cocked　at　an　angle　against　the　wall。　She　looked　like　a　woman　who　has　gone　to　sleep　while　reading　in　bed。
　　He　walked　down　toward　her。
　　Hello；　darling；　he　thought；　you　came　home。
　　Blood　had　splashed　the　wallpaper　in　idiot　shapes。　She　had　been　stabbed　a　dozen　times；　two　dozen；　who　knew？　His　scalpel　had　done　this　work。
　　Suddenly　he　saw　her；　really　saw　her；　and　Louis　Creed　began　to　scream。
　　His　screams　echoed　and　racketed　shrilly　through　this　house　where　now　only　death　lived　and　walked。　Eyes　bulging；　face　livid；　hair　standing　on　end；　he　screamed；　the　sounds　came　from　his　swollen　throat　like　the　bells　of　hell；　terrible　shrieks　that　signaled　the　end　not　of　love　but　of　sanity；　in　his　mind　all　the　hideous　images　were　suddenly　unloosed　at　once。　Victor　Pascow　dying　on　the　infirmary　carpet；　Church　ing　back　with　bits　of　green　plastic　in　his　whiskers；　Gage's　baseball　cap　lying　in　the　road；　full　of　blood；　but　most　of　all　that　thing　he　had　seen　near　Little　Cod　Swamp；　the　thing　that　had　pushed　the　tree　over；　the　thing　with　the　yellow　eyes；　the　Wendigo；　creature　of　the　north　country；　the　dead　thing　whose　touch　awakens　unspeakable　appetites。
　　Rachel　had　not　just　been　killed。
　　Something　had　been。　。　。　something　had　been　at　her。
　　（！　CLICK　！）
　　That　click　was　in　his　head。　It　was　the　sound　of　some　relay　fusing　and　burning　out　forever；　the　sound　of　lightning　stroking　down　in　a　direct　hit；　the　sound　of　a　door　opening。
　　He　looked　up　numbly；　the　scream　still　shivering　in　his　throat　and　here　was　Cage　at　last；　his　mouth　smeared　with　blood；　his　chin　dripping；　his　lips　pulled　back　in　a　hellish　grin。　In　one　hand　he　held　Louis's　scalpel。
　　As　he　brought　it　down；　Louis　pulled　back　with　no　real　thought　at　all。　The　scalpel　whickered　past　his　face；　and　Gage　overbalanced。　He　is　as　clumsy　as　Church；　Louis　thought。　Louis　kicked　his　feet　from　under　him。　Gage　fell　awkwardly；　and　Louis　was　on　him　before　he　could　get　up；　straddling　him；　one　knee　pinning　the　hand　which　held　the　scalpel。
　　〃No；〃　the　thing　under　him　panted。　Its　face　twisted　and　writhed。　Its　eyes　were　baleful；　insectile　in　their　stupid　hate。　〃No；　no；　no…〃
　　Louis　clawed　for　one　of　the　hypos；　got　it　out。　He　would　have　to　be　quick。　The　thing　under　him　was　like　a　greased　fish　and　it　would　not　let　go　of　the　scalpel　no　matter　how　hard　he　bore　down　on　its　wrist。　And　its　face　seemed　to　ripple　and　change　even　as　he　looked　at　it。　It　was　Jud's　face；　dead　and　staring；　it　was　the　dented；　ruined　face　of　Victor　Pascow；　eyes　rolling　mindlessly；　it　was；　mirrorlike；　Louis's　own；　so　dreadfully　pale　and　lunatic。　Then　it　changed　again　and　became　the　face　of　that　creature　in　the　woods…the　low　brow；　the　dead　yellow　eyes；　the　tongue　long　and　pointed　and　bifurcated；　grinning　and　hissing。
　　〃No；　no；　no…no…no…〃
　　It　bucked　beneath　him。　The　hypo　flew　out　of　Louis's　hand　and　rolled　a　short　way　down　the　hail。　He　groped　for　another；　brought　it　out；　and　jammed　it　straight　down　into　the　small　of　Gage's　back。
　　It　screamed　beneath　him；　body　straining　and　sunfishing；　nearly　throwing　him　off。　Grunting；　Louis　got　the　third　syringe　and　jammed　this　one　home　in　Gage's　arm；　depressing　the　plunger　all　the　way。　He　got　off　then　and　began　to　back　slowly　down　the　hallway。　Cage　got　slowly　to　his　feet　and　began　to　stagger　toward　him。　Five　steps　and　the　scalpel　fell　from　its　hand。　It　struck　the　floor　blade　first　and　stuck　itself　in　the　wood；　quivering。　Ten　steps　and　that　strange　yellow　light　in　its　eyes　began　to　fade。　A　dozen　and　it　fell　to　its　knees。
　　Now　Cage　looked　up　at　him　and　for　a　moment　Louis　saw　his　son…his　real　son…his　face　unhappy　and　filled　with　pain。
　　〃Daddy！〃　he　cried；　and　then　fell　forward　on　his　face。
　　Louis　stood　there　for　a　moment；　then　went　to　Gage；　moving　carefully；　expecting　some　trick。　But　there　was　no　trick；　no　sudden　leap　with　clawed　hands。　He　slid　his　fingers　expertly　down　Gage's　throat；　found　the　pulse；　and　held　it。　He　was　then　a　doctor　for　the　last　time　in　his　life；　monitoring　the　pulse；　monitoring　until　there　was　nothing；　nothing　inside；　nothing　outside。
　　When　it　was　gone　at　last；　Louis　got　up　and　sauntered　down　the　hail　to　a　far　corner。　He　crouched　there；　pulling　himself　into　a　ball；　cramming　himself　into　the　corner；　tighter　and　tighter。　He　found　he　could　make　himself　smaller　if　he　put　a　thumb　in　his　mouth　and　so　he　did　that。
　　He　remained　that　way　for　better　than　two　hours。　。　。　and　then；　little　by　little；　a　dark　and　oh…so…plausible　idea　came　to　him。　He　pulled　his　thumb　from　his　mouth。　It　made　a　small　pop。　Louis　got　himself
　　（hey…ho　let's　go）
　　going　again。
　　In　the　room　where　Gage　had　hidden；　he　stripped　the　sheet　from　the　bed　and　took　it　out　into　the　hail。　He　wrapped　his　wife's　body　in　it；　gently；　with　love。　He　was　humming　but　did　not　realize　it。
　　He　found　gasoline　in　Jud's　garage。　Five　gallons　of　it　in　a　red　can　next　to　the　Lawnboy。　More　than　enough。　He　began　in　the　kitchen　where　Jud　still　lay　under　the　Thanksgiving　tablecloth。　He　drenched　that；　then　moved　into　the　living　room　with　the　can　still　upended；　spraying　amber　gas　over　the　rug；　the　sofa；　the　magazine　rack；　the　chairs；　and　so　out　into　the　downstairs　hail　and　toward　the　back　bedroom。　The　smell　of　gas　was　strong　and　rich。
　　Jud's　matches　were　by　the　chair　where　he　had　kept　his　fruitless　watch；　on　top　of　his　cigarettes。　Louis　took　them。　At　the　front　door　he　tossed　a　lighted　match　back　over　his　shoulder　and　stepped　out。　The　blast　of　the　heat　was　immediate　and　savage；　making　the　skin　on　his　neck　feel　too　small。　He　shut　the　door　neatly　and　only　stood　on　the　porch　for　a　moment；　watching　the　orange　flickers　behind　Norma's　curtains。　Then　he　crossed　the　porch；　pausing　for　a　moment；　remembering　the　beers　he　and　Jud　had　drunk　here　a　million　years　ago；　listening　to　the　soft；　gathering　roar　of　fire　within　the　house。
　　Then　he　stepped　out。
　　　62
　　Steve　Masterton　came　around　the　curve　just　before　Louis's　house　and　saw　the　smoke　immediately…not　from　Louis's　place；　but　from　the　house　that　belonged　to　the　old　duck　across　the　street。
　　He　had　e　out　this　morning　because　he　had　been　worried　about　Louis…deeply　worried。　Chariton　had　told　him　about　Rachel's　call　of　the　day　before；　and　that　had　set　him　to　wondering　just　where　Louis　was。　。　。　and　what　he　was　up　to。
　　His　worry　was　vague；　but　it　itched　at　his　mind…he　wasn't　going　to　feel　right　until　he　had　gone　out　there　and　checked　to　see　if　things　were　okay。　。　。　or　as　okay　as　they　could　be　under　the　circumstances。
　　The　spring　weather　had　emptied　the　infirmary　like　white　magic；　and　Surrendra　had　told　him　to　go　ahead；　he　could　handle　whatever　came　up。　So　Steve　had　jumped　onto　his　Honda；　which　he　had　liberated　from　the　garage　only　last　weekend；　and　headed　out　for　Ludlow。　Maybe　he　pushed　the　cycle　a　little　faster　than　was　strictly　necessary；　but　the　worry　was　there；　it　gnawed。　And　with　it　came　the　absurd　feeling　that　he　was　already　too　late。　Stupid；　of　course；　but　in　the　pit　of　his　stomach　there　was　a　feeling　similar　to　the　one　he'd　had　there　last　fall　when　that　Pascow　thing　c