cb.damnationgame-第90节

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　innards　turned　over　and　over；　like　the　maggot　on　the　carpet；　twisting　and　turning。
　　He　stopped　two　or　three　steps　up　the　flight；　pulled　out　his　whisky；　and　took　two　solid　throatfuls；　swallowing　it　so　quickly　it　made　his　eyes　water。　Then　he　continued　his　ascent。　Something　soft　slid　beneath　his　heel。　He　looked　down。　Another　maggot；　the　larger　brother　of　the　one　below；　had　been　arrested　in　its　descent　by　his　foot：　it　was　squashed　to　a　fatty　pulp。　He　glanced　at　it　for　only　a　second　before　hurrying　on；　aware　that　the　sole　of　his　shoe　was　slimy；　either　that　or　he　was　pressing　other　such　grubs　underfoot　as　he　went。
　　The　gulps　of　liquor　had　made　his　head　sing；　he　took　the　last　two　dozen　steps　almost　at　a　run；　eager　to　have　the　worst　over　with。　By　the　time　he'd　reached　the　top　of　the　stairs；　he　was　breathless。　He　had　an　absurd　image　of　himself；　a　drunkard's　fancy；　as　a　messenger　ing　with　news…lost　battles；　murdered　children…to　the　palace　of　some　fabulous　king。　Except　that　the　king　too　was　murdered；　his　battles　lost。
　　He　started　toward　the　penthouse；　the　smell　had　bee　so　dense　it　was　almost　edible。　As　he　had　once　before；　he　caught　sight　of　himself　in　the　mirror；　he　looked　down；　ashamed；　from　the　frightened　face　and…God！…the　carpet　crawled。　Not　two　or　three　but　a　dozen　or　more　fat；　ragged　maggots　were　laboring；　blindly　it　seemed；　to　find　their　way　across　the　carpet；　which　was　stained　by　their　travels。　They　were　like　no　insect　he'd　ever　seen　before；　lacking　any　decipherable　anatomy；　and　all　different　sizes：　some　finger…thin；　others　the　size　of　a　baby's　fist；　their　shapeless　forms　purple；　but　streaked　with　yellow。　They　left　trails　of　slime　and　blood　like　wounded　slugs。　He　stepped　around　them。　They'd　got　fat　on　meat　he'd　once　debated　with。　He　didn't　want　to　examine　them　too　closely。
　　But　as　he　pushed　open　the　door　of　the　suite；　and　stepped；　cautiously；　into　the　corridor；　an　appalling　possibility　crept　into　his　head　and　sat　there；　whispering　obscenities。　The　creatures　were　everywhere　in　the　suite。　The　more　ambitious　of　them　were　scaling　the　pastel　walls；　gluing　the　slivers　of　their　bodies　to　the　wallpaper　with　seeped　fluids；　edging　up　like　caterpillars；　a　peristalsis　moving　through　their　length。　Their　direction　was　arbitrary；　some；　to　judge　by　their　trails；　were　circling　on　themselves。
　　In　the　dim　light　of　the　corridor　his　worst　suspicions　merely　simmered；　but　they　began　to　boil　when　he　edged　past　Whitehead's　sprawled　body　and　stepped　into　the　slaughterhouse　room；　where　the　light　from　the　highway　made　a　sodium　day。　Here　the　creatures　were　in　yet　greater　abundance。　The　whole　room　swarmed　with　them；　from　flea…sized　fragments　to　slabs　the　size　of　a　man's　heart；　throwing　out　tattered　filaments　like　tentacles　to　haul　themselves　about。　Worms；　fleas；　maggots…a　whole　new　entymology　congregated　at　the　place　of　execution。
　　Except　that　these　weren't　insects；　or　the　larvae　of　insects：　he　could　see　that　plainly　now。　They　were　pieces　of　the　European's　flesh。　He　was　still　alive。　In　pieces；　in　a　thousand　senseless　pieces；　but　alive。
　　Breer　had　been　unrelentingly　thorough　in　his　destruction；　eradicating　the　European　as　best　his　machete　and　failing　hands　would　allow。　But　it　had　not　been　enough。　There　was　too　much　stolen　life　buzzing　in　Mamoulian's　cells；　it　roared　on；　in　contravention　of　any　sane　law；　unquenchable。
　　For　all　his　vehemence　the　Razor…Eater　had　not　finished　the　European's　life；　merely　subdivided　it；　leaving　it　to　describe　these　futile　circles。　And　somewhere　in　this　lunatic's　menagerie　was　a　beast　with　a　will；　a　fragment　that　still　possessed　sufficient　sense　to　think　itself…albeit　stutteringly…into　Carys〃　mind。　Perhaps　not　one　piece；　perhaps　many…a　sum　of　these　wandering　parts。　Marty　wasn't　interested　in　its　biology。　How　this　obscenity　survived　was　a　matter　for　a　madhouse　debating　society。
　　He　backed　out　of　the　room　and　stood；　shivering　in　the　hall。　Wind　gusted　against　the　window；　the　glass　plained。　He　listened　to　the　gusts　while　he　worked　out　what　to　do　next。　Down　the　corridor　a　piece　of　filth　fell　from　the　wall。　He　watched　it　struggle　to　turn　itself　over；　and　then　begin　the　slow　ascent　again。　Just　beyond　the　spot　where　it　labored　lay　Whitehead。　Marty　went　back　to　the　body。
　　Charmaine's　killers　had　enjoyed　themselves　mightily　before　they　left：　Whitehead's　trousers　and　underwear　had　been　pulled　down；　and　his　groin　scrawled　on　with　a　knife。　His　eyes　were　open；　his　false　teeth　had　been　removed。　He　stared　at　Marty；　jaw　sagging　like　a　delinquent　child。　Flies　crawled　on　him；　there　were　patches　of　decay　on　his　face。　But　he　was　dead：　which　in　this　world　was　something。　The　boys　had；　as　a　final　insult；　defecated　on　his　chest。　Flies　gathered　there　too。
　　In　his　time　Marty　had　hated　this　man；　loved　him　too；　if　only　for　a　day；　called　him　Papa；　called　him　bastard；　made　love　to　his　daughter　and　thought　himself　King　of　Creation。　He'd　seen　the　man　in　power：　a　lord。　Seen　him　afraid　too：　scrabbling　for　escape　like　a　rat　in　a　fire。　He'd　seen　the　old　man's　odd　species　of　integrity　in　practice；　and　found　it　workable。　As　fruitful；　perhaps；　as　the　affections　of　more　loving　men。
　　He　reached　across　to　seal　off　the　stare；　but　in　their　zeal　the　evangelists　had　cut　off　Whitehead's　lids；　and　Marty's　fingers　instead　touched　the　slick　of　his　eyeball。　Not　tears　that　wetted　it；　but　rot。　He　grimaced；　withdrew　his　hand；　sickened。
　　Just　to　shut　off　the　look　on　Papa's　face　he　thrust　his　fingers　under　the　corpse　to　heave　it　onto　its　belly。　The　body　fluids　had　settled；　and　his　underside　was　damp　and　sticky。　Gritting　his　teeth　he　rolled　the　man's　bulk　onto　its　side；　and　let　gravity　pull　it　over。　Now　at　least　the　old　man　didn't　have　to　watch　what　followed。
　　Marty　stood　up。　His　hands　stank。　He　baptized　them　liberally　with　the　rest　of　the　Scotch；　to　cancel　the　smell。　The　libation　served　another　purpose：　it　removed　the　temptation　of　the　drink。　It　would　be　too　easy　to　bee　muzzy　and　lose　focus　on　the　problem。　The　enemy　was　here。　It　had　to　be　dealt　with；　put　away　forever。
　　He　began　where　he　was；　in　the　hall；　digging　his　heels　into　the　pieces　of　flesh　that　crawled　around　Whitehead's　body；　squashing　their　stolen　life　out　as　best　he　could。　They　made　no　sound；　of　course；　which　made　the　task　simpler。　They　were　just　worms；　he　told　himself；　dumb　slivers　of　mindless　life。　And　it　became　yet　easier　as　he　went　up　and　down　the　corridor　grinding　the　meat　into　smears　of　yellow　fat　and　brown　muscle。　The　beasts　succumbed　without　argument。　He　began　to　sweat；　working　out　his　revulsion　on　this　human　refuse；　eyes　darting　everywhere　to　make　sure　he　caught　each　wretched　scrap。　He　felt　a　smile　twitch　at　the　corners　of　his　mouth…now　a　low　laugh；　quite　without　humor；　escaped。　It　was　an　easy　decimation。　He　was　a　boy　again；　killing　ants　with　his　thumbs。　One！　Two！　Three！　Only　these　things　were　slower　than　the　most　laden　ant；　and　he　could　stamp　them　down　at　a　leisurely　pace。　All　the　power　and　wisdom　of　the　European　had　e　to　this　muck；　and　he…Marty　Strauss…had　been　elected　to　play　the　God…game；　and　wipe　it　away。　He　had　gained；　at　the　last；　a　terrible　authority。
　　Nothing　is　essential。　The　words　he'd　heard…and　spoken…in　Caliban　Street　at　last　made　absolute　sense。　Here　was　the　European；　proving　the　bitter　syllogism　with　his　own　flesh　and　bone。
　　When　he'd　finished　his　work　in　the　hallway　he　returned　to　the　main　room　and　began　his　labors　there；　his　initial　revulsion　at　touching　the　flesh　dwindling；　until　with　time　he　was　snatching　pieces　from　their　perches　on　the　wall　and　flinging　them　down　to　be　ground　out。　When　he'd　done　in　the　gaming　room　he　went　to　scour　the　landing　and　stairs。　Finally；　when　all　was　still；　he　returned　to　the　suite　and　made　a　bonfire　of　the　curtains　from　the　dressing　room；　fueled　by　the　table　the　old　man　had　played　cards　on；　and　tindered　by　the　cards　themselves；　and　then　went　around　the　room　kicking　the　larger　pieces　of　flesh　into　the　fire；　where　they　spat　and　curled　and　were　presently　consumed。　The　smaller　pieces　he　scraped　up；　the　laugh　still　ing　intermittently　as　he　flung　little　rains　of　meat　into　the　middle　of　the　conflagration。　The　room　rapidly　filled　with　smoke　and　heat；　neither　having　any　escape　route。　His　heart　began　to　pound　loudly　in　his　ears；　his　arms　shone　with　sweat。　It　was　a　long　job；　and　he　had　to　be　meticulous；　didn't　he？　He　mustn't　leave　a　living　speck；　not　a　fragment；　for　fear　it　live　on；　bee　mythical…grow　perhaps…and　find　him。
　　When　the　fire　died　down　he　fed　it　the　pillows；　the　records　and　the　paperback　books　until　there　was　nothing　left　to　burn　but　himself。　There　were　moments；　as　he　gazed　entranced　into　the　flames；　that　the　thought　of　stepping　into　the　fire　was　not　unattractive。　But　he　resisted。　It　was　only　exhaustion　tempting　him。　Instead　he　crouched　in　a　corner；　watching　the　play　of　flame…light　on　the　wall。　The　patterns　made　him　cry；　or　at　least　something　did。
　　
　　When；　some　time　before　dawn；　Carys　came　up　the　stairs　to　claim　him　from　his　reverie；　he　neither　heard　nor　saw　her。　The　fire　had　long　since　died　down。　Only　the　bones；　shattered　by　Breer's　dismembering；　and　blackened　and　cracked　in　the　fire；　were　still　recognizable。　Shards　of　thighbone；　of　vertebrae；　the　saucer　of　the　European's　skull。
　　She　crept　in　as　if　fea