pzb.lostsouls-第68节

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stupid　music；　a　beer　in　each　hand。　For　a　couple　of　hours　Steve　had　managed　to　forget　Ann　and　everything　else。　Now　they　were　tearing　off　on　some　mission　that　could　only　mean　more　pain　and　trouble。　Ghost's　thoughts　brushed　Steve's；　Ghost's　fear　was　in　him；　and　for　a　second　he　hated　Ghost。　If　Ghost　really　did　have　a　shining　eye　in　his　heart；　as　Arkady　had　said；　Steve　wished　he　could　gouge　it　out。
　　〃Have　a　nice　night；〃　the　doorman　called　nastily　after　them　as　they　left　the　club。
　　When　the　cool　night　air　touched　his　face；　Steve　calmed　down　a　little。　Crazy　shit　to　be　thinking　about。　What　did　he　love　best　about　Ghost？　What　had　he　always　loved　about　Ghost？　The　magic。　The　weird；　illogical；　irritating　magic。
　　〃I'm　sorry；〃　he　said；　bumping　into　Ghost；　hugging　him。　For　one　more　moment　they　were　safe；　they　did　not　have　to　hurt。　Neither　wanted　to　move。
　　But　finally　Ghost　stepped　away　and　pulled　Steve　by　the　arm。　〃e　on；〃　he　said。　〃We　got　to　get　back。〃
　　Steve　knew　there　was　more　trouble　ahead。　More　stupid　shit　and　agony。　But　he　could　not　hate　Ghost；　no　way；　nohow。　He　followed　his　best　friend…maybe　his　only　friend…through　the　maze　of　streets　and　alleys　that　led　back　to　Arkady's　shop；　and　the　wind　that　fingered　their　hair　blew　off　the　river；　smelling　of　oysters　and　pearls；　of　dark　mud　and　the　bones　of　children。
　　
　　　Chapter　32
　　
　　〃I'm　dying；〃　Molochai　moaned。　The　floor　beside　him　was　spattered　with　fresh　blood。
　　〃I　already　died；〃　Twig　told　him。　〃I'm　a　zombie；　I　wanna　eat　your　BRAINS…〃　He　lunged　at　Molochai；　got　a　mouthful　of　hair。　Molochai　began　to　choke。　After　a　moment　he　vomited　a　long　stream　of　blood；　some　of　which　soaked　the　front　of　Twig's　jacket。　They　collapsed　across　the　floor。
　　〃Not　again…〃
　　〃I　can't　help　it　〃
　　〃SHUT　UP！〃　screeched　Zillah。　The　room　fell　silent　except　for　the　sound　of　Molochai　and　Twig　softly　gagging。　At　the　first　onset　of　the　sickness　Zillah　had　collapsed　in　a　corner；　shivering　madly。　He　would　let　no　one　near　him；　no　one　wanted　to　go　near　him。
　　Nothing　lay　on　the　bed　bathed　in　icy　sweat。　Long　streaks　of　crimson　marked　the　side　of　the　mattress　where　he　had　vomited。
　　Christian　stood　at　the　window。　His　back　was　rigid；　his　face　drawn　with　disgust。　The　shade　was　pulled　down。　When　he　had　tried　to　raise　it；　the　others　shrieked　piteously　at　the　faint　light　that　filtered　up　from　the　gas　lamps　far　below。　At　last；　when　the　retching　had　subsided；　he　said；　〃Do　none　of　you　possess　the　sense　of　smell？〃
　　No　one　replied。
　　〃Do　none　of　you　possess　the　sense　of　taste？〃
　　Still　no　answer。
　　〃Because　if　his　cancer　was　far　enough　along　to　make　all　of　you　this　sick；　Wallace　Creech　must　have　reeked　like　a　fresh　grave。　Or　were　you　so　eager　to　make　your　kill　in　our　alley；　under　our　window…that　you　paid　no　attention　to　the　very　things　that　give　you　power？　ARE　YOU　ALL　MAD？〃　Wild…eyed；　Christian　surveyed　the　room　for　a　moment。　Then；　as　if　he　knew　the　answer　to　his　own　question；　he　turned　back　to　the　window。
　　Nothing's　voice　wavered　toward　him　in　the　darkness。　〃Are　we　gonna　die？〃
　　Christian　snorted。　〃No。　You're　going　to…how　would　you　put　it？…puke　your　guts　out。　For　about　twenty…four　hours。　Then　you'll　be　weak　and　tired　for　twenty…four　more。　Essentially；　you　have　food　poisoning。　A　fine　way　to　spend　your　first　full　night　in　the　French　Quarter；　no？〃
　　〃You're　so　smug；〃　hissed　Zillah　from　the　corner。　〃But　what　happens　when　you　drink　our　poisons？　Give　you　a　double　shot　of　Chartreuse　and　you'd　be　flat　on　your　back　just　like　us。〃
　　〃Yes。〃　Christian　permitted　himself　a　faint　cold　smile。　〃But　I　would　be　wise　enough　not　to　drink　a　double　shot　of　Chartreuse。〃　He　remembered　a　time　when　he　had　not　been　so　wise；　and　phantom　pain　shot　through　him。　If　they　were　hurting　that　badly；　they　deserved　more　sympathy。　After　all；　he　supposed　they　had　thought　they　were　doing　him　a　favor。
　　But　Zillah　didn't　want　sympathy。　He　hauled　himself　up　on　his　elbows　and　glared　at　Christian。　His　eyes　snapped　green　fire；　visible　from　across　the　room。　〃Yeah？〃　he　whispered。　〃Yeah？　You　know　what　I　think？　I　think　if　we　have　to　be　sick；　then　you　should　be　sick　too。〃
　　Christian　hesitated；　wary。　〃What　do　you　mean？〃
　　〃I　mean　。　。　。　maybe　you　should　have　a　drink；　Chrissy。〃　
　　Molochai　giggled。　〃Have　a　drink；　Chrissy。〃
　　Twig　took　up　the　chant。　〃Have　a　drink　。　。　。　Chrissy；　have　a　drink　。　。　。〃　Their　voices　chased　each　other　around　the　room。　Only　Nothing　was　silent。　He　lay　absolutely　still　against　the　red…streaked　sheets。　Christian　saw　the　shadow　of　his　ribs　under　his　white　skin。
　　〃You　can't　make　me；〃　said　Christian；　but　cold　fear　trickled　down　his　spine。
　　〃Twenty…four　hours　puking　our　guts　out；〃　mused　Zillah。　〃Then　twenty…four　more　to　recover。　We　could　be　on　the　road　by　the　next　night。　The　van's　gassed　up。　Twig　has　the　keys。〃　
　　〃There's　no　Chartreuse；〃　said　Christian　wildly。
　　Zillah　waved　a　languid　hand。　〃In　your　bag。　The　closet；　top　shelf。　Three　bottles。〃
　　Then　he　leaned　over；　coughed；　and　vomited　a　great　gob　of　blood。　It　cascaded　down　his　chin　and　trailed　onto　the　floor。　When　he　straightened　up；　his　face　was　as　serene　as　ever。　〃Have　a　drink；　Chrissy；〃　he　said。　His　voice　was　almost　casual。
　　Could　he　live　like　this；　with　Zillah　always　threatening　him；　dangling　the　constant　specter　of　loneliness　over　his　head？　Christian　considered　the　alternative。　If　they　left；　he　would　lose　not　only　them　but　Nothing　too。　His　heart　clenched　at　the　thought　of　never　seeing　that　fine　fragile　face　again。　His　only　moments　of　love　would　be　those　he　spent　with　the　children；　matching　their　caresses　with　his　own　before　he　tore　their　pale　throats　out　and　stole　their　lives。
　　Whether　he　could　live　with　Zillah's　threats　Christian　did　not　know。　But　he　knew　he　could　not　live　alone　again。　Humbly；　as　if　in　a　dream　from　which　he　hoped　to　wake；　he　moved　toward　the　closet。
　　〃Don't　make　me　do　this；〃　he　said　when　he　had　the　bottle　in　his　hand。　He　spoke　calmly；　but　it　was　a　plea　born　of　desperation。
　　Zillah　only　stared　at　him；　eyes　still　flaring。　His　breath　hissed　in　and　out　through　his　teeth…quick；　jagged；　painful。　
　　〃Have　a　drink；　Chrissy；〃　he　said。
　　The　first　shot　blazed　green　agony　as　it　went　down。　
　　And　then　Zillah　made　him　drink　another。　
　　And　then　another。
　　
　　　Chapter　33
　　
　　By　the　time　they　got　back　to　Arkady's　shop；　Steve　was　running　full　tilt。　Ghost　lost　his　breath　trying　to　keep　up。　Cold　drops　of　sweat　flew　from　them；　catching　the　light　of　the　street　lamps。　Ghost　licked　salt　off　his　lips。　The　sweat　in　Steve's　hair　sparkled；　as　if　his　hair　were　full　of　a　million　tiny　diamonds。
　　〃Hurry　up；〃　Steve　panted　as　they　swung　into　the　alley。　〃You've　got　the　key。〃
　　Ghost　fumbled　with　the　key　Arkady　had　given　him；　aware　of　Steve　behind　him　wanting　to　wrest　it　out　of　his　hand。　At　last　the　door　swung　open。　The　shop　was　very　cold。　There　was　some　other　smell　beneath　the　herbs　and　candles　and　incense；　something　dry；　ready　to　crumble。　The　mummy　smell；　Ghost　thought。　That's　what　they　smelled　like。　Ghost　had　never　seen　a　mummy；　but　his　grandmother　had　looked　at　a　bunch　of　them　in　a　museum　once。　They　were　all　in　glass　boxes；　she　told　him。　You　couldn't　smell　them；　but　I　knew　just　how　they　would　smell。　Like　spice　kept　in　a　jar　too　long。　Like　rags　hung　up　to　dry　for　a　thousand　years。
　　Pink　and　black　candle　wax　had　melted　onto　the　velvet　dropcloth　of　the　altar。　Steve　took　the　stairs　three　at　a　time；　kicking　aside　a　heap　of　rags　that　lay　across　the　top　tread。　Ghost　followed　slowly。　There　was　a　bad　feeling　here；　a　feeling　of　stillness；　of　nothing　left　alive。　He　didn't　want　to　go　upstairs；　but　he　knew　he　had　to。
　　At　the　top　of　the　stairs　he　nudged　the　heap　of　rags　with　the　toe　of　his　sneaker。　It　rolled　over　and　gaped　up　at　him；　lips　stretched　tight　over　teeth　like　chips　of　ivory。　A　tiny　half…dried　trickle　of　blood　seeped　from　the　torn　socket　of　its　right　eye。　Arkady　must　have　summoned　the　last　of　his　strength　to　pull　the　knife　out　of　his　robe　and　drive　it　into　his　eye　socket。　Ghost　had　seen　the　knife　on　Arkady's　nightstand；　a　long；　lethal…looking　thing　with　a　jewelled　handle　and　a　ten…inch　tapered　blade。　His　hands　were　still　folded　around　the　haft。　Ghost　saw　the　gleam　of　precious　stones　between　fingers　like　dry　kindling。
　　Steve's　boot　had　punched　a　sizable　hole　in　Arkady's　brittle　rib　cage。　Inside　the　body　cavity；　withered　organs　hung　like　empty　wineskins；　grayish…brown；　already　coated　with　a　fine　layer　of　dust。　How　the　twins　must　have　loved　Arkady；　Ghost　thought；　how　many　wild　nights　they　must　have　spent　with　him；　to　be　able　to　suck　him　so　utterly　dry。　How　could　this　bundle　of　shrivelled　tissues　have　lived　long　enough　to　drive　a　knife　into　its　own　eye？
　　But　the　knife　protruded　from　the　socket　in　mute　testimony。　Gently；　Ghost　pried　Arkady's　brittle　fingers　from　the　haft；　drew　the　blade　from　Arkady's　eye；　and　tried　to　tuck　the　white　robe　around　the　desiccated　little　body。　He　closed　Arkady's　withered　eyelids　as　carefully　as　he　could；　but　they　still　flaked　away　beneath　his　fingers。
　　Then　he　made　himself　go　into　the　bedroom。
　　The　light　was　as　flat　and　dead　as　neon；　though　it　was　only　the　light　of　the　moon　shining　through　the　window。　Steve　sat　on　the　edge　of　the　bed。　Beside　him　w