sk.cujo-第5节

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wound　that　was　shaped　like　a　question　mark。　A　moment　later　it　went　skittering　and　cartwheeling　down　the　limestone　slope；　already　dying。　But　the　damage　had　been　done；　a　bite　from　a　rabid　animal　is　most　serious　around　the　head；　for　rabies　is　a　disease　of　the　central　nervous　system。　Dogs；　more　susceptible　than　their　human　masters；　cannot　even　hope　for　plete　protection　from　the　inactivatedvirus　vaccine　which　every　veterinarian　administers。　And　Cujo　had　never　had　a　single　rabies　shot　in　his　life。
Not　knowing　this；　but　knowing　that　the　unseen　thing　he　had　bitten　had　tasted　foul　and　horrible；　Cujo　decided　the　game　was　not　worth　the　candle。　With　a　tremendous　yank　of　his　shoulders　he　pulled　himself　out　of　the　hole；　causing　a　little　avalanche　of　dirt。　He　shook　himself；　and　more　dirt　and　smelly　crumbled　limestone　flew　from　his　pelt。　Blood　dripped　from　his　muzzle。　He　sat　down；　tilted　his　head　skyward；　and　uttered　a　single　low　howl。
The　bats　exited　their　hole　in　a　small　brown　cloud；　whirled　confusedly　in　the　bright　June　sunshine　for　a　couple　of　seconds；　and　then　went　back　in　to　roost。　They　were　brainless　things；　and　within　the　course　of　two　or　three　minutes　they　had　forgotten　all　about　the　barking　interloper　and　were　sleeping　again；　hung　from　their　heels　with　their　wings　wrapped　around　their　ratty　little　bodies　like　the　shawls　of　old　women。
Cujo　trotted　away。　He　shook　himself　again。　He　pawed　helplessly　at　his　muzzle。　The　blood　was　already　clotting；　drying　to　a　cake；　but　it　hurt。　Dogs　have　a　sense　of　self…consciousness　that　is　far　out　of　proportion　to　their　intelligence；　and　Cujo　was　disgusted　with　himself。　He　didn't　want　to　go　home。　If　he　went　home；　one　of　his　trinity　…　THE　MAN；　THE　WOMAN；　or　THE　BOY　…　would　see　that　he　had　done　something　to　himself。　It　was　possible　that　one　of　them　might　call　him　BADDOG。　And　at　this　particular　moment　he　certainly　considered　himself　to　be　a　BADDOG。
So　instead　of　going　home；　Cujo　went　down　to　the　stream　that　separated　Camber　land　from　the　property　of　Gary　Pervier；　the　Cambers'　nearest　neighbour。　He　waded　upstream；　he　drank　deeply；　he　rolled　over　in　the　water；　trying　to　get　rid　of　the　nasty　taste　in　his　mouth；　trying　to　get　rid　of　the　dirt　and　the　watery　green　stink　of　limestone；　trying　to　get　rid　of　that　BADDOG　feeling。
Little　by　little；　he　began　to　feel　better。　He　came　out　of　the　stream　and　shook　himself；　the　spray　of　water　forming　a　momentary　rainbow　of　breathless　clarity　in　the　air。
The　BADDOG　feeling　was　fading；　and　so　was　the　pain　in　his　nose。　He　started　up　toward　the　house　to　see　if　THE　Boy　might　be　around。　He　had　gotten　used　to　the　big　yellow　schoolbus　tat　came　to　pick　THE　Boy　up　every　morning　and　which　dropped　him　back　off　again　in　midafternoon；　but　this　last　week　the　schoolbus　had　not　shown　up　with　its　flashing　eyes　and　its　yelling　cargo　of　children。　THE　Boy　was　always　at　home。　Usually　he　was　out　in　the　barn；　doing　things　with　THE　~。　Maybe　the　yellow　schoolbus　had　e　again　today。　Maybe　not。　He　would　see。　He　had　forgotten　about　the　hole　and　the　nasty　taste　of　the　batwing。　His　nose　hardly　hurt　at　all　low。
Cujo　breasted　his　way　easily　through　the　high　grass　of　the　north　field；　driving　up　an　occasional　bird　but　not　bothering　DO　give　chase。　He　had　had　his　chase　for　the　day；　and　his　body　remembered　even　if　his　brain　did　not。　He　was　a　Saint　Bernard　in　his　prime；　five　years　old；　nearly　two　hundred　pounds　in　weight；　and　now；　on　the　morning　of　June　16；　1980；　he　was　pre…rabid。
Seven　days　later　and　thirty　miles　from　Seven　Oaks　Farm　in　Castle　Rock；　two　men　met　in　a　downtown　Portland　restaurant　called　the　Yellow　Submarine。　The　Sub　featured　a　large　selection　of　hero　sandwiches；　pizzas；　and　Dagwoods　in　Lebanese　pouches。　There　was　a　pinball　machine　in　the　back。
There　was　a　sign　over　the　counter　saying　that　if　you　could　cat　two　Yellow　Sub　Nightmares；　you　ate　free；　below　that；　in　parentheses；　the　codicil　IF　YOU　PUKE　YOU　PAY　had　been　added。
Ordinarily　there　was　nothing　Vic　Trenton　would　have　liked　better　than　one　of　the　Yellow　Sub's　meatball　heroes；　but　he　suspected　he　would　get　nothing　from　today's　but　a　really　good　case　of　acid　burn。
'Looks　like　we're　going　to　lose　the　ball；　doesn't　it？'　Vic　said　to　the　other　man；　who　was　regarding　a　Danish　ham　with　a　marked　lack　of　enthusiasm。　The　other　man　was　Roger　Breakstone；　and　when　he　looked　at　food　without　enthusiasm；　you　knew　that　some　sort　of　cataclysm　was　at　hand。　Roger　weighed　two　hundred　and　seventy　pounds　and　had　no　lap　when　he　sat　down。　Once；　when　the　two　of　them　had　been　in　bed　with　a　kids…at…camp　case　of　the　giggles；　Donna　had　told　Vic　she　thought　Roger's　tap　had　been　shot　off　in　Vietnam。
'It　looks　piss…poor；'　Roger　admitted。　'It　looks　so　fucking　piss…poor　you　wouldn't　believe　it；　Victor　old　buddy。'
'You　really　think　making　this　trip　will　solve　anything？'
'Maybe　not；'　Roger　said；　'but　we're　going　to　lose　the　Sharp　account　for　sure　if　we　don't　go。　Maybe　we　can　salvage　something。　Work　our　way　back　in。'　He　bit　into　his　sandwich。
'Closing　up　for　ten　days　is　going　to　hurt　us。'
'You　think　we're　not　hurting　now？'
'Sure；　we're　hurting。　But　we've　got　those　Book　Folks　spots　to　shoot　down　at　Kennebunk　Beach
'Lisa　can　handle　that。'
'I'm　not　entirely　convinced　that　Lisa　can　handle　her　own　love…life；　let　along　the　Book　Folks　spots；'　Vic　said。　'But　even　supposing　she　can　handle　it；　the　Yor　Choice　Blueberries　series　is　still　hanging　fire　。。。　Casco　Bank　and　Trust　。。。　and　you're　supposed　to　meet　with　the　head　honcho　from　the　Main　Realtors‘　Association…'
'Huh…uh；　that's　yours。'
'Fuck　you　it's　mine；'　Vic　said。　'I　break　up　every　time　think　of　those　red　pants　and　white　shoes。　I　kept　wanting　to　look　in　the　closet　to　see　if　I　could　find　the　guy　a　sandwich　board。'
'It　doesn't　matter；　and　you　know　it　doesn't。　None　of　them　bills　a　tenth　of　what　Sharp　bills。　What　else　can　I　say？　You　know　Sharp　and　the　kid　are　going　to　want　to　talk　to　both　of　us。　Do　I　book　you　a　seat　or　not？'
The　thought　of　ten　days；　five　in　Boston　and　five　in　New　York；　gave　Vic　a　mild　case　of　the　cold　sweats。　He　and　Roger　had　both　worked　for　the　Ellison　Agency　in　New　York　for　six　years。　Vic　now　had　a　home　in　Castle　Rock。　Roger　and　Althea　Breakstone　lived　in　neighboring　Bridgton；　about　fifteen　miles　away。
For　Vic；　it　had　been　a　case　of　never　even　wanting　to　look　back。　He　felt　he　had　never　e　fully　alive；　had　never　really　known　what　he　was　for；　until　he　and　Donna　moved　to　Maine。　And　now　he　had　a　morbid　sense　that　New　York　had　only　been　waiting　these　last　three　years　to　get　him　in　its　clutches　again。　The　plane　would　skid　off　the　runway　ing　in　and　he　engulfed　in　a　roaring　firecloud　of　hi…test　jet　fuel。　Or　there　would　be　a　crash　on　the　Triborough　Bridge；　their　Checker　crushed　into　a　bleeding　yellow　accordion。　A　mugger　would　use　his　gun　instead　of　just　waving　it。　A　gas　main　would　explode　and　he　would　be　decapitated　by　a　manhole　cover　flying　through　the　air　like　a　deadly　ninetypound　Frisbee。　Something。　If　he　went　back；　the　city　would　kill　him。
'Rog；'　he　said；　putting　down　his　meatball　sandwich　after　one　small　bite；　'have　you　ever　thought　that　it　might　not　be　the　end　of　the　world　if　we　did　lose　the　Sharp　account？'
'The　world　will　go　on；'　Roger　said；　pouring　a　Busch　down　the　side　of　a　pilsner　glass；　'but　will　we？　Me；　I've　got　seventeen　years　left　on　a　twenty…year　mortgage　and　twin　girls　who　have　their　hearts　set　on　Bridgton　Academy。　You've　got　your　own　mortgage；　your　own　kid；　plus　that　old　jag　sportster　that's　going　to　half…buck　you　to　death。'
'Yes；　but　the　local　economy　…'
'The　local　economy　sucks！'　Roger　exclaimed　violently；　and　set　his　pilsner　glass　down　with　a　bang。
A　party　of　four　at　the　next　table；　three　in　UMP　tennis　shirts　and　one　wearing　a　faded　T…shirt　with　the　legend　DARTH　VADER　IS　GAY　written　across　the　front；　began　to　applaud。
Roger　waved　a　hand　at　them　impatiently　and　leaned　toward　Vic。　'We're　not　going　to　make　it　happen　doing　campaigns　for　Yor　Choice　Blueberries　and　the　Main　Realtors；　and　you　know　it。　If　we　lose　the　Sharp　account；　we're　going　to　go　under　without　a　ripple。　On　the　other　hand；　if　we　can　keep　even　a　piece　of　Sharp　over　the　next　two　years；　we'll　be　in　line　for　some　of　the　Department　of　Tourism　budget；　maybe　even　a　crack　at　the　state　lottery　if　they　don't　mismanage　it　into　oblivion　by　then。　juicy　pies；　Vic。　We　can　wave　so　long　to　Sharp　and　their　crappy　cereals　and　there's　happy　endings　all　around。　The　big　bad　wolf　has　to　go　somewhere　else　to　get　his　dinner；　these　little　piggies　are　home　free。'
'All　contingent　on　us　being　able　to　save　something；'　Vic　said；　'which　is　about　as　likely　as　the　Cleveland　Indians　winning　the　World　Series　this　fall。'
'I　think　we　better　try；　buddy。'
Vic　sat　silent；　looking　at　his　congealing　sandwich　and　thinking。　It　was　totally　unfair；　but　he　could　live　with　unfairness。　What　really　hurt　was　the　whole　situation's　crazed　absurdity。　It　had　blown　up　out　of　a　dear　sky　like　a　killer　tornado　that　lays　a　zigzagging　trail　of　destruction　and　then　disappears。　He　and　Roger　and　Ad　Worx　itself　were　apt　to　be　numbered　among　the　fatalities　no　matter　what　they　did；　he　could　read　it　on　Roger's　round　face；　which　had　not　looked　so　pallidly　serious　since　he　and　Althea　had　lost　their　boy；　Timothy；　to　the　crib…death　syndrome　when　the　infant　was　only　nine　days　old。　Three　weeks　after　that　hap