sk.cujo-第67节

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th。
Cujo　tensed　down。
'e　on；　then！'　she　screamed　at　him；　and　Cujo　leaped。
She　swung　the　bat　like　Micky　Mantle　going　after　a　high　fastball。　She　missed　Cujo's　head　but　the　bat　struck　him　in　the　ribs。　There　was　a　heavy；　dull　thump　and　a　snapping　sound　from　somewhere　inside　Cujo。　The　dog　uttered　a　sound　like　a　screarn　and　went　sprawling　in　the　gravel。　She　felt　the　bat　give　sickeningly　under　the　friction　tape　…　but　for　the　moment　it　still　held。
Donna　cried　out　in　a　high；　breaking　voice　and　brought　the　bat　down　on　Cujo's　hindquarters。　Something　else　broke。　She　heard　it。　The　dog　bellowed　and　tried　to　scramble　away　but　she　was　on　it　again；　swinging。　pounding；　screaming。　Her　head　was　high　wine　and　deep　iron。　The　world　danced。　She　was　the　harpies；　the　Weird　Sisters；　she　was　all　vengeance　not　for　herself。　but　for　what　had　been　done　to　her　boy。　The　splintered　handle　of　the　bat　bulged　and　pumped　like　a　racing　heart　beneath　her　hands　and　beneath　its　binding　of　friction　tape。
The　bat　was　bloody　now。　Cujo　was　still　trying　to　get　away；　but　his　movements　had　slowed。　He　ducked　one　blow　…　the　head　of　the　bat　skittered　through　the　gravel　but　the　next　one　struck　him　midway　on　his　back；　driving　him　to　his　rear　legs。
She　thought　he　was　done；　she　even　backed　off　a　step　or　two；　her　breath　screaming　in　and　out　of　her　lungs　like　some　hot　liquid。　Then　he　uttered　a　deep　snarl　of　rage　and　leaped　at　her　again　。。。　but　as　Cujo　went　rolling　in　the　gravel；　the　old　bat　finally　split　in　two。　The　fat　part　flew　away　and　struck　the　right　front　hubcap　of　the　Pinto　with　a　musical　bong！　She　was　left　with　a　splintered　eighteen…inch　wand　in　her　hand。
Cujo　was　getting　to　his　feet　again　。。。　dragging　himself　to　his　feet。　Blood　poured　down　his　sides。　His　eyes　flickered　like　lights　on　a　defective　pinball　machine。
And　still　it　seemed　to　her　that　he　was　grinning。
'e　on；　then！'　she　shrieked。
For　the　last　time　the　dying　ruin　that　had　been　Brett　Camber's　good　dog　Cujo　leaped　at　THE　WOMAN　that　had　caused　all　his　misery。　Donna　lunged　forward　with　the　remains　of　the　baseball　bat；　and　a　long；　sharp　hickory　splinter　plunged　deep　into　Cujo's　right　eye　and　then　into　his　brain。　There　was　a　small　and　unimportant　popping　sound　…　the　sound　a　grape　might　make　when　squeezed　suddenly　between　the　fingers。　Cujo's　forward　motion　carried　him　into　her　and　knocked　her　sprawling。　His　teeth　now　snapped　and　snarled　bare　inches　from　her　neck。　She　put　her　arm　up　as　Cujo　crawled　farther　on　top　of　her。　His　eye　was　now　oozing　down　the　side　of　his　face。　His　breath　was　hideous。　She　tried　to　push　his　muzzle　up；　and　his　jaws　clamped　on　her　forearm。
'Stop！'　she　screamed　'Oh　stop；　won't　you　ever　stop？　Please！　Please！　Please！'
Blood　was　flowing　down　onto　her　face　in　a　sticky　drizzle　…her　blood；　the　dog's　blood。　The　pain　in　her　arm　was　a　sheeting　flare　that　seemed　to　fill　the　whole　world　。。。　and　little　by　little　he　was　forcing　it　down。　The　splintered　handle　of　the　bat　wavered　and　jiggled　grotesquely；　seeming　to　grow　from　his　head　where　his　eye　had　been。
He　went　for　her　neck。
Donna　felt　his　teeth　there　and　with　a　final　wavering　cry　she　pistoned　her　arms　out　and　pushed　him　aside。　Cujo　thudded　heavily　to　the　ground。
His　rear　legs　scratched　at　the　gravel。　They　slowed　。。。　slowed　。。。　stopped。　His　remaining　eye　glared　up　at　the　hot　summer　sky。　His　tail　lay　across　her　shins；　as　heavy　as　a　Turkish　rug　runner。　He　pulled　in　a　breath　and　let　it　out。　He　took　another。　He　made　a　thick　snorting　sound；　and　suddenly　a　rill　of　blood　ran　from　his　mouth。　Then　he　died。
Donna　Trenton　howled　her　triumph。　She　got　halfway　to　her　feet；　fell　down；　and　managed　to　get　up　again。　She　took　two　shuffling　steps　and　stumbled　over　the　dog's　body；　scoring　her　knees　with　scrapes。　She　crawled　to　where　the　heavy　end　of　the　baseball　bat　lay；　its　far　end　streaked　with　gore。　She　picked　it　up　and　gained　her　feet　again　by　holding　on　to　the　hood　of　the　Pinto。　She　tottered　back　to　where　Cujo　lay。　She　began　to　pound　him　with　the　baseball　bat。　Each　downward　swing　ended　with　a　heavy　meat　thud。　Black　strips　of　friction　tape　danced　and　flew　in　the　hot　air。　Splinters　gouged　into　the　soft　pads　of　her　palms；　and　blood　ran　down　her　wrists　and　forearms。　She　was　still　screaming；　but　her　voice　had　broken　with　that　first　howl　of　triumph　and　all　that　came　out　now　was　a　series　of　growling　croaks；　she　sounded　as　Cujo　himself　had　near　the　end。　The　bat　rose　and　fell。　She　bludgeoned　the　dead　dog。　Behind　her；　Vic's　jag　turned　into　the　Camber's　driveway。
He　didn't　know　what　he　had　expected；　but　it　hadn't　been　this。　Fie　had　been　afraid；　but　the　sight　of　his　wife　…　could　that　really　be　Donna？　…　standing　over　the　twisted　and　smashed　thing　in　the　driveway；　striking　it　again　and　again　with　something　that　looked　like　a　caveman's　club　。。。　that　turned　his　fear　to　a　bright；　silvery　panic　that　almost　precluded　thought。　For　one　infinite　moment；　which　he　would　never　admit　to　himself　later；　he　felt　an　impulse　to　throw　the　jag　in　reverse　and　drive　away　。。。　to　drive　forever。　What　was　going　on　in　this　still　and　sunny　dooryard　was　monstrous。
Instead；　he　turned　off　the　engine　and　leaped　out。　'Donna！　Donna！'
She　appeared　not　to　hear　him　or　to　even　realize　that　he　was　there。　Her　cheeks　and　forehead　were　savagely　welted　with　sunburn。　The　left　leg　of　her　slacks　was　shredded　and　soaked　with　blood。　And　her　belly　looked　。。。　it　looked　gored。
The　baseball　bat　rose　and　fell；　rose　and　fell。　She　made　harsh　cawing　sounds。　Blood　flew　up　from　the　dog's　limp　carcass。
'Donna！'
He　got　hold　of　the　baseball　bat　on　the　backswing　and　wrenched　it　out　of　her　hands。　He　threw　it　away　and　grabbed　her　naked　shoulder。　She　turned　to　face　him；　her　eyes　blank　and　hazed；　her　hair　straggling；　witchlike；　any　way。　She　stared　at　him　。　。　。　shook　her　head　。。。　and　stepped　away。
'Donna；　honey；　my　jesus；'　he　said　softly。
It　was　Vic；　but　Vic　couldn't　be　here。　It　was　a　mirage。　It　was　the　dog's　sickening　disease　at　work　in　her；　making　her　hallucinate。　She　stepped　away　。。。　rubbed　her　eyes　。　。　。　and　he　was　still　there。　She　stretched　out　one　trembling　hand；　and　the　mirage　folded　strong　brown　hands　over　it。　That　was　good。　Her　hands　hurt　dreadfully。
'Vuh？'　she　croaked　in　a　whisper。　'Vuh　…Vuh　…　Vic？'
'Yes；　honey。　It's　me。　Where's　Tad？'
The　mirage　was　real。　It　was　really　him。　She　wanted　to　cry；　but　no　tears　came。　Her　eyes　only　moved　in　their　sockets　like　overheated　ball　bearings。
'Vic？　Vic？'
He　put　an　arm　around　her。　'Where's　Tad；　Donna？'
'Car。　Car。　Sick。　Hospital。'　She　could　now　barely　whisper；　and　even　that　was　failing　her。　Soon　she　would　be　able　to　do　no　more　than　mouth　words。　But　it　didn't　matter；　did　It？　Vic　was　here。　She　and　Tad　were　saved。
He　left　her　and　went　to　the　car。　She　stood　where　he　had　left　her；　looking　fixedly　down　at　the　dog's　battered　body。　At　the　end；　it　hadn't　been　so　bad；　had　it？　When　there　was　nothing　left　but　survival；　when　you　were　right　down　to　the　strings　and　nap　and　ticking　of　yourself；　you　survived　or　you　died　and　that　seemed　perfectly　all　right。　The　blood　didn't　seem　so　bad　now；　nor　the　brains　that　were　leaking　out　of　Cujo's　cloven　head。　Nothing　seemed　so　bad　now。　Vic　was　here　and　they　were　saved。
'Oh　my　God；'　Vic　said；　his　voice　rising　thinly　in　the　stillness。
She　looked　over　and　saw　him　taking　something　out　of　the　back　of　her　Pinto。　A　sack　of　something。　Potatoes？　Oranges？　What？　Had　she　been　shopping　before　all　this　happened？　Yes；　but　she　had　taken　the　groceries　into　the　house。　She　and　Tad　had　taken　them　in。　They　used　his　wagon。　So　what　
Tad！　she　tried　to　say；　and　ran　to　him。
Vic　carried　Tad　into　the　thin　shade　at　the　side　of　the　house　and　laid　him　down。　Tad's　face　was　very　white。　His　hair　lay　like　straw　on　his　fragile　skull。　His　hands　lay　on　the　grass；　seemingly　without　enough　weight　to　crush　the　stems　beneath　their　backs。
Vic　put　his　head　on　Tad's　chest。　He　looked　up　at　Donna。　His　face　was　white　but　calm　enough。
'How　long　has　he　been　dead；　Donna？'
Dead？　she　tried　to　scream　at　him。　Her　mouth　moved　like　the　mouth　of　a　figure　on　a　TV　set　the　volume　control　of　which　has　been　turned　all　the　way　down。　He's　not　dead；　he　wasn't　dead　when　I　put　him　in　the　hatchback；　what　are　you　telling　me；　he's　dead？　What　are　you　telling　me；　you　bastard/
She　tried　to　say　those　things　in　her　voiceless　voice。　Had　Tad's　life　slid　away　at　the　same　time　the　dog's　fife　had　slid　away？　It　was　impossible。　No　God；　no　fate；　could　be　so　monstrously　cruel。
She　ran　at　her　husband　and　shoved　him。　Vic；　expecting　anything　but　that；　fell　over　on　his　butt。　She　crouched　over　Tad。　She　put　his　hands　above　his　head。　She　opened　his　mouth；　pinched　his　nostrils　shut；　and　breathed　her　voiceless　breath　into　her　son's　lungs。
In　the　driveway；　the　somnolent　summer　flies　had　found　the　corpse　of　Cujo　and　that　of　Sheriff　Bannerman；　husband　to　Victoria；　father　to　Katrina。　They　had　no　preference　between　the　dog　and　the　man。　They　were　democratic　flies。　The　sun　blared　triumphantly　down。　It　was　ten　minutes　of　one　now；　and　the　fields　shimmered　and　danced　with　silent　summer。　The　sky　was　faded　blue　denim。　Aunt　Evvie's　prediction　had　e　true。
She　breathed　for　her　son。　She　breathed。　She　breathed。　Her　son　was　not　dead；　she　had　not　gone　through　this　hell　for　her　son　to　be　dead；　and　it　simply　would　not　be。
It　would　not　be。
She　breathed。　She　breathed。　She　breath