sk.dreamcatcher-第33节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


was　a　thousand　years　till　dawn　and　all　lullabys　had　been　cancelled。　Those　things　were　in　the　redblack　cloud　rushing　down　on　him　like　that　pale　horse　in　the　Bible；　those　things　and　more。　Every　bad　thing　he　had　ever　suspected　was　now　ing　toward　him；　not　on　a　pale　horse　but　on　an　old　snowmobile　with　a　rusty　cowling。　Not　death　but　worse　than　death。　It　was　Mr　Gray。
　　　　Get　off　the　road！　his　mind　screamed。　Get　off　the　road　now！　Hide！
　　　　For　a　moment　he　couldn't　move　…　his　feet　seemed　to　grow　heavy。　The　gash　on　his　thigh；　the　one　the　turnsignal　had　made；　burned　like　a　brand。　Now　he　understood　how　a　deer　caught　in　the　headlights　felt；　or　a　chipmunk　hopping　stupidly　back　and　forth　in　front　of　an　oning　lawnmower。　The　cloud　had　robbed　him　of　his　ability　to　help　himself　He　was　frozen　in　its　rushing　path。
　　　　What　got　him　going；　oddly　enough；　was　all　those　thoughts　of　suicide。　Had　he　agonized　his　way　to　that　decision　on　five　hundred　sleepless　nights　only　to　be　robbed　of　his　option　by　a　kind　of　buck…fever？　No；　by　God；　no；　it　wouldn't　be；　Suffering　was　bad　enough；　allowing　his　own　terrified　body　to　mock　that　suffering　by　locking　up　and　just　standing　here　while　a　demon　ran　him　down　。　。　。　no；　he　would　not　allow　that　to　happen。
　　　　And　so　he　moved；　but　it　was　like　moving　in　a　nightmare；　fighting　his　way　through　air　which　seemed　to　have　grown　as　thick　as　taffy。　His　legs　rose　and　fell　with　the　slowness　of　an　underwater　ballet。　Had　he　been　running　down　this　road？　Actually　running？　The　idea　now　seemed　impossible；　no　matter　how　strong　the　memory。
　　　　Still；　he　kept　moving　while　the　whine　of　the　approaching　engine　grew　closer；　deepening　to　a　stuttery　roar。　And　at　last　he　was　able　to　get　into　the　trees　on　the　south　side　of　the　road。　He　managed　perhaps　fifteen　feet；　far　enough　so　there　was　no　snow　cover；　only　a　dust　of　white　on　the　aromatic　orange…brown　needles。　There　Henry　fell　on　his　knees；　sobbing　with　terror　and　putting　his　gloved　hands　to　his　mouth　to　stifle　the　sound；　because　what　if　it　heard？　It　was　Mr　Gray；　the　cloud　was　Mr　Gray；　and　what　if　it　heard？
　　　　He　crawled　behind　the　moss…girdled　trunk　of　a　spruce　tree；　clutched　it；　then　peered　around　it　through　the　tumbled　screen　of　his　sweaty　hair。　He　saw　a　spark　of　light　in　the　dark　afternoon。　It　jittered；　wavered；　and　rounded。　It　became　a　headlight。
　　　　Henry　began　to　moan　helplessly　as　the　blackness　neared。　It　seemed　to　hover　over　his　mind　like　an　eclipse；　obliterating　thought；　replacing　it　with　terrible　images：　milk　on　his　father's　chin；　panic　in　Barry　Newman's　eyes；　scrawny　bodies　and　staring　eyes　behind　barbed　wire；　flayed　women　and　hanged　men。　For　a　moment　his　understanding　of　the　world　seemed　to　turn　inside　out　like　a　pocket　and　he　realized　that　everything　was　infected　。　。　。　or　could　be。　Everything。　His　reasons　for　contemplating　suicide　were　paltry　in　the　face　of　this　oning　thing。
　　　　He　pressed　his　mouth　against　the　tree　to　keep　from　screaming；　felt　his　lips　tattoo　a　kiss　into　the　springy　moss　all　the　way　down　to　where　it　was　moist　and　tasted　of　bark。　In　that　moment　the　Arctic　Cat　flashed　past　and　Henry　recognized　the　figure　which　straddled　it；　the　person　who　was　generating　the　redblack　cloud　which　now　filled　Henry's　head　like　a　dry　fever。
　　　　He　bit　into　the　moss；　screamed　against　the　tree；　inhaled　fragments　of　moss　without　being　aware　of　it；　and　screamed　again。　Then　he　simply　knelt　there；　holding　onto　the　tree　and　shuddering；　as　the　sound　of　the　Arctic　Cat　began　to　diminish　into　the　west。　He　was　still　there　when　it　had　died　away　to　a　troublesome　whine　again；　still　there　when　it　faded　away　entirely。
　　　　Pete's　back　there　somewhere；　he　thought。　It'll　e　to　Pete；　and　to　the　woman。
　　　　Henry　stumbled　back　to　the　road；　unaware　that　his　nose　had　begun　bleeding　again；　unaware　that　he　was　crying。　He　began　moving　toward　Hole　in　the　Wall　once　more；　although　now　the　best　pace　he　could　manage　was　a　shambling　limp。　But　maybe　that　was　all　right；　because　it　was　all　over　back　at　camp。
　　　　Whatever　the　horrible　thing　was　that　he　had　been　sensing；　it　had　happened。　One　of　his　friends　was　dead；　one　was　dying；　and　one；　God　help　him；　had　bee　a　movie　star。

CHAPTER　SEVEN

JONESY　AND　THE　BEAV

　　　　
1

Beaver　said　it　again。　No　Beaver…isms　now；　just　that　bare　Anglo…Saxon　syllable　you　came　to　when　you　were　up　against　the　wall　and　had　no　other　way　to　express　the　horror　you　saw。　'Ah；　fuck；　man　…fuck。'
　　　　However　much　pain　McCarthy　had　been　in；　he　had　taken　time　to　snap　on　both　of　the　switches　just　inside　the　bathroom　door；　lighting　the　fluorescent　bars　on　either　side　of　the　medicine　chest　mirror　and　the　overhead　fluorescent　ring。　These　threw　a　bright；　even　glare　that　gave　the　bathroom　the　feel　of　a　crime…scene　photograph　。　。　。　and　yet　there　was　a　kind　of　stealthy　surrealism；　too；　because　the　light　wasn't　quite　steady；　there　was　just　enough　flicker　for　you　to　know　the　power　was　ing　from　a　genny　and　not　through　a　line　maintained　by　Derry　and　Bangor　Hydroelectric。
　　　　The　tile　on　the　floor　was　baby　blue。　There　were　only　spots　and　splatters　of　blood　on　it　near　the　door；　but　as　they　approached　the　toilet　next　to　the　tub；　the　splotches　ran　together　and　became　a　red　snake。　Scarlet　capillaries　had　spread　off　from　this。　The　tiles　were　tattooed　with　the　footprints　of　their　boots；　which　neither　Jonesy　nor　Beaver　had　taken　off。　On　the　blue　vinyl　shower　curtain　were　four　blurred　fingerprints；　and　Jonesy　thought：　He　must　have　reached　out　and　grabbed　at　the　curtain　to　keep　from　falling　when　he　turned　to　sit。
　　　　Yes；　but　that　wasn't　the　awful　part。　The　awful　part　was　what　Jonesy　saw　in　his　mind's　eye：　McCarthy　scuttling　across　the　baby…blue　tiles　with　one　hand　behind　him；　clutching　himself；　trying　to　hold　something　in。
　　　　'Ah；　fuck！'　Beaver　said　again。　Almost　sobbing。　'I　don't　want　to　see　this；　Jonesy　…　man；　I　can't　see　this。'　　　　　　　
　　　　'We've　got　to。'　He　heard　himself　speaking　as　if　from　a　great　distance。　'We　can　do　this；　Beav。　If　we　could　face　up　to　Richie　Grenadeau　and　his　friends　that　time；　we　can　face　up　to　this。'
　　　　'I　dunno；　man；　I　dunno　。　。　。'
　　　　Jonesy　didn't　know；　either　…　not　really　…　but　he　reached　out　and　took　Beaver's　hand。　Beav's　fingers　closed　over　his　with　panicky　tightness　and　together　they　went　a　step　deeper　into　the　bathroom。　Jonesy　tried　to　avoid　the　blood；　but　it　was　hard；　there　was　blood　everywhere。　And　not　all　of　it　was　blood。
　　　　'Jonesy；'　Beaver　said　in　a　dry　near…whisper。　'Do　you　see　that　crud　on　the　shower　curtain？'
　　　　'Yeah。'　Growing　in　the　blurred　fingerprints　were　little　clumps　of　reddish…golden　mold；　like　mildew。　There　was　more　of　it　on　the　floor；　not　in　the　fat　blood…snake；　but　in　the　narrow　angles　of　the　grout。
　　　　'What　is　it？'
　　　　'I　don't　know；'　Jonesy　said。　'Same　shit　he　had　on　his　face；　I　guess。　Shut　up　a　minute。'　Then：　'Mr　McCarthy？　。　。　。　Rick？'
　　　　McCarthy；　sitting　there　on　the　toilet；　made　no　response。　He　had　for　some　reason　put　his　orange　cap　back　on　…　the　bill　stuck　off　at　a　crooked；　slightly　drunken　angle。　He　was　otherwise　naked。　His　chin　was　down　on　his　breastbone；　in　a　parody　of　deep　thought　（or　maybe　it　wasn't　a　parody；　who　knew？）。　His　eyes　were　mostly　closed。　His　hands　were　clasped　pritrdy　together　over　his　pubic　thatch。　Blood　ran　down　the　side　of　the　toilet　in　a　big　sloppy　paintstroke；　but　there　was　no　blood　on　McCarthy　himself；　at　least　not　as　far　as　Jonesy　could　see。
　　　　One　thing　he　could　see：　the　skin　of　McCarthy's　stomach　hung　in　two　slack　dewlaps。　The　look　of　it　reminded　Jonesy　of　something；　and　after　a　moment　or　two　it　came　to　him。　It　was　how　Carla's　stomach　had　looked　after　she　had　delivered　each　of　their　four　children。　Above　McCarthy's　hip；　where　there　was　a　little　lovehandle　（and　some　give　to　the　flesh）；　the　skin　was　only　red。　Across　the　belly；　however；　it　had　split　open　in　tiny　weals。　If　McCarthy　had　been　pregnant；　it　must　have　been　with　some　sort　of　parasite；　a　tapeworm　or　a　hookworm　or　something　like　that。　Only　there　was　stuff　growing　in　his　spilled　blood；　and　what　had　he　said　as　he　lay　there　in　Jonesy's　bed　with　the　blankets　pulled　up　to　his　chin？　Behold；　I　stand　at　the　door　and　knock。　This　was　one　knock　Jonesy　wished　he　had　never　answered。　In　fact；　he　wished　he　had　shot　him。　Yes。　He　saw　more　clearly　now。　He　was　hyped　on　the　clarity　that　sometimes　es　to　the　pletely　horrified　mind；　and　in　that　state　wished　he　had　put　a　bullet　in　McCarthy　before　he　saw　the　orange　cap　and　the　orange　flagman's　vest。　It　couldn't　have　hurt　and　it　might　have　helped。
　　　　'Stand　at　the　door　and　knock　on　my　ass；'　Jonesy　muttered。
　　　　'Jonesy？　Is　he　still　alive？'
　　　　'I　don't　know。'
　　　　Jonesy　took　another　step　forward　and　felt　Beaver's　fingers　slide　out　of　his；　the　Beav　had　apparently　e　as　close　to　McCarthy　as　he　was　able。
　　　　'Rick？'　Jonesy　asked　in　a　hushed　voice。　A　don't…wake…the…baby　voice。　A　viewing…the…corpse　voice。　'Rick；　are　you…'
　　　　There　was　a　loud；　dank　fart　from　beneath　the　man　on　the　toilet；　and　the　room　immediately　filled　with　an　eyewatering　aroma　of　excrement　and　airplane　glue。　Jonesy　thought　it　a　wonder　that　the　shower　curtain　didn't　melt。
　　　　From　the　bowl　there　came　a　splash。　Not　the　plop　of　a　turd　dropping　…　at　least　Jonesy　didn't　think　so。　It　sounded　more　like　a　fish　jumping　in　a　pond。
　　　　'Christ　almighty；　the　stink　of　it！　'Beaver　cried。