jherbert.sepulchre-第74部分

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ered　his　glasses　and　distorted　his　vision。　Lightning　pearled　everything　before　him；　dazzling　him　through　the　water…spots　on　his　lenses　so　that　he　blinked　rapidly。　Whipping　off　the　spectacles；　the　movement　acpanied　by　a　peal　of　thunder；　he　hurried　across　the　flagstones。　The　Pole　had　no　desire　to　find　his　way　through　Kline's　private　rooms　in　order　to　reach　the　main　doors　of　the　house：　this　way　was　more　direct　and　the　sooner　he　was　away　from　the　madness　inside　Neatly　the　better　he　would　like　it。　His　own　acute　sense　of　survival　told　him　some　kind　of　reckoning　was　at　hand　for　Kline　moj　Pan；　oh　Lord　and　Master！…and　he；　Janusz　Palusinski；　did　not　want　to　be　around　for　the　consequences。
　　But　as　he　passed　the　centre　fountain；　a　burning　liquid　sprayed　his　face。
　　When　he　stopped　to　brush　at　the　stinging　with　his　hand；　he　felt　a　stickiness　on　his　cheek。　He　could　feel　it　eating　into　his　skin。　He　peered　short…sightedly　at　the　fountain　and　there　seemed　to　be　shapes　contorting　from　the　stonework；　rising　from　the　brimming　basin；　writhing　among　the　ornamentation。
　　Palusinski　uttered　a　startled　cry　and　began　to　back　away。　Gowno！　This　couldn't　be！　The　fountain　was　a　dead　thing；　defunct；　slimed　and　blocked；　an　extinct　spring！　Yet　he　could　discern　a　bubbling　outflow　catching　reflections　from　window　lights　around　the　yard。　And　liquid　dribbled　sluggishly　from　the　carved　spouts　which；　in　their　decay；　resembled　gargoyles。　And　these　monsters　themselves　were　moving；　twisting　as　if　to　tear　themselves　free　from　the　stonework；　hatching　from　wombs　of　masonry；　spitting　their　bile　of　burning　substance；　the　whole　structure　gushing　unnatural　life。
　　Palusinski　slipped　as　he　turned　to　run；　his　knees　smacking　sickeningly　against　the　flagstones。　His　spectacles　flew　from　his　grasp；　one　lens　cobwebbing　fine　cracks　as　it　struck。
　　The　Pole　scrabbled　away　on　hands　and　knees；　too　much　in　haste　to　search　for　his　broken　glasses；　and　too　afraid　to　look　back　at　the　quivering　fountain。　He　sobbed　when　something　touched　his　leg；　a　curling　caress　that　somehow　scorched　even　though　there　was　no　firmness；　no　strength　in　its　grip。　He　pushed　himself　up；　moving　forward　all　the　time；　blundering　towards　the　open　doorway　on　the　other　side　of　the　courtyard　where　light　was　shining　outwards。
　　He　blinked　away　wetness。　There　was　someone　else　in　the　corridor；　limping　towards　him。　Palusinski　reacted　instinctively　and　with　his　natural　sense　of　self…preservation。　He　drew　out　the　metal　bar　he　always　carried　inside　his　coat　and　launched　himself　at　the　advancing　figure。
　　Mather　noted　the　crazed　wildness　in　the　other　man's　eyes；　and　saw　light　catching　the　shiny　weapon　being　raised；　ready　to　strike。　He　came　to　a　halt　and　pointed　his　cane　at　the　bald　man's　chest。
　　Palusinski　sneered　at　the　other's　ineffectual　weapon；　realising　there　was　nothing　to　fear　in　this　old　man　confronting　him；　the　only　real　terror　being　out　there　in　the　courtyard　and　the　underground　chamber　he　had　just　left。　He　grabbed　the　end　of　the　cane　and　pulled　it　towards　himself；　sure　that　it　would　be　easy　to　wrench　it　from　the　frail　grasp。　The　metal　bar　had　reached　its　zenith；　was　trembling　in　his　hand；　ready　to　plunge　downwards　against　the　man's　skull。　He　barely　heard　the　faint　click。
　　Mather　had　pressed　the　tiny　button　in　the　cane's　handle　and　the　wooden　casing　slid　from　the　long；　slender　blade；　his　would…be　assailant　unsheathing　the　sword　himself。　The　Shield　Planner　took　no　chances；　for　he　could　see　the　murder　in　this　wildman's　eyes。
　　He　lunged　forward；　the　sword　piercing　the　bald　man's　chest；　melting　through；　entering　his　heart　and　still　not　stopping。
　　Palusinski　looked　in　surprise　at　the　other　man。　The　pain　only　came　when　the　sword　was　swiftly　withdrawn。
　　He　sank　to　the　floor；　a　casual　gesture　as　if　he　merely　wanted　to　rest　for　a　moment。　Janusz　Palusinski　lay　down　and；　as　his　mind　wandered　towards　death；　he　felt　he　was　among　other　recumbent　bodies。　He　was　no　longer　inside　the　corridor　of　the　house；　but　in　the　dimly　lit　but　a　long；　long　way　from　there；　and　a　long　time　ago。
　　Those　skeletal　forms　around　him　were　sitting　up　and　grinning　their　wele；　for　they　had　been　waiting　many　years。　One　even　crawled　over　to　touch　the　young　Janusz's　face　with　bony　fingers。　Janusz　lay　there；　unable　to　move；　and　he　wondered　why　unseen　hands　were　pulling　at　his　clothing。　And　he　wondered　why　there　was　no　pain　when　teeth　gnawed　into　his　plump　belly。
　　No；　there　was　no　pain　at　all。
　　Just　the　nightmare　that　he　knew　would　go　on　forever　。　。　。
　　　
　　　
　　　50　SHADOWS　AND　IMAGININGS
　　
　　Halloran　remained　perfectly　still；　staring　up　into　the　eyes　of　the　dying　gunman。
　　The　weapon　wavered　in　the　air；　trying　to　home　in　on　its　target。　But　the　exertion　was　too　much；　and　too　late。　Danny　Shay　rolled　onto　his　side　to　make　one　last　determined　effort；　but　the　gun　was　far　too　heavy　for　someone　with　only　seconds　to　live。　For　a　moment　his　arm　hung　over　the　stairway；　the　weapon　loose　in　his　grip。　Then　Shay's　eyes　closed　and　he　knew　he　would　never　open　them　again。
　　'Dear　God　。　。　。'　he　began；　the　plea　cut　short　when　even　his　voice　lost　its　strength。
　　He　toppled　from　the　stairs　onto　the　damp　floor；　his　landing　relaxed；　for　he　was　already　dead。
　　Wind　tearing　in　from　the　passageway　above　ruffled　Halloran's　hair。　The　light　stirred；　juddered；　many　of　the　candle　flames　snuffed　by　the　breeze　so　that　shadows　stole　forward　from　the　alcoves。　The　ancient　worshippers　watched　on；　stone　eyes　dispassionate。　And　there　seemed　to　be　other　onlookers　within　those　darkened　arches；　but　these　were　forms　of　no　substance；　observers　that　could　never　be　defined　by　light　for　they　were　of　the　imagination　even　though　they　existed　outside　the　mind。　Halloran　was　intensely　aware　of　their　watching。
　　He　turned　towards　the　altar　where　the　bloated　corpse　continued　to　pump　blood。　Cora　had　moved　away；　her　shoulders　soaked　a　deep　red；　she　looked　imploringly　at　Halloran；　as　if　silently　begging　him　to　take　her　away　from　this　madness。　When　she　saw　the　coldness　in　him；　Cora　became　inert。
　　Halloran　would　not　allow　emotion　to　hold　sway。　Not　for　the　moment。　He　was　confused；　uncertain　of　his　feelings　for　Cora。　She　had　touched　him；　made　him　vulnerable　once　more。　And　naturally；　he　had　paid　the　price。　He　told　himself　she　was　an　innocent　used　by　someone　who　existed　only　for　corruption。　Yet　。　。　。　the　thought　persisted　。　。　。　yet　there　had　to　have　been　some　part　of　her　that　was　susceptible。
　　'Don't　dare　to　judge　me；　Liam　She　spoke　quietly；　but　with　defiance。　'Not　you；　not　someone　like　you。'　He　understood　her　meaning。
　　Thunder　rumbled　through　the　passageway；　the　sound　spreading　out　into　the　chamber；　seeming　to　tremble　the　walls。　Dust　sifted　down　from　the　ceiling　to　congeal　in　the　puddles　on　the　floor。
　　And　in　one　small　slick　of　black　water　lay　the　dried　husk　that　was　an　embalmed　heart。
　　And　those　unseen　but　fearfully　imagined　forms　were　emerging　from　the　alcoves。
　　Halloran　sensed　their　movement　at　first　and　only　when　he　looked　did　they　take　on　a　nebulous　kind　of　reality。　These　were　as　the　things　from　the　lake；　and　they　shuffled　forward；　eager　to　embrace。　Because　they　were　of　him；　the　creatures　mere　reflections　of　the　dark　side　of　his　inner　self；　manifestations　of　his　own　frailty；　his　own　corruption。　Hadn't　Kline；　himself；　explained　that　to　him？
　　He　felt　weakened。　He　staggered　as　if　struck。　He　spun　round。
　　More　of　these　creations　of　the　subconscious　were　slipping　from　between　the　statues；　winding　their　way　through；　advancing　on　him。　Yet　each　time　he　focused　on　one；　it　became　formless；　a　swirling；　vaporous　nullity。　His　mind　seemed　squeezed；　as　though　invisible　tentacles　had　insinuated　themselves　into　the　orifices　of　his　body；　clogging　them；　sliding　inwards　to　capture　his　thoughts。
　　He　clapped　his　hands　against　his　temples；　shaking　his　head　to　free　himself　of　these　tenuous　intruders。　He　twisted；　bent　under　their　weight。　Cora　was　trying　to　reach　him；　but　something　had　hold　of　her；　something　not　visible　that　tore　at　her　robe；　exposing　her　shoulders；　her　breasts　that　were　smeared　with　blood。　She　was　screaming　as　she　struggled；　but　he　could　not　hear　her。
　　Halloran　stumbled　forward；　desperate　to　help　her；　wanting　that　more　th