sk.petsematary-第88部分

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　　Rachel　slapped　her　face　until　it　began　to　tingle；　and　still　she　kept　nodding　off。　Once　she　snapped　fully　awake　（she　was　in　Pittsfield　now　and　had　the　turnpike　all　to　herself）；　and　it　seemed　to　her　for　a　split　second　that　dozens　of　silvery；　merciless　eyes　were　looking　at　her；　twinkling　like　cold；　hungry　fire。
　　Then　they　resolved　themselves　into　the　small　reflectors　on　the　guardrail　posts。　The　Chevette　had　drifted　far　over　into　the　breakdown　lane。
　　She　wrenched　the　wheel　to　the　left　again；　the　tires　wailing；　and　she　believed　she　heard　a　faint　tick！　that　might　have　been　her　right　front　bumper　just　kissing　off　one　of　those　guardrail　posts。　Her　heart　leaped　in　her　chest　and　began　to　bang　so　hard　between　her　ribs　that　she　saw　small　specks　before　her　eyes；　growing　and　shrinking　in　time　with　its　beat。　And　yet　a　moment　later；　in　spite　of　her　close　shave；　her　scare；　and　Robert　Gordon　shouting　〃Red　Hot〃　on　the　radio；　she　was　drowsing　off　again。
　　A　crazy；　paranoid　thought　came　to　her。　〃Paranoid；　all　right；〃　she　muttered　under　the　rock　and　roll。　She　tried　to　laugh…but　she　couldn't。　Not　quite。　Because　the　thought　remained；　and　in　the　eye　of　the　night；　it　gained　a　spooky　kind　of　credibility。　She　began　to　feel　like　a　cartoon　figure　who　has　run　into　the　rubber　band　of　a　gigantic　slingshot。　Poor　guy　finds　forward　motion　harder　and　harder；　until　at　last　the　potential　energy　of　the　rubber　band　equalizes　the　actual　energy　of　the　runner　。　。　。　inertia　bees　what？　。　。　。　elementary　physics。　。　。　something　trying　to　hold　her　back。　。　。　stay　out　of　this；　you。　。　。　and　a　body　at　rest　tends　to　remain　at　rest　。　。　。　Gage's　body；　for　instance　。　。　。　once　set　in　motion。
　　This　time　the　scream　of　tires　was　louder；　the　shave　a　lot　closer；　for　a　moment　there　was　the　queeling；　grailing　sound　of　the　Chevette　running　along　the　guardrail　cables；　scraping　paint　down　to　the　twinkling　metal；　and　for　a　moment　the　wheel　didn't　answer；　and　then　Rachel　was　standing　on　the　brake；　sobbing；　she　had　been　asleep　this　time；　not　just　dozing　but　asleep　and　dreaming　at　sixty　miles　an　hour；　and　if　there　had　been　no　guardrail。　。　。　or　if　there　had　been　an　overpass　stanchion。　。
　　She　pulled　over　and　put　the　car　in　park　and　wept　into　her　hands；　bewildered　and　afraid。
　　Something　is　trying　to　keep　me　away　from　him。
　　When　she　felt　she　had　control　of　herself；　she　began　to　drive　again…the　little　car's　steering　did　not　seem　impaired；　but　she　supposed　the　Avis　pany　would　have　some　serious　questions　for　her　when　she　returned　their　car　to　BIA　tomorrow。
　　Never　mind。　One　thing　at　a　time。　Got　to　get　some　coffee　into　me…that's　the　first　thing。
　　When　the　Pittsfield　exit　came　up；　Rachel　took　it。　About　a　mile　down　the　road　she　came　to　bright　arc…sodium　lights　and　the　steady　mutter…growl　of　diesel　engines。　She　pulled　in；　had　the　Chevette　filled　up　（〃Somebody　put　a　pretty　good　ding　along　the　side　of　her；〃　the　gas　jockey　said　in　an　almost　admiring　voice）；　and　then　went　into　the　diner；　which　smelled　of　deep…fat　grease；　vulcanized　eggs　。　。　。　and；　blessedly；　of　good　strong　coffee。
　　Rachel　had　three　cups；　one　after　another；　like　medicine…black；　sweetened　with　a　lot　of　sugar。　A　few　truckers　sat　at　the　counter　or　in　the　booths；　kidding　the　waitresses；　who　somehow　all　managed　to　look　like　tired　nurses　filled　with　bad　news　under　these　fluorescent　lights　burning　in　the　night's　little　hours。
　　She　paid　her　check　and　went　back　out　to　where　she　had　parked　the　Chevette。　It　wouldn't　start。　The　key；　when　turned；　would　cause　the　solenoid　to　utter　a　dry　click；　but　that　was　all。
　　Rachel　began　to　beat　her　fists　slowly　and　forcelessly　against　the　steering　wheel。　Something　was　trying　to　stop　her。　There　was　no　reason　for　this　car；　brand…new　and　with　less　than　five　thousand　miles　on　its　odometer；　to　have　died　like　this；　but　it　had。　Somehow　it　had；　and　here　she　was；　stranded　in　Pittsfield；　still　almost　fifty　miles　from　home。
　　She　listened　to　the　steady　drone　of　the　big　trucks；　and　it　came　to　her　with　a　sudden；　vicious　certainty　that　the　truck　which　had　killed　her　son　was　here　among　them　。　。　。　not　muttering　but　chuckling。
　　Rachel　lowered　her　head　and　began　to　cry。
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　　Louis　stumbled　over　something　and　fell　full…length　on　the　ground。　For　a　moment　he　didn't　think　he　would　be　able　to　get　up
　　…getting　up　was　far　beyond　him…he　would　simply　lie　here；　listening　to　the　chorus　of　peepers　from　Little　God　Swamp　somewhere　behind　him　and　feeling　the　chorus　of　aches　and　pains　inside　his　own　body。　He　would　lie　here　until　he　went　to　sleep。　Or　died。　Probably　the　latter。
　　He　could　remember　slipping　the　canvas　bundle　into　the　hole　he　had　dug；　and　pushing　most　of　the　earth　back　into　the　hole　with　his　bare　hands。　And　he　believed　he　could　remember　piling　the　rocks　up；　building　from　a　broad　base　to　a　point。
　　From　then　to　now　he　remembered　very　little。　He　had　obviously　gotten　back　down　the　steps　again　or　he　wouldn't　be　here；　which　was　。　。　。　where？　Looking　around；　he　thought　he　recognized　one　of　the　groves　of　great　old　pines　not　far　beyond　the　deadfall。　Could　he　have　made　it　all　the　way　back　through　Little　God　Swamp　without　knowing　it？　He　supposed　it　was　possible。　Just。
　　This　is　far　enough。　I'll　just　sleep　here。
　　But　it　was　that　thought；　so　falsely　forting；　that　got　him　to　his　feet　and　moving　again。　Because　if　he　stayed　here；　that　thing　might　find　him。　。　。　that　thing　might　be　in　the　woods　and　looking　for　him　right　this　moment。
　　He　scrubbed　his　hand　up　to　his　face；　palm　first；　and　was　stupidly　surprised　to　see　blood　on　his　hand。　。　。　at　some　point　he'd　given　himself　a　nosebleed。　〃Who　gives　a　fuck？〃　he　muttered　hoarsely　and　grubbed　apathetically　around　him　until　he　had　found　the　pick　and　shovel　again。
　　Ten　minutes　later　the　deadfall　loomed　ahead。　Louis　climbed　it；　stumbling　repeatedly　but　somehow　not　falling　until　he　was　almost　down。　Then　he　glanced　at　his　feet；　a　branch　promptly　snapped　（don't　look　down；　Jud　had　said）；　another　branch　tumbled；　spilling　his　foot　outward；　and　he　fell　with　a　thud　on　his　side；　the　wind　knocked　out　of　him。
　　I'll　be　goddamned　if　this　isn't　the　second　graveyard　I've　fallen　into　tonight。　。　。　and　I'll　be　goddamned　if　two　isn't　enough。
　　He　began　to　feel　around　for　the　pick　and　shovel　again；　and　laid　his　hands　on　them　at　last。　For　a　moment　he　surveyed　his　surroundings；　visible　by　starlight。　Nearby　was　the　grave　of　SMUCKY。　He　was　obediant；　Louis　thought　wearily。　And　TRIXIE；　KILT　ON　THE　HIGHWAY。　The　wind　still　blew　strongly；　and　he　could　hear　the　faint　ting…ting…ting　of　a　piece　of　metal…perhaps　it　had　once　been　a　Del　Monte　can；　cut　laboriously　by　a　grieving　pet　owner　with　his　father's　tinsnips　and　then　flattened　out　with　a　hammer　and　nailed　to　a　stick…and　that　brought　the　fear　back　again。　He　was　too　tired　now　to　feel　it　as　more　than　a　somehow　sickening　pulsebeat。　He　had　done　it。　That　steady　ting…ting…ting　sound　ing　out　of　the　darkness　brought　it　home　to　him　more　than　anything　else。
　　He　walked　through　the　Pet　Sematary；　past　the　grave　of　MARTA　OUR　PET　RABIT　who　had　DYED　MARCH　1　1965；　and　near　the　barrow　of　GEN。　PATTON；　he　stepped　over　the　ragged　chunk　of　board　that　marked　the　final　resting　place　of　POLYNESIA。　The　tick　of　metal　was　louder　now；　and　he　paused；　looking　down。　Here　atop　a　slightly　leaning　board　that　had　been　driven　into　the　ground；　was　a　tin　rectangle；　and　by　starlight　Louis　read；　RINGO　OUR　HAMSTER；　1964…1965。　It　was　this　piece　of　tin　that　was　ticking　repeatedly　off　the　boards　of　the　Pet　Sematary's　entry　arch。　Louis　reached　down　to　bend　the　piece　of　tin　back　。　。　。　and　then　froze；　scalp　crawling。
　　Something　was　moving　back　there。　Something　was　moving　on　the　other　side　of　the　deadfall。
　　What　he　heard　was　a　stealthy　kind　of　sound…the　furtive　crackle　of　pine　needles；　the　dry　pop　of　a　twig；　the　rattle　of　underbrush。　They　were　almost　lost　under　the　sough　of　the　wind　through　the　pines。
　　〃Gage？〃　Louis　called　hoarsely。
　　The　very　realization　of　what　he　was　doing…standing　here　in　the　dark　and　calling　his　dead　son…pulled　his　scalp　stiff　and　brought　his　hair　up　on　end。　He　began　to　shudder　helplessly　and　steadily；　as　if　with　a　sick　and　killing　fever。
　　〃Gage？〃
　　The　sounds　had　died　away。
　　Not　yet；　it's　too　early。　Don't　ask　me